A waterfall, a temple and then...the Rain

The weather was more than inviting as the three of us left our house at 6:25 in the morning. The sky was overcast and there was a chill in the air and with Naman assuring us in his typical style ( "Yaar agar baarish ho gayi na, to main Kuch bhi karoonga" ), we were on our way.

It could be said that the Kanakpura Road or NH 209 is perfect for a weekend bike trip. Its true, has little traffic, and snakes its way through tank bunds and small sleepy villages.The fact that in South India, the population density is much less than that in the North and people are generally quieter (this is a purely personal observation!) makes sure that you can cruise along at 55 kmph with no hurry in the world, almost as if in a reverie which wont be broken by the approach of a village. Its monsoon time here and somehow everything around us seemed to be in some sort of a quiet anticipation. Waiting for the rains, which were sure to come in the evening. The villages bore a smell of wet earth mixed with cow dung and that of wood burning in the houses and of course the crispness of the early morning air. It was just the sort of start we had expected.

Breakfast was taken at Kanakpura and we also gulped down two shots of coffee. Then we headed towards Malevalli from where the Sivasmudram Falls is about 20 kms or so. The weather had held up beautifully, the clouds still hiding the sun although it was about 9 o' clock. After Malevalli the road became really bad and we wondered how it could still be a National Highway.

Sivasamudram was in one word, breathtaking. We hadn't expected anything close to what we saw. We had probably chosen the best time to visit the falls as the monsoons had ensured that the Cauvery was almost overflowing its banks. We were a little disappointed by the large crowd that had come there and also by the garbage that had accumulated, but the sight of the spray and the mist which formed a layer over the cascade of water tumbling down, more than made up for it.
We then went to the other side or arm of the falls, clicked more pictures, laughed wildly at our self made silly jokes, did some customary Akshat bashing and left for our next destination, the 12th century AD Somenathpur Temple.

Oh! and in between we came across this beautiful, storybook like bridge. The trip was getting better by the minute.

The road to Somenathpur was bad, very bad. As I maneuvered my bike, trying to find patches of road between the potholes, I realized how comfortable I had become with it. It was almost like an extension of me. I had come to gauge its every movement, I knew exactly how much pressure on the clutch or brake was required to get the desired effect. I was totally in sync with its movement and was enjoying every moment, every turn. Coming back to the road, as if to make up for the bad state in which it was, trees lined both sides of it and the photographer in Naman possibly couldn't resist.

On reaching Somenathpur, we were astounded how such a marvelous example of South India's Temple architecture in general and Hoysala architecture in particular could be so poorly publicized. We had gone there just because we had time on our hands. It was not even a part of our itinerary. Little did we know that it would become the highlight of our trip. Well that's what we thought till the rain hit us! The most surprising thing to notice was how intact it had remained over the centuries. The pillars which looked as if to be made using lathe machines and the intricate carvings were really some sight to behold.

No other picture captures the timelessness of the place than this one taken by Naman, inside the temple, without flash, with really steady hands. By that time we had decided that we would return via the Bangalore Mysore Highway. There was rain in the air, it would be dark, and picturesque as the Kanakpura Road was, it didn't have much of civilization in between, in case we got caught up in the rain and needed help. So we headed back to Malevalli and from there to Maddur which was where we were supposed to hit the Highway.

Twilight had set in and dark clouds had gathered over the horizon, as we put on our jackets and started towards Bangalore. We clicked the last snap of the day and carefully tucked the camera inside Akshat's bag.

The first drizzle hit us somewhere between Malevalli and Maddur. I was following Naman's tail light (an exercise I would continue for another 4 hours or so), wiping drops of water from my helmet visor every few minutes. We rode along, since the there was nowhere to stop and we were enjoying it and even though at times the drizzle would become a steady rain, we were too excited to stop.

We hit the highway at around 7 o' clock and exactly as we did so, the drizzle turned into a downpour. Add to that the 4-wheelers zipping past us as if there was no tomorrow, and we were beginning to get a little scared. Better sense prevailed and even better luck. We found a restaurant within a few minutes. Oh, I forgot to add. We hadn't had lunch.

The chana masala, dal tadka, aloo gobhi ki sabji and kadhai paneer tasted heavenly. We were totally wet waist down and I knew that my not so waterproof jacket wouldn't hold on for long. I was already beginning to shiver. But amidst all this, I wanted it to happen. Yes, really. I wanted to drive in the rain, at night, on a bike, on the highway. I knew it would be some experience and in my heart of hearts, I was wishing it to happen. I think I almost willed it. Naman and I were high on adrenalin, at the prospect of driving in the rain so we chose to move on. Actually by the time we finished dinner, the rain had subsided to a drizzle again and we decided that worst of worst, we will put up at some roadside hotel for the night (although we didn't have any clothes so I wonder how we would have managed). Bangalore was a good 3 hours drive by all estimates.

It was scary, it was risky, it was funny even and it was exhilarating. And it required loads of concentration. Naman's Bullet's tail light formed my point of reference yet again and the road played true to its self without springing any surprises. The rain kept changing momentum all the time. Water seeped in through my jacket. My feet soon became numb as did my fingers which were on the brink of losing sensation after an hour or so. I had started to feel the stiffness grow in my arms and back as I sat in the same posture, riding my bike. It was a test of endurance at some level, a test of keeping the accelerator at a constant speed of around 45 kmph. I could have almost fallen asleep because of the sameness of the exercise. So I started loudly singing to myself whatever songs came to my mind and kept my eyes wide open. There were different stages to the entire journey. First it was really exciting and fun. That's when the rain had just started. Then it became a bit uncomfortable as I started getting wet. After that was a period of time when I was scared to making the entire journey, scared of skidding, scared of being hit by some speeding vehicle. But finally, after I had become used to the stiffness, pain and numbness, came the best period; one of total abandon and ecstasy. Nothing mattered anymore. It was just me on my bike and the pouring rain. It was the wildest thing I have done and we were shouting at each other at times. Shouts of joy. Just a 'Hoyeeeee' at times. I felt so alive.

We reached home at around 11, after more than 3 hours of continuous driving in the rain, totally drenched, clocking in all, 373 kms . Thankfully the camera and cellphones had survived. I turned on the geyser and took a hot shower and only after standing under it for about 5 minutes did I feel the colour come back to my fingers and toes. Just another weekend bike trip had turned out to be an experience of a lifetime and although the next morning my entire body was aching, I wouldn't complain.

By the way, we are yet to decide what Naman will do.

On second thoughts, after seeing this picture which Naman created, I might just let him go.

The Sound Of Music

There are few things that give me more pleasure than listening to good music. I can give me goosebumps even. Discovering new ones goes a step higher though. When I am happy, it makes me happier. When I am pensive and sad it eases me. When I am restless, it soothes me. When I am bored, it engages me. I like de-constructing any song that I hear. Invariably it has layers to it which I dont get the first time I hear it. The first thing that hits me is the melody. And no matter how great the lyrics are, for me, a composition has to pass that test to find any favors with me. Once that sinks in and I am able to hum it along, I divert my attention to the lyrics. Though I must admit that I have always been a music person. To me, lyrics enhance the appeal of a song and do make it great from good at times but at heart I am much more a 'music' lover than a connoisseur of lyrics. To me a song can be great even without good lyrics but without a great tune; no. Not in my book at least.
Anyway, after I get a hang of the two main parts of the song, music and lyrics, come the subtleties. This, certainly is the most pleasing part. The changing bass, the delicate drum rolls, the piano which plays in the background, the little harmonies and the seconds, the changing guitar distortions, that lingering strain left after a guitar solo, all form a part of this discovery. It's like drowning in the song. Letting it flow all over you, getting drenched in it. And every time it feels slightly different, a little more intense, a little richer.

Havent been in the best of moods for the past few days. Particularly yesterday. And the only bright spot yesterday was discovering Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's rendition of 'Over The Rainbow / What A Wonderful World' . I had heard it before and liked it. But yesterday listening to it the entire day and then trying it out on my guitar made my heart lighter, much lighter. Oh, and the lyrics are good too.
And today its Kailash Kher's new album Jhoomo Re. Listen to it for its foot tapping Jhoomo Re and Joban Chhalke, for its love ballads Saiyaan and Daulat Shohrat. Kher's rustic voice and his immensely talented band Kailasa create a unique experience where Amir Khusro's poetry combines with western instruments and Kher's voice blends perfectly with a piano and a distorted guitar.

By the way, Tuesday evening was one of the best so far in Bangalore. Had gone to attend a concert by musicians from London who call themselves 'Fiddlers On The Hoof'. They 'performed' songs from movies like Sound Of Music, My Fair Lady, Les Miserables, Fiddler On The Roof, Lion King, Alladin, Grease and also 'Over The Rainbow' from the movie Wizard Of Oz. It was one of those evenings which make you feel good about yourself and so getting completely drenched in the rain on the way to the concert was worth it. It was so much more than a break. What made it all the more pleasing was the fact that I was with my friend Rohan, who can appreciate that kind of music more than I can. He was almost crying at places. We both came out of the hall ecstatic. The lights, the stage, the performers, everything was just perfect.

Istanbul

There are parts in almost every book we read which makes our heart leap with joy. Those moments of brilliance. Sentences that stay with us long after the book is read and tucked away in some corner of the cupboard. It could be the sheer beauty of the prose or the simplicity of some profound statement or even when we can associate some experience, some feelings, to our lives, our selves. Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul only comprised of such parts and nothing else.

It's a memoir of the city the author was born in, grew up and has made his home for over fifty years. It's about the only place on earth he knows. It's about the reflection of the city on his life and it's a love affair that's hard to replicate at any level.

Here we come to the heart of the matter; I've never left Istanbul - never left the houses, streets, neighborhoods of my childhood......Conrad, Nabokov, Naipaul - these are writers known for having managed to migrate between languages, cultures, countries, continents, even civilizations. Their imagination was fed by exile, a nourishment drawn not through roots but through rootlessness; mine however, requires that I stay in the same city, on the same street, in the same house, gazing at the same view. Istanbul's fate is my fate. I am attached to this city because it has made me who I am.

Pamuk explores what he calls the 'Turkification' of Istanbul in particular and his country in general, caught as it was, after the fall of the Ottoman Empire, between the East and the West in every sense of the word. He talks about his joint family, his parents and his relation with them, replete with little anecdotes of the streets and bylanes of the city. He talks of the melancholy that engulfs the entire city in its drive to westernise and get rid of the bitter memories of the fallen empire much like a 'spurned lover throws away his lost beloved's clothes...'
Pamuk has a very keen eye for detail as he goes on to describe the 'sad joys of black and while Istanbul'. In one such inspired sentence he tells us how the 'crumbling fountains that havent worked for centuries, ...the little grocery stores darkened by age, the ferries going up and down the Bosphorus...' all add to the enigma that is his city.

It's impossible for me to describe in words how I felt about the book. The fact that it is a very personal and touching memoir about growing up a city such as Istanbul which itself was on the doorsteps of history, the effect it has had on its inhabitants who have come to share the melancholy of the city and carry its burden of history and the detail in which Pamuk describes the paintings and literature that have been inspired by the city and been created for it, make it a delightful read.

To see the city in black and white is to see it through the tarnish of history: the patina of what is old and faded and no longer matters to the rest of the world....

Pamuk's love for Bosphorus, the sea which divides the Asian and European parts of Istanbul, is very vividly brought out. The walks that he undertook alone or with his mother, during sunny afternoons or dark nights tell us about how deeply it has affected his growing up.

To see the cypress trees...the empty and neglected yalis, the old weathered ships...the poetry of the Bosphorus ships..., to discard historical grievances and enjoy it as fully as a child, to long to know more about this world, to understand it - this is the awkward surrender to uncertainty that a fifty year old writer has come to know as pleasure.....
Life cant be all that bad....whatever happens, I can always take a walk along the Bosphorus.

Very central to the novel is the idea of huzun or melancholy in Turkish. Pamuk in a entire chapter goes on to explain the meaning of the word linking it to the Koran and Sufi culture and how the Istanbullus wear this huzun with pride, how it is a 'state of mind that is ultimately as life affirming as it is negating'. It would be foolish for me to try and explain the meaning of this word. For that you would have to read the book.

Taking us through a tour of the city's landscapes, music, literature, prominent personalities and history in general, Pamuk beautifully shuttles between presenting before us a glimpse of his life and that of the city for the past hundred years and a little more. It is as much a personal diary, as it is a memoir of a great city. I started out thinking I would give you an idea of what the book is about but have realised that I am in no position to do that and have failed miserably. Instead, I leave you with a few extracts from the book which to me are the best examples of prose writing that I have ever come across in my limited readings.

Huzun does not just paralyze the inhabitants of Istanbul; it also gives them poetic license to be paralyzed.

Caught as the city is between traditional culture and Western culture, inhabited as it is by an ultra rich minority and an impoverished majority, overrun as it is by wave after wave of immigrants, divided as it has always been along the lines of its many ethnic groups, Istanbul is a place where, for the past hundred and fifty years, no one has been able to feel completely at home.

For the past hundred and fifty years, we have lived in timorous anticipation of catastrophes that will bring us fresh defeats and new ruins. It's still important to do something to fight off the dread and the melancholy, and that is why the ideal contemplation of the Bosphorus can seem like a duty.

While talking about the end of the Ottoman empire and the Westernization of Turkey, this is what he says.
It was an end of the grand polygot, multicultural Istanbul of the imperial age the city stagnated, emptied itself out, and became a monotonous, monolingual town in black and white.

...what is important for a painter is not a thing's reality but its shape, and what is important for a novelist is not the course of events but their ordering, and what is important for a memoirist is not the factual accuracy but its symmetry.

Here, among the old stones and the old wooden houses, history made peace with its ruins, ruins nourished life, and gave new life to history...

...true happiness and meaning resided in places we would never find and perhaps did not wish to find, but - whether we were pursuing the answers or merely pleasure and emotional depth - the pursuit mattered no less than the attainment, the asking as important as the views we saw through the windows of the car, the house, the ferry. With time, life - like music, art and stories would rise and fall, eventually to end, but even years later, those lives are with us still in the city views that flow before our eyes, like memories plucked from dreams.

It's a wonderful, wonderful memoir, the best I have ever come across. It's a book that will make you smile and cry at the same time with its sheer beauty. It's a book that makes you happy to be alive, makes u feel blessed to have come across it and read it.

Goodbye, and thanks for all the memories...

The mist that seemed to engulf the entire city at dusk heightened the melancholy that was growing over me. I love misty dawns. I have always hated dusks. I was sitting with two of my school friends near the Cooling Pond, gazing at the expanse of water and the reflections the lights from the steel plant were making on it. My last day at Bokaro, the only home I have ever known was drawing to a close. 'Ghar jaa raha hoon' would never mean the same again.

I remember having this great urge to write when we shifted to a different, bigger house in the winter of '99. I even had the title prepared. '3016, IV-C: From a Quarter to a Home'. I never actually got down to writing it. I regret it to this day.

Bokaro has always been a sanctuary for me. A place to come back to to cleanse myself, to recharge my batteries. A place to soothe my nerves after a grueling semester in college. It's a return to innocence. Then again, over the years, the exposure to life at big cities and my growing up has meant that my feelings for the city have become ambivalent at best. The city is there because of the people and not the other way around. It's as if it lacks a life of its own. The streets bear a deserted look after 8 in the evening, there are no Baristas to hang out, the traffic (if you can call it one) is too less for comfort. It's a very, very small city. But it was this very small town feel, easy going life without the red lights and big buses and lack of malls that made it a heaven for me when I was at school. I think a lot of what Bokaro is or rather was to me then is reflected in who I am today.

Kunal (Bunti) and Neha's wedding meant that were a few school friends who came over to make my stay all the more memorable. Kunal had started talking about 'we' and 'us' instead of 'I'. All of us were so happy for him and Neha. But in one corner of my heart, I could feel something going away. As we sat through the wedding ceremony which ended in the wee hours of the morning, discussing how getting married was at the same time scary and momentous and unsettling and the biggest emotional experience of our lives, I thought of how things have changed over the years. But more than that I think it's we who have outgrown the city of our childhood. This trip was memorable in more ways than one. So many of my friends have moved out of Bokaro because of parents retiring or getting transferred. A few have bought houses ensuring that the link to the city always remains. Kunal, whom I have known for almost twenty years now, got married and I am still unable to let it sink in. I got to have a drink with two of my closest friends and it was probably the last time we would meet in Bokaro. We also went to school where almost every inch of the ground had its own story to tell. It was as if the floodgates of memories had burst open. The classes and the labs, the place where we had our lunch, the different forms of cricket and tennis that we played, the trees that substituted as fielders, the assembly ground, the bunking spots, the fields and the games we played and invented, the bells, the dosa stall, the jack fruit tree; it was endless. Most of the teachers had also left though it was great meeting the few that have stayed. It was touching even, to know that they can still associate names with the faces.

Even my parents are facing the dilemma of leaving the slow, peaceful life of Bokaro for the crowded, faster paced life in Kolkata and at the same time embracing the culture of the City Of Joy in place of the lifeless evenings at Bokaro. Leaving Quarter No. 1019, IV-B though, would be the biggest jolt. Especially this garden.

I have never felt the impact of change more in my life than what I am feeling at this point in time. It's alright when you make the transition from a school goer to a college goer and then from an academic life to one in the corporate world. But when something you have known for you entire life, something which has remained almost unscathed, unaltered while people and times around it have changed, is about to make way for the unknown; it sure hits you hard. And was it coincidental that I was reading Pamuk's Istanbul at the same time. A novel about growing up. A novel about a city and its reflections in its inhabitants. I would like to think so. Kolkata would sure be a new and a much more diverse experience. It could even be said that Bokaro's time was over, there was nothing more left to savor in it. But it would still remain as the only home that I have ever known till now and in spite of its failings, I think I would miss going to 2157, IV-F on my scooter and shout out .......'Bunti'.

Kolkata Chronicles

Day 0 (Thursday; Kingfisher, here I come)

My Team Lead pretended to be shocked when he realized that my vacation ended on the Thursday which was a fortnight away and not a week. On the flight, no pretty woman sat on the seat next to me, again. To my good fortune though there wasn’t any ugly looking man or worse still a couple with a year old kid who cries during the entire flight. The airhostesses weren’t particularly hot save Kirti (yes I do remember the names!) who made sure that I had that beverage they pass for coffee on the flights. So Dave Barry with his Bad Habits kept me entertained during most of the journey.
Kolkata was humid after the rains but the car and the room in the guest house had AC so I couldn’t complain.

Day 1 (Friday; Chingdi Macher Malaikari & Getting ready for the wedding)

Had the best Chingdi Macher Malaikari ever. For the uninitiated (which essentially means most Non- Bengalis) it’s basically Prawns cooked with coconut. And if you are thinking ‘Coconut! South Indian …?’ well, it couldn’t be more different. There was also Mochar Ghonto (a dish prepared with the flower of the Banana plant) which was delicious.
Then it was shopping time since I had to make sure that I had something decent to wear for Kunal’s wedding. In the evening, along with my father, I went to this huge complex which housed furniture, kitchen, bathroom fittings and a host of other similar things. I sunk myself in a few sofas, looked at a few wide screen LCD TVs and came back.
Dinner consisted of Pabda Macher Jhal another top of the charts dish from the cuisine of Bengal. The beginning definitely augured well for the rest of the stay.

Day 2 (Saturday; Future Home, Zubin and Returning to the guest house drunk!)

Went to see our newly constructed, 9th floor flat in Rajarhat, near the Airport. I was really impressed by the Prepaid Electricity system that is being tried out, only to be frustrated by the fact that they couldn’t install the meter after trying for 3 hours. I talked about placement of the sofa, dining table and the TV, lightings and false ceilings with my dad and the interior decorator. We enjoyed the uninterrupted view of the canal flowing below and cribbed about why the approach road hadn’t yet been built, what with monsoons about to set in the city.
Lunch, and this time it was Bhape Eelish (Steamed Hilsa cooked in mustard). I don’t know of any other race which uses mustard as extensively and we Bengalis do and the results, I must say, are always utterly delicious and aromatic.Went to meet Zubin at Park Street in the evening and after having coffee at Barista both of us headed to the Oxford book store to browse through a few books. He reiterated the fact that how I always manage to read only those books which people generally don’t and end up not having read Wodehouse at all. I chose to take it more as a compliment of sorts. He then suggested going to Attrium, the café at ‘The Park’, where I had a Brazilian Santos and he, a Malabar Delight (ok, both are coffees) and I heard him say ‘keep the change’ to the waiter as he produced a handful of hundred rupee notes. At around 7 o’ clock we decided to make our entry to Someplace Else, Park’s very famous pub and one highly recommended by Shravan, fellow bong and my schoolmate and close friend in Bangalore. I must say, the music reminded me of Purple Haze. We had a bottle of beer each and a Pepper Chicken. I followed it up with a Mojito, which was nice and Zubin went for the traditional Long Island Tea. We did a lot of catching up with Zubin talking mostly of his exploits in the USA. Also about life, marriage (his brother is getting married) and music. I left the place at around 10:30 leaving him with a few of his college pals who had also dropped by. Ok I wasn’t drunk per se and my parents don’t have any issues with me having a few drinks with my friend. That bit in the beginning was really to get you to read till this point and hopefully beyond!

Day 3 (Sunday; Oh! Calcutta and ‘Coming Back To Life’ @ Someplace Else)

We started off with Fish Fry and Prawn Cutlet. Dad had a Blue Lagoon and I opted for the exciting sounding Kal Baisakhi, a coctail of Vodka and Aam Panna! It was innovation at its very best. Each sip tasted just like aam panna except for the slight kick that you got towards the end of it. The decor had a very relaxed air to it with soft instrumental versions of popular Bengali songs playing which I could identify and paintings of Calcutta and the symbols which define it, on the walls.

Caveat: This part could really get boring for Non-Bengalis but I don’t care!
Imagine having Hilsa without the bones. That’s what we got when we ordered Eelish Macher Paturi (Steamed Hilsa cooked in mustard and served on Banana leaves). Next was Chitol Macher Muitha and we had trouble deciding which was the best. I gave a huge tip to the waiter afterwards and all three of us went back ecstatic, smiling cheek to cheek. Oh! Calcutta had more than lived up to its reputations as one of the finest eating joints in the city. I could already feel the weight gain!

There was a slight drizzle as I headed towards Park Street for dinner with Zubin after he called up and decided to meet again. We went to a place called Cinnamon Lounge where we had Lebanese Chicken. Next in line was another night of music, gossip and drinking as we headed for Someplace Else or SomeP as Zubin likes to call it (I recently had someone say that IITians have this thing for short forms. I think I agree after all…). Anyway, we just ordered a bottle of beer each and listened to the band play. They were good no doubt, especially the lead guitarist who seemed quite proficient. But it was their rendition of ‘Coming Back To Life’ that really took me by surprise. The leads were immaculate and played from the heart, the distortion was sounding just right and the vocals were deep and echoing. There couldn’t have been a better way to end the day and since it was already 11, I decided to call it a day.

Day 4-5 (Monday-Tuesday; Some more shopping, Crosswords and Thanking my stars)

The last two days in Kolkata were spent generally lazing around doing nothing, mostly reading Pamuk’s Istanbul and thinking. A couple of days ago, Zubin and I, just to have a good time, had spent close to six times the amount of money a certain Sapan, who worked in the guest house, got as his monthly salary. The fact not only came as a shock to me because of the actual amount that he earned but also as reminder to count my blessings and thank my stars for the life that I have. He is a full time worker in the guest house and such is the state of poverty in West Bengal that he has no other option but to continue doing this job for which he gets paid a meager Rs. 400 per month! I couldn’t help but ponder over the things in life that I take for granted, that I take as my right, even, at times. I felt ashamed and sad and thankful and small.
Then there was the visit to Crosswords from where I picked up ‘Moth Smoke’ which should take my tally of have-but-not-read books to around sixteen. Also bought a pair of jeans, all under the pretext of Kunal’s wedding, ate more fish and roshogolla and finalized the sofa set. The Kolkata experience had been good, very good, but Bokaro was calling. I wanted to go home.

Day 6 (Wednesday; G.T. Road & Rediscovering myself)

Mom insisted on a driver and it was a wise choice in the end considering the number of trucks that ply on that route. We crossed Singur on the way where TATA has erected a boundary wall encompassing a huge area which could become a major industrial hub with India’s first small car manufacturing center along with the other ancillary units that would spring up there. We were passing through one of the most fertile areas in the country and the lush green paddy fields on both sides of NH2 or the G.T. Road bore ample testimony to the fact. Coming to the road itself, it is a driver’s paradise. Imagine driving through the DND expressway for kilometers at a stretch. That’s what it was. I put on a few Kailash Kher numbers and then a few from the movie Metro. After that just for a change I inserted a Bengali song cassette which had some very popular songs of yesteryears redone by a new singer. I had heard a few of the songs and the singer too when I was in school. Within minutes I was humming the tune along with the song. Memories from my childhood came rushing in. Memories of a time when I still used to listen to Bengali songs. Amidst the Jals, the Kailash Khers, the Rehmans, and also Mark Knopflers, Bonos and the like, I somewhere had almost forgotten this entirely different world of music which existed, which I had known before knowing any of these. It was a revelation. The last few days altogether were in fact a rediscovery of the self. Realizing the fact that I was a Bengali who still loves his fish more than any other dish and who can still hum a popular Bengali tune. Realizing even, that I can still fluently carry out conversations in Bengali without sounding like an outsider. You see, having grown up in Bihar and then lived in Delhi and now Bangalore, I have had little opportunity to be a Bengali, converse in my language except with my parents, let alone eating and listening to songs and so it was good to be in a different environment for a change.
By 12:30, we were home. That piece of territory about which I know everything. Nothing had changed since my last visit in October. It felt nice to be back. Part 2 of my fortnight long vacation was about to get started and I was eagerly looking forward to it……

The Way Back Home

The last few weeks have been very hectic as far as work is concerned. Late nights have become more the norm than the exception. And frankly speaking, I can't say I dislike it. Well, it could be because of my otherwise not so happening evening life or just the fact that this is a change from the usual. It might as well be the feeling that I am actually doing something which would directly or indirectly benefit me somewhere down the line. But no, this post is not about my experience in the software industry which by the way is nearing a year. That, will have to wait for a few days more.

The six kilometer stretch of road that brings me home from my office is one of the best in Bangalore. The road is wide and the traffic relatively less at any time of the day. So at around half past 10 when I hit the Outer Ring Road and put my bike to full throttle, the ride is enormously enjoyable. The smooth traffic allows me to touch speeds of 90 kmph on a regular basis and add to it the chill in the air especially if it has rained in the evening; and you have a 7-8 minute ride that robs you of your weariness of the day. It's one time of the entire day that I am completely living the moment without thinking of the past or the future. I hum along a few songs and at times even sing them at the top of my voice while racing past other vehicles on the way.

It's not that I have something very exciting waiting for me upon my arrival. Yet, the prospect of having a laugh with my flatmates, reading a bit, spending some time with my guitar and ringing up family and friends, makes me feel at peace with myself.

I can't help but reminisce about the time I used to make a similar journey back from school to my home on a cycle along with my friends. During the morning sessions before the summer vacations, school got over at around 1 o' clock and we would come home licking the 25 paise or 50 paise 'ice creams' that we bought in front of the school gate. Holding it in one hand and balancing the cycle with the other, we often rode our cycles at full speed to be able to catch some live action from the Sharjah Cup. There would be nothing, not even the scorching heat or the loo, which would slow us down during those times. Our orange coloured hands and tongue would bear testimony to the fun we had had. During the regular sessions when classes got over at 3:30, the ride would be more sedate. We went along discussing the happenings of the day, the latest affairs in school, cricket and what not. Since my house was the farthest away from school, I had to part company at some point and travel the last kilometer long stretch alone. I remember us stopping at the last junction (my friend's house) and chatting for a good 10-15 minutes before finally leaving for home. It really used to get tiring during the summers especially since the last bit was mostly uphill. But I knew that I had my prize waiting in the form of watermelon slices and mango shake kept in the fridge and at times dahi-chuda with gud. Ma would be waiting for me in the balcony with the keys to the garage where I kept my cycle and that was such a pleasing sight. She could make out my arrival merely by the sound of the gate. She said she could distinguish between the sound I made and that made by others! In later years, the scooter replaced the cycle and I became more reluctant on eating something after coming back but the pleasure of coming back home, coming back to your Ma waiting for you; well, that remained unchanged.

It's about comfort and a sense of belonging that makes the ride back home special. Whether it's to your waiting mother, or to a shared flat with friends or even a single room that you call your own. It's a journey that seldom has any surprises in store for us but one which comes with an assurance. An assurance of going back to the place you know, to the people you know. An assurance that another day has gone by. An assurance that a new one would soon begin.

Familiarity

I often crib about the fact that my life is boring and predictable. It lacks the Zing. Especially now, there seem to be very few 'new' moments. The 'firsts' have slowed down to a trickle. True, I belong to that always demanding, I-want-everything-that-everybody-else-has species that you can notice everywhere these days. It's good in a way. I mean, it doesn't make sense if I am already satisfied with all that I have. Ranting about the demands and expectations that we have of ourselves is not the purpose of this post though. It's just that I think that behind all this hue and cry for change, there's a part of me which seeks familiarity in whatever I do and wherever I am.

In the office, they changed my system today so I had to set it up from scratch. And while doing it I felt that most of my efforts were focussed on getting the exact look and feel of my earlier desktop. I needed the same wallpaper. I wanted my old bookmarks to be arranged in a particular way. I had to have all my shortcuts to be exactly in the right place as they were earlier. I did all this before I started to install the stuff on which I had to work. Somehow, it was imperative that I feel at ease with my system. Feel familiar. And that got me thinking. What I realized was that it's not just restricted to the way I want my desktop to look. It extends; well, to my entire being. From waking up in the morning and listening to a few songs to the sweetness of my coffee, from the way I expect my bike to zoom past a car to the sound of a particular chord on my guitar, from the mails that I find in my inbox daily upon my arrival in office to the people I talk to over the messenger, from the 10 o' clock Comedy Show to the late night lets-see-if-anybody-is-online habit, subconsciously, I crave for acquaintance with my surroundings. I am (aren't we all ?), to use the cliche, a creature of habit. Is that the reason I don't like train journeys, particularly the ones made alone? Because they are transitory in nature. Is that the reason I prefer having daaru parties at my home and playing the host? Because I feel I am in control.

Knowing what to expect, knowing what's coming next, provides me with a sense of security. I like to be in control in most things I do. Or to put in in a better way, I like to know the way a certain activity is likely to occur or a certain thing is likely to behave. Like singing a song, riding my bike, doing my job (although it happens rarely in that case!), talking to people. And I think being in sync with your surroundings, lends that control to an extent. Although at times I wish to abandon everything and just let go. Let go of the banality of my life and take a plunge into the unknown. So there are these two conflicting me's. One which craves for familiarity in everything and the other which seeks newer, unexplored horizons. And while the former makes its presence felt subconsciously, everyday, the latter comes in bursts and is more intense in nature than the former.

There's a pattern to our daily existence which we all come to feel contented about. We all want to know what's coming our way and that's why we want things to be just as they have been earlier. Sure we like surprises and the occasional change is welcome. But the comfort of the known is something we need very much in our life. It could be in small things like the little hard spot in your bed or the particular way your flatmate pulls your leg, and we might not always realize its presence. But when its not there, like the picture of a small wooden bridge sent by a friend that has been my wallpaper for a few days now, you can definitely feel its absence.

Remembering Those Years

Exactly six years ago to the day, my life changed. By evening, the various coaching institutes had already come up with the solutions and the indications were fairly good. Sitting today in my home in Bangalore with one of my flatmates, with nothing better to do on a Sunday night than the usual, I cant help but think about those years that lead to it all .

School was...well...easy. I was a good student, had the best set of friends to hang out with, the teachers knew me and my parents never complained about anything. I didnt know what failure was. I didnt know that life wont always stay the same. The last two years in school were madness. Get togethers, farewells, parties, cricket; the fun never ended. What hastened it was that one of the most (ok, the most) popular girls in our batch was leaving school to study in Singapore. That was the perfect trigger to the festive spirit that continued till the end of 12th grade and a little more. Classes became a mere formality and even the teachers understood that. Especially our English literature teacher who taught Hamlet to almost empty classes. In fact there was just one boy who regularly attended her lectures sitting in between all the girls who by nature were more sincere than the boys. We made so much fun of him that he was often on the verge of embarrassment.

Anyway, we used to arrive almost an hour before the official assembly time and play what we termed as Australian Cricket. The most striking part of the entire exercise was that a 2 feet, cylindrical bamboo stick substituted for the bat which meant that edges flew thick and fast. We therefore had a slip cordon in place for all the edges. Laboratory windows were broken more than once and we went to apologise to the Vice Principal demanding a second innings! It helped that we were the 'bright' boys in school and so everything was forgotten and forgiven pretty soon. A few classes were also attended in between all the fun and laughter. Then there were the quizzes for which some of us were officially allowed to bunk classes. Lunch was quite often taken at one of our friend's house which was a 2 minutes walking distance from the school gate. Again there was some cricket that followed which on occasions extended well after the lunch period was over. In fact, I remember one occasion when the Principal on his way to school after lunch spotted us playing cricket when we should have been attending classes! What I dont remember is how we explained it. Classes got over at around 3:30 in the afternoon but school didnt. It was time to either play some really silly games or go to the nearby Vora Brothers to have soya chilli and some Pepsi.

Till the time Neha left for Singapore, we had lost count of the number of parties that we had had at each other's homes and at times in the school. It was the best time spent in school. The farewell was happening a year in advance and all because of her leaving. People got closer to each other, understood each other in a different light. Some people cried when she left, some fell in love with her, it was all very emotional and dramatic at times. She left sometime in the December of our 11th grade, after celebrating her birthday; before celebrating mine and so I made her promise to send me the first postcard from there.

In between all these, there were the Physics, Chemistry and Maths tuitions. We changed tutors and made our life hell by attending tuitions in the wee hours of the morning even during the rains and the winters in search of something we werent even very sure about (or at least I wasnt very sure about). But even the tuitions were made out to be more of fun activities than educational ones. Laughing behind our tutors, imitating their mannerisms, even laughing at how we didnt have a clue about some physics problem, we didnt realise that we were about to get the shock of our lives. What helped keep us in this illusion was the confidence our peers and teachers had in us. We were supposed to clear all entrance exams easily. There was never a doubt about it. Even slam books (that sounds so childish now!) were full of references like...'when u get into such and such college...'. So the cricket and the parties continued as a huge chapter in our lives drew to a close.

I vividly remember the day my father left me in a private hostel from the balcony of which I could see the Convocation Hall of IIT Delhi. It was a tough decision. The urge to leave everything and join DU was overwhelming. I was never a fighter. Things either came easily to me or didnt at all and I saw my first failure in life as an indication of the fact that it was not meant to be. I never saw it as a result of my foolishness, my overconfidence and my extreme optimism. My first reaction was, what the hell... I have a good percentage.. let me get into Stephen's and study Maths Hons. So standing in front of Hindu along with my father, almost ready to fill out the forms while all of my friends were either preparing for life in IIT or dropping a year in pursuit of it, he asked me one last time about my decision. I have always been instinctive when it comes to decision making and so I said the first thing that came to my mind. I said 'Ok dad, lets give it one more try.....'.
Anyway, that day when he was leaving, he just said one thing. He said 'Son, you never really deserved it this time around. You never tried hard enough. With all this fun and frolic, it was always going to be an uphill climb. Anyway, thats history. If you want to do anything this time around, just try.... a lot harder and you can get it.'
I cried. I cried for what must have been about 5 minutes. Non stop. Not because I had failed. Not because I hadnt achieved what I had set to. But because I had let down my parents and all those who thought I was capable of it. Because prior to that moment I hadnt even felt bad about it.

The year went by amidst some serious studies and realising the mistakes of the past year. There were several trips to home. There was VVS Laxman's epic innings in between. New friends were made in the hostel. I grew up. A lot. Living alone, caring for myself, cutting out on the fun things in life to achieve something. These were totally new experiences for me but I somehow managed. The experiences of that year, the ups and downs, the agonies and ecstasies are too much to put in this post.

The last day before I would leave for home having done with all my entrance exams, we were having one last bakaiti session. All of us had done reasonably well in the exam and so were expecting a call. The brightest amongst us by a long way had his birthday on the 18th of June, the same day the top 1000 would have their counselling session at IIT Delhi. I told him, 'Chal yaar, milte hain 18th ko Delhi me tera birthday manane.....'. He didnt make it.

There are a lot of factors that affect our lives. Instantaneous decisions, luck, surroundings, circumstances. In hindsight everything looks much more clearer. The mistakes that we made, the what ifs. But thats life. These lines from Rushdie's Midnight's Children put it aptly.

Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems - but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems more and more incredible. Suppose yourself in a large cinema, sitting at first in the back row, and gradually moving up, row by row, until your nose is almost pressed against the screen. Gradually the stars' faces dissolve into dancing grain; tiny details assume grotesque proportions; the illusion dissolves - or rather, it becomes clear that the illusion itself is reality.

Those were memorable years. In more ways than one. I dont want to get into the paths I could have taken other than this. That's not the point. Remembering those days which have largely shaped the person I am today, is.

The Delhi Walla Blog

Thanks to Sammy, I got an opportunity to write for his cousin Mayank's blog about some of the hangouts around IIT. Here's the link. The original post was modified at places by Mayank and it looks much better now :)

Me And The Stage

Its been long since my last post on this blog. Life's been pretty mundane and inspiration has been hard to come by. So it felt nice when a few friends inquired about this sudden hiatus. The last few days have been particularly frustrating and so I thought that I would try that extra bit to take my mind off my daily existence and string together a coherent post. So here goes......

All I remember from that day is that it took me quite a while to get the brown boots on while the music played in the background and the scene where I had to pounce upon the mouse.

My first stage appearance (as Puss in Puss In Boots) happened when I was in class three. Till the fourth or maybe fifth grade there were also a few elocutions but then I realised that I never won anything and so decided to stop it altogether. In class six the Maggi Quiz happened and I found myself representing the school while some Mr. Derek O'Brien asked questions like why is 'AMBULANCE' written in the way it is. We came second by a whisker but I had found something which would put me on stage and something at which I didn't suck.

It had its advantages. It gave me an existence in school. It allowed legitimate bunking of classes. I was quite good at it and along with my partner formed a formidable team which lasted till the end of our schooling days and left me with a showcase full of trophies and more knowledge about the World War and India's freedom struggle (courtesy the 50th year of the Indian independence and the Quizzes that followed in its wake), soccer, literature and movies than my peers. The thrill of knowing the answer to a difficult question and waiting till it came to you, the buzzer rounds, the rapid fires; I loved them all. And a major reason was that mostly we won. I loved the stage. From the friends who came along with a couple of teachers to cheer us, to the applause which followed during the prize distribution and in the school assembly the next day, it sure had its rewards.

In the meanwhile I also got enrolled in the newly formed Music Academy where I learned tabla. Even there the stage appearances continued although as part of groups of almost 10 with instruments like tabla, violin, guitar and sitar coming together to play a composition on raag Kafi or Kalyan. And the best thing was that on more than one occasion I created a place for myself (which meant a 20-30 second solo when all other instruments stopped) by volunteering to play the pakhawaj or the khol. It certainly helped that I was a fast learner and picked up things with ease. Amidst the applause during a jugalbandi between the percussionists and the stringed instruments, the words of appreciation by our teacher on the completion of a successful performance, the spark in the eyes of my parents as I watched them from the stage looking at their son; my love for the stage kept growing.

Then college happened and I suddenly found myself thrown in amongst immensely talented people. Luckily there weren't many good tabla players around. So I got a new life and went back to the first instrument I had laid my hands on as a seven year old and had left after my class 10th Boards. So my love affair with the stage in general and music in particular continued. In fact it blossomed like never before, at a totally different plane, in the company of some great musicians. I never had stage fright and although the prizes kept eluding us, yet the experience itself was prize enough. We performed in the inauguration of Rendezvous and Tryst and also once at the India Habitat Center and I got to know about every corner of the Sem Hall and the Convo. After third year, tabla gave way to rhythm Guitar but the love of the stage remained intact, changed perhaps only in its expression.

As luck would have it, a few months back I got to perform on the stage in a totally new avatar. That of a solo singer. And that too in front of the entire company. And frankly speaking even though it was a debut of sorts, I wasn't nervous. So when the 'once more' came, I knew I had added another page in the chapter titled 'Me And The Stage' in my life's book.

I love the adrenalin rush, the transient nature of a stage performance, the spectators, the applause, the anxiety before the performance, the accolades that follow it. I love the ego boost, the kick that it gives. I like to be known and acknowledged. But above all, in the few minutes that I am on stage, I forget everything around. I lose myself to the occasion. I feel liberated.