Karibu sana!
The first glance of African soil was through a half-open aeroplane window. Open, dry space, as far as the eye could see. The odd thorn tree picking out the dust against it’s green, thorny leaves. A continent that is possibly Where It All Began. And I am here to live my share of it…
Nairobi airport is reportedly the biggest in the continent. It most definitely is the busiest. But it still reminds one of the old Indira Gandhi Airport at Delhi around the 1970s. Unpainted concrete, unmanned consoles and a general air of overuse. Yet, it is remarkably efficient. My flight was delayed for 15 minutes since the number of people who’d boarded did not tally with the number that had gone through Security Check. Not too great a delay for a Third World country, what say! And that takes me to my final destination country.
Tanzania, the sum of Tanganyika and Zanzibar. An ancient land, known for its trade in spices and slaves. Tanzania – of Mount Kilimanjaro and Serengeti National Park. Here’s some interesting bits to chew on:
1. Kiswahili – the local language – is a mixture of Bantu and Arabic. Though it usually sounds like an oddment of french, english, hindi and urdu!
2. There are three major libraries in the town of Iringa. The Regional Community Library has a surprisingly big collection. I loaned out an old copy of Gerald Durrell only to discover that the last time it was taken out was in 1991!
3. The three really good eateries in town are all owned by Persons of Indian Origin.
4. When a shop says “New Arrivals!” it means just that – that the goods are newly arrived. The goods – however – are NOT new. They are all second-hand. Yes, clothes as well, of the inner kind!
5. Dala dala is what you call a dilapidated rectangle of metal that manages to convey people from one place to another. How they run is anybody’s guess since by any normal understanding of the laws of physics, these would have not existed. Ever. There is usually an air of rotten chicken inside, amongst the atmosphere of rotten everything. Music is exceptional – it takes the term “rotten” to a new level. Britney Spears and the likes are the usual fare.
6. Tea is chai. It is sweet. I mean four-heaped-spoons-of-sugar-in-a-cup sweet. It is had with bland, sugar-and-salt-less fired bread. The logic being, sweet things stick to the teeth and make ‘em rot. Don’t look like that, not my logic!
7. Milk is powdered. That is because fresh milk is mostly exported. To Kenya. Again, don’t ask me. In case you’re curious, tea bag tea with powdered milk is the best way to piss me off in the morning.
8. Everyone prays. All the time. Religion is a major identity factor here.
There’s a general air of a rugged expanse of terrain from which daily life must be wrested. The old concept of supremacy of man is a little more apparent here - life is a constant struggle. Running water is common – but it’s usually unfit for much use since it’s heavily silted. Electricity is dirt cheap – on the occasions that it is actually available! Don’t think it’s all bad. It’s not. The problem with places like this is that given constant tourism, it tends to acquire an identity based on popular perception of the Western World. I have been here an exact two weeks tonight. I think with each passing day, I find there is more to the experience than what my Lonely Planet says! Each perception I have seems to dissolve with a contradictory experience soon enough… so I say we wait and watch, what say?
First Impressions
Vast, open spaces, as far as the eye can see, nothing but mud and the occasional thorn tree.
Vibrant, richly coloured textiles.
Really deeply black, glossy, smooth skin.
Coca cola & Fanta cheaper than water.
Abject poverty and decadent luxury being neighbors in blissful ignorance of each other.
Chai, Mahindra, Bata, Dabur, Cipla, Bank of Baroda, Bollywood, Altaaf Raja.
Imported Isuzu, Mitsubishi, Suzuki and Toyota vehicles cheaper than local productions.
A double-SIM mobile phone a common thing.
One in every five persons an HIV patient. It is that apparent.
Thriving trade in second hand clothes, shoes, bags, home appliances, cars, mobile phones, laptops and what-have-yous.
Currency that is used in 100s and 1000s only. One Tshilling is no longer in circulation, the minimal denomination being 20 Tsh.
Greeting every person one passes – literally.
A rather in-your-face version of Christianity.
Persons of Indian Origin who have neither visited India nor have any particular sentiments towards the sub-continent. Yet they call themselves Indian. Officially.
Beautiful wood and leather craft.
Herds of wild elephants, zebras, gazelle, giraffes and bison that cross thin strips of national highways.
A night sky that is darker than black velvet and clearer than distilled water.
Food cooked over charcoal. Gasoline is not common.
Chips. Chips. And more chips.
Names such as Godbless, Brighton, Tito, Cleopatra, January, Pink & Tata. I kid you NOT.
A strong undercurrent of racial tension. Cross referenced by religious beliefs.
A country that is very aware of what is has not and needs to have…
The Perils of Packing!
I am emigrating to Iringa.
Which is in Tanzania.
Which is in Effrikka!
Which is FUN. Yay!
Now that we have THAT out of the way, I have to pack. A lot. Which is not so much fun.
I’ll tell you why.
1. Space is limited to three bags.
2. Necessity is not limited to clothes. It includes medicines, books, boots and other sundries.
3. Weight is limited to 47 kilos. Don’t ask me why, THEY made the rules.
So time is spent wondering if space should be sacrificed to fit in a pair of shoes awkwardly but which are light weight but or whether to wear them and pack the heavy boots which fit compactly but are 700 gms heavier. Hmm. Blonde moments galore!
Next come the books. Ah! Beloved jewels! Each a priceless companion! What would I do without them, I wonder and how would I ever travel with them, wonders the weighing scale! Law books are great as weights to train with, by the way! Average weight of each – about 800 gms. Books – about 10. Yeah, I know. I am like that.
We haven’t gotten to the shoes yet, don’t worry. I am no Imelda Marcos but I am pettily particular about my feet and that mandates shoes, lots of ‘em and really good ones! So bite me!
Bags, laptop, papers, medicines, spices, odds-and-ends… the list really is never ending!
I’ve come to the conclusion that travel is best done like the Colonists. I travel, 100 others carry my luggage and I don’t even have to pay them!
18 till I die!
Godmother did this on FB. Me likes. So me does a whole post to it here! 
18. Bought my first vehicle – a 100 CC motorcycle.
17. Biked an insane 1500 kms within a month.
16. Had razor cropped hair.
15. Wore a nose ring.
14. Had acid washed jeans and torn, HD T-shirts as de rigeur uniforms.
13. Pulled off back-to-back partys seven nights in a row.
12. Pulled off 2 hours of running, an hour at the gym and an hour of swimming daily. Don’t look so skeptical.
11. Could down the ENTIRE sizzler Fish Peri Peri at The Place and still do justice to the fabulous orange ice cream they served! Nats is witness to this one!
10. Attended the second of the NDA balls. What a night that was! Again, Nats was partner-in-crime. A mad child was encountered, some heartache was eased and all-in-all fun was had.
9. Auditioned for a stint as a Radio Jockey. They called me back. 
8. Binge-bought books worth a whole year’s savings. Trust me, it was a LOT for a student pocket!
7. Met His Holiness the Dalai Lama.
6. Had half-a-coffee with Richard Gere. Without realising it is him. Doofus? Yes.
5. Had my first club-night. So I’m a stickler for the Law?! So bite me!
4. Played the guitar publicly for the last time.
3. Won my first moot.
2. Found out about six awards I’d received two years ago. I still haven’t claimed them. Ha!
1. Spent 4 days without sleep. Literally.
That’s me at 18. Warning – Any resemblance to fiction is purely co-incidental and non-intentional. Wait – there is no resemblance to fiction.
A change in plans…
This space assiduously avoided political, legal, social, theological – in short, controversial – topics. I felt it necessary to keep this light. I no longer feel so.
1. The Right Against Self-Incrimination
International Law recognises the right against self-incimination before international tribunals. But i, true international legal parlance, it does not define the extent of this right. To date, the law as it has been interpreted and applied, does not reach the furthest outposts of this right. So where must the line be drawn?
By invoking this right, does the witness earn exemption from prosecution for the very same set of events or any other set of events that may consitute an offence?
Does the prohibition against the use of such self-incriminatory testimony extend to basing investigation on it or is the prohibition restricted to the use of such testimony in court?
Does this right protect the witness against the same set of events as a differnt crime under national jurisdiction as well?
Jurists opine that the right against self-incrimination is expansive, sacrosanct and all inclusive. I disagree. I have my own reasons for it but this is not the place to air my views.
2. The Nano – India’s cheap car
My question – if it is imperative for public safety that a family of four travel in a Nano instead of over-burdening a Bajaj scooter, why does Mr. Tata and the Government not have the collective sense to stipulate that any buyer of the Nano will have to surrender all two wheelers first? Given the state of our roads, the congestion, the lack of civic and traffic sense , the appalling traffic control, the pollution and fuel economy, one can see why the answer to all our prayers is yet another market-flooding cheap car that will be bought in the millions.
3. Swine ‘Flu
More people die on a remote village road when a long-dilapidated Tata truck overturns than when something like the “swine ‘flu” hits India. Why the hoopla? For a country that makes people-production it’s number one business, we sure are stingy with the product we like to sell!
4. Jaswant Singh & Jinnah
Jaswant Singh is no saint. Neither was Jinnah. But who died and made BJP God to sit in judgment over all and sundry?
5. India’s Dead Spinal Cord
Recently, the news carried a tiny item, tucked away in the corner of a page, about Chinese fake drugs being marketed as “Made in India”. There is no mention of this by the Government, forget any action that it might have taken. This is the non-existant spinal cord of India. We care more about England beating Australia in the Ashes series than we do about our public image in matters of global health and security.
Cheating.
Faced with an inexplicable writer’s block, I hereby cheat and put down here a copy that’s been doing the e-rounds. Have a laugh!
A new priest at his first mass was so nervous he could hardly speak. After mass, he asked the monsignor how he had done. The monsignor replied, ‘When I am worried about getting nervous on the pulpit,I put a glass of vodka next to the water glass. If I start to get nervous, I take a sip.’ So next Sunday he took the monsignor’s advice. At the beginning of the sermon, he got nervous and took a drink. He proceeded to talk up a storm. Upon his return to his office after the mass, he found the following note on the door:
1)Sip the vodka, don’t gulp.
2)There are 10 commandments, not 12.
3)There are 12 disciples, not 10.
4)Jesus was consecrated, not constipated.
5)Jacob wagered his donkey, he did not bet his ass.
6) We do not refer to Jesus Christ as the late J.C.
7)The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are not referred to as Big Daddy, Junior and the spook.
8)David slew Goliath; he did not kick the shit out of him.
9) When David was hit by a rock and was knocked off his donkey, don’t say he was stoned off his ass.
10)We do not refer to the cross as the ‘Big T.’
11)When Jesus broke the bread at the last supper he said, ‘Take this and eat it for it is my body.’ He did not say ‘Eat me’.
12)The Virgin Mary is not called ‘Mary with the Cherry’.
13)The recommended grace before a meal is not: Rub-A-Dub-Dub thanks for the grub,Yeah God.
14)Next Sunday there will be a taffy pulling contest at St Peter’s not a peter pulling contest at St. Taffy’s.
If that didn’t get a chuckle out of you, you are poor indeed!
Bus Rides
From November 22, 2008, I have been vehicle-less. After 9 years of private transportation of the motorised form and an earlier 7 years of bicycling, I finally gave up private transportation last year. Since then, it’s been Shanks’ pony and public transportation for me. Let me elaborate – think of bus rides in hell (or popular travel programs, whichever direction you are inclined in!) - you know, people packed in, sweat-and-tobacco, dirt roads, backseats, sacks of potatoes, wickers baskets with squaking hens, hoes and shovels, goats and children, broken, scratchy radios half-tuned- yes, I’ve had bus rides like that. Oh and no, they don’t last a few minutes – they lasted atleast 6 hours and more! But never mind. The follies of youth, I say!
So anyways, the last few months, I was entirely dependent on the public transportation of Groupo Transporti di Torino – or GTT – the bus services in Turin, Italy. Fair enough. The worst they contend with is tardiness (a remarkable Italian ability to stretch time!). Spray painted graffiti on back seats was the closest they came to dirt and disfiguring of public property. Most buses are air-conditioned during warm weather (given that 28 degrees centigrade is considered as the onset of a heat wave) and during winter, they are usually internally heated. Unless the doors are shut, buses don’t move and the driver comes out to help in and out differently abled people, no matter the time of the day or the number of passengers in the vehicle.
Let’s see what Pune offers – in the peak of the monsoon season, the bus windows are glass-less. Oh wait, I started at the worng end as usual. Pune buses – althought not homicidal like the (in)famous Delhi buses – operate on the maxim “unless it’s in the scrap yard, it’s fit for the road”. Some pieces pre-date my parents, I’m sure! So do their seats! I used to wonder (and sometimes have nightmares) about what happens to all that really yucky coir in the seats of public buses when they are finally scrapped! Never mind, I know, I was a bit special!
So the Mater and me needed transportation today. Oh Lord! I must have paid of a million sins by voluntarily suffering being bussed today, in the rains, in Pune. First of all, I seemed to attract a veritable plethora of “talkers”. Something about my face must scream out “I want to listen to what you have to say!” because no matter which bus I seem to be on, the person next to me needs to talk to me. Why, I ask you? What did I ever do to deserve this? I am NOT in the publishing business nor am I even remotely interested in being an Agony Aunt! So why?!
Of course we cannot forget the ubiquitous paan stains. What is it that prompts men to expel bodily fluids in places other than their own bathrooms? Or is that men and women see things so differently that where a woman will see the corner of a bus, a man will see an empty, unstained place and promptly correct the anomaly? It’s a uniquely Indian trait – I am guessing – since the betel leaf-areca nut-acacia tree extract mix is indegenous to this land, so must its use (and consequently, expulsion habits!) originate here as well. Well, so much for ancient wisdom!
As I sit here, slowly collecting my poor, dispersed molecules from having being jostled around all day, I wonder about all those brave souls that manage public transport in India on a daily basis for a major part of their lives. Makes one wonder about the true meaning of courage, doesn’t it?
There’s only us. There’s only this.
There is light at the end of the tunnel.
Cliched? Yes. True? Yes.
A Show Of Hands…
This thought just struck me.
And I need all of you to help me make it work.
I’m starting a story with one paragraph here. Thereafter, I am listing you, in the order that I would like you to respond.
Here’s what you have to do: Write a paragraph, not more than four sentences long. E-mail it to me. I will publish it. That will be an indication for the next on the list to prepare and send his/her set. We work our way to the end of the list. I will neither edit nor moderate your contributions since the aim of the activity is to see how well we communicate quite apart from the use of words…
Let’s see how well we make it happen.
She sat down at the table and ordered a cappucino. The warm April sun had finally brought the town to life. The piazza was abuzz with folk, all seemingly occupied in the great pursuit of Life. Watching people, as those very few who knew her would confirm, was her quiet manner of saying “I’ve had enough” while she…
{Raunak}
was wondering “Why? Why did this happen to me? Till now I’ve been good. So why do I have to go through this?” Then suddenly ashamed of her self pity she decided to take hold of her life and move on. It struck her like a brick wall- If she did not stop wallowing in self pity then life would be worse than what she had been through.
” Hey there! Can I sit on this chair? ” he asked, breaking her chain of thought. “Sure! Anyway I was about to leave” she replied. “What a beautiful woman!” he thought suddenly having naughty thoughts in mind. “Wait!” he started behind her, when..
{Natasha}
.. it suddenly hit him. He’d known her before, in another lifetime, another world.. it seemed like it was aeons ago but ofcourse it hadn’t been that long, had it? Sometimes five years can feel like a lifetime, sometimes it feels like yesterday! She turned around, gave the intruder a questioning look and then looked at him with total disbelief. It couldn’t be him, or could it? His hair was shorter and he didn’t wear glasses anymore but he still had that air about him, that self-assured demeanour she had found endearing the first time they had met. Not knowing how to react she…
{Sunny}
backed off, violent images of the past flashing before her eyes.
Umaparvati turned around in an instant and started walking as fast as she could. Far, far away from the man she had once loved. Gaurishankar Pandey was his name. Tall, dark, and handsome, he had appeared to be the man of her dreams when she first met him. Not only was he goodlooking and charming, but was also an immensely succesful auto-rickshaw driver from Bulandshahar. Sophistication and class oozed from his silky red kerchief around his neck, the bundle of 555 pataka biri that he used to smoke, and the shiny packet of Manikchand gutkha in his shirt pocket. As her legs picked up pace, she recalled that her father was about to marry her off to some investment banker living in NYC when she had happily announced that she was pregnant with Gaurishankar’s child. As she kept walking, she now saw him standing right in front of her ! In her haste to get away, she had walked all around to piazza only to come face-to-face with him once again. What was he doing here ? That too in Italy, for heavens sake ?
And then she saw it, that horrible black-and-yellow autorickshaw. But what was an autorickshaw doing in Italy ? Was it …
{Chaitali}
…actually there? was she imagining? was she seeing it there because she wanted it there? She turned around with a spin to interrogate the situation. He was not there. She looked at the autorickshaw and there he was in it…slowly approaching her.
The autorickshaw was galloping! There was a cool breeze blowing her hair. Her skirt flowed and matched the rhythm of his silky red kerchief making ripples in the cozy April breeze.
Her dream had started off to show her the lover – the choice of whom she had left to life and destiny. She had expected to see a handsome prince on a white horse. The horse was however replaced by that horrible black-and-yellow autorickshaw. And her prince – the tall, dark, handsome autoricksahw driver? Oh yes!! She had still wanted him so much – her swollen womb reminded her!
She did not want this dream to end…
{Vivek}
…and nor would it, had it only been a dream. The Ghost Receptacle had generated a reality far more stretched out than any imagination and far more intense than any emotion. She could have realised that it was a bad idea but she wasn’t conscious enough, and nor was this a trial trip. Gaurishankar had paid for this criminal service discreetly and now the trip woudln’t stop until the programmed period didn’t end. He knew he had to have his revenge. What better revenge than making her fall for the most atrocious parts of his personality. What better revenge than making her love him for all that which she hated the most.
Her love for him oozed from every pore of her body and she felt her head go dizzy with love for the rickshaw and the driver. Every inch of her existence craved for Gaurishankar’s greasy hands to caress her falwless skin. Images of the backseat of the rickshaw filled her head, and her eyes closed to intensify the memory of every touch, every feeling and every little sensation.
Amidst all this, a small feeble voice in her head tried to cry out loud. The small gasping voice tried to reach out to and awaken her conciousness. The small voice was actually a 5 point multi hertz vocal jolt on her ear drum that Dr Sameer Stylist used on his own wife, to save her from what seemed like a certain death. The voice said, “I love you Batty, come back.”
She saw a crack in the window of the horrible-black-and-yellow…
{Hitesha}
“Ugh” she wrinkled her pretty button nose in pure disgust. She stared at the black and white dribbled monitor for fifteen seconds, then folded her elbows on the table and leaned on them with a sigh. This really was not helping. Who in their right mind, writes about rickshaw driver ghosts and ghastly love stories?
She looked around her. Blue black magpies split the white fluffed skies with their elegant flights. The winds rustled through the sweet smelling pine trees and carried their flirting scents right up to her. The sun kissed her thoughtful expression, as if encouraging her to not give up just yet. She shook her head once again and did a mental check of what she already had with her:
Gaurishankar, Umaparvati, a picturesque setting in italy, a haunting love story and a writer’s block…
{Abhinav}
.. disgusted with her choice of reading this pathetic blog.. she shuts down her laptop. As she gets the screen down.. she is delighted at the sight of the one hour old cappucino. Rightly justifying the fame of the shop.. the coffee was still fresh with its seductive aroma. Sipping it drop by drop, she was unknowingly staring out of the window. As a result of the weird article she read, she drifted down in her old memory lanes…
The confident and beautiful Suzane of today, was just an year back a helpless Sultana. After the death of her mother, she had to work as a maid to feed her alcoholic father at a tender age of 13. She had her own dreams.. but she never knew when they were thwarted as she grew up in the actual reality of the now famed Slumdog Millionaire- Slums of Mumbai. The beautiful Sultana at the age of 16 is forced to marry Aslam, in return her father is promised free liquor till the time he lives. Aslam a druggist was a devil.. but life continued.Physical and mental abuse were a routine..Father died after an year, as such his existence had ceased to matter for her long time back. The pain and anger of all these years was expressed when at the fateful night she accidentaly killed her husband while ressisting the daily beatings. Sultana runs away to Kolkata.
She has had enough and now she should free herself and respect her life. She had to make quick money. Being illiterate she knew she had to take a bold decision. She acts on her strength and enters the proffession that is looked down (but at the same time fully utilised) by the so called society. And Suzane is born..
Not only is she rich.. she has many influential clients. Soon her dream was going to come true. She flies down to Italy as the wife of one of her clent Albert Decousta (the smuggler). Now Suzane is at a place where she can comfortably forget her dreaded past and start afresh.
But Albert is no better than Aslam, and she had to find a way out …….
{Amey}
…from coming full circle like Umaparvati. Yes, the nira glass was now replaced with the most expensive champagne money can buy, the autorickshaws gave way to a Bugatti Veyron. She no longer took the 7.34 local to Bhayander, but the 7.34 TGV to Paris to gaze at another sad lady in a painting (who is said to be really famous). Holiday spots were no longer Khandala or Lonavala but instead Ibiza and Venice.
Yet it all seemed the same. With Aslam, even though married to him, she was the adornment of a lot many beds. So with Albert. At least the monsters now did not reek of gutkha. She was as lonely now as ever. Needing love, care and compassion. Albert had promised all that, but it all proved to be a mirage, which disappeared as soona s they landed in Italy.
Disappointed at the turn her life had taken, she sighed and focused outside the window when she saw him. Tall dark and handsome, almost as if he was the aforementioned Gaurishankar. Right then she knew that this was…
{Aks}
{Gurleen}
{Kunal}
{D}
Some things never change…
A while ago, when I first started to write, a lot of my writing came out in the form of lists – lists of memories, music, ideas… Of course, as any well-read author will testify, the first mistake to avoid while writing is to bore the audience with endless reminiscences which mean nothing more than words to anyone outside of the author! However, the other “first” rule of writing also says write about what one knows best. Being the shallow, self-centered and completely uninteresting person that I am, I’d say that subject was me. So here’s another bit of me which is possibly just as unintriguing as the rest of me!
A while ago I discovered the “memory card” function on my HTC. Now since I am possibly the most technologically challenged person in my circle of accquaintances, it’s a major achievement to even get the darn thing working, let alone figure out its gadgetry and all that jazz! But I digress… So we have a memory card. What does it do? Well, it can store music, for starters. Now if you know me even remotely, you’ll know that there are few things I detest more than a pair of wee things stuck in my ears, making noise. I’m NOT a fan of earphones/earplugs and the accompanying idea of music-all-the-time. So what am I to do with this new discovery of mine, since I pretty much refuse to be plugged-in, in a manner that resembles cyborgs? I start collecting music.
Of course, by now, the HTC is completely out of the picture. I’ve rediscovered music. In the last few months, in a pathetic bid to cleanse my life, on one of my rampages, I’d deleted my carefully-collected music archive. Oh yes – the Billy Joel, Buddy Holly, Frank Sinatra, Julio Iglesias (Sr.), Pavarotti – all gone. In one major laptop-reformat. Great. And then, to rediscover them… Like meeting your favourite grandparent after a whole year away!
Anyways.
Some things never change. Music – thankfully – is one of them.
Uptown Girl – Billy Joel
Unchained Melody – Righteous Brothers
Strangers in the Night – Frank Sinatra
Something Stupid – Frank and Nancy Sinatra
Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head – B.J. Thomas
American Pie – Don McLean
Mrs. Robinson – Simon and Garfunkel
Cecilia – Simon and Garfunkle
La Bamba – Los Lobos
Party Time – Gloria Estefan
Walk Like an Egyptian – The Bangles
Y.M.C.A. – VillagePeople
We Didn’t Start the Fire – Billy Joel
We Are the Champions – Queen
We Will Rock You – Queen
The Baby Elephant Walk – O.S.T. Hatari
Lara’s Theme – O.S.T. Dr. Zhivago
O.S.T. Chariots of Fire
I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor
Sweet Home Alabama – Lynnrd Skynnrd
Sweet Home Alabama All Summer Long – Kid Rock
All of ABBA. There is no way I can list it all. Call me what you like, I still like them.
Hotel California – The Eagles
Man! I Feel Like a Woman – Shania Twain
Summer of ‘69 – Bryan Adams
Captain Crash and the Beauty Queen from Mars – Jon Bon Jovi
Jack and Diane – John Mellencamp
Alice – EVERY DAMN VERSION
Like a Rolling Stone – Bob Dylan
Seasons of Love – R.E.N.T.
I have to stop here since I feel a Part – II to this list coming on…
