Fare thee well in a Taxi.

Come October 11^th and the minimum fare of taxis in Mumbai are going to increase again; this time by 2 rupees. A commuter will now have to pay Rs. 19 as a minimum fare instead of the previous Rs. 17. We all know that this translates to a minimum fare of Rs. 20 because the Taxi drivers will inevitably never have change.

What makes this an even more ludicrous situation is that this has been the third fare hike in a year! Third! How uncertain were they about their own demands that they had to make them thrice? And how are we to know that it’s not going to stop at this? Who’s to say that the Mumbai Metropolitan Region Transport Authority (MMRTA) won’t ask for another hike next week because the price of pani puri went up and it had a direct effect on the diet of Taxi drivers and hence a direct impact on the fare?

It seems that all the taxi driver’s union had to do to get the increased fare is threaten to go on strike. I’m surprised that this strategy hasn’t caught on among the over-worked corporate soldiers. How come the smart people who work in offices aren’t loosening their ties, bringing out their placards and refusing to come to work unless they get a 25% increase their salaries? Maybe they just might now that half their existing salaries are going to go in simply getting to office.  

The Chief Minister, in a move to calm the frothing angry masses, said that though the fares will increase the service too will get better. It had better get better. For a minimum of Rs. 19, I’d at least expect seats that didn’t smell of every single person that had sat on it for the last 15 years. Also I expect less damage to my tailbone because with the increased earnings, the Taxi drivers can’t cite money as a constraint for not getting their suspension fixed. But most of all, I hope the increased fare makes them slow down on their refusals. More disheartening than having to pay Rs. 19 as a minimum fare is having to pay Rs. 19 as a minimum fare AND still hearing, “klik, klik, nahi jaaeyga” every time you want to go to Dadar.

This is going to be a terrible blow for the commuting Mumbaikar. The trains and buses are already crowded to such a degree that by the time you get off you’ve been standing so close to the person squashed next to you that you may as well get into a relationship.  Add to that another few thousand people who won’t be travelling by taxis anymore and it’ll be like stuffing too many woollens into a small suitcase. Eventually the suitcase pops open and there’s a mess all around.

The only people who are happy about the situation – apart from the Cabbies, of course – are old people. They’re rubbing their wrinkled palms with glee thinking of how they’ll mock their grandchildren and the terrible modern age by constantly bringing up the golden, non-inflationed, taxi fares of their time. I can already see pensioners rehearsing their lines which will start with, “humaare zamane main 2 rupees 50 paise main...” and end on a note of contempt for how Bollywood music just doesn’t sound as good and lyrics don’t make much sense either.

Well I would have written some more but I won’t unless I’m paid a minimum of 2 rupees more per word.

Freedom Would Have Come Sooner If Gandhiji Had A Beard

My shaving foam recently went to see a psychiatrist for chronic depression. My razorblade contemplates suicide as you read this. I can’t blame them either. They’ve been feeling very unwanted ever since I started growing a beard.

Oh, the shining symbol of masculinity hangs of my face in all its hairy glory. Finally, at long last I have managed to cultivate a beard; not a half-assed stubble, or a one week laziness beard, I have a full-fledged, tangling, dangling, man-bush. It’s a beautiful crop and the worst thing I can say for it is that sometimes if you pat it, a wasp flies out.

It wasn’t easy to grow my face-velcro. In this modern age, where Gillette’s marketing budget determines a man’s appearance, I had to fight for my rights to bearding. Let this be an instruction to all amateur beard growers: your passage will not be easy. Girls will frown at you for your sandpaper cheeks, your boss will insist that he doesn’t want a homeless person interacting with the client and society will brand you an insidious left-wing intellectual. In short, there will be immense pressure for you shear off your beard. Don’t. Give. In.

Remember the benefits of that proud fuzz. It saves you all that pointless time that you spend in shaving. It is time that you can use instead, to watch viral videos on Youtube! It’s the sign of knowledge! A beard gives a man authority which is why 90% of all college professors, mad scientists and movie villains have sported flowing tufts. It’s a life-saver! If you happen to lost in the wild with no sources of food, all you have to do is rummage through your beard for the left over bits and crumbs. It’s the sign of toughness! If you have a wispy voice and a thin frame, if you think you aren’t taken seriously, if people treat you the same way they treat cute babies in prams, then it’s about time you grew a beard. Just imagine how much more menacing Sachin would seem if only he had a beard. I wonder who would call for his retirement then?

Growing a beard is an act of love. It takes time and patience. It will test you in ways that you have never been tested. If you can get past the initial scratchiness that comes with hair thrusting out of your face and if you can tide over the wanton criticism levelled at you then you’ll find yourself in the possession of a lovely hairiness that will provide you with endless warmth, security (bearded men and women are robbed/murdered a lot less than their wimpy looking non-bearded counterparts) and endless hours of entertainment by giving you something to tug and stroke when you’re bored in a public place. Over time you will find yourself growing a firm personal attachment to your untrimmed patch. When you reach this phase don’t hesitate in giving it a nickname (my own is called Basant) and feel free to indulge it a few meals by dipping it in the soup by mistake.

Gandhiji, though beardless himself, gave us the most accurate description of what it’s like to grow a beard when he said: “first they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you and then you win!” Oh my brothers and testosterone-heavy sisters, make sure you win! Make sure the beard is unfurled! Make sure... OWWW! Ok, the wasp just bit me. 

A Bangalore Bachelorhood

I had strange ideas when I left for Bangalore. I imagined it as an incredibly distinct metropolis that would grab my senses and punch them with violence. It’s what I think of every place I visit and it is the surest mark of the novice traveller  We, uninitiated wanderers, expect miracles and wonders at every turn and get awfully confused when things turn out to be not so different after all. That was what Bangalore was like for me.

I don’t know what makes Bangalore tick, what is at the nub of it’s being – apart from IT companies, of course – I saw too little of it and for far too less a time to make any real judgement that doesn't involve the words ‘IT Company’. It seemed to me that Bangalore could be condensed to one road (MG Rd) with lots of shops (expensive), good food (also expensive), good beer (UB) and you guessed it, IT companies. I saw the sights and smelt the smells and travelled the metro which was pretty neat but the real essence of the trip was Bachelorhood.

A small caveat before going further: I’m sure a lot of you, who have lived on your own, without parents and with a lot of success too will find the following lines to be of a “been there done that” variety but believe me, this was an eye-opener for me to your condition.

I come from a cocoon that is cleaned regularly, there are hot meals and used clothes are not rolled and dumped in a heap on the floor. I live in a place called home. My trip was, in part, done to meet my school friend, Aman, who works in a Pharmaceutical company in Bangalore. I’m kidding; he works in an IT company. Aman, lives in a suburb in Bangalore that looks suspiciously like a village, along with three other people. They live/wallow in a 2 bedroom apartment in Pai Layout. All four of them are boys and that’s what accounts for the widespread devastation in the 2000 sq feet which they’ve rented out.

These guys had clearly worked very hard on getting that perfect hurricane hit look that all bachelor pads long to have. The floors were littered with small mounds which served almost as a way of cataloguing where things were kept. There was a pile for wires (Mobile chargers, Laptop Chargers, Wifi connection, Havell’s wires that don’t catch fire) one for Books and papers and one for clothes, which seemed almost to touch the ceiling. If you needed anything all you had to do was identify the correct pile and rummage through it.

The maid came once a week, every Sunday. That meant that she had to clear dust and trash equivalent to the amount of ash that spews out when TWO medium sized volcanoes erupt. I pitied the poor soul. In the kitchen, the situation was worse. Of the 4 of them, 2 of them could cook something that didn’t taste like the wrong end of a broom and of those 2 none were willing to do it. So food was ordered in, or you sauntered down to one of the cheap messes that gave you a roti for 7 rupees and sabji free. Alternatively, you could starve. The fridge was almost naked except for one cup of yogurt that had been placed there somewhere in the late Cretaceous period. Dishes were washed if and when they were needed and weren’t washed at all if you could make do with using a newspaper and/or the floor as a plate.

Freedom was absolute or as absolute as it could be without the neighbours complaining. There was a shelf in the kitchen which was lined with empty bottles of rum and beer as if they were academy awards. A solitary ash tray, stolen from a restaurant, sat solemnly in the corner.  You could do anything you wanted in that apartment and everything that you couldn’t do in a house with parents but after a while the freedom tires. The forbidden becomes commonplace and loses its allure and so you are reduced to selling the bottles for 2 rupees a piece and finding the joy of earning scrap money instead.

It’s a cruel life, the one that’s bachelors lead. An empty house is great for a day but lonesome for a life. The constant struggle for food, for a clean place to sleep, of ensuring that your friends don’t rip your blanket to shreds because they didn’t have anything better to do is an epic struggle. I salute the brave bachelors who undertake it every day. Bachelorhood is tough and no job in an IT company in Bangalore can change that fact.

Eye-tem Number

As I write this, my left eye is red enough to attract bulls from up to 7 kilometers away and my right eye is showing the tell-tale signs of following suite. After consulting 3 doctors in 2 cities, I now know that what I have is Acute Viral Conjunctivitis (‘Acute’, being the succinct doctor’s lingo for, “Pretty Darn Bad”).

It all started innocently enough with me getting up one morning with my left eye reduced to size of a small peephole. As any calm person under the circumstances would do, I rushed to the doctor. Unfortunately he was having a bad day. No, really. The thing was, a patient was nagging him for medicines which he seemed very reluctant to provide. It’s always a warning sign when your doctor doesn’t want to dish out the drugs. In the ensuing irritated haste he diagnosed my problem to be caused by a stye. A stye, for the unaware, is a boil that forms on the underside of eyelids. It’s the eye-version of a pimple.

He then prescribed steroid drops to be deployed into my flared left eyeball.

Now steroids as you know are used by body builders and Olympic cheats to quickly inflate to the size of an average truck. The drops of steroid I happily dribbled into my eye caused the same effect on the germs inhabiting it. Within no time, my left eye could well have been used on a traffic signal in place of the stop sign.

Still cheerfully ignorant of my condition, I then proceeded to my Aunt’s place to holiday for the next 5 days, the first two of which I spent floundering around with my one working eye. I crashed into furniture with a feverish relentlessness. Finally my Aunt, alarmed by the sheer strawberry-like tone of the thing and the damage to her tables and chairs, decided to show me to her family doctor.

My eye was peered into for a second time by an MBBS holder. She took more time than the doc who had gone there before her. She stretched and yanked at my eye-lids, prodded and poked, dilated and undilated my pupil and finally she tut-tutted,

“It’s definitely not a stye. It’s just terribly infected. Either that or it’s turning communist.”

And so I was ordered a new set of drops to be put every half an hour. This time there weren’t any steroids in them. The next morning, I woke up feeling awful. There’s no other way to put it. My eye showed slight improvement but it pained and throbbed and if I bent down it seemed like it would fall out and roll away. I said as much to my Aunt’s doctor. She was shocked for a minute.

“No the results aren’t satisfactory. I think he should be shown to an ophthalmologist on an urgent basis. The infection might have spread inside the eye where they might have already called for interior decorators to do up the place. If that happens he might have to undergo intravenous introduction of antibiotics, surgery or even a viewing of select films of the Bhatt Camp.”

It looked very grim when she put it thus.

And so, in what must surely be record time, we exited one clinic and checked into another. Even though my case was considered ‘urgent’ and written down in the visitor book as ‘an emergency’, I was shown into the doctor after about one and half hours. That's to tell you what kind of rush these eye specialists enjoy. The waiting room was packed with cataracts and people who claimed they could see everything double (which is not entirely a bad thing, if what you’re seeing is Chitrangadha Singh).

Eventually the third doctor had a look at my red orb. He obviously went much deeper than the other two, using complex instrumentation consisting of a light and a microscope, he peeked at my cornea and retina and I’m sure saw a surprised bunch of bacteria staring back at him. When he was done, he solemnly asked me to have a seat. I sat, expecting the worst. He took a deep breath and said, “It’s Acute Viral Conjunctivitis.” Those, I think, are the most joyous words, I have ever heard, trumping even, “Congratulations, you’ve passed!”

The travails still continue though. 15 days of trouble is the doc’s estimate. I still wake up with my eye clamped shut and unwilling to open (I eventually get them open by promising them a treat of internet sites and a small amount of cash.) Drops are dispatched in my eyes, though I squirm and shout less, now. And I’m listening to a lot more sob stories from people nowadays. They find me to be a very sympathetic listener. It’s not that this ordeal has mellowed me; it’s just that I’ve trained my eyes to water at the right places.

5 Things You Should Know About Freelancing At MTV

This month, I was freelancing with MTV. It was for a project which for a whole host of reasons, I cannot reveal anything about. And so, I have creatively named it, Project Top Secret. I was working as a _____ (This section cannot be published – Boss) on Project Top Secret. During the course of my stint these are the things I learnt about freelancing at MTV.

1. MTV is on the 2^nd floor, not the 4^th – The new Viacom 18 office is a massive building. It has all it channels in one place and it can get very, very confusing which is why it is important that you get off at the right floor. I spent three hours in a meeting discussing what would happen if Chotti Bahu died, before realising that I was in Colours and not MTV. I have to say though; Chotti Bahu has it bad in the coming episodes. I’d look be careful of the gas stove, if I was her.

2. Oh, look at the freelancers work – Freelancers at MTV are made to work in a small little conference room with glass doors. Which basically means, you become a zoo animal. The regular employees often pass by just to ogle at the freelancers at work and make funny faces at them. Some of them even throw in a banana.  

3. Freelunching – When you’ve spent hours brainstorming on _____ for Project Top Secret, you invariably begin to feel hungry. That is when you trudge up to the state of the art canteen on the 7^th floor. The canteen provides scientifically prepared, nutritious, filling, high-protein, all-awesome food. No I’m kidding; it’s actually just Dahi Puri and Sev Puri and some weird alien mixture of the two. This also explains why my boss is so, err, vast that his paunch has a paunch. Those are his words not mine. (These are your words and they will affect your payment – Boss.)

4.  Hard labour is now called ‘Freelance’ – The hours as a freelancer are so intense that they make Ashutosh Gowariker movies look like ad films. Manic schedules have to be kept in order to put up a project like Top Secret. You will be required to forfeit sleep, comfort and all your loose change in order to meet deadlines. In fact, at the time of writing, I haven’t been home for 17 weeks. I hear my folks are planning to file a missing person’s complaint anytime now. This is also the reason why Rahgu seems so pissed off.

5. Like a Boss – An MTV Boss is a true wonder of nature. They are sweet, caring and gentle. They nurture an environment of productivity and ensure that all freelancers are well looked after. They don’t overwork freelancers, never demoralize/demean/deliberately scrunch the souls of their freelancers by saying things like, “Plankton could have done a better job than this.” They always make sure freelancers are well looked after. They even let you out for one toilet break in the day! That is how golden hearted and amazing an MTV Boss is. Really, I wish I could one day become an MTV Boss. My boss is the best. He should get a raise. He is so spectacular that it’s a surprise he isn’t a part of the Avengers, yet. My Boss is what humankind should strive to become. 

Final Advice to Freelancers – If ever you write an article on your ordeal, DO NOT give it to your Boss to proofread. Secondly, keep in mind, by being a freelancer; you have talent but not enough talent to land a full time job. Lastly, the level of automation in the MTV toilets can be very unnerving. Do not panic if the flush asks you for the time.

Why isn't there a shoe to wear to sleep yet?

We are gradually heading toward being a nation of shoe specialists. A recent shoe census revealed that the average number of shoes per household has increased from 1 and a half in 1947 to 17 in 2012. The reason for this sudden shoe explosion, of course, is not using condoms. Oh wait, that’s the reason for the population explosion. The reason for the increase in shoes is the need to have a different pair of shoes for every activity, even the ones that don’t require shoes.

Think about it, we have one pair for ‘regular’ use. These are usually the most comfortable and durable shoes, built out of the same material that they use to make Rhinos. The other really important pair is the one for office wear. They are generally black, done so to match the colour of your boss’s heart. There’s one pair we wear to parties. These are the fancy, glittering shows that shine so brightly that plants use their light for photosynthesis. Then, of course, there are the running shoes. The importance of these shoes grew significantly when it was revealed that without the right running shoes, your knees could be reduced to dust. These shoes are usually bulky, padded and if worn without socks, smell so bad that they attract vultures from 50 kilometres away.

The running shoes though are different from the shoes you wear for various sports, even though most sports involve a fair amount of running. For football you need studs, called that because the term, ‘dudes’ wasn’t very popular then. You can’t use studs to play cricket and you can’t wear cricket shoes to play golf. You need riding boots for polo and cowboy boots if you’re a cowboy. You can’t wear shoes for swimming in a pool but you need flippers to swim in the ocean.

There are spare shoes and shoes that you keep inspite of them being so torn that they look like they’ve been through a shark attack. There are shoes for dancing; there are heels for ladies and flats for when they have to walk for more than 4 meters. There are slippers for the loo/college, slippers for the beach, sandals for the summer, sandals for the rains, gumboots if you’re between four and ten years of age, shoes with Velcro for convenience and laces for style, sneakers to go with your jeans and shoes to match your moods. Eventually all we’ll have in our homes will be shoes and our front doors will look like there’s a pooja at our place every day, with that avalanche of footwear fanning out in all directions (even spilling into the lift shaft.)

The power to stop this trend lies in your hands, er, feet. Remember all you need is two pairs. One for use and the other in case you spot a politician.  

(Being a football supporter) Is it really worth it?

Living in a cricket-crazy country and being a football supporter has very few benefits. Often times, especially after matches where Real Madrid has lost in the Champion’s League semi-final, my faith is rocked and in these dark times I am forced to wonder, is it really worth it?

It is because we football fans have to sacrifice a lot and endure much more. Sleep for one thing is always a problem for a football fan in India. A match of any consequence is always being played in some corner of Europe that has a minimum 7.5 hour time difference from wherever the Indian fan is seated. So inevitably, the live telecast happens at some obnoxious time like 1:30 am and by the time the match gets over and you’re done cursing the referee, you’re already one hour late for work. (The tell-tale sign of any football fan are dark circles big enough to be considered as lost rings of Jupiter.)

Then there’s the monetary cost involved with the whole operation. We have to buy club merchandise, which changes every season, posters, HD TV connection, beer, chips, a nice sofa, a better TV, surround sound, a bigger jersey because our beer belly doesn’t fit in the old one anymore. The total cost, with everything included, on average, is a little more than the entire defence budget of the country.

Add to that the physical deterioration that football entails. We’ll inevitably have a sore throat with all the shouting at the telly, cramps because our ‘lucky position’ – the position which we sit in every time our team wins – involves putting our left leg over our shoulder and obviously depression, irritability and high blood pressure caused by the matches themselves. Sometimes we really have to ask ourselves, what with all the existing stresses of modern life, do we really need the extra tension of supporting a football club?

And then to top it off, as if to rub it in our faces, the players we support are always going to the younger than us, earning in millions and going out with the hottest girls, so in the end, no matter what the outcome, the only losers are us, the anonymous football fans. It’s the final insult, the last mockery of our sad situation. But we’ll accept it because it’s the only way we know.

When our teams win we feel good, our chests fill with pride and we march about announcing it to the world until of course our voices are drowned out by the larger number of people discussing, Kolkatta Knight Riders V/S Mumbai Indians. There is no benefit to being a football supporter in India. There is no benefit and there sure as hell is no sleep, either.  

That Old Summer Feeling

I’m getting That Old Summer Feeling. The one I used to get when I was a kid and the only responsibility I had was to get everyone ‘out’ in lock-and-key. The feeling that I used to get when the summer vacations would begin and I would go down to play (note: everyone went ‘down’ to play even if they lived on the ground floor.) knowing that for the next month and a half, it would be just playing and trying to remember to wear my cap when I went out.

That Old Summer Feeling is nothing but feeling free, relaxed and possibly a little tanned. The reason I bring it up is because I just felt it again after a long long time. You see, as the years go by you feel this feeling less and less. The more tangled you get in your work and life, the summer slowly loses its charm and becomes just another season, without that hidden possibility of unbridled joy that it used to hold.

That Old Summer Feeling is about wearing cotton clothes all the time and still feeling itchy and hot. It’s about getting summer haircuts. It's about not stereotyping girls with a boy cut hairstyle as lesbians because everyone realises it’s just too hot to have long hair. It’s about developing prickly heat rashes (scientific term: Ghamori) and still getting by comfortably with just a nice cold bath. It’s about having mango juice trickle down your arm as you eat it like the greedy bastard that you are.

That Old Summer Feeling is about using the A/C so much that you’re name is put fifth on the top five reasons for the depletion of the ozone layer. It’s about walking in from the burning heat and having ice cold water; and then falling seriously ill. It’s about turning the fan on speed ‘5’ and then looking at it wobble dangerously and praying that it doesn’t fall. It’s about hating powercuts.

That Old Summer Feeling is about sweating so much that your shirt is actually a major salt water body, comparable to the Indian Ocean. It’s about running out of deodorants first and clothes second. It’s about flapping your shirt to cool off. It’s about wishing you could pant like a dog to beat the heat without it being socially awkward. It’s about having loads of rooh-afzaa and thinking you’re Dracula.

That Old Summer Feeling is back again and I want to enjoy it while it lasts.  

The Solution To Inflation Is Bargaining

A few quick questions before we begin:

1. Do you like having healthy discussions with people?
2. Do you believe in not accepting the norm but changing things instead?
3. Do you think that Rs. 5,000 is far too much money to pay for a Pashmina Shawl even if it is actually made in Srinagar?
4. Do you think you could bring the price of that shawl to something around Rs. 800?

If you answered yes to all of the above questions, then you are probably already an astute bargainer and can choose to stop reading this article at this point. For the rest of you, read carefully, and you too will be able to magically bring down prices, dramatically increase your shopping time and overcome your fear of the MRP.

Bargaining is an ancient art form that involves thinking that all shopkeepers are thieves and that it is your divine right to get everything at the lowest price, if not entirely for free. Once you have acquired this mindset, you can begin your journey as a Bargainer.

Now the trick to bargaining is to never, I repeat TO NEVER, show how desperate you are to buy something. Even if you’re having a heart attack and you need a ventilator, the moment you show your desperation, the shopkeeper will refuse to entertain any bargaining offers. The second thing to remember is to always quote a ridiculously low amount. Do this with all seriousness so that the shopkeeper thinks that you really believe the ventilator is actually worth Rs. 42. The lower the initial price you are willing to pay, the more room you get to bargain.

However also keep in mind the time factor. Bargaining is an art for the long haul. It is not for people who have, “time constraints”, “Would like to make a quick stop” or “Have better things to do”. If you really want the best deal you will have to have time on your hands because it could take a while to convince a crooked shopkeeper. For example:

Shopkeeper: The cost of the Uni-Vent Portable ventilator is Rs, 3,75,000

Buyer: Tcha! I wont pay anything more than Rs. 42

Shopkeeper: This is the fixed rate. But because you are having a heart attack, I will give it you for Rs. 3,74,999.

Buyer (Clutching at heart): Rs. 43.

Shopkeeper: Rs. 3,74,998.

Buyer (last breath): Rs. 44. *dies*

As you can see this bargain was unsuccessful because the buyer didn’t spend enough time on it.

Shopkeepers are very insecure about their competition. You can exploit this by saying things like, “The shop down the road is selling it for less.” Your shopkeeper will immediately droop and begin lowering his prices, instead of wondering why you aren’t buying from the shop down the road. Use this to your advantage and remember never to give into any argument a shopkeeper may make about his goods having better quality.  

Always remember that both, you and the shopkeeper are trying to call each other’s bluffs and if you blink first you will have to make do with overpriced goods. Stay firm on your stance, even go as far as walking away if you have too. Trust me there is no sound sweeter than a shopkeeper’s defeated voice as he calls you back and agrees to sell the ventilator for Rs. 42. 

Amritsar For Amateurs

My back hurt as I tossed from side to side on the scruffy red carpet. I couldn’t feel my toes because of the cold. All around me I could hear ripping snores. Sleep was impossible. Beside me, my friend, Zameer (Henceforth Zam. Yes, Because it is easier to type) had managed to somehow drift off. We were paying 600 bucks for a hotel room only to spend our nights uncomfortably, outdoors and on the floor. But it was not just any floor. We were lain out in a spacious open hall at the Golden Temple, in Amritsar, many many miles from home, seeking experience, adventure and who knows what else. Lying there, shaking and shivering like a mound of jelly, I couldn’t help but think that there was some poetry to this event.

The first thing you notice about Amritsar is its age. It’s like the city is stuck in a time capsule; old buildings in a perpetual state of crumbling, line the narrow streets that seep through the city and overheard you see the black wisps of ugly cable lines. In fact it looks so stuck in time that you might actually be forgiven for thinking Dev Anand was alive and still the biggest star in India (OK, is it still too early for that joke?) In many ways, it still remains that stereotypical small Indian town that we hold in our collective consciousness. The other things you will notice immediately are the cycle rickshaws.

I observed two things about cycle rickshaws which puzzle me deeply. One, they all seemed to be pedalled by old men. Cycle rickshaws being rather exacting on the body, I was expecting younger men to be plying them but it was the older and more sickly who seemed to be the ones in the business. Maybe it had something to do with tradition where the idea of pulling along a pair of fat women on a cycle appealed only to men born pre-independence. The second thing about cycle rickshaws is that they are ridiculously cheap. And by cheap I mean it was far too less money for the mammoth effort it takes to drive a cycle rickshaw. Try taking a ride on one though. Nothing makes you feel more like a cruel, heartless aristocrat who makes people slave for pittance, than a short ride on a cycle rickshaw. 

On our second day, we went to Wagha Border. It was a rickety two hour rickshaw ride with our driver, Rakeshji (pronounced Rakechji) going on insufferably about the digestive systems of his two cows back home, Mungo and Sukho. PRO TIP: Farm animals are always a great conversation starter in Punjab. Wagha Border was one heck of an experience. To me it felt like Supermarket Patriotism. Want to feel Indian? Never had violent feelings towards your sub-continent neighbours? Want to feel huge swathes of attachment and furious love toward the motherland by getting into a shouting match with people across the border? Come to Wagha! In 15 minutes of therapeutic sloganeering, patriotic song playing and a kooky ceremony involving cartoonish marching, you will guaranteed feel 90% more Indian. The real fun part was the contrast between the two countries. The Indian side of the border was full; so packed that people were literally falling out of the arena. On the other hand, the Pakistani side had 4 people and a goat. It was really one-sided, they didn’t even put up a fight.

 It was very surreal when we slept at the Golden Temple. One of the most beautiful and mystical places I have ever been to. With its majestic turrets rising above the city, you can see its grandeur long before you set foot in it. Inside, white marble flooring borders a tranquil man-made lake, in the centre of which sits the temple, in all its golden luminosity. When you sit meditatively looking at the temple, you realise the things that you really need, for example I was thinking of an extra shawl. We also had Langar; the community food that is provided 24 x 7 and free of cost. It’s the kind of system that makes big, capitalist conglomerates like McDonalds wet their pants.

Punjab knows how to cook. The amount of food Zam and I ate, savoured, wolfed, dispatched and devoured could well have solved the food woes of half the world. The well marinated chicken Tandoori at Bubby Chicken House; the naans, kulcha’s and fresh-from-the-cow paneer at Pehlwan Da Dabha; the lassi at Ahuja Lassi Centre (not for nothing is their tagline, “East or west, Ahuja is the best), were all mind-blowingly good. PRO TIP: the real good restaurants are the ones that have names that sound like a gym, and whose hygienic standards look questionable at best. Also, make sure to keep your finicky, “Go easy on the butter” requests aside when you go to Punjab. This place takes no prisoners in the butter and other fatty products department. To give you an idea of the inch-increasing powers of Punjabi cuisine let me tell you that I didn’t have to wear a belt after our second day in Amritsar.

Overall Amritsar is an overpowering, all-encompassing experience, complete with culture and cuisine. It takes you a little a while to get used to suddenly seeing so many bobbing colourful turbans and the polite to a fault nature of the people. It’s not something two mumbaikars like us were used to. The words, “Paji, Sastriakaal” are the Punjabi equivalent of, “Open Sesame”; utter them and at once people will open up to you.  The roads were another thing that we took some getting used to. There is no system of traffic in Amritsar. There are just roads and things on roads. Everyone only moves ahead and the constant honking makes for a strange road-side disco beat.

Amritsar with all its crazy contradictions, its grandeur and grittiness has managed to etch itself in our minds. It’s a place that has much to give and more to hide. In some ways it reminds me of Sunny Deol: tough, loud yet simple. On that note, excuse me while I join a gym and find a way to get my clothes to fit me again!

No Bigger Waste Of Paper Than A Diary

Every New Year brings with it that dreaded waste of paper: The Diary. It’s like an epidemic. Every shop you see will have on display, diaries that say ‘2012’ on their cover (yes, even the shop that sells spare bike parts.) There’s just no escaping them. They’re there in all sizes, shapes and colours and the sad part is, you have to buy one even though you know that you’re probably not going to write anything in it after exactly three days.

Seized by New Year Enthusiasm™, you open your diary with a dramatic intake of breath to begin the documentation of your year, only to realise that the actual writing of it is not as exciting as it seemed in your head. It’s hard work writing about all the mundane battles of your life. Many people usually drop out at this stage. “Who would have thought that ‘writing’ a diary would involve any actual writing”, they usually think to themselves.

The few who persevere face another kind of problem, one of not having anything to write about. It’s only when you keep a diary that you realise how boring and pointless your life really is. A typical diary usually ends up looking something like this:

Jan 1^st:  I am starting a diary today! This way I’ll have a record of my life so that I can look back at it later and see how far I’ve come. I find writing very calming and relaxing, I wonder why most people don’t keep diaries. Anyway, today, I woke up early. Brushed my teeth. Had a dosa for breakfast!.... went out with friends... watched some TV... slipped while coming out of the bathroom and landed hard on my back! Haha!

Jan 5^nd: The weather was really nice today! I went out. After a while, I came back home. It was fun.  Also, the weather was really nice. We celebrated Mom’s birthday by going out for dinner. The weather was nice, then too.

Jan 19^th: My back still hurts. The Doctor thinks I cracked a vertebra.

In the end, all the other pages are going to be left blank and hopefully, with any luck, they will one day find better use in the hands of some Bhelpuriwalla, who will use them as makeshift cones. (I, myself, have once eaten Bhelpuri out of 12^th July.)

They say that a diary can be your best friend. You can tell it your innermost thoughts, secrets, fears, desires and it will listen patiently, never once judging you. In many ways it is much better than a best friend because I know for a fact that no matter how good a friend you have, if you tell them what you really think about your boss and his stupid policies on “office decorum”, they will inevitably judge you a little. And then, maybe even call the police.

Be careful with your diary though. Although it is better at not judging you, it is not as good as your best friends when it comes to keeping a secret. In fact, it divulges everything to any person who happens to open it. So unless you want pesky people finding out about your innermost thoughts, I strongly suggest you get a diary with a lock on it or better still, you could do what I did and not keep a diary at all. 

Happy New Year!

2012 is here! They say this year is going to be the end of the world. Funnily enough, that's the thought I have at the start of every year, when I wake up with a pounding hangover, after a crazy New Year's Party.

Anyhow, 2012, looks bright. It feels like a fresh page to draw on.  So, Happy New Year! I hope you draw something really good, in the next 12 months. And remember to paint within the borders!