Foot where?

Transcript of conversation with anonymous public relations professional on newsroom phone a few days ago. Edited for readability.

(Phone rings)

Sidin: Hello… Sidin (It is a miserable habit of mine, that line. So many people respond by saying: “No.”)

Random PR professional: Hello Sidin! This is from !

S: Hi. Tell me.

RPRP: I have been reading your work for a long time now. And I am impressed.

S: (Sensing a catch somewhere…) Oh thank you very much.

RPRP: Especially the wonderful work you’ve been doing in the area of Law firms and legal services…

S: (What the…) Oh I see. Which stories in particular?

RPRP: Oh the one… err.. you know the story… this particular one… I mean the one on…

S: (Aha! The plot thickens…) Oh you mean the one I wrote last weekend?

RPRP: EXACTLY! That one. It was so, so, so good…

S: On legal services no?

RPRP: Yes yes.

S: Ah but I have NEVER EVER written a single world in my entire career on legal services and law firms…

RPRP: Never?

S: Not once.

RPRP:

S:

RPRP: Maybe I have my information wrong.

S: Maybe you do.

CLICK!

The Capital Train

I have great pleasure in informing readers of this blog that the venerable Rajdhani Express trains of the Indian Railways continues to maintain the highest standards in passenger service, comfortable travel and catering that has a “must do trans-fat” attitude.

If one ignores my near fatal cranial concussion, there is much to still rejoice about the Rajdhanis.

Our little jaunt to the capital, for the missus did accompany me, suddenly happened a few weeks ago. It was not a pre-planned thing. What with the short holiday to the “gelf” last month and the traumatic Sensex movements, this blog’s solvency has come under severe strain these past few weeks. Not everyone can be a Member of Parliament with feeble party loyalties no?

So when the brother-in-law announced he was flying in from Johanessburg for his annual leave we were at a quandary. On the one hand flight tickets to Delhi were mightily pricey. And on the other there was little point in using up most of the plain vanilla two-day weekend in a train.

But then there was the biltong.

The brother-in-law had graciously agreed to bring back a kilo of this unique South African delicacy. Now I am not one to be seduced by exotic food in most cases. But:

1. Biltong is made of beef


2. He brought a kilo of it


3. The entire wife’s side of the family is vegetarian


4. IT WAS ALL FOR ME.

This was exactly the sort of thing that my grandmother told me happened to good catholic boys if they prayed regularly, confessed at least once a month and did not skip engineering coaching classes to see Mohanlal fillims at Jose (not pronounced hoe-ze) Theatre in Thrissur.

While the missus weighed the pros and cons of the expenditure, I convinced her by saying that we had to stick to our priorities. “Darling,” I told her, “I just cannot take the risk of missing out on fresh bil… brother-in-law dear… fresh from Johanessburg on his leave. It is our duty to meet him before two to three weeks from date of packaging.”

She nodded both sideways and back and forth in that way she does when she wants to reserve the right to blame me for the decision later, and I immediately pounced upon the internet.

Within minutes I was online and worked out a great compromise. We booked train tickets to go and, ironically perhaps, Go Air to come. It was what mathematicians call an “elegant solution”.

I don’t know about you, but the missus and moi always get very excited about travelling by the Rajdhani Express. And the 2653 August Kranti Express was amongst the most prestigious. Don’t believe us? Well it has the ultimate post-modern, globalized, BRIC-era symbol of greatness to itself: a Wikipedia entry. So there.

Now many of you readers may not be aware of what “August Kranti” really means. (Yes I am talking to all you fellows who attended all the events at your college literary festival except the “boring” India quiz where they asked questions about Mahalanobis and Homi Bhabha. Instead you went and saw, shudder, pot painting.)

August Kranti is another name for the Quit India movement which began in 1942 from the August Kranti Maidan in Mumbai. It was during this movement that Gandhiji began a Civil Disobedience Movement which, as you can see on Wadala Bridge every evening after 6 PM, continues to this day.

But coming back to our train of thought (ha!). There is something romantic and mysterious about a Rajdhani no? It is of course the flag-train of the vast and very profitable Indian Railway system. And therefore, commensurately, there is a sense of travelling in the best of the fleet, if you will. The Rajdhanis are always clean and well maintained, efficiently manned by a hive of worker ants and great value for money. It is hard to find anything unimpressive about the train.

So even while I was marching down the platform at Mumbai Central, panting and gasping for air as I walked to coach number A7, I was looking forward to the trip. I reached first–the missus was held up at office–and I quickly marked my territory on the side upper and lower berths with luggage. Next to me, sitting on the full length lower berths were an elderly couple.

The woman gave me the suspicious, judgmental look that middle aged and upwards passengers save exclusively to be thrown with venom at youths and youthful people who sit next to them on long distance trains. They furrow their foreheads, sit as far away as possible and then stare for ten minutes. After that they steal glances every five minutes and whenever the youth opens a bag, stands up, sits down and so on. This was understandable when I boarded the Trichy - Cochin Express during my engineering days. Back then we carried three bottles of “what looked like Coca Cola” per passenger and traveled in groups of 15 or more. And then suddenly, after the fifteen minute stop at Erode Junction, the bottles would miraculously fill themselves with “Coca Cola” again. Antakshari would start at 3 AM or so with a Sukhbir special.

But here I was no coke swigging engineering stud.

The missus arrived shortly but this only raised the suspicions of our co-passengers further. At any sign of intimacy, like talking for instance, the elderly woman would gasp barely audibly. Finally I used a quick phone call with Pastrami to dispel her suspicions:

Pastrami: Whats up Sid?

Sid: Oh nothing much I am waiting in the train with MY LAWFULLY WEDDED WIFE for the the train to start. My WIFE OF A YEAR AND FIVE MONTHS is sitting right next to me. We intend to SPEND THE ENTIRE TRIP READING BOOKS and in QUIET PERSONAL INTROSPECTION.

Pastrami: What the… Stop talking in upper case goddamit!

This pacified aunty somewhat.

We settled down soon and looked out of the window while the efficient staff of the Rajdhani quickly stepped into action. Like clockwork a fellow in a smart white uniform went around distributing pillows, bedsheets and blankets. Another with a splendid pair of handlebar whiskers followed shortly after and asked us what we wanted for dinner and breakfast next morning.

By this time the coach was packed and all the berths around us had been occupied. Unfortunately all our neighbours asked for vegetarians meals. And then they looked at me while I ordered. Non vegetarians will be familiar with this situations when they get crowded in by veggies who all look at them ordering food with a hawkish demeanour.

As if the restaurant/pantry car people just wait for us to order biriyani in order to drop the guillotine on some poor unsuspecting chicken.

I succumbed to pressure and ordered veg dinner and veg breakfast. (Then secretly went behind the fellow a few minutes later to change my breakfast order to omelettes. High five!)

For a government run operation of such scale the Rajdhani has half decent catering of passable quality and excellent quantity. But its real strength is in the frequency. On some Rajdhani trips it’s as if you are constantly being fed, tea-d and coffee-d. And then just when you are leaning back to relax and settle into the romance of a train trip, handlebar moustache is back on his next order taking routine.

It’s all remarkably like the first few times you go to the in-laws’ place after marriage.

(Completely fictional, illustrative conversation follows:)

“Beta, one more gobi paratha no?”

“No no no.”

Paratha placed on plate.

“And some butter of course…”

“No no no.”

Thick knob of butter drops onto sizzling hot paratha. Your heart decides to save time by going ahead and arresting on its own.

(Four seconds elapse.)

“Beta, one more gobi parantha no?”

“NO NO NO NO. I can’t eat any more gobi parathas jee… One more of this and I will die. I swear. Jee.”

“Koi baat nahi.” Says the father in law to groom’s relief… “Now let him have the mooli ke parantha instead.”

One relents eventually.

And then mother-in-law, who is absolutely not based on people I know in real life, whispers audibly to the missus: “He has put on weight since last time. Kuch tho gym vym karvao…”

On the Rajdhani, therefore, you are eternally arriving on a decorated horse.

—

Saapaadu ready

Our dinner arrived just as we’d settled in and opened our books. So we had to quickly rearrange the side lower berth and make space for the trays. Everyone ate quietly-the rice was a little dry and I found the dahi handy (whatay seasonal pun!). And then for a few minutes the entire coach reverberated with satisfied, synchronized burping. Now that dinner was done, the missus decided that she would turn in for the night and climbed upstairs. I helped tuck her in and then she cocked her head to one side in that endearing way and whispered that she wanted one last thing before she nodded off.

“But there are people around darling…” I said, a little bashful at the thought of a good night kiss in a train with all these other people watching. Deyvame…

“So what?”

“You said you wanted…”

“Your iPod…”

I gave it to her with a smile secretly hoping she would fall asleep in a few minutes and not roll around too much. That makes liberating the iPod later almost impossible.

Slowly the lights began to go off, people began to change into pyjamas and other night clothes. I settled down to read by the few remaining lights (Pico Iyer - Sun After Dark).

For the first twenty minutes it was bliss. The AC buzzed in the background in a comforting fashion and I read while occasionally looking out of the window at streaks of rain and dreaming of traveling and writing like Pico Iyer. But with less gravity and more fun and frolic.

And then it started. First it was like thunder in the distance. It rumbled and rolled. Gradually it grew in strength till it proudly established identified itself: our neighbouring uncle’s snore. This was no ordinary snore. No snore that was to be smiled and then ignored. This was, my friends, a powerful snore. A snore that made me sit up and take notice. A snore that spoke of years of experience and uncommon lung capacity.

This was how perhaps Lance Armstrong snored. It was loud, strong and repeated with metronomic regularity. Now normal bloggers would have made some wisecrack here about Deva Gowda or the phrase “sound sleep”.

But I am also a journalist you see. And we journalists need proof. Sometimes. So here I am proud to present a Whatay exclusive! At great risk, under the cover of night, we obtained a recording of uncle snoring next to me in the train on my Sony Ericsson P990i. It is only 30 seconds long so you might want to listen to it a few times. Turn up the volume and ignore the random chatter in the background.

Vivaldi’s Snore Seasons:

If you graduated in engineering… wait. What am I saying? Of course you graduated in engineering! Well you probably did one of those resonance experiments where an object successfully picked up a frequency from another object, like a tuning fork, according to your lab record. In the same way, in the space of a few minutes the entire coach began to snore. There were all types of snores:

• Uncles growling thunder with atomic clock level regularity
• Aunty’s deep intake and whiny outgo
• That fellow across the partition who snored completely randomly in terms of frequency and volume
• And finally some guy further down the aisle who every few minutes exploded in a barrage of grunts and roars and howls, woke up, looked around to see if anyone noticed, and then went back to sleep

The wife suddenly leaned over her berth and looked down at me. There was terror in her eyes. Like most women she is a light sleeper who, at three in the morning, wakes up at the slightest noise of the refrigerator opening. I advised her to turn up the iPod to drown out the snoring.

It took me another three hours to sleep. The snoring was un-!@#$%^&-believable. The noises of our coach is probably dopplering away into space as we speak/read.

I finally nodded off just around dawn. Two hours afters above mentioned dawn, a little after seven or so in the morning,  the dedicated caterers of the August Kranti Rajdhani Express went around waking passengers gently by thumping on berths with palms two centimeters from ears.

I woke up, shook up the missus and  prepared for breakfast. In a flash tea and coffee sachets were distributed and breakfast trays were doled out. It was during one of these hurried bouts of distribution that Handlebar Moustache lost his balance and slammed the pointy end of his elbow into my head. It was a perfect strike. His joint landed precisely at right angles to my cranium. For a few moments I completely blanked out. Zilch. Darkness. It was a near death experience I tell you. For a brief moment I even saw a light at the end of a dark tunnel. But this was because we were actually in a dark tunnel at the time.

When I came to, Handlebar smiled in apology and slammed down a Veg Cutlet breakfast in front of me. But it was a good smile, a sincere smile. A smile that said “Totally unintentional. Okay. Enough. Shut up and eat your Veg Cutlets boy.” I forgave him immediately. And wiped out the Veg Cutlets in seconds.

We spent the remaining couple of hours rearranging all our luggage, freshening up and trying to eavesdrop the conversation our neighbours were having. “Wait for it… wait for it…” the missus whispered. And just as she predicted, minutes before the train eddie-currented into Nizamuddin, Uncle and middle-30’s young man shook hands and exchanged phone numbers.

“They will never ever ever hear or see each other again you know…” the missus declared. “There are few signs of permanent separation like a shared telephone number in a railway compartment.”

She is both fair AND wise.

We stepped out of the train, a few minutes later,  into the arms of the in-laws (mom, pop, bro) and I quickly inquired about their health and well-being. (It was perhaps too much to expect them to actually bring a little biltong to the station itself. I hid my disappointment well.)

Behind us in the compartment Handlebars and his sidekicks counted out the baksheesh they had collected earlier in the day. Used sheets lay folded to one side. Meal trays had already been cleaned and washed.

As we walked out to the car the mom-in-law threw her arm around me reassuringly:

“You look so tired beta! Don’t worry. We will go home and have Gobi Paranthas, Pakode and Gajjar Ka Halwa as mid-morning snack…”

Oh yeah baby!

—

Picture of train courtesy Government of India.


Picture of meal courtesy JuicyRai.

Generic mallu man

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

HDFC banker on Monday: Good time to buy some Mutual Funds you know…

That lady who handles Citibank account later that Monday: Mr. Vadukut you must do some SIPs now. It is a good time to buy.

Pastrami most days: BUY BUY BUY BUY

CNBC: Due to the fluctuating market tendencies and the global uncertainties especially due to unclear signals from emerging markets it is possible that the markets this week may show some signs of push-back in correlation with the inflationary data coming out of *Switched off TV*

Sidin on Friday: Well maybe I should buy a little of this… and maybe a little of this DSPML Tiger fund and maybe… *gentle rustle of funds being transferred online*

Sensex on Monday, 9th of June: Apocalypse Now!

Sigh. Should have bought that EeePC instead.

Actually it was the open air eating area on the terrace where the journalists here retire to when they need a break from the hectic Youtube video watching pursuing of truth and fact for the upliftment of mankind. We were swapping celebrity gossip over lunch from Pritam when a colleague recalled this most embarrassing incident, as told to her, about a rookie photographer just assigned to photograph India’s biggest star, no less.

The photographer waits, along with journalist who would shortly interview the star for a newsmagazine, while the star himself is quickly combing his hair and, I assume, trimming that salt and pepper french beard.

Amitabh Bachan walks out of the room, rookie photographer begins to palpitate just a little bit, breathing deeply, the colour draining from his face. This is one of his first assignments ever.

AB: Okay I am ready.

Rookie Reporter:

AB: Hello?

RR: Hello sir. Are you comfortable in front of the camera?

AB:

RR:

AB:

RR: *life flashing before his eyes, while simultaneously evaluating other career options*

Rest of the room: Deathly silence

AB: (Frosty) I will try to make myself comfortable in front of the camera.

RR: Thank you.

Image courtesy Wikipedia.

Pranab Mukherjee has said something about Maoists winning elections in Nepal being awesome and spectacular and something to that effect. Which I really don’t have an opinion on. Best of luck to the Nepalis and hope there are not too many of them around the Chinese border the night the Red army invades.

Or so the many erudite commenters at Rediff think. Be that as it may I was quite enamoured by a gentleman who not only left a profound comment but also came back later to painstakingly point four spelling mistakes he had made in his brief but impactful statement. Haiku-like if you will.

At first I read “Who welcomes intervention occupation” and figured out it must be one of those profound Pink Floyd lyric type thing. And then I figured it out. Image for your enjoyment…

Someone give this guy a copy edit job somewhere. (Even though he did miss that H in Afghanistan.)

“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.

Busy week with many thousands of things to do. But what to do… the need to keep reader amused overwhelms the self…

So let me share the fascinating works of Vilayanur S Ramachandran. (Yes Pastrami, the brain guy. From Chennai. Correct. The very same.)

I am halfway through his first book, the tremendous Phantoms In The Brain, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. But to save you some of the 540 bucks it costs at the Imax Crossword here is, ah my love for you all, VSR’s talk at TED in March 2007. The intro from the TED site:

In a wide-ranging talk, Vilayanur Ramachandran explores how brain damage can reveal the connection between the internal structures of the brain and the corresponding functions of the mind. He talks about phantom limb pain, synesthesia (when people hear color or smell sounds), and the Capgras delusion, when brain-damaged people believe their closest friends and family have been replaced with imposters.

Wait wait. Don’t run away. Listen to the man. Listen and drool.

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.