Shravan's Blog

Back of the Bus

2011-11-04T17:14:00.000-07:00

Every country has its problems. In India, the men sit at the back of the bus and the women sit at the front. Segregation brought on by imbalance rather than hatred.

In every country I've traveled to and lived in, people sit where they want to on the bus. Yet in my own beloved India, there is a rule - both sign-boarded and unspoken - that women should sit at the front of the bus and men should stand or sit at the back. They are kept apart by years of social injustice and ancient social retardation. I know why it happens but that's not what bothers me. It it merely a symptom of a much larger problem.

I will skip the 'India is a country of contrasts, ever-changing and rapidly rising' soundbite. India is what it is and I don't want to make any excuses for the sad, subtle signs of social inequalities that exist between men and women. But for a few in urban centres, woman are still second-class citizens. This is the stark reality and it saddens me. Why do women sit at the front? To be rid of the menace that is the uneducated Indian man. He in turn is robbed of the sight of a woman who is every bit his equal and simply does not know how to interact with her. He glares, he touches, he stamps his dominance and she is left wondering what her place on the bus is, never mind her place in the world. It's a vicious cycle that plays out everyday in every bus, train, office, pedestrian walkway and household.

Boys and preferred to girls; female infanticide is still rife. It must be noted, that this exists more in rural areas but preferential treatment towards men manifests itself in many ways in our bustling cities too. Traditionally, the woman is meant to stay at home. She is meant to cook, clean and take care of the children. She has seldom left her prison until now. I left India in 2008. When I came back, something struck me that I had never cottoned on to before: there were so few women walking Indian streets. There were no women driving buses or cars. There were no women serving dosas and idlis at my local breakfast joint. I am exaggerating, of course. But when I see what happens to your average woman when she ventures out into the hot, dusty world, I understand why she feels uncomfortable and unwanted.

Women walk timidly for the most part, trying their best to shield themselves from the glares of all the men that surround them. And God forbid she wants to wear clothes that show her beauty. The level of ogling steps up a gear and is served with a side of intimidation and even the occasional approach. There is a severe imbalance that must be righted. Men have not been exposed to an independent woman, who not just free but happy to go about her daily business and engage with society as a fully recognised, functioning member. It must be righted in my life time.

The change, inevitable as it always was, has begun. Slowly though. Like everything in India: slowly and with more snags than are necessary. Education and equal employment are bringing the number of women in our streets, schools and offices gradually up to a respectable level. But it is still not safe for a woman to go home alone at night or particularly comfortable for her to walk along a busy street on her own. I've experienced it with my sister and my female friends. They go by car. A car with tinted windows.

To give you a sense of the deep-rooted status-quo, I will tell you what happened during a family holiday once. We were at a wedding and so we were all dressed up and my sister was made-up. We left the hotel to go across the street and have lunch. We were in a small town in the hills. As we crossed in a group of 10, my sister accidentally walked a little on ahead of us as the rest of us turned left to go to the restaurant. She was still in plain sight - not more than 10 yards ahead of us. But now, she was surrounded by a group of school/college boys who were on their way home, going on another direction. They didn't sneer, ogle or even notice her presence in their midst. My grandmother screamed and my father turned to see what had happened. Now they noticed. My sister turned sheepishly and walked the 10 yards back to us outside the restaurant. My father gave my grandmother an irritated look. Later in the restaurant she said, "those boys have never seen a girl like her".

Why had she screamed? What did she think was going to happen? Was my poor sister now out of our reach forever, because she had ventured 10 yards in her own country? It belied such a divide in thinking. My grandmother felt she was in some sort of danger because she was no longer in the shelter of our convoy. Why did my grandmother scream?

In Bangalore, the police will stop your car if you are driving with a woman (dressed in 'Western' clothes - whatever that is supposed to mean) after 11pm. They feel it is their job to poke their corrupt noses into our personal space and more worryingly, they feel it is their role to protect women from the dangers of the night. The rape statistics in Bangalore - and across many cities in India - are alarming. It my opinion, it is the years of yearning for intimacy and sexual interaction an average unmarried Indian man experiences, that finally overflow into the inhuman act of rape.

I remember taking an inter-city bus between Bangalore and Goa. There were 26 men and 2 women on it (I could end this anecdote here). Each passenger had booked his/her ticket online, for Rs 600 (GBP 7.00, USD 12.00) which is quite a high price for a bus ticket in a country of buses. The two women's seats were on opposite sides of the bus. After everyone had settled down, the conductor asked whether they would like to be seated next to each other rather than a male-stranger and they agreed instantly. What? Does this happen elsewhere? Can a man not leave a woman alone for 8 hours? Can a woman not feel safe sat in a relatively up-market air-conditioned coach? Can the two not engage in a simple, human conversation to make what would be an otherwise unbearable, bumpy bus journey any less painful?

Go to an Indian nightclub. Apart from the few ones which apply the 'couples only' rule strictly and let women enter free, their numbers are unbelievably skewed in favour of men. Groups of single men who will stand at the bar or dance in a circle. In the 'West', groups of girls, guys and both will queue outside a nightclub to have a good time. A girl will have a drink in the knowledge that baring an anomaly, she will be safe at the end of night. She is free to make her own choices and not be shipped off home in a friend's car when the night is over. She can stay out, she can meet someone. She can live her life the way she wants. It is not like that in India. Only a tiny percentage of women have this freedom.

And so women sit in the front of the bus when they go to work in the morning. I don't know whether they made this rule but they and the bus conductor stick to it. There is a women's-only compartment in the trains in Bombay. In England everyone rides on the tube together and it gets just as crowded. You get out a book or plug in your earphones and simply get on with it.

Even when some (and I stress, some - but if you're Indian, you know the ones I mean). Indian men go abroad, the first thing they say is, "Oooh dude the white girls here are so hot man. So much better than India." What nonsense. There are beautiful women everywhere. Maybe Indian culture has something to do with this widespread misconception. If there were more women on India's streets, men would get used to their presence and stop treating them like circus attractions.

In the state of Haryana last year, a courageous woman broke the shackles of centuries of traditional silence and went to the police to report that she had been raped by her husband. The police constable raped her again at the station in one of the prison cells and told her to go home. There are good people in the world. There are good men and bold women in India. But stories like that make me wonder if we as a nation can ever evolve into civil beings.

Men are starved of the sight and the touch of a woman. Women are caught between the gears of social change. Hopefully the motor of education will condemn this vicious cycle to the past. Please.

And after saying all this, I probably wouldn't let my daughter walk around a city at night without a man accompanying her. Am I part of the problem?

Bollywood is not Indian Cinema

2011-09-21T03:03:00.000-07:00

Bombay is always hot. The sheltered bit next to a pav-bhaji-wala outside the cinema is the threshold between the grime of the real world and the air-conditioned escape of Bollywood. There is a large crowd standing outside the decrepit theatre – a threatre that has been here for 50 years. It has 4 screens and is dwarfed by the size of the new multiplexes, whose neon facades are like an over-botoxed face. Tickets and conditions here are reasonable enough that pretty much anyone feels comfortable going for a Wednesday afternoon show. College students in cheap jeans and sagging back-packs, young couples holding hands defiantly, groups of single-men in office-wear, middle-class families complete with grandma and baby... all jostle for position as the cleaners emerge out of freezing theatre.

Going to the theatre and getting lost in the fantasy of it all is easier than you think. I challenge you to go to a local theatre for the first weekend show of a big new opening and not be gripped by the passion of the audience around you. Sometimes it’s more infectious, more entertaining than the movie itself. There is whistling, there is truly innocent laughter, there are tears and there are fist-pumps. Often, the national anthem is played before a film and everyone will stand and sing. Most would probably get up and sing during the film if they knew the words. This is actually something that has happened to me once, that I’ve experienced personally, where the entire audience sung the last emotionally charged word of a masterful duet like they were singing it to their soul mate. It was a film called Roja and its soundtrack is one of the all-time greats. A R Rahman won an Oscar for the awful, awful music in Slumdog Millionaire – but the music in Roja, Bombay, Dil Se, Rangeela and Lagaan is something that will set him apart from his modern peers and raise him to the pedestal of the old masters of the charming 60s and 70s.

The songs from that era (note how much I’m referring to music, when discussing Bollywood) are without a doubt the most wonderful in Indian cinema’s history. By songs, I include the videos as well as the actual tracks themselves. They wouldn’t be complete without the terrible lip-syncing and 60’s haircuts – all filmed in glorious speckled black-and-white, of course. The grainy tunes from my parent’s cassette collection can make any long-drive turn into a dream-sequence. I’m not sure any frenetic modern dance numbers will surpass those romantic ballads for sheer whistle-ability.

More often than not however, a trip to see a Bollywood ‘fillum’ in a theatre fails to deliver anything but clichés, a cold and sore ear-drums. There is so much dross churned out by the industry every year. But people will always go to watch their favourite stars, almost as if ‘it might be good’. It’s peculiar. Too many times do film-makers, actors and studios get away with making terrible movies that adhere to the strict ‘Bollywood checklist’. Only recently have film-makers started to break from traditional patterns and try to address modern issues or look at old themes with fresh perspectives.

Bollywood is not a genre; it is a pass-time. It is a drug. Bollywood movies are where normal people with average lives, go to watch perfect people live fantastical lives. They go for the heroes – the leading men whose biceps seem intent on tearing at their bizarre item-number outfits. They go for the heroines – the pristine goddesses who wash their grandparents feet, pray to God twice a day and are always, always the victims of some sad circumstance. They go for the inevitable story – the timid start, the bold end and all the implausible adventures in between. They go for the music. Ahh, the music. The music that usually overshadows the movie itself. You’ll find people saying, “It was a decent movie yaar... but had really nice songs. I’ll go watch it again with my family” or “what a waste of time...total flop... she can’t dance at all”. Film titles are deliberately misspelt, because ‘numerologists’ say that having too many of a certain letter is a bad omen. It’s all a bit surreal.

This is not Indian cinema – its Indians going to the cinema. Bollywood is closing your eyes and dreaming. Film is opening your eyes and seeing.

There are fantastic movies out there, made by Indians but not really appreciated by Indians, which deal with the country, its people and its issues. I want to tell you about three of them – three that I implore you to watch if you have the chance. They are categorically not Bollywood – no silly songs, no cheesy dances and no ridiculous plot. These are films. These are art, in my opinion. These are Indians holding the mirror up to society and really looking. These films, in my opinion, are movies you interact with, rather than simply consume.

Dhobi Ghat (Mumbai Diaries)

Amir Khan was one of India’s most famous Bollywood heroes. He started off staring in the usual song and dance routines but then began to take an active interest in writing, production and direction. As time went on, his movies actually dealt with ‘issues’ while still keeping the basic Bollywood ‘formula’. One of his more recent offerings, however, has broken from the traditional Bollywood model altogether. The thought of an Amir Khan movie without songs, set in Bombay really excited me and the film itself didn’t disappoint.

Dhobi Ghat, it must be said, doesn’t reinvent the wheel, as far as international film-making goes. It follows the ‘intertwining story’ pattern of movies like Pulp Fiction, for example. There are 4 separate sub-plots that meet each other only a few times in the course of the film. Amir Khan stars as the brooding artist, Monica Dogra as the Indian-American investment banker back in India for some soul-searching, the excellent Prateik Babbar as the poor, small-town boy aspiring to be a Bollywood hero and Kriti Malhotra is the first voice you hear in the movie and whose beautiful character I will not spoil. I loved all their performances, though Amir’s felt a little forced at times. Prateik Babbar’s mannerisms as the timid street kid were just superb.

Watch this movie for its beautiful musical score and for its clever utilisation of the city of Bombay. It is a place that has inspired many writers, artists and film-makers but I suspect Amir Khan, like his character in the movie, has fallen a little (more) in love with the bustling, grimy and always romantic metropolis. Without being too pretentious, the film shows India’s contrasts (yawn) and its complexities (yawwwwwn) in a very clean, unassuming manner. It is a film I recommend to all my European friends, to get a sense of what my favourite Indian city is really like. It’s even on Youtube in High-Definition with English subtitles.

John and Jane.

I saw a very well made trailer for this on TV and decided to give it a watch. Check it out here.

Ashim Ahluwalia’s dark, poignant, nuanced take on call centre workers is something to behold, if you’re a fan of documentaries. Even if you’re not generally into them, this beautiful, quiet film will give you a well-round insight into the lives of call centre workers. You know, the ones who answer the phone with the lie, “Hi this is Michael speaking”.

The film looks at the vastly different lives of 6 such workers; it explores how working in a call centre affects young people. It’s something quite amazing, seeing a room of hundreds of 20-somethings rattling off product descriptions, taking a barrage of abuse from a lady in Texas and generally putting people on hold. All this at 4am.

There is something eerie about the double-life a call-centre worker leads and I think the film has captured that very well. There is the clash of cultures (being Indian during the day and American at night), the stormy work-life balance and perhaps most importantly, a seismic shift in what this generation Indian youngsters are exposed to vis-à-vis their parents’. The money, the partying, the crazy hours... it is a very real, largely unexplored part of modern India that goes unnoticed in global coverage.

I love this movie because it goes one step further than simply showcasing the nocturnal life of a call-centre worker, but exploring the impact that speaking to people on the other side of the world (and clock) has on their lives. They all have to go through ‘accent training’ and learn about American culture. At the end of the movie, one young man simply says, “Now I would rather be American”. Think of the implications of that, if you will. This movie will very subtly change your opinion about fake-accent Michael.

Salaam Bombay

Slumdog Millionaire won a lot of awards. It was a very carefully crafted piece of marketing, with a (to some) catchy musical score, big name director, romantic story line and fantastic on-location filming. But it was just Bollywood with funny English accents. If you want a real look at the many facets of life in the slum, you simply must watch Salaam Bombay.

Directed by Mira Nair, this slightly older movie (1988) was nominated for an Oscar, a Bafta and a Golden Globe and won the Audience Award and Golden Camera at Cannes. It is truly a masterpiece.

The film follows the life of a street kid, through the disturbing, filthy back streets of Bombay. The direction is superb and always gives the viewer both a sense of the scale of the city as well as its density. It is not an easy watch – not at all. The sadness and profound sense of futility that the film manages to depict are really something to behold. I have lived in India and seen the poorest of the poor, both in inner cities and rural areas and this movie touched me to the point where I questioned what I was doing with my life. It made me look at myself in disgust. I was un-desensitised.

Personally, I loved the change in the female character in the film, who goes from being a scared, young, exploited girl to embracing the husband whose bought her and, indeed, bought her love. The paradoxical plight of the prostitute who had to take her child along on a, ahem, house-call was also riveting. You feel sad for nearly all of the film’s characters and because I watched it a few weeks after watching the fantasy of Slumdog Millionaire, it hit home harder than I could have ever imagined.

If you love great films, great direction and want to get a sense of life in a slum for its variety of residents is really like, then this is the closest you’ll get without actually visiting Dharavi. Don’t watch this film on a sunny Saturday afternoon, expecting a happy ending and a movie that will smile at you after the credits and wave goodbye. This movie that, from its quiet start to its heart-wrenching end, will stay with you, engage with you and hopefully change you. There is no song and dance in the slum, only human beings.

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I have nothing against Bollywood. There is a reason why it succeeds (all over the world, not just India) and there is a reason why people in the West loved Slumdog. I would love to see more diversity though. Not just in style, but in casting, direction, cinematography and theme. I hope that, as the country changes and embraces Western thinking more and more, more Indian films get made and appreciated. We are seeing the first signs of it, with movies exploring homosexuality, fidelity, gang violence and religion. They still cling to the tried-and-tested Bollywood script but they are a step in the right direction.

I hope that one day, Bollywood becomes a genre; perhaps one of many strings in Indian cinema's bow rather than it's only arrow.

Plaques of Sorrow

2011-06-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

I don't know whether Poland is a mourning nation stuck in the present or a modern country stuck in its history. Perhaps its both or somewhere in between. It is confused like every country.

The sun shone, the birds sang and the churches watched everything - like little old women on misty morning porches. Tourists like us adjusted our sunglasses and stumbled along behind a guide. "So and so built this church or this university building or this garden"... but every single anecdote ended with the same thing... "before it was destroyed."

Plaques are ubiquitous in Warsaw, this time-traveling city. On every street, the passerby is reminded about who was killed or what used to stand here before it was leveled. The historical umbilical cord that connects the Warsaw of 2011 to the Warsaw of 1945 and onward is unmistakable in its strength and you simply cannot spend more than a moment in the city without thinking about the tragic events that took place on the very stone upon which you stand.

(34 people were shot here on December 12th, 1943)

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The four of us were in Warsaw for a weekend, led around by one of my close friends, who, I suspect, is having his own identity crisis. He has traveled to the city so many times that he knows it like the back of his hand. It seems that now Warsaw is his adopted home and for us, this was a blessing.

The construction work at every street corner struck us on the train ride in but really hit home when we emerged out of the station into central Warsaw. Scaffolding and cranes and cordoned off areas seemed to shy away from our gaze in futility. Poland is going through tremendous change, both socially and economically. It is one of the fastest growing economies in Europe and Warsaw is probably its flagship city in this respect. Shiny brands sneer at you from electronic billboards that cling to the skyscrapers.

The most imposing building in the city is the monstrous palace built by Stalin. It resembles a cross between something you would built in an Age of Empires game and the Empire State Building. My friend told us that the Poles hated it and planned to build skyscrapers around it. This was the first time I realised how deeply connected the Poles are with their past and how they live in limbo between wanting to remember and wanting to forget. It is similar to the German paradox except that the Poles were unequivocally victims. Victims of the 20th century.

Our hostel, like most things in Poland, was fantastic value for money. We each paid 25 euros for 2 nights at Tamka Hostel, which was reasonably well located and very cozy. It boasted a 24 hour reception, clean toilets, a 4-bed shared room (which was perfect for us) and free breakfast. Like with all hostels in major European cities - and this is what I love about them - there was a massively diverse mix of guests. We dropped off our bags and went into the middle of town to search for a bar or cafe. It was already midnight by the time our train had arrived and being a public holiday of some sort, many places were shut or closing.

As we walked along one of the numerous pretty streets, we took in the majestic buildings all around us that lit up the night. The plaques followed us too. My dad taught me that you only get to know a city by walking its streets and so I had all my senses open to the pleasant Friday night air. And then out of the blue, we were attacked.

I had seen him out of the corner of my eye: a stocky, crew-cut man of about 25 walking on the other side of the road. As he neared, he shouted something which sounded like a song or chant of some sort. I dismissed it as drunken banter. He clapped me and another friend around the back of the head but failed to make good contact - all he ended up doing was "popping" my collar. Just as we turned around, a large group of men and women who were walking in the opposite direction came to our aid. A gigantic Polish guy who must have been our attacker's age calmly ushered him away from us as we stood in curious shock. I was assured by our guide that this was extremely rare and down purely to alcohol. I was shaken up and didn't really enjoy the rest of our 10 minute walk to the "Back Yard" - a series of bars and cafes knit closely together behind one of the main touristy streets. It was where young Warsowians came to unwind at less trendy prices than on the other side of the touristy stores. I just wanted a beer.

The rest of the night passed rather uneventfully. We had a few drinks and got the last hot-dog from a street vendor. Delicious.

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The next day we began by walking through the University of Warsaw Campus. The buildings were all impressive structure with Greek columns and various statues and busts. From a sky-walk over one of the greenhouses in the campus, we got a great view of the Wisla River and the Praga area on the other side. The new National Football Stadium was also a symbol of Poland's intentions - the 2012 European Champions will be held there.

We then headed to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where all of Poland's fallen are honoured. Two sentries spend 3 hour shifts absolutely motionless, rifle in hand.

The large, empty square on the threshold of the Tomb is rather surreal. It's looks totally Soviet - a gargantuan, bare courtyard in the middle of the city. It is now used for military parades though once a cathedral had stood over it. Plans are in motion to rebuild the majestic cathedral and finish the park that it over looks. If I've overused the word "empty" in the last paragraph, its because it is the only word that does justice to standing in that square, next to the Tomb. It is a gaping void in the middle of the city, one as spiritual as it is physical.

The four of us then walked through Old Town, which, because it has almost entirely been rebuilt after the war, is newer than New Town. Grand buildings, palaces and monuments greet you as they do in so many of Europe's historic capitals. And everywhere you are reminded of what stood there. You are sort of whispered to, that what you're looking at is merely an imitation of razed authenticity. The beauty of the place is tarnished only by the fact that it is too beautiful: it is too new, too glossy and too finely cut to be original.

The Poles have done a truly outstanding job in rebuilding their city but as a tourist, you feel that something is not quite there. It is the same feeling you get when you visit Dresden - another city almost completely obliterated by the Second World War. Some of the magic is lost, when a building is reassembled to look just the way it used to. It doesn't diminish the actually aesthetic splendor, it just... it just seems like listening to a song without the bass guitar.

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We had a lunch in an Indian restaurant, which was actually fine by me, since I was missing home anyway. The food was nice enough. Tomatoey, creamy Europeanised Indian food.

After eating, we headed to the place I was really excited to see: the Ghetto. And it began with a skyscraper. On the site of the old Ghetto, shiny glass towers had come up. There was a Holiday Inn. All the was left of the Ghetto was one street, that had been left untouched. It was truly decrepit. All the bricks were worn away to different degrees, leaving the walls multicoloured. Every few feet along the side of the 2 story buildings, a portrait-picture of one of the old inhabitants was hung. The looked on awkwardly in the mid-afternoon sunshine. This was not what I had pictured. I kept thinking back to the movie The Pianist and tried to superimpose the snow and the scores of poor Jews upon this street. For a while it worked. A movie can only transport you so far into a realm of horror and suffering. You have to stand there and look at the paint peeling off the dusty walls and really meditate.

In truth the actual street itself was supremely underwhelming. I would have loved to have gone to the Warsaw Uprising Museum we simply didn't have time.

We had an afternoon siesta in the hostel before heading out for the evening. By now all of us had completely forgotten about last night's little incident. We had a few beers at various places. I particularly enjoyed sitting outside, at the foot of yet another beautiful church.

We had a long discussion about German war guilt (my three companions were German) and who should be blamed and how they should pay. It was a lively discussion which brought out many good points and I found myself defending German youth from themselves. They feel obligated, they feel burdened. The world has a tendency to only look so far back into history as it suits them. War turns human beings into animals: should trawl back through the pages of textbooks and pick out those who we think deserve punishment even now? Should animals really be blamed? The beer and that unique European evening "buzz" that flow together in charming piazza's made our chat live long and healthy.

We got into a taxi and made our way over to the nightclub where we had heard there would be a fusion music party, off jazz and funk. The taxi driver spoke English and told us that he used to drive a black cab in London in 1982. I was generally very impressed with the standard of English that we encountered. We didn't really need to speak English as our unofficial guide spoke perfect Polish. The club was inside the courtyard of what looked like an old-style apartment. Upstairs was the jazz-funk floor and the well-lit bar. On the courtyard were chairs and tables and a barbecue that went strong until 6am. Downstairs was the "mainstream" floor with truly cringe-worthy sounds including Ricky Martin and the Back Street Boys. I had a great time and we partied until the sun came up (which was at 3:30am). There were plenty of interesting people there and we all made a lot of new acquaintances. It was as fun and vibrant a night out as I'd had anywhere. Great music, great people and most importantly a great atmosphere. People were more than happy to talk English. We clambered into our beds at some unearthly hour, glad to finally be off our feet.

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Sunday was when we had planned to go to the museum and see the famous Park but by the time we woke up and got our bearings, it was already mid-morning. A long, luxurious and grossly unhealthly breakfast at KFC put any chance of visiting the Warsaw Uprising Museum to bed. It was an eventful meal as first we were interrupted by a homeless guy who spoke very good English and mumbled something to me about how India and Poland were both ultimately doomed because our governments didn't have control. How uplifting. Then as we were about to finish a Gypsy woman decided to go through our left-overs in search of some half eaten morsels, with her baby strapped precariously to her side. We offered two an entire tub of coleslaw but she refused and instead snatched my drink out of my hand and went on her way. My first encounter with a Gypsy. Interesting. Beggars in India are not that bold or that rude.

After filling ourselves with fried chicken, french fries, soft drinks and other stuff that will make my mum gasp, we decided to have a relaxed day at the Park and recover from the night before. The weather was glorious: bright sunshine, plenty of passing clouds and a pleasant breeze. It was on the breeze that we heard the Pianist.

As we reached the Park, we realised that there was a free open-air piano concert going on. An old lady and her slender fingers cast beautiful, soothing tones over the silent park as listeners of all ages swayed to the breeze and the melodies. We sat there for a good hour, taking in the sights and sounds. The smell of the freshly cut lawns and the glistening laughter of a angelic baby. Each song was a good 10 minutes long and followed by raucous applause from the captivated audience. It was nice to lay down on the soft grass and let the Park swallow you.

She played compositions by the legendary Warsowian, Frederic Chopin. Noon came and the concert was over. We grudgingly got up from the lawn and walked through the giant garden that sprawled through the centre of Warsaw.

There were beautiful buildings, ponds and water features at every turn. The people were out in force, today. Poles of all ages were frolicking through the lush greenery and rippling man-made lakes. It was serene.

We chanced upon a Greco-Roman style amphitheater that was used to show evening plays and ballets but in the afternoon sun, the only performance was by the 3 large peacocks that had made the stage their own. They cawed and cooed in unison. As soon as one started his cry, the other two followed not a split second later. Children who ventured too close were sent laughing/crying back to their parents by the colourful tail-feather display that peacocks are known for.

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We waited for our train back to Germany at the large shopping mall that sat next to Warsaw's central train station. The mall was like any of the hundreds I've seen in my life. It was a characterless beast of translucent plastic and consumer culture. I suppose it was a necessity in today's world, where a world city has to tick certain check-boxes. I mean, as far as shopping malls go, it was nice. It had all the usual bells and whistles. It had the designer stores and the multiplex and the Food Court. But to me, it felt forced. Maybe that's because I've seen so many places in the developing world try and imitate American Mall Culture (TM).

We had cold coffees and reflected on a eventful and fun-filled weekend. The scuffle on the first night seemed years ago and I didn't even care any more. Was it one drunk guy or something symptomatic of a deeper attitude towards foreigners that Poland has to deal with? I don't know enough to make a judgement but that same incident could have taken place on any street in the world on a Friday night - I've traveled enough to know that.

I thought about the lovely rebuilt buildings. I thought about how at every square there is an information board showing either an artist's rendition of that plaza in the Industrial Revolution or a black and white photograph showing the destruction after the war. I had never been to a city with this kind of "in your face" history. Even in the main Warsowian newspaper, there is a full page every day, dedicated to something that happened during the Nazi occupation or Cold War. Whether it was the history of a cafe or a survivor's account of some gruesome incident. Even the newspapers paraded the tragic history of the city at every chance.

I learnt from our guide and from talking to other Poles at my university, that the Soviets are just as disliked as the Nazis, if not more. I don't need to tell you about the Warsaw Uprising or Katyn or any of the atrocities they exacted upon the Polish population. They are simply another oppressor. Any enemy of the state and the people and an enemy that, now that it has dissolved, I suspect the Polish people will also struggle to come to peace with. Not "come to peace" in a sense of forgiveness, but to begin a process whereby history can be seen purely as history and not as a cosmic battle of "us versus them". I don't wish to sound pretentious; who am I to lecture the Poles?

All that I think I want to see is a better way to deal with sorrow then to put up stark plaques - and they are stark. I have a feeling that many Polish people see the state of their country today as a direct consequence of the ancestors of their neighbours in Germany or Russia. It seems to me that there is still a lot of anger and frustration that the nation as a people must come to terms with. People must walk past those plaques everyday. Normal Poles must pass them on their way to get bread in the morning or reach a bar in the evening. I just think that the current situation is not in balance. Just like the Germans are trying to reconcile, I think there is some soul-searching that has to happen, for the country to truly be at peace with itself.

Warsaw is a beautiful city but my shoulders are wet from its weeping walls.

Why I Love Football

2011-05-11T17:37:00.000-07:00

They needed just one more goal. This couldn't be happening. This was impossible. We - WE - were up 4-0 at half time and yet here we were about to succumb to one of the most embarrassing, humiliating come-backs of all time. Newcastle needed just one more goal to make it 4-4 with only a few minutes to play. Our boys were tired, they were dejected and they didn't know who to turn amidst the deafening roar of the Newcastle home support.

And then it came. The inevitable goal. 4-4 and I stormed out of the room and looked out our balcony into a night that offered no consolation. My parents were chuckling. They really don't 'get' it. So today I will explain it to them and to you and to whoever is reading. Those low points, those heart-breaking, morale sapping moments of sheer sadness where there is no solace to be found anywhere - I will live with those. The moments of absolute panic when the five measly pixels that make up your internet stream freeze for a split second as Theo Walcott is raining down on their goal - I will live with those. The hours after another defeat at the hands of Man Utd, when it seems everyone wants to talk about football and everywhere you look, you are reminded of the failure - I will live with those. Because for all those moments, there are ones right on the other end of the spectrum. My parents do not understand why I love football and why I love Arsenal. I will explain.

One night a few years ago I fell in love.

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It was cold. It was rainy. It was dark. It was England.

And yet the energy that surged through the frigid air was charged with excitement and anticipation. Small streams of people in reds and whites and blues and blacks merged into a mighty river of middle aged men. It was my first time in Liverpool and my first away game. Edd and I walked quietly with other nervous Arsenal and Everton fans. It was a league game relatively early on in the season, exactly the kind of occasion that Arsenal are known for slipping up on.

It was a good 10 minutes from the pub to the stadium and by the time we got there, hunger clawed at my inside. The dirty burger is a greasy patty served with burnt onions on soggy bread with some 4 month old ketchup and probably at STD but my God it was divine. I can still taste it now. I shovelled it down my mouth in seconds and we followed the other Arsenal fans, who had by now pulled their shirts over their jackets to show their colours, to the away block. We queued outside the turnstile discussing who should start up front. The songs had begun. I think a freezing night in a decrepit tin-can stadium is just about the only place a man is allowed to sing his heart out without any inhibitions. And how we sang. The narrow white corridors and flights of stairs that led to our section provided great acoustics as we marched up. I had been to five games - I knew all the songs by now.

Words cannot do justice how it feels to walk out into a floodlit stadium. There is just no sight like it. It's a feeling that draws us sports fans to our temples every weekend. You emerge into this cauldron and it never gets old. You have been couped up inside the claustrophobic bowels of the stadium for the best part for 10 minutes, absolutely itching to get out into the middle and when the glorious green of the grass hits you, well, you are never ready for it. Each time I see a football pitch inside an arena, it feels like taking your first breath after a long dive in water. It's that all encompassing euphoria that is topped by only one thing - a goal.

Unfortunately for us, the goal came for Everton. A corner was swung in and Tim Cahill planted a header into the back of the net. Cue an explosion from all three sides. The home fans exploded. Flailing limbs burst forth from the previously seated Blue's fans. Such contrast in emotions - you had to have been there to truly know it. Silence and stillness from the 2,000 of us and raw release from the other 30,000. We stood, arms folded, watching the curious mixture of happiness and aggression bellow forth from the Evertonians, like a quiet peninsula. The red eye of a blue storm.

The rain fell harder still. The wind, almost as if it sensed our disappointment, quickened its pace. Time was ticking away. We were playing badly and there was no escaping it. Passes got stuck in the water-logged grass, which was by now more sticky and slick. Tackles flew in - as is always the case in England, the good ones were greeted with cheers and the poor ones with groans. Time was ticking away. We deserved to lose this game. But we did not.

Alex Song fed Abou Diaby who up until then, had played worse than a cardboard cut-out of himself. He cracked a long pass that fizzed through the drizzle at the same height for about 30 yards till it met Robin van Persie's chest. We took a collective breath. One entity inhaled in anticipation. One unit, one being tensed its leg muscles as it lent forward and watched with bated breath.

"G'on Robin" came the cry from around me. The Evertonians now covered their eyes. His touch was perfect - he controlled the powerful pass with the finesse of a dancer. In one fluid motion all the pace and venom was taken off the ball and it bounced harmlessly in front of him. It bounced ready to be smashed into the back of the net. My grip on the shoulder of the man next to me tightened as Robin pulled back and fired away a shot with just over a minute to play.

For a moment reality was suspended and all that mattered in the universe was the ball and Tim Howard in their goal. The angle was tight but the ball just kept going. You can tell as a fan at the stadium, which shots are heading for the soft white net. Bang. 1-1.

It was euphoria like I'd never experienced. Better than sex. Better than anything conceivable. It was our turn to explode. We had no idea what was happening. Arms, legs, beers and bags sailed into the sky and the mosh-pit around us. You hold onto the guy next to you for dear life as you jump and scream and let out all the tension of the last 90 minutes. There is nothing in this world that comes close to the delirium of the last minute goal. It is the reason we love football. It is the reason we wake up in the morning and it is the reason we dreamed the night before. Absolute, glorious pandemonium. Unrelenting anarchy that takes over ever fibre in your body.

That overpowering joy of that moment is what I remember. It is seared into my memory and into my outlook on life and football. For every last minute goal against, there is a last minute goal for. And for me, the joy outweighs the disappointment. There is a reason I say “we” when talking about my beloved Arsenal. There is a reason I skip appointments to sit in front of a screen. There is a reason that Saturday is sacred. Through the cold, rainy English night, songs of happiness and glory and brotherhood ring out forever.

I would not trade it for world.

How to Fail a Driving Test

2011-04-05T07:58:00.001-07:00

The crackling of the frayed power cables overhead and the unsheltered concrete roof made it seem like you were being fried. The sun was at the highest point in the summer sky and the few slivers of shadow were packed with those clever enough to find their spot in the relative cool and stick to it. The ratio of 25 men to every woman firmly reminded you that you were in India.

I was at my local RTO in Bangalore to get my driving license. I’d come a month earlier and gone through a similar process to get my learner’s permit. Today however, was the big day where I’d hopefully be unleashed onto Indian roads – or rather, they’d be unleashed upon me. I had absolutely no idea how the process worked and so, like a doddering mental patient, I was being ushered along by the instructor from the driving school I’d been attending. Ii was hell. The heat was unbearable and I was glad that I had worn shorts and chappals instead of jeans and shoes. My biceps at least doubled in size (to that of a 6 year olds) from wiping the sweat off my forehead.

All around me, hundreds of men of all sizes bustled for place in the seemingly ever growing queue to reach the hallowed plastic tiles of the Regional Officer’s room and get the all important seal of approval. My driving instructor was a well meaning fellow but he really didn’t care about me or the rest of the hopeful candidates from the school. I suspect he’s been through this process over a hundred times and has seen it all before, but he should have told us to stand in line while he paid for our applications at the cashier rather than making us wait, doing nothing for an hour and then telling us to stand in the daunting queue.

Anyways, after taking my picture and thumb print for the biometric card, I walked to the area where the tests would be conducted. And waited. And waited. After 45 minutes, the instructor was back and started sending the ladies off in the car in groups of 3 with the officer from the RTO and another instructor from the driving school. God forbid the ladies would have to wait in the sun like we did. After about an hour they were done and he started sending sent the men off. Since there was only one car in which our driving school’s students could take their tests in, they happened in batches and took about 20 minutes each. I was curious to know what the test actually involved. One by one people would walk back, shake their head in an affirmative manner and then leave. “Is it really that simple?” I thought.

By now, it was past 1pm and the heat and unrelenting sunlight were unbearable. Like Sauron’s Eye the Deccan fireball watched us all, without blinking and without remorse. I had been waiting around doing nothing for close to three hours as everyone else had been sent to do their tests with the mysterious RTO officer. Finally, it was my turn. I would be with the penultimate batch of the day. I was nervous as I walked up to the little red Hyundai i10. There were two other candidates from the driving school with me. I opened the back door and was greeted with the scornful and rather irritated expression of the RTO officer. He was dressed like a cop, in those infamous khaki clothes. He even had those shoulder straps like army officers do. Bless him. As I sat down next to him in the cramped rear passenger seats he said something shrilly.

“What kind of clothes are you wearing? You’re going to the market or what?” he spat. I didn’t know what to say.

I was wearing an $80 Arsenal replica jersey with formal brown shorts and Kohlapuri slippers. Is that what he wears when he goes to the market? I looked down to my feet and mumbled, “Sorry sir”.

The first candidate got into gear, took a left turn on the deserted back road, and was told to stop at a corner. He then reversed round the right hand bend and came to a halt about 20 yards away from where he’d stopped.

“Wo-kay” said the grumpy middle aged RTO officer, the few hairs that lived on his bald patch glistening with sweat as the door opened.

“Ya come here” snapped the instructor from the driving school in front seat, towards me. I hastily got into the driving seat, slipped off my chappals and started the car. I released the clutch smoothly like I’d planned in my mind for the last 4 hours and made my way down the empty street. There were no buildings in sight, just rubble and patches of grass on either side of the road. This was a truly forgettable part of town. I put the car into 2nd gear to a grunt of approval from the driving instructor next to me.

“Stop here”, said the RTO officer, “Long right hand reverse.”

I did just as he asked, taking the reverse right hander slowly and aligned the side of the car with the road. The instructor gave me the “all OK” signal with his hand. It had come off better than in any of my classes and I did my best to hide my happiness.

To put things into perspective for all those of you laughing at the back, I have never had any interest or motivation to take up driving because of

a) Always having a driver

b) Being very comfortable with public transport

c) Being petrified by Indian roads.

For me then, to have gotten this far in the test without making a single mistake after 9 classes was an achievement.

“OK, go” said the officer, interrupting my day dream.

“What? That’s it?!” I thought to myself in shock. I looked at the instructor who nodded his head upon an invisible horizontal axis like Indians do when something has been done satisfactorily. I got out of the car and walked towards the starting area. That was the driving test? Like most of my encounters with the fairer sex, it was nerve-racking and lasted about 90 seconds. One gear shift and one reverse – those are the only two prerequisites it seems to being allowed to drive in India. So much made sense now.

I waited for the last batch to finish their tests as I had to hitch a ride back with the instructors. When the car pulled up to the starting area for the last time and the officer got out and walked back to the RTO, the instructor who’d been in the front seat too got out and did something strange. He walked towards me shaking his head and frowning. This was not good.

“Fail ho gaya,” he said, walking past me and towards the other staff from the driving school.

“WHAT!!”

“Haan sir, fail ho gaya”

“What the fuck?! Why?”?

Over the course of the next horrifying minute, the instructor explained to me how I’d driven very well and reversed perfectly. But. I was wearing shorts. The RTO driving inspector failed me because I was wearing shorts.

It took a moment to sink in. I gawked at the instructor in disbelief. He seemed as uninterested as the other guy who’d helped us with the processing. I asked him three times if he was joking but he wasn’t.

My worst fears were confirmed when one of the candidates who had been car with me said, “the officer failed you because you were wearing shorts. He took it as a sign of disrespect. He felt you were showing off your wealth.”

“SHOWING OFF MY WEALTH?! BY WEARING FUCKING SHORTS?!” I yelled, putting my hands on my head in utter disgust.

“I didn’t know this was a fashion show; I didn’t know there was a bloody dress code! Next time should I come in a suit?!”

Everyone seemed to show profound apathy, some of the driving school staff were even chuckling. It was not very funny to me. The worst part was that the inspector had disappeared off into the bowels of the RTO and these buffoons were hardly the types to go there on my behalf. What could I do? The instructor didn’t even drop me back to the driving school near my house like he promised.

I went home seething- complaining to anyone who’d listen. A few days later I went to get the official results of my test. The two female clerks at the office called someone, said my name, nodded upon that same excruciating horizontal axis and then turned to me saying I’d passed! What on earth was going on?! I’d passed?! Was that whole episode a joke? It couldn’t have been. Had the driving school guys gone and paid off the RTO official to change his mind? I didn’t care. Until the next day.

I got the call at 10 in the morning. The high pitched voice of the female clerk said, “Sir? Mr Shravan? Sir DL test fail hua.”

I went to the driving school and yelled and begged in vain.

“How much does he want?” I finally said. “How much does he want for his 'respect'?”

This wasn’t about money, they told me. There was nothing they could do – as far as they were concerned, it was my problem. But that’s India, isn’t it? That’s India in a nutshell. It’s your problem.

Look at the sheer ineptitude displayed at every stage of this simple process. One has to take 9 classes, in which one is asked each time by the sneering instructor for a sum of money - on top of the fee you pay the driving school at the start - as “Guru-dakshin”. At some point during this time one goes to one the worst logistically planned institutions in the land (of which there are many, so the competition is fierce) and stands in line for hours in the sun for a learner’s permit. No appointments or anything, because that would be too easy and painless. Then after a month this whole fiasco for the full driver’s license begins. The apathetic instructor, the corrupt government official and the highly exploitable public are the three protagonists in this tragedy. Why is everything a struggle? From getting a driver’s license to getting the damn Airtel guy to come home and fix the internet: every little thing is a battle between you and someone who wants to take the most money for the least service.

I understand what my grandfather told me years ago, about the public institutions that ravage this country. I dismissed him as a cynic but some part of his words rung true in my ears that day, “You have to meet one public servant – just one government officer – to realise why this country is the way it is.”

This episode was my first real encounter with institutionalised ‘bureau-corruption’ – that’s what I’m calling it, because it is a fine balance of the two that will keep my country in the dark ages forever. Below the 9% GDP growth and the other propaganda, there is a cheapskate waiting to short change you. Maybe he lives within everyone and those of us who succeed in life, find a way to pay him off or better yet, expose him.

Maybe I need to take my own advice and “go with the flow”. Or maybe I need to take off the rose-tinted glasses I always wear when in India and stop making excuses for day-to-day cheating that has become accepted - that has become institutionalised.

I hope that little encounter gave the RTO driving inspector’s inferiority complex the hard-on he so desperately desired. Screw this, I’m taking the bus.

Farringdon Apple Orchard

2011-02-15T23:06:00.000-08:00

Working in London was just as I'd expected. The people were civilised and polite and curt. The weather was like something out of a dream. I started shopping at Waitrose instead of Tesco. And of course, everyone had an Apple.

I took up the familiar role of 'intern'. Though it was the same internship with the same company, my experience London office could not have been more different to my time with newly set up the Mumbai outfit. It felt like the Shravan who was took the tube to Farringdon station and drank coffee was a few years older than the Shravan who jumped off the rickshaw in the mid-July Monsoons in Mumbai. There, you see, I drank tea. I would walk into work at 10am and make myself a cup of milky chai as the marble sized rain drops pounded the large glass windows. The air con was always on full blast. There was no air con in London - the sun that shone gloriously through the window was all the seasoning the 5th floor office's micro-climate needed.

I had a long commute. By the end of my stint, I completed it without even thinking. I knew where to stand on the platform, which carriage I needed to get on at Hammersmith to get me closest to the exit at Farringdon and even where to position myself to get a seat when the packed tube car emptied as the school kids got off at Ravenscourt Park each morning.

I'd leave the west London suburbs each morning at 8 and be at work at 9:10. Coffee and a banana at 11 became a habit. Between my arrival and my mid-morning snack, I usually faffed around as all interns do when there isn't any work or anyone pressuring them to do anything. I'd read up on case studies I'd been given previously or fiddle around with some slideshows that are pretty much as good as they're going to get. I would try to modify my 'decks' to get them looking as professional as possible. Decks are a funny thing in the marketing communications world: everyone makes dozens of them but when you ask someone what a 'deck' actually is, you don't get one straight answer. There is no simple answer. There are many interpretations of the simple platform. One of my first assignments was to make a deck outlining the competitors in one of our client's market. One colleague told me a deck was like a deck of cards - a group of simple slides light on content but very memorable visually. Someone else told me a deck is a framework for presenting - its more of an framework that your slideshow has to follow. It was one of the many things I'm thankful I came to know about through my internship.

The office itself was large and being the industry it was, filled with all kinds of crazy ornaments. The walls had zany posters and pictures and the corners had very artsy stuff like mannequin heads or abstract sculptures. The windows let in a lot of light and so the office was usually bright. All the tables were large and their wood was a dark brown. Against the earthy tones of the tables, the white Macs jumped out at one's eye. The design guys had two gigantic screens while most of the others had slim white laptops. *ahem* Macbooks. Sorry.

Though my actual tasks were pretty similar in both offices, the atmosphere and the dynamics between me and my co-workers were totally different. In India, the 'intern' is a novel idea. In my, case I was always the boss's friend's son and had to be treated well and sort of ushered along. Just moved from project to project so that I don't get in anyone's way and do some unwanted work in the process. I was not taken seriously until I stood up and did more than was expected and really went out of my way to contribute. And after that I was taken in with open arms as part of the team. By the end I was sometimes even respected as an equal. I have also only interned with relatively small offices in India. London was different. I had no friendly aunt/uncle to watch over me; no inherent claim to fame amongst my colleagues. I was just another intern. They were used to interns here. I was definitely a small fish in a big pond.

I was always greeted with a smile by everyone at the office. But they were rehearsed smiles, only face deep. And why should they be any different? These smiles were wheeled out for one or two new interns every few months. Know this: all my colleagues were friendly and yet none of them were my friends. I think deep down I was probably seen as just another kid there for some work experience to add to a fledgling CV. Who knows? It wasn't like being a new employee. I saw the induction of a new employee. There was much more warmth and effort taken on the part of my co-workers to get to know the new member of the team. I was just another young face they'd sit along side for two months and then never see again. Is this all coming across as a big negative? I had a blast in Bombay but I learnt more in London.

It was a real job and I was being paid real money. My bosses spoke to me frankly and I was given assignments in a firm manner with real deadlines and couldn't slack off. No one else did. I did my usual duties of photocopying, editing images, researching and hiding my face in meetings. When I did something wrong, people told me. I couldn't go home early for no reason. I had to be back from lunch at a reasonable. Not that I didn't do that stuff in India, but people cared much, much less.

Everything was so routine. My boss wore the same clothes everyday. He always walked from place to fast, laptop in one hand, iPhone in the other. The English make it a point to engage in small talk. Like every interaction, every conversation, has to be prefaced by some inane question and dry answer otherwise one cannot begin one's business in earnest. To ignore the small talk - to enter straight into the meat of the conversation - seemed rude and against protocol.

My boss would be busy all day, getting a second to deliver my small-fry progress report was tough. He was a boss, not a friend of my father's. After the first few weeks, people begin to realise they can use you to do their mundane tasks and the photocopying assignments start to fly in. I love photocopying. I love everything an intern does. That's what I signed up for.

If I could change one thing about my experience in London it would be not being alone all the time. I got given a place on a table that was empty apart from me. I had no one next to me to chat with. If I wanted to talk to someone, I had to email them and then set a time and then have the 5 second chat. When people went out for lunch, they called me sometimes but only sometimes. And even when they did, it was hard making conversation. And for me, that is simply never the case. To put it bluntly, I had to go out of my way to reach out to people, even though they were perfectly amicable young people with similar backgrounds and educations to myself. By the end of the internship, I'd get to work in the morning with the intention of doing my work and leaving and perhaps learning something new along the way. Not having fun, and definitely not making new friends. I should have made more an effort to engage with, say, the football fans in the office. I should have joined the clique as they went for lunch. But instead I read football365.com and my Waitrose Pastrami sandwich in silence.

For people who commute, who have 9-6 jobs, I realised that doing things on weeknights is simply out of the question. I got home exhausted mentally and physically. The District Line really takes it out of you. By the time I got off my tube station and started walking home, it was beginning to get dark. The classic, identical English row houses that flanked my path had their large front windows open and the warm glow of the table lamps inside spilled out into the street. Flat screen TVs were being worshiped by toddlers and quiet dinners were being eaten by the elderly. A wife rested her head on her husband's arm as they both sunk into the sofa, watching whatever it is was on Sky One that night with a glass of wine in their hand. And when I got home at 7, to the house of my parents' friend with whose family I was living, I set the table and gobbled up dinner and that was what I came home to. That home exuded such warmth, such love. Every evening I would sit with the family and enjoy the summer air.

When I start working for real, after a friendless day doing thankless tasks, that warmth is what I want to go home to.

A Passenger in Germany

2011-02-14T08:08:00.000-08:00

When I got off the plane at Berlin Schoenefeld Airport on that mild October day, I really didn't know what to expect or what I was doing. In a strange turn of events, I had fought off my laziness and my inertia and my will to take the path of least resistance and gotten myself a German visa and a ticket to study exchange year.

As many of you know, I've moved around a lot in my life. I'm used to the packing, the double checking of passports-tickets-wallet-phone-keys and the checklist of things to do on arrival. I love traveling. After over a 100 flights, I still get that shiver of excitement when the captain revs up the plane's engines and your body is sucked back into the seat. I love people-watching at airports and being watched in return at cafes. They are, after my house, where I feel most at home. I love the fish pond at Changi. I love the race between the EU and non-EU lines at Gatwick. I love the KFC at Bangkok's transfer terminal. I love the sail like roof at Hong Kong. I love the blue-purple lights that line the runway at night in Bombay. I love the airport in the middle of Kenya, which was the size of our school car park. I love Dubai's vast array of migrant workers and their uncertainty about what they themselves are doing there. I love the cranky immigration officers at Heathrow and their surprise when I use my English accent. I know my way around.

And yet on arrival into Germany, I felt lost. It was the first time I was moving to a new home, alone. You feel you've got everything covered - and you have - yet when you arrive, there is no one to confide your initial observations in. There is no one to help decipher the language with. My dad was at home and I was at the wrong baggage carousel. And then it began. I met my first friend in Germany and I've never looked back. My tutor, Bart, arrived and got me my first Döner kebab and got me on a train to Frankfurt Oder, an hour away.

I'd always considered the UK to be the pinnacle of Western civilisation. I'd lived there when I was young, go to university there and always associated myself with its culture, at various levels. But after a semester in the land of Bratwurst and Bayern Munich, I have no doubt that Germany is the greatest country in the world. I do not make such a bold claim on impulse and love-drunk enthusiasm. I have experienced it, I have learnt from it and I am in awe at how a country can function without so many of the problems that others face and even take for granted. I am in awe at how cultured its people are - how friendly and welcoming they are to a total stranger who does not speak its language. Where do I begin?

If someone asked me the best thing about my experience over the last 5 months in Germany, I would say the people and the friends I've made. In my first two years in England, I accrued about 70 new friends on Facebook. I was reluctant to attend all the university events and didn't mix with a wide group of people. I was introverted and stuck tight to my friend circle. I grew tremendously close to them and do not regret anything about my time in Birmingham. But in Germany, at EUV on the Polish border, I was simply not allowed to keep to myself. I have over 150 new friends in a little over four months. I made 3 or 4 of my current best friends, on the first day I arrived. The first afternoon in fact. I went to the orientation event (a scavenger hunt across town) thinking it was for fellow exchange students. When the coordinator stood up on the bench and asked "is there anybody who doesn't understand German?", I was the only one to raise my hand. The crowd of about 70 native freshers who had all gathered in the courtyard outside the auditorium all turned to me and I sheepishly said, "sorry mate!". Within five minutes, no less than 10 eager English speakers had quizzed me on my name, home university and country of origin and had promised to translate the rest of the Scavenger Hunt for me as we went along. I was a passenger. I was ushered from place to place with such warmth as I've never felt before. These people - all my age or thereabouts - were genuinely interested in me and what I was doing there.

My thoughts of home disappeared. The image of my dad, pacing up the down our hall way had changed into one of him resting on the sofa, glass folded on his chest. We walked all around town until evening came, completing challenges and making friends along the way. I was the nucleus of the Gernglish speaking crowd, whether I liked it or not. The Scavenger Hunt finished at a bar - a recurring theme, as I'd come to find out in later months - and our team had won. I really didn't care, because I had 10 or 12 friends that I had not had that morning. I was part of a community in less than 5 hours. And it was no honeymoon - I am still close to nearly all of them to this day. They were warm and curious and fun loving and just like the friends I have in England and India. And do you know what? Nearly everyone else I've met in Germany is like them. Their attitude towards me is, anyway.

Their curiosity is not intrusive and excessive, like it is in India. And yet it genuinely exists, like it doesn't in the UK. It's a great balance. I smile when I walk down the street. I smile at people. I never smile in India. Maybe that's more to do with me. The shopkeepers and I have spectacularly awkward conversations about politics, sex and religion in their three words of English and my four in German. I can now order a subway sandwich with aplomb.

The public transport, the state of cleanliness and order, the punctuality and the ability to cut loose and have a great time are all probably the best I've seen after Singapore. What sets Germany apart from places like Hong Kong and Singapore is that while all the stereotypes about organisation and methodical execution ring true - and how! - centres for art and music and creative energy like Berlin exist and thrive and provide a fantastic theatre for exploration. Germany has its underbelly, like any country, but it does not spill out into spaces for public interaction like it does in the UK. All that stuff is there, all that comes to expect from a 1st world country who's cogs and gears have been refined and oiled to near perfection is there.

And yet there is one thing about my time there that I feel best sums up my opinion that Germany is the benchmark, the goal everyone else should aim to reach. It is unnervingly difficult to put my finger on it, but I shall try and articulate:

When I'm at the lunch table and I'm facilitating or over-hearing different conversations about current affairs or international news or pop culture, something odd occurs to me. The Germans don't feel the need to care about happenings in other countries and to compare their standards to those. As an Indian I'm used to thinking in terms of how well other countries do something. As a UK resident for 5 years, I'm used to discussing the rise of other economies, the superiority of other sports team over England's or, for argument's sake, some catastrophic event somewhere else in the world and what the British government is doing about it. In Germany there is simply not this sense of looking outside, of measuring against others or of wanting to feel adequate on a global stage.

My friends talk about their country's issues. They watch German comedians as well as international ones. They are not pawns to a small club of media outlets. There is not this sense of impending doom, of constant pessimism and unwavering cynicism. Its a pessimistic, cynical doom-monger, this is a shock to my system. And let it not come across that the Germans are self-obsessed. Far from it. My peers are amongst the most well informed I've come across. They read. Do I have rose-tinted glasses on? Maybe. Probably. But I'm only telling you what I've seen, what I've experienced. Young people in Germany are satisfied and when they aren't, they do something about it.

I know the country has issues. My friends have explained them to me in detail. It is no utopia (especially not for a foodie like me). But by God it is the closest I've seen in my short time on this earth. Forget the democracy, the export driven economy, the high standard of living, the roads, the art galleries, the nightclubs, the ability to deal with snow, the foreign policy, the history, the scenery and everything else. It is a country filled with sensible people who go out of their way to make you feel welcome and wanted.

I fear I have rambled. I shall conclude by saying: I love Germany. I love everything about it. I have not even mentioned the women!

The Rave

2011-01-30T14:43:00.000-08:00

Bangalore is a meteorological anomaly, when it comes to India. The air was crisp like mountain air without being as cold, due to the its location atop the Deccan plateau. In the nights, one could sip it, as you would a glass of wine, from suburban rooftops or high-rise balconies. If you weren't sipping on something else, of course.

Som recoiled his hands from the surprisingly cold, polished stone railing that ran the diameter of the roof of Avinash's house. It was without a doubt the biggest and most impressive house he'd seen in Bangalore - dwarfing the one his parent's owned and every other one in their complex. It was a relatively new construction, also on the out-skirts of town but there were only 30 villas in this complex, compared to the 450 in Som's. If Palm Meadows was where the CEOs lived, this was where the names on logos resided.

In the distance, they heard a familiar sound coming closer - Vinay's motorbike. He cut the engine a few yards from the front gate and glided to a stop. Som was slightly irritated with Vinay, for leaving him alone with Avinash, a relative stranger whom he was meeting for the first time that night. They had tried - really tried - to stoke the embers of their ill-fated conversation but after a while, signed an unspoken truce and just looked out at the lights of the nearby military airport. Avinash went downstairs to open the front door so that Vinay didn't have to wake the parents. The two of them emerged from the huge, square shaped Teak door that led from the 3rd floor to the roof. The theme of the house was maritime. Right through the middle of the 4 story behemoth, sprung a majestic wooden 'mast', around which the spiral staircase wound. The furniture was stylish, mostly wooden and usually rustic and went perfectly with the soft creams and egg-shell of the walls. On the roof were long, ribbed, curved benches made to look like South Indian fishing boats. From the roof, one could get 360° views of the area, which meant great panoramas of the old airport. Probably the most beautiful and unique (and hard to maintain!) part of the rooftop ensemble was the magnificent cream coloured cloth Shamiana that was draped from one end of the roof to the other. The 'sail' must have provided comforting shade during the day, thought Som, though he'd never visited before tonight. At least in Vinay's absence he'd gotten to take in the place.

"Got any stuff?" asked Avinash, enthusiastically.

"Are you mad? I'm going to ride my Enfield there man, no ways I'm smoking before I reach," replied Vinay in disbelief.

"Since when did you become such a good citizen," joked Som, "Don't tell me you've stopped your 'reefer rider' ways from school!".

"Balls. Cops are insane now, they check everyone, especially bikers" said Vinay, as he opened up the plastic bag on the table.

He had been sent to get food and he had delivered.

"I got the last order at Chungs. Just for me they kept the place open. Now who do you thank?" boasted Vinay.

Som and Avinash mumbled thank you's through mouths full of chili chicken and fried noodles. Though all three were well into their mid twenties, they still instinctively talked in hushed voices for fear of waking Avinash's infamously cranky parents below. They sat on the soft cushions that surrounded the circular table on that roof and ate and talked like they'd have done 10 years ago. High school habits, it seems, die hard.

"So are you coming tonight, Avinash?" asked Som.

"I don't know man... Goa Trance is not really my scene and I'd have to drive back alone"

"Just come man. You can pick people up on the way who will keep you company. We don't have to go by the ring-road."

"We'll see. Are you done with your chicken? Send some."

---------------------------------------------------------

Avinash chose not to join Som and Vinay, in the end. His music tastes were more inclined towards metal and other forms of rock music - like many of Bangalore's English speaking youth. By the time the two of them left Avinash's house, it was past midnight and so they walked the bike out past the front gate of the complex before starting it up. Royal Enfield motorcycle engines send out some of the most beautiful, rugged tones a man is likely to come across but in a city that sleeps at 11 and in a complex that's probably in bed by 10, it was a better choice to avoid a run in with the security guards.

Som was terrified of motorcycles and yet he loved being passenger to great riders. Vinay had been riding motorcycles since he was 15 and after 9 years of experience zipping around Bangalore's unpredictable roads, certainly knew his way around a bike. The 350cc Royal Enfield Bullet was a classic motorcycle, styled like a British WWII unit with muscular contours and that iconic exhaust. Vinay ripped into gear and Som was lucky he'd had a hand on the rear handle. Som ducked behind Vinay's helmet as he always did when he was on bikes and closed his eyes. He looked up every few seconds to make sure they weren't dead and captured a mental image of the scene hurtling which he would paste into his mind's eye. Som smiled and then put his head back down. Whenever he felt Vinay's heart was taking over from his head, he'd tell him to "chill out". They raced along Airport Road, flying by the old Airforce Museum and slowing down as they passed the police station. Now that he lived in his own place and had his own job, there was no reason for Vinay not to have a valid driving license, like he used to do when the two were school boys.

Bangalore's main artery was silent. They pulsed through it, gear by gear, landmark by landmark. The grand Leela Palace hotel, the not so grand Diamond District apartment complex, the 'new' flyover that had taken two years to build and four to 'complete'. The air that whipped passed Som's ears was cold and moist and against it, he struggled to maintain his centre of gravity as Vinay slalomed towards MG Road. They 'clipped' through the city's central business district - to use local lingo - and turned north. Leaving the bright lights behind, they now cruised through upper-middle class residential areas to meet with the remainder of their party. The roads became narrower, the sleeping dogs more frequent and soon they came to a halt outside a very respectable eight story apartment block. Parked outside its gate, under a tree were four of their friends buying shots of milky, overly spiced tea from a vendor on a bicycle.

"Hey, buy some for us!" yelled Som as he dismounted the motorbike.

"Shut up Som!" came the loud whisper from beneath the tree, "Mad or what?"

A slim girl with shoulder length hair, a spaghetti top and tight jeans approached, arms out-stretched.

"Som!" she exclaimed, just as loudly as he had yelled but a few seconds earlier. He hugged Sonali tight and smiled and kissed her on the cheek. She was the first in the group of friends to greet him.

"This is my boyfriend, Rajat and his friend, Shrey. And this my friend, Aditi"

Som shook hands with the two guys and tentatively hugged Aditi, who was just as pretty as Sonali but a few inches shorter. She had come wearing large hoop earings, a loose, colourful skirt that reached her ankles and an equally flamboyant tie-die top. Vinay already knew the gang. He, Som and Sonali had gone to school together and had attended the same college as Rajat and Shrey, and met them all very regularly. Aditi, like Som, was new to their little circle. She was from Calcutta and only here for a couple of months to do an internship. The large silver 'Om' dangling from her necklace glinted under the streetlight beside them.

"Where is this party anyway?" Asked Som.

"Rajat, call and find out. They should have released the location by now" said Shrey, nodding at Som, "They never disclose the location before like an hour before it starts, otherwise the cops will show up and raid it and we'll be on tomorrow's fucking NDTV."

Rajat lit a cigarette and walked off the side, to make the call. These types of raves happened once every few months in Bangalore and only a select few knew about them. In a city where all nightclubs, bars and restaurants had to be closed by 11:30, they provided a few, well informed citizens with an occasional and much-cherished 'real party'. Som walked over to Vinay and the girls to strike up a conversation - he felt acutely uncomfortable being in a social situation and not mediating discussion of some sort. Sonali told Som about how work life in Bangalore was so different to college life and how she missed bunking lectures and how jealous she was of his British university experience. She was now working at her mother's design firm in a swanky part of Indiranagar. She was a carefree young woman who had done a BBA in Business Administration at the nationally reputed Christ College. Som knew so many like her. The well off girls and guys who stayed local and had no idea what they were going to with their lives other than do something, somewhere in their parents' businesses. She was one of the few who stayed behind in India for further studies, unlike the vast majority of her and Som's international school batch-matches. What was the point of spending money on a school education when you're kids weren't even going to go to a first world, right?

Rajat got their attention mid-conversation, "It's past Yelahanka. I know the place. Let's go quick cos I don't know what time it'll finish."

Shrey, Rajat, Sonali and Aditi got into the Corolla whilst Som swung a leg onto the back of the Bullet, dreading the thought of another 20 minutes of holding on to the iron rail behind him. Vinay followed behind the car and Som regretted not bringing a jacket, as the chilly August night pinned him back. The surrounding apartments turned into classic modest, detached one story houses and then into the rubble and vast expanses of industrial parks. In the distance, Som heard the unmistakable low drumming of a trance beat and caught glimpses through the trees, of bright lights flickering in the distance. The shoulder ache would surely be worth it.

--------------------------------------------------------

The distant thuds and clicks grew closer every second. The lights flickered brighter around every bend. Som sensed that Vinay had felt it to and somehow had instinctively upped his pace. He began taking racing line around corners, accelerating out of them. Yet they were in almost total darkness on a single lane stretch of highway in the Deccan country side – not Monaco. The pace had quickened but the air that they were cutting through did not grow colder or more ill-tempered, perhaps it was the adrenaline that blocked out the elements for now. Only infrequent tube lights and the motorbike’s powerful headlight lit their way. It felt like being sucked through a vacuum cleaner.

They finally arrived at a large sloping field and slowed down upon seeing parked cars. There wasn’t a house for miles – only distant pin pricks of light on the horizon. Som got off as Vinay parked the bike in between two cars. Finally, after almost half an hour of being alone in the darkness, hands grasping the cold iron railing, Som was able to stretch out and see other people. There were all kinds of people. Bangalorean teenagers in typical untucked dress shirts, baggy jeans and white sneakers, chatted excitedly as they walked towards the stage area. There were older folks too, who had come in groups of 4 or 5, probably young professionals like Som and Vinay whose insatiable taste for a night of trance dancing could not be conquered by a 9-5 job and monthly bills. There were even foreigners! Som was brimming with curiosity. He asked some Russians where they were from and quickly made friends, like he’d done all through his life. The couple from St Petersburg were doing the standard India hippy pilgrimage.

"What is this man..." said Vinay, looking at his phone in disgust, "Rajat just texted saying the had to turn back cos the girls' parents wanted them home early for some reason. Something about a function tomorrow morning."

"I guess it's just you and me," sighed Som. He had been looking forward to spending time with Aditi especially but the universe had other plans with him tonight, it seemed.

It took about a minute to walk from the dusty car park to the grass field and stage. The DJ was called ‘Viva Shiva’ and was flanked by a camera man and what could only be his girlfriend, smoking beside him nonchalantly. The music was not quite what Som had expected but then again, his taste in psychedelic trance was very particular and he’d come with an open mind. The beat filled the air around him, reverberating through the chilly night. It rode the strobe lights and seemed to add extra sheen to the multicoloured lasers that jumped from side to side. Every now and again he’d change the pace of the track he was playing and give the crowd something to think about. Peddlers went from potential customer to potential customer. Som knew better than to buy from these seedy salesmen. He’d heard too many stories of cocaine cut with rat poison and hashish with liquorice. Vinay passed him a quarter full bottle of coke and rum that he’d stored under the Enfield seat and Som sipped as he moved to the music. They made their way through the crowd to front and centre where the sound from both speakers crashed together like giant swells of energy. The two of them surfed for a while. Som handed the bottle back to Vinay but he refused. Always responsible – that’s why Som liked Vinay so much. Though he had stayed in Bangalore for his undergraduate degree, he was as well rounded as any of Som’s friends. He worked as a graphic designer in a modest but promising firm in the suburbs. Vinay had been a bit of a bad-boy through their school days but the tragic death of his sister in a car crash had changed his life. He didn't turn into a monk over night, but he took fewer risks and seemed to value everything a little more. He spent more time thinking about what he was doing, eating or saying. His playful nature had remained but was channeled through thought rather than impulse, as it had been before. The run-ins with the cops had stopped and he had a steady job that his parents were proud of. Som could easily see the sadness in Vinay’s eyes when he went quiet for a moment and knew instantly that his thoughts were with his sister and try as me may, he could never erase the screech and smash of that fateful night, a year ago.

Som saw people in various states of ‘happiness’ around him. There were the dread-locked white men who had been doing the same two-step for the last three hours. A group of Japanese girls bounced and jived next to the speakers. Many of the younger men were puffing cheerfully on hash pipes and sending great clouds of white smoke into the reverberating air. There were dangerous empty beer bottles on the ground everywhere though Som hadn’t a clue where they came from, since this wasn’t a sponsored event. The Rs. 500 that they had paid at the car park went straight to the DJ and event organizers. This was Som’s first experience of a ‘rave’ – a word that makes regular members of the trance music scene cringe.

A distant scream interrupted Som’s muse, because it pierced the solid wall of sound and reached the two of them even at the front of the 500 strong crowd. Som and Vinay turned around at once and what they saw shocked them both. Almost in slow motion, Som dropped the plastic bottle of his mixed drink. There was a fight going on! Not between drunk revelers, but between a group of modesty dressed local men carrying fire torches and the group of slightly older Indians who had been dancing to Vinay’s right. To their horror, the rowdy villagers were harassing the group and even laying hands on the women who screamed in fury. It was like something out of a movie. From every direction more and more village men appeared carrying torches and flash-lights and yelling. The plug was pulled on the music and in a split second, all the euphoria that had garnished the melodic atmosphere evaporated. The air became tense and filled with the Kannada curses of the villagers and the yelps of men and women alike. Som backed away towards the gap between the stage and speakers and from a vantage point on the stairs, surveyed the terrifying scene. Vinay was crouched behind him, trying to call some of his friends whom he knew were at the concert. They counted at least 60 men of all ages wielding political party flags and lighting materials. Nearly all of them had formed groups of 5 or 6 and started man-handling attendees. Was this a movie? Was this the mob that hunts down the ogre in the village? The crowd was trying to escape to the car park but he saw in the distance, that there were 20 or so villagers blocking the route from the field to the highway. Som began to panic.

He saw the stage lights slowing being turned off and realized the futility of their situation. This was an illegal party so calling the police would be out of the question. It then struck him: the police were probably already on their way. This was Bangalore, the city were police would rather arrest then police. There were 6 or 7 different fights raging now. The men shielded their female friends from the crazed Kannada men. And then Som looked one of them directly in the eye, from about 30 yards away. The look they stared was telling – the short, thin man of about 30 with curly black hair wearing a white kurta and dhothi had a look of a man who had lost his ability to reason and was lashing out on adrenaline. There would be no talking to these people. How had they found the party? Who had leaked information about its location? And what justified the attack on these people and the damage to cars and property? Som was filled with anger but just as he got up to run towards the man, Vinay shouted in his ear.

“Dude! Som! The bike! Let’s get the fuck out of here! We’ll go by the service road!”

“What is this shit dude? Who are these villagers? Where are the police?”

“Fuck the police”, Vinay pleaded, “they will arrest you, not them. These fucks probably told them about it. They won’t be able to stop our bike from getting out, we’ll cross the field itself”

The two of them sprinted behind the stage area where they saw the DJ and the organizers salvaging their equipment in a rushed, frightened manner. Som thanked his luck that they’d come by motorcycle and not by car. As they neared the car park, he saw fist-fights and broken windows. And then from the highway came the blue and red lights and sirens. They passed the Russian couple who were crouched on the ground with two other foreign looking girls, behind their BMW X5.

“Get out of here guys, the cops are coming!” said Vinay as he gestured towards the service road, just across the field.

“But they block the road! The police block the way!” said the Russian, frantically.

“I know a way. Just follow me on the bike, your car can cross the field easily”

Vinay started up the engine which drew unwanted attention from a pair of older villagers. Som had barely whipped his right leg over the passenger seat before Vinay zoomed away. They checked the rear view mirror and saw the lights of the big SUV following them. Vinay cut the headlight to avoid the gaze of the police, who had arrived in droves. He maneuvered the heavy motorcycle expertly past jagged stones and after a minute they reached the service road on the other side of the chaos. One cannot underestimate the difficulty of handling a heavy motorcycle over uneven ground in almost complete darkness – that was the task that faced Vinay. Som stretched his neck around to get one last glimpse of the scene behind them. It was like something out of a nightmare. The police and the villagers fighting side by side, harassing men and women alike and screaming, either out of glee or contempt or a twisted sense of both. It occurred to him that the operation had been a joint effort. But who had given the rowdy village men the authority to lay a hand on anyone? The lawlessness of the situation was what irked Som the most. It was the dark side to India that he had ignored for so long. On the back of that motorcycle, he felt sick to his stomach. It was a good thing that the discomforting scene was getting smaller and quieter behind them.

After about 10 minutes, they were far enough away from the area to slow down and gather their thoughts on the side of the road. Under a flickering tube-light, the car and bike parked one in front of the other and everyone got down. At first no one said anything. The Russians were still in shock – one of them had lost their phone in the confusion.

“What…. What the hell was that?” stuttered Som.

“The cops… OK fine they were kinda supposed to be there… but those hallis? Who the fuck were they and where did they come from? This was a drug bust for sure. It happened in that Bannerghatta party last month, remember?”

“But why did they attack us? Shouldn’t the police have stopped them instead of us?” squeaked Andrei. His voice was quivering. This was not the India trip he was expecting.

“They were looking for drugs. They just want some rich faces to flash on the news tomorrow. Half these kids will pay them tonight itself and get out before morning. I would have straight away called my uncle. At least we got away…”

“But it is not right! It is not right what they did! Someone should have called the…” said Maria, his girlfriend. She realized the response her statement would get as she said it, and stopped short of saying what would sum up what the whole situation was about. Who polices the police? The only difference between the villagers and the police that night were their uniforms.

They had both disrupted that party for one reason – to vent their anger at this most ‘un-Indian’ evening and take some political prisoners. Som came to know this when he read the paper the next morning. His frown grew every column inch he read.

“Massive rave party busted last night!” said the headline, like a child waving an A+ graded essay in their parents face, “over 42 arrested including 17 foreigners. Rs. 20,000 worth of marijuana seized”.

“Police last night raided a rave party in north Bangalore at 1am. They booked 38 people for ‘dancing after hours’ and ‘dancing obscenely in a public place’.”

“Oh the horror,” smirked Som to himself.

“4 people were caught with Marijuana on them and have been held at Yelahanka Police Station. Of the foreign nationals arrested, 5 were Israeli, 5 Kenyan, 3 Japanese, 2 French and 2 Russian. This is the second case of a rave party bust in the last month. Please watch Times Now for more on the story.”

No mention of the villagers or what political banner they flew. No mention of the harassment and mistreatment. No mention of the bigger issue - the seemingly medieval laws against nightlife that savaged the weekends of Bangalore's youngsters. Som decided that morning, as he chomped down on fresh Papaya, that he would stick to legal parties for the rest of his stay in Bangalore. Last night was too close. It was a night he'd never forget - a night that seemed to sum up the unanswered questions that churn tumultuously beneath the surface of India's modernization.

The Window

2011-01-27T07:47:00.001-08:00

There is no such thing as silence in Bombay. Rohan's dark balcony was their box for tonight's opera. For a while, they didn't talk. The curtains lifted slowly, as Som turned off the light in the room behind him and leaned against the cold railing. Characters scaled the sultry suburban set, their stories told in soft lamp-light night.

For the time first Som really looked at Rohan, to see what had changed since he'd last seen him over three years ago. The truth was that he was pretty much the same best friend he'd known in boarding school in Bangalore. He still spoke in that numb-tongued Bandra monotone and he was still as happily unsure about life as ever. They'd both graduated and yet Som felt he was the only one who'd changed. He rubbed a layer of jet-lag from his eyes. Som had forgotten how much he missed looking down at Linking Road at night.

He had seen almost this exact same view from his grandparents living room window, once or twice a year, all his life. It was a 5th floor apartment bought in the 60s, that had increased a hundred fold in value as Bombay puffed out its chest. The window must have been six feet tall and 12 feet wide. It was a portrait Som could stare at for hours and hours. It's meaning changed as Som grew up. When he was big enough to just about peak over the ledge and see outside the window during the day, all that gripped me was the vastness of the city. Old 5 or 6 story buildings as far as the eye could see. They stretched right the way to the end of the horizon, blending in the end with the smog slurping sky. At about 6 or 7, Som was a full head clear of the ledge. He could see the sprawling tree directly in front of their building, providing welcome shelter for street kids and dogs from the vicious heat of the afternoon sun. During the day, there was too much happening. Back then, one could just about make out the silhouettes of high rise offices in town. You'd be lucky to see a hundred feet in front of you now though. Mid-rise buildings on Pali Hill fight an endless fight with each other. The futile scrap to be the biggest kid on the playground at any cost. An extra floor here, an extension there; its war to reach the smoky city ceiling that no one will ever win for more than a moment.

By the time Som was 12 or 13, he couldn't look at the portrait during the day anymore without getting a headache, so he started observing it at night. The yellow and black taxis that normally buzz around are fast asleep. Every now and then an auto-rickshaw would cackle past below. There was always music of some sort from the adjacent slum, which drifted up to the window with the day's fumes. Som loved the way the street lights and shopping malls made Linking Road glow. He remembered that warm, enticing orange glow that caused the night sky to blush purple. That's another thing about Bombay: like the air is never silent, the sky is never black. The night was deceptive in its ways though - visiting their Bandra house every year as a kid, Som always expected it to cool down at night yet have only recently accepted the perpetual heat.

And like all those nights, Som look down at Bandra, with Rohan. Som was gazing at the same picture from a different perspective though. He was wearing new lenses. He could pick out individual characters. The milk man on his lonely round, whose only give-away was the creaky sound of his antique cycle homeward bound. The snoring auto driver who's head sticks out the side of his MTV pimped-out ride. High heels make sound like a trotting horse. The clip-clop beat is Morse code that the girls who wore them rode home. The watchmen watching nothing at all, who sat below them tuning small radios; whistles at the ready, they're 'protecting' the mall.

Som was shaken from his dream by Rohan's words.

"So how long you here for?" he asked, as he sat down on the tiled balcony floor.

"No idea man. Depends on where these people want me to work." Som said, as he joined him.

"Oh I see... but I thought you worked for them in London?"

"Ya I worked there last summer, but I was handling stuff for their Indian office. It's easier if I'm here, isn’t it?"

"Ya."

There was a long pause, during which Som thought he caught a glimmer of that illusive sprite they call silence. She whispered in his ear, but left in Rohan's smoke cloud as soon as he turned towards her.

"What, yaar?" Som asked, turning to Rohan.

He tutted and exhaled, "Shut up, this is my last cig."

They both chuckled.

After spending a good half hour savouring the rare Bombay breeze and the calm of the early hours, they went back inside Rohan's room. Bombay wealth is something else. Rohan wasn’t even 'upper class' (in the archaic sense) and yet everything in that house cost 3 times as much as everything in Som’s gated complex apartment in Bangalore. There were obnoxious plasma TVs in every room. Italian marble flooring gleamed under the stylish low-lights. Despite Rohan’s Sindhi roots, walls were tastefully done with modern art and family pictures. The living room of this 6th floor, $3m apartment sported elegant black leather furniture that matched the minimalist black designs etched into the marble floor. There was an astonishingly well stocked bar, complete with a black marble counter-top who's opal inlay winked at passersby. It felt like something out of movie set, out of the American Gardens Building on West 81st Street.

And yet it did not surprise or overwhelm Som. This was Pali Hill. This was Bombay. Som had seen houses like this before. He had been desensitised by now. This was how these people lived.

Som washed his hands and face in his immaculate bathroom, chuckling to himself at how inefficient the 'minimalist' rectangular sink was as he watched the soapy water settle in the corners. Style over substance; but hey, he was Sindhi.

They settled down on the bed and watched sleepily as the TV murmured into life. Something in Hindi. Next. “Should we fear China - an NDTV Special”. Next. Some obscure English county match from 1998. Next. A ghastly reality show with that cringe-worthy ticker-tape zooming across the bottom. Next. A bomb has gone off somewhere no one really cares about. Next. House music on Vh1. Finally, something they didn't need tothink about. They were still school kids.

Curtains

2010-11-21T08:37:00.001-08:00

Foggy Sunday nights are for streaming obscure football matches and hoping someone is on Skype. From my 6th floor room I can just about make out the blurry pin-pricks of light from street lamps and windows across the university courtyard. I struggle to tear myself away from my open window. It is an alien landscape outside. The frigid mist has added flavour to the air: a moist, comforting taste most unlike the stale afternoon that basked in pale sunlight. It gets dark so early and I'm guilty of forgetting the laws of the northern hemisphere.

I love the view from my room. It is a 'before and after' view of this part of Germany, whenever the weather permits. To my right, I see the shiny university building with its glass facades and the quaint church beyond it. The half-hourly bells are the metronome to my lazy life. They are a charming constant, a faint whisper that dances through the curtains of mist and cloth and remind me that there is a life beyond my dimly lit cave. There is even a modest high-rise building, with offices and a restaurant at its summit - an ambassador to that other curtain.

To the left, where the now unbearable breeze is coming from, is the past. To the left lies communism's shadow: there are cobwebs inside the dilapidated warehouses but the warehouses are cobwebs themselves. They sprawl tauntingly across the road from one of the university buildings. I read the graffiti on them every morning as I go to class, like a daily sermon. "To the left lies communism" - ha! I just got that. But let's not get into one of those 'city of contrasts' dialogues that have become so clichéd. I'm from India and it bores me.

I fear that when I try to describe this place, I'm trying to put Frankfurt Oder into a box. I fear that as a mere story-teller I have no right or reason to find a label for this place. I was warned - most times in jest - by my German friends that I was going to the 'zone' and it certainly feels unique. But it is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. And though the sunlight is sometimes bland and the buildings are grayer than the sky itself and the bridge is ugly and one can smell the carcass of East Germany in the mornings, I love this place and I'd do well not to put a label on it. By refusing to brand it, I think this arrogant writer may even learn a thing or two.

Sunday nights are terrible, so I am drawing my curtains now. Goodnight.

Ze Embassy

2010-09-08T13:32:00.000-07:00

London is many things. London is Belgrave Square

9:23

Is it cheating to say that the embassy buildings looked, er, stately? In the mid-morning mist, flags flexing their damp sinews, they certainly did.

Belgrave Square was so different to the one that whizzed past me yesterday. Today, the quiet park that lay in the midst of various countries’ UK embassies and high commissions was draped in the cool curtain of imminent English drizzle. Yesterday, at this very time, I did not stroll through the cobbled streets and past the Bentley’s carrying bored old men. Yesterday at this time, I sprinted from Hyde Park Corner bus stop F, across roads, through underpasses and in between angry cabs, holding my falling jeans in my left hand and a crumpled appointment letter in my right.

I was hopelessly late for my visa appointment at the Germany embassy. The tube strike had totally thrown my google-mapped plan into the Thames. The double-decker bus did its uncanny best to reach every traffic signal just before it turned red or rumble up to a zebra crossing just as a Spanish tour group moseyed on across. My appointment window was between 9 and 9:30. It was 9:15 by the time I reached Marble Arch. I’d left the quiet roads of Chiswick over and hour and a half ago. The bus stank of commuters’ frustration.

Marble Arch at last. I asked the universe to take pity on my today and tore down the road to the next bus stop. Making one’s way through a school of angry but more importantly, late, London commuters isn’t easy. I think most people wanted to strike the tube workers right back. I really didn’t care for anyone else’s fortunes that morning. I saw the number 148 out the corner of my eye and raced it to the bus stop, jostling people out of my way. My cause was more important; they had to take one for the team.

Miraculously, the bus reached Hyde Park Corner station at 9:19am. 4 minutes, just like tfl.gov.uk had said. Heart pounding, head spinning, jeans almost past the point of no return, I bound uncoordinated down a road that looked something like the in the colour print out flapping around in my hand. I started to see big, square, white buildings with flags and pillars. This was embassy country. I asked an elderly guy who looked like he worked in the area. I expected a crisp response. What I got only exacerbated the situation: out of his mouth rolled slow, unrelenting Cockney. I cannot stress on just how slowly he talked, explaining the route to me like I was an idiot. “Just turn raw-ight he-a and wowk dehwn this way,” he twanged, “You’ll see the flehg and even though the road veers left, daaan follow it, you jesh keep going dehwn...” I started running before he finished.

9:23am, you glorious, glorious speck in space-time. I arrived at the embassy panting uncontrollably, inconsolably. I was always slow runner but I convinced myself I made up for it with “stamina”. Yeah right. The German embassy was comically German. It wasn’t an imperial looking English building like the others. Instead of a cream colour town-house like the others, it was a rather boxy, ugly, modern grey structure with big black windows. The bouncer at the entry to the visa section and a pretty girl by his side were the welcome party. They both smiled as they saw me run towards them, thrusting my watch and my appointment letter in their faces.

“Calm down,” zey said, “Take a deep breath, you’re OK”

“Tube… strike,” I panted, needing about five exhalations between the two individual grunts.

“Ja, but I’m afraid if I used zat excuse I’d be fired,” chuckled the hefty German man, as he ushered me through the metal detector.

“Just take a deep breath, calm down, turn off your mobile phone and take a token from my colleague inside,” said the blond girl, smiling reassuringly.

Thank you, universe. Thank you for 9:23am.

The Afghanis

As I settled into my seat, fighting off the last of the panting and wiping the sweat from my brow, I saw three fairly normal people enter the chamber. There were airport style seats and this South Asian family took their place next to me – on either side of me, in fact. I’d come to realise at a later time that this was strategically done.

The father was well dressed. He sported a very smart navy blue suit jacket above and off-white shirt. His greying moustache gave away his age. He certainly looked like someone who had been through this all before. His wife was dressed in a kurta, and looked considerably more weary – timid, even. While her husband had his poker face on, hers conveyed a 7-3 off-suit. She smiled a broken smile, as we exchanged glances. They were sat to my right, while their twenty-something, turban-clad son plonked down on the chair to my left and unceremoniously thrust a beaten-up looking application form in my face.

“What this?” he asked nonchalantly. He was pointing to question number 7 on an application form for a German residents permit. I told him it was asking if the person had ever been to Germany before and if so, when. I spoke in English at first, but after seeing the stress lines appear on his forehead, tentatively changed to Hindi. My Hindi is absolutely awful. I can just about hold my own in a swearing match and rattle off a shopping list to my driver back home, but that’s about it. But on we trudged, on through the dense marshes of that residents permit application.

After testing me out on question 7, he asked what number my token was. I told him I was number 34 and him and his parents’ heads all whipped up to the electronic screen, at the big red number 24. Instantly, somehow in unison, the three of the, using different words and phrases, asked me to help them with their application. I had nothing else to do, so why not. This guy was never going to be able to wade through the mangroves of simple English instructions without my help. He had spelt “retired”, ‘r-e-t-e-r’. He was filling out application for his parents. His father, despite looking as stately as the buildings in the area, did not speak a word of English. It was only when we got to a usually mundane question, number 14, that I was truly intrigued by them and their situation. The question asked whether they could go back to their home country. This is usually a straightforward “yes” so I was actually tempted to tell him to simply tick the yes box like I’d done for some of the other ones and move on. But for some reason I asked him which country they were from.

“India? Pakistan?”

“Afghanistan”

His answer came as a shock to me. They weren’t Muslim. Here were actual Afghani citizens. I asked him whether they were allowed to return. He said, “No”. I thought he misunderstood me, so I rephrased in Hindi.

“If you want to go back to Afghanistan, can you?”

“No.”

Stories blossomed in my head. All the prejudices I had about them from the minute I saw the, disappeared, replaced by new fantastic tales of exile and escaping the Taliban. But I dare not ask. We clambered through the remaining 5-6 questions he didn’t understand. But all the while my mind raced, conjuring up new stories for the family. What were a Sikh family doing in Afghanistan? What did they want in Germany? The mother had been to Germany three years ago – why did the father not go? Who was waiting for them in Germany? Were they seeking asylum? Why couldn’t they return to Afghanistan? What had they done? What had been done to them? Why couldn’t their son speak English and why wasn’t he going with them?

My number flashed across the screen. I patted him on the shoulder and he thanked me. His parents shook their heads in acknowledgement and gratitude as I walked towards the visa desk, like only those of Indian origin can.

“Afghanistan”, I dreamt to myself, “Throw in a girl and subtly address immigration and you’ve got yourself Cannes.”

Indian Jones

I presented my documents to the lady behind the glass. She checked with her supervisor. Everything was fine. This was not how it was supposed to be. I could collect my visa tomorrow. I got a green token and was almost home and dry.

The Indian fear, respect and reverence of visas and passports, as I discovered, was a self-fulfilling prophecy. We expect the process to be tough. We expect the proverbial booby-trapped tunnel that Indiana Jones faces at the start of the movie, where he has to swap the holy golden three-month multiple entry Sheghen statue with the bag of sand and then run down past flying arrows and giant bureaucratic boulders. We expect a struggle so we plan for it and we get it. But in the west, amongst ze civilised, it does not work this way. There is a human being on the other side of the glass. There is a person who you can talk to and reason with and explain yourself to and most crucially, they want to see you get to where you want. It takes us by shock. They can smile and this takes us by shock. My visa was ready within 24 hours. Unthinkable, impossible, mind-boggling! I collected it this morning and staggered out of the embassy, away past the Rolls-Royces, totally overwhelmed by how true the ‘efficient German’ cliché was.

I remember my coming of age in India – my first bribe. It was a Rs 200 gift to the security guard at the passport office in Bangalore for getting me the right form. The pink form instead of the orange form. I put the cash into the guard’s hand as instructed by him. It was a joke. I had to apply for a new passport because I had turned 18 and was accompanied by an uninterested man from the travel agency. Lucky for me they were petrified of my mum. So this tall, bored looking guy walked inside the high-ceilinged building with me and directed me to the right counter. He sat me down and told me not to move. I saw him approach a security guard with a rifle in a brown uniform. They went inside the bathroom and came out five minutes later. The security guard stood right back where he was, pre-shady-exchange. I was advised by the now interested travel agency rep that when the guard signalled, the passport officer’s chamber would open up and I should stand at next to the guard so I was first in line and avoided the queue. I did as I was told. I don’t know how much the guy paid the cop because he never told me. He just asked if everything was in order once I emerged and pushed off.

So you know what I was expecting. And here I was, standing next to a fragrant green park in the mid-morning drizzle. I felt an emptiness, looking at the Sheghen visa. The emptiness where I’d carefully stored all my stress and inevitable anguish at failure was cold and spread throughout my body and psyche like a lost bird.

I filled the space with a kebab and thought about Cannes as I looked out across Hyde Park. No need for the whip today, Indi.

Chanting by the Banyan Tree

2010-09-01T06:07:00.000-07:00

As a kid, I used to be scooped onto an inter-state bus by my sprightly granddad and taken to a small a village every now and then. As I grew up, obviously, the frequency of these trips slowed. It’s only now, looking back on the 2-3 day expeditions to the sleepy little temple-hamlet, that I “get” it. I understand why I was taken.

As a five year old, it was all an adventure. The 10-hour bus ride was fun. I would lie down on my granddad’s lap and sleep or look out the window at the windy hill roads with fascination. I was five. My time in Sakori would fly by. My granddad’s sisters were all priestesses from the age of 11 or 12 in our ancestral temple there. But to me they were just cheerful old ladies who pampered me with sweets and even the occasional afternoon of TV. We own a little room right next to the temple’s impressive cobblestone entrance. It is nothing more than a first floor room, to be absolutely honest. The floors were crude stone and there was a stove in an adjacent “kitchen”. There was a door that opened onto a front balcony that overlooked the village’s courtyard and temple gate. There was a backdoor that opened onto an exposed path that led to the “bathroom”. No heated water or flushing toilet. There was a hole in the floor and a bucket with a 1950’s electric heating stick. A tattered mosquito net lay folded on the sofa. It sounds like a refugee camp, but I was five. It was all an adventure and I barely spent any time in the room anyway. In the interiors of India, there are plenty of things an enthusiastic grandfather can do to keep a five-year old entertained.

Inside the temple complex were trees to climb and cow sheds to explore and sacred rooms that were occupied by former swamis. There were the children of the cooks and temple clerks to play with. I remember being taken to see the cows, one morning. They were so big and intimidating, with great big scary eyes that followed you. I remembering being frightened, even of the tiny calf. I would run through the various rooms of the temple, muttering playful prayers as I passed each deity. Lunch was served in a stone-floor hall, on rickety wooden tables. I would restlessly finish my food and speed off with the other children to go climb a new found tree: a new challenge to fill my day with. In the evenings I would go for long walks with my granddad, along the sugar-cane fields and right into the heart of poor, rural India. Those vast sugar cane fields hid mud huts and dark skinned children with clay-like hair. But I was five, I ran ahead, chasing a farmer on a bicycle.

Going back there five, seven, ten years later, things changed a lot. I’d lost my innocence and the place had lost its charm. Going to Sakori was a chore that had to be done to please grandparents and ancient, ailing priestesses and the Gods, I guess. The yearly pilgrimage became something I had to ‘endure’ with my sister or younger cousin or whoever I was going with. I hated everything about the place. There was suddenly nothing to do. I no longer spoke Marathi and therefore looked shiftily at my feet when introduced to the same children I’d frolicked with years earlier. The food suddenly went from being food to being tasteless/spicy vegetarian food. The bus ride was excruciating; the windy hill roads became a nightmare that I tried to sleep through. No more tree climbing or cow milking. The temple was now a place where one’s shoes could get stolen. The ground I used to walk on barefoot, carelessly, suddenly was a minefield of sharp stones and prickly gravel. It’s amazing how bored I got at the thought of going to Sakori. Shambhavi and I would start taking cards along and playing cards at the end of a particularly boring day would become its highlight. The evening walk into the sugar cane fields became a time where I could daydream of Hong Kong or London or wherever I was currently living at the time. Perhaps saddest of all was my grandfather’s inability to draw happiness into me from the place he too had grown up with. He’d enjoyed afternoon naps with the three docile dogs in the temple courtyard. I was no longer five.

The room became a prison - the village itself, an island of boredom and punishment. I would yearn for the bus or car to whisk us back to civilisation, back to my cousin’s big house in Colaba.

And yet I found myself thinking about Sakori, the other day. I was stuck in the kind of traffic at Mahim Junction that makes you want to get out of the cramped taxi, jump into the sea and swim the rest of the way to suburbs. Out of the blue, I remembered the view from the balcony of our little room, at sunset. The immeasurable peace brought about by the orange late-afternoon light and the shadows it beams through the nooks of the old banyan tree. Immeasurable. I was taken back, so that I was sat next to the thin men who rest cross legged on the edge of the water tank that flanks the food hall. I was taken back to the men and women from the city who take care not to get their white kurtas dirty as they make their way across the square, to the temple. I remembered the reverberations of the chants themselves: the intoxicating energy of chants you’ve repeated subconsciously as a child. I remember the way a hundred voices echoing inside the main room weren’t loud, just powerful. All the chaos of the road, all the heat of the afternoon, all the humidity on my brow suddenly flooded back and drowned me and I wondered where Sakori had gone.

There is something abstract, something intangible about that tiny, tiny temple town that keeps my uncle and parents and relatives going back every once in a while. I think sometimes we all want go back in our minds to climb trees and run amongst cows and feel the warmth of priestesses prayer.

Some Town, Some Terrace

2010-08-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

The crispness of the night at this altitude is what made this terrace so special. The breeze in its silent splendour, drowns out the soft house music that courses through the veins of this party. This was Frazier Town or Richmond Town or Cox Town or anywhere in Bangalore, really.

The house was four stories tall. In Bombay it would have been 3 apartments and a penthouse but we were not in Bombay. There was a tiny lift that rumbled up and down - thank heavens we didn't have to traverse the stairs in this darkness. All four floors were pitch black and silent, so as not to wake the parents. I often wondered if they were oblivious to the gatherings happening above their heads. Or whether Stockholm Syndrome had set in and they no longer minded the teenage children keeping them hostage in a vault of ignorance.

Oh, the crowds had been mixed tonight! 3 schools already represented and counting; this would be a fun night. The school you attended is an identity that sticks with you, long after you've left. Everyone on this rooftop had been out of school for at least 2 years and yet old rivalries, preconceptions and stories found their way through the air. Things were still quiet, probably because it was early and not enough had been drunk or smoked. I was sat in a corner with the young Sir of this tastelessly decorated building. I was amongst my own but too busy listening out for familiar voices and laughs to pay much attention to my friends. Slowly but surely, the small clumps tucked away in dark corners of the roof swelled and overlapped and on the surface, all the tension was gone - though piercing glares were still exchanged between high school enemies beneath the cover of friendly atmosphere. Hopefully someone would drink too much tonight and we'd get a fight. An uneasy truce I didn't want to get caught up in. Then the door opened as usual and the girls walked in.

There were already girls here but these were the mute Sirens of legend. I chuckled as the scene turned into some cliched hiphop video: conversations stopped, friends looking in the opposite direction were nudged and things suddenly got even more interesting. There were four of them, all acutely aware of the attention they were drawing, reveling in every second but taking care not to show it. What an honour it was to recieve that solitary second's eye contact as she glanced up from her phone. But enough of this nonsense, I need a refill.

There were the usual awkward exchanges between people you used to know. I'm sure you know the kind I'm talking about. You bump into someone at the bar who used to go to the same school as you in 9th grade and after the initial shock of bumping into each other fades, there is an emptiness that fills the space between the two of you. You ask each other about each other's lives, feigning interest and even asking the odd question. But it's difficult to generate that kind of interest in someone whose life you've already prejudged. "This guy was a bad egg in school, I'm sure he isn't doing anything with his life now. He's probably at uni in Singapore or something", are the kinds of rotten thoughts that flow through one's head at such occasions.

The truth was we are all still children with juvenile agendas. The cool night air and low buzz of a dozen conversations does not cloak the dynamics of this social interaction. Those who are working are seen as the most grown up - those who work for their dads 'don't count'. Some of us are at college abroad, and you are judged based on this too. The US or UK, if you've heard of the college's name, rank very high. If you haven't heard of the college's name, you're at least respectable. Australia and Canada come next, trailed by Singapore which is seen as the kind of place any screw-up can go to, to get a foreign degree. Those at college in Bangalore rank the lowest but make up for this by acting the most macho. All the prejudices are of course, totally baseless and where you go to college doesn't say nearly as much about you as some people would think, but its interesting to sample the bigotry and bias at play.

But alas, we are civilised enough to mingle as they do in movies. After exchanging glances with someone all night whom you are positive you've seen somewhere:

"Hey, I've seen you before!"

"I know, but where?"

"Do you know ____ ?"

"Yeah, I was in the same school as her!"

"Ahh cool"

"Yeah"

"So are you at college or working or..."

And the conversation meanders on from there. Bangalore is small enough for such conversations to happen more often than you'd think. Everyone has seen everyone at Mocha or Scottish or some such popular hang out.

Oh, we have our first fight! It's not a real fight, it's a drunken play-fight. A ritual oft played out by the intoxicated males. Someone grabs someone's neck too hard in embrace, and the person spins around in outrage before everyone says, "ehhh macha is this how you treat a friend?" and all that nonsense. If you're lucky, a girl will get touched and a real fight will break out. These are the stuff of gossip rounds for weeks after. Two guys will square up, the host will usher them out onto the street to fight and everyone will watch and call people up. This is when old school time alliances and rivalries rear their drunken heads. If the fight goes on for long enough, then all sorts of shady 'pull' arrive from truly grotesque parts of town, parts of town that have become folklore. I'm talking about the Kamanhalli's and Shivajinagar's of this world. You get these frightening north-eastern gangster types on Suzuki's or a car full of dark Bangalore foot-soldiers, all heeding the battle-cry of their former master.

After the guys have been calmed down, the party returns to normalcy. The hosts do anxious rounds of the terrace, making sure no one has puked or ashed in the wrong place. I know one of the sirens through a common friend so I go over and say hi and get a hug, much to the envy of my friends. We get to talking and I am introduced to her friends. A quiet victory. I forsake my friends for this new found company, but they'd have done the same to me. It's nice knowing different cliques at a party - you can rotate when you get bored when you run out of stories to tell or times to reminisce about and yet every time you return, you are greeted with "Hey! Where have you BEEN?"

Disaster. As they were leaving, some people got spotted by Bangalore's notorious traffic cops on a random nightly tour of the area. They've been alerted to the existence of fun after curfew and we all have to leave, or risk the police waking up the parents and it simply cannot come to that. This is the sad part of the night in Bangalore, when you have to say bye to the girl you thought you had a chance with and hop into someone's car and zip away into the back streets.

If you're lucky you go to someone else's terrace where four of five of you sip whiskey or something more sinister till the cocks crow. That is how most night's end in this infant city.

The Workforce

2010-08-27T06:42:00.000-07:00

I walked into office. How lovely it feels to say that.

Bombay was everything I thought it would be. Moving back to India could not be going any better. I’d landed a cushy job working for a UK based company in India (thank you summer internship, thank you Dad). As I lay my soaking wet umbrella down and turn my laptop on, I cannot imagine a more perfect situation. I am the first one into my section of the office because I live only five minutes away. No dreaded Bombay train commute for me, no fighting like an animal for place and no armpits in my face for 45 minutes. People may find the trains charming but I’ll take my Rs 16 auto-rickshaw ride, thanks. Some mornings I forget to tell the driver when to turn because I’m too busy admiring the chaos on Linking Road but not this morning. The torrential rain outside kept me on my toes; I had to stop the auto at the right time, so as to get as little distance between the curved plastic roof of the rickshaw and the shelter of the office building as possible. I paid the driver his fare, took a deep breath and made a run for it. It was just across the road so unfurling my ancient, wet umbrella would be a futile exercise. I side stepped puddles and on coming traffic in my bid to reach the office as quickly as possible. All this while I was being watched by the security guard; the old man in the brown uniform who sits with his visitors’ ledger and watches the monsoon anarchy from his red plastic chair. I reached office 20% wet, which was a huge improvement from my first day, where, naïve and inexperienced, I was humbled by the monsoon-puddle-car splash cartel.

I turned the lights and AC on and waited for my co-workers to come in out of the rain. At 10am, it felt weird being the first one in apart from the ‘office boys’ (the cleaners and all round problem-solvers who seem to live in the office). There were a few people sharing sweets on the main meal table but they were strangers from far-flung provinces of the office and so I did my best to walk by them without making eye contact.

10:08am and Rahul walks in. Finally! He smells of cigarette smoke as usual and settles into his workstation next to me, sighing heavily: he’d gotten bitten by the monsoon. Rahul sat right next to me and as a result was the first and strongest friend I’d made. He was young and cool and from Bangalore, just like me. He worked on digital advertising (as the new guy, I was placed in the only available seat in the area, in the digital section) and showed me a lot of cool tools like SurveyMonkey and other tricks of the trade. We discussed Bombay nightlife and music and generally got along very well. What I liked about Rahul was that he was dead professional when working on a project. He took meetings very seriously and expected a high level of output from his co-workers. There were days when he was swamped and he didn’t talk to me even once and I was totally OK with this – it was something I admired. Rahul lived about 45 minutes away, which was about the average for most of my co-workers.

10:13am. Shefali and Poornima walk in. They live near each other, on the outskirts of town and so commute in together in Shefali’s car. Shefali was perhaps the most peculiar person in the office, to me. She was a very large woman, who had some truly bizarre quirks. She took pictures of everybody with her camera phone and sporadically uploaded them onto Facebook. She was a very sweet person, who would extend conversations long beyond the interest span of the other person. She always left her phone on her desk when she went somewhere and it would ring and ring without fail every time she ventured to another part of the office. Without fail. After a while you get remember everyone’s ring tones by heart – I learnt hers first. But the strangest thing about her was the transformation that would take place when she was on the phone with a client or a supplier. She went from being this sweet, rambling creature who reminds you of an over-enthusiastic aunt to being a ferocious, straight-to-the-point business woman. She would raise her voice and tell people off like they were children. She even spoke this way to clients! This kind of behaviour was unheard of in an agency; the client is a greater than God. And here Shefali blasted them for minutes on end, if a certain piece of work/feedback hadn’t been delivered on time or if there was miscommunication or even worse, laziness on their part. When Shefali was on the phone and when she got into one of her rants, everyone stopped what they were doing and enjoyed the unceremonious verbally beating. It was beautiful.

Poornima was much younger than Shefali. Her and Rahul were very close friends. Poornima was also cool but she was married, which threw me off a little at first, because I couldn’t imagine someone as young and fun and interesting as herself, being married. Marriage is for old people. Poornima would often send us funny videos over Gmail chat and she ordered South Indian breakfast each morning. Various people would ‘pile on’, depending on who was feeling hungry that day. Eating piping hot vadas when it was positively pouring outside was a great feeling. You bond with each co-worker at some point or the other. You have ‘the chat’ where you tell yourself about each other and really learn about the other person, to a much greatest degree than rumour or passing conversation could ever teach you. I had this moment with Poornima one day when no one took up her offer to get some chaat from down the road and I thought I’d tag along. She told me she’d worked for Microsoft for a few years and that she’d only recently moved to Bombay (this I could tell). She was very South Indian and made no bones about her fondness of Tamil music or film. I told her about myself and she was intrigued about why I’ve moved back to India after doing a degree abroad. Like most people in India, she was a little taken aback by the fact that I hadn’t decided to stay on and work in ‘London’, which is the Indian word for ‘England’. I told her that this job and this life was miles better than anything I was offered there and described how wonderful my life was at this moment in time: a month into my new job, my new city and my new state of mind.

10:25am. Vivek strides into office, smiling and soaking wet. “What happened?” we all ask. “Don’t take an auto on the highway” he chuckled. Vivek was my secondary boss. He was a young father who was on the threshold of being truly ‘senior’ as far as workplace hierarchy goes. He turns on his MacBook and we discuss his meeting yesterday, as he wipes the steam from his glasses. He had gone to meet a potential client and we sat down and had a chat about the particulars of the meeting, the history of the client and whether this would be a project we could work on. As the new guy, I asked a lot of questions and gave my inputs, which – I think – they consider ‘fresh’. Vivek is another one intrigued with my choice of moving back to India when the wonders of the West drew me so close to their bosom. The kind of money I’m making here, in real terms goes a hell of a lot further than my UK money would. I’m living with my grandparents who are only too glad to have me around: no rent or bills and food cost only if I want it. There is a maid to clean the house every morning and an anarchic laundry service that somehow gets my shirts back to me, ironed, after 2 days. I have my own room, with a TV and a bathroom. I spend Rs 40 a day ‘commuting’ by auto rickshaw and Rs 150 on average, ordering lunch into office. The only real cost I incur is having a good time and come the weekends/late evenings, boy did I have a good time. In absolute terms, I’d earn more in the UK. But then I’d have to live alone, make my own food, clean my own dishes/clothes, take the tube into work everyday and be thousands of miles away from my family. I’d get good roads, working police and all the other joys of the developed world, sure. But, as I explained to Vivek, after the kinds of summer’s I’d spent interning in India, her charms were too seductive. “Fair enough”, he said and gave me my day’s assignment. It was a research project. I was used to these kinds of tasks. A bit of savvy googling here and there, some analysis to tie everything together, a last check that I couldn’t do anything more to improve and I was done. One of the things I learnt quickly about working in an office is that no one works all day, like you think people do when you’re a kid. People work for 20 minutes, then check Facebook or Twitter for 5 minutes, then have a chat with co-workers about something work related that quickly descends into an office wide story telling session. Perhaps this was a pattern much more common with creative departments or professions: I remember the silence and sullenness of the office when I’d interned with a financial services company.

10:34am. Shweta arrives. Shweta is my boss, the flamboyant, high-flying head of the fledgling India operation. She has been in advertising and media for a long time and tends to hobnob with the city’s elite. She is a very fun person who swears as much as some of my friends. She is the most ‘senior’ person in the office and knows me very well through my parents. Thus, I get treated like a nephew even though I am a graduate. Oh, who am I kidding? I am the baby in the office until the next new guy arrives – what a glorious day that will be! She often initiates office chats by swivelling around on her chair and airing some industry news that causes everyone else to swivel around on their chairs and join in and build a lively 10-minute discussion. I love these discussions and love how they fizzle out when, one by one, people start swivelling back to their PCs.

These are the people with whom I share my little section of the office. The office itself is pretty run of the mill for an advertising company: big glass windows on all sides with a large pantry/table/eating area in the middle of the office. The office is located just behind one of Bombay’s busiest suburban roads and we are blessed in our little section, to have a wonderful window. You see, our window is polished from the outside with some mirroring material that turns our entire section into that little room next to interrogation rooms where you can see out but the person sees their reflection. Every so often this single-sided mirror will give us a hilarious moment, when some poor unsuspecting young actor starts checking himself out, preparing to enter the casting centre next door. We get all sorts and the second someone spots a potential self-admirer we all crowd around the window in some vaguely voyeuristic peer group, peering at the oblivious soul just a few feet away. We all have stories of the best instances of people checking themselves out that we’ve seen. Ashok’s story tops the lot. He was one looking out the window when a guy and his girlfriend pulled up on his motorbike and promptly started making out. While this was slightly off putting, Ashok didn’t pay attention until he noticed the guy flexing his biceps while kissing his girlfriend, with eyes on his guns rather than her! Just imagining the scene made us all laugh for a good few minutes. The single-sided mirror is one of the highlights of working in that office.

11:35am. Naman strolls in, flip flops slapping the white floors as he nonchalantly high-fives everyone. Naman was a real character. He was without doubt the most chilled out guy in the office. He was another one, like Rahul, who could be dead serious when he wanted to, but that happened about once every three weeks. Him and Rahul would take their cigarette breaks together and he’d get terribly flustered if Rahul had already gone for his smoke minutes before and thrown the whole cycle out of sync. There was no dress code in the office (once again, symptomatic of your modern day, relaxed, creative environment) and so most people had their styles. Naman always wore genuinely funny T-shirts and his trademark khaki shorts. He’d take great pride in unveiling his newly ordered T-shirts in front of us and getting a laugh. He was one of those who started a sentence in English and finished it in Hindi and vice versa, equally often. He’d always have some funny work related anecdote to tell Rahul or Poornima. He’d recite his story over everyone else’s heads, to the opposite side of the room, just so everyone hears it. He was the office joker. Naman was another of my close friends, especially at lunchtime.

Lunchtime was a really fun time in the office. There was one table inside and one table outside. On good days, both were used but in today’s ferocious rains, people had to take shifts on the inside table. Our section ate together at around 1:30 and lunch could last until 2:30 depending on how much you wanted to scavenge. Naman took me under his wing and taught me the art of eating everyone else’s lunch. People were very liberal about sharing food. Vivek and Poornima got yummy tiffins delivered by a very efficient company. Shweta’s maid always packed her some gourmet (by our standards) lunch. Nikhil and Shefali got tiffins from home. Naman and I would order food from McDonalds, Subway, the Chinese place or the Indian place. The trick, I learnt, was to order your food as every else sits down to eat. That way, you can snipe bites from everyone else and once you’re half full, chow down on the food you’ve ordered. By this time most people have cleared off the table or are too full to eat yours. Ruthless ingenuity. Lunchtime was another time where stories were exchanged and Shweta usually got things rolling with her tales of famous stars she’s met through her work. The gossip would reach a crescendo and then be totally smashed when someone’s Big Mac Meal arrived.

There was an unspoken pact between 2:30 and 4: no one would ask for work and no one would give any. We left each other to our own post-meal devices. This was when I’d do my Internet ‘rounds’, checking the Guardian, NDTV.com, Football 365, Arsenal blogs and other personal blogs. It was a time of quiet where I think, most people just wanted to digest their food and rest their mouths and ears after the frenzy that was the communal lunch.

At 4pm, one would either order tea/coffee from the office boys or go pick up some chaat or sweets. Shefali would bring around sweets everyday, without fail. It was another of her quirks, I suppose. She loved her sweets. This is when people would perk up and work related conversations would restart. This is when I’d show Vivek or Shweta my day’s work and get their feedback, in time for me to spend the final few hours of the day fine-tuning it before I headed home. The hours between 4 and 7 always passed the quickest. Before I knew it, it was twilight, the rain has eased up and it was time to pack my things and head home.

My first month had passed like those last few hours. It had been a blur, a wonderful, exciting, eye-opening ride that had shown me how enjoyable work could be and how welcoming and friendly a work environment could be. The Bombay office was an island of calmness, laughter and air conditioning juxtaposed with pulsating maelstrom of rain, smog and madness that was Bombay. I was part of the workforce, for the first time in my life. I was no longer a meandering student, wondering what I’d do: I was doing something. I’d become like my co-workers - I was no longer an intern. I’d reach home everyday, sit down on my bed and feel a real sense of satisfaction as I took my shoes off because that day, I had done work.

London Underbelly

2010-08-27T03:34:00.000-07:00

“Let’s go Casino, innit”, chimed Jeet, breaking the silence left by the loading of a new Pro Evo match on the Playstation.

It was a novel idea that caught my imagination, even though it was quite a common activity for Jeet and Nilesh. I had been playing on the Playstation in the messy living room of their basement apartment for the better part of an hour and was bored, hungry and a bit cranky. It hadn’t been an evening of vintage conversation and laughter, far from it. Nilesh was a friend from school in India, who still treated me the same and I liked him for it. We were both football geeks who had similar experiences in school; we shared hilarious memories of pathetic nights “clubbing” in Bangalore and boarding school antics mostly. But when he wasn’t talking to me, he became one of them. He became a Jeet, a Gujrati Londoner who wasn’t the least bit interesting or charming and who had a penchant for talking like a gangster and lazing around on a sofa playing Pro Evo. He’d become one of them and it was sad, to me.

I guess he was a victim of his environment; when looking for an apartment he’d chanced upon an advert posted by fellow Gujrati sounding guys in a nice part of town, so he took it. Dipesh was the other tenant in the flat but he was rarely in the living room, choosing to spend his time watching movies in his dark room. He was also one of them, just quieter. I found myself analysing these people and stopped myself, who was I to judge these guys? They were living life and seemingly enjoying it; I didn’t want to come across as a wet blanket.

So off to the casino we went. Nilesh wasn’t as enthusiastic as Jeet at first but he sprung off the couch as quick as anyone. It was 3am and October and therefore cold. I was in London for an Arsenal game and had decided to spend the night with an old school friend and got much more than I’d bargained for.

The bus ride was long and boring and awkward because the three of us had to sit in separated seats; London night buses are crowded, it seems! London by night was great to see though. There were plenty of people out and about. There were tourist groups and 20 odd year old girls clip-clopping across the pavement. The city was definitely still buzzing as we got off the bus. We walked across a couple of very charmingly lit squares that oozed Central London and then down a back alley that hid cafes both swanky and squalid. I clasped the sides of my coat closer to me: the wind in England is remorseless.

We finally reached the Casino, innit. It was the cheapest, tackiest thing I’d ever seen but I was excited. Neon lights screamed at us from above. “Slots, roulette, blackjack”, they cried in purple and red electric hues. Jeet and Nilesh both flashed their casino cards at the entrance and walked in. I had to fill out a form to get mine. It was worth it, Jeet assured me. So, after five minutes I was a member of ‘Play to Win’ Casinos. I felt an odd rush and decided to keep and open mind and try and enjoy myself in this alien world. It was my first time inside a Casino and it was quiet. This wasn’t Vegas.

Nilesh was playing an electronic version of roulette. He broke even. Jeet played slots, a game I shall never understand. He lost, obviously. He too turned his attention to roulette as I watched on curiously. He won! He won 5 pounds. I was offered the chance to play many times but declined. Watching was enough of an experience. We were amongst the 10 people in the Casino, although at 4am I didn’t really expect more.

We decided we would take our winnings to McDonalds. Jeet talked excitedly about previous nights at the Casino as we walked. His was South London slang – quite a dialect! He told us – well, mostly me – of how they had once gotten chucked out because of unruly behaviour and of a time where he won a whole £50 after a particularly successful night at the roulette ‘table’.

Everywhere as we walked, there was something to see. We passed nightclubs as they were closing. Dazed patrons staggered out, their loud voices filling the narrow cobbled streets. Bouncers were ushering boisterous folks out of their now brightly lit watering holes. There’s nothing more sad than a nightclub at closing time. The music is dead and the bright lights chase people out the door faster than any testosterone filled bouncer ever could.

We passed all kinds of emptying clubs. There was a joint that billowed only black people. It was clearly some sort of ‘night’ as the guys were dressed like pimps and the girls were dressed like… well you can guess what they were dressed like. Verbal fights broke out, in loud slurred tones. Someone had looked at someone’s girl and it was going to kick off. The girl screamed in outrage! How dare anyone look at her? We laughed and walked on.

And Indie club had all the telltale signs: the skinny, pasty skinned guys smoking outside. The production line wardrobes were amusing. There were even some long hair oldies walking slowly away, no doubt dreaming of that 'proper' rock pub they hadn’t been able to enjoy tonight. But it was mostly pale guys in checked shirts and plimsolls, as non-threatening a group as one was likely to find on this street, on this night.

There was a more conventional, house-music playing club that had emptied its laundry onto the street. There were suit-clad City boys, loudly discussing women and how much they’d paid inside. The City boys weren’t drunk but quite cranky. They searched angrily for an eatery to pander to their cravings. A Japanese restaurant sufficed. McDonalds glimmered in the distance but the large, steaming bowls of noodle soup in the Japanese place were too tempting. We joined the clubbers in their post clubbing grub hub.

10 pounds for a dish was worth it, just to listen to plethora of conversations wafting around us. I’m not sure Jeet or Nilesh cared but I did. It was fascinating. Hip, young Americans compared the night’s experience to ‘New York city’. The 4 actual Japanese people there ate silently, almost frightened to look up from their bowls. The City boys were louder than ever, inside the hole-in-the-wall.

“I bought her a fucking Mango Martini”

“Just leave it, Eren”

“Nah, she was acting pricy for no reason”

“They all do, you muppet. That’s why you buy ‘em Tequilla”

laughter

“Fuck this, we’re going to Soho tomorrow night, this was bollocks”

I hid my smile in my Udon. I tried to make conversation, reminiscing about school nights ‘out’ with Nilesh but he seemed distracted. Jeet asked me about India and I told him about life there. I “sold” him life there, like I try and do to everyone who asks me about India. It’s purely instinct, I promise.

It had been an eye-opening night for a sheltered kid like myself. I’d seen the night in London’s dazzling centre. Whether I’d be back again is an intriguing question. Maybe after a little Tequilla.

Last Night I Flew Over Iraq

2010-06-08T05:40:00.000-07:00

Most of the time you glance up at the moving map, you’re flying over obscure stretch of the Balkan coast. It’s never interesting enough to hold your gaze for more than a minute, unless you’re gripped by the kind of boredom that a media-less flight brings with it. Tonight was different. Tonight the map was of Iraq. The thin red line that charts your completed flight path hovered and inched east of Baghdad. I was as close as I’d ever been to some form of war.

What was going on below? What new Kalashnikov mischief was afoot? What were mothers whispering into their children’s ears? What were the troops saying about Hurt Locker? I tried reaching out through the Arabian night. I tried sending my spirit to the Middle East, to that most misrepresented world.

I tried to empathise, but then I picked up the dinner menu and like the rest of the world, was engulfed once again by air-conditioned apathy.

The Other Goa

2010-04-08T20:11:00.000-07:00

Temples are all silent on the outside yet a maelstrom of flower flinging fury within. Our ancestral temple in Goa was, like many others, in its own complex. Guest accommodation reminded me of Sakori - but I'll tell you about that later. There was of course, the kitchen and dining area, where priests of all sizes and ages served food while reciting the various blessings in a state of trance. There were portly old priests who made it a point to give you as much food as they think is necessary - if only they knew how much I love vegetarian temple lunches... The thin priests were often younger. Their virgin moustaches and curious glares gave their age away. Seeing them serve me made me wonder how different my life could have been had that God character seen it fit. How does he decide anyway? How far was I from serving semi-tourists on a banana leaf?

The interiors of temples are usually marble. Cold, hard marble walls ring with the echoes of tenors' prayers. My grandparents, the couple sat feet away from me on the wooden chairs in the temple's side room, are among those who speak Temple. The focus in their misty eyes is matched by the priest sat cross legged, across the altar from them. In front of the trio, the frankincense sticks that jut out from the cluttered altar burn slowly - their smoke, as pleasing to the nose as it is potent to the eyes. How can these people not go to heaven? Forget the cheerful priest, who's halo I can just about make out over the light of the many candle-lamps. My grandfather lives his life in between his prayers. In our Bombay house, he spends his day tending to the needs of the all too high-maintenance prima donna wooden altar next to the bed. My grandmother speaks of Lord Krishna like he's one of her lungee-wearing pals. I'm talking about the kinds of pals found here or at seemingly every other temple across the country, who I'm introduced to with such pride and sincerity, in Konkani (a language in which I only know the few most important words, "the children are very hungry"). I'm certain there'll be a limo at the pearly gates.

This morning the courtyards in the complex are quiet and still relatively cool, although the Goan sun that casts terrific shadows across the dusty ground will make you sweat in moments of stepping into it's Vindalooic light. The temple itself its planted in the middle of the square. A few meters from it, a pristine white obelisk (I sound like such a tourist) provides Dad with great photo opportunities. "Yes dad, we'll stand facing the sun for 12 seconds, faces scrunched into smiles of politician-esque falseness, we don't mind." The whole setting was not the kind of Goa I was used to. There were lush, green hills to the West with a tiny shrines dotted in between the vegetation, sheltering the complex. The roads were small and winding like all Goan roads but beaches were replaced by paddy fields and the churches by temples. It was a far cry from Anjuna, I'll tell you that. It was quiet, but not siesta quiet. There weren't that many curly haired men with cheap sunglasses. It was a different Goa. And yet this temple couldn't have been just anywhere in the south. There was a distinct feel to it. Maybe it was just the way the sun made my sister whine - it had to be Goa.

Like with most of India, there is some unspoken protocol that keeps everything in check. I think after a certain amount of trips to the temple you're expected know you're way around the legislation. It is assumed. The temple constitution tells us where to leave our shoes, where to throw rice, when to throw flowers and when to extend one's right hand. I suppose God keeps checklists of these things. Not that I have any clue about what one does at a temple. I simply sit cross legged in the corner, meditating in tune with the elaborate ceremony. Just sit and enjoy the fragrance of the flowers, the hypnotic monotone of the priest, close your eyes and think about the world and your place in it. Think about it, gently, and ask yourself how to be a good person. For me the answer is inside. God is not in a book or off playing golf with the elderly on a cloud. God is life and love and how to connect them. And all this is inside. It's inside your head and mind, it's inside the intangible spirit that connects love and life and you and me. You need only look.

Character Study 2

2010-03-27T19:51:00.000-07:00

You don't have to live in Palm Meadows to be Palm Meadows. It's a bubble that exists within anyone who's part of that culture. Anyone who plays golf on a Saturday morning but hates how snooty the staff at the club are. Anyone who has 2 cars but only one driver; who's parents feel comfortable being soccer moms or dads on a Sunday evening. IITs, IIMs and aye aye Captains all pace the grassy courtyards, probably still thinking about how they got this life.

We live in the niche. A freshly cut niche that I'm not sure exists in many countries or many cities. To be called middle class in England is fine; its closer to a compliment because you're neither poor nor snobbish. But we are not proud to be called middle class. 'Middle class' brings with it connotations of mediocrity and our parents have worked too hard and too smart to be called average. And yet we are not Upper class - most of my kind do not even know what the title 'Upper class' truly entails. I know people who are Upper class. You'll hear about them from me soon enough. We are not bourgeoise either. My family was not poor one day and rich the next, thanks to some stroke of luck or cataclysmic upheaval.

You see in my country, the Principal saw fit to create a new class. A new rung in the ladder. A new peg by which one can measure oneself against society. Maybe this class always existed and I'm now simply giving a name to it? Giving my name to it? There are two kinds of people in India - those who live in Villas and those who work in them. Those who own cars and those who drive them. There are those who eat off ceramic plates and those who clean them. We are the Urban Royalty, the glorious child of capitalism and the third world.

How can I explain to you the look in my driver's eyes when I told him how much my university fees were? What should I have felt when I saw the awe in his innocent, tired eyes? I didn't feel arrogant or pretentious or angry at myself. I didn't know what to feel. What do these people think about their day at work, when they go back to their families? When does a driver become a Sir? When does a maid become a Madam? I'm not a communist, I'm a writer.

I love my maid and my driver (whoever they are, this month) because they are part of our white-picket fenced lives. They are a cog in this freshly fashioned aristocracy. We are the good kids, of good parents and good families. Somewhere in the past, our parents caught the right train or missed the right bus and here we are.

As we played football in the cull-de-sacs around Palm Meadows or drove through the quiet arteries that crisscross 100 Feet Road, we didn't realise what we are. But it struck me tonight. Our parents were middle-class but we are not. There is no animosity between the various burgeoning levels of the Indian pyramid. Consciously or not, everyone knows their roles and everyone knows stories of someone who's morphed and how they did it.

As a proud member of the Whitefield crowd, I know what makes my kind different from others. It's not so much that we know the value of money (unlike the true Upper Class, for whom it is simply not an issue - because it never will be), it's more down to us knowing what it takes to attain wealth for oneself. We know because our parents taught us. We know because we were sent to tuitions 3 days a week. We know because we stressed for exams and our parents stressed with us. We know because sometimes, we weren't allowed to play football in the evenings. Sometimes we weren't allowed out for a night out. I think that's what makes the Palm Meadows people different. Though they live well, they didn't come from wealth but they are certainly headed towards it.

When I talk about Palm Meadows, I'm not talking about the million dollar houses or the 2 lakh club membership fee. I'm not talking about those horridly deformed palm trees. I'm not talking about the fragrance of the newly trimmed grass as it bakes away under a clear sky. I'm talking about all of us good kids. The kids who went to tuitions. The kids who talked to their drivers. The kids who listened to their parents who, for the most part, were ambitious college grads much like ourselves, 25 years ago. You don't have to live in Palm Meadows to be Palm Meadows. It is a concept. A little slice of California that provides a utopian bubble for those college grads 25 years ago, who rode the horse named Capitalism.

Palm Meadows is a petri dish for the Urban Royalty, so sit back and enjoy this little social experiment.

Character Study 1

2010-03-16T17:04:00.001-07:00

Weed in India is cheap. He always had stash in his drawer, in the drawer all parents 'trust' their teenage kids with. Weed was like whiskey in Western movies; it was served when a friend comes over or when times were tough or when a character in a scene needs to do some thinking. Sprawled out on his bed in his dark room, he needed to do some thinking.

His was the classic Bangalore guy's room. The only light at this unearthly hour are the neon blue hues emanating from an open laptop screen. It's the kind of light that bounces gently off walls and cannot creep beneath the gap under a door and stray into the path of parent's open eye. Torrents bring him album upon album of death metal, black metal and all the others kinds of metals that Bangalore boys churn through their refinery. Mesh windows keep the torrents of mosquitoes riding the city smog, out. The air tonight is heavy, because it hasn't rained today. The weed is a quiet mirror for reflection on a night and a life.

The creaky rhythm of fan overhead give him a beat to roll to. He was your usual stoner bad boy. He wasn't a bad guy, he was a bad boy. He sat in the back row of class. He'd been in fights and like all bad boys, didn't need to show off about having done so. He'd faced cops and won and lost. He'd fucked girls before his peers. He bunked college but he didn't go clubbing. He listened to rock and was afraid to dance. And yet he was a good friend to the good boys and he took the greatest care to ensure his image was one of someone who didn't care for his image. He could ride and drive. He could roll a perfect joint. He could play guitar. At some point in his life, he'd been expelled from school and thus expelled from the Indian Dream.

You haven't heard of the Indian Dream? It's very simple. You don't get expelled, you do well in your tenth and twelfth and you go abroad for university and become a surgeon or an engineer or a banker and most importantly, you never think seriously about India again. It's very simple. Once India has become a holiday destination, you are living the Indian Dream. He was shaken awake a long time ago.

Somewhere down the line, he chose his path. He chose to be a bad boy and like that, his life was charted out before him. In spite of his international high school, he'd walk a different road to the good boys. He'd smoke a cigarette in 8th grade. He'd become cool 9th. He'd be driving and bribing by 10th. He'd realise school mattered in 11th. He'd be humbled by 12th. He'd be forgotten by September. There was no 13th - that was the last stop. All change please.

International School was a 5-lakh-a-year lighthouse that the boys jumped off. The good boys groomed their practise papers and flapped their grades and were flying away soon enough. They didn't land in the water below. The bad boys jumped into the warm, crystal clear pool of their father's business and local, highly bunk-able college. Treading water was easy. All the swimmers can hear above them is the sound of joyous laughter as the good boys find their wings. When they return to land, they'll be tourists.

When they return to land, to breed or nest or hunt or smoke, they'll still be friends with the bad boys. They'd still look the amphibians in the eye, but the connection that once was has been lost. The brotherhood built in school, where all were equal in fees, has been eroded by 12 hours flights taken every Christmas and summer.

I think he'd trade his wooden college desk and his dusty city apartment for a foreign room and a different life. Whether he ever had the means to reach this, I don't know. Maybe the cheap weed has kept him here. I hope he has wings in that drawer because he is a not a bad guy.

Hail to the Bus Driver

2010-03-07T21:41:00.001-08:00

(Disclaimer: mild Star Wars references imminent. If you haven't seen all 6 movies, you may want to rethink your life)

Most things worth writing about in my life, involve a bus ride. I'd taken plenty of over-night busses in India and this journey - though much more lively and colourful than previous ones - was largely similar. I boarded the bus at Tatooine, after finding out that those were not in fact the droids I was looking for. Did I say Tatooine? I meant Madiwalla bus stand, in Bangalore.

It was as dusty and hot and grumpy and yet excitable as always. Hundreds of people braved the dust-storms that ravaged Jabba's home planet, all of them standing in circles around their luggage and sizing up those around them. The city lights kept the night at arm's length: for an 8pm sky, it was a strange sort of purple. I am a different kind of tourist to most at this bus stand. Ganesh Tours and Paolo Travels and Seabird Tours are not used to backpack'd 19 years wearing, God-forbid, shorts. Most of my species have flown south for winter - but where is the fun in flying to Goa? Nothing like an overnight ride to really think about stuff.

I boarded and found my seat next to Bindu. I said hi and like that, I was friends with a Mallu. Your picture-book Malayali specimen. She used the phrase 'trust me' (or "trawst me" as she said it) in every sentence. The only thing missing was Parachute Advance. I loved her because she was New India. A sincere, hard working person from the interiors who’d slogged her way to the big city life. She represented everything I admire about the changes taking place in my country. She wasn’t posh, she wasn’t the silly foreign educated Tinkerbell I’d come to know so well. She didn’t drink or smoke and she was going to Goa for a reunion just like me. She worked for an IT company – surprise, surprise. She was 25 but treated me as an equal. She talked of her town, of her country life and - let's be honest - was absolutely blown away by my charm, as all women are. That being said, we were but fellow passengers on this piece of insulation.

A bus is vessel of insulation. You lay there, air conditioned, squinting at a far away plasma TV (yet listening to your own music), totally cut off from the moon-lit mysteries hurtling by outside. A stray tube-light here or there offers a slight insight into the happenings at this time of peace. I love the country side anyway, but at night, at 60 kilometres an hour, the vast fields and dirt tracks and quiet dogs and dead trucks move me. I love the silence outside, the silence I don't need to hear to know of.

Grumpy middle-aged Indian men shot contemptuous looks those chattering away inside the bus, through half opened eyes as they tried to sleep. Only about half the bus was Indian, the rest were international tourists. The atmosphere was wonderful. Everyone was sharing their experiences about India. There was a guy from Canada, Pierre, who was the cheeriest of the bunch. He made his way over to each and every person who was awake (this bus left Bangalore's last stop at midnight). He was a delightful character; as non-threatening as a guy with tattoo-drenched arms can be. There was a family from England: a father and his two daughters. There was a couple from Brazil. I felt proud that they'd come to see my country. It was a nice feeling. I recommend it, whenever you meet any tourists in your country.

There were was also a group of teenagers like myself, sat in the seats directly across the aisle. They didn't look very friendly though, which to be fair, goes without saying. We, of course, went through standard protocol for when "you're stuck somewhere with other people your age who you don't know". It's standard operating procedure and can be found in chapter twelve of the Hitchhiker's Guide to Teenagers. I'll summarise: look cool. Make sure you don't look bored - listen to music or light a cigarette and look mysteriously off into the distance, pretend to be texting someone and please, whatever you do, don't smile! When your gaze does meet one of the Others', hide any interest you may have and make sure you don't chicken out and look away instantly - maintain eye contact for a second before looking away as if you don't care. Do this until they or you leave. I'm not quite sure what it means to look cool for this time period, but if you do, you win... something.

The next morning I awoke to foggy hills and Avatar (Avathaar, actually) dubbed in Hindi, blaring in the speaker system. It was different to watching it in the cinema, where the crowds cheered and whistled. Still quite fun though. The foreigners' faces were fun to observe. Poor things - some of them hadn't even seen Avatar in English.

We stopped at in the wee hours of the morning at a road-side 'dhaba' for breakfast. Relieved smokers and pee-ers alike jumped off the bus like X-wings out the bowels of a doomed Death Star. Ha! What if there was a dude who needed to smoke as badly as he needed to pee? Which would take priority? As a guy I can safely say that taking a slash after a long time is categorically the best feeling in the world - even better than that feeling. I love dhabas because of the fantastic cross-section of society they provide. You have every kind of person here, because the tea costs Rs 2 and because everyone needs tea. In India, things take a long time, so you need a break. Movies have intervals and bus rides have dhabas.

Bindu is talking about something but I'm not listening, I'm placing people. Apart from us Volvo bus folk, there was the standard group of 6 local-college-attending guys with dreams of alcohol and maybe even sex. They were from an engineering college in a satellite town and were clearly heading to Indibiza for New Years Eve like me. There was the noisy village family, complete with one of those tiny grandmothers who looks like she's about to collapse under the weight of her skin and of course the screaming baby. They'd come on the local, inter-state bus that had holes in the side and the suspension of a late-model shopping trolley. I don't know where they were from or where they were going to, but I knew that made up most of the population. It was not a fact I wanted to think about too much. I saw a trio of IT workers. They were wearing jeans with cross-trainers - that's how I knew who they were. Jeans and cross trainers, I'm telling ya. There were two French guys in khaki shorts, still half asleep and who could blame them? It was 6:30am! Grudgingly they took in the sunrise with the SLR's hanging from their necks. I knew where they were going: the same place as me. There were quite a few couples, affluent types. They wore nice flip-flops and had their sunglasses out. I fucking hate couples.

12 hours after leaving the sand people of Tatooine, after starry skies and paddy fields, after misty mountain mornings and a shot of chai, I felt the force of the seaside heat flow through me. That was a Jedi night.

Shiva Valley

2010-02-22T19:42:00.000-08:00

Soon after parking the bike, we were suctioned into a psychedelic tractor beam. Like moths to a flame, hundreds of us are drawn to the distant bass that echoed through the sultry night air. The trek to Anjuna Base Camp from the foothills of the car park is gruelling. The first beach lights are now visible on the horizon - the pace quickens. I glance around at those gleefully striding around me; so many have made the pilgrimage. A stream of bass hungry youth from all corners of our beautiful planet flows quietly through the solitary street. Some of the houses on either side look on disapprovingly. Tonight is New Years Eve: they’d be silly not to expect it.

I love hearing all the different languages and accents. Who says no one goes to Goa anymore? Those who hate it, those who find it too loud and too noisy do the right thing by not coming. Italians and Germans and Russians and Bombayites and Bangalorites and neo-hippies all follow their ears; their state of frenzy increases with the anticipation of what nears. Glimmers of flashing neon round each bend of the dark, windy path show us the way. We are but mice on this dusty Goan back-road, skipping along to the piper’s tune, oblivious to the plunge we’ll soon be taking. Dull thuds turn into sharp notes that pierce the humid darkness. Sounds of laughter and trance dance now make themselves known. They’d be hidden beneath the soft rustling of palm trees and moon kissed sea breeze.

We emerge out of the densely palm tree lined street into moonlight and the beach and the Goa I came for. The twin trance shacks on Anjuna Beach throb away relentlessly. Waves of water from the West and sound from East pound at the beach they bathe on. The sea-facing fence at Curlies has been broken down by drunken Indian men, who want to be part of this paradoxically exclusive experience but who do not tick the boxes. They are soaked in Cashew liquor and sea water, their eyes are wild and their dance is wrong. Their dance is Indian. For them, this is simply another party they are not good enough for. It is the wrong kind of dance.

Quick to respond to the changing market, a 500 rupee tariff is now levied upon all those who wish to enter the drumming disco delirium. This fiscal policy is met with outrage from the drunks and locals. It is a protectionist sieve through which we slink. It is an unfortunate but sadly necessary cost we are willing to pay. Sigh, it’s become yet another club with yet another bouncer outside. It doesn’t have to be like this.

The crude steps carved out of sheer rock are a bit tricky to navigate in the artificial twilight. But we reach the warm, soft sand soon enough. All around, people move to the music, eyes closed, spirits soaring. Curlies is rocking, but not for long. High pitched squeals from the beach! The drunks have broken through the line and pour through in great numbers. The fort has been breached. We retreat to the safety of the next shack along Anjuna beach, Shiva Valley. It is similar to Curlies, but the music is darker. One is still wished a Happy New Year every 5 minutes, but the crowd here have blood shot eyes. We take the high ground, the steps that connect the dance floor to the beach. In the distance, we see Curlies conquered. The drunks occupy themselves by harassing the foreigners; prisoners of war. It’s India, accept it. Enjoy the bass.

What sound it is. It prods at every sinew of every limb, inducing movement. Like others around me, I am helpless – completely at the mercy of some nondescript DJ. He manipulates us mortals like some sick puppeteer. The speakers are the colossal black pillars that hold this temple up. They spit forth the soft, sped-up guitar riffs that whir in the background, that make Goa Trance what it is. The riffs are unmistakable; without them, the sound would be generic electronic music. It is the background riff that catalyses it all. It is the glue that holds together the squeaks and squawks and thuds and. The kick drum is faster than that of house music but slower than jump style and other European techno off-shoots. It is the background melodies that give the songs their speed. Voice samples laced over soft rumbling tones provide periods of respite. These periods of relative quiet are the ladders that the aforementioned drum climbs up and down. The DJ uses them to talk to the crowd, luring them into a sense of calm before once again sending hundreds into limb-flinging trance. He isn’t one of those pretentious ‘one hand on the headphones, one hand on the decks’ DJs – he wasn’t pretending like he was mixing a live set. He was just a happy Jewish bloke playing some dark, dark psytrance.

Above us, light-sabre duels rage on, synched perfectly to the rhythm of the speakers. The lights glance off the murals on the walls, making for a kaleidoscopic spectacle. If only you could see the red-green lasers paint and repaint the Hindu art that night, you’d be as mesmerised as I was. The decoration was half the battle won – draped along the sides and back of the shack were fantastic tie-die murals depicting various Gods. I think this was a Goa party; it attacked every sense from every angle.

But step out of the shack and ankle deep into the lukewarm water and the atmosphere is very different. The music is further away so you’re once again in control of your body. One’s eyes are given a break from the Star Wars disco lights. It’s only from the beach that you can truly appreciate the beauty of a full moon and the pristine silver light is playfully exchanges with Arabian Sea. The haphazardly organised fireworks offer yet more colours that challenge the vast, black sky.

Lying back on the sand, in a circle with the friends I came here with, I have found, as my mum says, ‘my coordinates in the universe’. It is a dream you never quite wake up from.

Gosta Green

2010-02-09T10:22:00.000-08:00

The snow that crunches underfoot is winter's parting shot. It isn't daunting mountain snow, it is crisp, polite English snow that folds away gently beneath you. The transparent blizzard that cuts away at my exposed face and manages to creep past the defences of my scarf, makes me - for a split second - hate my second favourite country in the world. Like a hoard of gloating frost-demons, the wind dances and pounces and howls about my ears. But Gosta provides refuge for weary youth; shelter from the wind and the rain and coursework. There is an unmistakable warmth that greets you as soon as you close the door behind you, that unique blend of carefree conversation and warm air purring as lager caresses it.

My university doesn't really have a campus. All the rooms are contained in one gigantic, Soviet style building. It's like a palace that a colour-blind Inland Revenue accountant would have built. The halls of residence aren't much to look at either. The lake is a puddle and the library is about as inspiring as yoghurt.

But walk past all that, just for a minute or so, and feast your eyes on my favourite part of England. Gosta is so much more than a pub. I feel like I'm insulting it when I class it as merely another watering hole for procrastinating students. The Pub is an idea that is celebrated in England - and I celebrate with them.

All over the world, bar owners have tried to rebuild the atmosphere in a British pub. It needs to be experienced first hand though. 'Tuesday night, when the footy is on' is something that needs to be experienced. The lighting is perfect: no squinting needed here - shades of red-orange lap at strangers faces and provide just the right contrast to the deep green of floodlit football pitch on the projector screen. When the cheesy music (which everyone loves deep down) is switched off and the commentary and surround sound of the stadium flicker into life and you take a sip of crappy cold beer and exhale in satisfaction anyway, you will know what I'm on about.

I love England.

Mute Commute: Part 2

2009-12-07T16:03:00.000-08:00

(To refresh your memory, this is my account of my journey to and from office - I love saying that word - everyday for 2 months this summer, in Bangalore)

And so I jump off the local bus, glad to be rid of all those stares, ready to embrace new ones. What is it with Indians and staring? I love staring back. Staring right into their eyes and then walking slowly towards them. But no, today will be a happy day, I've decided, so I will not start off on a sour note.

Kundahalli Gate bus stop is writhing like an anaconda around me. The air wants to leave this place - the noise and driving scare it away. There is no air left, only fumes and dust and busses. Busses of all shapes and sizes. It's nice to see who gets on which busses and how.

The shoe-less, scruffy haired villagers, heaving gunny bags full of vegetables climb aboard a bus named Super Deluxe A/C Volvo DVD Stereo Sleeper Deluxe Manju. The cleaner - a unique role in India, for he is the conductor, announcer and peace keeper - hangs off the side of the bus, tries to catch your eye unleashes his opera. He sings of far off bus stops and fair maidens. His song is enticing, his eyes beckon. A few weary men are charmed by his tale and reluctantly climb aboard - they've got places to be, I guess.

Off to my left, a drunk, slumped next to the corrugated iron door of the local bar, throws up over himself. People like this deserve to sleep with the dogs. The dog gets up and leaves.

The ladies and school kids and more civil folk take a local BMTC bus, like the one I've just gotten off. Ladies and school kids climb tenderly through the forward opening, the men grab whatever they can and swing themselves up onto the rear entrance platform, cramming the previous guy in, making space for the next. The system works, God knows how.

There is a French girl at this bus stop, whom I notice now. She is too pretty to be from anywhere else and too correctly dressed. What on earth is she doing here? Maybe she's Canad - oho, no time now, the Waalwo Buss-u is here.

I love seeing the red ticker tape destination lights of the Volvo bus as is slaloms its way past the sick, weak and newborns in the herd. It moves with the grace of a ballet dancer and accelerates like a swimmer. Each gear, a stroke; each stroke, a length ahead of everyone else. We proudly hail it. We, of course, being the ones in clean shirts and formal shoes and iPods and ties. Well not me, specifically, I am merely the commentator. I wear jeans and smile at the audacity of my words. Who am I to judge anyone? Whatever. My bus is here.

The conductor knows me now. He knows my thick, extravagant Panasonic headphones and lack of Kannada. There is no need for words between us - he knows where I'm going, I know what he's thinking. I pay the fare and lower the volume of my music, because I'm out of the outside, I'm inside where all is quiet and orderly.

Relief. My place is vacant. I get on quite early in the route. I know all those who get on after me and wonder where those get on before, live. There is a story for everyone, a story in my head that satisfies the way they look and talk and move and live. My seat is at the back, where the A/C is weak enough to be comfortable and there is more leg room. This is territory to be claimed and defended.

And so we hurtle along, insulated against the outside. Plasma screens display things no one pays attention to - I think they're there just to show you what you're paying for and who you are in society. I've seen entire families who take Volvo bus rides just for that luxurious feeling. The joy on the child's face as Tom and Jerry (yes, you read right) flashes across the flat screen TVs, the look of anxiety on the mother's face as she hopes her saaree is respected and of course the pride that radiates from the father. Today he will ride the Volvo Bus and he will enjoy the A/C and the driver's rear view camera-fed LCD screen and all the rest that comes with this shining beacon of status....its such a curious sight.

Out the window, I see a cleaning lady wearing one of those hilariously over-sized city-council jackets, cleaning the road side. She is cleansing the pavement of dust. But is she really? No. She is simply moving the dust from its current location to a pile on the corner, that will be blown away, probably back into its original place, by the time she gets back with the next pile. How do you remove dust? You can pack it tightly together and put it in a bucket but wherever you drop it, it will still be dust. It won't go away. And if you leave it unattended for long enough and there will be rain and the dust will become mud, worse yet. How do you expect normal people to fight such a foe?

All India does is move dust. There is no solution, only elaborate delay.

Suit and Tie.

2009-11-28T05:26:00.000-08:00

Suit and tie and jacket and scarf. Shoes and pride and anxiety and awe.

I wore all of them the day I went to Canary Wharf in London, to interview at Morgan Stanley. I did the application. 3 of my friends got turned away at the first stage, but not me for some reason. I was invited to take some aptitude tests and attend a Q&A session at a placement that is rumoured to pay £35,000 a year. I was in dream land.

Maybe I was a somebody.

Cabot Square glistened like glacial treasure in the London twilight. This was a different personality of London. Not the low rise, crafted buildings you see in central London, with wrought-iron balconies you can only dream of. This was what Manhattan and Prague's child would look like. Those beige coloured architectural bimbos that London is famous for are still there, but they're draped in New York and Hong Kong's Autumn/Winter Collection. Stock ticker tapes dance across skirts of glass and metal, letting you know in no uncertain term what work goes on behind the grand revolving doors.

So, to 25 Cabot Square. I am taken up stairs, to a conference room full of other youngsters like myself. All dressed in suits, all eyeing everyone else up. Half are brown. What an interesting mix of people. I have no time to analyse though: I am a bit late. People were in exam mode; eyes glazed over with focus.

You could cut the competition in the air with a knife.

After the first test - some ridiculous test of 'accuracy' through matching numbers and letters - I glance across at the window. What a window. It was like one of those helicopter shots in action movies, to introduce Singapore or Tokyo or some futuristic metropolis. Goldman Sachs and Barclays stare back in their evening gowns and make-up. The artificial lights don't let the ladies down. At ground level, many a banker scrambles down the catwalk and into a train.

I return to exam mode. Beautiful hatred of the people all around me is pumped head to toe by my excited heart. It is hatred as short-lasting as my chance at Morgan Stanley.

2 weeks later a polite email tells me I am in fact a nobody.

The Grass is just as Green on This Side.

2009-11-14T04:32:00.001-08:00

Life is good.

People don't stop, take a deep breath and appreciate how good life can get. They only sink into their sofa and day dream of life getting better when things aren't going their way....we don't sink into the sofa and just smile. Because life is good. It's very very good. Not perfect, but I don't think life is meant to be perfect.

This summer was the greatest summer ever. It has rolled seamlessly on to being a wonderful year of university. Much, much better than last year. It will then merge into a delicious Xmas holiday in Bangalore and Goa, and then snowball into more happiness.

Life is good, so sip some chai, watch the rain and smile.

That House.

2009-11-13T18:10:00.000-08:00

At the bar at the Taj West End, the Indians stand shoulder to shoulder with the foreigners. Every one can afford the cocktails. Tall thin girls are courted by tall thin guys - perfect features, perfectly dressed. The Old Monk is my guide in this alien land scape.

I am here because some part of me wants to compete with them. The other part of me knows I can, but questions the purpose of this wanton wallet weighing. It's such an enticing scam. The bar man somehow keeps a straight face as he spits out drink prices. 500 Rupees for a large Old Monk and coke. I don't know who these elderly priests are but they must be their pulpits sniggering away at the 2000% mark up. 500 Rupees for a disgraceful little Budweiser. A 330ml bottle of fizzy American mediocrity. 750 Rupees for a Mojito for girl who's attention must be bought. Some part of me probably wants it.

The dilemma is to spend or not to spend? To spend and achieve what? To not spend at what cost?

I didn't come alone though. I'm here with friends and acquaintances. After a while the urban royalty, whose company I share, decide we've been there long enough. This is the 3rd watering hole I've been swept along to, tonight. The Alpha males bring their Camry's and Civic's and 5 Series' round the front and whisk us off to a house where this most exclusive evening shall continue.

I'll never forget that house. That flat. Floors of marble, suede sofas and the works of Mr Bang and Mr Olufsen proudly displayed next to each power socket. Towering speakers rise from the floor like stalagmites of crystal sound. The terrace overlooks a city asleep. We disturb the slumber of the silent, purple night sky with fake laughter, electronic music and the sound of Whiskey hitting the rocks. There's enough Whiskey to sink a ship, in the black marble top bar. There's a MacBook Pro on the ledge, observing us (with some curiosity, I imagine).

I don't want to drink, just watch these people. I am angry at myself when I catch myself thinking "this is how the other half live". Where did that come from? Banish it.

Maybe talking to someone will bring me some comfort.

"Hey man, nice music. Do you like psytrance too?"

"GMS played at my house"

OK then.

He didn't mean it in an arrogant way- his face was honest and friendly. I just found his though process interesting.

I seek refuge with the smokers. They talk about normal things. As long as you can bear the smoke, they are always good for a chat. We talk of football, university and Goa. I pretend to know something about motorbikes. They pretend not to judge me when I say I like jazz music.

If I wanted it to, this could be me. I could ask for more money than I need and spend it on things that I don't. Yes, I could lay a claim to this life. "But what would it achieve?", I argue back, as I begin the slow auto ride home. I can see the lights of the penthouse fading, obscured by trees and my foggy contact lenses. This was an education.

Trying to compete is futile. This house, these people, this evening.....this is not me.

Mute Commute Part 1: Walk to the bus stop

2009-08-26T03:29:00.000-07:00

I love my bubble: the pristine, serene, detached world of the gated complex. As I leave, at 8am, it is still very quiet, but for the drivers greeting their 'saars' as they open the car doors for them, and the children skipping along to the bus stop. There is a large gate that separates the 2 car households and fragrant lawns from India. From the outside, passing manual labourers and maids can catch a momentary glimpse of the villa-lives being led inside, through the gaps on either sides of the figurative port-cullis. The gossiping aunties, a white family, the antique Volkswagen sports car and of course, fellow labourers and maids all make for a wonderful study - the gated complex is complex. Ahh, the suburbs.

India hits you the second you step out of this neat and tidy world. On either side of Regent Place are open drains, choc-a-bloc with garbage and hopeful street dogs. Across the newly laid road are a plethora of modest, 2-3 storied buildings that have bakeries, garages or hardware stores on the ground floor and a few tiny rooms above. Muddy tracks run through these buildings - after the rains they glow red-brown. The Regent Place gate is tall enough to keep out jealous looks from the upper stories. At this time of morning, only the bakery is open.

Everything about the morning is so refreshing. Children eagerly await school buses on the road-side, freshly bathed. Their playful chatter breaks the silence that otherwise drapes this place. Some children are going to middle-class CBSE schools, some aren't wearing shoes and wait for appa on his TVS moped to take them to the local school - all of them poke fun at the street dogs who really don't want to get out of bed just yet. They are not like the children of Regent Place, who stand half asleep at the bus stop, waiting for the air conditioned Volvo bus. I smile and wonder, as I pass 3 tots praying in front of shrine that watches over this stretch of suburbia. They are praying hard - their eyes are closed as they frown, muttering words, earnestly, silently, under their breathe. The temple boy smiles at their mother, who returns it, as he gives them each the morining tikka on their foreheads. This is innoncence like you've never seen it. The obonoxious music from the temple nearby now reaches my ears.

I cross the estuary of a mud track now. I walk at a gentle pace, savouring the tranquil morning air - the sun will soon spoil it. On the corner, sit men. Men of all shapes and sizes, quietly going about their business. There are thin old men who smoke beedis and sit cross legged on the ledge, watching the world go by. There are fat middle aged men who chat loudly as they adjust their dhothis. There are young office workers who give the coconut-water vendor his day's first business. There are college guys my age, who run past me, towards the stop as they see a bus approaching; their slippers slap the road loudly as they run. All shapes and sizes sit below the small trees that occasionally line the road. All size me up as I pass. The morning air is cool and dry. The morning itself is rather uncharismatic - no sun, just cloud cover and gentle breeze.

The last thing I cross before I reach Thubarahalli bus stop is the ironing wala. His day has started. His business is run out of a wooden box the size of car stood on its front-lights. His iron is primitive, his brow drips with sweat. On the floor, sits his wife, folding clothes and staring affectionately at her daughter who finds entertainment this morning in an empty coconut husk.

And finally, after a near silent 5 minutes, I reach my stop. As with everywhere I go in India, I am stared at for a few seconds and then judged. Across the road from the bus stop is a large, unfinished gated complex. Skeletons of white marble villas rise intimidatingly out of the dusty ground. The gate and walls have already been erected, yet the work site is now still and silent. It has all the makings of your gated complex, yet the bubble is only half done. I wonder what has happened. It's like one of those deserted warehouses that kids explore in ghost movies or final fights take place in, in action flicks. There are 2 rows of dazzling white bungalows but not a worker to be seen. What has caused work to stop? It sits on prime land and will surely be a success when finished. But why is the job half done? India in a nut-shell.

The bus trudges towards the stop. I get on, pop a few coins into the impatient conductors hand and grab a railing. 20 stares cut into my thick skin.

So begins my mute commute.

Mute Commute: Introduction

2009-08-24T23:51:00.000-07:00

This summer I've been working. Interning, actually. At your standard, run-of-the-mill office. Therefore, each and every morning and evening I hop, alone, into a bus or an auto and join fellow office goers on a Mute Commute.

MC Stammer

2009-08-22T00:19:00.000-07:00

Ya. I have a stammer.

Some of you know, some of you haven't noticed. It's not a particularly bad stammer, but its there. It rears its ugly head every hour or so. My mum thinks she hates it more than me, but I hate it more than anyone.

So she got me to see this hypno-therapist whom she knows, to try and get to the root of it in the hopes that we find a way to get it out of my system. I was skeptical, like I always am before I try anything that I don't consider cold hard science (though my mum and her will obviously say it is cold hard science. What is cold hard science? Western medicine? I don't know. I had grouped hypnosis in the same field as nonsense like Astrology and Star Signs and all that. Anyways, these brackets have gone on for long enough, bye).

I was pleasantly surprised as Ahalya Shetty (my hypno therapist) was more like a counsellor than a magician. She was someone I could talk things out with - an adult, I could talk things out with. I think the talking was more therapeutic than anything. We spent a few sessions discussing stuff that stressed me and memories that irked me and the most memorable times I'd stammered and all of that.

Anyways, you're impatiently asking in your head, "screw all this, what was it like to be hypnotised???". Well, it's quite cool. It came as a shock to a doubting Thomas like myself but hey, I guess it worked. Basically, I was having trouble remembering certain memories and Ahalya told me to lay down on the recliner, close my eyes and breathe deeply. So I did. I must confess, after about 3 deep inhalations I began day dreaming. I don't remember too much about the incident other than her saying, "Shravan, when I snap my finger, you will go into a deep sleep". And how!

As soon as she clicked her fingers, something was different. My eyes were fused shut. I could open them, but I didn't want to. The patterns being made on the black nothingness of the inside of my eye lids were too captivating. I couldn't take my eyes of them! You know when you close your eyes and really stare at the abyss, you see these wispy colours floating around, like tadpoles in a psychedelic pond? These tadpoles were operating disco lights. It was very, very cool. Ahalya's words then gently entered my consciousness, telling me what to remember. And I remembered! I was surprised as how well I could recollect memories that were locked away in a dusty covered chest in my mind's attic. One could draw parallels to Dumbledore's Pensieve, in the Harry Potter books. I won't go into details as to the exact nature of the memories - else He Who Must Not Be Named may get ahold of them. The process was called an 'Age Regression' which sounds ominous, but don't worry, I'm not an 8 year old version of myself. Suffice to say, that session was a break through. We were able to pin point and discuss one or two crucial points in my life that could have induced/affected my stammering.

So anyways, that session ended. We'd discussed techniques to get myself to relax and remember that there is no need to stammer. "Great, this is going to work", I thought. I got into an auto and headed for MG Road Bus Stand. It was crowded and busy. Rush hour on Friday evening.

A Volvo bus pulled up to the stand, I had only a thousand ruppee note - the fare would be just 30. What to do? I ask the conductor of the bus if he has change for a thousand, as he hangs out the open door. He looks at me, irritated and curious. He didn't hear me the first time. I ask again. I am speaking Hindi of course - maybe his hindi isn't too good. Again, he gestures that he didn't hear me. Now his face sports a grimace. The bus has spent about 10 seconds at the stop, I am the only thing holding it up. I freeze up. My mind is a maelstrom of words - my mouth just the opposite. I'm a statue. No, a caricature. The conductor has lost his patience with me and barks, "where do you want to go?" The driver now looks at me, too. People on the stand are looking at me, people in the bus are looking at me, wondering what's causing this delay. The pressure is on, Shravan. I can see the word I want to say in the distance and I can see that I'm not going to be able to say it. The pressure is well and truly on. What are you waiting for, Shravan? Just say it. It's so easy. Kundalahalli Gate - two words, six syllables. Just say it. But it doesn't come. I can see the words in my head. They are painted out in my mind's eye. I can see the words, I can smell them, I can taste them. But I cannot speak them. My mouth will not say 'k'. It refuses. Time is ticking away. I stall. I don't stammer much in the conventional 's-s-s-sense'. Rather, I stall. I stall with 'uhhh's and 'ermmm's and 'aaaah's, until the cogs in my mind have clicked into place and I can say the word. It's pathetic. Alternatives begin popping up in my brain. I say "Marathalli Bridge" instead. The alternatives to the word always come out fine. The driver nods. I have lied - to him and to myself. The conductor laughs and mumbles something about me not knowing where I'm going.

I hand him the thousand ruppee note. He looks at it in disgust. Now that I've got the maha-stammer out of my system, I can speak clearly in Hindi. I tell him that I'd told him right from the get-go, that I had no change. He says he has none. I tell him to stop at the next stop and I hop off, in search for someone's who'll break my 1000. Sigh.

A fat lot of use that was then. Hypno therapy? Counselling? For what? I can't talk to a fucking bus driver.

You know what? I'm happy with my stammer. I know people born with massive hairy moles on their face or with a weak heart or with a deformed limb. I've got it alright, I reckon. I mean, it's not that bad. Everyone needs something to balance themselves out. I'm MC s-s-s-Stammer and, well, you can't touch this.

Stereotypes.

2009-08-21T02:19:00.000-07:00

Here goes nothing.

City: Bombay
Gender: Male
Name: Rohan, Rahul, Vikram or Aditya
Skin: Brown, nice tan.
Top: T-Shirt. Nautica. Tight.
Collar: Popped... biatch.
Bottoms: Billabong/corduroy/khaki shorts
Footwear: flip-flops
Hair: Gelled up in front/silly mohawk
Music: T-Pain, Lil Wayne, Akon.
Facial Expression: Let the haters hate.

Bombay guys are truly fascinating creatures. They spend afternoons and weekends driving past Cafe Coffee Day on Carter Road in daddy's Honda, pointing out to you which pedestrians they know and which they've dated. They spend 5 minutes at an eatery before wasting fuel driving to another. The mind-numbing pain of the car ride is intensified by the 'music'. Some of them are even Chelsea fans. Your average Bombay guy is 17 but acts 13.

City: Bombay
Gender: Female
Name: Reena, Meena, Teena or something filmy like Vridyanka.
Skin: Brown, nice tan.
Top: Pretentious 'message on my boobs' T-shirt. Usual messages go something like: Tell your pants its rude to point.
Shades: (fake) Versace
Bottoms: 'Message on my ass' shorts. Message along the lines of: Stop staring.
Footwear: whatever page 3 tells them.
Hair: Myeh, girls hair.
Music: Rihanna, PCD, Beyonce - basically commercial hiphop drivel.
Facial Expression: Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot, like, me?

Bombay Girls are even less interesting than Bombay guys - yes, that is possible. They talk in this ridiculous whiny accent that is a mixture of Alvin and the Chipmunks and a gay hair dresser - again, possible. Bombay girls are street smart, to make up for the guys. They are also pretty fit and take pride in displaying their 4 four word world views on their shirts and shorts. You can find them staggering out of night clubs saying things like "I'm so hungry, chal lets get a Chinese". She is 15 and acts 15.

I think Lil Wayne's eloquent chorus sums them up: Shorty want a thug, bottles in the club. Enough said.

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City: Delhi
Gender: Male
Name: Some hi-fi Hindi name like Ghatotkuch or Neelkanth or Abimanyu or Dronachariya.
Skin: White.
Top: Armani (Exchange)
Shades: Prada
Bottoms: Hilfiger jeans
Footwear: Diesel
Hair: Gelled up, but bearable.
Music: Himesh Reshamiyaaaaaaaaaaaooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooooohhhh.
Facial Expression: Hoye!

Delhi guys. Ah, where to start. Daddy is a rich Marvadi industrialist, mummy is a rich Sindhi industrialist's daughter. The whole family is puuuuure bhej. Their dress sense is very ishtylish. Their clothes cost a lot of money so they must be good. The same applies to the unis they go to. The same applies to the cars they drive. The same applies to their girls they hang out with. The same....I'll stop. Delhi guys can easily be mistaken for foreigners, until they open their mouths. he is 18 and acts like a aristocrat.

City: Delhi
Gender: Female
Name: Pinky, Sweaty (pronounced Sweety), Damoney...I mean Damini. (no hard feelings :D )
Skin: Whiter than white peoples'.
Top: Gucci
Shades: Versace
Bottoms: Zara skirt
Footwear: Jimmy Choo
Hair: Filmy
Music: 50 cent.
Facial Expression: Hoye!

Delhi Girls are characters from the OC. Not much more really needs to be said (although it will be). A lot of them are punjabi which makes for bizarre accents while speaking Hindi. Even though they speak Hindi better than anyone, they try to put on a 'western' accent. This mixed with the Jalandar that courses through their veins makes for hilarity. They can't say 'th', they say 't'. They talk like the heroins in the 60's black and white Hindi movies. I wish I could put an audio on here but I can't. You'll just have to imagine it. They are hard-Kaur non veg, which is nice. I don't know where they hang out but I'm sure it costs a lot. In a few years they'll compare their son's universities. For now they compare iPhones. She is 18 but thinks she's 21.

Their world view can be succinctly summed up by the key operating phrase used in Dhilli: HOYE!?! It's a glorious word. It resembles the horn on Indian cars: a sound, a message, an idealogy. "Hoye" can express hatred, shock, disgust, love and improper fractions. Sound Horn OK Please?

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City: Bangalore
Gender: Male
Name: Varied south Indian names - Krishna, Kartik, Nandu, etc...
Skin: Daaaark.
Top: Black. loose fitting band-shirt of Lamb of God, Necrophagist, Behemoth or some such horrible death metal group.
Shades: fake Oakley sports shades
Bottoms: baggy. baggy jeans.
Footwear: Low-end nike trainers.
Hair: Long and pony-tailed OR short and curly.
Music: Death Metal, Black Metal, Atmospheric Black Metal, Stratospheric Vampire Metal, Sulphur Is a non-Metal, etc...
Facial Expression: Look how evil I am. Just look. Eyy, what are you looking at?

Bangalore guys are very hard to understand. Their slang has broken most axioms of the English language and has pretty much destroyed the concept of 'grammar'. Bangalore guys will stand outside a pub, smoking, leaning against the hoods of their cars and eyeing up other Bangalore guys who are also there doing the same thing. Bangalore guys pass time by telling stories. Let's pick a story up half way through:

....
Reddy: Macha owww I was clipping, in my new caah!
Kartik: Yes-uh?
Reddy: Yaaa, I was on Myyyysore eye-way....I was in my new Skoda, bob. Pasting and going da!
Kartik: Cops came, uh?
Reddy: Then what!
Kartik: Ehh bugger, what you said?
Reddy: I said I was with your mom (*lols ensue*). Paid the fucker a grand and ripped.
Kartik: Machaaa!
Reddy: Put the hand bob.
Kartik: *puts the hand*
....

Bangalore guys will eat at Empire every night, no matter what. Bangalore guys go to rock pubs, not dance clubs. Your average Bangalore guy is 26 but think he's 18.

City: Bangalore
Gender: Female
Name: Riya, Diya, Priya.... or Soundarya.
Skin: Unknown
Top: Unknown
Shades: Unknown
Bottoms: Unknown
Footwear: Unknown
Hair: Girl's hair, da, all the same.
Music: Unknown.
Facial Expression: Ew, he's so shady.

It is a widely accepted fact that Bangalore girls do not exist. I dispute this, as I have seen a few with my very eyes! They moves in packs, so as not to be seen by Krishna, Manju or Raju (the villagers who stand outside local bars drinking Koday's). Bangalore girls do not say the letter 'r' at the ends of words:
Sure - Shaw
Pure - Pyaww
Floor - Flaw.
Roar - Raw.
Pour - Paw
etc...
They are never allowed outside their houses past 9pm. They pass their time sitting in their rooms, with their 4 other girl friends, talking about how shady Bangalore is. No one knows how old they are or how old they act/think they are. They are ghosts in the system.

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So there you have it. You know I'm right, you know it.

What Makes This City-Slicker Tick?

2009-07-21T06:55:00.000-07:00

There are those who say they want to "get away from it all" and spend their time growing old in the country, picking tea leaves, getting oil massages and writings books no one is going to read. I glance at them from the back seat of an auto rickshaw, skeptical. There is nothing more intoxicating than the energy of the big city.

There is that smell of a mixture of red earth before imminent rain, hookah smoke and sambar that you get walking along Church Street in Bangalore. Music to my nose. You stride along chaotic streets, phone in one hand, cigarette/Shawarma in the other. Traffic is dodged with an Indian pedestrian's expression etched on one's face: a peculiar combination of apathy, arrogance and disdain. It's 7pm and twilight and the evening rains are almost here. The cool, moist, air, the cacophony of a sub-continental road and the fading light seemingly join forces to flick a switch that changes the mood in the big city. The week is over. Friday night is at the door and wants a place to leave its shoes. Lamp lit sheesha bars and cafe's flicker into life from the carcasses of office blocks, like fresh green shoots from a burnt out forest floor. Indeed, those who flee the middle of town from the 9-5 desk jobs are burnt out. A new sentry is here for a new shift.

The big city has many faces. A bus stand at 8am captures one such mood. Freshly bathed, the city roars into life. Packed local buses wreak havoc on already congested streets, yet the city slicker manages to slip between these blue-white behemoths to the shiny red Volvo bus. The posh man's bus. The bus for those who can pay Rs 20 extra for air conditioning, a place to sit and a rung up on the social ladder. The few women on the bus sit comfortably at the front. The men, hair oiled, awkwardly slide into seats at the back. The morning's air is still cool, as yet unharmed by the sun, as it rushes through the city.

Lunch time on Cunningham road is another of the big city's personalities. Workers of all social strata and coffee consumption levels need refueling. There are the men, the women and the poor. The men strut. They pace through the now sweltering heat in search of some non-veg. Shirt sleeves folded up, sweat wiped from their foreheads, they find a table at Imperial and eat perhaps the best 'non-veg Thali' in town. At only Rs 100 per head, its the bread and butter of working lunches. The women slink. They move in herds. They are weary of the many male eyes that shamelessly scan any female body in this backward country. Some of them eat simple south-Indian food at Shanti Sagar. The more adventurous ones feed the Indian consumption juggernaut by spending Rs 200 per head at some classless rip-off franchised restaurant in an air conditioned mall. Though, paying a premium for AC in this heat is worth it, in this humble writer's opinion. And then you have the poor. The labourers who tar our 'roads' and the drivers who'll soon take their masters back to their 5 bedroom villas on the outskirts at 5:30. They eat hearty plates of rice and sambar costing a mere Rs 10 each. Food is cooked, served and consumed in a street corner sheltered from the evil sun only by torn tarpaulin. Customers arrive on bicycles or bare foot. Shoes for this scruffy lot, are optional. They are as vital an organ in the big city as any. They wash the dishes and sweep the streets and bring governments into power.

But now the city shows a different character. 7pm and us disillusioned youth are on the prowl. Bangalore's weather is back to being what its famous for; the drizzle that'll start any second chases the heat and stress out of the day. The rain here has such a profound effect, even before its fallen. Cinema's are full up with the young bourgeois....the new city slickers who inhale mall culture and exhale the dough. But that is not where we hang. We, the pretentious wealthy. The sons and daughters of CEOs, the urban royalty. The privileged few who'll go back to cushy foreign universities come September or international school on Monday morning. But Monday morning is a long way away. We hatch plans for the alcohol fueled night ahead as we slither through the big cities inside lanes. Cheap red wine is sipped, cheap local beer is gulped. The shadiness of the joint is inversely proportional to the prices - we don't want to be spending too much just yet.

It's now officially night. Night: the most seductive of the city's spirits. Girls have been called, plans have been made. The city slickers flock to their temple: some characterless nightclub throbbing away against the will of the police outside. 20-something year old executives, the crowning achievement of top-down industralising India, throw money at the bar tender. English is the only language spoken, although an interesting accent will get you an audience with the barbie dolls of this land of make believe. But only an audience, nothing more. The Gods of the city are worshiped through liver sacrifices and electronic dance.

Alas, Bangalore is not one of those cities that doesn't sleep. It doesn't pretend to be either. The hour before it hits the sack, is this city slicker's favourite. The air is cool like the evening, but much drier. Moonlit terraces harbour tired urban royalty. Quiet words are exchanged over the night's final glasses of rum. One by one, princes and princesses head off home - ferried back to their palaces by their sambar sampling drivers. It is a time of peace. A time where the city reflects. The energy of the city has toyed and toiled and now, needs time to recuperate. Why would anyone want to leave this? The sweet scent of exhaust fumes. The heart-warming sight of a limbless beggar? The empathy and humility of the urban aristocracy? It's what I live for. You can get the countryside's peace in the city too. All you need to know is where to look. And when.

I'm a city guy till I die.

Bus Driver Blues

2009-07-19T23:21:00.000-07:00

Twilight and I'm on my way home. A decrepit, derelict BMTC (local) bus pulls up to the stop. It's completely empty. Tired eyes look down at me from the driver's seat. "Marathalli?", I ask. A grunt of affirmation somehow makes it way over the roar of the engine. I board and pay the driver who manages to change gears, tear me a ticket and give me change at the same time. Using one hand.

I take a seat right at the front so I can look out the front window. I'd never been on an empty bus before. A 9 rupee fare would take me a good 7-8km to my stop. No surprise that local buses in India are always full. The bus lurches forward as the driver accelerates. I've seen people age faster than that bus moved. 1st gear to 2nd, 2nd to 3rd. Auto-rickshaws fly past on both sides. Dogs trotted alongside, mocking. The driver looked like he wanted to die. He had absolutely no life force in him. No anger, no enthusiasm (well, he was a bus driver after all). A hint of desperation, but mostly apathy. Contagious apathy. The breeze from open windows carried his dreary mood over me.

He'd slow down at every stop. And every time, he'd be ruthlessly rejected by potential passengers. Why? For another bus, another route, another driver. Someone makes a bee line for the bus. For a second, his eyes light up. The person walks past the door and crosses the road. A sigh from the driver says it all. Better luck next stop. Stop after stop, no one gets on. No one wants to get on his bus. What is he doing wrong?

We cruise along the Ring Road. The bus reaches its top speed, which is akin to that at which grass grows. In the distance, at the next stop, a young lady stands, arm out-stretched. Someone is hailing his bus. His bus! He brakes and turns into the bus lane. He looks down at her from his seat. He is alive. "Varthur?", she asks. His face drops. He isn't going there. He has found a passenger - a willing passenger - but she doesn't want to go where he wants to go. He shakes his head and in doing so, shakes the life out of his eyes again. 1st gear to 2nd gear. The lonely bus drives on into polluted night. She wasn't going where he wanted to go.

What was he so down for? He had a passenger. A passenger who was going where he was going. A passenger who could pay the fare and wanted, needed to make the journey. But I wasn't good enough for him. I felt ignored. What was I doing wrong?

We reach my stop. As I alight, I pat him no the shoulder. He looks up, shocked. Shock changes to a smile he tries to hide. 1st gear to 2nd gear. This bus has life in it yet.

Change!

2009-06-11T19:32:00.000-07:00

Just watched The Obama Deception on youtube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAaQNACwaLw

My thoughts on the movie:

-the starting was a lot of fire and brimstone where the main dude acted like James Bond. All his rubbish of 'infiltrating the Marriott' and stuff. Yeah right, show me your Aston Martin! Some of the rhetoric used at the start is....just rhetoric. Meaningless accusations. You've gotta look past that. (Bless them, they're American)

-Once they get past their threats and shouting, they make some very provocative points. What about all the promises that the movie says Obama has gone back on? These are the points I've gathered from the movie, I don't know how true they are or not:

Guantanamo - he in fact endorses torture and abduction/detention without trial

Patriot Act - he voted FOR authorisation after going against it on his campagin trail

Iraq/Afghanistan - he is adding more troops and going from "taking troops out immediately" to taking SOME out after 23 months.

Bailing out banks - he says he understands people frustration with CEO's and 'rewarding failure' and he passes misleading legislation. The legislation he's passed only affects NEW deals and excludes BankOfAmerica, Citigroup, etc...

Hiring lobbyists and financial donors to places in his administration - look at who has has appointed. All have wall street connections

-The ending takes away a lot of credibility from the movie. They say global warming is a lie, they say Obama is building up a private army and will abolish gun rights in the US (like that's ever going to happen). Still, I think the film makes you think and question the Saviour! Obama has got a (unjustified, in my opinion) cult following.
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He seems to have defaulted on all most of not all of his promises. Like every other politician in existence then? What do you make of it? I think this movie is partly true, in the the Federal Reserve and the other wall street oligarchs have America (and in turn, the world) by the balls but is Obama really as evil as they depict him? He's too nice to be evil. I'm hypnotised, sorry. I urge you to watch the movie with an open mind and tell me what you think. Everyone is a conspiracy theorist these days!

On a related note, you all HAVE to watch Zeitgeist Addendum. With an open mind, of course.

Things in America look grim, whichever way you look at it. I just hope India doesn't sell its soul to the devil, *cough private banks cough* like America did in the 30s. "The Federal Reserve is as federal as FedEx" as they say so many times in the movie. I'd hate for India to get suckered into such an idea - to let a private institution control the money supply. Especially one that is above the law and controlled by wall street moguls. Have I been swept along with the conspiracy propaganda? Let me know. I think the evidence is pretty damning (as I say, watch Zeitgeist Addendum).

So where does this leave me, the young idealist out of touch with reality and the big bad world? I'll tell you where. As far as saving America from itself, I have a selfish goal. The only thing I really care about, the only goal I want to achieve in my life time is to make a difference to the lives of as many underprivileged people as I can in India. That's all I care about. India. I want to do is see my country produce a good football team. I want to see us control population (like, but not using the exact same methods as China). I want to see us industrialise from the ground up, rather than from the top, up. As I said, I'm an idealist out of touch with reality. Still, improving living standards for people, stopping female infanticide and all those other impossible things are the thing I want to spend my life doing.

Isn't there a government to do all this stuff? Not in India there isn't. The private sector - evil and profit orientated as they may be, the youth and the idealists are the ones who'll make the change. I only hope I can be part of this. Look how this has gone from a movie review to a soppy, patriotic ballad. Typical.

What university really teaches you...

2009-06-10T15:23:00.000-07:00

My last exam is tomorrow, well technically, today. I need to sleep. Anyways, I've just done some relfection as to what university has really taught me. What are my parents paying $30,000 a year for? Do I know more about world politics? Definitely. Have I become better at maths? Not really. Am I better at drawing up financial documents? Sort of. Then I realised that leaving home and going to university is as much about learning about yourself as it is about learning the subjects you're being taught. So what have I learnt about myself? Alors...

I am the most patriotic person I know. I am so proud of anything India achieves. I always think 'in terms' of India. I think it arises out of having lived out of India for so long. I love telling people about the lovely things back home like having a maid and a driver and conveniently skipping over the power cuts, terrible police and larger social atrocities. We're rich so they don't affect us, right? I am quick to distinguish myself from the 'brit-Indians' here: the disillusioned, 2nd generation bunch of chav-dressing morons this city is filled with. Some of them are nice though. I'm far too passionate about where I come from.

This brings me swimmingly on to my next observation about myself. What started out as harmless humour has actually gotten ingrained in to my head and I find myself judging every single person I meet based on their skin colour and accent. I make assumptions about them 5 seconds after saying hi to them. It scares me. I love how different everyone is here, but then why do I always associate the worst qualities with someone of an ethnicity just based on their skin colour or accent? If someone is brown they're going to be boring and speak bad english, if someone is black they're going to be loud and talk in slang, if someone is chinese they'll be quiet and not talk at all and if someone is white they don't have time for me. Where have these weird reactions all come from? I don't know. I have some complexes I need to deal with.

Moving away from all this serious stuff, I realised how out of place I feel in a bookstore. I was never a reader. I read only what I have to, as a chore. In my LIFE I've read the following books: the harry potter series, Life of Pi, the Artemis Fowl series, The world is flat, a few Dan Browns, and Mr Nice. That's really it. Sure I've read loads more but they were for school. The other day I went to a bookstore with Thomas. He was browsing away for something he wanted....I was like my granddad in the Vodafone showroom. I walked in circles, looking for the few books I'd heard people talk about. I found some about various wars, told in Dan brown style. They looked alright but I'd wait for the movie. The movie is always better, you and I both know it. You sit there for 2 hours, completely engrossed in it. The stars, the action, the sets, the direction....it's magic. So why waste 3 months reading something? Anyways, whatever, I was in a bookstore, I had to fulfill my obligation to consume. I bought a book by Noam Chomsky about America in the middle east, a book about the Bid Laden family and a book by an American writer talking about how society in India is coping with the the changing face of the country. I think that sums a lot up.

Now for some myth busting. From what I'd seen in movies (!) and heard from people, university was all about sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. But mostly about the first two. I came here and realised how little I care about either. It astounded me, but I am/was happy with myself. Society has vilified drugs and glorified sex. The government has vilified both, whilst pop culture have glorifies both. I was not going out of my way to find either - and I was content. Sure, I could have scored some pills and gotten laid but I thought about how I'd feel the next morning. And sure enough, the pessimistic side of me (who has been working out) won. I imagined my mums face if I died a cocaine overdose or gotten AIDS or something. That kept me on a steady keel. The image of my mums face. Gosh, I really am a kid.

On a somewhat similar point, I found out that I'm happier spending an evening alone at home, with heavenly internet speeds and sushi, than staggering around a pulsating nightclub eyeing girls I'm never going to get with, alongside guys I've gotten drunk with too many times. Yeah.

You don't appreciate people till you leave them. As my earlier post will show, I only really understood how cool my parents were once I left home. They do stuff on time, they plan things out, they know how to handle people and navigate situations....I have some way to go. When you go to a new country (albeit one you've previously lived in) you realise the value of home and people who will be there no matter what. It's that unconditional love I crave.

On a more humble note (or humourous, depending on which way you see it), I realised how average I am at football. Anyone who's been on this blog for more than a few seconds will know how much I love the sport and that I live, breathe and make love to it. However, after coming to England and to university, I was truly humbled by how much better the other lads are. In India, I used to play on the school team. I was one of the better players among the group of boys I played with in the compound on weekends. I was never quick or strong but skill and control got me by. Not so here. Oh no. I came here and got shoved off the ball by massive black guys, and then hilariously out-paced by some German guys and then nut-megged (where someone plays the ball through your legs - the ultimate humiliation. For any video-gamers reading this, its like getting knifed) by an Egyptian guy. And all on the same day! I had skill so I just about managed to escape ridicule but I have a long summer of gyming (haha, yeah right) and diet (more chance of North Korea disarming...) ahead of me.

I guess above all, university teaches you what life alone is like. How to do laundry. How to wash dishes. How to 'cook'. How to befriends strangers. How to talk to girls. How to plan one's day and more importantly, one's work. How to choose friends and know when someone is playing you. How to realise when you're playing someone. How to spend wisely and how to drink wisely - and how to face the consequences of not doing both. It's about creating a second home, somewhere else. I seemed to have made good ground in learning all those things.

This post is too long, I know. I have an exam soon in which I'll be tested on how well I've learnt the things I was supposed to learn. Sigh. What my next few years of college will be like, I don't know. All I do know, is that I can't wait to get out into the REAL real world and start working and buying a motorcycle and all the other challenges that come with the next step of the way.

Sandeep Uncle's Red Mutton Curry

2009-05-31T10:10:00.000-07:00

That Colaba house holds a lot of fond memories, for me. Somehow south Bombay's humid, searing, sultry atmosphere never penetrated the mesh-covered windows. Many a joyous Christmas or summer was spent there, in the company of my cousins, their pets and their wonderful maid.

At the end of a tiring day, Sandeep uncle would come home, exhausted, to lots of hugs from the whole family. He'd sit down on his wooden chair in front of the TV in the master bedroom and watch the news and cricket highlights of the day, along with me and Kartik, my cousin. The maid, Manjula, would bring in a tray with dinner as he took off his shoes and freshened up. For some reason, I remember this one mutton curry that he used to love. That curry can teleport me across time and space to that Colaba house and all the times I spent there.

Days were spent playing cricket in the garden or in my cousins room - something I'd look forward to doing all year. We'd be taken to see all of Bombay's new, trendy malls and cinemas and occasionally, for a sunset walk along the coastline. As kids, it was really a home away from home. My sister and I would wait for our cousins to come home from school, passing time watching TV or be entertained with games and stories from our grandparents.

The smell of that curry as the maid took it out of the kitchen and to the master bedroom filled the whole house. We'd already had dinner but this was like watching a celebrity walk down the road. We'd follow our noses to the room and take in the glory of that mutton curry. Sandeep looked like a king on his throne, savouring the evening meal after a hard day mediating a ferocious court.

It was a deep red-brown. The curry-meat ratio wasn't too high but what little sauce there was, was the perfect amount. Like icebergs on the ocean, the succulent, dark brown chunks of boneless mutton would protrude the surface. The rotis brought along with it were piping hot and the curry was crying out to be wrapped and consumed in them. He'd obviously give Kartik and I a taste.

It was mutton, wrapped in curry, wrapped in roti, wrapped in Bombay. The heat of the curry, tenderness of the meat and softness of the roti encapsulated the city and that house. One side of Bombay, to me, is synonymous with heat, gossip and hustle and bustle. South Bombay especially.....its all very cut to cut - no one stands still for a second, even in the searing heat. The people are always going somewhere or doing something. Their demeanour is rushed and their eyes are wild. The spicy, deep red of the curry summed that up.

Biting into the mutton itself was like jumping into a duvet. The mutton was massaging you in that tense spot. It was like Bandra....laid back and meant to be taken in slowly. It was so full of flavour but rushing into swallowing it was pure unforgivable sin. You have to throw it around in your mouth for a bit, then let the first of the juices escape. Then you chew slowly, fully grasping the majestic simplicity of a piece of well marinated, spicy meat. Don't bite, caress with your teeth. Don't zoom around Bandra in a car with preppy yuppies, go to a frankie stand and stroll along Carter Road and let the salty sea breeze season your roll.

The roti is the simple, hard working people of Bombay. The ones who you don't see outside Phoenix Mills or Cafe Coffee Day. The roti is the middle class. The accountants and the shop owners. The roti is soft but firm, hot but slightly sweet. It is what holds the meat in place, what holds the city together.

I'm hungry.

Birmingham

2009-04-06T15:36:00.000-07:00

I left my flat and walked towards town, leaving the towers of my university behind. What a strange city this was. If it was deserted, it would look like any other city - concrete and glass and the occasional, refreshing, old English style building with gargoyles. But no, when the soul of a city, it's people are taken into account, it becomes a very strange and unique city indeed. Growing up, I've lived in and visited many cities around the world, but none with an identity as confused as Birmingham.

I was in England but it did not feel that way. At the street crossing next to Tesco, I saw one of the few white people I'd see on this mundane trek to Tesco. There were two adolescents, adorned in gloriously cheap, grey tacksuits wearing baseball caps and shiny white trainers. The boy had more gel on his scalp than hair. His short, wispy brown hair was slicked forward, over his forehead. The girl was blond and chubby and carried herself in a most lethargic manner. She was sucking on a lollipop, fiddling with the 'gold' chain around the boy's acne ridden neck. Young love. Their expressions were bored, their faces almost lifeless. I walked on.

I passed the bus-stop and saw a large group of brown teenage boys, all dressed the same. All with the same hair style. All talking in the same manner. All being loud, obnoxious and boisterous. All laughing and swearing without a care in the world for the nearby families, the children eyeing them nervously from behind their parent's legs, the disapproving old couples and me. I walked on.

I saw a black lady, struggling to manage her three curious and energetic children. The blustery spring afternoon made it all the more difficult for her to navigate the streets, steering her pram clear of on-coming traffic and trying desperately to get her children to stay in the same place. Her sigh spoke a thousand words and revealed emotions that perhaps cannot be emptied through the literary sieve and into this blog. She was a young woman, she must have been in her twenties; she looked far too young for this job. She looked out of ideas. She needed a hug. I walked on.

Two young Chinese women passed me. Eyes down, mouths shut, holding hands and walking at a furious pace. They were probably university students. Boy, were they far from home! The Chinese.....they seldom speak. This is my observation. I walked on.

I saw two, large, fat, black women ambling along in their elaborate African dresses and head-gear. They spoke in a tongue that was easy on the ear, in an accent that felt on the ears like blissfully relaxing shampoo on one's scalp at the hair-dressers before the cut itself. They walked slowly and labouriously but they were smiling and laughing all the way. The first happy people I'd seen. I walked on.

As I continued to walk down Corporation street towards Tesco, I realised just how varied the population of this city was. What was the spirit of this place? What people characterised this city? When I think of Birmingham, what face will pop into my mind? I cannot put my finger on it. It is a city of immigrants. I had never seen this many Pakistanis in the same place! I was dressed differently to most people. My suit jacket and sunglasses contrasted sharply with the hooded jackets, nylon raincoats and cotton tracksuits of most people. I must have passed 500 people on the way to the supermarket that afternoon - no more than 20 of them were white. This was the reality.

I saw a brown family walking in the same direction, just ahead of me. The high pitch voices of the children brought laughter to the faces of the parents, which brought a smile to mine. The children were as inquisitive as any, firing one question after the other at their father, while the mother rocked and sweet-talked the little bundle in her arms. They stopped so that the father could tie his son's shoe laces. I walked on.

Two construction workers were enjoying some gourmet English food outside a chip shop in the mid-April sunshine. Their reflective flourescent green jackets made me squint at one point. One was bald, fat and white. The other was thin and brown, mouse-faced with that same 'crown' hairstyle that most brown men here sported. They were exchanging stories, their laughter filled the air.

I had reached Tesco. It was 6pm. It was Sunday. It was closed.

An Open Letter to Mrs Preethi Menon

2009-03-15T20:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Mrs Preethi,

How are you?

I caught myself day-dreaming last week; I was remembering English class. I remembered the class we had on the Monday afternoon, when it the heat outside was sweltering but the fans in our classroom lulled us into a subtle peace with their soft, constant whirring and the sympathetic breeze they let flow across the room. I remembered you talking about the deeper connotations of the themes discussed in 'Like Water for Chocolate'. You know I'm not a big reader but I really enjoyed that book and the way you explained it! It seems a long time ago and a long way away from where I am now, in the world and in my life. I felt compelled to write to you.

Do you remember Gautam Jain and how awake and alive and enthusiastic he was? Or how Tanay, Raj and co. would be 'taking notes' so furiously on their laptops? Or the impressive array of excuses Arun so expertly used to wriggle out of the classroom for those few extra seconds? Or (and no sarcasm here, just admiration) how refreshingly sincere Soudeh was with her work? Or how Karan would complain about the length and variety of the Russian names in Dr Zhivago (as well as his now well documented hand gestures)? What about how pedantic and cynical I was? What is your English class like now?

As I'm sure you do remember, I am at Aston University, in Birmingham, in England. I am studying Business and International Relations and really enjoying it - particularly the International Relations component. I try and continue my writing in my spare time. It offers me solace and is a great catalyst for reflection and self-examination. I am happy with my life and my university experience.

I miss my school days. I miss the friends I made and the teachers who helped shape my mind. Though I had many differences with the school and some of its policies - as any rebellious teenage boy is likely to have had - I wouldn't change a thing about that time in my life. I want to thank you and indeed all the people that make up Indus, in having a profound influence in who I am today.I remember all the 'anti-establishment' sentiments harboured by me and my peers but I do not regret them. Instead, I am glad that I can look back now and see why we felt that way and why what our superiors did was done with our futures in mind. I am an adult now (barely, though) and therefore I can look at my teachers as individuals and human beings, rather than the all-powerful masters of the universe they once were! I remember feeling a tremendous sense of injustice towards some of the actions taken by staff but now I can see that the staff too, were just human beings. They made mistakes, they were under pressure too. I have so many great memories that take place within the white-washed walls of Indus. I couldn't possibly be angry. I wouldn't change a thing!

Anyways, the theme of this letter isn't a negative one. It is one of reflection and acceptance. I smile when I think of how I grew from a chubby, spectacle wearing 9th grader who did a great Cantonese accent, to one of the taller, more sarcastic, apathetic students in my 12th grade class. I saw life-long friendships form, like those between me, Arun, Anirudh and some of other "not quite back benchers" in your English class! I watched with mixed emotions, guys and girls getting 'closer' - in the most adolescent context! I discovered my passion for writing as a result of being a frustrated, stressed 12th grader, buried under college applications and SAT practise papers. I remember the excitement and ecstasy of finding out I'd topped the IGCSE exams and the lazy but fun-filled year that followed it. I remember my disappointment at not even being nominated for a student council post in 11th and 12th grade - not that I'd have done a good job! I remember the comical frenzy of cleaning and tidying activity that followed someone running into a pig-sty of a classroom and yelling "Sarojini is coming!". I remember, perhaps most vividly of all, the feelings of sheer, boundless and all-conquering joy I felt as Prahlad, Arun, Anirudh and I would pry a football out of the clutches of Mr Singha and run onto the football pitch on a Friday afternoon. These memories will, hopefully, stay with me forever.

I smile in my sleep when I think of Anirudh and me doing the impersonations of all the teachers on the steps of the IB block on those sunny mornings! All the legendary Physics teachers we've had, Mr Arul with all his quirks, Colonel Rao and his interrogation techniques, Ms Selina's immaculate enunciation, Ms Sunanda's rather bizarre but nonetheless entertaining rants, Colonel Jasial's 'jokes' on our school trips, the battles for the most perfect Mallu accent (!) between Mr Vijay Thomas and the PE teacher Mr Dilip, Ms Vijayalakshmi's perplexing words of warning to the class, Mr Sudhakaran's fondness for Rushikesh, and so many more! Sadly, I don't think we ever got around to pin-pointing a succinct imitation of you!

But now I must stop reminiscing, before I lose my train of thought! I just want to wish you well and say that I am glad you were my English teacher. I'm sure the rest of our class wishes you the same, wherever in the world they may be. I thank you and Indus for the good times and bad. I hope this letter finds you in good spirits, because writing it has certainly left me in them.

Yours sincerely

Shravan

The Last Leaf

2009-03-14T20:33:00.001-07:00

Winter has come and left the tree bare. All but one of the leaves has thrown itself into the cold wind of seasonal change. One clings on, defiant.

Silly leaf.

The 6am Smoker

2009-03-04T19:32:00.000-08:00

The night is perfect. It is the best time of day. It is quiet and cool. No superficial people, just the optimistic chirps of birds. This is the domain of the 6am smoker.

I don't know what he's doing up at this time. I can see him from my ground floor window, sipping a cigarette. The night seems to get stiller with every exhalation. Winter has left but a single leaf on the naked tree next to him. I don't know his name but I'm tempted to go ask him what he's doing and why he chooses this time to grace the silent courtyard.

From a distance I see a profound sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he's reflecting on a day or a life. On what's gone well and what hasn't. I think he's thinking about someone because there is longing in his expression. His face is young but his demeanour is tired. Looks like he comes here to escape the world, his cigarette an ally. Early morning provides solace - but from what?

His sleeves are folded up, in defiance to the cold. After a while, a look of contentment spreads across his face. Maybe the cigarette has served its purpose. Maybe the exploration of his own mind has yielded some answers. While the rest of the world dreams about sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, our hero is trying to out-stare the night. People are funny things.

I wonder who's lonelier- me or him?

The Folks

2009-02-20T18:05:00.000-08:00

Thank you.

I look at the world and I see UN schools being bombed in Gaza. I see the (needless) media frenzy over someone as insignificant as Jane Goody. I see a corrupt monetary system. I see people generally not getting along. Where's the good? Where are the things that make you want to wake up the next day?

They exist. And I want to thank two of them. My parents.

When all those bad things overwhelm me (like after watching Zeitgeist, for example - a movie everyone should watch), I like to dream about my house in Bangalore and the warmth and unconditional love that radiate from it. I listen to my friends talk about how they're going to go visit their dad on the weekend and I feel thankful that mine loves my mum. I look at broken families and I smile when I remember my family on one of our signature holidays. You take them for granted till you leave them. My parents are the best people I know - and there's no hyperbole to be found here. Not a trace.

I look at some of my friends' parents with skepticism. The ones I used to think were cool because they let them do whatever they want and I'm grateful my parents were 'firm but fair'. This is one of those moments where the self-fulfilling prophecy of "you'll thank us when you're older" seems to have fulfilled itself. I look at some of my friends' parents who are on the other end of the scale. Treatment of teenage boys has never seen such polarity. Stalin could have learned a thing or two about totalitarian government from this lot. They were - if I said 'no disrespect here', I'd be lying - irrationally strict and in many ways, backward. They irked me because I could see the look of helplessness and anguish on their sons' faces and I couldn't do little about it. All I could do was come home and be happy that I was who I was thanks to my parents being who they were.

I'm 18 now. I've left the creche. I'm out in the real world where you have to be accountable for yourself and 'man up'. I am happy with who I am. I am happy with the product that the conveyor belt that was my childhood, has churned out. I know who I am and where I come from and where I want to go and I have no one but my parents to thank for this. Had they planned it all out this way? I don't know. Perhaps. Maybe I helped myself grow a little but I know they did the bulk of the footwork in that respect.

I feel sorry for kids who didn't have a dad growing up. I know some and they are fine individuals, but would have been much better had they been provided with half the dad I got. I take after my dad a lot. I surprise myself by the amount I do. I have met a lot of people in my life but I don't think I've met a better planner and organiser than him. Sure, some people may be smarter (although the more I think about who exactly, the more I doubt that statement) but no one puts faith into the world like he does. Even when the world kicks him in the teeth. My dad has this amazing ability of starting out every task or project, with the belief that everyone in the world is a good person who will work as hard as he will. And living in India, when this IS the case, it's a pleasant surprise. When I see my dad bitter or angry it saddens me because I know why. I think he wishes everyone would keep to their word like he did. He isn't perfect and we have had our disagreements, but there's something about his attitude towards life that I've hopefully got a bit of and that is to go out into any endeavour and trust other people to do their best. It's an honesty you'd be hard pressed to find and I love him for it. I love when my dad puts on his reading glasses, gets a pen and paper, and draws up a table. It sums him up. Also, did mention that he knows everything?

I can't imagine my dad when he's older but I sure can picture my mum, say, 20 years down the line. She'll be sitting in our garden, reading Bliss Divine or some such text and smiling. My mum is always smiling. I have always been a big fan of my mum, right from a very early age. She will no doubt harp on about the various things I've said to/about her over the years in the comments box - I eagerly await them! I love when my mum gets angry. Her temper usually lasts for four to five minutes. It's triggered by something as trivial as my sister (I'm tempted to end this sentence here) wanting a different snack to what everyone else is being made. Soon after, it can be quelled by something like 'shikran' (a simple combination of chopped banana, sugar and milk). Then, she will float away to her office and leave us all smiling. My mum is the kind to walk into my sister's room when we're watching an Arsenal match and ask who's playing, and before we can answer, asking me to go across the street and get some bread. My mother is terrible with technology but I wouldn't have it any other way. I get cheap thrills by lapping up compliments from her/my sister/women in general (oooooh no he didn't!) when I've fixed the most minute technical difficulty. My mum has changed a lot ever since she found yoga but she hasn't really changed in her attitude towards raising me and my sister and I'm grateful. I can't wait to talk about philosophy with her this summer. I have never really sat and discussed deep matters with my parents - not enough, anyway. This will change.

I think now that I've grown up (or so I hope), I can look at my parents as individuals rather than my father and mother. I can understand better why they do things, why they make mistakes and what drives them. This has been fascinating because it was like meeting two new people. And they were amongst the most interesting people I've had the pleasure of knowing. My parents used to be these two godly figures whom I had no choice but to obey and I could only look at them as my parents, not as Vijay Bhat and Nilima Bhat. I see all the bad in the world and I think it is balanced by what I feel when I think of my family. They are the good in my world. Not the only good, but probably the biggest contributor. I don't think I'd change a thing about the way they've raised me.

I'm glad we ate as a family. I'm glad you got angry at me when I lied. I'm glad you didn't force me to do things I didn't fully believe in. I'm glad you recognised what inexpressible joy football brings me. I'm glad you made us write those holiday reports. I wouldn't change a thing.

Thank you. For everything.

PS. I still think you over-reacted when I broke that window ;-)

A spiritual experience?

2009-02-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

King's Cross station came and went. I was shocked and confused: how would I get to the stadium now?! Apparently it was over-crowded so the train wouldn't be stopping there! There was barely an hour left till kick-off! How would I get there in time now? I asked advice from fellow tube compartment passengers as to which was the quickest way to get to the Finsbury Park tube station. Some said the bus, some said to stay on the tube and change at the next stop and take a spectacular dog's leg and some said to get off at the next station and walk to another tube station. In the end, I chose to do the latter. I scurried through twilight lit (twilit?) central London on foot, from Farringdon tube station to Holburn, kind, savvy Londoners giving me directions every few hundred yards.

I finally got onto the tube heading northbound, squashed into a carriage with many more football fans, some Brazilian, some Italian, some (like me), just there to experience the spectacle. I heard flowing, easy going Portuguese and fast, harsh Italian being spoken and I saw as many blue scarves, as I did yellow ones. We got off at Finsbury Park station and sprinted to the stadium. Behind and in front of me, both sides of supporters were already singing songs dedicated to their national teams. I smiled as I ran, covered in a few layers of clothes and my trusted white scarf. It's quite a walk (or run, in this case) from the tube station to the magnificent Emirates Stadium so when we arrived at it's exterior, we were all out of breath and had trouble navigating through the crowd in search of our particular turnstiles. Still, the sight of this glowing masterpiece of architecture, almost pulsating with noise, was not lost on me, as I took a few seconds to stand and admire its beauty. I felt the same way when I looked at Kanjimjanga (or K2, the world's second tallest peak) back in 9th grade. It wasn't as good as the Taj Mahal, but then, few things are. Maybe Sashimi.

I climbed the stairs to my seat in the upper tier, two at a time. I still hadn't emerged into the middle of the ground, I was still inside the stands, surrounded by ugly concrete. But then I walked through the narrow tunnel towards my block and emerged into heaven. The interior Emirates stadium is sight to behold during the day, but at night, under floodlights it really takes your breath away. My senses were overloaded. I asked the steward to direct me towards my seat and after jostling past people who were already there, I finally sat down. After spending the best part of an hour, zipping around Central London on foot or standing up in a train, I sat down. It was bliss. I had a chance to take in the aura of the place.

There were colours everywhere; I had never seen the stadium (albeit, after going for only 3 matches) like this before. There were the blue shirts of the Italian fans and the vibrant yellows and greens of the Brazilians, interspersed with the blacks coats of neutrals like me and the red and white of the decor of the stands. Camera flashes sparkled every few seconds. The pitch was the kind of green carpet any footballer dreams about. Not a divot in sight. The floodlights made the white lines and electronic advertising boards jump out, like glitter on a piece of paper. Oh and the sound. The Italian fans were pumping out battle-cries of "I-ta-lia, I-ta-lia" in a deafening chorus only to be matched but the various songs sent forth by the legions of Brazil fans. It was like a tennis match of song. It cold night air whipped past my now almost hairless head (I really should have taken my wooly hat after my haircut!) but I was too excited and happy to care. Someone started a Mexican wave that coursed around the stadium just as goosebumps coursed over my skin when Brazil scored. I felt a sense of joy and happiness, not because they had scored, but because I could experience this, this sensation. It was just like I'd imagined it, yet still surreal. Was this state of euphoria what they call a spiritual experience? Where you feel connected to an occasion or place or a point in time that is like nothing you've ever felt before and struggle to describe with words? To me, it may well have been.

The Brazil fans jumped to their feet and fist-pumped the air! A pretty Brazilian girl in front of me began doing some variation of the Samba - a tad distracting for a teenage guy, but hey, can't complain! Flags and banners were waved with new enthusiasm and the same songs that were sung before, had a whole new energy about them. Below me, the Brazilian players on the pitch came together in the far corner to celebrate while the Italians walked back to the halfway line, heads hung in disappointment. It was a goal of beauty, from a footballing purists stand point. One touch passing was capped off by a clinical finish. I was so taken up by the brilliance of the occasion, that I'd forgotten that the world's best player were meters away from me, playing the sport they and I love.

The Brazilians were magicians - Ronaldinho and Robinho in particular. They were here to please the crowd as much as they were here to win a football match. They were showmen. I remember Robinho tricking a pair of Italian defenders with some hyptonising step-overs, before threading a simple ball between the two of them! The crowd went wild and he acknowledged. Ronaldinho was at it all night long. He was doing clever flicks and picking out passes that I could barely pull off in my back garden, let alone in front of 60,000 people! He was out there to have fun - and the crowd were loving it. Brazil were running a clinic. Italy had no answer. Their star players, De Rossi and Pirlo both had off-nights and their famously water-tight defence, seemed no match for Brazil's cheeky attack. It was only a matter of time before the second goal came. It was if Robinho had planned 2 steps ahead of everyone else and was already thinking about beating the second defender before he'd embarrassed the first. He nicked the ball of a rather lazy Andrea Pirlo, dribbled around him, put in a couple of (now trademark) step-overs to flummox the second defender and fired a low shot into the far corner that had the world's best keeper, Gianluigi Buffon, beaten.

The crowd exploded again. Italian fans behind me put their heads in their hands and acknowledged that they had seen a piece of magic. I bet that musicians feel this way when they go to see their favourite bands/musicians play live and witness talent that is infinitely greater than theirs, not with jealousy, but with sheer, dumb admiration. Robinho had been playing cheer-warranting back-heels and no-look flicks all game long, but this goal was on a different level. I can imagine him doing this to defenders at a school level, and still feeling the same joy now. How good were these guys? It humbles you to see the sheer mighty presence of Adriano, winning headers up front - he was built like a bull. The blistering pace of Marcello and Alexander Pato left me, traditionally the slowest player on the team, in shock. The passing of Italy's Andrea Pirlo even made me angry. How can someone look so indifferent when pinging a 60 yard ball to the feet of a team-mate? He did it at ease - it was like watching someone play him on the video game! You know how you always think, when watching matches on TV, "that looks easy, I could play for XYZ club!"? Well I no longer think that! Each player on show was a master at his trade - well, apart from Dossena (Liverpool fans will know what I'm talking about!)

I'd been to a few live Arsenal matches before this and they were great because I'm a huge Arsenal fan but this seemed like a different experience. This was the 5-time world cup winners, Brazil, going up against the 4-time, and current, world champions, Italy. Football is one of the things I live for - food, writing and family being the others. Was this as good as it gets? For me, yes. This was one of the best things I have ever done. This was an unforgettable night and one that will provide me with happy dreams and memories, for years to come.

Bangalore

2008-10-23T16:43:00.000-07:00

I miss my sofa. My dirty, yellow and blue throne. I miss laying left to right on it, watching TV in just that right manner; head tilted at that perfect angle, arms resting on that perfect spot on the cushion, my tea perched on the stool just the perfect distance from my hand. That was my space. A bubble of things arranged "just so". It was to me what the basket by the fireplace is to the figurative cat.

I miss auto rickshaws. The crazy messages/stickers flashing across their back panels. "MouthShut. com"

"Save rainwater, save India"

"Manju"

I loved meeting an honest auto driver, one who would actually charge you the fair shown on the meter and not complain that it's too far/short/rainy/windy/close to his aunt's birthday. The putrid city air in your face and the sound of the muffler-less gas engine crying away, I miss them too.

Sunsets over Varthur lake: possibly the greatest paradox I've ever come across. The sight was truly worth the terrible road, but the smell of that disturbingly green water was not. I passed that lake almost everyday for 4 years and now I no longer see it. Good day or bad, that lake was always there to tell me that I was 2 stops from home.

Empire. Enough said. The best value food I have ever had. There were restaurants and then there was Empire. It had many copies and many rivals, but really, nothing comes close. I loved the cross-section of society one could see there. you could get a pretty accurate slice of Bangalore at Empire. You had the IT workers, complete with immaculate side-parting, glasses and the name-tag dangling from their necks. You had us, the children of the well-to-do, dressed in jeans, sunglasses and branded shoes. You had the group of archetypal south Indian ammas: saaree, too much fake (?) jewelry, wailing baby and all. And then, last but not least, you had the average man - not your poor one, mind you. You had the guy who uses a single Bajaj Chetak as his family transport every morning. The guy who needs his idly dosa from Shanthi Sagar every morning in order to function. Everyone knows what they want, everyone is hungry - even if they may have entered full! Whether it be chicken kabab, mutton raan, dosa chicken, bheja fry or just your friendly neighbourhood biryani, everything is gobbled up. The speed of seating, ordering, consuming, paying and leaving is quite astounding. The various ranks of waiters are plain for all to see. The feeling of walking down to Chruch street, feeling full and satisfying is one I sorely miss.

Palm Meadows. A little piece of California that got lost and decided to give up and settle in South India. I loved the feeling of driving around, picking everyone up from their houses and going to play street football. These were without doubt, my closest friends: the (in)famous football gang. And once the game was done and twilight was upon us, I loved walking down to the shop, buying terribly unhealthy soft drinks and just talking until my mum came to pick me up. We'd talk about our parents and school and work and dreams of college and football. On weekends I'd sleep over at one of my friends houses and this meant buying more unhealthy food from the shop, going to Prahlad's place and basically enjoying his basement. The pool table, the massive TV, and night time burn-outs on Palm Meadows back roads.

I look forward to enjoying these little pieces of Bangalore this December. I didn't know I'd miss them so much.

The Topic of Cancer

2008-02-22T20:46:00.000-08:00

I felt an odd sense of emptiness when my parents broke the news. It was December 2001 and my father had been diagnosed with colon cancer. We lived in London at the time and I was all of 11 years old. Naturally, I was rather naive; my perception of western-medicine was that it could cure anything, anywhere, anytime. Perhaps my parents were counting on this, so my sister and I would remain calm in the face of grave events. At an age so tender, my father’s condition was just another illness that white-winged doctors could cure with the divine swoosh of a scalpel.

Only when I look back, do I realise the sheer naiveté of my judgement, as many “what if” questions start bouncing inside my head. What if the cancer had been widespread? What if the surgery had only a 50% chance of success? Alas, what if there wasn’t anything that could be done? What if even those angelic surgeons had no solutions but to pray? Though my perception was cloudy, I am surprised at my own demeanour. I did not panic, I did not cry, I did not fear. I simply prayed and knew that the best would happen. My lack of emotion at the time was something Shakespeare’s Hamlet would be proud of, yet now I see why I did not shout or scream with futile agony. Somehow, I had faith that the Universe would right itself. And it did. The surgery, which took place on my birthday (the best present I ever received!), went off without a hitch and since then, my father made a full recovery with the help of Chinese medicine and western wisdom. However, it wasn’t the end of his health trials.

While he cut back on his high-travel, stress-filled job, he still had many challenges to face. We moved from London to Hong Kong. Here, work continued to occupy a big chunk of his time and patience. Something had to give. In a rather bizarre series of events, my father swallowed a fish-bone that apparently tore a hole in his small intestine. He was rushed to another hospital, where another Gabriel performed another perfect surgery. After this episode though, my parents decided to make some fundamental changes, because it was now clear that my father’s corporate responsibilities and the accompanying life-style were taking a heavy toll on his health.

I’m not a firm believer in destiny, only in the balance of things. In the summer of 2004, this balance was corrected and we moved back to India after 9 years living in different parts of the world. I didn’t know what to expect; some balance at last? Indeed, it was balance that my parents found. My father gave up his full-time job and set up Roots and Wings, a small consultancy firm. Instead of making expensive advertisements for high-profile clients, my father now helps people overcome multi-faceted life problems like divorce and illness, as well as working part-time in the corporate arena.

My own life has also been dramatically altered since we moved back to India. My initial year felt as if I was a foreigner in my own country. However, this has changed significantly over the past three years as I have recognized India as home. While I feel comfortable in any country, I feel a calling to return to India after my higher education. It is a time of incredible opportunity and I know that India will require global citizens that have firm roots here. I feel that our country will need strong leaders that understand a multicultural environment, but are also uniquely Indian. My father’s own path back home has really made me realize the strength of one’s past in determining and cultivating one’s future.

I think he has grown as a person and a father, after his cancer experience. Moreover, I think my own perception and emotional response have also grown. Cancer was a catalyst of positive change for the whole family. I have learnt that if something looks impossible, it calls for another perspective, which may open up totally new possibilities. I have opened myself to change and I have learnt to go with the flow. To me, openness also means questioning my assumptions while making the necessary choices. Inevitably, this will bring about positive change.

My father’s cancer changed my outlook on life as a whole. I hope to grow from my transitions, the way he has.

What do pictures want?

2008-02-22T20:44:00.000-08:00

It is a simple family portrait that you will find in the home of every single descendant of our ancestral clan: the Khambadkone’s, who trace their origin to the tiny village of the same name in North Kanara District of Karnataka on India’s west coast. Probably taken by one of the few cameras around at that time, it is a black and white (now sepia-toned) photograph taken in the front yard of my great-grandmothers home, in 1935. There are 25 people of varying ages and trades, all members of the same extended family. I remember being surprised by its ubiquity because whenever we visited our relatives, I noticed this same photo displayed; sometimes prominently and sometimes tucked-away in a corner, but nonetheless ever-present. It is as if that moment in time needed to be frozen in black and white, for posterity.

The actual landscape of course, is anything but black and white. It is an expanse of lush rice plantations and abundant coconut groves, in every conceivable shade of green. The air is thick with humidity and the rich smell of red, fertile soil. Temple bells ring faintly in the background. The sea is never far, always in the hearts of the people who reap its fruits. The people here lead a simple life. The men are partially robed in a loose fitting sarong (called lungi), their bodies tanned and toned from the hard manual labour involved in farming or fishing. The women all wear sarees. Few outsiders have seen this part of India; foreign tourists pass it by, choosing other, more glamorous coastal resorts instead. I myself felt like a complete foreigner as we drove in, my father getting more excited with each new vista. Every nearby village shares a name with some relative or another. Every few minutes my father would point out, “Look, we’re passing this uncle or that cousins’ village!”

The initial feeling, of being an outsider was not shared by our relatives though. They included us in their stories and memories, even though we had not been there in person. They recounted the ups and downs of people’s lives that I knew nothing of. My father didn’t either, but he listened with concerned intent to each tale. Elderly aunts brought out small steel jars containing home-made savoury and sweet snacks, watching with indulgent delight as we enjoyed them. I was drawn to that mysterious picture in each home that we visited, and noticed new details with each viewing. I imagined what it must have been like on the day that photograph was taken.

My father tells me it was a wedding, when a young girl from the family married a doctor (a very respectable profession in the 1930’s, since higher education was so limited and so rare). People would have travelled by bullock-cart and horse-buggy, crossing several rivers by boat, to meet their relatives, tickle new babies and to tease the young boys and girls who had ‘grown up so fast’. Grand meals would have been prepared and enjoyed, the women gossiping as they cooked over wood-fires, while the men sat in the back garden discussing events big and small in each other’s lives. The children would have frolicked in the surrounding fields, or splashed about in the blue waters of the Arabian Sea, with no care in the world. After the wedding ceremony, the steaming, fragrant meal would be served, mostly comprising rice, spicy lentil curries, seasonal vegetables, pickles and if times were good, fish or meat. Humorous stories and quirky events would be shared, before everyone retired for a long afternoon nap. This was a time before telephones, television and email, when human contact prevailed, so people used such occasions to come together and celebrate the wonder of family.

Looking into the photo, I can see myself in all of these different people. How different my life would be, but at the same time, would I be that different? Their silver-powdered eyes reach out to mine and I realise with a jolt that I am connected to every one of them across time and space.

You can tell a lot from the photo. Even the way they sat, reveals the social hierarchy and ‘the way things were’ at the time. The children sit cross-legged on the floor. The elders, including the “prominent” men and “demure” ladies sit on a rough wooden bench. Tall, strapping young men stand behind them, cocky and confident, as if to say, “We will be the ones sitting down soon enough”. The groom is easy to spot with his crumpled but proudly worn Western suit, while the young bride’s jewelry hangs heavy around her neck. Some men wear a rather quizzical look, unsure of what the camera will capture. One woman sits meekly next to her burly, moustachioed husband. Here’s my direct connection to this photo: my grandmother, who was not even 2 years old then, is perched atop my great-grandmother’s lap. With the care-free innocence of a child, she is the only one smiling broadly. She is now in her mid-70’s, but 7 decades later, the smile is still the same.

The photo’s true purpose is to establish a bridge; a connection between me, home and family. An indestructible connection that I can cling to, in times most dire. This picture wants us to remember. It wants us to feel a sense of comfort, knowing there is a home for everyone, even if we haven’t found it yet. Where you are never an outsider or an intruder; where the people and the situation will always embrace you, no matter what. This picture wants us to never lose sight of our past, and it wants to be the anchor that holds our future steady. To me, this picture conveys beautifully, that our roots are just as important as our wings.

Having lived all over the world as a child and about to head off for university soon, this picture is my light-house. It is the beacon that guides me to an oasis of serenity: Home.