Konkan in the rains

I was in Khopoli for work and had planned a little wandering for myself, off the Pali-Khopoli road towards Mrugagad near Jambhulpada. It’s the peak of monsoon, the Konkan hills are shrouded in clouds and it is lustrous green all-around. Driving alone on a winding road, past wet and sleepy villages, a narrow pock marked asphalt strip cutting through the overgrown bushes and the iridescent green paddy fields. Rains splintered off my windscreen and the wipers struggled to keep a clear arc to see ahead. The sickly river I have been ignoring for an year, is now full– gurgling, playful, fast – keeping me company, speeding down the smoky hill slopes. To my right below, a girl fished in the river at the turn with her father under an umbrella; I swept past the village women wearing triangular overalls made from plastic bags; listening to the muted and rhythmic dhup-dhup of the wiper blades; watching the trees shaking in the wind; the blurred green magnified through the water droplets on my car window. I drove up to the Big Red Tent SH 92 camping ground and parked. The 10 acre place is owned by the Inamdaars, I met the lady herself who showed me around and chatted with her on her verandah over a cup of tea. They have built a beautiful multi-level red tiled house, with an open air atrium. The atrium opens into a courtyard which is a patch of lawn with a mango tree, bordered by stone slabs and a wrap-around verandah looking inside. Dr Inamdaar, a civil engineer, and her husband own an Engineering college in Khalapur and this is their country home. Soon rooms will be rented out for stays. The camping is managed by her son (who was out for white water rafting in Kolad) in the large, extended grounds. Mrugagad with the tiger back ridge jutted out covered in velvet green straight ahead of the front outer balcony. On my way back, I parked and got out on a shaky bridge and watched the river flowing between the bushes on the bed. The grey, white and green canvas in front of me was alive with the wind gusts, and the sound of the water leaping over the rocks. The rain sprayed my face, and I watched the hill ranges grew indistinct in the fading light.

   

Uttaranchal in March 2009

We were holidaying in Uttaranchal, beginning of March 2009. We travelled through Delhi to Haridwar; river rafted at Rishikesh and moved on to Rudraprayag. Then took the Badrinath road, following river Mandakini, drove past Ukhimath, Chopta, Gopeswar. On the way we spent a night each at the beautiful GMVN bungalows at Sialsaur and Virahi. Finally arrived at Joshimath, took the cable car to Auli and spent three nights there. On our way back we drove straight down to Haridwar. CLICK HERE TO VIEW THE POST IN PICASAWEB

Lakshadweep in 2010

In May 2010, we holidayed in Lakshadweep. We flew to Cochin (I prefer to call it by the old name) and took a 4 day cruise on M.V. Kavaratti covering Kalpeni, Kavaratti and Minicoy islands, in that order. Accommodation is neat but not exactly your luxury liner class and the food is pretty dissappointing. But the sea, the water and the coral islands make up for any shortcomings. They are uniformly, unequivocally, delightfully super-class. CLICK HERE TO VIEW THE POST IN PICASAWEB

Sonnets

3 Sonnets for Calcutta

The 3 o’ clock sun sprinkled on grass

Smiled at Mad Rain’s spiked boots and cotton socks

(Held up with rubber band, utterly middle-class)

Like an old friend. A greeting, no small-talks,

Was enough to get them going. Like two tinkles of the tram bell,

Or on the first beat of the dhak, the hypnotic spell,

Fused their souls in soccer dance

Till the lake lost its luminance.

Unsullied by globalisation, and the stomach lined

To withstand germs-

One knew the Phuchkawala and could negotiate terms,

But severely infected with culture of the low-kind.

The bearded intellectuals and rebellious poets

Caused a reactionary fascination for Kishore Lata duets.

Saturday morning and the dark friend calls,
“Synchronize my story of extra-class in school today.
Snub-nose and Shorty has confirmed Globe stalls.
BCs are strict about this one, though. it’s an A.”
Hankies on mouth, the suspense builds
On toes to add height, to lust at Brooke Shields.
Post movie celebration, hands rubbing in glee
The neo-adults munch Nizam beef rolls for 75p.
Walk back home. Every time. But now there’s no home.
The course of life unties the chain,
Snatches the rear-view mirror from Mad Rain
Dry tubewells dot the streets where memories roam.
Rowers pull on placid waters and coxswains shout abuse
At the ruthless plan that crushed the house with bougainvillea views.

Flashback to ’78 the year of Mad Rain
In the city. Neck deep water on Rustomji Street.
Jigsaw of unconnected dots, a montage in the brain
Racing on the Bypass in night heat.
Tetrazzini in Skyroom, love in the cemetery
A cold ICU where words are not necessary
Summer pool party, freshly mown grass
Fish fries in weddings, St. Paul’s mass.
Just vague dull aches. Many Octobers later then…
In Mocambo for Fish au gratin.
A familiar voice, ‘Hey, where have you been?’
Jolted the heart in high voltage, pleasurable pain.
Whispered the city, I will wait for you like ever before
You choose your seas and I’ll be your shore.

The Kafka mutton shop

My favourite mutton shop is in the hodgepodge of a lane in the underbellies of Powai. It's a family run establishment where everyone puts in their bit, led from the front by a slender, unbeautiful, fiftyish lady with kind eyes and quick smiles. "Where were you last Sunday?" she asks in a genuine voice, skillfully wielding her meat cleaver without looking or daintily slicing through the dark chocolate goat liver.
She is the only female butcher I have met. Her family rallies around. The husband, two sons and the grandsons, toddlers still, lend a hand. It's definitely the most cheerful slaughter shop you would hope to find anywhere. The family banter and warmth dilutes and lightens the unpleasent sight of hanging diemboweled goats and severed heads with sightless eyes arranged in a row on the chopping platform.
Indelible in my mind are two kafkaesque scenes. The first one, from about an year back. Granny chopping ribs on the wooden block. Hanging on one meat hook is the carcass of a goat. From the other two, hung a swing made out of a sari where the grandson slept.
The second from this Sunday. A small cage has been kept on the opposite footpath with three 'kids' cuddling inside. Two adorable young goats, one playful toddler.

Biking to Utan

Utan (pronunced oottan) is a beach and a fishing village near Bombay. A quaint and refreshing getaway.

Friday 12 Feb, 2010. With Porus at the Gorai ferry point early morning. Destination Utan.
The Pagoda at Manori loomed and shone in the early morning light. It was tranquil alright, but the putrid water of the creek is a dead put off for me every time. As Porus and I wondered, Bombay is really blessed to be surrounded by nature's beauty. But in our blind and insensitive way, we have managed to completely poison every bit of it.

Anyway, we piled onto the ferry. Nudging desperate lovers eager on amorous pursuits, and locals on their daily commute.

Should we build a bridge across the creek? No, we decided firmly. Let's keep some things low-tech and old world. Let some things be.

You watch something like this and realize what's worth living for. The giant formation languidly floated over our heads, over the creek, over Bombay. Headed back home? We couldn't tell.

Ten minutes later we were on the other side. This is Gorai Ferry point.

The road to Utan was quite lovely, reminding us of Goa in parts. Hard to believe you are still within Mumbai municipal limits.
Mangrove on both sides cut by a narrow asphalt strip. The road climbed over wooded slopes, dotted with pleasent looking bungalows and then dropped steeply (Wheee! But oh god what happens on our way back?). Took a U turn at a police check post, cut through a dense fishing village and here's where we threw up our hands and said "No f***ing way" can we climb that killer slope ahead. The kids sniggered and prodded us. "C'mon unkel, you have gears."
No way kids. We pushed our bikes up that slope.

Bike up? You must be joking. It was bloody killing even to walk up that slope! Midway. we caught our breaths and gazed at this spectacular view of the Utan fishing bay.

Journey's end for us at Chaik gaon. We munched buns and omlette at Shetty's joint, with the village drunk trying his best to touch us for a tenner.
"Sorry, haan..sorry. But just just ten bucks please. Do you know of Sandy in Bandra, staying next to National College. No? Never mind and I said sorry haan.....just ten bucks, if you please."
Cool man. We don't mind. You lend character to a sweet spot which will sadly vanish as the behemoth called Bombay stomps ahead.
Thank you Kaushik Iyer. You put us on to it.

My chats with God

I talk to him. Everyday. As I drive to office, I strike up a casual conversation and remind him of things that he must help me with today. And what does he want help on. Imagine that. Haha. I was slightly ashamed in the beginning, because I am not religious. Never was. But I guess he doesn't mind. Because he isn't too religious either. The sad thing is that he doesn't talk back.
I remember that when I was about..say eight or ten, I used to play cowboy and robbers. Alone. In a thick brown Duckback raincoat and a cloth Stetsun. A hollow reed with a bread knife stuck in it at an angle was my Sten (cowboys never carried Stens I suppose, but soldiers in Commando comics did. So what the hell) which never ran out of bullets. I had my Colt 0.45 of course. A beautiful silver one whose springs were broken and later fixed with rubber bands. Oh I miss it as I speak. The pillows were horses and the bed was anything from a hill slope, to a river, to a meadow. I had a sidekick, a faithful horse and many bad guys to kill. We talked in Bengali and Commando English with sound effects. BAM. POW. UGH. KHATAKHAT KHATAKHAT. RATATATTAT. No problems. I don't think I have enjoyed myself, immersed myself in anything so thoroughly. Ever.
That, I feel now, was God playing along with me.