Bollywood is not Indian Cinema

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

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.

How to Fail a Driving Test

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

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

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

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."

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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.

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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.