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
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Friday, 19 June 2009
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
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
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 20 October 2008
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
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
Friday, 8 August 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
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.
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.
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