When all thats gold, glitters

It is amazing how a city can surprise you when you do not expect much from it. On an otherwise regular journey that comprised of Agra, Varanasi and Dharamsala, we expected to be awed every time we went somewhere. The Taj was expected to be the Taj. Varanasi was expected to be excellent for photo-ops and Dharamsala was expected to be what it was. However, on this journey of comparative religion, we had quite a surprise waiting for us.

I have never been a great fan of religion. I was never quite keen or quite against it. To each his own. And to me, religion was more of a subject than something that I could actually follow. Moreover, in a country with 6 major religions and a million minor traditions, you would have to forgive my skepticism towards elaborate rituals that are more a show of wealth than a show of faith. Faith itself is hidden somewhere deep inside.

In this aspect, Varanasi itself is quite interesting. Although quite cliched, I have found Varanasi to be quite a fascinating collage every time I have visited the old city. Moreover, taking the boat down the ganges, I see Hinduism for what it really is – a way of life. The fact that it is meant to be this way makes me both proud and ashamed – proud of the fact that such a concept exists, and ashamed of the fact that those in power had twisted it to its current avatar just to suit their profits. Apart from this, it is amazing to see how life revolves and bows down to a river. Maybe Varanasi is one of the few cities to pay homage to something that is so essential. Most great cities are built around a river or a major water source. But most cities have quite forgotten where their water comes from or used to come from. Varanasi is one of the few cities that acknowledges and prays to this fact – and does nothing about it.

From Varanasi we had moved on to Agra and then Amritsar. We had not really expected much from Amritsar. Apart from the symbol or Sikhism, it is not supposed to have much. It does have a symbol of the freedom struggle. But the freedom struggle was in the last century. We have almost forgotten and taken our freedom for granted. Like most places of worship, I had already forecasted what I would see.

Or so I thought. For the Golden Temple is a different world on its own. Gone is the feeling that there are wars going on in some parts of the world. Gone is the memory of the petty squables that we had considered insulting. Gone is the rage that we felt during traffic hours. Gone is the greed we felt when we asked for the salary hike. This was something else altogether – and if I may say so, the closest definition to the divine.

The first thing that strikes you is the absence of elaborate shows of faith. Apart from the basic courtesies, everyone prays in the way he or she would like. Some take a dip in the holy water. Some stand in queue to see the holy book. Others just note down the teaching of the day. All that you see are men laughing, women helping the children, people praying in silence and occasionally, the priests reciting verses from the book. The elements of faith to be followed are of one's personal concern and do not need to be shown to others. The people did not jostle for one more minute at the shrines. They did not get any special treatment on account of their wealth. They did not believe in such things. Instead, they went about doing whatever the eye-in-the-sky meant them to do. In a large dining room serving 50000 people a day, you could see people from all walks of life serving and eating. Physically old and mentally young, newlyweds and old couples, the rich and the poor, everyone did his bit to serve food to the other person. Everyone sat on the ground and next to each other. Anyone peeled the vegetables. Anyone cooked the dal or boiled the rice. Anyone made the tea. It was as if “class” had suddenly lost all meaning or reason for existence.

While we were leaving for Dharamsala, my friend told me that it is an amazing feeling to sit there with your eyes closed for 10 minutes and listen to everything around you. He said that he had felt quite at peace after that. Unfortunately, I missed out on that. But it was already quite baffling. The fact that there could be such a utopian practice did not baffle me as much as the fact that such a utopian practice was so simple. Gold itself, seemed to be so crystal clear and simple.

Third time lucky

Part Uno: Transiting through Redland


Aeroflot rocks!Since rock is also from the 70s. We had grown up with the Air India treatment. Jet is new. Indigo is new. The Kingfisher swimsuit calendar is new. But at the end of the day, I guess every Indian yearns for the old world Air India motherly treatment. That is why we cry for attention - whether that is the extra cup of coffee that we ask for (or 2 or 3 until the correct airhostess brings it) in the request to turn down the air-conditioning even though you can control the fan, in the silent treatment hoping that they warm up to  your innocuousness. All this, because of Air India. When I stepped on to the Aeroflot flight, I expected the same. And there were signs. The absence of in-flight entertainment, the drab 70s minimalist bullshit buttons, the rexine in blue. We knew that the women would sing us lullabys. And then it turned wierd.

For instead of women, the flights are filled with motherly fatherly stewards. There is a reason why its called motherly and not fatherly. You cannot ever imagine a 50-year-old man asking you if you would like some extra milk in your tea. Even in this politically correct world, these are matters that scar you for life. Men are men. Women are women. Even if you're gay.

Everything else is perfect. There was no glitch in the service, because there was no service. The broccoli tasted infinitely better than the fish for a change. The flight was as relaxing as a boat, mainly because it was bobbing up and down mid-air. It also reminds you of the finer elements of life, elements that we had taken for granted - like a flight landing without crashing. At the end of it, I think Aeroflot is Air India's marketing ploy, to make itself look better. Commuunism came to India on this ?! No wonder it is doing so well.

Part Dos: La Capital


Madrid is supposed to inspire you. After all, it inspired Cervantes, Goya, Hemmingway and almost everyone else. In the Cafe Solos, the Mantacedos, the Vino Tintos, the Vino Blancos, the Patchinas, the Churos, the Jamon, the Museo del Prado, the La Latina and the Lavapies, in Sol or even on the Gran Via. Sadly, it didnt -  well until I decided enough is enough. I was done searching for the party. I was done begging for the perfect Croissant. I was done with the Bernabeu. And I was done with the meetings. On a cold, rainy, Saturday morning, I stretched out, opened up and almost shouted out - "Where the Fuck are you Madrid ?!!"

In answer, the city brought me to El Botanico, the perfect breakfast place for the perfectly cold weather with the perfectly cold waitress. Some Churos and some Cafe Solos later, I would have loved to say that I felt like taking on Saturday. But to say that would be quite stupid and ironical. Saturdays in Spain give themselves over to you. If you want to take on Saturday in Madrid, you might as well shoot a goal on an open field at the Bernabeu (or against the entire team sans Casillas) and say that you have won the Champions' League.

The good parts about Madrid, Barca and Cape Town are that they embrace modernity and mix it with the old paintings to create the perfect scotch. Warsaw is still stuck in the cold war. Joburg is still stuck with the apartheid and Delhi is, well, stuck. But Madrid is moving, and it is best symbolised by the El Botanico. It 10 in the morning in a cold rainy Madrid. No wonder the waitress is like Elizabeth II. Let this not ruin your impression of Spanish women.

For when she smiled, the rain stopped and the sun came out - quite literally. And though it was time to pay the cheque and leave, there was a sudden necessity of un cafe solo mas (please refer to the reflections on Aeroflot).

Madrid, in itself, is quite similar to Delhi. Being the corporate headquarters, you expect the main roads to be quite broad and laden with trees and Spanish Goth buildings. The poverty is well-hidden in the subway or singing "My funny valentine" in front of the del Prado.

Although bad in many ways, it is good in one way though. It is human - unlike Goteborg. The women have more to them than Prada and Hermes. There is Prada and Hermes of course. But thats not all. And while the legs are not everything, they are quite important.

Saturdays are nice. The sun comes out, the autumn leaves come out, the vermut tastes good, and the madrilenos come out. It is also good that the world has Spanish as a language. It makes things nice and noisy - even if you are exploring Renoir's work.

Its a shame that I have to go to Barcelona already. I do need a little more time sipping vermut and writing - like Hemingway. Bottled vermut tastes so good that I can imagine how nice it must be, when from the tap. Madrid is the quiet time you spend before the party in Barca and there is the flamenco still.

And thus the tale of Madrid ends - in a coffee shop on Atocha Sants sipping cafe solo while listening to Akon. Whatever happened to the Flamenco ? It is so much better! That night at Anton Martin reminds you of everything.

In a bar smaller than the roll shops in Calcutta, was fitted in one place for Cervesas, one small platform, eight members of a flamenco octet and a crowd of around forty.

While smoke fulled the room (including you-know-what - its legal to smoke but illegal to buy) and the beer flowed from the taps and the women turned up in their Friday best by Bombay standards on a Wednesday, the octet conjured magic like I had never seen before.

The sax oozed sex while the guitar and the piano made my beer more potent than Absynth and the flute made everyone fall for it. Anton Martin passed by while the small street with cobble stones came alive and apart from the usual omnipresent idiot, there was nothing much to bother you.

People philosophised on how the flamenco was quite based on the taal (it apparently was influenced by the tribes of Rajasthan) and one woman actually did the Kathak in perfect sync with the beats. The more robust material shall be left out of this dialogue.

And thus ends the tale of Madrid. Barcelona with Gaudi and one-night-stands, should be a lot of fun. And when the usual gang of idiots meet up, sparks will fly. After all, apart from Cape Town and JoBurg, Barca has made for one of the best nights outside India.

Part tres: La otro ciudad

And so it was. Gaudi is bewildering. Its like giving a million dollars  to a kid in a missionary school and telling him to play with clay. Of course what you get will send people climbing up trees ans running for cover. Gaudi did exactly that. The Sagrada Familia is the Mad Hatter's home, except that it is Christ's. The entry would be perfect for Wonderland, except that it is for religion instead. It might as well have impressed upon the works of Lewis Carol and Steve Jobs. And after more than a hundred years, this is still under construction. Someone said 2030 is the magic year. Or was it 2130 ? Well so much happy, and so were the other kids. The adults cringed.

From there, we moved on to the Botafumerio. When in Spain, eat your heart out. Luis said that for the Spanish, eating was a ceremony. We finish a regular meal in 20 minutes. The Soanish finish the same in 2 hours. There is the entre, the mains, and the postre and coffee. So much for food, that must see places included restaurants or tapas bars or roadside food (although there is not much of it). I thought Barca would be more robust than Madrid. But everything is quite Tra la la.

Prawns and oysters with noodles. The need of desert. Ceylon tea and cigarettes. The bong in me is going to be the end of me. But you cannot help it. I am not gorging on KFC or McDee's or roti and tadka. This is fine dining, by waiters who put water in ice buckets for you. Among gorgeous glamorous heiresses and heads of state. Well, I might as well speculate on the bit about the heads of state.


Part Quatro: Epilogical ramblings


And like that, 2 weeks whizzed by. Of course the last 3 days were spent in a large room comprising of people, people and airhostesses. Of course the evenings were spent in small bars, a lot of ham, a lot of cava, a lot of wine, one South African and a lot of French.

It is what you imagine. Spain for one, and Europe in general has been in action for quite some time. And like any place in action for quite some time, has its own little secrets that are just waiting to be unravelled. But you need friends, or someone who knows the streets - the small alleys that would be difficult to find and would direct you somewhere else unless you have the people who know it. And moreover, who wants to brood over a beer alone ?

Paris was too short. While you walk along the Champ-Ulysses after the perfect croissant and before the perfect Touloise sausage, while you ogle at the the women entering Louis Vuitton or wait in line for a Macaroon, while you stare in wonder at the Eiffel Tower - you realise a lot more money and a lot more time to enjoy Paris. Audrey Hepburn knew. Sophia Coppola knows. Douglas Kennedy does too.

Walks down the Ramblas, the Gran Via or the Champs Ulysses notwithstanding, the main cities or Europe are not to be seen for what they are known by, but what they are known by. The small pub in the unmarked street, the waitress's smile, the match watched with folks who have no clue about who you are. I have seen the Bernabeu enough. But I have not seen the Spanish or the French enough. All this nonsense before I take the Air India flight back. Wish I was in Cannes.

Greenland

The only light in Dhel

I am here. I am living. And at 3.7, there is no other place that I would much rather be. These are the only thoughts that come to ming when you sit and write where I am sitting and writing. Fuck the 7-hour excruciating straight climb up 3 mountains. Fuck the fact that you virtually put your life at risk (sic!) when you go down slippery slopes and fallen trees. Fuck the fact that you were supposed to be in Spiti and ended up here. Fuck everything. Dhel is where you should be.


It does take 3 days - from Neuli to Lapa to Shakti to here. But then this is probably one of the best experiences that you would ever have. The Great Himalayan National Parkhas just opened. You are the only human (along with your guides and cooks and porters) in the entire park. Walkways have been covered by dried maple leaves and pine needles. Wild strawberries that taste better than the nonsense we get in Delhi are all along the route. Once in a while there is a feather of a falcon or a Munar. You would, in all probability, be following the tracks of a brown bear with loose motion. Such highlights make a journey. Not the bloody Taj.

The view at Shangarh

After a couple of days in Manali with little hope of going to Kiato, we ended up at Sairopa in the middle of the night  - somewhere between Kullu and... Delhi. A small jungle lodge to crash in, some chai and breakfast with eggs and off we were on what we had imagined to be a cakewalk. An hour later, our thoughts weren't exactly the same. Neuli to Shangarh is all uphill - with Deodars to hang on to while it rained. Shangarh itself was something else though. Once a clearing area for the Pandavas, it is now a meadow with a small village by the side and a brilliant temple in the center. While we seesawed on 2 logs criss-cossed, we did seem perfectly at peace with the rain.


However, the Gods had different ideas. Apparently Lapa was supposed to be better than Shangarh. Apparently Shakti was supposed to be better than Lapa. Apparently Dhel was supposed to be better than everything else. Apparently. Never had apparently been so true. Past the villages and the lazy cow; past the laughing Buddhas and the stubborn guides; past supple mutton and Divisional Forest Officers, life did seem like a stroll. The unusual phone network did bother a little. And although we were happy to know that Germany had been beaten by Serbia, we werent exactly happy about office emails. Shakti took care of that. The bonfires took away all the muscle pain and the "plum ka daru" took away all worldly tensions. As we breezed through marijuana and poppy plantations, things did seem to finally fall in place. The world did seem round and life did seem to be good.

Paul at Dhel

It was sylvan. The climb jerked us our of it. Our leader had been building it up for 3 days. Dhel is at 3700m. From Lapa its just a straight cimb of 5000ft along a mountatin ridge. We did 3 climbs up and 2 downhills balancing ourselves over rocky surfaces covered with moss and a fallen maze of deodars. At one point,licking glucose gave us two steps only. The rest was just a combination of the quest to see exactly what we were fighting for and the jealousy that we felt for our guide and porters who incessantly took us up gruelling straight "shortcuts". When we did finally reach, it took us a while to get over the shoulder aches, the horsefly bites, and the cuts and actually stare at what lay ahead of us. And was it stunning!  Surrounded by peaks and ranges on all sides and flowers and grass in our immediate vicinity, we were open-mouthed enough to let those itsy bitsy mosquitoes in. Dhel is at 3.7 and a true glimpse of how the spectacle that we call the Himalayas.


 I had thought life would be monotonous after Dhel. Once you have reached what should be the highlight of the trip, everything afterwards should just connect you to the road. That should be the only purpose of places like Gumthrao, Shilt, Rola etc.


I could not be more wrong. The places are as magnificent as the routes are difficult. From Dhel, after and introdution of a meadow with Munals all around, we were shocked out of our wits with a route that primarily involves a 3-inch wide track with a rock wall on one side and a 1000m drop on the other. This continues for more than an hour and a half with us getting bored of hanging on for our dear lives. We were rewarded by a view of the ibex running across cliff faces that we would not dare to touch. Gumthrao itself was ok. We were a bit disappointed by the rain and the constancy of it. At one point the next morning we were contemplating staying over for one more night - something that would put a strain on our resources and our moods. Anywayds, we did start and were glad that we did.


For we saw the musk deer and it was apparent that there was a leopard on the other side of the hill. For we could not have come to this place called the Shilt where we saw the Langur and the Mountain Hawk Eagle. As Paul went off to do his business among the nettles, these were my last thoughts.

Generally we (you and me) would not trek for the difficulties. As stupid as it may sound, we would not trek for the views either. We would trek simply to feel alone, to discover places that the road has not and never will, to feel the chill of the breeze or the wild, to live as part of the system that we generally believe we are kings of. In such circumstances, all treks are great. Walking to villages is great and we should remain connected to people without having to save their numbers or add them as friends on facebook. All that is great. But to be all alone. To have absolutely no one come up to you in the day, and to sleep under the stars with a slight worry that the bear might come sniffing... well that is something else. Peace.

of thunder and dragons - through Darjeeling and Bhutan

We all remember that time in the bar when people are drunk enough to disclose their past lives. Some were daughters of Persian kings. Some were sons of Persian kings. Some were Persian kings. Most of the others were either Einstein or James Dean. Well, I have recently realised that I was the last dragon. There is something about Bhutan that is so much better than erstwhile Persia or the US. I couldnt have been anywhere else. And the fact that I was born and settled in the plains is simply God's way of saying "fuck you".

A land locked away and kept a mystery to most who cannot afford it, Bhutan has been my preferred Shangri La after Ladakh. The water is pure. The people are pure. The alcohol is cheap. The cigarettes are illegal. Its how life should be. The fact that I love it is cliched and quite an understatement. After you have somehow escaped Assam, Bhutan feels like one of those lost paradises that movies keep talking about. A four-hour journey from Agra to Delhi felt taxing. A 6-hour journey from Gelephu to Wangdue felt like a dream.

The people have their priorities right. The king has his priorities right. To match the abstract notion of Gross National Happiness in such a way that you see the tangibility on the people's faces... I dont believe that even the most famous address on Janpath could do that.

I started off in Gelephu. The border town is just waking up. No one really knows about it. None of the drivers at the Guwahati airport knew where it was. I was in love with it already. A 6-hour drive through villages where women wore their Sarees like the latest Chanel evening gowns, and I was in. The mystery was backed by this elaborate gateway in the middle of no-where and with the hills just rising beyond it. It is only in Gelephu that you can see some of the smaller factors that contribute to the happiness - the Druk and army distilleries. A Black label here and I am ready for whatever Bhutan throws at me.

The next day was reserved for Wangdue. Another 6 hours and I was finally at a place where the only sound I could hear is of the river, where there is no mobile network and where "no wireless networks found" is a very prompt message that has undertones of "wtf are you thinking!!". This considering the fact that the place I am staying at is only 5 min away from the road. And this is not my vacation. A walk through the old dzong brings out laughing novices, stern monks and a walk outside brings out the colourful bazaars. Wangdue is where the heart is. Do you remember the old worn posters stuck behind the back of autos, the ones that you chuckled on and considered cliches just because it was virutally impossible to find such a place ? Well, this is what I saw from my balcony . The green river roared and tumbled. Behind it, a hill rises that is covered by creepers and trees that I have to say are lush and green for lack of creativity in finding a better description. I was home, and there is no other place that I would rather be.

From Wangdue, I headed towards el capitol... probably the biggest city in Bhutan. Thimphu is known for a lot - for the dzong, for the king, for the medicine, for the crafts, for a lot. But Thimphu is incomplete without the night. It is only then that the oysters and the oyster bazaars come out. It is only then that you can get to clubs called Ombar that boast of Thimphu's budding and awesome nightlife. While you spend the night on blues and druk 11000, it is only now that you realise that the whole issue about Bhutan fighting its past with its present is not really a fight, but a gradual blend. The same women looking so homely in their kiras do let their hair down and groove to Joplin and CSNY. What would life be without drinking under the stars listening to Clapton in a land known more for not being known about that much.

Thimphu also opens the gates to Paro - where they built a monastery in a crack on the mountain face more than 200 years ago. With such names as the tiger's nest and the whole buildup to the nest (you can only hike up to the place... a hike of 3-4 hours), you can see the glamour that stems from the mystery. And it all seems worth it. When the monastery does unfold in front of you, you do not miss the lost fat or the fact that you had to wake up early. All you realise is that it is not hard to gain enlightenment if you stay in a place like this.

Phuntsoeling turned out to be my last stop in Bhutan. The gateway city again humiliates you. On this side is a bit of Europe, except that the theme for the day is Himalayan Buddhism. Clean roads, smart places for beef and red rice, ordered gardens, prayer wheels.... on the other side is a an absolute mess, with too many people and too many paan stains.

Darjeeling turned out to be better than usual. The killing and the apprehension of a strike helped take all the Mr. Bannerjees and their chunnu munnus out of Darjeeling, leaving the place very British and very likeable - the way it should have been. It is only when you dont have to see where you are going that you can actually lift your head and check out the former movie theater that is now the municipality building and the post office.

It is only then that you thank god that Bhutan is not an Indian state and realise that West Bengal does not deserve Darjeeling. As I follow my route again, I am reminded of the discussion that I was having with the editor of NGT-ZA. We were discussing why two sides of the border were so different and I said that it is because of the number of people. Bhutan had only 934000 people to manage compared to India's 1.1 billion. "It might seem like a very good reason, but it isnt", was her reply."Its the reason alright. Its just not a good enough excuse", observed her photographer. These were the opening statements while we dived back into the land of the thunder dragon.

It is very wierd. The other day I was reading this article by someone from somewhere who said that the environment was not his primary problem as he was bothered with bigger issues like poverty etc. The only difference between Bhutan and India is that we have not yet realised that all the problems are interconnected.

As I move to Spiti, Sri Lanka and South Africa next, I have come to realise that we would have had a more effective government only if politicians travelled more.

An ode to women - through Sweden and Poland

Introduction and main body of God knows what

You must have heard of women from the Amazon - strong, vivacious, gorgeous, tall - the cougars that every 24 year old hopes for. What we heard of was legend - possibly a rumour. But every rumour has a miniscule amount of truth that actually triggers the rumour. And so it is in this case. It is true that such women exist. and it is true that our fantasies have some base. But whichever loser wrote about it, was as confused with his geography as Columbus. The women do exist, but not in Amazonian rainforests, but the snow-laden hills of Sweden and Poland.

A glimpse through Goteborg and Stockholm would give you an idea of what I am talking about. In almost every article that I have written, I have stressed on how the women of the region have been beautiful. But things just keep getting better. And this is different. This is on a totally different level altogether. There is no way that such Venusian beauty can be compared to any other region.

Theyre tall. Theyve got great legs. And theyre awesome to talk to. These were my main deducations while on a recon trip for market possibilities in Sweden. Given this fact, I would definitely push for Sweden as a target market and more sales visits to this amazing land of women. Whatever time you spend here is too little. And I spent only 3 days.

Moreover, the women here know that they are beautiful. They know that they are what all men look forward to. Calls from the office have mainly been about blondes rather than work.

And so be it. The next time around, hopefully there will be a little more time at hand to explore this wonderful land that not many people visit since its quite pointless otherwise. The food sucks. The traffic does not exist. It is cold as hell. But these are minor discomforts in our ultimate quest. Thus closes the chapter of my ode to Sweden. Poland promises to be a lot more and uncharted for that matter.

And then I thought that Sweden was the pinnacle. But its a pity that not many of us travel to Poland. As it was once said, "The world is a book, and if you havent traveled to Poland you have not read the steamiest pages". And so it is. The city itself is just coming out of communism. You can still see the matchbox houses among the victorian ones. But the city has something to boast about - in fact a lot of that. And that pertains to the subject at hand. But otherwise as well, the city is just opening itself and showing what it is truly made of.

With an excellent nightlife even at 6 in the morning, the city promises everything. Moreover, its an easy place to be. Not too many people are bothered about the drudgery of life. They are more obsessed with the vodka, their partners and the fact that life is more important than investment banks. A strong jazz culture prevails, probably a reminder of the times past and you can almost imagine yourself in a spy movie - quaint bars with jazz playing, the entry of the lady in red, the small beretta she hides underneath her dress, the wailing of police sirens outside, the man in the panama hat, the huge man smoking on the side noticing everyone's movements, the jazz. This is probably the only evidence that the cold war days were absolutely fabulous.

Warsaw is a place that should be walked through. Don't take a metro, not a stupid merc, not even the cute little trams. Don't even cycle. In Warsaw, you just walk. It is the only way to discover without being late for your appointment. It is also then, that you may see a car chase in action. A casino was looted in Switzerland while I was watching TV while sitting in my room (waiting for my next assignment ;)) - typically Warsawa. It is probably the most James-Bond-ish place in Europe. While Goteborg is spic and span and structured, Warsaw is spic and span without intending to be so. As a result, it is not structured. And you cannot attempt at making sense of the structure, for you would be busy making sense of the street names. I just matched the first 3 letters with the map and went ahead. With 1 million people, it has too many streets for the number of people. Apparently there is a Kopernica street that has only one house.

But back to the music. The cafe I am now in has acid jazz playing. The waitress looks like she could make you spend half your money if she wanted to. My friend had a similar encounter in Barcelona and trust me, it doesn't feel good when you wake up the next day next to an empty wallet instead of a hot woman. All I need now is a white suit and a panama hat. Should have been to Cuba before coming here ;)

Top top things off, I found the office to the secret service in Poland. It is quite close to the Slade Miasto or the Old Town - an area with old buildings and Sherlock Holmes-style cobblestone streets. You can easily get lost in one of the lanes, and as someone told me, walk for hours discovering new pubs and places to eat.

The guide book given to me at the hotel has 3 great paragraphs among various logistical and boring text.

The first was concerning smoking: "Smokers tired of relentless persecution in the West will be delighted to know that few countries boast of such a fierce commitment to the habit as Poland. Although the number of male smokers has plunged from 70% of the population to 38% in recent years, it is still a very tobacco friendly country. Poland is fast becoming the major European production center for leading brands with Phillip Morris, Imperial Tobacco and British American Tobacco all being major investors in the economy." Love it!!

The second is on prostitution: "Those who visited warsaw at the start of the decade may have memories of a mucky city. With an estimated 1500 brothels, the city was giving the likes of Prague a run for its money, and establishing itself as a destination for hair-palmed perverts. then came Mayor Kaczynski a one-man anti sleaze machine......"

The third is on the drunk tank: "Be warned. Polish beer and vodka have been rocket fuel, and have been the ruin of more than a few good men. If you plan on making a prat out of yourself make sure its not in front of a policeman; if there is one thing these guys hate, its a pissed up foreigner swaggering around like Charlie Big Potatoes. If you're lucky you'll get a good ticking off and a cuff around the ear. Those less fortunate will find themselves in the back of a black Maria, and screeching off in the direction of ul. Kolska 2/4. Known as the drunk tank, its here you'll be charged 250zl, be subject to a strip search and find yur garb exchanged for a blue smock..... Don't expect to be handed the chance of a phone call, this is instant justice Polski style, and those resisting arrest will find themselves strapped to a bed, possibly even forcefully injected with sedatives...."

But to be in winter will not let you have the best of Warsaw. The trees are barren and the cars are mucky. Warsaw and Poznan take on a subdued hue of their spring avatars. The best time would probably be summer.

And so it is. Poland shows how a country can get back together after being destroyed by Hitler and then taken over by communism. The country is thriving and the people take care of their cities, the public transport system is active and more efficient than the Rajdhani express and the women are bellisima. It is sure to develop into a very important city if given a little time. Things look good and the cold winters cant really take anything away from it. Warsawazzzaaa is an excellent place for a quick shot of strong vodka, excellent stroganoffs, for the palace of science and culture, for the impossible-to-pronounce names, for the lust and for the life.

Random stories of minimal importance

The Turkish flight is always delayed. He aways had problems connecting to Istanbul And he has always lost his book on the way. There are 500 different ways of getting back from Warsaw. But by far, Turkish comes a close second to walking as being the slowest means of transportation. And the worst part is people get pissed off - or worse - bored. Only the obnoxious ones seem to be doing the talking. On Good Friday when most people are at home, watching a movie with their family, he has to wait at the departure lounge of an airport waiting for his plane that shows no signs of arriving. From 1340 to 1420 while he writes - as he has nothing better to do (cant play brickbreaker for the phone is out of charge, cant read as he doesnt have a book anymore, doesnt have a computer as he packed away everything to make space in his hand baggage for shot glasses. A steady stream of arrivees on the landing above him gives him some hope. Maybe 1420 wont run into 1500 after all. A good night almost always leads to a bad day.

Epilogue

It is wierd how you miss a place the most on the flight out of there. There are always 10 other things that you could have done. There are so many other people that you had to meet. There are so many other places where you could have spent drinking Wyborowa and talking. No matter how long you've stayed tere, you always feel as if you had to leave when you were just warming up to the place. These last words as I see the lights of Delhi.

As I move to Bhutan and South Africa next, I hope that this feeling of unfulfillment, if I may say so, is reduced.

Mazdrovia

South Africa... Baie Dankie

Having to write about all that I have seen, this post may appear a little corny. But then again, some things cannot be helped. South Africa in particular and Africa in general is such a destination. When people told me always leaves a mark on you, I thought that they were just joking or exaggerating. But I was still to know. ZA or Zuid Afrika is a melting pot of innumerable cultures - Indians, Zulus, Xhosas, Belgians, French, Dutch... and on and on. The half-way point for ships sailing to the far east, ZA is now more of an integration rather than a confusion.

My first stop was in Cape Town - probably the most beautiful and attributed as the least African of all African places. If you have to define it in one line,you have the Atlantic on one side, the Indian on the other, and the Table Mountain in between. I had arrived at the end of winter / starting of spring. But Cape Town hardly makes you feel like that. It may rain in the morning, be sunny in the afternoon and windy in the evening. You can never tell. And of course, this makes it the ideal place for the deep pockets to spend on summer villas. The Beckhams have one. So do all the others.

And of course the rich are pissed that the shanties are living right next door. On a warm sunny day, you can see the villas on one side and the shacks on the other.. both having an awesome view over the bay area. Makes you wonder how much real estate pitches are overrated ($16 million for a sea-facing villa it seems when you can get the same view for $2). And the shacks are pretty cool to look at. With the little money that they have, these guys have painted their shacks in brilliant shades, and accessorised them with waste that you would call waste in a shack, but art in a museum.

And yes, the women in Cape Town are hot. Unlike people in Delhi who believe that every day is Diwali (Bose, Rahul: Pyaar ke side effects, 2000 something) these women know how to dress well without appearing overdone. I finally realised that it is possible for the affluent to look good without dressing minimal.

And then there is the food... throughout South Africa. A bit of advice here. All you vegetarians out there... go to Cape Town. You will realise what you are missing out on. When the grilled calamari arrives, or the Hake and chips are served or the wine goes down well with the game, you do not feel that you need much. That is, of course, complimented by more wine (red or white) and Stuvyesants (they're much better than Marlboro).

After ravishing about Cape Town, it feels unnecessary to talk about anything else. But no matter, how much you like Cape Town and want to spend the rest of your life there with Ms. Venezuela by your side, you should visit Joburg. The commercial capital now, the city was once the hotbed of politics. One thing has to be done before you reach Joburg. You have to read the Bang Bang Club. Everyone knows about apartheid. What is not very well known is the post apartheid civil war. This book is on 4 photographers who clicked through the war and about their story. At the end of it, one is shot and one commits suicide. It is depressing to read about it. The necklacing (a tyre around the member of the opposite tribe and then burning him/her alive, the hacking, the looting and pillaging.. its crazy how things were. Even during the apartheid, school children getting shot, separate settlements, the farce called the government... everything hits you. And then you visit the Apartheid Museum. Conceived by Mandela, the philosophy is that apartheid is finally where it belongs.. in a museum. Its absolutely brilliant. You are handed random cards that say whites / non-whites and you have separate entries. You have cells and videos showing what went on during that time. When you finally leave the place you are still filled with wonder.

The wonder is what still amazes me. South Africa was undergoing widespread unrest up until 1994. In 15 years, the country is so hospitable and has taken the social equality to such a level that it is now hosting the world cup, that you now find friends irrespective of the colour, that everyone is still smiling. Yes there is still poverty and crime like other developing countries. But this change is 15 years is something else. Just compare that to the 62 years that we have been independent and have still been quarreling amongst each other for no reason.

Baie Dankie

loitering in ladakh

Ladakh is a fantasy of the subconscious. You don't just make plans and go there. This is not Agra or Jaipur or Manali where you know what you will get when you get it.

Ladakh is a mystery - a mystery that everyone wants to unravel, but very few rarely do. They say that a car is pulled up the road by magnetism. They say that the river flows in a direction opposite to expected. They say that you can have one foot in the sun and get sunburnt and have the other in the shade and get frozen. They have said a lot.

Whatever follows does not really solve the purpose of solving the mystery but is just a mere attempt at a few short stories involving the place and the people.

Phase 1: Upto the Singula

We started off at Darcha having spent the night in Keylong. The mountains were'nt anything like I had seen before. The Garwhal hills are just amateurs in front of these. The last trek that I had done in the North-East went up to a maximum height of 3. Here, we were starting at 3.5. These were huge. There may not have been a word developed in the dictionary to describe their grandeur. Stark and sometimes covered with snow, they made us feel like ants. Small patches of green could be seen where the God's had mercy to make way for some life. The rest comprised of jagged rocks and huge masses of snow. Now I know what Tom Thumb must be feeling in the real world.

One small river here and there lent dimension to the landscape. We were supposed to camp at the Zanskar Tsungo. But then again, thats for mere mortals. We were in the land of the Gods. And when in the land of the Gods, do what the Gods do. We were supposed to take the more dangerous extension into a valley while the wind blew snow at us. This was like an action comedy. A couple of city people trying to play ball with the mountains. While we braved the elements and faced them like warriors of a lost era, an old man went past us whistling a local tune. Apparently that was not enough to give us a complex. Our guide had to tell us that it would take us 10 days to reach Padum but he would be coming back in 5. All these hill people and their egos. We camped near the river, had our dinner and went off to sleep, vowing never to talk to him again. 5 days it seems. Hauz Khas to Chandni Chowk takes 5 days.

The next day was a short and unusually relaxing one. Since it was snowing, the horses would not go any further and we had to camp somewhere close and pray that the third day runs off smoothly.

The third day was supposed to cross the Singula pass/glacier/whatever. Situated at 5.1, according to our guide it was a "gentle pass" where only a few people die every year. Death itself seems to be a part of life and something worth joking about. Our horseman told us stories about the same, about how he fractured his knee while skiing and fractured the other one three days later, about his shooting experiences with the grizzly bear, the snow leopard and the ibex, about his rescue mission of Belgian woman trapped 23 years earlier, about death and everything nice.

The pass was daunting. The air was thin. We were constantly being pulled by the snow and sinking in it. The horses were sinking. We had to camp Every 10 meters was a miracle. And every 10 meters was a nightmare. For the pass seemed to grow in size every time we looked at it. The prayer flags on top of it seemed to smirk at us. Losers!! they seemed to be saying. A trapped cow doomed to its own death and the corpse of a donkey did not seem to help. The white beauty seemed cold. When we did finally reach we were humbled - by what we had somehow managed to conquer.

Phase 2: Post Singula

It is interesting how things can change drastically in a matter of hours. As soon as we descended from Singula and came down to dry or rather, non-snow land, we were on a patch of fgreen with the river flowing beside. As per Yuri, "From the look of our campsite it is hard to imagine that we had crossed the Singula". There were patches of green. We could see a few birds around. A media shy yak tried to avoid our Italian friend's prying camera. There were signs of life around us - life and socialising. The remainder of the trek was supposed to be easy - like a stroll in the park - a long stroll.

The next day we moved on to Kirgiak - a day long walk to one of the most picturesque little villages on earth. On the way we met the women and their pashmina-yielding goats and their yak-hair tents. I so wished to steal one of them. The meat would give me a good Sunday brunch and the wool would get me a good woman. Trust me, if there was a secret to good life then this would be it. The village seemed to be straight out of the National Geographic archives. The yoghurt and the tea would make the Hiltons of the world jealous. And the Taj could learn something from the hospitality of the people. The children were excited. The people were smiling and with a small "Juley" you could make them open up their world for you. English is also a good ice-breaker as I found out while photographing a small kid. "The other one is small. This one is big: came from the little connoisseur. Oh, by the way "My name is Tenzin".

From kirgiak we moved on to Gha Zumthang a village comprising of only one home where a maze leads you to one of the coziest little rooms and where the only sound was that of the flapping of the prayer flags. and which almost seemed untouched. The only problem is, according to Geoffroy, that once the road from Darcha to Padum is built, Taj would take over the place and charge 16 grand for a room. The place seemed pristine at present. And with a bidi and plastic chair, you felt like you had just returned from an afternoon of golf (our guide's handicap was 4). Life seemed to be quite settled with golf, cigars/beedis and writing.

The next day was pretty hectic as we had to cover two stops and end up at Raru by the end of the day. But that did not mean that Zanskar would not give us surprises. A little turn here and a short climb there and out before my eyes unrolled a beach in the middle of the mountains. The beach had not been touched by anything - vodka or russian. It was small, a little like our own private island in the middle of the Caribbean. With the river lapping the shores gently. No matter how much in a hurry we were, we had to sit there and heal our soles (and souls). The cold water was ideal for my sore ankle and the lunch was exclusive with not a soul around to disturb us. Irritated by the fact that we had to leave early, we trudged along to Raru. The village had everything that you would expect from a Mexican village - dusty roads, one sho[, bright kids with a quick thank you, and a few pick-up trucks. We took one to Padum seeing the Bardeng Gompa on the way. The monastery was built on a single hill and inspired awe at the feat of engineering that was the 200 year old structure. We moved on to Padum where the streets had been opened only 12 days earlier.

Phase 3: The drives

You know you are in Kashmir when the women are as beautiful as the wild flowers and yellow roses that surround them. When the children are less bothered about the latest fashion & toyas and more about yesterday's cricket match. When fashion is inspired by not how short your clothes are but how they make your face sparkle. When the army can suppress everything bt innocent integrity. When you can take the backseat in respect. A village en-route to Kargil showed us just that. Everything seemed beautiful and pristine enough to be fragile. From the language, to the hospitality, to the women, to the peace. One visit and you realise that the place should be left as it is. May that be the increasing importance of the role of women in work - agriculture, education or religion - as we found out in Kargil. The soothing voice of a lady-imam calling the faithful was as refreshing as the Chelo Kabab, mutton curry and Qawa at "City light surya".Kargil is good to look at during the day, shady at night but the way one would imagine Kabul to be. War seems meaningless in these surroundings.

From Kargil, we moved on to Leh, a city much like Shillong in attracting tourists but different from it in the numerous monasteries surrounding it. The region is dotted by the works of a monk who wanted to build 108 monasteries starting from Tibet on his way into India. Each is unique in design and colour and feel. While one makes you feel like you're on the sets of "The last Samurai", the other makes you feel on top of all you survey. Life is relaxed and every monastery seems to have its own monk-dog, one that does not say anything and is not bothered by worldly matters but spends its time meditating, walking and sleeping.

Leh is dotted by people from around the world trying to seek Nirvana in a variety of ways - cycling from Manali and back, travelling to the Nubra valley, tripping to the monasteries, or just eating momos and drinking beer. Its interesting to talk to random people around and here their stories. Pilgrims from everywhere seeking solitude in the mountains.

Endnotes

There is a lot that has not been said about my trip. There is a lot that has to be still seen in the region. There is a lot of the place that is incomplete. There is an entire lifetime that I can spend in this place. Zanskar and its peripheral regions have a pull that cannot be put down in words. It has to be seen, to be felt. Before the trip everyone had told me mysteries about the place. I knew it would be a marvel in terms of spirituality and otherwise. At the end of the trip all I have to say is this - If you have the availability of going to Vaishno Devi then go to Ladakh. Why walk all the way to see an insignificant idol when you can marvel at the work of Gods. The journey will be in a different world and life will not remain the same again. Julaiy

of djinns and private ghosts

What do you do when you have no work? When everything is in this transient phase of joblessness and when one phase is too dear to let go and the other is too exciting to keep away? When counting sheep is not an option as the total population has been counted and recounted to be exactly 1,065,024? When green ambassadors and red mail vans are hard to come by?

You can try going back to something that you loved doing? Or try your hand at something you hated with a little hope that things might change? For me, I guess fate decided on the latter. And as a result, I tried my hand at Delhi.

Delhi has always been known to be one of the most rude cities in India. Where the power of the South Block predominates over the rationality of argument. Where you can get by only if you're apologetic about your existence or have the backing of some major Nehru-capped fat old man. Where the show of wealth assumes vulgar proportions and you hear rumors of people buying their first Merc before their first piece of furniture. Where it is impossible to avoid passing glances unless you're in South-Ex or in a car.

But for long, most of us in the East, the West and the South have dismissed Delhi by looking at only one side of the society. Delhi is much more than single-culture cities like Bombay or Calcutta. And while the confluence of cultures has both good and bad aspects, we decided to look at the underbelly before looking at the shiny fur.

There are very few cities which have a story lurking around every corner, behind every dilapidated gateway of past grandeur, in the khoya mixed with your gajar ka halwa, in old marketplaces and new extensions. Delhi is very unique in itself and in a way impossible for any other city unless it is taken over by Sher Shah Suri, the Mughals and the British in the same order for the respective periods of time.

Most cities have their own culture - in the watering holes and home made food - that differentiate them from the other. While Bombay smells of privacy and the fact that there is no one to question you, Calcutta tastes of fish and political activism and Bangalore speaks of places that you grow more loyal to than your wife or your girl.

But Delhi is probably the only city where the culture flows from every aspect of life - the climate, the jalebis, the aloo paranthas, the lutyens buildings, the maroon mercs, the civil lines, the havelis-converted-into-marketplaces and the sheesh-mahals-converted-into-godowns. It is difficult to define the culture. But you can taste it from everything that is happening around. Its like having a Djinn present around you all the time. You don't know it is there. But you sense it whenever you do something.

But, at the end of it all, you do need the right company for Delhi. For me, I was lucky to have company that would make me forget about the underbellies of life and think of only blue skies and poppy fields. To appreciate some place, it is important to ignore the darker aspects of it. I was lucky to be too happy being with someone to actually think about whats wrong with the city. There was much more for me in the city once I forgot my presumptions. Love. Life. Red Sandstone. And Mughal domes co-existing with Lutyens architecture. Thats Delhi for me.

what, when, where

Its been a while since something has been written. Either things have been too busy or too boring. But I think all that was just bull. I think it was just lethargy. But whatever be the case. I hope its gone now. So here it goes.

Every time Ive been to Bombay, there has been something to write about. Something to look forward to. Whatever happens, there has always been an ode to Bombay. The same should have been there this time around too.

But, the fact is (and I realized it this time around) - I am done with Bombay. All that had to be done has been done. Even though I might end up there, I don't think I'll have too much of an enthu for it. And its sad. Because Bombay was the one place I wanted to be. Well, after Calcutta it was Bombay. And this brings me to my problem.

After 22 years in Calcutta, I thought I was done with it. After four years in Bangalore, I was sure I was done with the city. And now, after a sum total of two and a half months, I am positive I am going to get bored with Bombay the next time I am there.

I am dead sure its me. I just don't know what. Its weird. And the worst part is, it seems perfectly normal. The only slight problem is that I seem to be out o options in metros. It seems normal. It just does not make sense

life - as it was

Its intresting how the smallest of things can take you back to the most important years of life. A small message here. A reference. Some random gossip. A tad too much alcohol. A nick here. A pat there.

Those were the years when i thought i was finally living. Not wasting life getting drunk or laid, but actually living. Not worrying about money or image, but actually free. Not getting bogged down by responsibilities and people looking up at you, but actually above all the nonsense in the world.

Out of the 4*365*24 hours of my life spent in Bangalore, 4*365*23 hours was spent on theater. Practicing here. Writing there. Helping a juni there again. We used to live it. We had stopped giving a damn about what life would be or could be like and actually knew what life was like. We fought over small changes in the script. We fought over movements. Our power struggles were limited to the stage and our little egos and the places they took us. We didnt ever worry about being the best in business and keeping the image up. We actually did whatever we wanted. It was a some 30 of us in our little world of the fake.

And in this small world I had my small family. By coincidence my onstage wife or girlfriend was always the same. We had done so many plays together that once on stage, we started spinning stories of our life. Arranged marriage. Love sprouting later. Things of that sort that the idiots who teach call "building character". We had done so many plays that we could give each other lessons on love and life.

After college we moved on. Gobbled by the system, we started pursuing whatever we thought best. Having not found the opportunity, I gradually lost my interest in theater and the works. I stopped checking our forum. I stopped asking about plays. I moved on.

Today, I got a friend request on facebook. And suddenly, I can't get out of the last character I was in.

Thank fucking God.

sex and sensex

All of us knew that the ultimate aim of all our efforts is better sex. We work so that we earn money. We earn money so that our bedrooms are better, our kitchens are better, our cars are better, our bathrooms are better. We make these better so that the opposite (or in some cases, the same) feel more comfortable with us. It is necessary to make the opposite (or in some cases, the same) feel comfortable so that the sex is better. Everything boils down to the same thing - sex, more sex and better sex. What would life be without copulation ?

According to latest studies by some very eminent people, inanimate objects, and even dematerialised entities follow more or less the same principle. The best example would be the Sensex - an exchange with sex as its last name. A few examples would drive the point better.

Rising bottoms are always good for your junk. Your stock is at a better position if the bottoms are on the rise. The opposite applies for falling tops. Falls in tops indicate market malfunctions and are good for people with put options. So if you are hell bent on putting it, please do look for falling tops - from women or the market.

Good markets like good sex, always operate on very strong fundamentals. If the foreplay has not been good, then the (sen)sex goes mellow. These fundamentals would include elements like growth, inflation, money paid (if you know what I mean) etc.

The technicals obviously play an important role too. Exploration and rhythmic motion of the rises and falls would lead to better profits (and better orgasms). If you do not concentrate on patterns like the middle finger (or the head and shoulder) and do not believe in rising trend lines, you're in for trouble brother.

And these days, we are all getting screwed.

razor sharp images of the energy crisis and paris hilton

The vogue has come out with the top stylish politicians. Lalu ranks above everyone. Professors at Sri Sai institute of humanitarian biographics are now joining the all india ice poker team. My girlfriend ran off with the owner of a St. Bernard. My St. Bernard ran away with my girlfriend. The Commissioner of insititutionalising of geeks and nerds has gone missing since his last visit to the Agra Center for civic awareness. Guatemala plans to have the largest shopping mall and science center. Murder is now legal in West Indonesia provided it is only to save the marriage. Calcutta is to host the first official Ministry of Sound concert at Roxy. David Guetta might be coming down and jamming with Zakir Hussain and Pt. Ravi Shankar. Terrorists are now breeding surrogate babies to just overpopulate the world since killing people is passe now. the first gossip magazine on human rights is out. Arundhati Roy is on the centerfold. A public litigation has been launched against humming birds as they've been seen responsible for the sudden rise in divorces and same sex marriages. Scientists are now trying to genetically modify babies so that they dont have to bear with redundant parts. That includes our little finger, our appendix, and in Paris Hilton's case, her brain. Archies has now entered into a pact with undertakers to sell "Archies party funeral" cards through their stores.

God! It feels good to talk absolute shit.

mehndi and other short stories

There is nothing much to be said but.. HERE WE GO..!!

Pune

When they spoke about the pensioner’s paradise, I had an image which was quite contrary to what I noticed in the land of weird names. You would expect pensioners to be over 60, with a constant smile on their faces, taking life easy and walking the walk in the evenings. What you wouldn’t expect were people less than 30, with a constant smile on their faces, taking life easy and getting drunk at every possible corner along with their good-looking women. But in itself, the city is quite interesting and brilliant. You wouldn’t get to hear of places named “pimple”saudagar, shaniwarwada, budhwarwada, or for that matter “anyday”wada or names mouthing obscenities like bhonsdiwada etc. It is fun to just get from one place to another. The heat might get to you, but the city doesn’t. With so many places to drink the evening through, Pune is one place that seems to be at peace with itself. The “don’t bother” attitude is so much better than any other city in India. People are more interested in gossiping, in drinking the quintessential mango juice, in religion. Worldly pleasures and worldly pursuits are not for the gents out there. Life is the breeze that it should be.

Ahmednagar

It is a walk from pune. But a place altogether different in itself. Probably a place with highest density of English speakers, the highest density of et readers, and the lowest density of nokia chargers. The good part is, the other parts of the small town story is still there. There are tum tums. There are tongas. And if you dress a bit formal, people do start thinking that you’re the brand manager of the company you’re interning in. All in all, its a beautiful place and it doesn’t hurt to be treated like a celebrity. It is probably once you come here, that you realise the rationale behind Paris Hilton’s craze for fame.

Srerampore

The tryst with fame continues to srerampore. Apparently, the auto-walas in Ahmednagar knew that I was going to Srerampore before I did. It’s just weird. Not scary, not awesome, just weird. Anyways, if ahmednagar is the sundae, then srerampore seems to be the cherry on top of the icing. Miles and miles of nothing but green fields and rocky hills. The only black spots on the scene were those of the construction equipment. God and the system should have left the place alone. Which brings me to my remorse for not having got my camera.
According to my auto-driver, everything related to the major events in India and the world happened in and around ahmednagar and srerampore. Akbar had attacked the place. Aurangzeb was killed somewhere out here. Great saints and sadhus seemed to have dotted the place like ants. Some of them apparently, have gone on to live for 1600 years. The POWs during World War II were apparently brought here to srerampore. I am sure that Woodstock might also have occurred somewhere near. (Woodstock – ahmedstock J)

Aurangabad

The first comment of my distributor on Aurangabad was that it is a land of fakes. The Taj Mahal, the Ajanta caves, the Gurudwara.. everything has been copied and made in Aurangabad and are now the main tourist attractions in this place. Apparently the copy of the Hanging Gradens somewhere in North India has also been copied and put here- a fake of a fake. Guess that is why most of the FMCG companies are quite cautious while approaching Aurangabad. To top it off, the hotel gave me a fake coke today. However, life seems to be much better than I had imagined. My hotel has a jazz band. Coffee shops and Hookah places do not seem to be more than a mile away. the best part is, Aurangabad has only one main road. Everything that you can imagine should be on either side of this road. If you don’t find what you’re looking for with this guidance, there is something wrong in your character. The city seems to have grown quite a bit since the last time I was here and currently seems to be in the wannabe stage. Give it a few years and you might see a nice stable mature city with good looking women in not-so-blaring clothes and people in not-so-blaring cars.

Surat

Surat was perfect in most ways a small town should be – a bit too perfect I guess. The city seemed to have a personality that spanned only in some parts of the city. The old buildings looked good, with a certain degree of dilapidated humour. The new ones looked more like boxes without any character, built only for existence and nothing else. There are always some premonitions with which someone enters Gujrat. All outsiders, especially people who are not businessman are very sceptical of the place before entering it. However, Surat does dispel this doubt. People are generally nice as most people should be – as we imagine in utopia. Sure, money is the culture out there – but that is not really a bad thing. The pursuit of money is quite entertaining and spectacular – if you do not have to undertake any monetary transaction. Gujrat would probably be the one place that would not be affected even if every country in the world undergoes a subprime crisis. Gujrat in recession would be like cockroaches under a nuclear attack – unaffected. Its awe-inspiring to see the level of business and the intelligence in business followed in Gujrat. And its not only about the Patels. The Reddys and te Sheikhs and the Biswas’ are equally in it. There is something about the air that turns people so. CNBC is on 24*7 and stocks are followed with the same intrest as the IPL matches. Everyone knows every news presenter in CNBC – from the son to the grandmother. Kirana shops that sell only biscuits and soap have hotlines to brokers. It is crazy, the amount of liquidity infused into the market from Gujrat. Trade in commodities is also pretty big. Wholeseller sitting on cartons do trade worth crores in a day. i found an assistant wearing an Armani tee. The owner of the shop said that he had heard about Armani once and had tried it out and did not like it and so gave it to the assistant. The owner himself wears a locally made shirt. You can very well see the order in chaos there. Its absolutely brilliant. A week under the apprenticeship of one of the wholesellers would teacj one more than a month in the IIMs! No wonder, the one in Ahmedabad is doing so well. Brilliant.

Ahmedabad

The story follows in ahmedabad. If something like mehndi sells in values of rs. 10 crores per day, then you can imagine how competitive the market must be and how entertaining it must be for an innocent bystander like me

Rajkot

you must have started believing in the entertainment called the Gujarat market by now. However, the story takes a different turn at Surat. With afternoon siestas being the main purpose of life here, business takes a backseat between one and four and the streets are deserted by three. If there was one place in India which could have the capacity to turn into Madrid, this would be it. A little sauce and a few hot women thrown in, Rajkot would have turned into a perfect Spanish summer. Moreover, it also has a scent of the Bengal communism in itself. Whenever the businessmen feel too lazy to open stores, they call a strike. It might be regarding anything – a strike against inflation, a strike against recession, a strike against work – whatever be the reason, I totally sympathise with the blokes out there (one of the strikers did not know why he had closed shop when asked). Moreover, there is the extra entertainment thrown in with police arrests and resistance to the same. Bloody brilliant.

Lucknow

Lucknow takes me back to the summer afternoons under the lemon trees – lethargic and sunny. Fuck all that people say about UP – fuck the politics, fuck the casteism, fuck the corruption – lucknow is brilliant simply because of its food and the buildings. If the good folks have the sense to make a school look like one of howard roark’s architectures then you can simply imagine.

Kanpur

It is only when you reach Kanpur that you realise the ruin caused by the parties and governments of the present and the past. The city is dying. The last remaining rotting pillars are those of the small time businessmen who have almost retired into their kirana shops. It is hard to imagine that there is a market and that there is consumption going on in this city – and to think of it, it is one of the major cities in UP, not a village, not a town, but a Tier II city with its own airport and railway station – embarrassing. This is the only station where I was mobbed by autowalas and taxi drivers before I even set foot in the city. And it was more of a desperate call than opportunistic. You could see the hunger in their eyes. Unemployment has created dissent, dissent that sends short bursts through the lanes of the city. In 15 minutes I had witnessed two fights and that too for petty reasons. Its sad to see people and cities being wasted away by dysfunctional governments that are more interested in quotas and caste systems than real development. Logic seems to have taken the back seat as the quest for political mileage drives this rickety old caravan.

Varanasi

The story is quite different in Varanasi although its not really the opposite. The temple economy seems to have just overcome the shock of turning into a tourist spot and being perpetrated by signs of globalisation. Varanasi is always one place where you have to go out, no matter how afraid you are of the touts, agents and false godmen. God seems to have left this place a long time ago. Whats left are firang wannabes who believe that Varanasi is going to make them one with their soul and all that nonsense, and the agents and touts that constantly cheat them. There was so much that I had expected of the city. Seeing two and a half lakhs getting stolen from an old man ruined all that. There are probably a few good men left. But they seem to have been effectively locked in their memories. Once the beautiful subject of NatGeo photographers, the city and the river are now dirtied by hypocrites (which basically includes all us fucks who want to show off that we believe in God. Its stupid and disgusting.

Delhi

There is not much to be added about the city. Whatever I have seen is probably pretty ordinary in itself and doesn’t demand much attention. This however, shouldn’t really belittle the city. Among others, and I know that I will have my critics for this, this is the city where I found truth. Whatever is said does not have a second meaning to it. Whatever is shown does not have to be interpreted twice. The heat prevents the hypocrisy in a certain way. People have a certain temper about them and as we all know, temper brings out one’s true self. All that notwithstanding, Delhi has been dear to me for one simple reason – the city has grown from a nightmare to one of the most comfortable cities ever. Two examples would suffice – CNG autos and the Delhi Metro. Everything in Delhi looks new, feels new. There is a certain blend of modernity that cannot be pointed out but is definitely felt.

Ludhiana

Punjab has been dear to me for all sorts of reasons – history, food, women, jokes on sardars, everything. I landed in Ludhiana in the morning at around 5 and went to sleep an hour later. I woke up at eleven for the news and the shit. As a result my first glimpse of Ludhiana and its people was seven hours after I landed in the city. And by God it was brilliant.
You wont find a sad person in Ludhiana. Whatever happens, everyone is damn happy about the way of things. Everything is said with a smile and a certain innocence – even if the person in front of you is damn pissed and is abusing the shit out of you, he would do it with a brilliant wide-eyed smile. Everyone is happy with whatever situation they are in. Two autos passed one after the other in front of me. One of them had the bumper sticker – “pyaar mein hi hai khushi”, and the one following it had the all famous – “no girlfriend no problem”. My customer survey was one of the best Ihad ever done. The women were so happy to divulge their mehndi secrets to the evil corporate that they pulled out all the stops and even gave samples. I was invited to lunch on more than half the occasions and all the pampering led me to have three meals within a span of 2 hours. The women are beautiful – with brilliant hair and a personality that brings out the innocence in you. Even if you were Mephistopheles himself, you would not want to harm them. Their pride over their innocence is so powerful.

Amritsar

my last destination got me thinking over a lot of things. The entire trip had culminated into somewhere near the golden temple. Amritsar is known for its chunnis and its sherbets and it was a brilliant experience to have the local speciality – chicken fried rice and schezwan mushrooms. The city is also unique in many ways. I can now claim that I had an international trip. I waved my hand through the other side of the wagah border and had interviewed a Pakistani soldier on mehndi. Bloody brilliant.

Last thoughts

Travelling alone is much like playing the guitar – pissing off at first, but very personal later on. 12 cities in 24 days has been and will probably be one of the most philosophical and entertaining journeys of my life. There is a lot that we can run away from when we live in a group. There is a lot about our past that we can easily forget when we are with friends or family. People being around helps us to ignore the closet and the bones inside. It is only when you spend so much time alone that you come face to face with them. You try to run away and forget all that nonsense. But things once in your head stay there if you stay silent for a majority of the day. it is then that you face them, fear them, try killing them, and then live at peace. Everyone, no matter how connected should travel alone at some point of time. There is a lot about us that we don’t know.

Peace.

dialogues at three in the morning

The other day a friend of mine needed some help in the philosophy behind U2. She had written in her SOP and now she needed something to support her statement during the interview. Just before I had started writing this, we had this extended conversation about how important and personal U2 was and how they reflected what we thought and our moods sometimes. The whole discussion was not about the songs, but more about the music and a line here and there. This was how the conversation went:
SHE: wht u doing up so late?
ME: nothin much had some work now watchin a movie plannin to write something into my blog don feel like sleepin off wat r u doin ?
SHE: i thought i'd come and dig some more info about u2, cos i have very nicely written in mica form that i admire u2's philosophy but i stiilll havent found somethingi dont know.
ME: lol yeah n wat is their philosophy exactly ?
SHE: i have no clue. bloody hell as if i knew i was gonna make it to the inetrview.
ME: hehe u said u knew some things so was just wondering
SHE: yeah, but philosophy?
ME: but then something made u think u liked their philosophy right ? which means there must b some link which u like evn though u wrote it just 2 get mileage
SHE: ahh , basically the whole thing about experimenting in the 90s.. they have albums and videos which pathetic and superb... and the constant humanitarian effort.. cant recall anyone else doing it. these two, thats all.
ME: wat bout their songs ? the lyrics theres a lot on wiki probably n the way they make u feel SHE: yeah there is yes, the way they make me feel is taken care of.. i was looking into lyrics n stuff now.. so basically time n again the have used their 'star power' to voice their concerns.. sarajevo, nelson mandela, suu kyi, martin luther king..
ME: yeah more like a political statement n if u don mind
SHE: haan
ME: how do they make u feel ?
SHE: yes? ooh. some of their songs have struck a connection with me, because maybe i was goin thru that phase or something... but they are special because , u know.. they voice my longings n irritations sometimes..so thats all.. nothing deeper you?
ME: i dunno
SHE: how do they make you feel?
ME: they do strike n the music sometimes does feel like it was exactly suited for me
SHE: yeah
ME: n most of their songs are pretty accurate representations of my confused state n my longing to b as simplified as possible and they are more of a personal thing true.. their shows r brilliant SHE: totally
ME: but i'd much rather listen to their songs with an ipod and the earphones on they seem to b only for me
SHE: same pinch.
ME: n don rly find a need to share them in public kinda feels like an invasion of privacy then

All this leads to another bigger question. What is the philosohy behind music ? Why do people say that they identify themselves with a certain song or a certain kind of music even though, when you ask them, they have absolutely no idea? Why is it that we keep playing the same song over and over again when we are in a certain mood. What is the philosophy behind music? What do we think about when we think about music? Why do some of us hate listening to Floyd after a certain period of time and switch over to something as stupid as John Mayer? What is the philosophy behind music? There a loads of references to the logic behind and the interpretation of certain songs. Most of us got a rude shock when we learnt that "Stairway to heaven" was about a hooker on drugs or that "every breath you take" is about a stalker talking about his/her victim. Which leads us to the question, would things have been different if these songs had not been spelt out? Would we have ever thought about the hooker if Rave did not come out with its list of misinterpreted songs. Is the philosophy the property of the singer or the listener?

Music is supposed to free us, or at least thats what the good ol folk at Woodstock said. But, with the dissection of music, is it possible to be absolutely free any more?

People say that piracy is what is killing the music industry. I think Rolling Stones, Rock Street Journal and Rave are killing it. Whats the use of your own identity if someone else does the thinking for you.

of dandruff and the universe

Spring is finally here. With the globe and its stupid warming, lets very well say - summer is here. Life is finally better. Moreover, the latter half of the day becomes better. With all the urban animals out of their hibernation, life seems to be back in the nights. Go out. Drink well. Eat a little. Stop worrying about jackets or shivering. Summer is brilliant in so many ways.

And the best part is up there. Its seems ages since I've looked up and seen a clear nightsky. Thankfully, city lights have not spoiled its interesting randomness. Stars have always been part of corny lines, of midsummer nights dream, of creation and creativity, of joining the dots, of dandruff, of big bears and half-horses, of beautiful women and messages from the other world, of the part of life that everyone has always taken for granted.

And this, precisely is what is brilliant of them. They are just points. Shiny points with a hint of mystery. You can do anything with them. Pick one up here and another there and create your partner's face. Laugh about them as parts of the latest Head and Shoulders Ad. Seek deeper meaning. Get sick of the deeper meaning and simply go to sleep under them. The big bluish black sheet with glitter thrown all over it is all you need. You can do whatever you want with that glitter. It helps you dream (and fuck the whole theory about rapid eye movement.. dreaming is a good thing). It helps you create something that is yours and entirely yours. Even if you're a show-off you wouldn't ever be able to explain or make someone else see what you see in the aforementioned fabric. Feels like a customised God of the self. Feels like the center of this huge semi-sphere.

Someone said that nature loves symmetry. I think nature loves chaos and randomness.

organised chaos

Apparently, Indians are obsessed with chaos. Apparently, nothing ever works unless there is confusion around us - may it be the politics, the public transport system, the bazaar, the family or any other aspect of our life. This might be what has actually worked for us. This might be what has baffled "thinkers" in and around everywhere. This probably isn't a myth once you're in Bombay.
Everyone has his or her experiences in Bombay. It is said that you always carry a piece of the city with you wherever you go. Everyone is baffled by the mere functioning of day-to-day life of the city, leave alone it being the commercial capital and one of the cities with the best growth. It makes you think a lot - about life, about travelling, about survival, about persistence, about organised chaos.

the chaos
To realise the criticality and the extent to which we Indians have been horny, all you have to do is be at the Dadar station at six in the evening on a spring Friday. I, for one, have not seen so many people at a single place (apart from live shows and Reliance stockholder meetings). The entire city seems to be infested by humans. Everyone swarming around in their respective directions without really thinking much about how they affect things around them. This is probably necessary. This is probably required. Probably, the only way you can help being at peace with chaos around you is to stop thinking about it and go in the flow of the direction. But it is all very wierd to people who are not really used to the pace. All that we poor souls can do, is to take advice from whoever remotely credible. But even then it takes conditioning. For instance, you are always told that, at the station, to stand with the exiting crowd and that you would be pushed along with the flow. What they don't tell you, is that the move horribly backfires at you if it is not done right. Having taken the advice a bit too lightly, I stood at the end of the outgoing crowd and thought things would proceed as normal. Alas, I had hardly placed a foot on the station, when I was pushed back into the stupid locomotive by people rushing in. It was only by fighting and suffering a few minor injuries that me and my bag were able to get down at the same station. Probably, it takes getting used to. But then again, that is the last thing that goes on in your mind if you're in that situation.

the civilisation
But a few hours into the city and on the central railway, and you'll start finding logic in it. You might probably even appreciate the entire situation. The system is filled to capacity. It takes a minimum of two hours to travel from one point to the other. But then again, given the expanse of the city, the system is pretty robust. Moreover, people are nice when they have the time. The problem is, most of the times they don't. But whenever they do, they would stop to talk to you and help you out. It doesn't really matter who you are or what you do. On the train and at the office, everyone is pretty polite and nice. I was helped throughout my stay by people at the Pan shop and at the gates of offices. The good folks at Business World helped me out with the other addresses I had to visit in that area (I was there on media work). Having noticed my famished state, the good (and good looking) people at The Times of India offered lunch and tea. Trust me, if you have only two days and loads of travelling to do, all this is a luxury. Moreover, no one is really out there to judge you. Your girlfriend might wear whatever she feels comfortable in and you would not really have to be worried about passing glances - when there are none.

In general, everyone should go there at least once. There is a lot more to it than people write about. You can't really talk much about the experience of catching sight of a Rolls and Porsche showroom side by side when all you are thinking about is water. But then these are the small things that Bombay is all about. Thats what makes it wierd and brilliant at the same time. Much like Buzkashi.

catching the ram

It is interesting how a game in a so-called "uncivilised" world becomes so relevant and so in sync with the times of the civilised. We are all running around trying to catch the ram. For groups of us, the ram is the same. Simultaneously, different versions of the same game are being played by all of us. What is even more interesting is that on quite a few occassions we oursleves play the ram. We all run after what we love most without any consideration for the perspective of the entity itself. We are all stuck in consequent races and runs while assuming different roles. Its not sad. its not exhilerating. It cannot really be described by any emotion in the English Dictionary. The closest word that comes to it is probably 'confused'. One big mess. And it is this confusion that drives us around - that disappoints us, irritates us, pushes us further, makes us give up. In all our efforts at evolution and the increasing the power of the human brain, we still pursue something we are not really aware of - atleast I am not aware of (if someone else is then please do tell me). We still do not know whether we run for money, love, lust, family or just plain survival. But even without this knowledge we keep running - running in fear of the fact that we might not be able to achieve the unknown if we stop, running with hope of some arbitrary ray of light spelling it out for us, running because we have nothing better to do in life. But then again, there could be an alternative we've overlooked in our incessant running. Brilliant.