The story so far...

It's half-way done...another 13 skeins of thread to go...hopefully, it will be done in 2 more weeks.

The Pony Express - Part 6

The wind chills outside. It is cloudy and dark, but it does not rain. The powdery white petals on the trees fly around in the breeze. The Valley Forge National Park - where the Continental Army spent the winter of 1778 during the American Revolutionary War – is coming alive in the spring. The meadows have turned lush green and the trees are covered in leaves of various shades of green. In a few weeks, the place could be ablaze in a multitude of colors. But today we are satisfied with the splash of green.

The National Memorial Arch towers over the landscape on the Southern side of the Park. The logo of the Freemasons’ Lodge – of which George Washington was a part of – dominates the structures around. For those who have seen the India Gate or the Arc de Triomphe, there is no novelty in the structure. It just serves as a reminder to the bravery of George Washington and his generals.

It's been two weeks here and Bangalore is now a distant, forgotten dream...Not for the so-called and much hyped up "comfortable life" in the USA, but because life goes on - forgotten and forgiven, harsh and ruthless. The sun would still be rising as people queue up for the shuttles, the endless hours spent cursing the traffic and listening to the oohing and aahing of the stupid radio jockeys, waiting hopefully for the masala dosa at the breakfast counter, the endless chatter at the coffee table at 10:00 O'Clock, those pleasant fifteen minutes after lunch when the eyes shut off for a short nap...and sitting on the sixth floor cafeteria, munching the egg sandwich, watching the fiery red sun set behind the chimneys of the nearby factories, is all a distant dream. Life in the USA is a little too smooth for comfort. But nobody else - neither in India nor in the USA - missed anything.

Last week saw “Family Day Celebrations” in the office. But unlike the silly song-and-dance extravaganza that we get to see back at home, the family day affair here seems to be more humane – just bring your kids to your workplace. The cafeteria was specifically set up for the day. The kids seem to have reserved seats. Somebody questioned the need for the bring-your-kid-to-office initiative. Joshy pointed out that this was a practice that was followed in almost all companies across the United States. I replied that perhaps it was intended at minimizing hiring and training costs – train your kids now and when they grow up, just recruit them. No pre-job training is required – maybe something similar to what Sonia Gandhi seems to be doing. Perhaps the best part of the whole day was the guy dressed up as a cow. He wore a red shirt that proclaimed “EAT MORE CHICKEN”. Did Vinay Shenoy land in the USA?

Finally I drove the car – to office, to shopping, and where else.

Pic of the Day:

The Pony Express - Part 5

It rained - albeit a slight drizzle. The sky was awfully cloudy. The weather forecasts had predicted showers on a Sunday, but knowing the accuracy of these back home, I never thought much of them. I was proved wrong. Perhaps this is what they call “April Showers”.

Philadelphia reminded me of San Francisco. We walked around for four hours around the Independence State Park. The city is covered in red – red brick structures dot the street sides of the Independence State Park. There are tourists everywhere. The omnipresent Chinese is ever clicking photographs featuring the whole family. They always inspire me, never hesitating to click a photograph. Philadelphia forms an integral part of the history of American Independence, and every icon associated with the image of independence is celebrated here. At the centre lies the Independence Plaza housing the famed Liberty Bell. Behind it, stands the Independence Hall. Take a walk around these places and you would find other icons of American Independence such as the house where Betsy Ross lived - she stitched the first ever American Flag, the grave of Benjamin Franklin and Franklin Court. Ben Franklin gets a little too much attention all around this place. The stars and stripes flutter from everywhere, quite contrary to our country where the common man does not have the right to fly the national flag.

On the banks of the Delaware, overlooking the Benjamin Franklin (again) Bridge is Penn’s Landing – the place where William Penn is supposed to have docked. The beautiful Columbus Boulevard lines the waterfront, and across the river, sprawls New Jersey. As you enter the waterfront, the barque Gazela catches the eye. A group of people were at work on the vessel. Built in 1901, Gazela was brought to Philadelphia in 1971, and is maintained by volunteers of the Philadelphia Ship Preservation Guild. Further up the waterfront stands a multi-tier amphitheater. Kids were enjoying the evening, chasing pigeons. We decided to end our walk here. Further along, beyond the Independence Seaport Museum, stands the huge baroque, Moshulu, used as a floating restaurant. The USS Becuna and the USS Olympia are also moored as part of the Museum.

The drive to and from Philly took more time than the four hours we spent in the city, as we kept taking wrong turns on the highways. We never had a GPS, and hence relied on Google Maps. Unfortunately, the directions we took from Google Maps pointed to some obscure shopping mall in the outskirts, leading to further confusion. But then the world is not flat (never mind Thomas Friedman), and you can always end up where you started. The irony was that, finally when we got hold of a map, we found that we never needed to take the highways.

Quote of the Day:
Me: “Do you think the FBI or the CIA would be spying on us now?”
Sandil: “No. They are not that intelligent”

Pic of the Day: Late for dinner...

The Pony Express - Part 4

Beware of Nesting Geese – proclaims a warning on the doors leading outside the offices of SAP America in Newtown square. Geese are aplenty out here, and amorous geese are considered dangerous to approach. Not surprising. Cackling geese can frequently be found in pairs everywhere outside. However, the other day, a lonely bird tried to force its entry into the office, and was thwarted in the attempt. It forgot the rule that it’s the goose that’s expected to lay the golden egg, and not the other way around.

This is perhaps the “All-American” country side, away from the hustle and bustle of the city of Philadelphia. We live, a couple of miles away from the office – a drive that takes us through narrow country roads lined with beautiful houses with lush green lawns and huge trees that are welcoming the spring. The apartment is small, but comfortable. This would be my home for the next couple of months. The office is nestled in a huge campus, which resembles more of a golf course, than a corporate headquarters.

It’s been four days now since I’ve been here, and still not a single photograph I have clicked – perhaps because I am in no big hurry myself. There is still about three months to go. There are so many of them out here…enough to form a cricket team…Ah…cricket! That will come later - in my subsequent posts.

Sandil was a bundle of nerves. Today, his fate in the USA would be determined – whether he would stay back to fly to San Antonio the following week, whether he would be bundled off in the next plane out of the USA or dispatched off to nearby Guantanamo Bay. Someone at the immigration had screwed up his passport, giving him time until 11th March 2008 (yes) to leave the United States of America. And now, he was an “illegal immigrant”. We needed to get to the airport in the morning to rectify the error. Some of our team mates suggested that we go later, since early in the morning, we would get have to sit in the heavy traffic. We decided to brave it out, and off we went in our newly rented Ford Fusion. Sure enough, we encountered “heavy traffic” – cars cruising along at 40 miles per hour. For people used to Marathalli Bridge, this was a race track.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” – words from the declaration of independence stare down at us from the ceiling of the arrival hall of Terminal A-West of the Philadelphia International Airport. It is part of “American Dream”, an impressive artwork by Rob Fisher, which also consists of an 8 foot by 10 foot glass representation of the Declaration of Independence, split into thirteen parts to represent the original thirteen colonies in America. Also etched into the glass railings are the signatures of 56 signers of the declaration. The hall is impressive, to say the least. On our way to the airport, I kept mentioning about the new Bangalore Airport. But Sandil seemed not as keen at hearing about “returning back” and “Bangalore Airport”, understandable due to his status as an “illegal immigrant”.

But then, all’s well that ends well.

Observation: The biggest nuisance in the United States of America is a school bus.

The Pony Express - Part 3

APRIL 14TH 2008: PHILADELPHIA:

The tale of three cities is complete...

Philadelphia, The Cradle of Liberty, The Quaker City, and also, as its name translates, known rather embarrassingly as “The City of Brotherly Love” (Greek: philos – love and adelphos – brother) - the ancient capital of the United States of America. As we flew over the city at 4:00 PM, it looked much like any great European capital, with the mighty Delaware with its huge metallic bridges cleaving the city into two parts. Winter had given away to spring, and the ice and snow at the mouth of the great St. Lawrence River in Canada had started melting. The muddy waters of the St. Lawrence had greeted me when I opened my window during the flight. The earth was sheathed in a layer of snow, as if someone had sprinkled salt on the ground. The clouds were thick, resembling bales of cotton bundled up together and left to waste. This was a flight I would remember, in spite of “Enchantment” (I nearly wrote it as “Enhancement” – too much of work!) and “National Treasure: Book of Secrets”.

Philadelphia International Airport is one of the busiest International Airports in the world (as of 2008, it is the 10th busiest in terms of aircraft activity), a fact not lost on me, since it took me more than an hour to exit the airport after baggage claim and immigration clearance. As I waited at the entrance for the taxi, I noticed that most of the cab drivers were Asians. Not surprisingly, so was my taxi driver. And the taxi, it was a “Lincoln”. I gladly remembered that my previous car ride in the United States had also been in a Lincoln. “Hindi mein baat keejiye na? yahan pe bilkul sunne ko nahin milta” exclaimed the amicable Mr. Malik, from Lahore, Pakistan. What greeted me as I entered the cab was Lata Mangeshkar’s voice crooning one of the songs that I had unsuccessfully hunted for on the web: “Dil Ka Diya Jalaake Chala, Yeh Kaun Meri Tanhayee Mein…”

We drove through the countryside. Spring was breaking and the barren trees had started flowering. Colours of white and yellow dominated the roadsides, and the odd cherry blossom added to the revelry. It was almost six o clock when I settled down in my apartment. I switched on the television for relaxation and immediately found a Tele-Shopping Channel. And ironically, they were selling stones.

The Pony Express - Part 2

APRIL 14th 2008, FRANKFURT:
Today is a day of death. A couple of centuries ago, Abraham Lincoln was shot dead on this day, at the Ford Theatre. Seventy Seven years ago, a huge explosion aboard the “Fort Stikine” rocked the Bombay Docks, killing 1300 people and wounding 3000. And today marks the 96th Anniversary of the sinking of the unsinkable ship: The HMS Titanic.

I am superstitious. But I never believed in all the nonsense surrounding the number 13. This was my thirteenth visit to the Frankfurt Airport.

Frankfurt am Main as it is known (not many people are aware that there are three more places in Germany with the same name) is one of the biggest cities in Germany. A city more famous for its airport – one of the largest transit centres in Europe – than anything else. There is more to this beautiful city than the sprawling airport, but unfortunately, visitors to Germany never bother to explore the city. It perhaps serves as an example of human nature that we never bother to look into a person’s heart and are fooled by what is presented to us.

It was raining heavily when we landed in Frankfurt, with the outside temperature of 8 degrees. There was however no sign of the turbulence that had vexed me so much on the flight from Budapest. We were led to Terminal C from where the transit officer directed me to Terminal A. There seemed to be a few first timers in the Bangalore flight – evident from their comments comparing Frankfurt Airport to the upcoming Bangalore Airport. Hall C was a long and lonely corridor. A glance outside showed me how strong the incoming storm was. The place had grown dark like evening. At the end of the corridor was a signboard that announced Terminals A, B, C (I thought we were already in Terminal C), D and E with a directional arrow pointing up – which obviously meant we had to go up. Underneath this signboard was an escalator that went down. I can’t wait for the new Bangalore airport.

There were two security checks – one before entering the MagLev train connecting the terminals and one after exiting it at Terminal A. Strangely, they never asked me to remove my shoes. Some Indian families were facing familiar problems – pickles, masalas and other concoctions being confiscated. The ladies were adamant, not amused at being parted from their prized possessions. I was pushed along by the crowd.

The wide corridors of Terminal A are lined with a lot of duty free shops. The place is full of Indians eager to get on one or the other flights to the USA – Washington, San Francisco, Los Angeles and where else. Gate 51 was empty for the moment. I settled down there, near the window, as the sun broke through for a brief moment through the swirling storm clouds. In the distance, it was still raining heavily on the runway. A few characters had assembled together at this gate, to pass time till their next flight.

An Indian was fiddling with his Canon EOS Camera (not me), another was having a home-made breakfast of idli-sambar (I wonder how he got past the security check), and yet another was scribbling fast on a red diary (that’s me). A beautiful girl in a fashionable black and white outfit was engrossed in some German book. A Chinese couple was busily chattering in a foreign language, pointing animatedly at a map. Another young couple slept in each others’ arms, desperate to catch some rest before their next flight. A middle aged lady was sprawled across three or four chairs snoring heavily. Above her, towered a huge advertisement sign that proclaimed:

DEUTSCHE BAHN RUNS SAP.

It’s rude to take photographs unawares.

Observation: Indians are everywhere - be it on the fight to Skopje or on the flight from Vilnius.

The Pony Express - Part 1

APRIL 14th, 2008: BANGALORE:
The second hand of my watch ticked over to 12:00 AM. Happy New Year! This is one event I cannot escape with my dual or confused identity – for it’s the dawn of both the Tamil and Mallu New Year. This year there would not be any Vishu for me. No waking up before the sunrise for a glimpse of the Vishukkani (something that’s never been missed even during my Chennai days, when we used to switch on to Asianet to view the virtual Vishukkani), and fall asleep again. “Happy New Year, Sir!” I exclaimed to the startled old Tamilian couple who stood at the coffee kiosk with me. They gleefully wished me back. “It’s a strange way to spend your new year isn’t it? Travelling across the globe to various countries?” I quipped. It was indeed strange for me. Last year’s Budapest trip had changed my fortunes – for better or worse. I wondered what fate had in store for me the next year.

The first moments of the New Year was spent in the huge waiting hall of the (soon to be old) Bangalore Airport, under the auspices of its huge air conditioning ducts with vents sticking out like the tendrils of some mutant reptile creature from a Hollywood science fiction movie. This place is so old that one can still spot long fans hanging from the ceiling at every twenty-odd feet. I sat there for close to 3 hours swatting mosquitoes, reading, listening to songs and observing others. Perhaps someone else, like me, would be writing on me – I made quite an appearance sitting there with pieces of my baggage around me, clad in my favorite Singapore T-Shirt with a thick grey pullover wrapped around (in this climate), an I-pod sticking out in the front, reading short stories of Somerset Maugham.

The various pieces of luggage had been my first problem during the journey. I was charged for exceeding the baggage limit by 3 kg – guilty as charged! I did not bother to argue. Then came the shock. After checking my ticket, the check-in officer informed me that the rebooking charges had not been paid. I applied some quick thinking. In those few seconds I conjured up some ingenious swear words I could use on our travel desk counterparts. Thankfully, I didn’t get the opportunity to use them, as he waived it or decided to ignore it. The Lufthansa counter was conspicuous by the absence of a check-in queue. 10:00 PM was perhaps a bit too early for a 2:00 PM flight. Hence I was a little astounded when he informed me that the flight was fully booked and I would not get a window seat. I wonder why I don’t ever bother to do the e-check-in.

I had 3 hours to spend in the lounge. Somerset Maugham was not entirely the foremost of my priorities then. With no Pragati around to write about, I sat across the security check section and began observing people. There was a proliferation of babies with their grandparents, presumably travelling to the USA, some of them decked up in gaudy pattu sarees and veshtis, probably to celebrate the New Year. There was this plump girl going to Barcelona (I know because she was next to me at the check-in counter), who was continuously on the phone for those three unearthly hours. Where I had sat down seemed to be the reading corner. Everyone seemed to have a book for the occasion – from the obscure Bengali novel to R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series to “Not Without my Sister” that Isabelle, the beautiful girl on the Air France flight was reading. The Swiss couple was engrossed in skimming through their photographs of India.

Across the floor, the wide-eyed cute little girl in pink was restless. She kept blabbering to her mother, who was finding it hard to keep herself awake. The girl would have none of it. From sweet-talking her mother to consciousness to showing her the pictures she’d make in her little book, she tried everything to keep her mother awake. She finally gave up and put away her green scribbles. She gradually leant her head against her mothers and went to sleep under the watchful eyes of all around who had witnessed her little spectacle. They disappeared on the Air India flight to Mumbai – just another set of strangers. But the evening sideshow was far from over. The best was yet to come in the form of the eight month old Anushka. Travelling with her mother and grandparents, she was one of those comic book babies, fully covered from head to foot, in a one-piece suit (again pink) with only her head visible. She reminded me of Jughead Jones’s sister, Jellybean. She was quite vociferous and seemed to possess great oratorial skills, as she had soon captured everyone’s attention with her baby goo goo. She seemed to be addicted to coffee as she kept jumping for the two cups of coffee her mother had got for her grandparents. I soon discovered another one of her hobbies – Somertset Maugham. Leaving the coffee aside, she sprang for my book, much to the chagrin of her ajji.

“Never mind!” I said and handed her the book.
“She’ll tear it” exclaimed Ajji.
“It doesn’t matter” I smiled. It would take some baby to tear THAT book.
Maugham, once again, was not entirely the foremost of my priorities then.

Observation: The worst seat you can get on a flight is next to the galley. Until dinner is served, our sensory organs are tormented by the sweet aroma of food.

Food for thought

The primary reason for best laid plans to go wrong on a long weekend is that you sleep till late morning. When I got up at 10:00 AM on Saturday morning I knew inwardly that my plans for shopping ahead of my trip to the USA would turn up to nothing. Hence, I found myself once again in the office, researching on how to drive in the USA. And not surprisingly, Moinu too turned up. In the whiff of the moment, we decided to head out for lunch. Moinu suggested 'Sinbad' in ITPL, but I felt it too gaudy for a routine Saturday lunch. Finally, after a round of negotiation, I agreed to his suggestion of Bhagini.

Bhaginis are a unique phenomenon. These are restaurants or restaurant look-alikes that seem to inhabit the suburb of West Bangalore. They can be frequently spotted in this locality, every few kilometers, especially on the Outer Ring Road. So when he said "Let's go to Bhagini", it left me wondering which one he was referring to. There was one just around the corner from our office. But we drove for some time, before he pulled up opposite to the Innovative Multiplex in Marathalli. My curiosity was answered when he pointed to a three or four storeyed building with a glass facade like one of those small scale software companies - Bhagini Palace.

Those who are familiar with these Bhaginis would instantly recognize one of their ilk, if they met them on the road. The prominent feature of any Bhagini is a gaudy, yet boring neon sign announcing its name. It seems to take up the whole space of the restaurant. As you step in, you are greeted with a fountain like structure that gushes out water. At night, the whole place is lit up with those little party lights, like a cheap tourist attraction. Inside a Bhagini, you are likely to find three different seating arrangements. One is the usual rectangular restaurant hall, that caters to some umpteen tables. There is also that long hall which runs from one end of the restaurant to the other, with tables next to each other and can be readily converted into one big table catering 50-odd software engineers ever on the look-out for cheap team lunch options to save company money. There there is the "upstairs" option - usually popular for evening get-togethers with liquor (As has been the case whenever i've been there).

That being the case, it definitely came as a surprise that Bhagini Palace did not follow the design standards used for the rest of the Bhaginis. I confessed to Moinu immediately that it was the first time I was visiting this place. The interior had more of a Shanthi Sagar look - immaculately (or trying to be) dressed waiters trying their best to accommodate the crowd on those cushion chairs with ornate metal. Each table had four folded banana leaves - in preparation for the meal to be served on them. Bhagini serves mainly Andhra cuisine. Their menu card does lay claim that they are adept at serving any cuisine, but i have not really been brave enugh to try them out. As far as time goes, i remember eating only one dish from these places - the regular Andhra meal. My memories of Andhra meals date back to the time I spent in Chennai, where we used to eat that delicious dinner of Andhra meals - The paruppupodi and the dal curry being my favourites - from the T-Nagar Mess - a place which if I described would make the girls who inhabit the software industry cringe with shock and shriek "how unhygienic!"

Now coming back to the Bhagini, there are a few characteristic traits to this place. By default all the orders are considered to be for Andhra meals, unless specified otherwise. Perhaps this would explain the existence of banana leaves. The next is that more than one waiter is eager to take your order (though the eagerness stops there). The species that inhabits the Bhagini the most is the one that infests this planet by hoards and has become a threat to the planet's very existence - the Software Engineer. Rarely a moment goes by when you don't hear a conversation from a nearby table, that doesnot contains words such as "issue", "object" and "hierarchy". The place sometimes gives you a feel that it is a breeding ground for the species where they multiply without control - akin to one of those In-Gen Labs in Jurassic Park.

The fourth, and foremost feature about the place is the long processing time. From the time you give the order to the umpteenth waiter who surrounds you to the time when you catch hold of a stray waiter and negotiate with him to serve your meal, governments could rise and fall in Djibouti. "Perhaps it is because of the Omelette we ordered" claimed Moinu as we waited for ages. The Omelette came, but still there was no sign of the food. It took so long that I have forgotten what we discussed (neither girls nor office politics - those are two topics i can never forget). "And people complain about us exceeding MPT in Message Processing!" growled Moinu finally. And we weren't the only ones complaining. "Meals? Sir, it would take minimum half an hour for us to serve!" said the beaming headwaiter to a family who had just walked in. It was not surprising that they chose to disappear immediately.

The food when it came was nothing to complain for, perhaps because I was already hungry. As the famous saying goes in Malayalam, "gathi ketta puli pullum thinnum" (A hungry tiger would even resort to eating grass). It never came down to eating grass though, as I finally got to gobble up my paruppupodi and dal curry mix - enough quantity to fulfil the hunger of a dozen Ethiopian kids. It had been quite some time since i'd had Andhra food, not to mention from Bhagini. As they claim in their website, "They are ready to give good quality of tastee dishes and bar items with good service. By the way they requires good satisfaction of routine of customers. There are 75 workers and staff working in the restaurant. The speciality of the restaurant is available all kinds of drinks."

Stanley Kubrick fans would swear by the name of "The Shining" - perhaps the best horror movie ever made in Hollywood - based on Stephen King's book of the same name, about a hotel which houses an unspoken evil. One of these Bhaginis would serve well as a backdrop if some smartass Bollywood producer took it upon himself to make an Indian copy of the movie.

Of tourists and ponies

American Tourister - that's what i had planned to call my sojourn in the USA - An opportunist in the Land of Opportunities. There is no doubt that I am an opportunist. We all are - how much ever we deny it. But then the word "Tourister" has a strange inevitability to it, for I am not a tourist.

Today, I got my ticket, after a lot of deliberations about when to leave and how to leave. Finally I put in my money on Lufthansa, the least due to the fact that they are my customers. I do not carry any misplaced loyalties to my customers outside the office. It was merely a choice based out of experience and sheer laziness.

The third of April marks the anniversary of the foundation of the famous Pony Express, the precursor of the US Postage system, where mail was transported across the country on horse and rider relay teams. It had captured the imagination of a country. My imagination has to wait a few more days.

A week later I would be off, facing new challenges in the so-called Land of Opportunities. A week further, I would perhaps be roaming in the streets of the historic city of Philadelphia. Another week further - to the people of this city, to those who see me everyday today - I would be history.

For...we remember others only in the hour of our need.

Recommendations for the month

Books:

World Without End (Ken Follett): See review below. A good read for one time, if you like Follett's style of writing, but falls short of the high expectation set by its predecessor, "The Pillars of the Earth".

The Great Railway Bazaar: By Train Through Asia (Paul Theroux): Well-known for his travelogues, Theroux takes you along with him on his railway journeys across Eurasia - on the famed Orient Express, The Khyber Pass Local, The Frontier Mail, The Grand Trunk Express, The Golden Arrow to Kuala Lumpur and the Trans-Siberian Express. Theroux's account focuses on people and situations, and provides riveting reading, though a bit sarcastic at times.

Movies:

Zodiac: The story behind one of the unsolved crimes in history - the Zodiac killer used to terrorise the towns of California. After a much publicised manhunt, the killer was never apprehended. The movie takes a look at the lives of the people who were a central cog in the manhunt. Starring Jake Gyllenhall, Robert Downey Jr., and Mark Ruffalo, the movie moves along at a lively pace, looking at how the investigation affects the life of the three protagonists. Robert Downey Jr. excels as the eccentric detective who is determined to track down the killer.

Eight Below: An inspired story on the survival of a pack of dogs in the Antarctic winter, and one man's efforts to rescue them. Though endearing, it is a bit long for the average movie-goer, and tends to stretch one's patience at times.

All the King's Men: With an exceptional star cast featuring Anthony Hopkins, Sean Penn, Jude Law, Mark Ruffalo and Kate Winslet it would be natural to have huge expectations from this film, but it fails to live up to it. Based on the Pulitzer-winning book by Robert Penn Warren, on the life of Huey P. Long, the story follows Willie Stark on his rise to power and the inevitable fall from it. The plot has too many twists and moves at a pace which the viewer finds a little difficult to catch up with. Sean Penn's electrifying potrayal of Stark stands tall. The excellent cinematography and the presence of one of the most under-rated actors of our time - Jude Law - make the movie watchable once.

Miller's Crossing: A classic edge of the seat thriller from the Coen Brothers on the power struggle between gangsters, the movie features the extra-ordinary but not-so-stellar star cast comprising of Albert Finney, Gabriel Byrne, Marcia Gay Harden and John Turturro - established actors in their own right. The story moves at an electrifying pace and even though there seems to be umpteen twists in the plot, is never difficult to comprehend.

The Lord of the Rings - box set: The LOTR trilogy of movies has established itself in film folklore. There's nothing more to be said about them. But the six feature DVDs packaged along with the set is a treat to the 'Rings' fans. It is a treasure trove that delves into the efforts of the creators, and provides an insight into why the trilogy is regarded as the "best movie to come out of a book". A must-own for any movie collector.

The Book Without End

Six years ago, I discovered Ken Follett's writing. The first of his books that i had laid my hands on was "The Hammer of Eden". Before i could read a page, my room mate had finished it, and started ranting and raving about it. Once I finished the book, i found it difficult to share his enthusiasm. The second book however, converted me - a huge 1000-odd-page story about the construction of a cathedral with interwoven plots and characters, took me no time to finish. I immediately classified "The Pillars of the Earth" as one of the best fictional works i had read till date.

"World Without End", published as a sequel to "The Pillars of Earth", caught my attention precisely due to that reason. It had been a few years since I had read a Ken Follett novel. Whatever be the content, one can but fail to admit that his novels are fast-paced. It was a mixture of curiosity and ennui that prompted me to lay my hands on the book. The result is yet to be comprehended by my mind.

"World Without End" starts off generations after the life of Jack Builder. Two centuries have gone by, and Kingsbridge Cathedral has grown into one of England's most important priories. The story weaves us through the lives of the people whose destiny is linked irrevertably to the small town and its fortunes. The characters by themselves, are vivid as painted portraits. We follow the fates of Caris, the tempestuous girl, who is forced to shun the love of her life - Merthin, the Carpenter - and devote herself to a life as a nun and a prioress; the shrewd Gwenda, who struggles through her life to support her lover, Wulfric; Godwyn, the ambitious prior of Kingsbridge, who would stop at nothing to hold on to the power he has over the town; Ralph, younger brother of Merthin and in service of the king, who uses his power and position to advance his cause; and many more.

Typical of all his books, the narrative moves at a brisk pace through the intricacies of the plot. The reader is spellbound at the knotting and unravelling of the various situations that the protagonists find themselves in. Follett evens ventures to bring in real events into the narratives, such as the Battle of Crecy (which is considered widely as a kick-off to the Hundred Years War), and the Black Plague which plays a major role in the story. Whether Ken Follett's knowledge on the middle ages is exemplary is beyond me who cannot profess knowledge on the era. But the book is gripping...until the end, when the author seems to lose the plot.

Perhaps the biggest failing of the book is the last 100-odd pages. For what was a gripping story for 1000 pages, loses its plot completely in the last few pages, turning into a contrived ending as if it were a long drawn out mega serial forced to its end out of sheer boredom. The book starts off in intrigue, when the four children witness a murder in the forest near Kingsbridge, and contrary to expectation, this incident does not become a central cog in the machinery of the narrative. Rather, it is sidelined until the end, when the author contrives to pull it out from the dusted corner to fit it into the plot. The reader is left to wonder as to why so many plot twists were unravelled so easily.

The narrative loses its shine, as it meanders towards its uneasy ending, with the focus of the story shifting from one character to the other. As the focus of the story shifts from the intriguing character of Godwyn - who is conveniently killed off by the author - to the less impressive and weak Ralph Fitzgerald, the story weakens, and starts unravelling by itself as if it was cut through by a sword.

The book comes to a tame ending, as if upholding the old saying, "all's well that ends well". Many of the actions by the various characters do not make sense, but to fill in the narrative in an artificial manner. As I turned the last page, I felt that the book was aptly named: This was a World Without End.

Recommendation: Not one of his best, but worth a read.

The Eternal Thirst

ye kooche ye neelaam ghar dilkashi ke
ye lut te hue kaarwan zindagi ke
kahan hai, kahan hai muhaafiz khudi ke?
jinhe naaz hai hind par woh kahan hai?

Those unforgettable words light up the screen as the viewer is spellbound by the magic of Guru Dutt. TIME Magazine rated it as one of the 100 best films of all-time, calling it the “soulfully romantic of the lot” among Indian films. Hindi cinema has come a further fifty years since, but “Pyaasa” has managed to carve a niche for itself in the annals of Indian cinema.

har ek jism ghaayal, har ek rooh pyaasi
nigaahon mein uljhan, dilon mein udaasi

Pyaasa tells the story of Vijay, a destitute and jobless poet, whose melancholic poems are rejected by a world which wishes to dwell upon the romantic notes of love. The dark tones in Vijay’s poetry stem from his college days, when his sweetheart, Meena, spurned his love to marry the rich Mr Ghosh, a newspaper publisher. The only person who loves him and his poems is Gulabo, a prostitute. A despondent Vijay is encouraged by his friends to turn to the bottle. In a drunken stupor, he gives away his coat to a shivering beggar, who in turn, saves Vijay from the lights of an oncoming train. The world believes Vijay to be dead, and he achieves demigod status when his book of poems is published on the insistence of Gulabo. His friends and brothers, who are busy making money out of Vijay’s death, refuse to identify him at the hospital where he is recuperating. In a dramatic climax, Vijay announces to the world, his existence. However, now that everyone is willing to acknowledge him, he no longer desires the fame and glory. With Gulabo beside him, he yearns to go away and establish a world of his own.

jahaan ek khilona hai, insaan ki hasti
yeh basti hai murda paraston ki basti

For the modern movie-goer, Pyaasa is too dark and melancholic to perhaps endure the whole distance, and one can pick holes in the script if one really wants to do it (such as how only the coat survived, when the beggar’s body was mangled beyond recognition). But for a connoisseur of the art, in spite of being a black and white film, Pyaasa is awash with colours – colours of despair, compassion, and resplendency. The lead actors give a splendid performance – Guru Dutt as the poverty-stricken poet, Waheeda Rehman – in her first major on-screen role – as the kind-hearted courtesan, and Mala Sinha, as the opulent society woman. Rehman as Ghosh, and Johnny Walker as Sattar Bhai, provide perfect foil to the lead cast. The camera work by V K Murthy is breath-taking. The whole film is dark, conveying the mood of the story perfectly. He paints the portrait of each character in their inherent state of mind – Vijay is shown with his face half obscured in the shadow, to reflect his despair and poverty, Gulabo has an angelic glow around her face, a mark of her kindness and compassion towards Vijay, and Meena’s face is fully lit with a milky effect reflecting on her opulence and suffocation in the marriage that she chose.

jawani bhatakti hai badkaar bankar
jawan jism sajte hai bazaar bankar

The musical score by SD Burman and the lyrical poetry of Sahir Ludhianvi are now part of legends. Mohammed Rafi moves comfortably from the light-hearted “Sar Jo Tera Chakraye” and “Hum Aapki Aankhon Main”, to the powerful “Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaaye” and “Jinhe Naaz Hai Hind Par”. Geeta Dutt is sensuous in the beautiful “Jaane Kya Tune Kahi” and “Aaj Sajan Mohe Ang Lagao”. And, Hemant Kumar delivers his punch in the soulful “Jaane Who Kaise Log The Jinke”. The film is also interspersed with beautiful poetic lines.

yeh duniya jahan aadmi kuchh nahin hai
wafaa kuchh nahi, dosti kuchh nahin hai

Guru Dutt’s master direction ensures that Pyaasa leaves us with a host of unforgettable cinematic moments – as Vijay lies on the grass, watching the world go by, he is crudely awakened from his dream as a passerby tramples and kills the bee. The image of Gulabo, flirting between the huge pillars of the building as she entices Vijay in her song, is captivating. Gulabo’s unfulfilled love for Vijay is dramatically captured in the song “Aaj Sajan Mohe Ang Lagalo”. The fickle-mindedness of the world is reflected in Vijay’s soulful rendering of “Jinhe Naaz Hai Hind Par”, after he witnesses a pimp who stops the tearful courtesan from attending to her sick baby, and forces her to continue dancing. And who can forget those powerful words that he utters, standing silhouetted against the door in the climactic scene:

yeh mahalon, yeh takhton, yeh taajon ki duniya
yeh insaan ke dushman samajon ki duniya
yeh daulat ke bhookhe rawaajon ki duniyaan
yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaaye toh kya hai?

All I need is to be free...

The video was created by me using some of the photos I clicked during my Mumbai Trip. Please do leave your (preferably non-anonymous) comments.

Random Thoughts...

Still in Mumbai mode...Some random thoughts and learnings from the trip:

1. Tunnels can be very boring - especially when you spend around 15 minutes travelling inside them, as is the case with the Konkan Railway route. Thoughts of the Naples Black Market Express inevitably come to mind.

2. The taxi drivers in Mumbai are more honest than their counterparts down South. They charge you the exact fare in the card.

3. Apartments in Mumbai are never re-painted.

4. If you like something you see, click a photo! Else, you might regret it later (you can delete it later if it doesn't look good). I missed clicking the 'Photo of the Trip' at Haji Ali, and I regret it!

5. Never order a Dosa in Mumbai.

6. For all its hype, avoid Leopold Cafe!

7. And for all its hype, the Colaba Causeway has some great and cheap food joints - try "The Food Inn". It is small but good.

8. Biryanis on trains have a strange habit of changing appearance and taste, depending on the time of the day they are ordered.

9. How much ever people try to pull you down, it's never too late to enjoy your life. After all, there is a child inside everyone.

The Bombay Diary - Epilogue

In today's world it's a crime to enjoy your life. We take pride in the fact that we are old and mature, and work hard for a living - so much that we fail to enjoy our lives. And the moment someone wants to let their hair loose, they are ruthlessly pulled down and are told to act their age (it happens to me everyday). Today, a group of old ladies (and they were well over 50) showed us how to live.

On Wednesday, 30th January, we left Bombay for Cochin (I've somehow never come to terms with the new . Maybe that's why I always live in the past).

We still had some moments to savour. The trip ended just as it had started - on the Gateway of India, watching the sunrise. Since our train was only at 11:40 AM, we still had time to get up early and go on a walk - of course, the "intention" of the walk was to find something for breakfast, but Colaba wakes up only after 9 o'clock. We were unable to find a single open restaurant at 7:00 AM.

Some old guy was busy taking photographs at the Gateway - not like us, but SERIOUS photography, with a small team and a model. SS claimed he was the famous Gautam Rajadhyaksha, but on hindsight, it does not seem to be true since this guy was much older. He seemed to be shouting harsh instructions at the model, but his behaviour clearly indicated that he knew what he was doing. Well, all's well that ends well (no pun intended).

The drive to Lokmanya Tilak Terminus in the taxi was memorable in many ways:

1. It was difficult to make out which was older. The taxi driver was an old guy, but the taxi itself seemed older than him.

2. The music - you can't call it retro, you can't call it new. It was one of those T-Series collections.

3. The traffic in Bombay is irritating. I take back what I said about shuttle drivers in Bangalore in my Day Zero post. These guys are worse, and are looking for an excuse to honk.

There's a certain beauty to the suburban stations in this city - they are never empty. You always see people from various walks of life, racing from one place to the other. It's scary to get into a local train during rush hour - you are just pushed along in the crowd, without being aware of where you are heading. Sitting in the cosy confines of my long-distance train, watching life go past in the locals is a privilege. These trains crisscross the city like the blood vessels in the human body.

At Chiplun, SS decided to have Vada Pav. I just wanted a coffee. Just then, I told him that he should try out a 'pazham pori' (he couldn't pronounce it). It was the coldest pazham pori I had ever had in my life, but having not eaten one before, SS was amazed by it. As they say, Ignorance is indeed bliss.

At 6:30 PM, we pulled into the town of Ratnagiri, famous as the birthplace of Lokmanya Tilak. A horde of old ladies boarded the train. Their families and extended families had come to see them off. They were on their way to Thrissur to embark on a tour of Kerala, as one of the old ladies gleefully informed me. They were in full spirits, playing cards and antaksharis. Soon the enthusiasm spread to the other travelers. Everyone wanted to be part of of it...Well, almost everyone. "After all, they are North Indians. Only they can think of doing such things," my fellow traveller chipped in. I wondered why someone needed to be from a different part of India to enjoy life. The ladies taught us an important lesson - it is never too late to live your life.

Morning brings with it, the familiar feeling of being home - the train passes into Kerala. They say that home is where the heart is. Perhaps my heart is still here. And that's why i still love coming here. It was 1:3o PM by the time we got down at Aluva. A dozen stops at so-called important towns and snail's pace between Calicut and Shoranur had not dampened my spirit. Ah! Kerala...for Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety (...and she's better than Cleopatra). I hope I can keep returning here. Always and ever...

Pic of the day: For most of the year, Bharatapuzha, the largest river in Kerala, is just a sand bed with a few puddles of water here and here. Still, a fisherman angles his bait in a puddle, unsure of the catch.

The Bombay Diary - Day 5

The Vedas state: “Mathru Devo Bhava, Pithru Devo Bhava, Acharya Devo Bhava, Atithi Devo Bhava”. But whom do we term as our “Atithi”? Is it only the foreigner? Or is it anybody who comes to us with an open mind? The famous and so-called reputed Leopold Café seems to think that it is a privilege to be a foreigner. Just walk in and you would know.

Malabar Hill is one of the posh areas in Mumbai, where you would find the houses of many business tycoons and film stars. Today we decided to trek down the hill. We caught a taxi (that’s perhaps the dictionary meaning of the word “trek”) to take us all the way to Malabar Hill. We had in mind to visit many areas in and around Malabar Hill. On the map was mentioned the term “Hanging Garden”. Images of Nebuchadnezzar’s splendidly laid out gardens of Babylon flashed through my mind. But after seeing the Phirozshah Mehta Gardens, I wondered where the “hanging” part was.

Opposite to the Phirozshah Mehta Park, stands the more famous Kamla Nehru Park, and its “Boot House”. The park offers a fantastic aerial view of the Chowpatty Beach, and the Marine Drive, up till Nariman Point. Being a Tuesday, we did not expect much of a crowd, but to our surprise, it was filled with school children out for a picnic. And during my schooling years, I never even got to spend time in our school playgrounds. Even with all the crime happening in the city, the Maharashtra Police seem to be over-staffed. There were five cops manning the place – quite unusual for a park. And soon they got their victims – three school children, making mischief in the park. The cops were more than happy to give them a big lecture about how they should not put their lives and the lives of others in danger. But the language they were using was far from polite, and downright abusive.

Our next destinations for the day were not mentioned in the map that we had been following. Getting to the first one was easy – the Banganga temple complex at the base of Malabar Hill, near Malabar Point. Squeezing through all the gullies and by-lanes of the area, one would come across a huge dirty tank, near the sea. Around the tank are situated a zillion temples that together form the Banganga complex. Away from the bustle of tourist activity, people continue their lives out here, worshipping the cow that stands opposite the Walkeshwar Temple, on the way to their duties of the day. For, the average tourist never knows that this temple was built way back in 1127 AD. It was destroyed by the Portuguese, but was rebuilt by a benevolent businessman in the eighteenth century.

The Banganga Tank was also built in the same year as the original temple, and is today the oldest structure in the city of Mumbai; a fact lost on many a tourist. Legend has it that Lord Rama, on his way to Lanka, had stopped over here. As he felt thirsty, he drove an arrow into the ground, and out sprang the water of river Ganga to quench his thirst, and hence the name. Wikipedia claims that the tank is cleaned every January for the elaborate Banganga Music Festival, but one look at the tank, and it seemed to us that it had not been cleaned for the past few years. However, clean or not clean, a visit to that area is an experience one cannot forget – simply considering the history behind the place.

If that was an experience one cannot forget, the next was even more surreal. In the midst of the bustling noises of the Girgaum area, lies an oasis of calm. Surrounded by concrete monsters, both old and new, lies the wooden Christian bastion of Khotachiwadi, a heritage village in the midst of the great city. The entrance to this hamlet would be easily missed if you are not specifically looking for it. And that seems to be the case with the rest of the city, as the place has a peaceful silence surrounding it. The hamlet consists of two-storied wooden houses, with a verandah and long staircases running at the front of the house. Our only companions in this place were some art students, who were busy making sketches of these splendid architectural beauties. It was as if we had been transported to some quaint Goanese village.

A few meters away from Khotachiwadi, on the main road, you would come across a huge Victorian building in a dilapidated state. In any European city, this would have been one of the biggest attractions for the tourist. Standing at the big junction that bears its name is the only Opera House in India. Today in a state of disuse, the once-beautiful building that would have seen many a celebrity, acts as a lime depot. Thankfully, there seemed to be a few scaffoldings in place, perhaps the signs of a long-due renovation.

Moving east of the opera house area, towards even more crowded by-lanes, one would reach the famous (or infamous, as one would perceive) Chor Bazaar – the “Thieves’ Market”. Everybody knows that you could perhaps never buy anything original from here, but people nevertheless throng these streets in search of antiques, automobile parts, hardware tools and what else. SS had clarified that you could possibly buy anything from a pin to a motor car out here. Of course you had to be careful about your belongings when you visited Chor Bazaar – they would flick it off you and try to sell it to you. Hence I was doubly careful about my belongings. It was not an overstatement when he mentioned that you could buy “anything” out here. I was amazed to find English gramophone records from the fifties and sixties – I even found one of Star Wars. SS seemed to be obsessed with old coins and hourglasses, and was quite enthusiastic to haggle with each shopkeeper for the price of them. The authenticity of the stuff was soon clear to us when we saw a coin “made” by the East India Company in 1939, that too with the picture of Hanuman behind it.

Our last act for the day and perhaps for the trip was to have a long stroll along the busy Colaba Causeway – the tourist hotspot of the city of Mumbai. For those in Bangalore wondering what is so great about this place, it is the “Brigade Road of Mumbai”. For a long time, we wandered along the pavement, haggling with the vendors, having friendly conversations with the tourists, and lapping up the bad experience we had at the much hyped-up Leopold Café. Four days of fun had finally come to an end.

The last photograph we took before calling it a day was the majestically lit dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel. It did not come off well, but some things print a far better picture in your mind that on paper.

Quote of the Day: Debating about how much we should tip the waiter at Leopold Cafe, SS quipped angrily: "Why should we tip them so much? They don't know how to treat Indians properly!"
Me: "They may not know how to treat Indians properly...But we do..."

Pic of the Day: (I had a black and white pic, but chose this to avoid monotony - so much for hypocrisy)

As free as a bird? Not anymore. Life can at times be cruel!

The Bombay Diary - Day 4

Of all the places to spend the evening, today we chose the most unlikely place that a tourist from Bangalore would opt for. Today, we spent two hours at the Strand Book Festival (yes, the same thing that is held at the Chinnaswami Stadium in Bangalore), and of course, I bought books from here too.

The morning was extremely successful! We finally got to eat dosa for breakfast – well, almost…provided you can really call it a dosa. But then, something is always better than nothing. Today we decided to attack the museums in Mumbai. Our first destination was the National Gallery of Modern Art in the Kala Ghoda Art District. Since when I became a connoisseur of modern art (why stress on “modern”?), I do not know. But it was always worth experimenting. Unfortunately it was closed for the day, thus perhaps saving me the blushes. To avoid a complete alteration of our plans, we decided to call up the next museum to check whether they were open. Thankfully they were.

If you walk through the Fort area in the Mumbai, you cannot miss the buildings. The big gates of the Naval Docks stand imposing upon everyone driving past them. Adorning the walls of the docks are colorful murals depicting the maritime history of India. As you walk further, the huge white façade of the Mumbai Town Hall lords over Horniman (no pun intended in the name) Circle. The building also houses the State Central Library and the Asiatic Society, and the steps leading up to the doors are a favorite haunt for people to spend some time in the evenings. A little further, towering above everything in the vicinity stands the massive towers of the Bombay Stock Exchange. As the road winds itself past these buildings, one comes up against the huge red walls of the Reserve Bank of India.

Not many people are aware of the fact that there exists in the Reserve Bank complex, a unique museum. It is dedicated to what is perhaps one of the driest topics to discuss – money and finance. The Mint Museum, as it is popularly known, focuses on the currency and coinage of India through the centuries. The intricacies of money and banking are described in a simplistic way. The museum narrates the history of coinage and currency right from the prehistoric times, through the different dynasties that ruled India, to the present day monetary system controlled by the Reserve Bank of India. Not surprisingly, the museum lives up to international standards.

Returning back to the Kala Ghoda Art District, we met one of Mumbai’s defining images – a Dabbawala. The old man was very sporting, and allowed us to click a photo of him. We could not but help smile remembering yesterday, when another old man selling wind vanes at Chowpatty beach, ran away at the thought of getting his photos clicked. Clicking photos of the common man seems to be the order of the trip for me, and it seemed like a coincidence when our next stop turned out to be the photography exhibition of Ketaki Sheth. The subject of Sheth’s photographs was the life in the streets of Mumbai – profoundly bewitching photographs of the common man and his struggle. I ended up buying her book of photographs (“Bombay Mix”).

On the street side on Mahatma Gandhi road, can be found a unique art gallery – the “Pavement Art Gallery”, where people exhibit their paintings on the pavement itself, and it was a unique sight. However, the more famous Jehangir Art Gallery, which stands opposite to the sprawling Victorian building of the Elphinston College, was a familiar experience to last year. There was an exhibition of the paintings of Satish Mondal, who seemed quite obsessed with bald heads and different birds and insects sitting on them. But then, I’ve never been able to figure out how people judge art. This turned out to be true as the next room contained what I thought were some amazing paintings. But whoever judged them never seemed to have thought so, since there were quite a few “awarded” paintings which I could not make head or tail out of.

Ketaki Sheth’s photographs seemed to have made a profound impression on us, since we spent the next one hour sitting on the pavement, clicking photographs of people passing by. But we still have miles to go before we reach her level of expertise.

Oh…and a small note. If I mentioned that the buildings in the Fort area are difficult to miss, I would not be entire true. Walking along Shahid Bhagat Singh Marg, you would barely give a second glance to the run down, decrepit building, which stands opposite to the brightly decorated walls of the naval docks. For those who do, a marble plaque announces its importance. Formerly known as Admiralty house, it was the residence of the Admiral from 1764 to 1792, and also served as the Chief Court of Bombay until 1879. Today, it stands in utter negligence. So much for heritage!

Quote of the Day:
Gazing up at the famous Regal cinema house, SS asked: “But why is this building so famous?”
Me: “Because it is old.”

Pic of the Day:
If only he could find a better future inside that...

The Bombay Diary - Day 3

Sakal lok maan sahune vande
Nindaa na kare keni re
Vaach kaach man nishchal raakhe
Dhan-dhan janani teni re

For our generation, the freedom struggle is something which we have heard and seen on the television. It is a lesson in the history textbook. Hence, when we come face to face with the relics of that struggle, it leaves a lasting impression on us. Today, it happened to me.

Of all the things in the world, I spotted a “Lincoln” today – the first one I am seeing in India. I still remember the ride I had in the Lincoln taxi that took me from Palo Alto to the San Francisco airport. It is perhaps an irony that we spotted the Lincoln – the all-American car – when we are yet to find a place that would serve us an idli or a dosa for breakfast! Breakfast has so far consisted of sandwiches and toasts.

The walk to Churchgate station was a nice experience – under the shadows of the clock tower of the Mumbai University and the Maharashtra High Court one can spot thousands of young men busy in their game of league cricket, in the various ‘maidan’s that dot this stretch. As the local trains pull into Churchgate station, young men carrying cricket bats and stumps are eager to alight first, so as to not miss a moment of the action. Sunday had indeed arrived!

Our first destination was Mahalaxmi. Two contrasting, yet similar images present themselves. At the edge of the water, a distinguishing white building rises up. A causeway connects the dargah of Baba Haji Ali to the main land. A steady stream of people meanders to and fro along this, to the pull of faith. A few meters away, nestled into a busy street, stands the Mahalaxmi temple, with a ‘Tirupatiesque’ queue snaking out to as far as you can see. Both the places are heavily guarded by the police. Perhaps it is a testimony of the people’s faith that these places are frequently threatened.

Perpendicular to these landmarks run one of Mumbai’s famous roads – the Gopal Rao Deshmukh Marg, or as the common man would love to call it, Peddar Road. The road snaked its way up Cumballa Hill reminding me of San Francisco. There is nothing great about it, except for the fact that if you are walking along it on a warm afternoon, in search of a place to have lunch, you would not find one. Our intention in such a futile walk was to get to our primary objective of the day – Mani Bhavan.

Off the busy Hughes Road, in a by-lane that goes by the name of Laburnum Road, lies one of the most famous houses in India – Mani Bhavan. In spite of the location it is perhaps difficult to miss the place due to the number of tourists who visit this place. For it was here that Mahatma Gandhi stayed from 1917 to 1934, and launched his Satyagraha as well as the Civil Disobedience Movement. A museum dedicated to the life of the Mahatma, Mani Bhavan is an eye opener for every Indian. It is not as if we do not know anything about the freedom struggle or the role played by Gandhiji in it. But to come across it in our life is an altogether different experience.

Behind the walls of Mani Bhavan, lies another landmark. A huge park, split into five smaller ones, overflows with people of all ages, playing different kinds of games. A section of the park houses a tall white pillar with a pink lotus on top – a reminder of the significant event that occurred here on the 8th of August in 1942. It was here in the Gowalia Tank Maidan – now called the August Kranti Maidan - that Gandhiji made his famous “Do or die” speech. For the British, the time to quit India had come.

And the evening? It was quiet and nice – a movie and dinner with two lovely English ladies.

Quote of the Day: Me: “Haven’t you heard of Afghan carpets? They are very special”. After a pause, “Well, they are special. I don’t know why they are special.”

Pic of the Day: Mahatma Gandhi's ashes, kept for public display at Mani Bhavan.

The Bombay Diary - Day 2

Happy Republic Day! Waking up early in the morning, we decided to catch the sunrise at the Gateway of India. There seemed to be more pigeons at the gateway that people. A group of old people were standing in a circle, singing the national anthem. We stood there in attention. This time at the Gateway, there were no fans of “Immaculate Misconception.” We headed towards Elephanta.

Elephanta is about an hour from the Gateway by boat. The island was earlier known as Gharapuri, before being discovered by the British, who named it Elephanta after they found the statue of a stone elephant there. The boat ride to the place was uneventful and similar to innumerable rides I have had in Kochi. There was a small toy train, to take people from the jetty to the base of the hill. I could not figure out what was so special about it, but it certainly seemed popular. The place is teeming with monkeys (not of the Symonds kind), that too quite daring ones. If you carry anything eatable with you, they would not think twice before attacking.

Elephanta is no Badami, but it is really worth a visit if you are a history or mythology enthusiast, especially for the Mahesh murthy – the three headed sculpture of Shiva, depicting the creator, the preserver and the destroyer. There was quite a huge crowd, with guides chirping about – some of them genuine, some of them fake. I heard a particular guide telling a Chinese couple that the big Mahesh murthy statue represented Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. He even pointed to a relief that depicted the descent of Ganga and stated that it was Shiva and Parvati having a picnic!

Across the Thane creek from Elephanta, a dark grey dome can be seen rising ominously. It is difficult to miss out that domed shape of the reactor at Bhabha Atomic Research Centre at Trombay. Before returning back from the island, I managed to take a few shots of that place, managing to avoid any of the hypothetical laser-activated guns they would have mounted to deter photographers (according to SS). The return trip was made more eventful thanks to a couple who seem to have not taught their two kids some basic manners. They bought everything that came their way, and after eating, the kids were quite content at throwing the wrappers overboard.

It seems like life starts after 8’o clock at the Marine Drive. The Marine Drive is more famous than for the reasons the Shiv Sena popularizes it for. As you sit there near the sea, you can see people from various walks of life moving past – from old ladies, who want nothing, but a quiet evening by the seashore to little kids having a running race between them.

At the Marine Drive, we came across a couple of kids playing a game of street cricket, and unintentionally, got involved. It brought back some memories from my childhood days – about how, bowling should always be underarm, and the first ball that someone faced is always a trial ball (of course, you have to ask for it. It is not by default). We were asked to step in umpires to resolve a dispute between the kids. The Sardar kid seemed to be a Sachin Tendulkar in making, hitting his hapless brother for six after six. Before coming to Mumbai, I didn’t remember the last time I played gully cricket, but after today, I will.

Quote of the Day: As we sat on the boat to Elephanta, SS turns to me and quips: “Do you know how to swim?”
“No” I reply. “Do you know?”
“No” says SS. And then after a pause: “Then we are in the same boat.”

Pic of the Day: Before starting his day, a Mumbaikar salutes the sun as it rises above the Gateway of India.

The Bombay Diary - Day 1

3:15 AM: Guntukal Junction. One of the biggest and most important railway junctions in South India – a station that is perhaps more important and bigger than the town it serves. I step out into the cold for a cup of coffee – mindful of the mother in those countless hindi movies, who steps out of the train at a wayside station to collect water for her baby, only to find the train chugging away from her. But my luck over the past two days seems to have changed for the good. I have a steaming cup of coffee and go back to sleep.

7:00 AM: Lingiri – another station that serves no place. It seems so far away from civilization, but beautiful. There is just a small station building, with trees lined up on either side of the tracks. The sun is already on its way up and the train is slowly waking up. Vendors keep wandering to and fro at will, selling coffee, tea and “bhains ka doodh” (buffalo’s milk).

7:45 AM: Nalwar. From here the train would take a completely new look – that of a school bus. The platform is full of children with school bags bigger than themselves, the younger ones clutching at the fingers of their brothers and sisters so that they do not get lost. This is no Kumbh Mela. The next station, Wadi, where they are headed is just 15 minutes away. Wadi is perhaps the official breakfast stop for the train. On the long platform, you can spot idli-vada vendors every fifty meters. Not surprisingly, the stop is for around five minutes.

8:30 AM: Shahabad. The train has truly transformed itself into something resembling a BMTC bus, with people crammed into every nook and corner. Somewhere in the neighboring coupe, somebody has switched on a music player, and it was blaring out all those mushy Kumar Sanu songs from the 90s. Just out of Shahabad, the train stops with a huge hiss of air – perhaps the air brake had come off. There was no damage done, but it brought our attention to a detail that we’d missed until then – there was no emergency chain in our coach.

12:00 PM: Solapur Junction. The railways seem to have learnt the mantra of multi-tasking. It’s for the third time today that I see this particular train that sports the name board: “Kacheguda-Falaknuma-Raichur-Wadi-Gulbarga-Bijapur-Solapur.”

4:00 PM: Pune Junction - our original first destination during this trip. The train is almost empty. All the way from Solapur to Pune, it was a quiet and peaceful ride. Huge plains dotted either side of the track, with the corn rustling in the hot wind. We had taken turns to sleep through the afternoon. The plains would now give way to huge gorges as the tracks cut through the Bhore Ghat and descend the Deccan Plateau into the huge city of Mumbai. It would be a fun ride.

7:15 PM: Dadar. The train has emptied. The kids have parted way. They have another four hours to go before they sleep. As we pull out of Dadar, a strange guy in a black shirt puts down a huge black bag and asks us: “Can you please mind this bag for some time?” Without thinking twice, we agree. Once he disappears, the thought strikes our minds:

SS: “What if it really is a bomb? If he is not back in 5 minutes we will inform the guard.”
“But where is the alarm chain?” I reply back. “And anyway, the train is nearly empty. Who would want to bomb it now?”

But the thought still lingers in my mind. I am reminded of that explosive dream that I had – the one about the aircraft. “If we’ve to die today, we will!” I bravely declare. Within a few moments, a loud noise makes us jump.

Somebody had slammed the door of the coach. If this were a Tom and Jerry cartoon, you would have seen those different colored cats numbered 1 to 9, jump out of Tom’s body. Thankfully, the strange man is back. He profusely thanks us and leaves. We had finally reached Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, Mumbai.

The first thought I voice after alighting from the train was: “Man, this place looks no different from Chennai Central!” Thankfully, no Mumbaikar hears me.

And then, I sprain my leg.

Quote of the Day: The discussion between us, was about attending marriages and other family affairs.

"I never attend any functions" I declared...and then after a pause, added: "Only subroutines". SS was speechless.

Pic of the Day: Between Pune and Mumbai, nestled on the banks of the Indrayani river, lies the small village of Kamshet. As we speed along in the train, for a few seconds, the river gives us company. This particular location was made famous in the 1990s by the song, "Mile Sur Mera Tumhara"