One of the nicest features of social networking site Facebook is the ability to check out hot babes who are friends with the women who work in your office intermingle with other professionals in the same industry and swap ideas on, in my case, writing and publishing and so on.

Another wonderful thing about Faceboook is how, with just a few clicks of your mouse, you can leave a private message for the missus but unfortunately, due to the three million potential places to click on the Facebook page, you screw things up and update your status to the following:

“Darling, I have cleaned the kitchen like you wanted me to. But I may have lost that box of mysore pak that was in the fridge and I was allowed to eat a small piece at a time. I have no idea where is it. Also I have a tummy upset.”

But my favourite feature in Facebook is the facility it extends to individuals like you and me to get to know ourselves better. For instance it is only after the advent of Facebook that I learnt that of all the characters in FRIENDS I am most similar to Chandler Bing:

You may have a hard and sarcastic exterior, but deep down you have lots of emotion and sympathy, and know how to make a relationship work. You are a loyal friend, and a fun guy who knows how to have a good time!

And then tragically it added: “You also have some Ross in you.”

Read together in rapid succession this was disturbing at so many single and double entendre levels.

Nonetheless Facebook has told me so many things about myself. And all through the clever use of such multiple choice questionnaires that somehow peer deep into my personality: I have recently come to learn, for instance, the following:

1. If I was one of the seven dwarves I would be Fatty
2. If I was a character in Sholay I would be the water tower
3. If I was a character from the Tolkien books I would be a nameless orc that died a quick death from blunt force trauma early on in a pointless ambience-creating battle
4. If I was a product marketed by Apple Inc. I would be a pair of replacement iPod headphones
5. And finally if I were a popular Indian management guru I would be… (sigh) … Arindam Chaudhuri

This insight has helped me immensely in my day-to-day life. Just yesterday, for instance, when the missus told me that all the guys in her office were fit, wore formal clothes to work and shaved everyday I told her: “But I am the number one in international exposure and I gave you a free laptop for your birthday dear!”

So last night I decided that I must make a questionnaire also so that, like me, readers like you can also gain great, deep understanding into your personalities. For the purpose of this personality-revealing questionnaire I have decided to use the context of the latest industry-farmer controversy in Singur in order to isolate personality types.

Please answer the following questionnaire as honestly as possible. Mark the first options that satisfies you. Do not spend too much time thinking over the answers. It will only corrupt the accuracy of this instrument. (Giggle giggle. Instrument! Giggle.)

A. Which of the following is your favourite colour?

1. Pure, intense red.
2. Anything but red. Red is the colour of corruption and incompetent governance that has strangled the people of this state for far too long. I HATE RED. In short, anything but red. I will kill anyone who picks red.
3. Minimal Moroccan Yellow, Sicilian Sky-blue, Thrifty Tahitian Tangerine and Midnight Black. Limited edition available in Vector Value Violet. (Author’s note: Option C has been asked to tone down the marketing spiel.)
4. 900 acres. Non-negotiable.

B. What immediately comes to your mind when I use the term “Parizaad Limesodawatersweetnosugarbottlewala”?

1. I do not know the answer to this question. My cadre will approach you for clarifications. (Author note: This is the right answer.)
2. This is a stupid question. We have burned your house down. We have saved our farmers.
3. Parizaad is one of the teeming masses of this country that worked for years and years without being able to purchase an affordable means of transportation for herself and her family. Now finally I will be able to…(Author’s note: OK ENOUGH WITH THE PR ALREADY!)
4. My secretary. Or maybe my cousin. It can be so difficult to tell for our people you know.

C. If three people can do a piece of work in fifteen days and seven people can do a piece of work in eleven days, then in how many days can 24 people do the same amount of work in 4 days?

1. Lunch break. Will open at 4:30 pm. Very briefly though.
2. You are going to employ only 24 people? TWENTY FOUR PEOPLE? What will the other starving masses of this country do? Bund has been declared with immediate effect all over the country by which I mean Kerala.
3. Forget how much work there actually is to do. Imagine a world where you can go to your work place in your own, low-cost, high-mileage, laughable-quality vehicle that is… FOR GODS SAKE NOW!…
4. Let me rephrase that question: If three people can do a piece of work in fifteen days and seven people can DO THEY HAVE 900 ACRES TO WORK ON?

D. John walked four kilometres towards the west, then six kilometres to the north, then three kilometres towards the east and then two kilometres again towards the west. How far is John from his starting point?

1. Ideologically John has strayed too far to the west. We see no point in supporting John any more. We have all withdrawn support. Except Somnath Chatterjee… bastard.
2. John is standing on fertile farmland that has been stolen from farmers. We give him a five second head start. 5…4…3…2…
3. With a kerb weight of just 600 kilos and a 623 cc engine, distance is never a problem for my… CHHUP!
4. John has not managed to go anywhere from his starting point. He is right where he was when he started. If I were John I would be giving up hope by now. And god only knows what John’s vendors must be thinking. This is all such a bloody waste of time. Oh no. That Gopal Gandhi is coming.

E. Just one last question before we reveal your hidden personality: The Trichy-Cochin Express starts from Trichy at 6:30 PM. The Aleppey-Bokaro Express starts from Aleppey at 7:25 PM. Both trains are approaching each other with a relative velocity of 200 kilometers per hour. Which train has a pantry car?

1. This is a high level decision that I leave to the supreme body Brinda Karat. Ha! Kidding. I mean Prakash Karat and Politburo.
2. Nonsense! When I was Railway Minister both trains were redirected to start from West Bengal. There is no need for car when there is train.
3. Speaking of parking and maneuvering, did I tell you how because of a steering radius of just three meters I am able to easily… SLAP!
4. Yediyurappa!

Score key:

Mostly 1’s: You are a wizened, old veteran of the communist establishment with many years of experience in administration. You are clean, relatively of corruption except for that one incident involving land allotment which, in the light of vast numbers of CPI(M) cadre available at your beck and call, we don’t think was anything more than a mistake in accounting. Or maybe a typo.

Mostly 2’s: You are an inspiring leader for many thousands of people trying to shirk off the yoke of Communism in West Bengal which stifled industrial development. Instead you promise a new future where the same people, now refreshingly yoke-less, will prosper thanks to umm…err…wait…one minute… Will prosper.

Mostly 3’s: You are the world’s cheapest car. (We mean that you cost the least. Not in the sense that you regift things you get in office diwali hampers.) However it looks like that you will make the Tata Group lose so much money that they will start transferring funds to your project from TCS. This will enrage TCS employees who will one day walk into your factory and lynch you en masse. Oscar Fernandes will then say something completely inappropriate.

Mostly 4’s: You are one of India’s most respected business leaders. You are always impeccably dressed, smart looking and clean-shaven. But you also remain unmarried. Are you thinking what we are thinking? What we are thinking is this: You may have some Ross in you.

Somehow I ended up at Ms. Rashmi’s blog yesterday (I only added the link to her blog on my blogroll yesterday). I now feel as though I’m starting my blog once again. I first started my blog after her guest lecture down at NIT Trichy during Currents, the Electrical Engineering department symposium. (More on how i started on this post).



I don’t know why, but I like her blog a lot. Not only is her design simple, she also uses a lot of links, pictures, and her writing style is really nice. While reading through her posts, theyre very easy to follow (except for her occasional hindi expressions here and there - I don’t know Hindi - very bad).



I’ll take her post on the smart card implementation in Mumbai as an example. The title “Smart Card, Dumb Implementation” it self is very self explanatory and simple. The reader would have been able to figure out the subject and tone of her post very quickly.



In the post, she starts off with a light introduction of what got her into a train (something like narrowing into the subject) and then writes on about her experience with smart cards and what she has observed about them. Some of the good things to note in her post is that she posts pictures wherever something might seem ambiguous.



She also uses links to refer to external articles that relates to events that she mentions on her post. This is a really good practice to do and I only realized it after seeing her blog. (So i started using links on my posts too - I posted links to websites instead of cutting and pasting their URLs in my web design links post.) Right now I haven’t posted many pictures yet because not much I’ve posted requires photos. However I should restart the picture posting because “A Picture is equivalent to a thousand words” right?



On with the rest of her blog. She’s got her twitter feed which she used to post her little thoughts that aren’t big enough to actually right a post on. This inspired me to start a twitter account too. Follow me on twitter if you want to by clicking here. And I’ve positioned my ads on the right hand side bottom of my page just as she has - no biggie there - just keeping the ads away from the main content.



However theres one thing I don’t like with her blog. She has her blog roll at the bottom of her blog which I didn’t find appealing because after I finish with one blog I usually use the links to move to another to read on. But thats just a minor issue. Other than that, thank you Ms. Bansal for creating a nice blog and inspiring others.

People often make fun of malayalis especially by sending that ridiculous email forward about how we do no work because we spend all day tying and untying our lungis. In fact many of us upright, honourable sons of Kerala soil (Malayalam: sow-yell) intend to fight this stereotype by going on a nationwide hartal sometime soon after this tea break.

Therefore I was most happy to read a recent piece of news on the Indo Asian News Service that will finally put to rest the myth of the lazy malayali. This is the headline:

Youth held with 31 fake passports in Kerala

Do you even need to read the rest of the news piece to bask in the karmic glory of this man’s effort and commitment to duty? Yes? Ok:

Kozhikode: A youth was arrested with 31 fake passports at Kozhikode International Airport in Kerala on Sunday.

“Nissar was to leave by an Air Arabia flight to Sharjah. The search was conducted by the Air Customs Intelligence unit following a tip off. The seized items were found concealed in his luggage,” a customs official at the airport said.

Nissar will be handed over to the police for further investigation, the official said.

Source: Indo-Asian News Service

Nissar’s achievement is nothing short of being the Tata Nano of document fraud for it’s sheer invention. To put it in another way: NISSAR HAS ONE PASSPORT FOR EVERY FLAVOUR OF BASKIN ROBBINS ICE CREAM!

(My own sources indicate that the 31 passports included 11 Bijus, 7 Johnnys, 8 Babys, 4 Chackochans and one compulsary Blossom Babykutty. My sources refused to be named.)

And not content to just ship his clients to diverse foreign countries like the UAE, Saudi Arabia and Qatar, Nissar has also ensured that they get the opportunity to drive home to the labour camp right from the airport only stopping to buy full bottle VAT 69 on the way.

We are proud of Nissar Panalam and have decided to immediately bestow upon him the Kerala NRI Tilakam award brought to you by Atlas Jewellery.

Tomorrow will be holiday.

Pic. courtesy: Wikipedia A few hours after I posted this I got an email from Jogesh S, the photographer of the wonderful image above who said that I had given the wrong credits. So all thanks to Jogesh’s work and do check out this and several other fantastic photos from his collection here: http://flickr.com/photos/75621441@N00/495874906.

Close friends (Pastrami basically, and that fellow who sells dabeli outside Wadala station) know that this author has been harbouring a subtle fondness for the ASUS eee PC for some time now. Ever since the laptop made it’s appearance on tech blogs all over the world and took the 2007 Christmas gifting season by storm I have secretly collected images of it, read reviews, bookmarked blog posts and pretty much devoured anything with three e’s in it in close mutual proximity.

Did I say subtle fondness? Sorry. What I actually meant to say was: I AM TOTALLY FREAKING OBSESSED BY IT. (In school comedy circles some smart ass would now say “Accha! You love it so much? Then go marry it. Ha ha ha!” SLAP.)

Not since Cadbury’s Ulta Perk have I wanted to possess something new so badly. (And that one almost pushed me to therapy. “Wafer outside! Chocolate inside!” it seems. Fools.)

However no amount of compact computing power, flash based hard drives and inherent minimalist cuteness will let me own one. That is because in-between the ASUS eee PC and yours truly stands a force that is immovable, inflexible and utterly asympathetic: (cue: drum roll, theremin music, that 300 Spartan fellow screaming in the distance)

THE MISSUS! or even more accurately: THE NE-MISSUS.

Left to the missus the whole world would have one computer per family, one operating system (Windows Vista), one model mobile phone: Samsung slider, one gaming console with EVERY Mario game ever made and absolutely no chance of a portable gaming thingie like the PSP. All those things would be redundant, uncalled for and “phaltu bakwaas”.

This is because the missus does not believe in “wasting money” on any gadget or gizmo that, in anyway whatsoever, is redundant.

USB Mouse? Not till the touchpad is broken.

FIFA 2008? Have they changed the rules since launching your FIFA 2007? No? Maybe when they introduce an additional ball or something. No, “golden goal rule” is not good enough.

Nothing whatsoever is permitted at home which has a name beginning with a lower case “i”.

So much so that I have been driven down the tawdry path of cheat code entry and god-mode playing in order to finish my PS2 games and facilitate purchase of new ones. After months of tireless effort currently our home languishes with just three laptops (one in working condition), a home theatre, a PS2, two USB pen drives, a portable DVD player, a digicam, a handicam and wireless router in a 2BHK that is routinely hacked by the neighbours.

The only real gadget luxury allowed at home is the missus’ very own Sony Vaio in Pink. This is currently the pride of the household and no similar computing device may be purchased till “Her Pink Vaio”, as it is to be called at all times, is defective beyond repair. This has unfortunately led to the eeePC moratorium.

(”Pink Vaio” is beyond reproach, criticism or censure. A brief debate occured at the time of purchasing the said item from Vijay Sales in Worli, mainly revolving around product colour. This quickly concluded in a comprehensive review of my security as a male and inadequacy thereof.)

For many days and nights I thought this gizmo aversion was a foible unique to the missus. That is till I dropped in at the Croma at Juhu with the Missus, Pastrami and Pastrami’s first cousin (on the father’s side) this weekend. The Croma at Juhu is the most complete gadget store I know in Mumbai. It may not have the esoteric, “sourced from secret Shanghai market” quality of Heera Panna merchandise. But the store is large, roomy, filled to the brim with tech and use thankfully few plastic-sticker-aluminium-foil cellphone mockups.

On the contrary, most things are nice, shiny and in satisfying shades of grey, black and other such techie tints.

We were early for our movie at PVR and had dropped in for a few moments of harmless browsing. I immediately ran to the eeePC on display and began to type and use it with elan to show the missus how easily the both of us (eeePC, me) melded together as if one entity. As if meant for each other.

Sidin: See dear how, despite the keyboard being so “uselessly small” according to you, I am able to type something long and complicated so easily without errors


Sidin: *type type type*


eeePC: Sidih Subby Badulur


Missus: Verbatim is the word.


Sidin: *sheepish grin*

But then as I walked around the store checking out computers, computer speakers, universal remote controls (sigh), and gaming consoles I noticed something that quickly turned out to be a trend:

Guys trying to prove to their wives/girlfriends/significant-others why they need to buy tech stuff, and pathetically failing in the attempt.

All around the store young men, gizmo greed glimmering in their eyes, tried to nonchalantly hustle their partners next to devices they fancied. They then extolled virtues of the device only to have the women beat their reasoning into pulp each time.

Here are some edited excerpts from overheard conversations:

Conversation 1

Hopeful Young Man 1: Wow. A phone with a 6 megapixel camera. Darling look how…


Ne-missus 1: That’s four megapixels less than our digital camera.


HYM1: But we can carry this thing anywhere! Imagine the mobility!


N1: I am carrying the digicam in my handbag right now.

Conversation 2

HYM2: Brilliant! A 500GB hard drive with media output to TV. Imagine darling I can just directly stream a video file right into our TV without writing CDs or anything.


N2: But you don’t have any video files. Besides when would you watch them?


HYM2: Well I watch DVDs when you go to the gym you know!


N2: Which ones?


HYM2: ….er… WORLD MOVIES! I watch world movies!


N2: Yay! I love world movies! Let’s buy one. We can both sit and watch everyday all cuddled up.


HYM2: LOOK A PINK VAIO THERE!


N2: Where where? *scurry*


HYM2: Phew.

Conversation 3

HYM3: Sweety!


N3: *suspiciously* Yes?


HYM3: I was thinking maybe it is a good idea to buy a nice 16GB Kingston pendrive so I can always carry my important data with me at all times. Then I never have to call office people to mail me anything if I am working from home. It is a simple solution really.


N3: But you have an office laptop no? That has all the data?


HYM3: Yes of course. But suppose…er… I am in a bus, need to send a client an important presentation with embedded video, and I am not carrying my laptop?


N3: Well then what is the point in having a pendrive?


HYM3: I will… I can… I… will then… !@#$

All these snippets of conversation have opened my eyes. I now see that my missus is not alone in her aversion to gadgetry. It is a universal phenomenon. I feel a little guilty for having seen her in such bad light for so long. It is not her fault at all. Maybe, just maybe, responsible, sensible wives of geeks are wired that way.

How does your wife stifle your techie urges? Stall your circuit cravings? Tell me.

I, in the meantime, will go home, switch on “Her Pink Vaio”, place it by the window and then keep both open all night. Hopefully at some point in the night the rain will short-circuit it. (A non-warranty incident.)

Wish me luck.

P.S. Image courtesy Wikipedia, missus

“Darling… you are impressed with my remarkable intellect yes?”

“Of course Sidin…”

“Not to mention that sense of humour that so bewitches you…”

“It still bewitches Sidin… except when you make puns of course…”

“Ha ha of course dear. Not so punny sometime eh?”

” ”

“Sorry…”

It is always good to sort out such critical relationship issues with the missus when one is moments away from hitting a beach (Morjim) in North Goa. One that is almost entirely populated by Russian, Scottish, Irish and other such country-ish young men in tiny swimming trunks. Some of these gentlemen, I gathered the previous night from a pleasant waiter, were tourists looking for a small break after a few years of military service.

My glee took little suppressing.

So I reminded the missus of my many fine characteristics while we went down to the seaside cafe for breakfast. Our first tryst with a Goan beach would follow.

“Missus… these scrambled eggs are not bad at all eh?”

“Not at all and this toast is so goo… OH MY GOD IS THAT A MAN STANDING THERE WITH THIRTEEN PACK ABS AND A SPEEDO ON?”

“I know. I have no idea how they scramble it this way. You think they add a little milk maybe?”

“Shaddup Sidin. Check out that guy before he runs into the sea will you…”

So I did. The guy was a Russian god. Remember that statue where the Greek (roman?) guy is bend over and about to throw a discus? Yeah, well compared to tourist boy, discuss man was a fat slob. I, in contrast, was a continent. A slow, undulating continent.

I ordered extra bacon to help me cope.

Finally, after two blog posts, we were in Goa. And our holiday had begun. Yay.

And, would you believe it, it was my first time. Goa I mean.

It is a matter of fact. A Universal Theory of Everyone. Everybody in the world except me has been to Goa. Ek dum. Fultu. All humanity. Dad, mom, cousins, the complete cast of both Bombay to Goa movies, neighbours, Mrs. P. next door, landlord, Pastrami, Pastrami’s parents, Pastrami’s neighbours… you get the idea.

But not me. For some odd reason, just the way I never ended up getting a driving license, I’ve never been to Goa. Not that mallus need a reason to really go to Goa. When we want to throw back a few drinks by the side of large water bodies and want to see foreigners in skimpy clothes we have a simple solution: home with a DVD player.

Yet Goa and I always eyed each other from afar, the twain never meeting.Till this holiday. And I was beginning to like it already.

The Montego Bay resort was nice enough. Our cottage was ethnicool with thin wooden walls, uneven floors, a bed that broadly satisfied the dictionary definition and a refreshingly austere bathroom with a shower drain that didn’t.

But it was stone’s fling from a very clean, mostly untouched beach, had a passably good cafe with cold beer and all-day breakfast (sooper!) and Greg. (Greg was the guy who was great with a WagonR but not so hot with the English language. When he spoke both Wren and Martin went Mach 3 in their graves. They were spinning blurs.)

Post-breakfast we walked down to the beach and planted ourselves on deck chairs by the water’s edge. Few things calm as much. It was like that exact moment in school when you finish your final annual exam (General Knowledge, Moral Science, Sewing), run back home, hand over the question paper to your mom with all the “questions I am sure I got right” marked and then sat down for lunch with NOTHING to do. Bliss.

Both of us leaned back into the chair, carefully within the shadow of a beach umbrella, and pulled out our books. And we tried to do as little possible. Sometimes I just sat their and looked out at the horizon. Sometimes I turned over and my eyes would fall on a very large Russian guy, most of who was on the chair, sunning gently. So I turned back to look at the horizon.

Life was good. Life was too good.

“Sir. Yeh chairs free nahi hai. Aapko pay karna padega.”

A gentleman soon appraised us of the fact that those particular set of chairs was owned by the Russian shack outfit next door. The Montego’s chairs lay behind a fence so far up-beach that the sea was invisible due to the natural curvature of the earth.

I was miffed… but we moved seats anyway. The view was no longer the same though. So I called the waiter.

“Boss do you have any Royal Challenge…”

The missus speed-frowned.

“… golf accessories by any chance You know. Here’s to you Jay! And all that.”

“What?”

“Ek Virgin Mary and don’t go easy on the Tabasco.”

Large swathes of Morjim, we later learned, was controlled by a strong local Russian mafia. And anyone who has seen any of Schwarzenegger’s lesser known movies know that the Russian mafia are scary bastards. If you don’t have the other half of the same dollar bill they immediately respond with comas.

But one positive, if you will, byproduct if this foreign influx is the handful of excellent restaurants that have sprouted up around the beaches in Goa. So for lunch Greg recommended we check out a place called La Plage further up the beach. Apparently it was the only foreign run place that gave desis bhaav. Also apparently the grub was supposed to be top notch.

As with many things in life, there were two ways to make it to La Plage, a long walk up the beach, or a relaxed saunter through the Morjim surroundings via the road that ran parallel to the beach. Was there a difference in distance between both routes? We asked Greg.

“Sir means you try to walk up the road Morjim or beach and way go to beach up there. La Plage. Half hour. Every peoples are going La Plage.”

“Ok. But which route is shorter? Which way should I go?”

“La Plage”

“Very good. Thanks again Greg. Anything special I should order there?”

“Sunday.”

“Wha… ok thanks.”

We could walk up and down the beach whenever we wanted to. But a nice early afternoon march through the heart of Morjim seemed more appealing. The wife had misgivings, but I insisted. “Besides how much longer can this route be? They are both parallel routes no?”

NO.

We walked and walked and walked and saw hardly another person out on the road. So much for cultural gleanings. There were several restaurants on the way and each time we saw what looked like an out door dining place from afar the missus chirped up: “That has to be La Plage.”

Only to be disappointed time and time again. I was running out of brownie points like resumes out of Bear Stearns.

En route we were able to spot several unique items of local interest. The highlight was when we quickly photographed, in its pristine natural habitat, a large bright orange spool of underground fibre optic cable just sitting by the road gently melting. Also several tourists in dreadlocks and what looked Fabindia-factory-seconds zooming about on rented two-wheelers looking very (narcotics) business-like.

Also, was noted at many restaurant blackboards on the way, the intense popularity of the Mojito cocktail. And this being Goa the cocktail was being sold for anything from 45 to 60 bucks. Can you build a Mojito pipeline from Goa to Wadala? Do we have the technology? Can we get FDI? Private Equity? Venture Capital?

Mojito-backed Securities. He he. Ayyo.

Forty-five minutes later we were at La Plage and a moment later we were ushered to our seats. I ordered a bottle of the famed King’s beer for myself and a mild Mojito for the missus. (Of course she couldn’t drink all of it. It’s what is called a plan, you single men.)

And at that moment I saw him.

“DARLING IT”S MY FAVOURITE PERSON IN THE WORLD SITTING THERE!”

“What!!!!!”

“I said: DARLING IT”S MY SECOND FAVOURITE PERSON IN THE WORLD SITTING THERE!”

“What!!!”

“SCREW HIS POSITION IN MY PERSONAL RANKING OF INDIVIDUALS IN ORDER OF PREFERENCE. IT”S WILLIAM DALRYMPLE!”

Initially we had doubts. Surely not more than one famous writer can be expected to be at a random restaurant at any given time. (He he. No? Ok.)

But then WD got a call from someone and I couldn’t help but overhear it as I leaned forward and cupped my palms around me ears. Benazir Bhutto was dead. Column was needed. Would he write? But of course! What would be the terms and conditions? He informs them of price. (Brief pause in surveillance while I regain cardiac activity.) They agree. Bye. Click.

So I got up and went to him.

“Hello!”

“Are you William Dalrymple?”

“Hello!”

“Are you…”

“Yes I am. How are you!”

“Ahge lkeres nerhhey neerssa”

Missus: “He is a huge fan. He decided to write for a living after reading your From the Holy Mountain book.”

“Oh excellent! And are you having fun?”

“Hjsdsd kjerwe wehhe.”

Missus: He writes for Rediff and Hindu and all…”

“Oh! What’s your byline?”

“Sidlko Vadfghrerrr…”

And then we took a photo and quickly left him alone before I made a complete dunderhead of myself.

(Later I would email him my byline. And he would email back! Score!)

If there was one moment of my entire Goa trip that will never be forgotten, that will forever be imprinted on my brain as if by permanent marker, that even now sends a shiver down my spine, it was that single moment when, right after we bid farewell to Darlymple, Rohit Bal jogged past me in slow motion wearing a pair of swimming trunks and nothing else.

It will haunt me even in my old age that.

If we weren’t tucking into food or sipping on cocktails, we spend our time taking long walks down the beach, sometime in knee deep sea wash, the clean water frothing and foaming. Morjim is simply superb if you’re the type who likes peace and quiet. There wasn’t a single vendor of any boat, diving or any such service who approached us on the Morjim beach.

So later the next morning we decided to hire trusty, woefully a-syntactical old Greg for a trip to the reasonably famous Mapusa market. And whatay market it was. I would love to say, like those travel and living people on TV, that the market throbbed with the life of the town, the sheer engine of commerce whipping up a cauldron of sights and sounds and smells and all that. But I, to be honest, can’t.

Mapusa market is like any other bustling market in Thrissur or Trichy or Mandaiveli. Lots of people, lots of sliding and gliding to avoid bumping and grinding, and moderate heat and dust. Nonetheless it was lively and an hour or so well spent just roaming around. We finally bought a bag full of sweetmeats of some kind from a shop along with a few packets of biscuits for the cottage. Before leaving, as I sometimes like to do, I tried to kick up a conversation with the shopkeeper:

“So tell me, good man, what are the special things I should buy from Goa?”

“Booze and fish. Thats all they have here. Booze and fish. Where are you from?”

“Kerala.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

For dinner we decide to peruse of the legendary Fellini’s. Accessible through a trail of narrow streets lined with bizarre people and shops, Fellini’s is famous and rightfully so. I had the best Pizza I have ever had there. Giving due allowance for the three mojitos I had with it.

But not before we were subject to some special Customer Service of the desi kind.

I’ve written an entire column about this before, but to recap, there is some strange pleasure many of our compatriots get from treating each other like crap. And what better place to unleash intra-national spite than a restaurant packed to the rafters with tourists and one unsuspecting desi couple waiting for a table. The waiters kept ignoring us while running to firang customers who walked in. Even when I caught them by both arms and looked them in the face. They would just nod and walk away. And probably share the joke with their mates who all tittered at us as they walked past.

WTF! Did they not know that I worked in the media? That I had a photo taken with THE William Dalrymple? That I had just been asked to work on a Bollywood script? That I once had 18 idlis in one sitting with one little katori of coconut chutney as evening snack?

Finally I spotted a mildly stoned firang who seemed in charge and appraised him of our situation. We got tables in exactly five minutes.

Important note: Go to Fellini’s -> eat pizza - > and then some more -> wash it all down with great cocktails -> try not to repeat old engineering college drinking songs with missus -> go home.

Our final day was left for some serious touristing. Off we drove to the capital: Panaji. We saw the churches, clicked them snaps, saw the museum (Very good. It’s across the road from the church with St. Xaviers remains kept in the silver casket.) and grabbed lunch. We also tried, unsuccessfully, to locate a Cafe Coffee Day or Barista of some kind. Instead we fortuitously landed up in a cafe run by a bunch of super-sweet old ladies who made good chai and nice snacks. And while they weren’t looking, we nibbled on the bebinca we had in our bag.

I’ve had bebinca, Goa’s official dessert, only once before, at that Goa Portuguesa place in Mahim where it tasted like something that had somehow been interrupted in it’s original intention of becoming a shoe. But this shop opposite Mapusa market had slabs of wonderful, sweet, delicious bebinca. We were soon peeling and eating it all day like a pair of…err…bebinca junkies. You must, must go and buy a bag of it. And buy some for me too. We’re all out.

By sundown, exhausted in a nice, warm and glowly fashion, we reached our local bus boarding point. Greg dropped us off and we shared a few words in parting.

“Sir you enjoyed Goa. I hope you will come again, Call me ok.”

“You just… how did… sure Greg. I will give you a call. Take care and have fun yes? See you next time. I hope you had a great time showing us around too…”

“Mapusa,” Greg said solemnly before driving away. We peoples issa missing him.

We were there an hour early and then spent forty minutes looking for a clean toilet. Finally we found one inside one of those big, shiny antique stores that scream “Firangs! Firangs! Come and buy authentic Indian souvenirs actually made in China!” We went in with full bladders and ginger steps. And left with three thousand rupees worth of stuff.

We got suckered. It was the most expensive leak I’ve had in my life.

A little after ten we boarded our bus, settled into our seats and stretched. It had been a great holiday really. Good, uncomplicated fun and William Dalrymple. Not to mention several top notch meals. Could things get any better?

Sure they could. Half an hour or so after taking off, the bus people switched on the TV and powered up a DVD of Chak De India. We were well pleased.

So where were we when we spoke at length last? Ah yes. That Goa Trip. A part two was due no?

Regular readers may note that this blog has quite the habit of throwing up Part Ones and then never touching the concerned topic ever again. Part Twos simply refuse to appear on this blog. It’s not a conscious thing mind you. I’m not trying to develop one of those stylish quirks that will probably pop up, years hence, in a Bournvita Quiz or something.

“Which Pullitzer Prize winning writer is famous for never writing sequels to any of his blog posts…”

BUZZ!

“Sidin Vad… Vod… Va… Vaku… ah screw it… Amit Varma!”

Left to me I’d just write up the whole thing in a single post. But apparently that is a total blogging no no. 6000 words plus. Scroll scroll, scroll scroll. Carpal tunnel.

So for the first time ever, here is the sequel to the first part of a multi-part blog. We, the missus and I, were on that bus to Goa remember?

Part 2: Because if Rocky and Rambo can do it so can Vadukut

It is just past dawn on the morning of the 27th of December.

Normally, if I were to use it in conversation, the above sentence would be followed by the statement, “and I was still asleep in bed with my lungi somewhere in the room going about its business.” or “and my wife woke up like she does every morning in that irritating way that women are able to. They then look down upon us guys because we sleep late after an hour or two of Fashion TV Zee Jagran and won’t be up till she’s halfway into the lift. Also lungi is gone.”

Unfortunately I was a traveller in India using surface transport. This means that as I progressed towards my destination I would inevitably cross state borders. And what floats invisibly, yet surely above these state borders? Yes sir, you hit the nail on the head, telecom circle limits.

Just past dawn on the morning of the 27th of December, around 6:15 AM or so, the “great Indian mobile roaming handover communication SMS frenzy” invaded my cellphone. One moment my phone lay harmless in the seat-back pouch in front of me, blinking that green light in a soothing, intermittent manner.

The next moment all hell breaks lose.

It’s ironic really. Even my wife, that fragrant blossom, doesn’t get all misty eyed and sentimental when I leave my home in Mumbai for long periods of time. (To Kurla in the evenings, for instance.) The most she will do is ask me to take care, eat healthy and leave my ipod behind.

Your mobile network is a completely different proposition altogether. Mobile networks hate to see you leave. They absolutely detest it when you switch from one network to another. So the moment you cross one circle they send you at least three SMSs: one to say bye, one to say thanks and another one, a last ditch attempt perhaps, to sell you “LTST JDHA AKBR WLPPR N RNGTNS! SPCL OFR! LK NO VWLS!”

Equally upbeat are the networks when you stray into them. Immediately they welcome you with warm embraces, damp eyes and “the best network coverage in Goa and Maharashtra… NO SIGNAL”

(Of course I am exaggerating here. Cellphone customer service isn’t all that bad. Just last week I asked Vodafone to de-activate my voice mail. Within just three hours, as they had promised, my international roaming was activated.)

So there I am sitting in the bus when wave after wave of mongol cellphone networks attack me with welcome messages. Each time my phone emits a pleasant delivery tone: “Ramba Ho Ho Ho Ho” from Armaan.

In mild panic, I switched my phone into Flight Mode and put an end to the whole ruckus. I made a mental note to change my SMS tone and looked at my watch. Egads. Mapusa must be only a few moments away. The previous night I had asked the driver to give me a yell when we reached Mapusa.

The exact same moment I got out of my seat the bus went into a lurching right turn. I immediately succumbed to inertia and bundled into my wife, who lay in her seat balled up inside her blanket. Yes, head covered and all. She was less than pleased and rolled up her sleeves.

Fifteen minutes later, when the pain had subsided and she had gone back to sleep, I tried to get up again. This time too the bus went into a terrible, sudden lurch. I dropped myself back to the seat again and held on tight for dear life. I waited for the road to straighten out.

It never did. I have no idea what deal is. But at some point, a few hours out of Panaji, the road to Goa completely loses it. There isn’t a single straight stretch of tar for hours. Buses, and the people within, get thrown about like soft toys. (The kid who was puking all night? He stopped. I have no idea why.) First left and then right and then left and then right and then you know how this is going. (Mallu joke: “The road was just like governments in Kerala!” Ha ha. Ayyo!)

At some point I picked up courage and clambered forward, seat handle to seat handle (also one ponytail), and finally made it the driver’s cabin. “When do we reach Mapusa? We were supposed to be at Panaji by 7:30 am no? Where are we now?”

The two gentlemen there, driver and someone who sat around doing nothing (EA to the driver?), looked at me and smirked. The driver however, had to break off amid-smirk and throw us into a hard right to avoid a palm tree of some kind. They said that we were still hours away and would only reach Mapusa by 9:30.

I clambered back, dropped myself into my seat, reached across and pushed apart the curtains. For the next two hours I looked out of the window and nibbled on some incredibly bad chocolate I bought the previous night at one of those mid-route pee-break places. Something made in Turkey. Not a delight at all.

Mapusa!

The bus reached Mapusa at exactly 9:30 AM. The EA to the driver came and woke us up at 9:29:56 am and asked us to disembark in an orderly fashion. A blur of hectic activity later we were standing outside by the side of the road with what we hoped was our luggage lying around us. The bus thundered away in a cloud of dust. And immediately took a hard left.

Across the road stood the famous Hotel Green Park; famous at least among the members of the bussing industry. Green Park was one of those hotels named aspirationally. Like those roadside dhabas you see on the outskirts of Lonavla, Ambala or Ongole. “Hotel Luxury”, “Hygiene Inn”, “Famous Dhaba and Pharmacy”, “Surprisingly Little Chance of Explosive Dysentry Cafe”.

And so on.

We called the man at Montego Bay who told us that our pickup would be here shortly. Someone called Greg would come with a WagonR. We were asked to have a cup of tea or so at Green Park while we waited.

As soon as we stepped in I knew that Green Park was a ‘Medimix’ class hotel. (The sort of place that has room service only in spirit, has furniture exclusively made of formica and will also have at least one item in the room that belonged to the previous resident. Like hair. When a medimix hotel says “sumptuous continental breakfast is included in room tariff” they mean corn flakes for the first fifteen people. And yes, Medimix in the bathroom.)

The missus sat around looking miserable while I snacked on a light Breakfast Platter and waited for Greg.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting in the back of a WagonR trying to figure out what Greg was saying. In the beginning I thought it was some form of Konkani. And I responded in Hindi. Greg looked at us dumb founded. Then we figured out that he was actually speaking in English, only with a heavy accent and grammar so bad it made Inzamam sound like a Harry Potter character.

“So we is now going to the Mapusa and then the Montego Bay. Lot man foreigners are staying there. Means there is mmmm few Indian peoples there. Me see some there today while coming you know there Montego season now okay.”

“Ah so you are saying that there are a few Indians there?”

“Yes also my grandfather. He also.”

“What?”

“Indians. But many wants go Portugal.”

“Ok.”

Somehow it was like speaking to Jar-Jar Binks but without the option to skewer him with a light sabre and put an end to the conversation. But Greg was a remarkably sweet man as we would learn further through that weekend.

We reached Montego Bay an hour or so later and quickly moved into our little cottage set back from the beach. The room service boy soon let us alone. I closed the door behind him, drew the curtains and looked at my wife in the eyes. Finally, we were alone.

“Sidin,” she said in that husky drawl she gets when we’re alone sometimes, “please for god’s sake go brush your teeth.”

This holiday was going just fine.

The last and final part of the Goa Saga, because this one is really too long already, will emerge this weekend.

Stay tuned machaan. Don’t forget to return. Don’t be a balti.

Prologue

It was four in the morning and the kid two seats ahead was beginning to throw up again. Every fifteen minutes he’d sudenly sit up straight and draw in his breath sharply. His mother, with the light-sleeping agility of a Ninja you read about in Lustbader novels, would leap into the aisle and extend a plastic bag into her son’s face in one fluid motion.

He would then heartily oblige. With gusto.

Adjacent the concerned father, deeply moved by his son’s agony, lay draped over the fully reclined  seat. He was snoring like one of those fumigating machines the BMC suddenly assaults your housing society with one night without warning. You know. Where you freak out when you come back from office thinking there’s been a fire and you’ve lost, gasp, the Playstation and the passport with the still valid UAE visa.

Nothing perturbed Puky Pukerson. He kept going.

A few minutes past three a.m. he may have violated the Law of Conservation of Mass. (Also known as the Lomonosovo-Lavoisier Law.) He had managed to puke a little over his complete body weight.

Yet… amazingly… there he was. Still alive. With Ninja Mama waiting to strike.

But if you thought that was the most disgusting thing about our hastily arranged bus journey from Mumbai to Goa you are mistaken. You are so mistaken.

Moments after the journey began the missus, yours truly and the other unsuspecting passengers were subject to a poorly produced DVD of that blockbuster movie, indeed epitome of film as an art form, Speed.

Not the Keanu Reeves, Sandra Bullock one. But the Aftab Shivdasani, Zayed Khan starrer (!) that set the box offices ringing with calls for refunds. And if that was not bad enough, after that movie, hours of fitful sleep and Captain Regurgitation, in the morning we were further subjected to a DVD of Dhamaal. (Famoursfor the song - Dhamaal.)

Now everyone wanted to throw up.

But wait one goddamn minute! Didn’t yours truly promise the missus a romantic trip to Jodhpur for a friend’s brother’s wedding? (Close enough to hog, distant enough to give small inexpensive gifts without guilt.) Followed by an overnight desert safari in Jaisalmer?

And here we were in a bus to Goa.

What gives?

Part 1: A Christmas in Waiting

Bandra Terminus, station code BDTS,  is so named not so much because trains stop there as much for the fact that your willingness to stay alive terminates as you step in. The 1:30 PM train to Jodhpur starts from platform number 2.

Or maybe 1. Or even 3. Who knows? The railways fellows surely don’t! And is there an overbridge across platforms? Of course not! That would make it convenient to catch trains and that goes completely against everything BDTS stands for.

So while you drag your bags, (one for the master, one for the dame and one for the woolens that weigh a freaking ton), through incessant porters, pollution, traffic and over puddles of stagnant water you have no idea where to go. Till, like a breath of fresh air, a porter told us that we’d have to go all the way back out of the parking, through the gate and across the tracks to platform number 2.

I was beginning to hate my double-lined, American-made, water-proof, mountaineering-intended Nautica jacket. Sure it had kept me virile through many a testy December in Ahmedabad and Delhi. But the freaking thing weighed many a ton.

The platform was almost empty when we reached there. We were an hour ahead of time. This was so that I could cozy up to the TTE when he turned up with the train and see if I could bump up our Waitlist 4 & 5 to at least an RAC.

The TTE, in his eagerness to help agitated passengers with WL and RAC tickets, came in plain clothes and slipped into the train without telling anyone. When I finally located the blackguard he was lavishly laid back on a berth eating only the aloo out of a dabba of aloo gobi. The philistine was saving the gobi for later. Or maybe he didn’t like gobi. Honestly I didn’t give a freaking f!@#.

I asked him for a berth. In a polite manner. He said he had no berths. Then, as I believe is the norm, I loosened my shoulders, threw my head to one side, popped a fist into a pocket (mine) and asked him in a more casual manner. Apparently, as Pastrami had prepared me, this indicates that I am prepared to pay a little gratuity for the help. He laughed at me and popped another piece of aloo in the mouth (his).

When the train started moving I ran out, and once again the both of us, missus and I, were alone on the platform with nowhere to go. Our dreams of a desert holiday and a five star marwari wedding in Jodhpur had gone to pieces. Also it was our first wedding anniversary in a couple of day’s time.

The wife was beginning to show the faint beginnings of a dissapointed funk on her face when I told her those reassuring words that never fail to perk up any unhappy missus:

“Don’t worry darling. It was entirely my fault that we missed the train and our holiday plans have got destroyed beyond repair and not at all because you said we don’t need to book Tatkal tickets as any idiot, by which you meant me, should know that Waitlist 4 and 5 always gets confirmed…”

She was immediately cheery again, briefly mentioned how she found my honesty refreshing, and we trundled back home and sat in the living room, bewildered at what to do with the four days of leave we had already locked in with our employers.

We made a few calls to hotels in Mahabaleshwar and Panchgani only for the owners to laugh at us loudly over the phone. The 25th of December was not proving to be a good day to book rooms in hotels for the end of year holidays.

Sidin: “But darling… after all what matters is being together and spending time with each other and enjoying precious moments…”

Missus: “Shut up and call makemytrip”

Sidin: ” …calling up Makemytrip of course.”

A few calls, frantic internet searching, tripadvisor review readings and helpful dibs into the Lonely Planet later we finally decided that the only place that remotely had the chance of a free room was Goa. Some shack or tent somewhere had to be free right? Half an hour later, a last minute cancellation meant that a log cabin waited for us at the Montego Bay Resort on Morjim Beach.

Morjim, a little googling revealed, was one of the more secluded beaches far from the maddening crowds. This meant that the beach would be cleaner, quieter and most importantly I could take my shirt off without irreparable damage to the self esteem.(I carry a little bit of fat on me. Sometimes you can’t make out I’m wearing a swimsuit.)

(Later in Goa, as luck would have it, every time the missus and I decided to hit the beach for a walk or a read in the evening twilight a dozen or so foreign mens, most of them working in the underwear modelling, special forces commando and international gymnastics industries, would parade in front of us with their tops off and their flat-abs and six-packs showing. I would immediately leap off my lounge chair, pick up an empty Kingfisher beer bottle and thulp them over the head till they passed out entirely in my imagination.)

Since flying was out of the question due to my freelance writer livelihood, and we had already had our fill of the railway system we decided to opt for the many pleasures of luxury ac Volvo buses. Redbus.in was a handy tool and we had soon booked return tickets on Raj National Express. The cram de la cram of bus operators.

After a minor fifteen minutes delay, we were off to Goa at 8:15 PM. Morjim, the beach, foreign food, a run in with a world famous author and the most delightful massacre of the English language awaited us.

And onwards we bus to Part 2. Which will appear, I promise you, shortly.

Yes yes yes. Your conscience demands you go to Giveindia and do your bit now! Right now goddammit!