‘It’s going to be cold. Really cold, up there. Make sure you dress up warm.’ Sylvia, our AirBnB host, said after taking a good look at us dressed in jackets and sweaters. It was about 15 degrees C in Bormio, our base in Lombardy. How cold would it be ‘up there’ -the highest point of the Stelvio Pass which is also the highest Pass in the Eastern Alps - our destination. I googled and froze. It was 0 degrees C. I knew the summit was at 2758 m which was another 1500 m up from Bormio. But I never thought it’d be a difference of 15 degrees. So we put on more layers and dressed up warm, really warm. Inside the car, it felt that maybe we overdid it a bit. But when we reached the top, boy, were we glad that we followed Sylvia’s advice. It wasn’t 0 degree. In fact, it was -3 but with a ‘feels like’ -7. Thanks to winds blowing in from somewhere and a bit of mirthless rain. As we stepped out of the car and walked to a restaurant for some much needed soup, we thanked Sylvia from the bottom of our hearts. Always heed the advice of a local. They always know best.
A Taxi Full Of Love
From the corner of my eye, I spotted a colourful cape billowing in the wind. ‘Superman exists’ was the first thought. Then I realized that I am a functioning adult and there should be a logical explanation. Well, the cape wasn’t that of Superman. But it belonged to a rather colorfully dressed woman who was tending to a small child. A young boy who was staring open-mouthed at a car straight out of a storybook. I decided to know the story behind why this lady was dressed like a colourful character from a book and her rather eccentric car. A cheerful ‘Ciao!’ was enough to break the ice and a hurried conversation revealed the finer details.
Milano25 a.k.a Caterina’s lifelong mission to make the world a better place started when life dealt her a bitter blow. She lost her partner to cancer. He was only 39. But before he died, he told Caterina that she should drive his taxi, the aforementioned Milano25. ‘You are now Milano25’ he told her. The grief-stricken Caterina, a regular office-goer till then, became a taxi driver. By ferrying passengers from point A to point B in Milano25, she somehow kept a tenuous connection with the lost love of her life.
One of these passengers, Constanza, a 3-year-old told Caterina that her little brother is in heaven and she misses him a lot. The passenger’s parents then told Caterina he died due to a brain tumour. They further told her about how their family has started a charitable foundation dedicated to the study of paedriatic tumours. The story not only moved her but also gave Caterina a sense of purpose. She decided that she’ll give free rides to children being treated for cancer and other life-threatening illnesses at Meyer Children’s Hospital in Florence. A ride that will make them squeal with joy and make them forget whatever they are going through. Because these rides will not be in any ordinary taxi; but a specially designed car straight out of a child’s fertile imagination. A car that’s painted all over with popular children’s characters, a horn that emits cheerful tunes, stuffed toys, candies liberally strewn around, etc. etc. There’s also a teddy bear named Palmira. Children are told that actually Palmira is the one driving them around. Caterina pulled out all the stops to make it the most memorable ride ever.
Milano25 transformed into a taxi with the power to make anybody smile.
Caterina’s philosophy is simple. You don’t need to spend millions to ease the suffering of children. All you need is the intention to spread some warmth and cheer. Life’s hard. It can hurt. But when you reach out to others who are suffering, and aid the process of healing in any way possible, you somehow end up lessening your own pain. Caterina is not afraid of dying. But her mortal fear is that she’s not living every moment.
I was incredibly lucky to have met Caterina as she came to a popular viewing point in Florence to pick up a child who had flown in from Belgium that day itself. It was the same child that I saw her fussing over. His parents stood silently nearby drinking in the sight of their boy cooing in absolute delight as he explored the interiors of the car. I didn’t have the heart to ask Caterina what he was suffering from. But as she pulled away from the parking lot waving out merrily, the little boy stuck his head out of the window and blasted some cheerful little toots from a horn kept conveniently next to him, his tiny face wreathed in smiles.
So, yes, Superman is a fictional character. But Wonder Woman - well, she's right here in our midst tootling through the streets of Florence.
Under the Tuscan sun
Monticchiello is one of those quintessential Tuscan hilltop medieval towns, full of rugged charm and immense character. Despite it being quite a long drive away from our base in Barberino Val D'elsa (almost 100 km), we decided to head out for a drive to Monticchiello. The promise was that of bucolic scenes of rolling hills dotted with Cypress trees and brick red farmhouses. I wouldn't have minded the sight of a vintage Fiat Cinquecento (preferably red) heading up a winding road to one of the aforementioned farmhouses. Unfortunately, by the time we started out, and reached the outskirts of Monticchiello, it was already too late to explore the town. Thankfully, we did get to soak in some of the promised scenic landscapes on the way. There were no red Fiats toiling up a road though. Though surprisingly there was a flock of seagulls that appeared out of nowhere (they are the white dots in the foreground) So, as they say something is better than nothing. And the journey truly is the destination.
Welcome To Gokul Dhaba
Gokul Highway Dhaba was nowhere near a highway. But then it was much more than a dhaba too. It was first and foremost a landmark (Take the third lane from Gokul’s, my house is the fourth one with a ‘Beware of dog’ sign…don’t worry there’s no dog). It was also a meeting point to discuss matters of national importance (Let’s discuss the team composition at Gokul’s – but I am definitely going to open
the batting). And lastly a rickety bamboo shack where the staple fare of piping hot rotis and plates of tadka dal served with chopped green chillies and peeled onions helped satiate hunger pangs. Only on Sundays, and only during lunch, a thick curry of soya bean nuggets with potatoes would be prepared. Gokul Dhaba had a strict vegetarian food policy and a limited menu thanks to the limitations of the cook. Steaming cups of kadak chai kept tendrils of sleep from snaking over bleary red eyes of the students from the nearby Ajanta Boys Hostel as they got ready for yet another all-nighter before the exams.
Hanging out at Gokul Dhaba was a sort of dream for a group of us. Pranab and I were almost 12 and took most of the decisions for the group. Rintu and Naren were almost six months younger than us. Their opinions didn’t count much due to the age difference. It was sort of an unwritten rule that only boys above 16 were welcome at the dhaba. A rule enforced by the proprietor, Gokulda. ‘The language used here is not always right’ was the reason given. A college drop out, Gokulda never failed to ask us about our grades, as we slowly walked past his dhaba. ‘If you don’t study and you’ll end up like me.’ We nodded our heads. Though we felt his life was more than a bit complete. His cook Rahman, and his assistant, Prahlad, would shop in the morning for the essentials and prepare food for the day, except for the rotis. They were always freshly made. Gokulda would make an appearance around 11 and then sit behind a counter all day long exchanging jokes with customers; watch cricket matches and movies on a battered TV set and sleep whenever he wanted to – his portly frame balancing precariously on a narrow bench – something straight out of Ripley’s Believe it or not. A good life? No, it was a fantastic life.
Three years before I turned 16, I found myself being uprooted to another city. And by the time I was 16, I was in a different universe altogether. Like most memories of childhood, Gokul Dhaba became a pleasant but distant memory. But even today whenever I am home, I often find myself heading to a roadside dhaba for a quick roti-tadka dal meal. With each bite, I find myself becoming a 12-year-old again. Which is not necessarily a bad thing
The Camper
Ziad realized he was completely lost when the road became rougher and then discarded all pretensions of being one. As he maneuvered around a rock, a flickering campfire came into sight. A wave of relief washed over him. And despite his earlier reluctance for company of any sort, he was glad at the prospect of meeting somebody. As he parked his Jeep, he could make out a couple huddled around the fire. Ziad switched off the ignition, and soaked in the stillness of the surroundings. He grabbed his backpack and walked towards them. Suddenly feeling very hungry, he hoped the couple had something to eat. Lunch was a hurried, and light affair, at a gas station. He had packed one sandwich. But seeing the fire, he was suddenly in the mood for something freshly grilled. He hoped the couple had some water. All he had was one small bottle of water. Ziad grinned to himself. Known among his friends as a camper extraordinaire, he seemed to be making one rookie mistake after another. As he walked towards the couple, he mentally tossed around the anecdotes that have always served him well while breaking the ice with strangers. He switched on his best salesman smile, full of friendly intentions. Within a few strides, he reached the campfire to a perplexing sight. Instead of the place where the couple should be, there was only a log of wood. Before he could register anything, the fire hissed and went out.
Suddenly it was pitch dark. It was when he heard something whisper softly next to his ears that he started screaming. Thing about being lost deep inside the mountains is that there's nobody to hear your screams.
Now serving: Peace and solitude
The Bonding
The Actors
The shoot started. It was a rather hot day. Both ‘father’ and ‘son’ went about it gamely. As the day progressed and we shifted from one location after another, the heat started taking its toll. To our great relief, I could see the actors really bonding. Khalid was really a man of great patience. And good humour. He kept on entertaining and engaging with Omar (a thorough professional despite his age). We headed towards the desert for the last shot of the day. It was a sequence where the father points out the various constellations in the sky as they sit atop a dune. As the team was running all over frantically prepping for the shot, the father/son duo climbed up a dune and spent a few quiet moments soaking in a sunset that makes life a bit more meaningful.
I really hope Khalid and Omar kept in touch after the shoot too. It felt like the start of a truly beautiful relationship
The Balinese Artist
The 'Bhut Bhuti' Factor
Along with swish cruise ships where wine is stocked from a place where every year is a good year and humble goods trawlers transports your favourite blend of tea; the river and its tributaries are peppered with rickety country boats. During monsoons, when the river repeatedly flexes its muscles, destroying roads and bridges, these boats remain the only means of transport for thousands of people. They glide above the waves, fragile as a twig, buoyed by the strength of a thousand prayers.
If you happen to board one of these ubiquitous country boats, or 'Bhut bhutis’, that crisscross the mighty Brahmaputra River, I’d advise you to immediately head to the deck. Despite the wide expanse of water around, the ‘cabin’ below can get a bit claustrophobic. It is also almost at the water level, the swirling currents just a quick splash away. Not advisable for those who are a little skittish. Add to this the constant ‘bhut bhut’ of the noisy diesel engines (hence the name 'bhut bhuti'), and the not-so-pleasant diesel fumes, and you are well on your way to turn a sickly shade of green. However, the top deck - 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 whisper secrets to the ever-present playful breeze.
Rollin' With The Punches
Thing is, despite the admiration I have for boxers, the grueling training regime and the prospect of getting my face rearranged every time the gong starts, was enough to keep me more than an arm's length away from the nearest boxer. Unless, of course, it's through a camera lens.
Coming back to my fantasy, it's a great one, and has enough repeat value to keep me entertained any time of the day. Especially during meetings.
The one and only Ali (who else) is at his peak. I am an unknown challenger. We are fighting on a hot muggy night in Kinshasa. The crowd is baying for my blood. Ali's punches rain on me like a torrential Indian monsoon downpour. Each blow turns my insides into mush. Like a chef tendering a piece of meat with a club. But he doesn't deliver a KO. He's toying with me. He's a well fed cat, bored out of his skull. I am a rat running ragged.
He's floating around me like a butterfly on steroids and stinging like a bee raised on a steady diet of bullet ants (Trivia: Bullet ant stings are considered the nastiest). But I hang on in there. My body recoils in disgust at my inability to admit defeat. Years of Shaolin training has made me very focused. My left eyelid is cut and closed shut. I am wearing a mask of blood. But despite everything, I keep on absorbing the sledgehammer blows, waiting for the right moment.
Round 13 starts. Ali gets ready to deliver the coup de grace. He smiles at me. But the smile stays fixed. His eyes start glazing over. Because I just took him out with a right uppercut that was faster than greased lightning. I become famous as Micky 'Greased Lightning' Kalita.
Millions are thrown at me. Including a custom-made pink Cadillac and stock options at a company named after the fruit that made Adam look differently at Eve. But I leave everything and go back to my mastah in the Jade Mountains. And live happily ever after on a steady diet of dumplings.
Blue-sky Thinking
We searched for ‘blue skies, white beach, happy couple’ and while at it also ‘blue seas’. A package deal for the most hackneyed of images for a print ad. Stock photo sites threw up hundreds of options. But even in this sea of sameness, one visual stood out. A wide curving stretch of pristine beach, fringed by a shimmering aquamarine sea, swaying palm trees in the distance. The couple was in the foreground – the woman was looking at the man adoringly as he smilingly pointed out to something totally insignificant somewhere on the horizon. But the pièce de résistance was the fluffy clouds that peppered the blue sky. They added what we thought was some much needed character. We were obviously clutching at straws here. We revised the layout, added the copy elements (also provided much helpfully by the client), made it the agency recommendation (there was still a bit of pride left) and mailed it along with some other images of blue skies, blue seas, etc. We still had 12 hours left to catch the deadline. A lifetime in an agency’s timeline.
Within seconds, we received a mail. ‘This is not happening. I am coming down.’
This is a client who strongly believes that he’s of a creative bent of mind because eons ago some agency had invited him to be part of an ideation workshop. Apparently, everybody liked the ideas he cracked at the event. It was obviously an agency desperate to retain that particular business. Unfortunately, that incident made him a strong believer in ‘ideating’ with the creative. Well, as long as all the ideas were his.
The client rushed in with the air of acute importance with a junior colleague whose sole duty was to nod and say ‘yes’. We laid out the various versions of the ad on the conference table. Including the rejected ones. He brushed everything aside and took our recommended ad in his hands. He looked around the room enjoying the undivided attention on him. He fixed his gaze on me.
‘Tell me why you think this image works.’
Having done the homework, I stated confidently.
‘Well, as per your brief, this image has everything – blue skies, blue seas, a happy couple – we thought this image is way better than the other images. Plus, it’s also royalty-free.’ (For the uninitiated – royalty-free images cost way lesser than rights-managed images. It’s hard to get high quality royalty-free images.)
The client gave one of his all-knowing smiles – an equivalent of a squeaky chalk on a blackboard – and explained.
'This image has clouds. Did I ask for clouds? Don’t you know that clouds signify that something bad is soon going to happen? Who knows this couple might become victims of a shark attack? Also, these are cirrus clouds. If I somehow had to use clouds, I’d always go for cirrocumulus.'
I wanted to tell him that sharks are not usually in the habit of sliding up a sandy beach and chomping on bodies. Also, in this age of 3-second attention spans, people don’t really notice the type of clouds floating in the background. But this was a lost case.
An hour later we found yet another series of images that satisfied the creative standards of the client. There was not a single cloud in one of them.
And that’s why during those rare occasions when the weather forecast says overcast skies, strong winds, choppy seas; I venture out to capture a beach or two in all their inclement glory. The conditions may not be perfect. But the soul is at peace.
Showdown In The Serengeti
The Sentinel Of Hope
A hush fell over the crowd at the popular 'secret beach' - a name that stems from the fact that locals know about it, not tourists. In a place like Dubai, the world's fourth most visited city, this makes a huge difference. The fireworks to ring in 2017 had just ended. A few were gazing straight ahead - probably still reminiscing about the year that passed by. The more practical souls were strategising their exit from the packed beach. And then a gentleman started lighting up Chinese sky lanterns.
The first one decided not to bow down to convention and take a stand against something in the New Year. So, it decided not to light up. The second one lit up beautifully but refused to float. Instead, it became a tidy little bonfire that didn’t result in much warmth. The third one lit up, floated sideways and decided to go for a swim. Which, of course, went against the entire principle of sky lanterns. A brief powwow later to figure out whether they have got the basics right, the fourth (and apparently the last) lantern was lit. The lantern wobbled quite a bit, hovering a couple of inches above the ground. The crowd started cheering. Probably encouraged by the air of positivity all around, the lantern latched on to a gust of wind. It started floating up, a lone bright sentinel of hope against the dark sky. The gathering broke into spontaneous applause. Merry shouts of 'Happy New Year' started again.
Lost In Jatiluwih
Nosing Around In Chinatown
The Active Lot
The Resolute Performers
A Mist-Clad Christmas
‘Everybody in Shillong wears jeans, leather jackets and Beatle boots.’ We considered Prabal to be a bit of a know-it-all. Often we suspected he just made up facts just to be an one-upper. But as Google didn’t exist in the 80’s, there were certain things that one had to accept at face value. Unfortunately, Prabal was also the class topper. And he had just returned from a trip from Shillong, a place none of the audience he was addressing had been to. He nonchalantly brandished the sales receipt for his achingly cool pair of Jordache jeans and stated ‘Even the salesman was wearing Jordache’. Thankfully, the school recess bell rang giving us the opportunity to escape Prabal and his exploits that somehow had the ability to make us feel a bit inferior. We were just happy that he didn’t get a leather jacket and Beatle boots.
Known as the ‘Scotland of the East’, Shillong is the capital of Meghalaya, a far-flung state in the north-eastern part of India. A very popular hill station, Shillong had a certain aura about it. A very stylish and westernized air. There were fine educational institutes. There were bands that featured regularly in magazines such as ‘Sun’ – the northeastern equivalent of Rolling Stone. And of course, everybody wore a jeans-leather jacket-Beatle Boots combo. In Jorhat, the sleepy town where I spent my formative years, ‘readymade’ clothes were a rarity for us. Most of us wore shirts and trousers stitched to abstract perfection by Paswan, the cranky neighborhood tailor. During high turnover seasons such as Durga Puja, he’d regularly miss deadlines or botch orders causing acute grief to youngsters. My friend Arun’s shirt was stitched from material, which was meant for his sister’s frock. Paswan that day watched in awe as Ma Durga appeared in the form of Arun’s mother. While on the topic of mothers, before the onset of winter, they could be spotted furiously knitting sweaters with grim focus and great dexterity. One size too big. The sweaters had to last two winters at least.
Shillong became more accessible once we moved base to Guwahati. It was now only 80 odd km away. But it still took a couple of more years before I found myself in a bus snaking its way up the Khasi Hills along with my mother and brother. After about three hours, the bus regurgitated us at Police Bazaar. To be frank, I was a bit disappointed. It was quite late in the evening. A stiff cold wind made people clutch whatever they were wearing closer. But more than leather jackets, jeans and boots, I spotted a profusion of monkey caps and shawl-clad beings huddled around makeshift bonfires. A quick taxi ride brought us to Assam House, our place of residence located on a small hill. It was a fantastic location. The houses in the surrounding hills were decorated with gaily-lit stars. It was mesmerizing to see these twinkling lights play hide and seek with a gentle mist rolling over the hills.
It was so quiet and peaceful that I stayed out despite the mist settling around me. And then I heard singing in the distance. The mist made it difficult to figure out the direction. But the singing was so lyrical that I wanted to hear more. Also, by then I was drunk with the sense of Shillong. I decided to let my ears guide me to the source of the song. A few steps later I was completely enveloped by the mist. The only sound I could hear was the crunch of gravel and the soulful song that was becoming clearer with every step. The Hound of the Baskervilles came to mind along with a couple of Edgar Allan Poe and Satyajit Ray tales. A tiny prickle of fear that was nervously scampering up and down my spine was somehow kept at bay by the singing. A few heartbeats later I spotted the blurry outline of a red star. A couple of swift steps brought me to a thick oak door. The song became louder. Without much ado, I grabbed the handle and pulled it open.
Whenever the topic of Christmas comes up, the first thing I remember is that misty evening when I stumbled inside the Catholic Church of Shillong. And found myself in front of a choir of young men and women practicing singing ‘Silent night, Holy night’. Young men and women dressed in leather jackets and jeans. I didn’t really notice the shoes. But I am sure they were Beatle boots.