Devnagari dalliances

Man is malleable and ductile. While metal may have to be hammered into sheets and drawn into wires; man does not need to be subjected to such extreme measures. Teleport the quarry-worker into the mine-shift and within days, he shall be shielding his eyes from the sun.

Take me, for example. I caught myself thinking in Hindi the other day. It has only been over a month and a half that I started spouting Hindi, albeit like a broken fountain at the beginning - eloquence would come in bursts, followed by brief struggles that were attempts to translate complicated stuff into what is, ironically, my mother-tongue. Now - I even count in Hindi.

I am not trying to sound hip here. It’s just that I love the English language. Although I did very well at Hindi in school, English was my passion. I read my first real book when I was eight and never stopped. What I like about the language, I guess, is its universality, its vastness, its reach. I have access to so much more of the world because of it. Also, I imagine Hindi as a prudish old gentleman, a preacher of moral rectitude, his fiction often mired in tragedy - like Premchand. English is PG Wodehouse and Albert Camus; Enid Blyton and Harold Robbins; Ruskin Bond and Alistair McLean; Sidney Sheldon and Shakespeare.

Topic Change. About the Aarushi-hatyakand - the media-fication appalls me. What must those eight-year olds watching these murky proceedings be thinking? For a kid, completely enamored with her equally-doting dad, it must have come as a shock that fathers can be suspected of such evil. (I am not saying I believe he did it, I am just saying that even the suggestion of that must have been a perspective-changing experience for a child whose imagination would never have, otherwise, suggested such a possibility). Kids tend to magnify their unique little troubles. I hope parents are being sensible enough to shield their children from this blitzkrieg. I hope it’s possible to do so.

Pseudo-intellectual moi

Today I saw Amitav Ghosh being interviewed on some news channel. Barkha Dutt was conducting it, and the audience mostly comprised literature professors. I have not read too much of him, only ‘Dancing in Cambodia, at large in Burma’, and that too, when I was very young. I do remember that it introduced me to Pol Pot.

He is from St Stephens’ college. So are Shashi Tharoor, Kapil Sibal, Natwar Singh and Mani Shankar Aiyar to name a few. I am not just dropping data, I am mighty impressed.

My curriculum-vitae reads funny - an Engineering degree in Telecommunications, a two year stint in IT (which had as little to do with Telecom as the Ram Temple in Ayodhya has to do with Godliness) and then the MBA which led to what I believe is my calling - far truer than any other - Marketing and perhaps, Sales (Sales is like the martinet-general, once schooled by him, you are never the same; but a good soldier, after having received his war-stripes, moves on.) I still have to make my mind up about that.

This post is meandering. What I really intended to do is mull over what I would have been had I not stepped into the glam-n-glitz of engineering (I suffer from intellectual snobbery, being an engineer is like page-three glamour for me :P ).

I have this theory - the life-is-a-canvas theory. I thought it up one day and was strangely proud of it. I tried to tell a few people, but they only laughed. One of my greatest achievements in life has been overcoming the fear of being ridiculed. So here it is - my life-is-a-canvas theory - for public consumption.

Internal Vs External. Self Vs Fate. Ability Vs Circumstances. Imagine a canvas - many-textured, loha at some places, satin at others; many hued - black and white and the entire range in between; glittering glimmering like a star and then again, dull as grey - imagine such a canvas. And then imagine yourself as an artiste. You daub at times, paint in broad strokes at others and bloody throw the damned pot of paint at the infuriating canvas on occasion. You change colors, you change themes, and you even change brushes. Some paint well, some don’t. Sometimes you paint well, but not always. The painting that you finally see emerging is your labor of love, no doubt, but not entirely as you had imagined it inside your head. Sometimes, it is better.

There it is - my theory! Hah! Although, it’s no E=MC^2, I bet Einstein would not have laughed.

The Silver Lining

I woke up at 7 and looked at the watch - actually the mobile; haven’t been using a watch since the past year or so. My 10-year old time-piece conked out and I don’t want to replace it with just any junk. One doesn’t upgrade a long-faithful 14” Onida for a 22” one; one goes instead for the high-definition plasma ‘experience’.

So anyway, it being 7 am on a Sunday morning, I switched-off for some more shut-eye. But my brain being the sort of villain it is - started shooting me red-alerts only an hour past. It knows. It knows that sleeping late on a Sunday is not the sort of luxury I can enjoy right now. As I was discussing with a friend the other day - Education ruined us.

I don’t really mean that. I would not like being vella. I like to work, to apply myself with a ferocity that scares even me at times. It’s just that - there are moments when I realize the viciousness of the cycle that I have got myself into. The pressure is intense, the will to excel is too; but the bar keeps getting raised. I know I will never ever fall short, but what happens to those dreams of long vacations, movie-marathons, quality family-time, gymming and dance classes, adda-ing with friends - lost&found&past&present, book-clubs and copious reading, love?


It is a tight-rope walk alright. Somedays I find it exhilarating - actually most days I do. You have to stay-put, up there in the air; neeche gehri khaai hai - bottomless chasm of never-ending responsibilities, assignments and promotions no doubt - but leaving you with slight opportunity to enjoy the fruits of labor.

And I am talking on behalf of most of the well-educated, talented people nowadays who get into crème-de-la-crème jobs early-on in life and then get creamed.

Chuck. On a lighter note, I recently visited the markets with a salesman who happens to be an artiste - the acting-bug has him in its girraft - and he boasts of a repertoire comprising some 200-odd shayaris. He started belting them out on the ride back. Now, I remember Banjo talking about a similar experience on his travels. But I am one-up on him. Peruse this -

Dibbi pe dibbi, dibbe mein choona
Dibbi pe dibbi, dibbe mein choona
Jab Shreya madam jaaegi Puna
Prime Distributors ho jaaega soona!

Heh. The perks of this job are many. Some are obvious and some - a little unconventional. These latter ones do ‘perk-you-up’, nonetheless.

Amdavad!

Long-time-no-see daahlings. I am in Amdavad. Have been since the past one week. Has it only been a week since I landed straight from Baroda at the distributor’s avec almost all my worldly possessions – ready to take charge?

Truly speaking, it has been the best week at work so far. Life does the hula-hoops around targets, invoices, inventory, margins and discounts. There are market visits – irate shopkeepers who lay bare all the torturous practices (real or imaginary) that Levers has subjected them to, or extremely ingratiated ones who want to transfuse your blood with Wagh Bakri. I fire-fight, and when actions fail, words soothe. Saving the best for the last, the crowning glory of this week has been - being in a position where I am to lead seven grown men – all graduates and experienced at their work – the Salesmen. People, whom I am supposed to motivate, monitor, remonstrate quite frequently and nurture. I try.

The other stud in the stable is the distributor - one of those picture-perfect seths – cash-cribbing, daughter-doting, wily-little-magnate, who probably learnt aatte-daal kaa bhaav before the alphabet.

Sales is something else. It’s dog-eat-dog and dynamic – extremely affected by externalities – be those in the form of a dip in the share market or the new school year. To explain – both of the above result in ‘market mein mandi’ since trade does not have the purchasing power. Then there is the fact that all the stakeholders are constantly trying to take you for a ride. I sleep like a dog – an eye and a ear open, on constant alert.

A shopkeeper recently kept asking me – Madam, kya aap practical ho? I finally asked him to explain to me the meaning of the word and as it turns out, he was worried that being a girl, I wouldn’t be able to get my work done, if need be, through underhanded means – tedhi oongli kaa istamaal. I wonder. Although it has nothing to do with being a girl. That if anything, is an advantage.

You may ponder if you have the time and patience that this that I am describing does not sound all that different from what I was doing in the first two weeks. Let me explain. Then I was a hanger-on, an observer, a side-kick at best. Now I am the one whose head will roll. A couple of cool crores hold me to ransom.

As of now, I am celebrating, one of the many targets has been met and I am taking my boys out to dinner. They worked hard towards it – madam se party jo leni thi. Smart boys – street-wise since they spend so much time on it, making ample use of psychology and subliminal coercion to meet their ends. I like them, but my mind at times screams in militaristic fashion – saavdhaan!

Watte industry. I am sorry to see little red riding hood, or whatever of her was left, take flight. On the other hand, someone had once said, which went on to make television history – Welcome to the real world; it sucks; but you will love it.

Brest - Part Deux

I had warned my reluctant readers that Exchange Escapades would be back. So let me detach myself from the bizarre baroda-ings of present and teleport to half a year back.

We didn’t spend a lot of time in Brest, but it’s incredible how much there is to talk about.

Our Institute – ESC Bretagne Brest. It was total paisa-wasool. Firstly, it was wi-fi. And then, we met some interesting people there. All our courses were in English and our classmates were exchange students from other countries as well as locals who wanted to try their tongues at the language. The professors were mostly visiting faculty from another school or industry experts. And they were all top-notch. Well, almost all. They were knowledgeable and well-versed in the art of teaching – taking time, and giving many practical examples to drive a point home.

We were the kings though – we would come back from trips, complete projects overnight and make jaws drop by what everyone thought was exhaustive research and diligent hard-work. And the jaws would remain dropped when we revealed that a mere night-out had resulted in those histrionics. It’s not like the French are dumb. But we Indians have been through a very rigorous system, right from our child-hoods. We definitely have higher standards of output and much more practice at delivering them.

That said, I like the pedagogy there. Relaxed and non-competitive to a large degree. The class strength is small and there is something to be said for that. Individual attention is possible and is conducive to exploration and learning. Professors take much more effort to explain concepts, using visual and literary aids to ratify and emphasize. Sure, the education system we have here makes us hard-working and ambitious, competitive to a fault. But it doesn’t make us curious enough.

Our classmates were from all over. A trio from Slovakia – blonde and statuesque. The guy among them was extremely sharp - as quick as silver. A pair from China – they were strange. Disparate in age and life-styles, one was the perfect Yin to the other’s Yang. The guys in my gang came to know a couple of local fellows from the school Rugby team which even led to one unforgettable rugby-playing-session for them. There were some others we would talk now and then to, but maximum air-time has to be given to the Ruchis. Ruchi Jain and Ruchi Aggarwal - both management students there. We made friends with them early-on, and hung-out often. I even had a couple of girls’-nights-out with them. Wild times, will elaborate a little later. The thing to be noted here is that even for the short duration of three months - we could not keep controversy at bay and were soon privy to the tangled equations between these two girls. My take-away from it all - it’s tough, living in a foreign country, especially when you’ve never been away from home before. It’s like a crash-course on life. Ruchi Jain would know.

Memories are like the streets in Venice – crissing and crossing unexpectedly, way leading to way. Back to the present for now- it’s 1 o’ clock on a Sunday and I need to get going. I will try the whole sitting-alone-in-coffee-shop-with-book thing today. Can’t get over the romance of it.

Work-Life balance

I came to know today that when IT officials serve commissions to aapno distributors, they are ready to get bought-off in FMCG currency, at least in part. Dove, Ponds and Lakme - the missus beams as well, and after some regular usage, hopefully glows too.

Talking of distributors, the face of retail in India is going to be immensely different in a few years. While I may have read this before, I have come abreast of live examples only recently. Imagine a Metro Cash n Carry – the wholesaler takes home 15-16 percent margins. He is happy but somewhere the local distributor is tossing and turning in his bed. The same phenomenon – deep pockets, corporate-backing and economies of scale which translates into might, is threatening the kiranas and family grocers - in the guise of Modern Trade. They are concerned. They are caught in the maelstrom of change.

Going by some of my latest posts, one may get the impression that I think of nothing but work. True to a large extent, but not entirely. Sometime back I read that Salman Rushdie’s ‘Midnight’s Children’ is slated to win the ‘Best of the Booker’ award. I love the book and worship his writing. Am reading ‘Shalimar the Clown’ right now and it is rich. More than the content, I like the literary devices he makes use of. I remember being blown away by MC. Indian Mujahideen or whosoever you are – rot in hell.

As an aside – a thought, albeit borrowed - An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. Nice. Although, intellectuals may not really be the full-house they are trumped-up to be. Ask the self-taught ‘software-engineer’ who wrote the ERP being used by stockists all over Gujarat; you won’t catch him mouthing N=1 and R=G, but his nose for dhanda can tame the highest-flying Pinocchio.

Hoodibaba

All those who eagerly await my ‘Exchange Escapades’ better know that the series shall resume and soon. All those who are wondering whether there are any such eager-beavers in existence better go boil their collective heads.

Meherbaan Kadardaan - come to Baroda. Come one, come all. At any given point of time, especially when the sun is beating you into pulp, you may encounter a two-wheeler with a helmeted-n-mustachioed Maratha riding proud and a funny little thing sitting pillion.

Now listen close – all ye apples of mine eyes and I shall let you in on a secret – if that funny little thing sitting pillion is not me then there are no rings around Saturn and the Indian Film Industry is chock-full of innocent young girls who go home to their mammas at night. SSSso, me it is, albeit, with a unique contraption on my head which I shall christen as the half-helmet i.e. a helmet without a bottom - one that can easily sit on your head like a cap. Easier than two-minute noodles.

Thou shalt wear a cage around your head - so said the son of God or was it a Safety Officer at HUL? In either case, I agree. So if you come to Baroda tomorrow, you may enjoy the privilege of feasting your eyes upon aforementioned Maratha plus little thing with a full-grown-helmet on. The moral of this story being - do come to Baroda. We will party – there’s enough chhaas around for everyone.

P.S – The helmet is not dangerous in any manner. It does have a strap that I can buckle around my chin, ensuring protection from man and motor. A cute little thing - made to size. That is not to say that I don’t have the intellectual prowess of King-Kong. Or Stuart-Little.

With love from Baroda

It’s been some time. I am, as of this moment, in a three-star hotel room, in Baroda. The television is on and some prannoy-roy-sound-alike is belting out pop-news. Yes, my dears, I am on my sales stint and my area of rampage is Gujarat. Dry-days are ahead, in more ways than one.

The above was jotted down by me four days ago and today is the second time in five days when I have the time and inclination to write some more. I am still in my hotel room. But the television is off. Have watched more of it in these five days than the whole of last month combined. It’s that and the mobile phone that keep me company when I get back from the grind. Long live technology.

Baroda is a nice city. Spacious and broad, the rickshaw guys here are a gentle breed. They are chivalrous and not as abrasive as their counter-parts in other cities. Have realized how much that contributes to the feeling of well-being one gets. It is a small place and I dare say, you can traverse the length of it (not that I have, yet) in less than Rs 60. Sayaji Gaekwad is to Baroda what Shivaji is to Mumbai. Omnipresent.

My work - is all that I had expected from it and more. Most of my day is spent at the distributor-point. The salesmen come and go. I, sometimes, hang around in the godowns, familiarizing myself with the mind-boggling array of goods that adds so much complexity to the range; but is taken in such a non-chalant manner by the layman - for whom it’s as simple as asking for the ‘naano Lux International’ instead of the ‘moto Lux pink’. Naano – small, moto – big. Dear readers, I have added another language to my less-than-impressive kitty-bag of spoken-tongues. Or, at least, am in the process of doing so. So, work is exhilarating, although a steep-uphill-climb at times. But I don’t believe in easy. Easy is like junk-food.

I went for a market visit yesterday. And saw what good salesmanship is all about. Customer-focus is, in fact, all that it is vaunted to be. The guy in-charge of half of Baroda worth a monthly turn-over of two crores – the man who is currently training me, is also a salesman par excellence. He is quite a colorful character. Jitendra Patil aka Jitu Patil is a proud Maratha, based out of Baroda. Cracking at numbers, smart with people, his post is one that I shall be joining as boss of, once I am done with my training. I have yet to discover why I am better than him. I guess it has more to do with the opportunities I got, and the training which enabled, encouraged and equipped me to look at the larger picture. Sounds like quintessential-mba-jargon. But nothing in mba is jargon when coupled with strong execution.

Enough banter. Today is a Sunday and the malls in the city shall be seeing some of me. Wheel and Knorr are all okay, but the system requires some pampering.

Brest-Part Uno

Let me talk a little bit about our life in Brest. Having completed our first trip with flying colors, we returned to Brest, but not to rest. Some heavy-duty accommodation-search was in the offing.

It’s like this – we spent the first week in firangland at Hotel Balladins, as I have mentioned before. After that, we had booked ourselves into an establishment called Apartcity - a hybrid between a guesthouse and a hotel. A woman who called herself Sabine presided over its affairs and ruled with an iron-fist, some would say. We had this roof over our collective heads for a month and after that, were relying rather heavily on serendipity to lead us to our next abode. Apartcity was a great place, having more than all the conveniences of modern living, but we were having to pay a tidy sum for it. It had to go - as the Red Queen would say, although not in so many words.

Elucidating a bit on life at Apartcity – it was an era. One of the boys in my troupe, Rahul Pal turned out to be a master-chef, also possessing the willingness to provide the rest of us with gastronomic delicacies. We would sit down to a hearty meal of chicken and chawal almost every night – much missed. The rest of us did play our bit-parts too. Som would help with the cooking at times. Chandan was the self-appointed chawal-champ, and to watch Bobby cut onions was like being mute witness to a symphony being played. Okay, I exaggerate, but he is a pretty-darn-quick cutter of onions, among other things. Yours truly, would try her best to be useful, taking charge of the ‘Ready-to-eats’; the culinary-challenged would know that this is not a particularly demanding undertaking and the alert reader would be abreast with the fact that these space-age and time-bending eatables were by no means central to our diet and well-being.

So anyway, we had to look for another place inspite of all the rollicking fun we were having there. Various agencies were hounded; numerous apartments were visited as a result. But to no avail. We did not have too much time, since another trip - this one to the rest-of-Germany and Netherlands was looming on the horizon. More on that later.

To sum - Brest was the good life. We went house-hunting; did the whole setting-up-of-household thingie upon finding it; lived a bountiful existence in that home of ours with plenty of food, booze and discussions; and also partied like bohemians. We made some friends too, interesting ones at that – some firangis and some desi-atarangis.

A few posts it shall take to talk about all of the above in the detail that they deserve. And if Ruchi Jain is reading this – stay tuned, you will figure.

The sun

Setting out
In search of the sun
The journey is new
With many a twist and many a turn

Looking back
It all seems hazy
There is a pattern
Even though it’s mostly crazy

But the person who stares back
Was somebody else
He was wearing more clothes
And some shiny stuff and bells

The sun is a glorious thing
Life, also fire
Hope wings aren’t made of wax
And hope arms don’t tire.

Epigone

D was an ambitious twenty-year-old. His mornings were spent at Prakash General Stores – the three longest hours of his day, where he played delivery boy, salesman and shop-owner’s personal punching bag. Mr P, though not an evil man, was a bit of a misanthrope. Like the eye of Sauron, his presence was piercing and pugnacious.

As soon as the clock struck noon, D would rush over to his other job as a part-time hair-stylist’s assistant, at Gazelle Beauty Parlor – an up-market establishment that offered to bring out the inner woman in you, or so it said. It is widely rumored that all women secretly believe that they can look like Angelina Jolie, given half the chance. And they chase after this mirage with unrelenting determination. For a whole battery of professionals, technicians, researchers, retailers and surgeons, this notion proves to be the butter on their baguette.

D’s profile was to cut and trim. But he ached to also crimp, color, perm, straighten and curl – his hands would itch whenever a woman having a bad hair-day walked through the door. His ambition didn’t end there. He envisaged himself as a hair-consultant. Lift a strand here, feel a lock there – and know exactly whether it should be sent for scalp-cleansing or follicle-strengthening. The hair industry beckoned him – it was his calling. But the climb was uphill.

Thus spluttered the lorry of D’s life – a vector without much speed. And then - he saw her. V turned up in his life like a jack-in-the-box and hit him squarely on the jaw. She came into the shop and asked for a note-book. Violins played, bells jangled. D never recovered from the assault.

The days after that passed-by in a blur. He followed her home. He peeked in through her window. He even threw a stone and bolted. His nights were feverish and days pregnant - with wait. He discovered he knew a friend of hers and plotted to somehow get himself introduced. After that, D was sure his natural magnetism, years of observation and careful planning would win home the bacon. He knew to the punctuation how he would persuade her to go out with him. He would take her to one of those Salman flicks at Galaxy, on his neighbor’s rickety Honda; he would buy the popcorn during the interval and regale her with funny stories. To clinch the deal, he would take her to Rajesh Khanna Park where they would stroll around talking, and upon getting tired, would park their asses on a bench. And then he would open his heart out to her.

That little imp that we call - luck - was probably looking the other way. And so, his plans fell into place.

Location – Rajesh Khanna Park. Ambience – Fresh breeze and verdant greenery. Him – Clean-shaven, spanking new and moony-eyed. Her – Fragrant, tinkely-voiced and coy as a beetroot. They sit there looking at each other, hope in their eyes and moths in their stomachs. V seems as afflicted as D. Her hands are fidgeting with her handkerchief. He is wondering whether to take the next step. He steels himself, clears his throat and is about to spew forth, when he notices a strand of hair – blowing across her face. His right hand shoots forth to put that errant strand back in its place. He notices that it, the hand, is trembling. Her mouth is slightly open – the moment is magical. His hand makes contact with her hair and runs the length of it lightly; he finds himself saying – You have split-ends, you need a hair-cut.

City-speak

I was reading something yesterday and it was about different cities having distinct characteristics – like people. That set me thinking, how I would describe all the cities that I have lived in -

Kolkata – My first love

Warm, blustering, forgetful, intellectual. The Argumentative Indian. Would prefer brainstorming about life, the arts, death, the universe and taxes; over struggling towards making just that much more money. With the times - albeit with a lag; he is an enthusiastic, bespectacled, avuncular old man, having seen it all – Michael Jackson to Mango Soufflé; but whose senses still remain infused with the incense of the Durga Puja pandals and the quintessential Mishti Doi.

Mumbai – The Enchantress

She knows what she wants and is willing to pay her pound of flesh. Ambitious, independent and upwardly mobile, she flirts, pouts, and even blows you kisses. But don’t be mistaken, my friend – she could crush you under her stilettos in a minute.
A bank clerk supporting a family of five, a tycoon’s wife marrying business and page three in an evening’s entertainment, a housewife saving for that pagdi on the ridiculously expensive accommodation or a struggling starlet planning her rise to superstardom over the wreckage of countless failures - she has determination in her soul and dark circles under her eyes – coz Mumbai never sleeps.

Pune – For keeps

She is the girl next door. Pretty, sensible and sweet. Always a breath of fresh air; she can make the effort and play the sultry seductress too - just for a lark. Before you know it, you want to marry her.

Bangalore – The Chameleon

Difficult to say. Many things to many people. My own experiences have been diverse. Hard taskmaster when I just started to work – a veritable Aunt Agatha. An upbeat, pleasant, affectionate character when I was studying there – a modern-day Aunt Dahlia? Have heard from people about her innocence in the days before she met her danna – Mr Murthy. The grand moll of geekland in her hey-days, was she used and abused? Some say she still holds that power; all said and done, she is the mother of the new India – the provenance.

Disclaimer – For the people who disagree with any of the above - kindly pardon the innocent meanderings of an over-active imagination. I simply have nothing to do.

The Brucke over the Inn

Our next stop was Innsbruck in Austria. Ski-slopes and the Swarovski theme park (Kristallwelten), plus a couple of Winter Olympics – a must-not-miss destination for every Eurotripper worth his Eurorail pass.

The one thing for which I shall forever be thankful to Innsbruck - my first experience of snow. We took a cable car to the top of the Hafelekar (2,334 m) mountain range and the view during the climb and while on top, of the Innsbruck valley and town is etched in my memory. It was only October and hence the mountains had very little of snow, that too residual. That didn’t stop us making the most of it though. I was a snow-virgin no more.

The town was as pretty as any other European town. The city-center chock-full of tourists. Picture this – quaint cobblestone pavements, populated with artists drawing, sketching and painting everything in sight for a few euros; pedestrian roads full of people milling around – some who are trying to absorb all the history around them, with buildings to look at and guides in their sonorous tones to listen to; and some who have zipped up their digicams for the moment and picked up spoons instead – contributing to the top-lines of those many road-side cafes.

We contributed our bit and then bumped into one of the four boys I had originally come to France with (he was not with us on this particular trip, having had some other plans). It may seem like a coincidence conspired by the Gods to some, but it is not really so. Out of the 200-odd IIM-freaks crawling across the European subcontinent, most would have decided to head to Austria after doing the rounds of the Oktoberfest.

After the trip to the mountain and back, we decided to take it easy and spent the evening in a pub. It had a hot-hot-hot bartender, who was also extremely charmant. I feel it necessary to mention these lustful cravings, because they were rare. Another little factoid - at the beginning of the trip, Chandan and I had decided to flick a coaster from each of the pubs we went to, just to have a souvenir – unique and free-of-cost. Due to constraints like - not all pubs having coasters, and us not always being in a condition sober enough to flick one from the ones that did - this plan did not fulfill its true potential. Nevertheless, I do have some coasters lying around.

So that was Innsbruck – the bridge (brucke) over the Inn. I later came to know that the seed for A Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy had been sown inside Douglas Adams’ psyche while he had been lying in one of the fields in Innsbruck, staring up at the stars. Had I know it then, I would have been tempted to try it too. When was the last time a multi-million-dollar-best-selling-award-winning idea struck me?

All that rhymes..

I am not good at writing poetry. Have always thought so. And at different points of time, have come up with different reasons as to why it is so. Let me figure this out once and for all. So, let us have a look at the poetry that has had some impact on me over the years.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening – Robert Frost – an all-time favorite because I have, in some way, internalized the last few lines. I used to have them on a poster in my room and am pretty sure all my future rooms will have them too.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I also like the fact that Jawaharlal Nehru had these lines inscribed on his desk, and they were discovered after he died. I don’t particularly like the man, but I like the fact. These lines have history, they have character.

The Road not Taken – Robert Frost - for the sheer emotion behind it. I read somewhere that it is the story of his life. He chose the road less traveled. Have a look at these lines -
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
The irony and beauty of life – condensed in rhyme.

Mending Wall – Robert Frost - for the message. And because it’s funny, in a dark sort of way. The last line of the poem –
.. He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Platitudes, adherence to meaningless tradition, resistance to change – mainstays of our black-box-white-noise lives.

La Belle Dame sans Merci – John Keats – The woman without any mercy. A story of intense pain, heart-wrenching agony, and all that; but also the story of supposedly-competent men losing their rocker on beholding a beautiful woman. To be fair, most men would look askance at such a woman (with her wild wild eyes and faery’s song), but some never outgrow their adolescence. And serves them right that she ain’t got no mercy!

The Walrus and the Carpenter – Lewis Carroll – Delightful! From one of my favorite books – Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Finds There. Dear readers, go read this poem, if you haven’t already. It will tickle you to the bone.

A Visit to the Dentist – Ogden Nash (could not find it online) – As I recollect,
Some pains are physical and some pains are mental
A pain that is both – is definitely the one that is dental..
Wit at its best. And I like people whose names start with an ‘O’. Just.

O Captain! My Captain! – Walt Whitman – I like this poem because it taught me the meaning of the word – Allegory. The poem is actually about Abe Lincoln and the fact that he was assassinated before he could savor the peace that prevailed in his country after the Civil war and other elements. I have always liked Abe Lincoln. There are enough inspirational stories about him and as a young impressionable girl – I would get goosebumps at the mention of them.

Mind without Fear – Rabindranath Tagore
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high – into that heaven of Freedom, let me always reside.

So what is the common factor in all this poetry? What is good poetry? Depth? Emotion? Brevity? Thought-provocative nature?

All of these perhaps. Good poetry rhymes, great poetry resonates.

Inane

Who is to say, what’s right
What’s not
For a body-builder
Carbohydrates are rot

For a commercial sex worker
Legality rocks
For a saint or a priest (barring the ones who are pedophiles)
It just plain old shocks

For the doc - euthanasia’s right
To end a coma too long
For the patient’s wife
It’s a life taken wrong

For a business man
IPL is huge money & fame
For a true cricket fan
It’s the end of the game

For lovers intense and young
The world will not matter
But when there’s no bread in the bin
Will not love - shatter?

The believer has his faith
Faith is a strong teacher
For the science man, the atheist
Reason’s above any fictional preacher

And for a king in days of yore
Twas duty to plunder & maraud
So, my friends, who is to really say
What is even, and what is odd?

Eis

From Vienna, we moved onto Austrian cities renowned for their scenic beauty – Salzburg and Innsbruck.

Salzburg – the city of Mozart, where cigarette-lighter to chocolate-box – every bit of merchandize has him staring at you, in his white-powdered-wig; Salzburg – the city of the Von Trapp family with Sound of Music tours galore; its claim to fame are many.

The one thing I remember vividly and that deserves mention here is the expedition to the ‘Ice Caves’. These caves are sub-zero voids inside the Tennengebirge Mountains, at a height of around 1600 meters and have ice formations in various interesting shapes – all natural. We took a train ride to this place called Werfen and set-out in search of the bus – the first leg of the journey to the caves. Werfen was one of the prettiest places I saw in Europe. Austrian Alps in all their magnificent glory, the brightly shining sun illuminating the vast expanse of mountain, valley and brook.

After the bus deposited us, we bravely decided to foot the next five-hundred-meters-almost-vertical climb (in lieu of the cable car, may I add).

That climb made me realize how unfit I really was. The air around was pure mountain – the freshest possible; it got rarer as we climbed and my panting got more pronounced in direct proportion. But I am glad to put on record that I was not the laggard in my group – Rajgaria trailed behind me, putting blame to a fear of heights. On the other hand, Somdev was like a mountain goat, he climbed, jumped, and twisted his way around bramble and fern with the nimble-footedness of one. Bobby and Chandan, in that order, occupied the ranks between us.

I went along doggedly, not-all-that-slowly but very surely. After that excruciating climb got done with, we came to a sort of rest area populated with a restaurant and a souvenir shop. Not hanging around, we went ahead to avail of the next mode of transport – the cable car to take us over the unclimbable portion (although I later heard that some of the monkeys in our B-stable did attempt that climb too). Even after that cable car regurgitated us, we had some significant meters of vertical ascension remaining, to be done on foot. By this time, I was fed-up of the whole thing and rueing my decision to come at all. Somehow I made it to the entrance of the caves and we all sat there, gasping, a couple of hours after we had started – enjoying the rest.

But, not for long.

A 75-minute-tour inside the caves was next on the agenda. While we were waiting for it to start, a party of school children, no doubt on one of their field-trips came sauntering by. And I mean that. Around 7 to 8 winters old, it seemed as if no exertion was too much for them. Born in the mountains, with fresh air, wholesome food and hardy exercise, they would have made Sir Edmund proud. Be that as it may, the jaw actually dropped when post-fifty oldies started dotting the landscape! And they did not seem to be having half the trouble I was. Kudos. Going by this, I shudder to think of what I will be at 60. Probably on the catheter.

The tour started and I couldn’t wait for it to get over. It involved moving around in sub-zero temperatures and zero luminosity with only a few lanterns for ocular assistance, on wooden boards, through serpentine passageways, with railings on either side to prevent falling on the slippery ice. The going was slow, as one had to be careful, with so many people, especially kids ahead and behind of you. The domino-effect seemed probable. At one point, the whole file of us climbed a set of stairs that was at an angle of 45 degrees to horizontal propriety, as was informed to us by the guide.

This guide character was one helluva marvelous thing. Skating along on the ice, he was another authentic made-in-Austria product.

So anyway, that disaster of a tour finally came to an end. We felt liberated. The remaining of Salzburg was also quite interesting. We met avid travelers from the other IIMs and I explored the enchanting city of Salzburg on my own as the lazy-bums – R, S, B and C got late – they were probably doing their faces and tying each other’s corsets up. Bah!

It was a good time of the year. Mid October – the air was chilly, but the sun was out in full force. If you ask me, the Alps probably never looked better.

Jetsam and Flotsam

I have recently been reading a compilation of short stories by O’ Henry. O’ Henry was an American author, real name being William Sydney Porter. He specialized in twist-endings. I am sure, all of us, at some point or the other, have heard that one where the woman sells her crowning glory - her hair and buys a chain for the man’s prized watch with the money, while the man sells that same coveted watch to get a set of combs for her, or similar versions of it. This can be attributed to none other than big O. So anyway, I came across a delightful little thing from his stable the other day. The name of the story is – While the Auto Waits.

Here is a link – enjoy - http://www.literaturecollection.com/a/o_henry/238/.

On a very different and hugely disturbing note - I stumbled across something yesterday that made me let out a silent scream. It seems that kids in Australia, the UK and other places (thankfully not India yet - atleast the article didn’t say so) are trying out this game – the choking game – where they enjoy the kind of high they get out of semi-asphyxia (or partial suffocation and semi-unconsciousness due to lack of oxygen to the brain) and hence indulge in choking each other or one-self, albeit stopping half-way of murder or suicide. I cannot imagine anything worse.

It is so difficult to bring up kids in the times that we live. I kind of understand why parents so joyfully celebrate birthdays – they are just so relieved that the kid has managed to survive one full year more, given the kind of dangers that lurk – not only in places far away and outside their areas of direct supervision, but perhaps just around the friendly neighborhood shop, or worse - even in their own bedrooms, on the computer screens. It is a failure of our society, of the lifestyles that we live and of the values that we ourselves have, or those that we fail to instill into our children.

At times like these when I am forced to ponder over such heinous trends, I catch myself thinking – all I want for my children is that they grow up into persons who are reasonable in their thinking and capable of discerning right from wrong. And the onus lies on me, as a parent, to ensure that happens.

Speaking of children, and again on a complete antithesis of a note - I saw a delightful movie yesterday – Life is beautiful. Life was, indeed, beautiful in that movie. So charming was the protagonist – Guido (Roberto Beningni) as the father stretching his fertile imagination to the utmost to ensure that his child is spared the mental trauma where he has to deal with things no human being should have to; racial discrimination, torture, separation from loved ones and death - that it made my day. Also, having watched – The Pianist, the day before, the way in which both these movies tackle similar situations – of survival in those infamous concentration camps and ghettos, is vastly different. The Pianist is hard-hitting, based on a true story, whereas LIB is more of a fairy-tale as is so rightly mentioned at the beginning of the movie.

So, with movies, books, stimulating conversations with all – ranging from my mother to old and new friends, and physical exercise – I fill my days. Like I was telling somebody a few days back – I am trying to expand my intellectual horizons and contract my physical ones (LOL). All these activities lead to an avalanche of thoughts, some of which I plug back into those afore-mentioned activities. The spillage, however, I mop up by presenting them in the form of blog entries - for public consumption.

Cutting Chai

From Munich, we moved onto Austria. Vienna was our first stop. We reached there at 6 in the morning and were soon out on the streets, walking towards the City Center as usual.

The streets were so pretty. Early morning, no crowds, beautifully arranged shop windows and yellow-flower-strewn roads. Perfection. We ambled along, breathing in the fragrance, breathing deeply and stopping every few minutes to peer into a particularly eye-catching display.

I would like to say at this juncture that my long-standing disdain for Aishwarya Rai thawed a bit. I have always maintained that she gets more than is her due - as an actress, because she is ethereally beautiful. Well, all over Europe, she ended up being the only Indian actor/celebrity who had her mug on hoardings and advertisements, that being rare too, but nevertheless, there. I concede that yes, she does command a certain respect in the International arena and inspite of my aversion to that feeling of collective patriotism and pride that all us Indians have the copyright to, it felt nice to see her.

So anyway, it was a fruitful morning; we crammed in a few palaces and gardens, encountered a bus-load of tourists from Italy and took several ‘aesthetic’ photographs (courtesy Rajgaria and Bobby J). Around noon it struck us that Bratislava, the capital city of Slovakia, was just a half hour away from Vienna.

Now, every Eurotripper worth his backpack has seen the movie – The Eurotrip – where a bunch of kids from the States go to Europe and fall into all sorts of interesting situations. A part of the movie depicts them stumble into Bratislava, where they realize that the streets may be dirty, but there is no limit to what a dollar can buy.

We people decided to follow in their footsteps. Off we went to Bratislava. It was interesting - the currency was much more peaceful than the Euro and the city was decrepit. A mere half hour from Vienna in all its classic European glory; Bratislava had the quintessential Eastern European look – beggars, filth, cabs-drivers out to take you for a ride. We got into a bus, went to the city center and decided to spend our few hours at one of these swanky new malls. We walked around, downed a few drinks and also shopped at the supermarket – we stocked up on stuff we figured we would need – chocolates, water but mostly booze.

Many days later, while having a conversation with a Slovak exchange student from our class and from reading a bit, I gathered that Slovakia, and perhaps, the entire of Eastern Europe is kinda like a hot-bed for development and new business; hence it displays the kind of diversity that we find here in India too – a creak-a-minute public transport system alongside super-fast highways leading you to the Meccas of capitalism – the malls. The country’s political ideology is changing and it is in a state of constant flux.

So, here’s wishing all the emerging economies of the world - all the labor, enterprise and capital that they can dole up – May every Bhelpuri wala in Bambai dream of double-storied plush interiors, head-waiters and Crores that are crisper than cutting-chai.

Life's like this

I am currently taking a break from all the travel related talk. Current events dictate that I spend some time mulling over them. Well, the cloud may be cumulonimbus, but the lining is a big fat chunk of authentic silver!

Jug Suraiya says that all of our food grain problems will be solved if the politicos could turn our national inclination towards fasting into an obsession. I have spoken before about the way we Indians fast, and his article hit home. We fast for any and every reason – religious, political, personal, et al. Hunger strikes have been popular since the time of Mr Gandhi and fasting is often the most favored instrument of bribery as far as all things divine go. On a slightly more serious note, I agree with him that various factions – the RBI, the government etc are trying to curb inflation by flattening demand. What about increasing supply?

I chuckled a bit at the latest Absolut Vodka advertisement and the ruckus it has created in the US of A. Apparently, in an ‘Absolut’ world, half of the southern states of America would fall on the other side of the Mexican border, as was the case in the 1800s. This has not gone down well with the Yankees; most of them do not know that such a time ever existed when the map of the USA looked a little different from what it does now. ‘Absolut’ly American.

Dear readers, let me disgust you a little. Apparently, the most expensive coffee in the world is one that is an amalgamation of two kinds of beans – the premium Jamaican Blue Mountain (JBM) and another exotic-sounding one (have forgotten the name). So what, you say. All clear - so far. Well, as Barney-wait for it-Stintson would say, the second bean is not just added to the first, oh no Sir – we may be strange, but mundane we are not! It is, in fact, fed to certain even more exotic-sounding cats (yes, cats), then picked from their excreta, added to the JBM and lo and behold! The most expensive and mouth-watering coffee blend in the world. Say cheers.

We Asians like to differentiate. Whether is it cheap Chinese furniture - delivered to your door-step, or Tourist-guides outside the Taj Mahal with their Toothy smiles, we like to go the extra mile. Like this South Korean astronaut – Ki, who will not only celebrate South Korea’s first mission to space by breaking into a song when that final frontier is crossed, but will also spice it up a couple of notches by taking authentic Korean fare (customized for space travel, of course) along with her. Both these are first-time initiatives; and I will say again – joie - my friends, is the essence of life.

To end this series of the insane and the absurd – here’s the cream that gave the cat a cholesterol problem. A photographer (whose name I forget) specializes in clicking naked people and he wants to shoot 2008 (yes, that’s two thousand and eight) naked people in a stadium in Vienna, as a promotion for Euro 2008! He has made an announcement which says that 2008 naked men and women, strictly on a first-come-first-serve basis, will be given the chance to get their posteriors recorded for posterity. Isn’t that fant-ASS-tic?

Wolf

Many thoughts jostle for mindspace – the situation is worse than the 9 am Churchgate local.

My father says – the biggest failure, in today’s time and age, is when two people can’t find a way to understand each other and co-exist peacefully. We are debating whether a certain divorce should happen in the realms of the extended kith and kin. Well, it’s not always that simple. Sometimes, circs are beyond control and then, say I, why should one make this gargantuan effort to compromise? Doesn’t one deserve the kind of happiness which comes out of resonant co-existence? Pat comes the thought – When we take a concept like divorce as a lil more than the last armageddonish resort, the process - wherein we are trying to understand the other person - becomes half-hearted.

Perhaps, it is so. Perhaps, we squeal ‘Wolf’ too easily.