Working Late Tonight?

A couple of weeks ago, a post by a senior ad professional was doing the rounds. It was a piece on why, in her 22-year long career in a reputed agency, she never worked beyond 7 pm. Judging by the comments section and by the way it was shared on various social media platforms, it resounded quite favourably with a lot of people. There were, of course, a few comments to the contrary. Maybe it was because she painted her male colleagues in various shades of black. They passed remarks when she picked up her bag to leave, loitered around unnecessarily in the office socializing and playing games, discussed Tendulkar’s retirement issues and above all, were mama’s boys who managed to make ‘working late’ a means to escape important household duties. It then became a gender-based issue. A fact that clouded the most important point she had to make – leaving office on time.

And to digress a bit, this brings me to a specific growing up angst, mostly inflicted by parents – the craze to score a certain percentage in apparently life-changing exams. A fact that made parents persuade their children to forgo everything dear to them. Cricket matches on crisp winter days.  Favourite TV shows. The wedding preparations of a much-loved aunt. Getting lost in a favourite author’s latest novel. Everything was sacrificed at the score-high-marks altar. Examples of a cousin or a family friend’s son eking out a livelihood in a lowly clerical position because they were not serious about their studies would be thrown in our faces. The result of all this badgering - conscientious students who prided themselves in their ability to burn the midnight oil. They would wear dark circles and pallid complexions like badges of honour. When I was in class 10, there were two other students in the same campus, both girls. Almost every other evening, their mothers would compare notes about their respective daughter’s studying habits. How late they study and how early they set the alarm. I, of course, caused unnecessary trouble in their lives by not switching off my bedroom light all night long. I could sleep blissfully with an interrogation light pointed at my face.

During college years, students could (mostly) be divided into two groups. Those who started studying a month before exams and those who studied the night before.  Of course, I am talking strictly about my stream – commerce. I had friends in engineering or medical who moaned constantly about how much they had to study throughout the year. I also knew more than a few who really enjoyed studying and were very focused on their future life. The point I am trying to make here is that there comes a time, when one needs to make that extra effort, the extra push. Whether it is the aim of securing (or fear of losing) that all-important seat in a reputed institution, or simply because that’s what has been drummed into us since childhood, all of us, irrespective of gender, have at some point really sweated it out.

Then came a day, when our professional lives started. And another round of proving ourselves also started. As trainees in newspaper publications, legal offices, hospitals, manufacturing units, production houses or advertising agencies, the emphasis was on who could work the hardest and hopefully catch the always-wavering attention of the seniors. And get more work. Because that’s how one learns and grows.

Which is why the only thing constant in our lives was work. We enjoyed getting neck-deep in work with our seniors. We loved contributing ideas to a big campaign. Most of us still have our first published ad. Again, gender had no role to play in it. There were those who worked hard. And then there were those who knew how to escape hard work. It eventually boils down to how you view life.

But it definitely wasn’t a case of all work and no play. A weekend of not working was a matter of great celebration. A national holiday was treated with great respect. Time was always made for an impromptu trek in the Sahyadris.

My seniors in the advertising world were some of the brightest, honest and hardest working people I’ve ever met. They instilled values that became part of our DNA. Values that involved giving our best regardless of the situation. Values that trained us not to take the ‘smart’ way out. Values that never made us clock-watchers.

However, with each passing year, the fact that life is not fair has become increasingly evident. You could spend countless hours slaving over a gourmet meal, plate it up nicely and offer it to the client only to discover that all he’s interested in is a burger from a fast food chain. Now does that lessen the effort taken? Of course not. Because that’s what we have been trained to do. To give it our best shot. And to do that there are times when we have to work late.

It is truly admirable that the above-mentioned lady has managed to achieve an enviable work-life balance. It is remarkable that in her long career, she never once had to wait in the office to sign artworks late in the night, or be part of a team that had to work overnight on a pitch that could affect the agency’s future (and livelihoods), or because the I’ll-take-my-account-somewhere-else client wanted three options overnight for every option they rejected. She finishes her work late from home. But that’s, unfortunately, not an option available for many.

Working late all the time neglecting your personal life is not acceptable. But some of us, irrespective of gender, believe that working late, every now and then, for something worthwhile, is definitely worth it.

Escaping Big City Lights

                                                                                    

I have always been fascinated by fireflies. I love the way they fly around unhurriedly like little airplanes with no ETAs. Fireflies represented everything good about summer during my childhood in a quiet university campus. Holidays. No homework. No surprise tests. And plenty of time to do whatever one liked to do. I would capture fireflies in a bottle and watch them flit around for hours imagining that they were sending signals to a spaceship. Of course, the moment I brought the bottle inside the house, the magic would be lost. The soft glow of fireflies is not a match for the artificial lighting inside a house. Ever since, I have had a love-hate equation with light sources that are not natural.

My city-centric profession has ensured lazy summer holidays and fireflies have disappeared from my life. Big city lights, however, are a constant presence. In an attempt to redress balance, I am always looking for a chance to escape this neon-lit environment. Being based in glitzy Dubai, this, understandably, becomes more of a pressing need than a want. Unfortunately, the lack of a driving license in the initial months of living in Dubai meant my options were quite limited. I had the option to head to the beach and stare longingly at the horizon, with the city behind me. The other option was to catch a cab to the airport and take a flight to a quiet place. No yearly subscriptions to the National Geographic or the Hound&Horse for guessing which option kept on getting vetoed all the time.

But then came the day, when I got the much-coveted driving license. And I turned into Forrest Gump, minus the historic baggage, Robin Wright and that damned CG feather. There was a huge difference though. Forrest kept on running. I kept on driving. I drove endlessly for hundreds of miles on straight-as-an-arrow roads through vast expanses of desert country. I drove up and down twisty mountainous roads that ended in verdant mangroves fringing an aquamarine sea. I drove to long-forgotten villages and crumbling forts abandoned to the elements.

Once, I even raced the setting sun along a beach road. I lost.

Having exhausted all possible options in the UAE, I trained my greedy sights on its attractive neighbour – Oman. Or the Musandam exclave, to be more precise.

Musandam is separated from Oman, by a strip of the UAE, and from Iran, by the Arabian Gulf. The border crossing is relatively easy, as long as you have the required documents, namely, passport and motor insurance. With the promise of a beautiful coastal drive with the shimmering waters of the Arabian Gulf, the craggy Hajar Mountains and small fishing villages the size of Nemo for company, drives to Musandam became a happy habit.

Often referred to as the 'Norway of the East', the mountainous Musandam region is known for its rugged beauty, mysterious fjords and a sense of timelessness. Mother Earth or to get a bit technical, the Earth’s crust had a big hand in creating this dramatic coastline. The region happens to be sandwiched between the Arabian plate and the Eurasian plate. Unfortunately, the situation is far from being harmonious. A gigantic battle for supremacy is taking place between these plates for quite some time now. And the geological fact in cold terms is that the Arabian plate is being pushed under the Eurasian plate. This not only has resulted in the earthquake-prone mountains of Iran but also brings us to a rather sobering conclusion. The Musandam Peninsula is, slowly but surely, sinking. 

The towering mountains have nothing to fear, apparently, for a million years or so. But the sea is claiming the valleys, one by one. The result of this intense subterranean drama is a region that offers one spectacular view after another. Often during my drives, I’d stop at some vantage point and soak in the peaceful atmosphere, punctuated at regular intervals by the throaty bleats of ornery mountain goats and chirpy squawks of attention-seeking seagulls.

It was during my second or third drive to Musandam, when I decided to head further north towards Khor Najd (khor- Arabic for water trapped by land), the only beach in the region accessible by road. Usually, I do some research before heading out to a destination. But then after a few weeks of dealing with people who look askance at anything that make sense and specially when every mail that lands in my inbox is marked as ‘urgent’, I tend to slip into my AdventureMan* avatar and cut loose the chains of caution with my SOA (sense of adventure) laser beam.

This was an AdventureMan trip. Which meant I had left my trusted road map back in Dubai. A              

situation that necessitated a stop at one of the two gas stations in Khasab, the sleepy capital of Musandam. I had to stock up on fuel and figure out the directions. I knew vaguely that I had to drive over a mountain to get to the beach. But that bit of information was as useful as knowing I need a lot of money to climb Mt. Everest. The cheerful attendant was quite clear in his directions. I have to drive up and down a 5-km long winding mountain pass to get to the beach. But as most locals are wont to, he made it sound like a trip to the neighbourhood grocery store.

From a distance it looked like a thin gash along the mountainside. As I got closer, I realized that’s the dirt road that will take me up the mountain. Barely wide enough to accommodate one car and probably half a cycle at a pinch, the road ensures drivers stick close to the rocky mountainside rather than tempt fate by straying too close to the sheer drop on the other side. Halfway there’s a broad leveled area that provides sweeping views of the sea encircling the mountains as well as the chance to calm one’s jangling nerves. 
The (thankfully) much broader but steep sinuous path down to the gleaming bay is a lesson in trying to look cool in front of co-explorers while attempting to disguise panicky yelps as yips of excitement. I drove steadily treating each bend in the road with the respect reserved for a Roman emperor. As I pondered about whether my white knuckles would go back to its former dusky glory, I felt the crunch of pebbles under my tyres. The gleaming blue bay was right in front. I switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car with the confidence of a man who could have done the drive blindfolded.

Later that evening, as I camped under a canopy of twinkling stars with the sea a feeble stone’s

throw away, I suddenly realized, I haven’t felt this alive in years. It might have been the drive, the location or the soothing breeze blowing across the bay. Or it might have been the fact that I was far, far, away from bright city lights.

There were no fireflies. But I wasn’t complaining.

*AdventureMan is a work-in-progress name.

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The Brahmaputra Crossing

 

No matter how often they are sighted, river dolphins, or ‘sihus’ as they are locally known, always manage to attract attention. Even the most taciturn of passengers would point a finger, albeit in a desultory fashion, towards where they were spotted. Admittedly, they are a bit difficult to catch sight of. One moment, a flash of a greyish snout, next moment, barely a ripple. And unlike their cousins in the sea, river dolphins don’t do the touristy let’s-swim-alongside-the-boat act. The murky water full of sediments also doesn’t help. Seeing me swivel around restlessly trying to catch another sight of the ‘sihu’, the aforementioned passenger nodded at me and said  ‘Sit down or you might fall into the river.’

I was atop an overladen ferry across the Brahmaputra, the only male river in India.  An alpha male river at that.

The Brahmaputra originates as the Yarlung Tsangpo in Tibet, streaks through Arunachal Pradesh as the Dihang, bifurcates Assam as the Brahmaputra, enters Bangladesh as the Jamuna and ultimately flows into the Bay of Bengal. A total distance of over 3500 km.

I was on my way to my ancestral village in Lakhimpur, a far-flung district of Assam, bordering Arunachal Pradesh. During my schooldays in Jorhat, a quiet town fringed by verdant tea estates, the annual trip to visit my grandparents in Lakhimpur was an eagerly anticipated adventurous mission. I was recreating the journey after almost two decades. Nothing much has changed. The

 trip is still very much a bus-ferry-bus-ferry affair. Bus from Jorhat to Nematighat (ghat means a river port), ferry to Majuli Island across the Brahmaputra, cross the island by bus and then another ferry ride across a tributary of the Brahmaputra to reach Lakhimpur.

Ferries are the only way to reach Majuli - one of the largest river islands in the world formed by the shifting courses of the mighty Brahmaputra and a couple of equally powerful earthquakes. The island is famous for its sattras (monasteries) established by Srimanta Sankardev, the 15^th century Assamese scholar, playwright and strong proponent of neo-Vaishnavism.  

Legend has it the great Sankardev could swim across the Brahmaputra even when it was in full spate. I guess this was the reason why the passengers waiting for the ferry at Nematighat are quite impatient. They know they cannot swim across the Brahmaputra in any season. And have to depend on the ferry every single time. Which is why the sight of an approaching ferry would be the cue for passengers and vehicles to start jostling. Cups of tea would be flung disdainfully. Lit cigarettes would be puffed out furiously. The coconut vendor would briskly scrape out the last scraps of juicy flesh from the tender coconut. Drivers would stride purposefully towards their parked vehicles. This is irrespective of the fact that, unless and until, the ferry is docked and a landing plank is flung across, nobody could board, or disembark. So, after the initial hullabaloo, in face of the irrefutable logic mentioned in the previous sentence, some semblance of normality would be restored. Albeit, a bit grudgingly. Vociferous shouts followed by muttered curses were the norm.  

The swift swirling currents are known to have swept away the strongest of swimmers. A good enough reason for me to take my own sweet time to avoid the initial rush to clamber aboard the ferry. With a couple of cars, bikes parked in neat rows on the roof and passengers everywhere, the ferry of modest dimensions now looked even more modest. I decided to head straight to the roof for the open-air experience instead of the packed environment of the lower deck or the ‘cabin’ where passengers sit facing each other on wooden benches. The luckiest ones are those who manage to get seats near the panoramic ‘windows’. The not-so-lucky ones are those who get seats opposite the lucky ones and have to endure sights such as watching a man exploring his nose at leisure with the index finger of his left hand while thoughtfully taking in the sights. The extremely unlucky ones are those who get seats near the enclosure that houses the heart of the ferry – the diesel fume spewing motor that valiantly propels the ferry surely but sluggishly to its destination. There have been instances of people turning a sickly shade of green by the time the journey gets over.

The roof, corrugated strips of iron bound together by a framework of wood, is a far more pleasant space to be in. You can take part in low-stakes card games, join an impromptu debate on which politician is the most corrupt, watch sly egrets try to steal fish from the fishermen’s baskets, look out for shy river dolphins or simply soak everything in. Which is what I did till I got a gentle poke in the solar plexus by a man who beamed at me in a friendly manner and without much ado started a conversation. Naren Bora, a lecturer in a government college in Majuli, is originally from Golaghat (another district). He was returning to Majuli after a trip home with two of his colleagues. On learning that I make my living from advertising, the trio displayed a sense of humour by cracking several jokes based on popular commercials. Quite good jokes too. It was more than a bit sobering to see how highly-acclaimed-resulting-in-gargantuan-egos commercials become fodder for jokes.  

Naren asked a fisherman intently observing a card game – ‘What fish have you got?’  The fisherman lifted the lid of his wicker basket and replied – ‘Common carp’.  Naren snorted – ‘Salani?’ The fisherman closed the basket, replied – ‘Yes’ – and got back to watching the game. From Naren’s tone, the fisherman knew he wouldn’t really buy fish that’s ‘salani’ or fish that’s imported all the way from southern states such as Andhra Pradesh. Naren explained the economics of the flourishing fishing trade in Majuli. Local fish from Majuli fetches good rates in Jorhat and then gets transported to other districts of Assam. This results in a majority of the fish being sold in Jorhat without gracing the frying pans of the locals. The fishermen than get ‘salani’ fish from Jorhat and sell them at Majuli. Fish, a staple ingredient in the Assamese diet, has to make its appearance in some form or the other during lunch or dinner. Those who can afford the Jorhat rates of the local fish grumpily pay for the privilege. Those who can’t (or won’t) pay the high rates go for the ‘salani’ option. Again, grumpily.    

Once, a herd of about 50 elephants was spotted on one of the many sandbanks that appear when the water level reduces considerably during the winter months. Apparently, an elephant herd comes from Arunachal Pradesh through an ancient elephant corridor that extends through Assam to Nagaland. One part of this hike involves swimming across the Brahmaputra, foraging for food in Majuli and taking a well-deserved break on these sandbanks before they continue on their way to Nagaland.

I really hoped to catch a sight of a herd. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that time of the year.

Almost an hour and a half later, Badatighat at Majuli came into view. People snapped out of their comatose state. Planks were thrown across and people rushed towards one of the waiting buses in a manner reminiscent of the migration of wildebeest. I never did really figure out the reason behind the rush; there were always plenty of seats. A roller coaster ride on roads ravaged by the yearly floods engineered by the Brahmaputra began. The bus journey was enjoyable. I greedily drank in views of lush wetlands, storks patiently stalking fish, swaying mustard fields, people fishing in small ponds in front of their houses, houses built on stilts – an identifying factor of the Mishing tribe - and the occasional disoriented cyclist pedaling away furiously, challenging the bus driver. The bus clattered through the island’s small towns and villages stopping at the slightest of waves of passersby. Some would climb in. Others would tell the driver that they were merely scratching their heads. Or swatting a fly.

Everybody heaved huge sighs of relief as the bus wheezed to a stop at the port at the other end of the island. The last leg of the journey is in sight. Lakhimpur is just across the river. This journey across the Luit, a tributary of the Brahmaputra, that separates Majuli from Lakhimpur, is a much shorter one though. About half an hour or so.

Once we made this entire journey from Jorhat on my father’s trusted scooter, Bajaj Chetak. We took our own time in Majuli and by the time we reached the port, the ferry had made its last trip for the evening. My father told me that when they were students, they didn’t wait for the ferry. They used to just swim across. I was at an impressionable age, but even then seeing the expanse of water, I had my reservations. ‘Were you really that strong a swimmer?’ ‘The currents look really strong.’  Hearing my slightly disbelieving tone of voice, my father had said, well, in the unlikely case of them getting too tired to complete the distance, they could always depend on the river dolphins to lend a helping fin.

There was a small country boat that was getting ready to leave for the other side. Against my better judgment, my father asked the boatman whether he’d be able to transport us to the other side. Along with the scooter. The boatman readily agreed. For a small fee, of course. I remember asking him whether the scooter will fit. Or more importantly, whether the boat will be able to bear our combined weight. The boatman smiled reassuringly and said he has transported fish on this boat that could have swallowed me in one gulp. We crossed the stretch in absolute darkness. Without making any distress calls to dolphins.

This time, I did catch the last ferry to Luit-Khabolughat, the port on the Lakhimpur side. And once again, I opted for the open-air experience. I’d recommend it any day. Chances of spotting an elephant herd are not good. Spotting dolphins, meeting interesting people and falling into the river are.

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The Charm Of Long Walks

 

I think it was sometime around my mid-teens when I discovered some truths about long walks. 1. They are enjoyable. 2. Their problem-solving reputation is a bit overrated. (They did help me to walk away from more than one problem though.)

3. You need semi-decent shoes to enjoy them.

Even though I had a cycle and an overcrowded city bus at my disposal during my school days in Guwahati, I used to prefer walking to school. Or to the inescapable tuition classes. The attractions on the way were many – Dighalipukhuri (a big pond rumoured to have an underwater connection to the Brahmaputra), Latashil Field (perfect to catch an ongoing cricket match) and my favourite, the Ambari Archaeological Site. Every now and then, on my way back, I used to casually saunter inside the site hoping that maybe a bespectacled archaeologist would find something similar to King Tutankhamen’s tomb.  And I’d be right in the midst of all the excitement. But all I used to see is a couple of labourers in grimy vests shooting the breeze and swatting flies with practiced ease beside an excavated part. An area that frankly looked more like a couple of deeper-than-usual ditches than the major excavation promised on the signboard. On one particularly memorable occasion, I spotted these two gentlemen in vests swinging their spades actively at a mound while a portly official under a black Mohendra Dutt umbrella sweated and cursed profusely. I guess they were looking for some iron treasure chest or something equally solid. Because nothing made of earthenware would have survived that onslaught. I also enjoyed experimenting with different routes, each longer than the other, to reach my Chemistry professor’s house on a hillside. One was through a well-maintained WWII graveyard. Which I used to avoid once it got dark. 

After shifting to Pune for my graduation and PG, the long walks of my school days looked like short trips to the neighbourhood grocer. The camaraderie of new friends shrunk huge distances considerably. College. Good Luck Café. Cinema halls. Especially cinema halls. We walked everywhere irrespective of the distance. The well-heeled ones biked it to the nearest movie theatre. Some of us had just about enough money for the ticket. And that meant more long walks. Watching a late-night show at Rahul Cinema or Vijay LNCM (Lok Nritya Chita Mandali), or Westend at Camp (almost 10 km one way), meant long merry hikes from our respective hostels. There was this iconic TV commercial of the 80’s – Lijjat Papad – in which an overgrown rabbit, clumsily chomping on papads, used to end the commercial with a moronic ‘Lijjat Papad…eh…heh…heh…eh…heh…heh’. The Pune Lijjat Papad office had this aforementioned rabbit grinning away on a hoarding. And this office was right on our well-trodden route. The moment we saw the Lijjat Rabbit, we’d all stand at attention and yell away ‘‘Lijjat Papad…eh…heh…heh…eh…heh…heh’.  Now that I think of it, we must have been directly responsible for the sale of sleeping pills to go up in the neighbourhood.

Working in Bombay meant one ran, instead of walking. Run to catch Bus No. 164 to the station. Run to catch the 8:57 slow. Run out of the station at Elphinstone Road to catch a cab. I did figure out a short walk to the agency through a peaceful railway colony. I kept it a secret as long as I could. I am sure if everybody in Bombay takes a week off, stop eating kacchi dabeli and build a little bit of stamina, we can easily beat the Kenyan/Ethiopian long distance runners at their game. But I had the occasional day when the urge to walk would override all common sense. I’d then dodge errant auto rickshaws, Schumi-inspired BEST bus drivers and generous loads of sputum, and march relentlessly to the rocky beach at Versova to watch the tide come in. 

Shifting base to Dubai meant my passion for long walks was reignited. Empty sidewalks. A peaceful and long stretch of beach. The atmospheric lanes leading to the Dubai Creek. Everything appealed to my walker’s instinct and I walked everywhere. Till I got my driving licence. And then I fell prey to the ‘why-walk-when-you-can-drive’ syndrome. An affliction common to the residents here. I think that day is not far when people will be able to drive straight inside their house and roll out onto a travelator that crisscrosses the house.  

Thankfully, long walks are still my (and my companion’s) preferred way of exploring a place when we travel. Long walks in unfamiliar places have helped us discover ancient mountain villages, non-touristy culinary gems, friendly apricot-gifting strangers and icy cold streams on a hot summer day.

Times may have changed. But the essence of long walks has remained the same. But yes, you still need a good pair of shoes.

Biscuits from Mr. Biswas.

A good part of my growing up years was spent in salivating over the goodies of our friendly neighbourhood bakery, Kamrup Bakery in Guwahati - a veritable Alladin’s den of freshly-baked goodies, appetising aromas of which would waft out and encircle unsuspecting passersby and slowly but surely entice them inside the bakery. Various varieties of delicious bread (no brown, multi-grain or other pretenders). Cream rolls. Jam rolls. Sweet biscuits. Salty biscuits. ‘S’ biscuits (because they were shaped like an ‘S’). Birthday cakes (with icing so hard that a bite into one could induce slightly shaky milk teeth to get embedded in it. It had happened to a friend’s brother. Only once though.) Boiled cake (an Assamese special). Pastries. And much, much, more.

Everything would be stacked up or laid out in colourful neat rows. Samples would be distributed liberally to help in the crucial decision making process. Of course, the regulars would just have to step in and before one can say ‘Threptin’ their neat brown-paper packages would be waiting for them at the cashier. One fine day, they started preparing snacks such as singras (samosas), egg chops (pronounced as ‘sops’), and if memory serves me right, even chicken/mutton cutlets (minus the stuffy colonial club atmosphere where white-gloved attendants look down upon the non-regulars with practiced disdain). Life became much tastier. However, the inevitable call of ‘higher studies’ meant moving approximately about 3400 km away from Kamrup Bakery. Slowly but surely, like all pleasant memories of childhood, they receded gracefully to that special place where they wait patiently to be revived again. And revive they did when I was roaming around aimlessly in Bara Bazar, Shillong. The heady aroma of just-out-of-the-oven bread helped me sniff out Mr. Biswas’s modest bakery. A bit bashful (as evident in the picture), Mr. Biswas, however, had no qualms about lending me an attentive ear as I recounted tales of my favourite bakery. I asked him for a half-kilo biscuit pack. He happily packed a kilo of his best. And vehemently refused my money. We shook hands and I walked back happily. It always feels good to part on a sweet note with a bakery.

Next stop: Havelock Island

The class topper in school, the ‘all-rounder’ in college or the boss’s blue-eyed wonder. Everybody gets upstaged at some point by the bigger, better deal. This is what happened when the gleaming MV Makruzz glided into the Phoenix Bay jetty at Port Blair harbour. It immediately snatched all the attention away from the hapless ‘Katchal’ the government ferry service to Havelock Island, located 57 km away. Judging by the throngs of passengers taking photographs in front of the Makruzz, the Rs. 1500 fare (two-way) is hardly a deterrent. Before the MV Makruzz, the government ferry was one of the few options to get to Havelock. You could also zip over the waves on a Pawan Hans helicopter, provided it takes off from Port Blair (apparently services are sporadic). A seaplane service has also been launched recently. A much faster and obviously, expensive option.

We (my brother, mother and yours truly) were ushered inside the Makruzz by smartly attired staff. It was like stepping inside a plane. Big plush seats with panoramic windows. Much like the business class seats I pass by on the way to economy. And with enough leg space to play a more advanced form of footsie. The excitement was palpable. Everybody was grinning at everybody. The only discordant note was four decidedly chunky moustachioed characters straight out of an 80’s summer blockbuster. For some strange reason, they were all dressed alike. In Hawaiian shirts and bush shorts. Thankfully, their wives and kids showed better sartorial sense. I immediately nicknamed this quartet ‘The Flab Four’. The Flab Four and their entourage settled in the seats behind us. They tried to outdo each other with humorous asides, which only they found hilarious. The entourage maintained a stoic silence lest they might be seen as travelling with the Flab Four. Suddenly, the 90-minute duration to Havelock looked a bit longer.   

The Makruzz glided out of Port Blair harbour leaving in its wake local intra-island ferries, a couple of gleaming yachts, and many rusting heaps of floating scrap metal – boats that were damaged beyond repair. A chilling remainder of the 2004 Tsunami. The passengers settled down to watch a promotional film on the islands. Everybody was absorbed in the film except for the Flab Four who were chattering away like a bunch of monkeys with a serious case of ADD. I amused myself with fantasies of the four of them being made to walk the plank by the captain. And everybody cheers as each one of them jump clumsily into the sea. The entourage cheers the loudest.

I tore myself away from these cheerful fantasies and started concentrating on the film. I learnt that Havelock is the largest island in the Ritchie’s Archipelago, a chain of islands lying east of the Great Andaman, the main Andaman archipelago. I also learnt that whenever footage of indigenous Andamanese and Nicobari tribes were shown, people start sniggering and the word 'savage' was liberally sprinkled. It was more than a bit disturbing. A man in a recording studio located thousands of miles away tried to describe the charm of these islands in his best baritone. I must admit, he tried his damnedest. But it was a no contest from the very beginning. What would you look at? Images of beautiful islands on a TV screen. Or just glance out and see the same islands floating serenely past your window.


A brilliant expanse of green rainforest encircled by achingly white sand that flowed gently into a cerulean sea came into view. It wasn’t hard to fathom why Havelock Island has been earmarked for tourism. My soul skipped out and did a merry dance on the glistening sand.

As the Havelock jetty came into view, the slightly comatose crowd roared into action. In time-honoured fashion, everybody rushed to the exit. After a few minutes of confusion, in which announcements were made that nobody would be kept behind on the boat to work as unpaid deckhands, we managed to disembark. I was just happy not to breathe the same air as that of the Flab Four.

Havelock’s beaches were named with great imagination. The jetty was at Beach No. 1. Our resort was at Beach No. 3, there was Beach No. 5 and one of Asia’s best beaches is Beach No. 7. Thankfully, better sense prevailed and the beaches soon came to be known by names that had decidedly more character than numbers.

We passed paddy fields with somnolent cows and lush banana plantations on our short drive to our resort. Located on Govindnagar Beach (Beach No. 3), the resort had cosy wooden cottages set amongst swaying palm trees. It was an inviting sight. Ranjan Biswas, a hospitality veteran who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Satyajit Ray masterpiece, escorted us to our cottage. In an attempt to make small talk, I asked him about Havelock’s numero uno island status. And in a manner befitting a Satyajit Ray masterpiece, Ranjan spoke with great feeling. “Before the tsunami, forget the firangs, even Indians didn’t know much about these islands. Now, everybody is heading here.” I murmured something to the effect that doesn’t necessarily sound too bad. I just managed to stoke the flames higher. "Who says, it’s bad? It’s not bad at all! But you should come only if you can appreciate the beauty of this place. It’s frustrating when people come here and list out one complaint after another – the internet connection is too slow, there’s no Wi-Fi, why there’s no butter chicken on the menu and my personal best, a family complained that it’s too quiet! The only people who enjoy coming here are the divers and the few who genuinely enjoy peace and solitude. I am afraid a few years from now, this will become another Goa or Phuket."

Ranjan’s worries are not unfounded. But then that’s the curse of tourism. I just hope good sense would  keep these islands maintain their idyllic status.

“Very good lobster...try some?” The young man held out a massive claw of a lobster which could have persuaded a New York mugger to hand over his wallet. I declined politely but couldn’t help wonder what it would have tasted like. Especially the way it was cooked on a bed of glowing coals right on the beach. My brother had no such reservations and immediately got busy coaxing the juicy flesh out of the claw. He gave me a look of pity. I turned my attention to the young man, Shubho, a third generation ‘local’. Shubho’s grandfather had escaped to India from East Pakistan during the Bangladesh Liberation War in 1971. He along with other refugees were given the opportunity to settle in the Andaman Islands. A choice they were not really happy with in the beginning. After escaping the wrath of the Pakistani army, they had harboured hopes of settling in Calcutta, but instead they were sent to a remote area. Shubho’s grandfather landed up in Havelock and immediately realised that they could not have got a better deal. The fertile land yielded them good harvests of paddy, betel nut and coconuts. And with tourism taking off, most of the locals are now being employed by various resorts and tourist agencies. Shubho himself runs a home stay (right next to our resort) where divers come and park themselves for months on end. Shubho likes divers. No Wi-Fi. No 50” TV. No room service. All they need is a basic bed raised some inches off the ground (the slithery denizens of Havelock have right of way), good home-cooked food and the sea, a soft whisper away.

Simple and uncomplicated. Just like life should be.

From the time we landed at Havelock, I have been asked at least half a dozen times whether I have been to Radhanagar Beach a.k.a Beach No. 7. One lazy afternoon, we trained our sights on this beach which was ranked by TIME in 2004 as one of the best beaches in Asia. Radhanagar Beach effortlessly lives up to all the hype. The beach stretches for a good 2 km from one end to another. A thick forest of tall mahua trees stand firm as sentinels guarding it. As we ambled around, we came upon a creek flowing languidly into the sea. A little raft made of empty plastic bottles was bobbing nearby. I waded knee-deep into the creek to get to the raft and do a spot of creek-rafting. My brother gently reminded me that this was the beach where an American tourist caught the fancy of a heavyweight saltwater crocodile while snorkelling in the clear waters. I reined in my inner Indiana Jones and waded out as fast. Crocodile attacks are rare. There have been about 25 attacks in the last 24 years. But somehow I didn’t feel like challenging the odds.

 We watched the sun sink gently into a bed of melting copper. A lone seagull cried plaintively as it flew across a sky awash with crimson and gold. I made myself comfortable on the soft powdery sand and tried to eavesdrop on the furtive murmurings of the waves.

It's a routine I wouldn't have any qualms getting used to.

Andamans Ahoy!

The naked man stared at me unblinkingly. I tried to stare back but was slightly disconcerted by the fact that he was holding a spear which was pointed straight at my heart. A deep breath later, I took a step back and started reading the inscription at the bottom of the grainy black and white photograph. It simply stated - A man from the Jarawa tribe. Location South Andaman.

For a tribe who has inhabited the islands for thousands of years, I thought that the information was a bit inadequate. But also quite telling of the way they are perceived by the modern world. I spent some time looking at other photographs representing various other tribes of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands– the Onges, the Shompens, the Andamanese and the Sentinelese. Each of them followed a pattern similar to ‘The man from the Jarawa tribe’. A group in one. A couple in another. With a terse line describing their antecedents. There was no worry of information overload.

My mother always wanted to visit the Andaman and Nicobar Islands but somehow a trip had never materialized. So, my brother and I planned a vacation. After a flurry of emails flying back and forth between my brother, various hotels, tour operators, we finally landed at Port Blair on a sunny afternoon. We were received warmly by Appa Rao, our travel associate who promptly whisked us away to our hotel. Where I came face to face with ‘The man from the Jarawa tribe’ at the hotel lobby.

This densely forested island archipelago floating in the Indian Ocean, more than 1000km away from mainland India has always fascinated me. I think it was in a 7^th grade geography text book when I came across a photo of a group of men standing at a beach. Armed with bows and arrows, everybody in the group was scowling at the photographer who was also quite obviously armed with a telephoto lens. I remember reading about the hunter-gatherer tribes of these far-flung islands who haven’t yet been ‘civilised’. It so happened around that time, I had read the Sherlock Holmes adventure ‘The Sign of Four’, where one of the pivotal characters, 'an Andamanese savage' made quite an impression on Dr. Watson.

‘‘Never have I seen features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty - his thick lips were writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with half animal fury."

Looking at the fine-boned Negrito features of the Jarawa man, I could only laud Mr. Doyle’s eloquent imagination that could turn man into beast so easily.

Port Blair, the administrative capital of the Andaman andNicobar islands is a pretty little town without any pretensions.

A town where palm trees sway flirtatiously with every passing breeze and winding roads indulge in playful banter with the sea at every opportunity. A few centuries ago, it wasn't this peaceful though. 15^th century sailors, 17^th century pirates and 19^th century convicts approached these islands with a sense of dread and trepidation. They knew fatal bouts of malaria or aboriginal arrows would welcome them.

As I looked out from the bay windows of the hotel room into landscaped gardens that sloped down gently to a beach, I couldn't help think; 21^st century travellers to these islands sure have nothing much to worry other than whether they will get that much coveted sea-view room.

A former penal settlement, Port Blair is more than a footnote in India’s tumultuous period in which daring souls armed with nothing more than unconditional love for their nation took on the might of the British Empire. The 1857 Mutiny saw the first batch of political prisoners transported to the Andamans or kaala pani. Heavily shackled prisoners were made to clear roads through dense forests and marshy lands. The tales of immense atrocities still rebound from the walls of the most famous jail in Indian history, the Cellular Jail. The son-et-lumiere recreates the heartrending events in the jail - the daily floggings, torture methods designed for the systemic breaking down of spirits and above all, the prisoners who always walked with heads held high. We walked out of the jail premises and encountered a man who stood with a placard held high above his head. ‘Fight corruption’ it said in stark bold letters. Everybody gently skirted around him. I guess fighting an Empire that assumed the sun will never set on it was easier.

‘Sir, Corbyn’s Cove is a must-do.’ Appa Rao insisted (he had picked up ‘must-do’ from an American tourist and never missed an opportunity to use it – Cellular Jail - must-do. Dinner at Lighthouse Restaurant – must-do.) I looked up at an overcast sky and then asked the wholly unnecessary question about whether it might rain.

Appa Rao quickly shrugged off the question with the ease of a seasoned weather forecaster.

‘Sometimes with clouds like these , it rains...but sometimes, it doesn't.’ We drove a short distance away from Port Blair on a picturesque coastal road to reach Corbyn’s Cove - a pretty beach liberally dotted with palm trees and the occasional bunker, a not-so-pleasant memory of Emperor Hirohito’s presence during WWII. We barely walked a dozen paces when turgid drops of rain started pelting down. Thankfully, there was a shelter nearby. A little hut on stilts, open on all sides and with some chairs thoughtfully thrown in. It was almost like somebody waved a magic wand. We spent an hour in companionable silence listening to the symphony of a tropical thunderstorm with the sea as a backdrop.

Corbyn’s Cove. A must-do. Just ensure that it’s raining.

One of my last minute purchases before leaving Dubai was a tripod for my camera. A reason for which I almost missed my flight. Having noticed an interesting house on a hill near our hotel, I took out my camera gear and set out for a post-dinner walk to shed off the omnipresent extra calories and hoping to have a session of night photography. A brisk 20-minute walk later, I found myself on a desolate stretch of road looking up at the house.

A stiff sea breeze resulted in miffed waves crashing impatiently on the shore, just below the road which I couldn’t see but could definitely feel. Add to this the silent house on the hill staring ominously across the dark sea and suddenly everything started feeling a bit eerie. I fixed the camera on my tripod and started experimenting with various exposures. As I trained my lens on the house for the umpteenth time, I suddenly felt a soft tap on my shoulder. I literally froze. And then I felt it again. Unmistakably. A gentle one, but nonetheless, a tap. A thousand visions skittered through my mind – a long-dead pirate curious to know what I doing in his territory, maybe an angry East India Company officer who just couldn’t come to terms with the loss of the empire. I took a deep breath, calmed my jangling nerves, turned around and came face to face with a man, who having at last got my attention beamed and uttered a cheerful ‘Good evening, myself Yesudas, what’s your name please?’

In a country where petrol prices go up every second week, one takes advantage of roads that slope up and down. And the reason why Yesudas spooked me out of my skin was this.

He had switched off the engine of his bike and was silently cruising down the road when he saw me hunched over something. Thinking I was in need of some help, he had cut short his petrol-less cruising and stopped right behind me.

Yesudas looked after the upkeep of a couple of churches in Port Blair. His grandfather had come from Tamil Nadu as part of a road building team and had stayed on. Talking to a second generation local was quite insightful. Like many regions in the world, tourism-induced development in the Andamans was also a double-edged sword.

More hotels meant more employment avenues but at the same less supply of water for the local communities. More tourists meant more waste. More tourists also meant big hotel chains with the ‘greasing’ ability to get permissions to build fancy resorts in places where they are not supposed to be built.

Thankfully, there are some strong local watchdogs who are quite vigilant and don’t let things go out of hand. But there are serious concerns as to how long they can hold out against the might of mass tourism. I asked him how the indigenous tribes are perceived by the ‘locals’. Prompt came back the reply. ‘They live in the jungles, eat whatever they find and keep to themselves. They don’t want to do anything with us.’ Which I thought was the smartest thing to do since the numbers of these tribes had greatly dwindled when they came in touch with the outsiders and were exposed to various ‘imported’ diseases that proved fatal to them.

Yesudas insisted on dropping me back to the hotel on his bike. As he stopped outside the hotel gates, I asked him whether he ever considered moving to ‘mainland’ India, apparently a strong attraction for many islanders. Not for Yesudas though. He had been to Chennai once. ‘Too many people. Too many cars.’

I just nodded my silent acquiescence.

Appa Rao was a bit disappointed at our decision to give most of the attractions in and around Port Blair a miss. We did make it to Mount Harriet, the highest point in Port Blair (365m). The views are worth the somewhat long drive by Port Blair standards. There are a couple of museums, Samudrika Marine Museum and Anthropological Museum that provide a lot of information on the amazing geographical, geological and cultural aspects of these islands. I really wanted to visit Jolly Buoy Island, Red Skin Island and Ross Island. The last mentioned is an abandoned propah British settlement with a bakery, a ball room, swimming pools, tennis courts, etc. The only thing missing probably was the 6:40 to Paddington. It now has a haunted look as thick forests have completely claimed back their territory. Quite fascinating. And it was just a short ferry ride away.

However, time constraints made it impossible. The reason behind this perplexing decision to miss out on these stellar attractions was that Port Blair for all intents and purposes was actually a stopover on our way to Havelock Island, located 57 km away.

As we headed to the jetty to board the ferry to Havelock, I couldn’t help but say. ‘Port Blair. It is definitely a must-do.’

The Red Sari

‘Delhi in January is cold’ – Shamsher Singh remarked looking at me shivering. A man with a fierce moustache and a turban big enough to keep a family of partridges warm,Shamsher and I were standing at Delhi Cantonment station waiting for a train. I wanted to tell him that these were shivers of excitement. Because we were not waiting for just any train.

I was about to embark on a 7-day tour of Rajasthan and Gujarat aboard the Royal Orient – a train that was made up of carriages that once belonged to the Royal Maharajas of Rajasthan and Gujarat during the pre-independence era. An era of excesses which included Maharajahs raising their own taxes, building magnificent palaces and of course, running lavishly appointed personal trains. After independence, the Maharajahs were brought down to terra firma when they lost their privy purses. The trains became financially unviable and were shunted away to various yards where they could rot in peace. However, some savvy spirit decided there was merit in sprucing up these carriages, string them all together and call it the Royal Orient – a train befitting modern czars, financial whiz kids, industry captains and the rest of their ilk.

We were making a documentary on iconic train journeys and it was just my incredible luck that I became a part of the team that was allotted to visually document the Royal Orient’s trip through Chittorgarh, Jaipur, Junagadh, Veraval, Sasan Gir, Diu, Palitana and Ahmedabad. We had our own carriage and our own personal butler, the man with the fierce moustache and oversized turban – Shamsher Singh.

The rest of the crew arrived at the station and Shamsher fussed around them. I observed him bowing before our director, Shuboda, a gracious ‘namaste’ for our anchor, a young ‘starlet’ Sneha, and warm greetings for Chauhan – the cameraman and Alex – the assistant everything. I couldn’t but help notice that a certain pecking order of deference was involved.

We got busy setting up the camera and equipment to capture the Royal Orient’s regal entry. And regal it was. A steam engine with huge gusts of steam billowing from the iron wheels emerged from the fog trailing carriages resplendent with royal emblems and motifs. Suddenly the station was galvanized into action. The Royal Orient staff in smart uniforms swirled around picking bags and herding passengers into their respective carriages. I almost felt like I was in a period film.

With a frisson of excitement, I quickly boarded our plush carriage - Jodhpur. Each carriage was a self-sufficient unit with four cabins (with monogrammed linen and painted frescoes adorning the walls), bathrooms, a pantry (Shamsher could make an omelette that could make a Michelin-star chef turn in his star) and a lounge with panoramic windows. Two dining cars and a well-stocked bar kept everybody happy.

As the Royal Orient made its steady progress to our first destination, Chittorgarh, yellow mustard fields, tiny hamlets with waving children and silvery rivers flashed past our eyes.

Chauhan got busy capturing the landscapes through his camera lens.The itinerary is planned in such a way that there is ample time to explore one destination during the day and travel throughout the night to reach the next destination.

We fell into a happy routine. Explore and shoot during the day. And then come back to the

Royal Orient by hopping on to the assigned bus/car and one memorable instance, a bullock cart. We swept through the Hawa Mahal, clambered up the Amber Fort, got overwhelmed by the Uperkot Fort, stared in awe at the magnificent Somnath Temple, held our breath as we came within pouncing distance of the majestic Asiatic lions of Sasan Gir and experienced a slice of 16^th century Portugal in the pretty coastal town, Diu.

Our happy routine however got derailed on the fifth day of our journey. We were on our way to Palitana, a major Jain pilgrimage centre located on top of a hill. The pilgrims have to clamber up over 3000 steps to reach the 863-temple complex. All of us were sitting in the lounge planning the next day’s shoot. Sneha, a strict jeans and tee girl, had gamely agreed to wear a sari for the shoot. We were debating whether she should wear the sari after we reach the top or should we hire a palanquin to carry her to the top, when Alex brought out the sari that Sneha is supposed to wear. Sneha became very agitated when she saw the sari and exclaimed - ‘It’s red in colour! I cannot wear it!’

Sneha’s relative inexperience coupled with a slight attitude problem had given Shubhoda some tense moments throughout the shoot. Even though he was known to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, Shubhoda was quite patient with Sneha, always coaxing and cajoling her to say her lines in a manner befitting the show. However, Sneha’s reaction towards the sari was the proverbial last straw. Shubhoda gave her a tongue-lashing that almost halted the Royal Orient in its tracks.

The most level-headed guy in the group, Chauhan, quietened Shubhoda. He

asked Sneha - ‘Any particular reason?’ Sneha whimpered – ‘My mother has told me never to wear red. Something bad happens when somebody in our family wears red’. From the corner of my eye,I could see Shubhoda turn a distinct shade of crimson. He burst out – ‘Sneha...you actually think I will compromise on my shoot because of your mother’s superstitions. I have had enough of this. Shoot starts at 7 sharp. I want you in the red sari by 6’. Sneha flounced out of the room. Chauhan asked – Shubho...maybe there’s a good reason why Sneha doesn’t want to wear red...come to think of it...in all these days...never once did she wear red.’ Shubhoda replied tersely – ‘ Don’t worry...we all know it’s just another tantrum.’

An early morning shoot means everybody has to wake up at the crack of dawn. I woke up to see a crimson hue suffuse the horizon. I stared at the countryside flashing by with bleary eyes while the rhythmic clickety-clack of the Royal Orient whispered seductively in my ears -‘sleep a little more...sleep a little more’. I remembered Shubhoda’s angry face from the previous evening. And it was as effective as a bucket of cold water. A brisk 15 minutes later, I was sitting in the lounge showered and ready for the day’s shoot. The rest of the team trooped in one by one. Shamsher got busy serving his esphesal chai, a concoction that made one feel ready for anything.

Shubhoda glanced at his watch and instructed Alex to check on Sneha, whose cabin was at the furthest corner of the carriage, just next to the pantry. A sudden cry made us all rush out to the passage. Alex was standing outside Sneha’s cabin and even from where we were standing; we could see that he was terrified.

We rushed to Sneha’s cabin. And found Sneha dressed up in the red sari. A bit puzzled, we all looked at Alex who was still staring at her with a transfixed look. Sneha was supposed to wear a red sari. Which she did. What was there to get so terrified about?

And then Sneha spoke. And it made our blood run cold. Because it wasn’t the voice of a twenty something woman. It was the quavering voice of an old woman who was speaking in a language which we have never heard before.

Alex spoke in quick bursts. ‘I asked her whether she was ready...she scowled at me...and then said something in an angry voice...I think she has cursed me...Chauhan...do something.’

Chauhan calmly stepped inside the cabin. Sneha whipped her head up, pointed her finger at him and muttered something harsh. Alex whimpered – ‘Look she’s cursing him also.’

Chauhan stepped back into the corridor. He said – ‘I think I understood a word or two.

It’s a very old Jaipuri dialect. Let’s call her mother. Sneha said she’s been asked not to wear red. I think her mother would definitely know why.’

A worried Shubhoda immediately called up the Bombay office and got the contact details of Sneha’s mother. He called her up and handed the phone to Chauhan.

I had met Sneha’s mother during the auditions. A quiet lady with a dignified air, she had stood silently in one corner of the studio as Sneha read out a piece. I hoped that she definitely had the answer to Sneha’s condition.

Chauhan finished his chat with Sneha’s mother. He said – ‘We need to make Sneha sleep. And get her out of the red sari.'

He paused, as if a bit unsure of what he’s going to say next. He cleared his throat and continued – ‘That voice that you hear is apparently Sneha’s great-great-grandmother. She has been terrorising various generations of Sneha’s family. Anybody who wears red gets possessed by her spirit.’ Chauhan paused and added – ‘She was killed in a family dispute by her husband’s brother. And she was wearing a red sari that day. That’s why, nobody in their family wears red’

A cold chill scampered up and down our spines. Shubhoda asked the very pertinent question as to how we can make Sneha sleep. Chauhan said – ‘Sneha’s great-great-grandmother loved kheer. We need to prepare a bowl of kheer and keep it next to her. Apparently, she cannot resist kheer. Obviously, we need to put something in the kheer that will knock her out for some hours.’

Shamsher immediately sprang to action. He instructed somebody in the kitchen to make some kheer. Luckily, there was some kheer from the previous night’s dinner. He got the kheer, handed it to Chauhan and said - ‘I have put something in it that will make her sleep.’

We didn’t think it was necessary to enquire what he had put in the kheer. His espeshal chai can revive even the most jaded spirit. We assumed he had access to stuff that could do the reverse also.

Chauhan gingerly stepped inside Sneha’s cabin with the bowl of kheer. Sneha looked up with dull eyes and let out a volley of abuses. Alex started muttering Hail Mary’s. I also couldn’t help but send out a prayer or two. Chauhan quickly kept the bowl of kheer on the dressing table next to the bed. I half-closed my eyes expecting Sneha...sorry Sneha’s long dead ancestor to grab him and do something horrible. But all she did was look at him and kept on muttering to herself. Chauhan stepped out into the corridor.

We stood there for what seemed like eternity. But it was actually just about 15 minutes or so. The shoot long forgotten, we were discussing in low voices what should be our next step. Palitana was still an hour away. And we couldn’t just stop in the middle of nowhere and go looking for doctors or whoever can appease angry ancestors. A sudden noise made us look inside the cabin. Sneha was sleeping peacefully on the bed. The empty bowl of kheer was lying on the floor, swaying gently to the rhythm of the train.

Shamsher quickly got a lady passenger and gave her some story about Sneha fainting because of exhaustion. Chauhan somehow convinced her to change Sneha’s red sari and made her wear one of her night gowns.

We soon reached Palitana. Shubhoda was more than a bit shaken. I guess he felt responsible for the entire incident. He said that he will stay back in the train. He instructed us to go and shoot Palitana’s temples. I was more than happy to climb 3500 steps then stay in the vicinity of Sneha’s aggrieved ancestor. We shot extensively and it was late in the evening when we returned to the Royal Orient.

We entered the lounge and saw Sneha sitting opposite Shubhoda. We greeted her warmly. Although we were a bit unsure of whom we were greeting. If I remember correctly, Alex even attempted a namaste. Sneha gave us a tired smile and to our great relief spoke to us as herself:

‘I guess I could have told you guys last night. But then I doubt anybody would have believed me. I was eight when the same incident happened with a cousin of mine. She had gone to a friend’s place and worn a red skirt. A family relative who’s well versed in the occult had instructed our family members never to wear red...not even during weddings. But of course, accidents like these happen.’

Sneha slept early that night. We were all sitting in the dining car as the Royal Orient glided to our last destination – Ahmedabad. A man of logic, Shubhoda was finding it very difficult to digest the day’s events. Alex and I were, of course, true believers in anything to do with the paranormal. All throughout the evening, we were jumping at shadows. Chauhan tried explaining to him. ‘Shubhoda...believe me...there are lots of things in the world that cannot be explained.’

Shubhoda was slowly warming to the idea that Sneha and her mother had pulled a fast one over us. ‘After all, she’s an actress. Although that was one bloody convincing performance. Didn’t think she had it in her.’

Chauhan suddenly got up muttering that he needs to get something from our carriage. He walked straight ahead. He paused at the connecting door and asked us whether we need anything. We replied in the negative too engrossed in Shubhoda’s theory about Sneha.

And then seconds later, Chauhan returns to our table from the opposite side of the dining car.

It took us a couple of seconds to register what happened. It was Shubhoda who spoke up.

‘Chauhan...didn’t you just go out from that door...how the hell did you get back from the opposite side. The train is going at full speed...we didn’t see you cross us again...how...how did you manage it?’

Bathed in silvery moonlight, the countryside flashed past our windows.

Chauhan poured himself some coffee and with a smile playing on his lips said:

‘Shubhoda...believe me...there are lots of things in the world that cannot be explained.’

For the record, the rest of the journey was uneventful. The film was completed in a couple of months. However, it was some time since any of the crew wore anything that was a shade of red. Including Shubhoda.

Under a Roman Spell

‘Three days in Rome! Isn’t that one day too many?’ I spoke with what seemed like conviction. The better half, replied (quite assertively, if I may add) that there’s a saying that even a lifetime won’t do justice. And at that precise moment, I receive a barrage of mails espousing Rome’s many attractions from my other travelling companions. Three days, it is then. It seems I was the only one who’s yet to fall under Rome’s spell. Don’t get me wrong. Like the rest of the world, I hold the Eternal City in high regard. But my main overwhelming reason to visit Italy was to head to a region that has captivated me for more than a decade – the glittering stretch of coastline in Southern Italy known as the Amalfi Coast. Since we were landing in Rome, I thought we’ll quickly pop over to the Vatican, say hi to the Pope and then hit the road to Amalfi. 10 days in Italy with two days in Rome and the remaining days in sun-soaked Amalfi sounded fine to me. But as they say, the best laid plans don’t always go in the desired direction.

It was a fine morning when we drove out of the Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in a cab driven by an elderly gentleman who I think was driving undercover. He dressed like a professor. He spoke like a professor. He paused mid-sentence like a professor. After being confined in a flying aluminium tube for so long, we were not really in the mood to enjoy the cab’s AC. So we asked him whether we can lower the windows and breathe in some of the air that people are supposed to breathe. His answer was that we can do that but we might catch a cold as it was a bit chilly. And he's not interested in catching one either. So, there it is. He even said ‘no’ like a professor. I am sure he was driving the cab for some academic research on say why passengers at airports always wear the same I-know-I-am-new-to-this-country-but-I’ll-outsmart-the-locals expression.

As we hit the highway to Rome, we realised not all roads lead to Rome after all. They also lead to Florence, Siena and Naples. As we entered Rome, the city was stirring to life. Smartly dressed people waiting at bus-stops. Smartly dressed people driving to work. Heck! Smartly dressed people everywhere. We definitely felt a little under-dressed for Rome.

55 Euros later we were at Albergo Lucia. A homely little hotel within shouting distance of the Stazone Termini – Rome’s major transport hub (my companions had done their homework). Easy access to wherever we wanted to go. And there was no way that one could have got lost. Ah! You lost? Where are you staying – near Termini. Well then, hop on this bus/tram/metro. The last stop is Termini.

I immediately liked the neighbourhood. A motley collection of brick-red buildings with shiny shingles advertising various hotels. A tram trundled along sedately. Cafes with bright awnings advertised the day’s menu. There was a nice buzz about the place. The kind of buzz that says ‘Hey, we’re busy but you’re on holiday. So just take it easy, ok.’ I like places with this kind of buzz.

First stop, The Vatican. As we walked down a busy thoroughfare, I tried to remember long-forgotten history/geography lessons. The few facts that I could dredge up was that it is the world’s smallest country, the pope waves from a pulpit every Sunday and for some strange geopolitical reason, it is guarded by Swiss men dressed as if they are going to a pyjama party in Hawaii. Thankfully, the trusted Lonely Planet was at hand to fill in the gaping holes.

Awe-inspiring. There is no other word to describe Piazza San Pietro or St. Peter’s Square. Most guidebooks describe it as one of the world’s great public places. As one stands in the middle of the square, it’s hard not to feel a bit insignificant. Not that I feel very significant at any time. I doffed an imaginary hat to Bernini, the creator of this magnificent square.

As it turned out, I spent a lot of time doffing imaginary hats during the rest of my stay in Rome. To the grandest church of them all – St. Peter’s Basilica. To the incomparable art collection at the Vatican Museum. To the charismatic Trevi Fountain. To the lively Spanish Steps. To the lush Borghese Gardens. To the captivating cobbled alleys of Trastevere. To the grandeur of the Pantheon. To the opulence of the Palatine. And of course, to the biggest power statement of the ancient world – the Colosseum.

Rome symbolises art, culture and well, everything in between. I can’t claim that I am an expert on things that qualify as art and culture. Ok. I am being polite here. And maybe, just maybe, that was the reason behind my initial plan of ‘doing’ Rome in 48 hours. I sincerely believe Rome is for people who can nod knowingly on the nuances of Byzantine art versus Romanesque or can debate for hours on the influence of High Renaissance on Baroque architecture. And here I am, an absolute philistine staring open-mouthed at some of the most grandiose works of art. I mean I could appreciate that what’s before me has been created with great skill, labour and yes, copious amounts of love. But not to the extent that the couple next to me did. ‘Greg, isn’t this a fine example of Romanesque?’ And Greg replies, ‘Yes, Audrey, but you know, give me Imperial any day.’ I slowly walk away before Greg thinks about asking me for my opinion.

But the beauty of Rome is that anybody can ‘feel’ it. The city seeps atmosphere. From every single pore. The sense of beauty and history is overwhelming. Walk over a beautiful bridge over the Tiber. And one is informed that it is the Ponte Sisto Bridge built between 1473 and 1479. One cannot but stop and admire it from every angle.

And it wasn’t all about past glory. One morning, we made a delightful little discovery. Thanks to Adam, a content editor who also works as a walking tour guide. A young man with a studious air, Adam kick-started our tour from the Piazza Del Popolo, an erstwhile site for public executions. No, that wasn’t the delightful discovery. Adam literally took us off the beaten track and we ended up in Cento Pittori Via Margutta, a street dedicated to artists. Or rather, a street that has been a sanctuary for artists since WWII. A street where quaint and quirky pieces of art nestle comfortably amongst traditional watercolours. It was somewhat refreshing to find this quiet little corner which wasn’t weighed down by expectations that come with the usual marquee names associated with Roman art.

And then there’s that oh-so-casual yet stylish appeal about Rome. The bustling cafes where espressos are downed with flair by people wearing snazzy suits and cool sunglasses. The centuries-old piazzas where good-looking people come to watch other good-looking people. The street performers who pluck roses out of thin air or play jazzed up versions of old Italian classics. Cobbled alleys that whisper enticingly about hidden sensory delights. The lovers lost in an embrace in the middle of a busy street. The cheerful cries of the waiters as they move expertly between tables serving seductive gastronomic experiences. Pastel-hued Vespas that scoot merrily around corners.

I drank in everything hungrily. And felt myself thirsting for more.

The allocated three days in Rome came to an end. As we started looking up train timings to our next stop, Naples, it was with a shock that I realised that I am already missing Rome.

Well, I did ensure that I will visit Rome again by throwing a coin in the Trevi Fountain. But I really wouldn’t have minded a few more days to savour Rome.

Or maybe even a lifetime is not enough.

The Ladies Man

Jai Patel aka JP was known for his ability to wriggle out of tight situations. He was sort of a legend at the TV production house where I joined after passing out from college. Though his official designation was that of a production manager, his job profile was varied because of one simple reason – JP was a silver-tongued charmer who always managed to make people see things from his point of view. From befriending a crusty old shop owner to open his house for the crew in the wee hours of the morning to making an absolute stranger pay for his meal at a fancy restaurant, JP’s powers of persuasion had few equals.

JP was also a much envied ladies man. His sharp wit could breach the sternest of defences. JP’s various amorous escapades were oft-repeated tales in the office. And during long journeys through the hinterland of India. It was during one such journey that I heard the most popular one.

One of JP’s lovers was Savita, who incidentally happened to be the wife of his landlord, Vilas Shanbag, Secretary, Laxmi Niwas Building Society, Andheri (East). On the first Sunday of every month, the residents gathered for the monthly meeting to discuss various issues. This was JP’s opportunity for a quick tête-à-tête of the physical kind. Living in the flat adjacent to his landlord’s had certain advantages after all. The moment he saw Vilas start to address the society members, he would quickly run out of his flat and let himself in using the key Savita had given him. Knowing Vila’s penchant for long-winded speeches and robust arguments with various committee members, JP knew he had at least an hour or two at his disposal. Savita would always conveniently develop a headache before the meeting and would stay at home. JP as a tenant wasn’t required to attend. Everybody else in the building would be at the meeting. It was a situation that was tailor-made for the lust-struck lovers.

On one such Sunday, as luck would have it, just a few minutes into the meeting Vilas felt a certain rumbling in his stomach. The spicy prawn curry he had for lunch was making its presence felt in no uncertain terms. He tried to ignore it, but it was quite insistent. He sighed in annoyance. He made some apologetic noises and asked the committee members to discuss some issues while he made a quick trip to his flat. Vilas almost ran up the two floors to his flat. He pressed the doorbell impatiently, swearing at the delay. It was when Vilas started pounding at the door that JP realised that the situation could get more than a bit sticky.

Seeing the panic-stricken expression on Savita’s face, JP started shouting ‘Fire! Fire!’ Savita looked at JP with a bewildered expression. JP rushed into the kitchen, grabbed a matchbox and lit some newspapers lying around. Thick acrid smoke filled up the room. Savita also started shouting at the top of her voice. Vilas grasped what was happening and quickly raised an alarm. The congregation downstairs rushed up the stairs with nary a plan. They were just about to break open the door, when it opened and JP and Savita stumbled out coughing and spluttering. With the straightest of faces, JP faced the crowd, kept a hand on Vila’s shoulder, suppressed a cough and told him: ‘Don’t worry, your wife is safe...and so is your house.’ The crowd as most crowds are wont to do chucked reason out the nearest window and started cheering.
Vilas, overcome with emotion, embraced JP warmly. The crowd again cheered lustily.

All of us burst out laughing at the tale. ‘And on top of everything, JP didn’t have to pay rent till he moved out’ – Alex, the camera assistant who hero-worshipped JP, couldn’t resist adding. Alex, JP and I, the assistant director were returning from a shoot in a Kani tribal village. The location was deep inside the Agast-Hymalai hills of the Western Ghats, a thickly forested mountain range along south-western India, in the Thiruvananthapuram district of Kerala. The Kani tribals are famed for their knowledge of medicinal herbs. The rest of the crew had left a bit early while we stayed behind to shoot some extra footage of the village.

Madhu, the forest guard assigned to us was a bit jittery. And quite understandably so. He was driving a jeep on a route that’s frequented by a herd of wild elephants. That too, with a malfunctioning wireless set. Apparently, after sunset these wild elephants just plonk themselves on the dirt track and thereby declare the road closed to all and sundry. There have been a couple of instances when some foolhardy souls had dared to challenge the herd by honking incessantly to make them move. They barely managed to escape by the skin of their teeth.

We tried to lighten Madhu’s mood. JP told him – ‘Don’t worry, if elephants block the road, we’ll just turn back and head back to the village.’ Madhu countered this by saying – ‘On this track, if an elephant charges at us, you can be sure we won’t reach very far.’

That piece of information cut short the non-stop banter. Madhu glanced at us. I almost could see a pleased expression on his face. Something on the lines of - ‘now you know what I was worried about.’ The shadows started lengthening as we bounced along the track.

We entered a thickly wooded stretch of forest. Lofty trees blocked the last dying rays of the sun with consummate ease. Madhu switched on the headlights and started muttering oaths that referred to immediate family members. The jeep came to a grinding halt. It was not difficult to miss the hulking spectre standing still in the middle of the road. Only the trunk was in the air and swiveled from side to side. Madhu whispered – ‘It’s a female. Usually they are not very aggressive. But even though she has detected our presence, she’s standing still. And that’s not a good sign.’ All of us remained quiet and just stared ahead. If Madhu says it’s not a good sign, we had no reason to disagree.

Madhu gently engaged the reverse gear. As the jeep lurched back, the elephant moved forward threateningly. Madhu stopped the jeep. The elephant also stopped. It was plainly evident that we won’t get far if she decided to charge us.

Madhu suddenly stiffened and started muttering oaths again. And this time his oaths included an entire family tree. We saw him staring fixedly at the rearview mirror. A massive tusker was standing quietly just a few paces behind the jeep. ‘That’s a full-grown male. And they can be really aggressive.’ We could have done without the additional information.

Terrified whispers flew thick and fast. From the obvious ‘Should we try blasting the horn’ to the ill-advised ‘Let’s scare the elephant by driving straight into it.’ Alex even volunteered the priceless information that a hive of bees can scare away elephants. He shut up when all of us just glared at him. JP was quiet the entire time. Finally he spoke. ‘Let me talk to her. I’ll convince her.’ All of us looked at JP. I was a bit worried. It’s not enough that we were stuck between two elephants in the middle of nowhere; we now have to contend with a man who wanted to engage in a dialogue with a wild elephant. Well, not strictly a dialogue. A monologue, maybe. But you get the drift.

We tried to dissuade JP. Madhu even quoted some statistics about how it’s not possible to outrun an elephant. JP just muttered a prayer and gingerly stepped out of the jeep.

The elephant spread its ears and came forward a few paces with its trunk curled. Madhu whispered to JP – Careful…it’s getting ready to charge. A bit unnecessary, I thought. One cannot be more careful while facing a wild elephant in the wild.

With folded hands, JP started talking. Earnestly. Fervently. It’s been many years but I still remember most of the monologue.

‘Dear Lord Ganesha, first of all, we’d like to apologize for disturbing you. You see we had to stay a little late at the adivasi village to shoot the arogyapacha plant. You know, it’s being tested at the Tropical Botanical Research Laboratory at Trivandrum as a possible cure for cancer. And guess what, for the first time in India, this tribe is being financially rewarded for their knowledge of medicinal plants. It’s a good thing, isn’t it? However I feel sometimes financial rewards can also be detrimental for these tribes who lead a very simple existence. But at the same time, they should be rewarded for their indigenous knowledge. We are doing this story so that the entire world knows about them. And we need to reach the town tonight because we are catching the Trivandrum Express to Bombay tomorrow morning at 7. We have lots of equipment with us and if we miss the train, it’ll be really difficult for us to get onto another train with all this equipment. So, please let us go and we promise we’ll never come back on this route so late.’

JP finished speaking. The elephant moved a few paces forward till it stood just in front of JP dwarfing him. For a few tense moments, everything was quiet. Even the constant chirping of the crickets ceased. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath to see what would happen next.

The elephant raised its trunk, trumpeted loudly and melted into the surrounding thick bush.

We looked behind. And just saw an empty road.

I have narrated this incident many times. On a flight. In a train. At parties. And once even when my friend’s wife was in labour.(Well, he was tense. I had to distract him with something.) The reactions usually ranged from incredulous snorts to derisive laughter. Many thought we had some ounces of a particular nine-leaf plant before we started out on our drive. But there were a few who believed something like this actually happened. That’s because they knew JP. The fact that he was truly a silver-tongued charmer.

And as Alex astutely observed, ‘Let’s not forget the fact that the elephant was a female.’

Guts, glory and Butterfly Valley

"Watch out! He’s going to land right on top of us.” My co-explorer and navigator’s warning came a tad too late. By the time I could register what was happening, forget about applying the brakes, the paraglider floated inches above our car and landed smoothly on the beach behind us. Obviously a regular occurrence, yet the shopkeepers couldn’t help but laugh at our startled expressions. Two upraised fingers in the shape of the universal symbol of peace and a cheeky grin helped us rein in our heartbeats. We waved back at the paraglider. When you are in a land abundant with good humour, you just can’t help but smile. Even when the joke is on you.

Welcome to Oludeniz or the Dead Sea, famous for its blue lagoon and paragliding enthusiasts who get their daily dose of laughter by attempting to scare people who use more conventional means of transport to experience the ruggedly beautiful coastline of Mediterranean Turkey. Looking up, we saw more than a dozen colourfully-attired paragliders peppering an impossibly blue sky. The 2000 m tall Baba Dag Mountain is the base from where these paragliders soak in the azure appeal of the Mediterranean.

A gentle breeze playfully tugged at the road map from my navigator's hands as we pored over it. We are half-way to Butterfly Valley, home to the unique Jersey Tiger butterfly and located on the ancient Lycian Way, one of the ten most beautiful long distance hikes in the world. The directions seemed simple enough. First we head to the bustling harbour town, Fethiye, and then to Oludeniz. Then we take the Baba Dag Mountain road to Faralya where Butterfly Valley is situated. Far away from packaged sun-worshippers.

We had left our base Gocek (Go-chek, pop: 4000), and headed up, and down the mountain road to Fethiye. Being day 6, we were getting more than a bit familiar with the roads and within no time crossed Fethiye and entered Oludeniz, where we had the up, close and personal encounter with the paraglider.

A few queries and a couple of u-turns later, we were driving up the Baba Dag Mountain road. More of a twisty narrow lane carved out of the mountainside, with a steep drop to the sea on one side and towering pine trees on the other, the road climbed higher and higher. The views were, to put it mildly, stupendous. The mountains jutting out proudly into the sea. And the sea humouring them.

But where’s the valley? As per the map, we were on the right track. But then common logic says we have to go down to the valley. And as far as we could see, the road was winding further up. We finally came to a turn and saw a car coming from the opposite side. Hailing them, we asked about Butterfly Valley.

“Oh, it’s right down. Head to George House (a very famous landmark) and then you can climb down to the valley.” – the lady driver answered. We stepped out of the car and walked to the edge of the road.

It was like a scene out of one of those epic films. A 70 mm spectacular aerial shot of a steep canyon leading to a lush valley with a secluded cove shimmering under the Mediterranean sun.

Then the penny dropped. And it was a rather long drop.

We were going to climb down the canyon... to the valley.

“Isn’t there any other way?” – I asked, not really confident of making that long descent.

“You can go back to Oludeniz and maybe catch a ferry to the valley.”

And that sounded a bit tame. That sounded like somebody who wears a suit to work would do. Safe and sensible. I looked at the navigator. She’s more than game. And I don’t wear a suit to work. The decision was taken.

We climbed further up and came to a little sign asking us to take a right for George House.

Parking the car on the side of the road, we packed some essentials in a bag and started walking towards the farm. Ripe pomegranates hung enticingly everywhere. The aroma of freshly baked gozlemes (Turkish pizza, to keep it simple) wafted across to us. A couple of roosters fixed their beady eyes on us. A donkey flicked its tail politely. A babble of accents greeted us as we entered George House. A little cafeteria, filled with young backpackers, seemed like the obvious place for our next question – er...how do we get to Butterfly Valley?

A genial young man volunteered – “Just walk straight down to the edge and you will see red markings on stones...follow the markings and you should reach the bottom in about an hour...it gets a bit tricky at times...but the ropes will help you.”

Well, there it is. Doesn’t sound too easy. Doesn’t sound too tough either. The ropes are there, after all.

We walked past the farm exchanging friendly waves with other adventurous souls lucky to be camping in one of the most amazing locations that we’ve ever seen. The green valley cleaves the mountain in half and an aquamarine blue sea stretches far into the horizon.

The initial descent was easy. All that was required of us was to follow the markings, hold on to the rocks and be sure of where we step. Pretty wildflowers, the merry chirping of birds and a constant but muted roar of a waterfall kept us company. And then like a good James Hadley Chase novel, the plot thickened.


The climb became steeper. The footholds harder to find. Muscles and sinews started getting stretched to their limit. There came a point half-way (we assumed) where we actually thought about heading back. But it was a brief thought. We really didn’t fancy never looking into a mirror again. After checking our watches, we realised it was close to an hour and we are nowhere near the bottom.

Just when we thought the worst was over, the trail ended in a steep drop. No ungainly scrabbling down holding onto exposed roots of trees or rocks here. It was a so-you-think-you-are-adventurous-huh descen t. Thankfully, the ropes now came into our line of vision. The thought of a Turkish bandicoot merrily chewing at the rope as a midnight snack did come to mind. However, a few hefty pulls chased away the doubts.

And then we got into our zone. Or maybe the ropes helped. We made pretty good progress on the final stretch. Arms (and legs) were starting to ache alarmingly. But with each step we were getting close to our destination.

It took us the better part of two hours to reach the valley. A strange yet comforting silence enveloped us. And there was a certain inner glow. It was almost around 5. It had struck us before that the only way back is to climb up the whole stretch again. Or catch the last ferry to Oludeniz. We had considered this eventuality as we had followed the progress of a ferry while climbing down. Looking up at the towering rock face, we decided on the ferry. Discretion, valour, etc. etc. We decided to catch a Taksi back to George House and pick up the car.

There’s a small community of organic farmers in the valley - mainly backpackers who pitch their tents for weeks on end. They help out with the farming during the day and strum a chord or two at night. It wasn’t really difficult to envy a lifestyle far away from the world of deadlines, corner offices and executive washrooms. And yes, fighting for parking spaces.

A well-trodden path took us to the beach we first glimpsed from the top of the mountain.
A bit pebbly, a bit sandy, but with enough character to hold its own among the best. A beach that can absorb all your worries and maybe, just maybe, turn them into shiny pebbles, forever condemned to be tossed around playfully by the waves.

It looked like we had timed it to perfection. The tall, bearded captain of the Kelebek Vadisi (Butterfly Valley) told us that he’s hauling anchor in five minutes. His dreadlocked second-in-command sounded the foghorn a couple of times for good measure. A motley bunch of free spirits clambered up the boat amidst a lot of good-natured ribbing.

As the ferry drifted away from the shore, farewells were shouted and promises to meet up for lunch in Barcelona, dinner in Goa and breakfast in Ko Phi Phi were exchanged.

We craned our necks for a last lingering look at Butterfly Valley. A man sitting on a makeshift bench of life-jackets said “Don’t worry, you’ll be back”.

We nodded knowingly.

Next time we will just paraglide straight into the valley.

A tale of a Goan lobster.

Like most opportunities, this one presented itself when I was least expecting it.

A birthday of a certain national figure came just after a weekend. In other words, a long weekend. A decidedly rare occasion in the diary of an overworked writer. After the initial euphoria came the realization that the month’s wages had just been deposited into my account.

Chandrakant, the resident sou chef in the agency café didn’t have any Dom Perignon, so I celebrated with a Kashmiri soda bubbling over with unbridled enthusiasm.

As I drained the last of my celebratory drink, I came to my senses. Half of my salary had already been accounted for in the form of previous loans from understanding friends.

But I was determined to escape Bombay at any cost (metaphorically speaking, of course).

Goa was a unanimous decision that satisfied both my heart and the remnants of my bank balance. I felt a bit like Shackleton (definitely in spirit)... scale…well) as I planned my mother-of-all-shoestring-budgets three day Goa expedition. My guide - a Lonely Planet with half of South Goa missing (which sort of decided that I’d ‘do’ North Goa….Calangute… Baga…here I come).

Friday took its own sweet time coming that week. As the Madgaon Express whooshed to a stop at Dadar station, I quickly boarded S6 and realized that I was not the only one to take advantage of a long weekend. ‘Packed to the rafters’ was the expression that came to mind. (Tin of sardines was a close second.) Helping a stocky gentleman with his luggage elicited a grateful smile and a promise of a seat after Sawantwadi, his stop (a good six hours from Dadar and only an hour away from Tivim, my stop).

And thus began my…well…Goan voyage, standing next to a disconcertingly large ‘bubble wrap’ package, swaying to the rhythm of the train.

As Panvel rattled past, Mr. Stocky Gentleman decided to get chatty. “Patil, senior constable, Charni Road police station…you from Nepal?” – An obvious reference to my pan Asian ‘chinky’ good looks.

“Assam…North-East”- I mentioned helpfully. “Ah…Assam Tea…”- Patil smiled. I nodded with an agreeable smile. Patil rattled on like a 6:45 Virar fast -“Assam is capital of Darjeeling; I’ve seen photos…so you make tea with Yak milk?”

Sensing that geography is not really one of Patil’s strengths, I steered the conversation to less choppy waters. Bollywood should be good, I thought.

Brilliant was more like it. Patil was stationed for two years in Bandra. A fact that automatically made him a buddy of Sallu Bhai (had invited him over for home-cooked biryani) and Sunju baba (almost did a small role in one of the M.B.B.S films at his behest but didn’t get leave…a jealous senior was the culprit apparently). An innocent remark had obviously opened a floodgate of memories.

Thankfully, the rhythmic effect of iron wheels gliding smoothly over wooden sleepers soon resulted in Patil emitting gentle snores with a smile playing on his lips. And with a huge sigh of relief, I started concentrating on the lush Konkan coast whizzing past.

As the stations trundled past with metronomic regularity, the Lonely Planet descriptions started coming to life. It started to drizzle as soon as we left Chiplun and by the time it reached Sawantwadi, the drizzle became a downpour. I woke up Patil and saw him off amidst a shower of abuses aimed at the unfortunate porter who had the gall to drop his luggage while clambering down the steps. He did however pause for a moment to shout out an invitation to visit him at his station.

I had barely settled in the recently vacated seat, when a pock-marked ‘Welcome to Goa’ sign flashed by. With a quickening of the pulse, I drank in the scenery. Swaying palm trees whispering to each other. Boats with tiny figures perched delicately on the bows gliding down rivers swollen by monsoon downpours.

A station with the demeanour of a Sunday churchgoer loomed ahead. Tivim station, like many small stations, had a comfortable air around it. Like those rare breed of people who disarm strangers with a welcoming embrace/smile and immediately make them feel at home.

“Take a bus to Mapusa first, and then from Mapusa take another bus to Calangute”. Instructions cannot get any simpler.

Mapusa bus station was a melee of shouts. Shouts of “Vagator…vagator…vagator” would quickly be overtaken by a fresh entrant shouting “Anjuna…anjuna…anjuna”…the buses would all the time threaten to take off any moment with sudden lurches. In sharp contrast, the passengers would sit in stoic patience, having experienced enough of this daily pantomime.

I clambered on board before the conductor could shout “Calangute” twice. A sudden gnawing reminded me that the last meal I had was a humble Vada-Pav in the morning.

As I cavorted merrily with fantasies of being introduced to the likes of Mackerel Rechado and Pork Vindaloo in their natural habitat, the bus deposited me at the bustling Calangute market. “Where’s the beach?” was a common question I guess. A few minutes of walking down the bustling road brought me to the steps leading down to the beach.

A sudden whiff of something delicious made me make my first acquaintance with Souza Lobo. The gaily lit restaurant convinced me that it’s out of my budget. A second whiff convinced me that budgets can be stretched.

The glowing lamps on the tables set right on the beach drew me like the proverbial moth. As I eased into one of the wicker chairs, a waiter materialized out of nowhere. Immediately sizing me up (as a slightly weary traveler, I must add …not as a rich tourist…there’s a difference), he flashed me a friendly smile. I briefly toyed with the idea of just ordering a lemon juice to refresh me and then maybe find something more in tune with my budget. But somehow the warm welcome emboldened me enough to ask Angelo (as his name tag proclaimed) about the ‘dinner special’. “I’d recommend the Grilled Lobster, Sir…it’s the Chef’s special tonight.”

Now the only time I had come face to face with a lobster previously was when I was proof checking a menu of a five star hotel. A fancy description (where I found two typos) was followed by an exquisitely detailed food shot of a huge grilled lobster resting on a bed of crisp lettuce. I remembered almost drooling over it.

The flame inside the little lamp on the table weathered the cool sea breeze with practiced ease, dancing around and casting tiny patterns on the checked table-cloth. The waves lapped at the shore gently. “No woman, no cry” was emanating from a shack further down the beach. I settled back further into the chair, buried my toes in the sand and ordered the ‘Chef’s Special’ without even a single glance at the right hand side of the laminated menu directly under my nose.

There’s something about the Goan air. Makes one feels rather contented. And rich.

The Prince of Gauripur & Glory Cinema.

Circa 1989, Guwahati. My winter vacations were on. I was in the throes of adolescent angst and found fault with everything starting from the venerable Assam Tribune’s editorial pieces (justified) to our cook’s fish curry (unjustified). My aunt came down for a visit, empathized with my state and whisked me away to her place in Gauripur, a small town in Dhubri, a far flung district of Assam bordering West Bengal.

My cousin, Bijoyda, was overjoyed to see me. Almost shunned by the family for his inability to be stable (read: finding a job) and regarded by the neighbours as a harmless directionless odd ball, he saw me as somebody who might just understand him. Why? Till today, I don’t have any answer. His take on life was simple-There are many ways of deciding what one wants to do in life. But one should just know how to avoid taking a decision. This was what he explained to me on a lazy afternoon while we basked like a pair of slightly misplaced seals on the banks of the Brahmaputra.


We quickly fell into a pattern. After breakfast, we’d head out to Gauripur town on Bijoyda’s temperamental Bajaj Sunny. A bumpy 10 minute ride away through paddy fields, Gauripur was the eastern version of a Wild West town. There was one main potholed road lined with shops such AtoZ tailors (peak season-Durga Puja), Star Restaurant (where one can celebrate joys with jalebis and drown sorrows in cups of masala chai), Salim & Sons Saloon (it’s another thing that Salim had five daughters but he never stopped hoping), and last but not the least, Gauripur’s pride-Glory Cinema (where the L had dropped off).


Glory Cinema was where Bijoyda came into his elements. Bhaskar, the star-struck manager (overweight, constantly perspiring with an incurable fondness for manikchand and ribald tales) was in awe of Bijoyda’s likeness to a popular Assamese hero. Moreover his never-ending anecdotes about various film stars (thanks to dog-eared copies of Stardust) kept Bhaskar in splits. Bijoyda would plonk himself in Bhaskar’s cabin adorned with comely damsels and bundles of tickets (yellow for balcony, purple for stalls). I particularly remember a ‘House-full’ sign which used to stand forlornly in a corner (it was only very rare cinematic occasions when Glory Cinema used to achieve that status.) Bhaskar would order masala chai and samosas from Star and an enjoyable afternoon would be spent ripping apart the current potboiler. And stitching it together with their own observations. How the plot could have been more interesting if the hero had married the gardener's daughter. Or if the union leader had befriended the owner's son. Bijoyda’s life couldn’t get better than this. An attentive listener, free chai (and samosas) and a complimentary ticket for the Friday show.

Bijoyda once saved Bhaskar from a potential sticky situation. Just before the first show of the much anticipated blockbuster 'Maine Pyar Kiya' (the Housefull board had made its rare appearance outside the booking counter), it was discovered that out of the 15-odd reels, there were only the first seven reels. The distributor had goofed up. And Bhaskar discovered the fact just before the show was about to start. The remaining reels would reach only the next morning.

Conjuring up images of him being beaten up like a film baddie, he sought out Bijoyda. Quickly assessing the situation, Bijoyda told him to make an announcement that the public would get to see the first half of the new movie till the interval and then see the last week’s movie’s climax (the reels of last week film were still there). Basically two movies for the price of one. And there would be a special show of the remaining part of the first film next day free of cost.

Fearing the worst, Bhaskar made the announcement. And the public responded with hoots of delight. Nobody really cared that they need to come back again next day to see the remaining part of the film again. The free show (for which they had already played) was all that mattered.

Bhaskar in an emotionally charged moment christened Bijoyda as the ‘Prince of Gauripur’ and ordered jalebis from Star to celebrate his close escape.


(For the record, the film shown after the interval was a dubbed ‘educational’ Tamil film starring Silk Smitha.)

After a couple of weeks, I returned to Guwahati. I quite missed the sessions with Bhaskar and Bijoyda. Soon after, I heard that Glory Cinema was demolished. I wondered what happened to Bhaskar. I lost touch with Bijoyda after shifting to Pune for what elders used to term as ‘higher studies’.

It was many years later when on a visit to Guwahati, I chanced upon an interview in a local TV channel. The producer-director of the latest Assamese hit film looked extremely familiar. It was none other than Bhaskar. I watched fascinated as Bhaskar spoke eloquently about the dynamics of making a successful film. “The main soul of a film is the script and my film’s success is entirely because of my writer” as Bhaskar made this statement, the camera panned to the writer, and I almost fell of my seat.

Bijoyda looked quite fashionable in the quintessential garb of a film writer.

The distance from Gauripur to Guwahati is only about 300 kms. But it sure felt good to see how far these two friends have come.

Musandam Musings

And one fine day it happened. Just like that.

The long delayed, much anticipated trip to Musandam, located in northern Oman. On an impulse.

Famous as the Middle Eastern version of the Norwegian fjords, Musandam is characterised by mountains that rise straight out of the sea. It's only the extremely skilled or the foolhardy who would attempt to drive through that region late in the evening. I decided to classify myself as the former. Maybe the full moon had a hand in the decision.

It was about 9pm. I had dropped off a friend off at Ras al Khaimah (one of UAE’s northern emirates bordering Oman) and was driving back to Dubai. Suddenly, it struck me that the border was less than 50kms away. And beyond that was Musandam.

It was a 'now or never' moment.

The u-turn I took would have made Hollywood proud. Bon Jovi had just finished the acoustic version of 'destination anywhere' when the UAE border loomed ahead. Thankfully, I had carried my passport (I somehow can anticipate my impulses).

The UAE border guards found it a bit funny that I was travelling alone. I muttered something about finding myself. They tried to be helpful...in their words..."drive safe...road going up and up...and down and down". One of them helpfully added "if lost way, drive straight, and stay at Golden Tulip". The last mentioned name was a familiar name. It was a resort frequented by either the extremely skilled or the foolhardy.

As I crossed over to the Omani side and got my passport stamped by a taciturn Omani official...I realized that I intend to drive up steep mountains with the sea far below on one side in almost pitch dark conditions (there were street lamps...but they were predictably absent just when one sees signs like...steep descent and steep ascent...)

But the roads were in perfect condition. All I had to is stay in my lane and drive like Woody Allen on anti-depressants. Which I did. What I didn't account for is that it's a two way lane. Drivers obviously harbour under the impression that it's a potential F1 race track. So as I was making my steady ascents and descents, I saw blurs whizzing past accompanied by cheerful shouts. At that point I would have settled for a strong shot of vodka to steady the tic in my left eye, but being a strict 'Thums Up on the rocks' guy...just settled for gulping down my heart. Repeatedly.

After one particular steep climb, I found myself on some sort of a plateau. Sensing an opportunity to stretch my limbs (steadying the nerves came a close second), I pulled over to the side of the road. I switched off the engine, stepped out gingerly and found myself in a sort of Neverland minus Peter Pan and the rest of his ilk.

Almost felt like Columbus.

The stillness was punctuated at regular intervals by the waves crashing against the rocks with casual indifference. Walking a little further, I could see lights far below. Staring hard, I could see the lights form the words 'Golden Tulip'.

With a spring in my step, I retraced my steps back to my car. The twists and turns of my descent would have given a major complex to a Le Carre plot. Soon I could see the lights of Golden Tulip resort drawing near. The road now lit up by halogen street lamps creating their own patterns on the craggy mountain faces. Hauntingly beautiful.

Golden Tulip's lights looked very welcoming. I glided into the parking lot without much ado. I was greeted by the ever smiling Mr. Issa, Manager (Reception). Mr. Issa looked a bit like Snape (remember Potter's philosopher’s stone) except he looked like he does unspeakable things to pretty French maids (and they like it). I was informed that they did have a room available. Except that I've to pay through my olfactory glands. Which wasn't exactly part of the plan. But then, here I was in a foreign country and had no idea where the next bend will lead me to. So, in spite of having a tent in my car, I decided that I’ll opt for the room. And with that came the realization that I am becoming well...old. In my heydays, I’ve slept in a truck, in a cave, in a... ...you get the drift.

Next morning, I woke up to a view that more than made up for the unsightly dent in my savings. It was worth every omani rial. An azure sea stretched out endlessly. Holding a cup of piping hot earl grey, I imagined I could see the other end, the coast of Zanzibar.

Checked out of the hotel at 8:30am after fortifying myself with breakfast. Complimentary bacon, baked beans, scrambled eggs and toast never tasted better.

The good thing about having no plan is that I covered 140kms of coastline in about 10 hours. Stopped wherever I wanted to, and after some quiet moments of introspection, start again. Twisty mountain roads, mountain goats, lonely boats, deserted beaches, benign mountains and a certain Mr. Knopfler keeping me company.

As the sun finally decided to call it a day and disappeared to its secret location somewhere over the horizon, a deep sense of calm came over me. After a last lingering look, I changed gears and headed towards city lights.

It's true. Giving in to sudden impulses can be quite liberating.

Jigneshbhai's 'excitement'...

This was during my unemployed days in Bombay. Another of my unemployed friends (misery loves company after all) approached me with a quick money making scheme that would take care of our rent for at least a couple of months with a few chiken-tikka-nan dinners thrown in at Punjabi Junction (doesn't exist any longer) near Lotus petrol pump.

My friend, Aamir, was (is?...lost touch with him) one of those small time ad filmmakers specialising in cable ads. Cheap ads with cheaper production values. His ad with the Sachin lookalike plugging a particular kind of agarbatti was a moderate success. Mother lights an agarbatti, Sachin hits a six...you get the idea. Aamir met this Gujju gentleman who was sort of a fly-by-night shyster. Jigneshbhai wanted an ad for one of his products. SX is a blue capsule with apparently 10 times the power of the more internationally renowned blue pill. Anyways, we decided to meet up at Ideal Cafe near Andheri station where I would narrate a script based on the mysterious ways of blue capsules.

5pm was the designated time. The advantages of not being gainfully employed meant that I was dot on time. I ordered my usual bun maska chai and looked around for a Mid-Day (somebody leaves one behind means I save two bucks which means one more cup of irani chai...those were the days of simple calculations). No Mid-Day meant I was missing half of my daily fix. The other half arrived and as I was just about to take the first sip, Aamir enters with a portly man with the subtle demeanour of a Chinese bull in a Tibetan shop. Talking incessantly on his 'condom' case covered Nokia 3310, Jigneshbhai looks in the direction Aamir was pointing. They both pull up chairs and sit down facing me. Aamir looked a bit strained. Translated it meant this is Mr. Moneybags and he wants to make a good impression.

Jigneshbhai finished his monologue and bared his teeth at me. I bared mine at him. Societal norms over, we got down to business. "So, you are writing the script for me!" I muttered something. Aamir shook his head up and down. "Dekho bhai...ekdum simple...my product is for men...who (here he paused...looking around)...need something to get them excited. And keep them excited. ..." I nod understandingly. "I trust you have something good for me...now tell me your story."

I began my 'story'. Film opens on a typical pre suhaag raat scenario where giggling girls push the groom inside a bedecked room where the bride is sitting coyly on a bed strewn with rose petals. As the groom looks lasciviously at the bride, he looks around for something. He looks under the pillows, below the bed, pulls out the drawers of the adjacent table, but nothing. Zilch. His wife asks timidly "Kya aap palangtod pan dhoond rahe hain?" The groom sort of hems and haws. A hennaed hand appears from the folds of the bridal sari. "Ye zyaada accha hain." Cut to a close up of the hand. We see a blue capsule with 'SX' written on it.
Cut to next morning. The door opens and we see an old couple dressed in bridal finery step out smiling at each other coyly.
Cut to pack shot. MVO: SX capsules. Pyar karo lambe samay tak.

Jigneshbhai grunted. He looked at Aamir, looked back at me, and started having my bun maska.
I held my glass of now lukewarm chai with a steady hand. He's not going to deprive me of this at least.

Jigneshbhai polished off the bun maska, blew some crumbs off his shirt and declared "Story accha hain...but there's no male-female excitement you know...my audience wants to see what will happen after having SX capsule..." He looked at me with a half smile playing on his lips..."You haven't shown the excitement".

Right on cue, a popular Anu Malik number started emanating from his Nokia. Jigneshbhai started barking. The call was obviously of great importance. He got up abruptly, nodded his goodbye and walked out, leaving me staring at the remnants of my breakfast cum lunch.
Aamir made some symphatetic noises and gulped down my chai.

I got a call from Aamir a few days later. Jigneshbhai has a 'story' with lots of 'excitement'. He wanted me to flesh (pun not intended) it out. Can we again meet up at Ideal?

500 bucks for the script. I looked at my wallet. The lone hundred made up my mind.

I just won't order anything.

NIGHT TRAIN TO LOHEGAD

The movie finished much sooner than expected. My restless friend, an exchange student from the U.S. of A (let’s call him Andrew) wanted to go somewhere. Did not let me enjoy the movie in peace and wanted to leave even before the credits had started rolling.

We came out of Regal.
Andrew started whining – Let’s go somewhere.
I told him – We would go somewhere.
Where are we going?
Lohegad fort.
A real fort?

I really didn’t think the last question merited an answer

Caught a cab to CST (formerly known as V.T.)

Checked the train timings-Pune Passenger at 11:40 pm.
Checked my watch – 11:38 pm.
Two whole minutes. A lifetime actually.

Bought tickets and dashed into the nearest coach (the train had started moving), straight into a tangle of assorted arms and legs.

We made ourselves comfortable on the floor. Andrew being 6 ft 2 and almost as broad couldn’t help complaining about the space available. And then he asks me what he felt was a pertinent question.

Will I have to walk much?
Another question which did not merit an answer.

After sometime, I got up and stood by the door. There is something extremely liberating about watching the countryside flash by in moonlight. A solitary light or two, a sky awash with stars and the clickety-clack of the iron wheels. All combine to produce a very soothing effect. Perfect for smoothening nerves frayed by the daily wear and tear of living in a metropolis.

Around 4 in the morning, we crossed Lonavala. Woke up Andrew who was liberally sprawled all over, his head resting on the foot of a co-passenger equally dead to the world.

Wish I had a camera to record this for posterity. West finally at the feet of East.

10 minutes later, we reached Malawli, where one has to get down to proceed to Lohegad fort.
Malawli is a station, which lovers of English literature would have termed as quaint. A station without any aspirations. Just content to watch the express trains thundering past.
Hope it remains that way.

What was welcome was that there was a tea –stall and it was open.
If the owner was surprised to see two guys, one wearing quite a loud Hawaiian shirt
(not me) lining up for tea at the crack of dawn, we sure didn’t see any reaction.


I couldn’t resist asking.
How come you are open so early?
Woke up early.
Now, what does one say to that.

After fortifying ourselves with piping hot cups of tea, we again started out.

I told Andrew that while we trek to the fort, just keep an eye for the sunrise.
He gave me quite a disdainful look- I have seen quite a few sunrises.
Half an hour later, he was getting quite poetic.

A brilliant reddish sky interspersed with streaks of blue. A bracing breeze. The kind of breeze that clears the cobwebs and makes your reasoning crystal clear.

And somehow make you feel that you can be a poet.

The path ahead (I am being quite generous using the word ‘path’) was lined with stones and rocks. Andrew’s shiny shoes were taking quite a beating. But somehow he didn’t seem to mind at all.

We started climbing. Pausing every now and then to splash water on our faces from the numerous little waterfalls. The breeze became stronger. The chirping of birds became more pronounced.

Its good to feel alive every now and then.

The railway track has now started looking like a toy track amidst myriad green patches.

Hotel Lohegad came up. A reception committee of two goats and a dog greeted us, followed by the proprietor who happened to be the rest of the staff as well.
Half an hour, we emerged from the shack, sorry, Hotel Lohegad, sated and rejuvenated.

Maharashtra is dotted with more than 170 forts. The tableland atop the Western Ghats was quite suitable for building these forts. All these forts were self-sufficient and had large reserves of fresh water.

One of the major causes of the overwhelming success of the Maratha Empire can be attributed to these forts. Apparently one of the main reasons of Aurangzeb becoming prematurely bald was because of his inability to conquer the forts as and when he wanted. Obviously you won’t find this in any history book.

Lohegad loomed defiantly ahead, surrounded by clouds, as if suspended in mid-air.

We reached the village at the base of the fort.
One of those friendly nondescript villages, whose name one tends to forget immediately after asking.

The final stretch. We started climbing the flat stone steps.


It never deserts me. The feeling of stepping back into time. Half expecting to see soldiers suddenly come rushing out from some secret hiding place, yelling and shouting.

But there is only the wind now.

We reach the top. A brilliant shade of green greets us.
The view from the top, to put it mildly, is stupendous.
One can see for miles around.
On a bright clear day, one can even see Sinhagad fort, located about 25 kms from Pune. Legend goes that messages used to be relayed from one fort to another using mirrors.

We lie down wearily, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun.
A defiant drop of dew still glistened on a blade of grass.
An azure sky right above us.

Life is just perfect.