Dial M for Monkee

The tale of the Eurail Youthpass

2009-04-08T00:04:00.000+05:30

This tale, is in fact, not in the slightest way connected to Eurail youth passes, or any other competing railway pass products.

In fact, the regular reader (yes, all four of you) would be well within your rights to remark that this blog post is connected to anything at all.

The statistics, far from being a miniskirt that covers more than it reveals, is in this case, a brazen admission of truth.

It took this blog 263 days to churn out 49 posts at an almost Henry Ford-esque assembly line rate. The 50th post, took an additional 223 days to get its act clean.

Now even Geoffrey Boycott, and on one of his particularly stodgy days, does not take so long to move from 49 to 50. If this blog were a cricketer, Andy Zaltzman would have at least five blog posts dedicated to its tempestuousness.

And just like Geoffrey Boycott, this blog does not have any legitimate excuse for the long transition to 50 either.

But this tale however, does allude to the fact that on the day that the author publishes this post, it will mark the first day of that portion of his life when he is not eligible for a Eurail youth pass.

It also marks the day he can no longer be legally called up as a conscript to the American army. But not being a US citizen, or never even having been within a 1000 miles of the US, there wasn't too much chance of that happening.

But that is besides the point, if there ever was one.

Consider:
By the age of 26, Paul McCartney had composed Eleanor Rigby, Michelle, Girl, Blackbird, Hello Goodbye, Penny Lane, Sergeant Pepper, Hey Jude, Yesterday amongst many others.
By the age of 26, Jim Morrison had done pretty much all he would ever do before settling down to a relatively tranquil retirement in the Parisian neighborhood of Philippe Auguste.
By the age of 26, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar would have scored 7801 ODI runs and 5177 test runs, replete with 21 and 19 centuries respectively. (This is actually correct. Check cricinfo's statsguru if you don't believe me.)
By the age of 26, Mozart had written 31 symphonies; all his famous violin concertos, 10 of his piano concertos, and 15 operas, among several other pieces of music which adorn large parts of my hard disk.

On the other hand, the high point of the author's 26 years centered around a Eurail youth pass, hence the title.

223 days, as you no doubt have been counting off the calendar.

Not much happened in the meantime. On this blog I mean. There was lots otherwise, including that thing they call the 'sub-prime crisis', lots of cricket, lots of Indian victories in particular, and lots of trips to Bangalore for various reasons.

The last point alone, is worthy of several future blog posts.
And hopefully, this time, it should take less than 223 days.

Common man and the unplanned trek... concluded

2008-08-28T13:02:00.007+05:30

The story so far.

The story continues.

Spoiler alert : Cuplord actually turns out into the unlikely hero at the end. end of Spoiler alert

So, Cuplord and Common man found themselves at the top of a hill after a trek which left the Cuplord in the same state as the Ruhrland after world war two.

In their first few minutes atop the hill, they learned to their dismay that it was supposed to have been a very bad day for a trek, given the lashing rains which had turned all other trekkers back halfway up the trek (which explained why they hardly ran into any other trekkers).

That put paid to their plans of trekking back downhill the next day (nobody actually told them not to do it, but the fact that everybody just laughed in their face every time they suggested it was enough discouragement). On the other hand, they might just have been laughing at Cuplord's Marathi. (in fact, even if the locals were telling them that it was an excellent day to trek, and Cuplord was just bluffing to Common man to get himself out of another potentially draining trek, we'll never know).

This also tied in very nicely with the fact that they didn't have a place to stay. After walking the whole length of Bhimashankar, which took 42 seconds, they found the bus stand. Common man embarked upon what he thought would be a very simple task, meaning inquiring when the next bus to Mumbai or Karjat would be.

The first 9 people he asked mixed various results. Some denied all knowledge of the existence of a bus stand (odd containing these included the inquiry counter of the bus stand), but most plain stared back into his face without responding. Common man thought he must have died and turned into a ghost, but then he remembered how every time he asked for directions in Mumbai, and all the more in Pune, he was met with the very same blank stare.

Common man and Cuplord briefly conferred on this. The latter had a very plausible theory for the same, and I'd suggest that the discerning reader contact either of Cuplord or Common man to know the same. The so called discerning reader would note that this is the first instance in the story when Cuplord did anything useful.

Anyways, to cut a long story short, they soon learned that the last bus to Mumbai had long since departed, and no one could find where the bus(es) meant for Pune were. An employee at the bus stand helpfully suggested that Common man and Cuplord trek back the way they came, to which the two of them just laughed back the way they had been laughed at just three paragraphs before.

Then they got their first bit of helpful information. Share taxis of some sort plied between Bhimashankar and some place called Mancher (spelled like Manchester without the "ste" but pronounced like the Hindi word for mosquito). Mancher, Common man was assured, was merely an hour away, and a large sprawling metropolis and hub of economic activity, from where they could get direct transport to anywhere in the world.

The two of them were then herded into a World war two era jeep designed for about 7, but carrying about thrice the number. Cuplord was dangling from the back of the jeep, which just about enough space for his little toe, while he clung on for dear life. Common man on the other hand, sat down in relative luxury, in the front seat, sandwiched between at least four other co-passengers and a driver. The driver dangled out of the jeep in much the same way as Cuplord while Common man took his seat. Common man actually could keep his feet down every time the jeep was in an odd gear. (Such luxury, sic). Try this sometime in a jeep as a driver clinging on to the steering wheel navigates through the western Ghats in the monsoons. If not anything, it at least rekindles your love for religion.

After an indeterminate period of time which was certainly longer than an hour, the jeep dropped them off at a junkyard which was used to total old buses. Shortly afterwards, the two of them realized, to much horror, that this actually the much vaunted bus stand people had been raving about. Queries to the effect of "When is the next bus in the general direction of Mumbai ?" were met with the same answer. That it had long since parted. Common man fancied that there wasn't actually any such bus, and an inquiry at any time of day always met with the answer that the last bus had just left.

The arrival of a bus which was clearly on its last legs (or wheels) much excited the gathering which had gathered (sic), who chased after the bus, in a scene which was very much reminiscent of Beatlemania. Common man politely asked a few dozen people, all of whom were jostling for a place in the bus as to where the bus was headed to, and all of them politely stared blankly back at him. In a brilliant bout of innovation, all these buses had their origin marked, rather than their destination. So the conventional method of looking at the board in front of the face simply failed, much like India's middle order in the Sri Lanka test series.

Then the two of them agreed to get a bus to any place which both of them could point on an atlas. But given Cuplord's geography, this meant pretty much nowhere. (Hint: To readers unfamiliar with the Cuplord and his ways, all they need to know is that his knowledge of world geography makes the average 'pointing to Iraq when asked to point at Canada in a world map' American look like Mercator in comparison).

Meanwhile, Cuplord and Common man thought of a different tactic. Mancher being a town around half the size of Mahalakshmi layout , polite Hindi and English queries, or for that matter, impolite Hindi and English queries, were unlikely to reveal Tutankhamen's tomb or any other such treasures. The only alternative was Marathi.

This presented some minor problems. As the guide had already discovered in Part 1, Common man was completely incapable of any conversation in Marathi. He did know two phrases and he wasn't even sure what they meant, and didn't expect that they would be of too much help here. One was pudhey which seemed to be the standard response by bus conductors to questions such as "Does this bus go to Dadar?", "What is the time and can I have my change please?", "Did India win the match ?", "Can you say anything apart from Pudhey ?" Common man presumed, given the general tone in which he heard it spoken, that it must mean "Look, like this is the best impression I can do of Graham Chapman in the Argument clinic sketch. So sod off".

The other Marathi expression Common man knew was Baarah dabyachi dheemi local ahey. Given the reaction it usually sparked, he presumed it meant "A pot of gold has been discovered on platform two. Please rush immediately to claim your share". So, that option was ruled out. Cuplord on the other hand, claimed to have multiple Phds in Marathi, but the fact that the two of them were still standing in the mosquito bus stand, unable to take bus after bus, showed he was being as truthful about his Marathi speaking abilities as he was about his trekking abilities.

Common man now tried out a simplistic, language agnostic method. This method involved saying "Pune" with a question mark painted on his face, the question being directed in the general direction of the travelers already in the bus. To not very considerable astonishment, he got blank stares in response.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. The two gentlemen in question were soaked to the skin, hungry, Marathi-less and bus-less, and surely tethering at the edge of what can surely be construed as the D word. What would Bryan Boitano do ? I sure don't know, but our two gentlemen jumped on board of the next bus, irrespective of its destination. The fact that the bus was far more jam packed than a BMTC bus number 176 at rush hour will be glossed over for now. They discovered, to general merriment, that this bus was headed to Pune, which had among other things, neon lights, Cafe coffee days, and more significantly, a bus stand with buses to Mumbai.

Now Cuplord, for all his failings, had one claim to fame which very few people in the world could claim, especially when you have just experienced two parts of "Common man and the unplanned trek", and at some indeterminate time of the night, when you are hurtling into Pune since that was the only place the state transport service would take you to.... In laws living in Pune.

A short phone call later, it was established that the two tired trekkers would in deed have a home and hot dinner waiting to welcome them in Pune, Common man was almost willing to forgive Cuplord for all his past sins, but then again, not really.

The next few hours will feature very little in this narrative, much like Sam and Frodo's return to the Shire from Mount Doom. But after some unmitigated hospitality which led to our two heroes staying back in Pune for far longer than they had planned to, they finally terminated their peregrinations on Sunday evening back in Mumbai.

The ending might have been somewhat tame, but Cuplord surely learned two things over the trek.
1. Why Common man was called Common man.
2. Why you should never go on a trek with a blogger.

Thats all folks.

Common man and the unplanned trek

2008-08-23T12:41:00.006+05:30

Common man was having the time of his life.

Actually that was while he was narrating this blog post. The actual run up to what constitutes the post that follows was quite different. For that, the flashback shall ensue...

Flashback: "And if we can't find a place to crash for the night, at least it will make for a good blog post" remarked Common man nonchalantly as he and Cuplord made their way out of Karjat railway station one rainy Saturday morning. Now Common man wasn't accustomed to making his way out of Karjat railway station, or for that matter, any railway station, on rainy Saturday mornings, but this was no ordinary Saturday morning.

For one, Common man and Cuplord had taken the 5:37 AM local train from Dadar, reaching Karjat in a mere 7 days, or what felt like 7 days. Yes five: thirty seven in words, and 5:37 in figures, that was no typo.

"Why 5:37 local train on a Saturday morning ?" is a question that may strike the discerning reader. When the author will add (as he is just about to add) that it was for a trek to a place neither of them had heard about, during a long weekend, to a place where they hadn't yet found a place to stay in; and the question "Why 5:37 local train on a Saturday morning ?" may strike yet again.

Further, the very same discerning reader may wonder why Cuplord, who was known for his extreme cheapness in never responding to calls and always ditching meet-ups and friends' engagements, was doing initiating a trek, and calling Common man for it.

Common man's extreme popularity was only a small part of the answer. The larger part (or bigger picture, as we MBAs like to say) was that Cuplord was a masochist, and he was punishing himself for all his cheap deeds. And being work-less and wife-less that weekend meant he was free to pursue other extra-curricular activities.

So, Common man and Cuplord made their way into some indeterminate Maharashtrian town/village which was to be the base of their almost vertical ascent to Bhimashankar. Common man was something of a tyro at this trekking business, but Cuplord's reassurances that he had been trekking in the Himalayas right from the days of Mohammed of Ghazni's marauding invasions meant that Common man was worrying less about the trek and more about the aperture setting on his camera as he took photos.

The reality couldn't be further. Two years of Mirinda, an MBA and no exercise meant that Cuplord wasn't even fit to cross Linking Road at peak time, leave alone trek 3000 feet of a steep mountain in monsoon. Common man didn't seem to be afflicted as badly as Cuplord with such fitness problems. Every 20 steps or so, he'd realize that Cuplord had fallen back, and he'd have to wait for the aforementioned person to catch up.

That only gave Common man all the more time to admire the natural beauty and use his photographic prowess to good use. Exhibit A shall serve as a sample of how exactly Common man utilized all those waiting periods.

From then on, to cut a long story short, the two intrepid trekkers enlisted the services of a guide from about halfway up the trek. How they managed to find a guide halfway up an extremely challenging trek is quite a story in itself, but since it involves making fun of Common man rather than Cuplord (as the rest of this story does), it shall conveniently be bowdlerized.

The guide had several peculiarities, one of which was to continuously make conversation with Common man in Marathi, in spite of his repeated denials to any knowledge of the language. In the guide's defense, he merely might have been trying to convey "Watch out, that landslide is headed your way" or "Your fly is open" or something to that effect, but like Einstein's last words, we'll never know.

He did occasionally pause from his Marathi monologue, but that was only to turn around and cast dirty looks in the direction of the Cuplord, who was now dropping so far behind Common man and the Marathi speaking guide that Eliyahu Goldratt was said to be inspired to complete the Goal trilogy, and further enhance the ever increasing study in English literature of bottlenecks.

A mere four and a half hours or so later, the triumvirate descended upon (actually shouldn't it be ascended upon) the town of Bhimashankar in extremely foggy weather. By now, the visibility was so poor, and Cuplord was so exhausted, that the guide probably just had enough of the two trekkers and just left them off at some random point in the forest, saying "this is Bhimashankar", much like the sign which says "This is Anfield" at the stadium of the football club which finishes fourth every season, and yet believes they are favorites to win the title when the next season kicks off.

Anyways, Cuplord and Common man were finally at Bhimashankar. Or what they were told was Bhimashankar. Common man had been awake for over 12 hours that day, and he hadn't even had lunch. Or found a place to crash for the night.

That was just the start of his troubles though.

The rest of the story will be concluded in part 2.

PS: Gotcha suckers! Betcha didn't know when you started reading this that there would be a part 2. To be perfectly honest, even I had no idea.

Common man and the street protests

2008-08-10T13:47:00.007+05:30

Common man was having the time of his life. He was actually. For one, it is a less clichéd opening line for a blog post than "It was a dark and stormy night", but cliché nonetheless.

So, he was having the time of his life. Normally, "work" and "time of his life" wouldn't even feature in the same postal code, but unusually here, this "time of his life" was directly linked with his 'work' (sic). Sure, common man didn't have a hot secretary nor did he have a bunch of minions saying "yes master" every time he passed by at the workplace, but a junket cum sinecure in the hallowed environs of central London was a far better substitute.

Common man did everything a good tourist should do in central London. He crossed Abbey Road, then he crossed Abbey Road again, waltzed past the Tower Bridge, polkaed past Big Ben, troikaed past Buckingham Palace, flamencoed past Hyde Park, and then, crossed Abbey Road yet again. The fact that common man couldn't actually dance his way out of Funky Town is only yet another issue.

This post, however, is not about any of the above.

Meanwhile, Common man stared out of the window of the top decker of the red bus he was traveling in. Even allowing for his somewhat poor eyesight, common man chanced upon something he only chances upon too often.

An obstacle in the form of a large public demonstration was hindering his (bus') path forward.

Now Common man had a way with these. From Naxalbari to Rome, from Jakarta to Glasgow, and other such places where his travels took him, common man always ran into these protests/demonstrations. He had no idea how these demonstrations followed him wherever he went, or whether he was the one unconsciously following them in the first place. In fact, it is now acknowledged that the "jester in the sidelines in a cast" was referring to Common Man and not Bob Dylan, as popularly believed.

Either way, the very reason he was christened "Common man" was owing to his remarkable similarities with the eponymous RK Laxman character.

And here it was again. His London trip was punctuated by yet another of those street protests. And there were not one, not two but three protests, all happening at once, in the little street that is Whitehall.

The first protest was on behalf of the Armenians against the Turks, or vice versa, Common man wasn't sure. In fact, neither were the protesters. One was the usual mandatory weekly protest against the mayor. And the last one intriguingly was by the Sikh community, and Common man couldn't quite make out over the din what they were protesting.

Two things stood out in the above scene in Common man's mind. One was a bunch of protesters who were taking some time out of the whole protest thing and sharing a bunch of beers sitting down in the street, in true hippy style. And the incredible thing, going by the placards they carried, was that they were all there for different protests. He couldn't quite imagine whether a bunch of random people had just met up in different protests here, or if a bunch of people came to protest for the heck of it, and all joined different ones.

Either way, Common man imagined that their conversation would be something like this.
A: Awfully sorry to bother you ol' chap, but which protest are you here for ?
B: The Mayor one, mate. And terrible weather.
A: Or'rite. I did the Mayor one last week, so I decided to do the Turk/Armenian one this week.
B: Right ho ol' chap. So are the Turks protesting against the Armenians, or is it the other way round ?
A: I don't know mate. The Turks are busy settin' up Doner Kebap shops to cash in on the opportunity, so I can't be bothered to ask them.
B: Arsenal lost again.

The other striking thing was the signboards being put up all over the place, starting a fortnight before, warning people that there would be some kind of disturbance to traffic at this day between this time and that time, and apologizing for the inconvenience caused and all that. Common man wondered where else in the world would the mayor of a city put up signs that the people of the city were taking out a protest against him, and apologize to the people for the inconvenience they (the people) themselves caused. And the people in turn take an appointment with the mayor to protest against him at that specific time!

Yes, London was truly an amazing place.

More site metering

2008-08-06T22:24:00.003+05:30

Your homework for the day.
Get on google and type...
Pornstars of Goa picture
And hit "I'm feeling lucky".

Yes, go do it.
Trust me, its worth the risk of office IT sending you an automated warning, for the laugh.

I haven't quite figured how this happened but sitemeter can be blamed for uncovering this bit.

Also, special mentions to these seemingly arbit search strings which chance upon this blog
ness security guard 3 dial in (I sure hope you found what you were looking for)
Mumbai airport terminal 1a better than 1b (That's what net surfers are searching for in Brighton, West Sussex nowadays)
alpha lima yankee (Nothing to add, really)

A day in the life...

2008-07-26T13:38:00.003+05:30

You wouldn't think on seeing this innocuous picture just how many pop culture fires this zebra crossing stoked.

Its a rainy day as we speak, much like the day I waited in the lashing rain to get this picture without million Patel tourists on it. Though the drivers there were much kinder than those whose paths I crossed today, even if they have to drive their way past the most crossed zebra crossing in the world. Just thought I'd say.

As I said, its a rainy day

The hunter and the hunted

2008-07-21T14:01:00.004+05:30

They call it house hunting. Note, they don't use an innocuous verb like searching or house finding, or something equally mundane, but "house hunting". And believe me its not a coincidence that the verb for finding a house is the same as the most primeval of all occupations (Note: contrary to popular perception, prostitution is NOT the most ancient occupations, except in Amsterdam). And "hunting" has that raw, wild feel to it too. Which is exactly what house hunting is all about.

Anyone who has read Maximum City by Suketu Mehta will know about how the real estate business in Mumbai and the underworld are intrinsically linked. Try house hunting with the feeling that the guy showing you around the house is probably linked to D in lesser degrees of separation than I am to Ratan Tata, and try feeling comfortable about the whole act.

Then there is the bargaining. I am the second worse bargainer in the world after Johny Bravo, I realize. I have to mentally remind myself whether I have to revise the estimate upwards or downwards before opening my trap. (Note: The last two statements aren't really true).

And then there are the prices. Come to think of it, the only other time in my life I did any sort of house hunting was earlier this year for the short stay in London. Why does it have to be that my first two experiences with house hunting had to be with the two most expensive cities (real estate wise) in the world. This is like a number 11 batsman making his test debut on the 5th day of a test in Antigua facing Marshall and Garner. What next I wonder- house hunting in Tokyo and New York? I deserve a home series against Bangladesh to raise my batting average. For now, its just Krakozia's GDP on a little warren in Mahim West I guess.

Only lawyers itself can globe more than MBAs it seems. I am talking, of course, about the company lease format. It is enough to scare any law abiding citizen off. And much more than enough to scare a "non abiding" citizen (or whatever the antonym of abiding). Honestly, I wouldn't give myself a house on lease with that 20 page tome which masquerades as a "company lease agreement".

And oh, did I mention- I did most of my house hunting in this weather.

And oh oh, did I mention that I am still homeless. Little wonder.

PS: Is house hunting this painful in any city ?

Audio guides: A testimonial

2008-07-09T19:45:00.003+05:30

I am a big fan of audio guides. Exchange wouldn't have quite been the same without audio guides in museums.

There are so many obvious advantages of audio guides. They explain the context like no guide book ever ca. You choose the pace of your trip, and you choose what you want to see/hear. And above all, all language barriers are broken thanks to that little hand held device. And above above all, the little device in your ear shuts out the very superfluous and multilingual (and often very loud) chatter that most tourists around you seem to love indulging in.

Strangely the only place in India I have seen offer audio guides (The Prince of Wales museum in Mumbai) only lets foreigners rent them, even though they are available in English and Hindi. Audio guides were also available over mobile phone for old streets of Bandra during the Bandra festival last year, but only for Vodafone customers.

But audio guides come with their disadvantages.
Audio guide writers have to tread a fine line between pandering to the average package tourist (the kind who make a beeline to the Mona Lisa in the Musée du Louvre, take Patel shots and then leave immediately) and catering to the hardcore art enthusiasts (the kind who actually understand what 'chiaroscuro' means, and can use it correctly in a sentence). It'd be nearly impossible to find a guide catering to both ends of that spectrum

Anyways, the whole point of this post was to point out two places I recently visited which easily had the best audio guides I have encountered (so far).

One was at the Beatles experience in Liverpool. Now the Beatles experience is not an 'official' Beatles museum by any means, even if it is the world's largest collection of Beatles related memorabilia under a single roof. But its audio guide itself does enough to stake a very genuine claim to being the Beatles experience.

For one, the initial part of the audio guide (covering their childhood and Quarrymen days) is mainly narrated by John Lennon's half sister, Julia. Also featuring on the audio guide is Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Sir George Martin, recordings of Brian Epstein speaking, and a host of other Beatles related personalities. An audio guide with George Martin reminiscing about the Abbey Road sessions while you stare at an exhibit of recording equipment from Abbey Road studios, gives it a kind of legitimacy which other audio guides can never replicate. More than enough to leave Beatles fans drooling.

The other audio guide which merits a mention here is the one at the Roman baths in Bath. The brilliance of this one is that it has three parallel lines of narration (in English itself).

One is your typical serious narrative which dwells on the historic and artistic aspects of the surroundings. Very technical and educational. The second channel, which is narrated by Bill Bryson, in true Brysonesque style, somewhat on the lighter side, focusing on his personal observations rather than the historic significance. Very 'out of syllabus'. The last channel is designed specifically for kids, and weaves a fascinating story with Roman characters, legions etc, instead of just a factual or descriptive guide. Very cool

Given the rate at which Lonely Planet is diversifying into downloadable audio guides, apparently I am not the only one who thinks they are a really cool concept

Theatre of Dreams

2008-07-07T23:50:00.005+05:30

Prologue: Admittedly, its been over 10 days since returning from Britannia, but some blog worthy topics still remain to get out of the way. Over to the real post now.

Real post: I had never been inside any sporting venue, not counting the streets of Monaco as a sports venue (yes the very same venue where cops felt the overwhelming need to play a hand in aiding the war on "global terror") till 14th June, 2008. Though I did pay my respects to San Siro, Parc des Princes, Santiago Bernabeu, Olympic Munich among many others from the outside. Just as well, that Old Trafford had to be the one to break the duck.

As always, I shall briefly digress. Three years back, if you (yes, that means you) told me that I would visit both Old Trafford and Strawberry Fields by the tender young age of 25, I'd have thought you'd gone as mad as a sea bass with goiter. Thats why its somewhat overwhelming that I actually visited both within 24 hours of each other. Admittedly, I still haven't gotten over that weekend, which explains this belated post.

So, back to Old Trafford. I had no idea that a stadium visit would actually let you see so much. At best, I was expecting a slap dash visit to the stands and back, but no, it was far more.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, let me elaborate.

You can sit in the stands.
and ogle at the Stretford End.

You are taken to the home team's dressing room. In fact, even to the player's lounge, which is the only part of Old Trafford where Sir Alex is forbidden from entering (and yes, you can go there)

Run down the tunnel...

...into the pitch

and to the trophy room.

Other highlights which aren't represented photographically are
The player's bench (with seated heats)- apparently since Diego Forlan couldn't tolerate the Manchester weather. Given how much time Señor Forlan spent on the bench, I don't particularly blame him.
The Munich tunnel and clock. A whole lot of visuals in various Bangalore quizzes (a lot of which I myself am guilty of unleashing on the quizzing public) over the years have now been added to the "I've seen the original"* category.
The Red Cafe: Which incidentally is run by a bunch of Tams. Lancashire Tams at that, not the Chennai variety. That basically means names like Periasami, Shanemougamanathane but sporting accents more suited to a Collingwood or Sidebottom.
Quite hilarious. **

*: Copyright for that can be claimed by Kodhi.
**: If ever you encounter a guy named Venkatesh saying "Hey Senthil ol' chap, could you please be so kind as to get the fine young gentleman in table 14 a pint of Heineken" in a Cockney accent, try and not find it hilarious.

The magical mystery tour took me away

2008-06-19T15:38:00.004+05:30

Just when I have tonnes to blog about, a busy patch (in other words, project winding time) appears. For now, these two photos will have to do. And no, unlike other times, the photographic prowess isn't what I am boasting of this time. Just that finally, the highest altars of both my religions were worshiped at last weekend (go figure). All in the matter of some 24 hours. It might be some seven lifetimes before such ecstasy is experienced again.

Till then, living will have to be (easy) with eyes closed

More 'you row' notes

2008-06-11T15:30:00.003+05:30

Keeping in line with my quest to catch the Euro 2008 from various pubs across London, the Holland-Italy and Sweden-Greece matches were dutifully followed live. This achieves two purposes.
1) It sounds cooler in retrospect.
2) Since I don't have a TV at home, I don't have any other way to see it.

The Holland-Italy match was so good, it had to be fattening. This time for a change, I was less cheap and I actually ordered something in the pub. And also for a change, this was a highly partisan crowd I was part of. Apparently, orange wigs were outlawed at World Cup 2006 due to the fire hazard. But the way they scream "I am a Holland supporter" is rivaled only by the way being fat, loud, boorish and shorts-clad screams "I am an American tourist". If only my shocking orange Holland football shirt wasn't languishing in some closet in Bangalore, it'd have been put to good use now.

As for England's non-qualification (yes, more on that), the completely lackluster performances by Russia and Croatia have only further fueled the tabloids into a "If this is what we lost to, how pathetic must we be" spree. I can't imagine that lone figure who answers to the name Steve McLaren and is spewing his footballing wisdom in ITV radio will be having the time of his life.

Sadly now, for three consecutive days (Tuesday to today), the better game is the earlier kick-off, and I can't watch.

More as and when required.

Euro MMVIII is here!

2008-06-09T16:34:00.004+05:30

The Euros are here. Its the first major football tournament where I am not a student (and consequently could watch every single game without a concern). The last 3 Euros and last 5 World Cups, I always wished that I could actually follow it from Europe (or the scene of the action, as the case may be). Now that the aforementioned case actually seems to have fructified, I find myself in a country whose football team weren't good enough to make it to the Euros. Snicker...

The standard English reaction to the Euros is to simply pretend that England's non-qualification isn't an issue. Given that typically, the British are hardly sentient to the presence of a large landmass called Europe 20 miles away, their reaction is most convenient. Given the page long coverage by the tabloids on "How London stars are doing at the Euros", ("London" stars referring to the likes of Luka Modric, Fredric Ljunberg, Michael Ballack etc) you'd be forgiven for thinking that last night's game was between Tottenham Hotspur (Luka Modric) and Middlesborough (Emmanuel Pogatetz) rather than Croatia and Austria. (Ob la di, ob la da), life goes on, as they say.

But then again, London being London (read multicultural), each of the 16 squads have ample support. Last night being a case in point- Half the pub going delirious every time Podolski or Ballack got the ball, and the other half going berserk each time Boruc saved (which was quite a few times, mind you). Add to that scenes of celebration where arbit Croatian fans were hugging arbit German fans after the second game got over. I'd like to see those same fans on the day of the Germany-Croatia game! Looks like arbit pubs in Liverpool Street and/or Victoria are going to be seeing a lot of me.

So, back to England in the Euros. Or should that be, England not at the Euros. Some jobless (and geeky) football pundits estimate that the financial loss to England due to the non-qualifications is a Billion pounds, presumably in lost advertising revenue, loss of revenue to airline companies, travel agents, pubs etc. On the other hand, I don't know if it estimates other associated losses such as lesser English plastic flags sold etc. And I am pretty sure it doesn't count the financial gains- like not needing to employ billion policemen overtime (Okay, I am being ridiculous).

But one man won't be making any financial losses due to non-qualification since he has just been handed a very lucrative deal to commentate on the radio during Euro 2008. His name is Steve McLaren. Yes, the same guy who is responsible for the one billion loss. I would love to hear half-time discussions bordering on "Ya, all they now need to do now to beat Croatia/Russia is...". Yes, he would know all about beating Croatia or Russia. Sadly, I don't listen to radio. I don't think the rest of England will tune in either.

Finally, Italy begin their much-awaited Euro campaign. Donadoni has very effectively kept the world guessing as to what squad or what formation he will employ. Especially the as yet unanswered question on whether del Piero will start or not, after his excellent Serie A campaign. A hint of irony there. The first time del Piero was dropped from the Azzuri's starting 11 was in Euro '96, when he was supplanted by a midfielder named Roberto Donadoni.

So, over at 19:45 to that excellent pub in Bishopsgate which lets me watch the match without having anything to eat or drink there!

IT's...

2008-06-06T16:49:00.004+05:30

Owing to the runaway critical success of this post, I feel compelled to write a follow up post, or sequel if you may. Basically yet another narrative from London in the dialogue format. Except this one has 2 minor differences to the previous one.

1. I didn't overhear this conversation. In fact, I was 50% of the parties involved in the conversation.
2. This wasn't a one-off conversation. It has been replayed consistently over the weeks in London, and I would expect more of the same as long as I meet Indians here. And this "conversation" is a melange of several such conversations.

The 2 protagonists are
1. TASBABCWLISEWTITWTSPIHWSLIKEAJL: Talkative albeit slightly bored (and boring) conversationalist, whose life is so entrenched with the IT world that she probably introduces herself with something like "I know English and Java languages", or well, just 'X' for short. As you would expect, X is drawn from several real-life (and unnamed) characters. Allow for some artistic license on my part.
2. Me, or 'M' for short.

X: You are Indian?
M: Yeah.
X: Which of TCS/ CTS/ Infy/ Satyam/ Wipro do you work for ?
M: Huh?
X: (Trying different tactic) Where in India from?
M: Bangalore.
X: Haan Bangalore, then which technology? Which domain?
M: (Now understanding what X means) I am not a techie.
X: (with a look remniscent of Eric Cartman's look of disbelief in the episode 'Cartman-land' when he hears the security guard doesn't want to be paid in fun rides at the amusement park.) Means ?
M: I work, but not in IT.
X: Achha, you are here on holiday?
M: No, on work.
X: (thinks deeply) Where do you work?
M: Goodbye administrative services.
X: What do they do ?
M: (Wonders how is going to get out of this one. Especially when he still hasn't quite successfully explained what he does for a living to his family, how is he going to explain it to this person) Well, I do different projects for group companies. Sort of like consulting except that...
X: (Interrupting) Oh consultancy, so TCS?
M: Yes. I mean not exactly. Look, I am here on a 3 month project which...
X: (Interrupting again) Haan, project na. So which technology, which domain ?
M: No, it isn't an IT project.
X: Huh? Then?
M: More like managerial.
X: (Very confused) So what managerial work do you do?
M: (Intentionally sounding vague) There's some marketing involved, business development.
X: But if you are sent onsite, you have to be working for an IT company, no?
M: Not necessarily, I could have been doing a project for Tetley or Corus too.
X: Tetley? what technology, what domain are they in?
M: (Irritated) No, Tetley is not an IT company. Not all companies are IT companies you know.
X: (Very confused) Means ?
M: (Suddenly seems to find the view outside captivating)
X: You said consulting. Who are you working for here?
M: Names company.
X: A-ha. I knew you were an IT guy. So which technology? Which domain?
M: (Gets back to reading his London tabloid/ playing snake on his mobile/ Staring at the ceiling).

Talk of racial stereotyping. We Indians have successfully racially stereotypes ourselves.

Someone remind me why I left my first employer in 2005.

PS: The title "IT's..." is very similar to the first ever blog post "It's...". See this for more on Monty Python's longest running gag. Of course, the clever word play is my own

Alpha Tango Uniform Lima Yankee Alpha

2008-06-05T17:11:00.000+05:30

This edition of Phd comics is the story of my life, really.

After years of having my name spelled Aathulya (that's how my voters card reads), Atulyah (that's the Indonesian version),
Athulya (That's the Karnataka version. At least 30% of my quiz certificates are spelled this way),
Athula (occasionally Karnataka version),
Atul (HT version)
Ayatulla (I am making this one up, actually)
Adulya (Tam-land special),
Atulaya (I do have some certificates spelled this way),
Atula (No comments)
Atülya (Oh, I wish, but no, I am making this one up too),
Atoolya (Yes, this is real, and is the preferred spelling in Western France),
Atylua (Right ho, this was down south in London town),
I can totally empathize with how Tajel feels.

Results improved significantly when I started giving out my visiting card anyone asked me my name. And I believe its not a bad idea for business cards in the future to include a pronunciation guide too.

Oh, and for the record, its A-tul-yuh, not A-tul-yaaah

And yes, Phd comics rocks

Site metered

2008-05-30T10:33:00.002+05:30

What is common to (not an exhaustive list: The implied humor in this statement will be clear when you see the third item in this list)

1. Lekha Washington IPL cheerleader,
2. Lekha Washington cleavage,
3. Udups IIMB,
4. Gujarati Seven habits of highly effective people,
5. Manchester Unido, and
(last but not the least) 6. Atulya Bharadwaj

Very little, one may be tempted to say.

But no, these are some of the recent Google searches which resulted in people chancing upon this blog. The reason I know these useless snippets of knowledge is that I recently added sitemeter to the blog, and its mildly kick-inducing.

So my response to
1 & 2. Naughty, naughty. Sorry to disappoint you, I don't presume you found what you were looking for, but there are kids here. Shoo, go away.
3. Maybe Udups of IIMB needs to get his own blog, google searches for the aforementioned person for some reason seem to be coming to this humble blog. And this is not an exhaustive list.
4. I have no idea how this happened, and I must apologize on behalf of Google for this web searching peccadillo, though I claim no responsibility for their actions. But "kem cho, maja ma?" to you and "Mane gujarati nathi avadthi".
5. To the lads from Coimbra, Viga, La Coruña and Rabat who found this blog through the above search, "Yo soy "fan" de Manchester Unido, mas perdone, yo no hablo Portuguese".
6. And just what were you thinking? Googling for "Atulya Bharadwaj", eh? You have way too much free time surfing the net. Well, I am famous, it seems.

Mumbai- part 42, and modern art

2008-05-29T17:11:00.002+05:30

This post is a tribute to a truly great piece of modern art. Specifically I believe this modern art piece comes under the neo-Calvinist, neo-Daliesque, post-modernist sub-genre of art. Its also probably the largest piece of modern art in the world. Possibly also the largest artwork in the world.

This wondrous artwork I am referring to, of course is Mumbai airport terminal 1A.

Let me explain.

I never was a fan of modern art. Still am not. In fact, I thoroughly despise any form of modern art, and I look suspiciously upon any artwork post 1600 AD. The only 2 genre-specific modern art museums in the world I have been to are and Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía in Madrid and Tate Modern in London. In the former, I got ticked off by the security guard for attempting to sit on a sofa which I thought was kept for the benefit of the tired and gawking touristic public. It turns out the sofa itself was the centerpiece of the art display. In the latter, I was too scared to use the loos. Who knows, maybe those were the "works of art" on display.

As always I digress. So what do a loo in London, M F Hussain and a sofa in Madrid have in common. Actually, nothing. So let me come back to my point. Terminal 1A in Mumbai airport. Now one thing the discerning reader here would know of is the various types of Mumbaiyyas. Now usually, anyone who falls in category five or above in the hierarchy actually believes (among other things), that Mumbai is the cleanest, safest, most orderly city in the world with excellent infrastructure, excellent weather and with the most beautiful beaches, most helpful people and most athletic monkeys in the world. Ok, maybe exaggerated a bit on the last one, but you get the drift. The "amongst other things" in the aforementioned sentence includes (amongst other things) a belief that CSIA (not to be confused with CSKA Moscow) has merits over all other airports in the world.. and including some in other worlds *

Now, like most stage 7 beliefs, that is a completely erroneous one. Even if you only count the just inaugurated terminal 1B, it is still nothing compared to Hyderabad airport (not having seen BIAL yet, let me not comment on that). Terminal 1A on the other hand, is only narrowly edged out by Dadar station as being the worst inter-city transport hub in Mumbai.

Let me explain. When I go to an airport, I expect to see check-in counters, runways, restaurants and above all, Kingfisher airlines air hostesses. And some airplanes too The Mumbai terminal 1A differs slightly in this respect, in that most of the airport is made up of scaffolding, welders and falling cement. The last time I was there, I erroneously thought I wasn't at an airport, but was at a construction site (apparently here, they both mean the same), I apologized to the several masons upon whose space I seem to have invaded. I was on the other hand, ushered to the baggage X-ray which ominously stood out in midst of the debris.

Just how long have I been away from this city I wondered, that such calamity had befallen upon this city and I had not even realized. Three weeks was the answer. I looked about for an explanation. I found one in a board marked "Sorry for the inconvenience". My thoughts were interrupted by a large truck-trolley carrying large construction grade iron bars. Just as I wondered "How the hell do they get these inside an airport" did I see the giant construction crane, the kind which invariably plays a part in the climax of Schwarzaneggar or Die Hard movies too, fitting snugly inside the airport. Now if they could fit that inside an airport, God knows, maybe they'll try fit in an airplane next.

I made my way past the bags of cement, tripping past the iron rods in a motion that was markedly similar to Diego Maradona, Mexico 1986. Except I didn't have Peter Shilton to beat, and I wasn't Diego Maradona. I sighted a construction outpost, the kind used to make "Baby's Day Out" funny in the second half. I got there and asked the construction workers there (who for some strange reason were all wearing Indian Airlines uniforms), "Where is the check in counter?". I was solemnly told that I was actually at the check-in counter.

After being told that my flight was four hours late, that I couldn't check in right now, couldn't eat (since construction sites don't have restaurants, d-uh), couldn't leave the airport, couldn't sit down (since there wasn't any sitting place), I pushed my luck and asked if there was a loo in the vicinity. I was told to go till the end of the wall, and then find the loo beyond the scaffolding under the construction crane in a place where cement may be falling from the roof with welding sparks flying all around. (The only thing missing was a sign saying "Beware of the tiger"**). I tried to follow her advice. Except that in the spot where I was told to find a wall, there was merely a building frame and lots of construction material. After narrowly averting death from all the falling iron rods, I reached a place which vaguely resembled a garbage dump. There were 2 of them in fact, one which had "ladies" written outside it, and the other with "gents" written outside it.

A philistine might have dismissed the entire experience, cursed Mumbai airport, and probably blogged about it. Not me. I instantly realized how this was actually a brilliant piece of modern art masquerading as an airport. It surely was more artistic than Yoko Ono's apple in the middle of the room. Now then again, in the 2 modern art museums, I did have difficulty differentiating the exhibits from the other stuff, so maybe here I was off the mark.

But surely this had to be a modern art masterpiece. I mean, nothing else explains the sheer brilliance of the chiaroscuro, facade, sepia tones, and other artistic words which don't mean anything sensible in this context. Suggesting that the Mumbai airport was like a bad airport was like suggesting that the Bangalore Royal Challengers were like Deccan Chargers. I silently wondered at the creativity of the museum curator who chose to convert the entire airport into a modern art museum. Future generations will revere this masterpiece. No wonder this city's inhabitants think that this airport befits the city it serves.

I believe they should charge admission fees to enter this museum. In fact, I think they already do. Its called 'fuel surcharge' or something.

Sigh. Hyderabad and Bangalore aren't the only cities which needed a proper airport

* Credits to Muggesh for that one
** Douglas Adams. D-uh

Yet another dose of imagery

2008-05-21T13:59:00.003+05:30

I'd rate this as one of the best photos I have taken in recent times. (Recent times meaning since March- before which I had a fine photographic run).

As is perfectly obvious, its in black and white. Which makes the south bank look even more grimy and intimidating than it is. I'd imagine that if Dickens' works came with illustrations, this one picture wouldn't be all that out of place there. London's (frequent) gray, wet, rainy days provide ample opportunities for good black and white photos, and I (and the S3IS) have duly risen to the occasion.

The vantage point from where the photograph has been taken is the very top of St. Paul's cathedral (530 steps up). The view is of the south bank of London with the (hugely controversial) Millennium bridge occupying most of the foreground. The large power plant like structure is Tate Modern museum, and not unsurprisingly, was a power plant once.

Technical information (for those who can understand it)
Tv 1/500, f8, ISO 200, Cloudy white balance. 1/500 intentionally used to give the unnaturally dark feel. Whereabouts of 1/200 would have done just fine. f8 is the largest DOF my camera offers. Given the low light, my camera's metering was insisting on f3.5 otherwise. ISO 200 is my preferred ISO setting regardless of time of day.

Hopefully, more coming your way soon.

PS: And oh, as is always the case, no digital modifications or cropping whatsoever

The Jaguar guy

2008-05-09T20:04:00.002+05:30

Yep, that's what I am now. The Jaguar guy. Any conversation with a stranger here (especially Brit), when it veers towards what I am doing in London, and any mention of Tata invariably becomes "oh you work for the Jaguar Land Rover company". Of course, I am more than glad to acquiesce. Explaining what I do for a living is a lot harder otherwise.

Examples of people who have made me the "Jaguar guy" include the immigration person who stamped my passport in Heathrow airport, a BBC reporter who was living in the same place in London, a tourist guide in Loch Ness, among others. Strangely, no mention is made of Corus. No one even seems to have heard of it (at least its acquisition).

So, the Jaguar guy it is then. It might just be the most effective $ 2.3 billion advertising spend ever.

Home side ?

2008-05-08T15:22:00.004+05:30

After following the English Premier League for some 13 years now, it appears that I finally have a real "home" team. Now if home team is defined as situated closest geographically, my home team is (grimaces) Chelsea.

Based on office location, the "home" English side is definitely Chelsea, Stamford Bridge being barely 2 KM away. But based on residential location, it could be either of Chelsea or Queens Park Rangers. Google maps has been inconclusive in determining which of QPR and Chelsea are my "home team". If the discussion is restricted to Premiership sides, then undoubtedly, Chelsea is still the "home side", even from residence point of view.

Which brings me to what I was trying to say- Chelsea being my new found "home team" has only heightened my dislike of Chelsea further. Nothing against the locality (I'd love to live there actually, but more like a heightened dislike of the football club).

But oh yes, there is a limit to the number of times you can open your daily newspaper (tabloid, rather) and see Avram Grump's face staring back at you. Also, in spite of being one of the pseudest areas in London, a constant whine in the papers is how expensive the fans are going to find it to travel to Moscow. Makes you wonder where all those billions (the owners as well as the fans') go.

Come Sunday afternoon, I'd love to be smirking outside Stamford Bridge.

PS: A lot of pubs in London ban football colors being worn for obvious reasons. Just as well I propose. If results on Sunday go as hoped for (also as expected), I wouldn't make my way out of any Chelsea pub alive.

The annual Haggis hunt

2008-05-06T17:26:00.005+05:30

Culinary and Scottish are not usually words usually uttered in the same breath. In fact, they are probably not even uttered in the same lifetime, from what one usually hears of Scottish cuisine. The usual excuse offered is "After all that Scotch, it barely matters what you eat".
(Hint: Scottish cuisine is usually considered amongst the least palatable in the world, in case you were wondering what I was going on about).

For one, there's haggis. Not recommended for the faint hearted. I mean, even reading the page, leave alone actually eating it. Yours truly had different ideas. In fact, pretty much the first thing I did upon descending in Edinburgh was to try out the aforementioned dish. I must say it tastes far better than its description. So much so that I just had to have it again before leaving.

Read the description at your own risk. But I must insist again that it tastes far better than it sounds.

On a less gross note, there is Elephant House. And no, it doesn't serve elephants. In fact, it serves baked potatoes, bagels and good ol' Scottish ale (which is what the almost empty glass is).

But its greater claim to fame (than serving baked potatoes) is the fact that this is the cafe JK Rowling first got to work on her now somewhat famous 7 part series (duh). Quite predictably, the place is awash with American tourists and their cameras. Let that not take away attention from the fact that this is probably the nicest eating joint I have encountered in Great Britain so far.

PS: The title of the post is not completely far removed from its contents. In fact, it is a regular prank played on unsuspecting American tourists (probably the kind who flock to Elephant House with their cameras)

Overheard at a...

2008-05-06T15:34:00.007+05:30

This post in its entirety is a replay of a dialogue I overheard on a bus journey last night from Edinburgh to London, and has been reproduced to the best of my memory (which is bloody good anyways).

Fact as they say is funnier than fiction, and with a real life story like this, who needs to make up stories to create entertaining blog posts.

The two characters in question are:
YESLKFC: Young enthusiastic Scottish lad, keen for conversation. Actually lets just call him S.
IHTCWCSTMEIPHEAITGLMIILBTSDEHESOLA: Indian HT character who can't speak too much English, I presume he is an IT guy like most Indians in London, but that still doesn't explain his English skills (or lack of). Actually let's just call him I.

S: Aye, you fr'm India, aye?
I: Yes yes, Indian.
S: Alw'ys want'd t' go t' India. 'ow long it takes f'r a floight from Britain t' India?
I: Yes, yes, Indian, Indian, from India.
S: Nay, I me'nt, f'r a floight fr'm Brit'n to India, 'ow many 'ours it takes?
I: Oh flight you are meaning, Seven averse I think for a direct flight.
S: Se'en 'ours you mean ?
I: Yes, seven averse.
S: Th't's it ? I thought it takes fi'teen 'ours to Hong Kong, 'ow 's India only se'en 'ours away ?
I: (Thinks) maybe it is being because of the time difference between India and Hong Kong that flight to Hong Kong is being take longer time.
S: (Bewildered) Th't's 'ow the time works, aye?
I: Yes, seven averse for direct flight.
S: (Confused) Toime diff'r'nce between Brit'n n' Hong Kong is se'en 'ours, what is the toime diff'r'nce between Brit'n n' India?
I: I told you, seven averse for direct flight.
S: 'ts the same ?? Se'en 'ours ?
I: Seven averse, direct flight.
S: Th'n why 's Hong Kong fifte'n 'ours?
I: I am not knowing, maybe it is being daylight saving time ? But seven averse for direct flight.

S: (bewildered): Ori'te, forget that, tell me 'ow much you paid for the ticket fr'm Lond'n t' Eydinbra ?
I: To Edinburgg?
S: Aye, I mean Edinbura.
I: Twelve pounds it is being for me ticket.
S: Th't 's it ? F'r a ret'rn tick't ?
I: Yes, twelve pounds to return, but I had to come here first to return, no ?
S: I me'nt a ret'rn ticket, aye.
I: Yes, I am being return to London, no bhai ?
S: So twelve pounds on' way, twenty four return tick't, roight ?
I: No, twelve pounds to come, twelve pounds to return. Twenty four for total.
S: Th't 's what I said !
I: You are confusing me.
S: What toime did you book the tick'ts ?
I: The time is being 10:45, bus is 15 minutes late.
S: No, I meant when you book'd the tick'ts ?
I: Tomorrow morning at 7:30 it reach London.
S: See, I book 2 weeks ago. I pay 21. When you book to pay 12 ?
I: Seven averse, direct flight.
S:(Speechless)

I wonder why S chose to spend the rest of the journey listening to his iPod with no further part to play in any conversation.

London calling

2008-05-01T15:11:00.003+05:30

London called already actually.

Called a week back actually.

And Monkee has taken to London like the Scarabaeinae takes to dung.

And while the past one week has been spent indulging on the usual stuff one indulges in London- such as acting very touristy in Whitehall & Piccadily, crossing Abbey Road, acting very touristy in Westminster & the Tower Bridge, London pubs, fish and chips, crossing Abbey Road, talking about the weather non-stop, and oh-did I mention, crossing Abbey Road, the one unexpected thing that I have taken to is London tabloids.

For one, they are free. For the other, they are available everywhere, anytime, whether you like them or not, and thrust in your hands/face/feet when you least expect it. And oh, did I mention, they are free.

For more, the quality of journalism, while not exactly Pulitzer level, is surely better than I expected. Well, it is surely better than The Times of India, for instance. Actually it is unfair to call TOI a tabloid in a belittling way since the tabloids are actually substantially better. Well, there is a mammoth sports section, an equally mammoth weather section (London is in England, remember), lots of local news, and at least an attempt at putting business and other stuff. (Again, that's more than I can say for TOI). In fact, the same football articles which appear in the tabloids are also the ones you'd read in espnstar or soccernet, which I'd follow anyways.

And yes, did I mention, they're free. Who in Legoland is going to spend GBP 0.5 to 1.5 on a newspaper? Not me for one, at London prices.

Till next time, Right ho, tic toc and dreadful weather

Random IPL thoughts

2008-04-25T02:08:00.003+05:30

Some character called Lekha Washington was doing a "Mandira Bedi", cricket commentary wise, except that she proved even more idiotic than the aforementioned. In the game of the famous power cut, she walks up to Asad Rauf at the boundary edge (during the blasted power cut) and asks him "who do you think is going to win?". Her momentous gaffe covered up the fact that she even got his name wrong. Seriously, as if Mandira Bedi wasn't enough. Where do they get these characters from.

As is well known, the BCCI is undertaking the biggest witch hint since Salem, WA, circa 16th century, against the ICL. All players, officials, administrators, umpires, even sponsors and broadcasters from the ICL are "banned" from "main stream" cricket by the BCCI. But amusingly. that didn't stop 2 Russian cheerleaders from the ICL from being hired to "cheer" at the IPL. Wonder how that slipped under the BCCI's nose!

Two concerns I had before the IPL (relating to its success) was a) would fans really relate to a "home" side where they had to cheer, maybe Symonds against Bhajji, or cheer against Tendulkar for instance. This fear seems to have been put aside comfortably now, with crowds more than getting behind their home sides, perhaps to a far greater extent than anyone thought possible. When Sehwag scored his quick fire 50 in Hyderabad, he actually had to exhort the crowd to give him some applause!

The other concern was whethe rany away support could be drummed up at all, the way football fans travel with their side. That concern largely remains unsolved. In games in Bangalore and Mumbai, the 2 cities are cosmopolitan enough for enough people to turn up and cheer for the away side too. But I expect the crowds in Mohali and Jaipur to be very partisan, bordering on boring.

Anyone for quizzing?

2008-04-22T13:07:00.004+05:30

Bill Bryson in his book "Notes from a small island" makes a comparison on the education system in UK with that in the US. Since, he uses quizzers as an example to make his point, I particularly remember this anecdote.

Anyways, the example he quotes is this- when the University challenge winners of UK and USA faced off each other in a "University challenge grand final", the UK team beat the USA team by some 17,000 to 3 margin. He adds that if you look at where the USA winners are now, some 10 years on, he claims they'd probably be the highest paid bankers on Wall Street, but the UK winners on the other hand, are more likely to be doing a Phd on "the evolution of cello music in Southern Silesia in the late 18th century" sharing an apartment with 17 others, or some such thing. (Bill Bryson and I both exaggerate like hell, but you get the general idea).

The point he was making, of course, was that while the UK education system was arguably making its students more erudite, the US education system was more practical.

I couldn't help thinking about where we (Indian quizzers) lie on the same scale. Our education system is definitely closer to the UK system than to the US system (after we did borrow heavily from the UK education system when we started off English medium education in India).

But as such, are we (Indian quizzers) closer to the southern Silesia Phd types, or the Wall street i-banker types. Scary thought. Actually looking back on the quizzers I've known over the years, I think more quizzers I know fit into the latter category than the former. Or am I just arrogantly assuming ?

Comments, (especially from quizzers) are highly welcome.

Remember when you were young

2008-04-15T15:46:00.005+05:30

Well, admittedly there are worse ways to spend your birthday than to catch an early morning flight from Mumbai, and then flying to (yes, you guessed right) Chennai!

Now I am no stranger to celebrating birthdays in Chennai. I have done it (all of) once before. That was merely a decade ago when I turned 15. I was to head off outside India for the first time in my life later that day, and owing to Bangalore's international airport (the current one, not the one which must not be named, and also it seems, the one which will not be built) basically not existing, the aforementioned flight was taken from Chennai.

Anyways, back to April 8, 2008. 25 is a strange feeling. It imposes itself on you in a way only a round number like 25 can. Plus it has that added smirk of being a quarter century (which only serves to make you feel older). And yet it doesn't give you the legal rights to do anything you can't already do (except I think running for the Rajya Sabha. Phooey). It doesn't give the legal rights to own a flame thrower, or issue jihads, or do the other cool things a lot of us would like to do. But yet, like a nagging back pain, it has an odd ring to it which you just can't ignore.

It is that age when promising under-21 players who failed to deliver are all but written off as failures. It is the age when a young player who was 24 isn't called a young player anymore. And excluding Jens Lehmann, it is that age above which almost no player exists in the Arsenal FC squad. Which means if I am suddenly signed on by Arsenal, I'd be the second oldest player in the squad (I don't know which is more shameful, the Arsenal signing, or being second oldest!).

Also, I am told, 25 is the median age of India. As if being a 'Jack of all trades' always isn't enough, here is yet another place I go back to being average. Damn.

And, back to April 8, 2008 yet again. Kodhi and K played their part in livening the day up. Very strongly, at that. One stuffed monkey named Bananas made an appearance on this day, courtesy the aforementioned K. Incidentally, someone in a hurry believes that the stuffed monkey should named MK (pronounced M'kay like Mr. Mackie does) and not "Bananas". The jury is still out on that one, but in the meanwhile my niece acquired the very stuffed monkey after an extremely hostile takeover. Credits are in order to Madman who thought up the original idea.

And yes, in case you missed it, I turned 25. Remember when you were young ?

Rant about packaged tours

2008-03-31T11:27:00.001+05:30

I've always had a very low opinion of travel agents and standardized package tours. All this "Best of Europe in 19 days", "Experience America in 12 days", "Amazing Australia in 5 days" totally takes the romance out of travel. I understand that not everybody has the time or resources to actually experience a country or region as they are travelling through it, and ultimately I am part of the the minority (the ones who want "Indian vegetarian only, cram in 12 countries in 14 days with no free time, Hindi guided tours" are the absolute majority).

However, just when I thought some of these package tours couldn't slip any lower, I saw two ads last week which actually lowered my opinion of these tours further. The first one, (which I will discuss at length) had these salient features.

1. The main point of their ad was how they crammed in the same number of countries and cities in a lesser time frame as compared to their competitors. The ad went on to detail each possible package (for example, how ABC's Amazing Europe in 19 days is being covered by us in only 15 days, and XYZ's Enxhanting Europe in 21 days is being covered by us inly 16 days, or something like that). There was then a detailed table showing how they managed this wondrous feat.

2. Once they were done with country counting and city counting, they went on to the final recourse for country counters- monument counting (within a city). Which means that within their race against time to cover x countries and y cities in z days, their additional USP was that they managed to cover more "sights" within those z days. The aforementioned detailed table also went on to explain how they managed 29 more sights in 14 days. Of course, it is a different matter that they counted "souvenir from Paris" and "souvenir from Chamonix" and "lunch in Disneyland" amongst their 29 additional offerings.

3. There was the usual price comparisons and free-bies and add-ons, which is perfectly understandable.

4. (and the last one takes the cake). The ad assures would be customers that all fellow travellers, all food and even the guide in the trip would strictly be Gujarati. I wonder why the ad was in English then, and given that this was a Mumbai newspaper, I also wonder what would happen if any of the several million non-Gujaratis in Mumbai wanted to go on the same trip. Would they politely be redirected to a "Bengali only trip"? Sheesh, and I thought the most magical thing about travelling, whether abroad or in India, was to discover something new each time. Apparently, the majority doesn't share my opinion.

The other package tour ad reflects mere incompetence on part of the travel agent, rather than anything else. It was a Malaysian GP F1 package, the likes of which have been around at least for the last 5-6 years. One of those "2 nights/3 days in Kuala Lumpur, including qualifying and race tickets, sight seeing in KL, transfers blah blah" packages. No problem with that. Except that the ad was published in the paper on 23rd March, which as F1 enthusiasts would know, was the day of the race. By the time most people would have opened their sunday papers on 23rd, Felipe Massa was probably out of the race by that time, leave alone reaching KL in time to see the race.

If the travel agent is not even competent enough to take out an ad on the right date, how can I be confident that they will send me, one of their several thousand customers, on the right flight.

IPL thought for the day

2008-03-30T13:56:00.006+05:30

I was just thinking: sometime during the ongoing India South Africa test series, if Jacques Kallis and Dale Steyn are bowling in tandem, and any 2 of Dravid, Jaffer or Kumble are batting, we could have a situation where all five people on the pitch (Two batsmen, two bowlers and wicket-keeper) are all from the same club (being Bangalore Royal Challengers of course).

I wonder if there has ever been any parallel to this in any form of international cricket.

Off the beaten track

2008-03-27T18:39:00.010+05:30

'Off the beaten track' would almost be an understatement for some of the places I happened to chance upon in recent weeks. And in 'back of beyond'-land, traveling without a guidebook has its own magic. For one, no Bill Bryson set foot here to pen travelogues which are 'annoyingly free of mistakes'. Lonely Planet barely ever sent its various independent correspondents here. Even if they did, the charm is in discovering random places yourself, something I very fruitfully discovered.

Anyways, 3 picks of the lot.

1. Marine national park. Some 450 odd square kilometers of coral reefs, isolated beaches and breathtaking maritime scenery, the likes of which I haven't ever seen before. The few visitors who do make their way to Marine national park troop down on a day trip from Jamnagar to Pirotan and back. But the more adventurous (meaning me) try something different.

I heard of this place Momai only because an environmentalist I met in Mithapur told me about this place. It is so out of the way that even most local people had never heard of it, leave alone been there. Once the onerous task of finding a driver who knew how to get us there was out of the way, getting there was the next part. The road to Momai isn't even motorable entirely. At some point, after earnestly trying, the car gives up on the road, and vice versa. A short trek across a mud path, copiously dotted with cacti, and I descended a hilly path to one the most serenely beautiful beaches I have ever seen. The complete lack of nearby civilization ensures that there never are too many people around.

Furthermore, since hills block off access to the beach from both sides, it's impossible to walk down to this place from a nearby beach as well. And most of the nearby islands in the Gulf of Kutchh are off bounds to casual tourists without permits (from the forest department, and they aren't very easy to secure). What that effectively means is that marine life is impeccably preserved around here. You can practically walk off the beach into some pristine coral reefs, and oysters (of the pearl variety) frequently get washed up on to the beach.

How long I wonder, before the 5 star chains "discover" this part of the world and "make" it the next Goa.

2. Various bird migration routes.

The time of the year I visited coincided exactly with post-winter migration time. Also, the abundance of salt pans (which I used to visit or pass through regularly) makes this place so conducive to seabird nesting. Apart from flamingos, bustards, storks, cranes and seagulls, I am not even sure what else I might have chanced upon. I was never too much into bird watching (not the flying kind for sure), but having a family of storks randomly nest on your balcony sure is a welcome change from your usual cityscape.

3. Vasai (not to be confused with the Mumbai suburb of the same name): Actually, it was work which took me to this village. Amongst the thatched huts and cacti, a Jain temple, over 1000 years old, is quietly nestled. In fact I wouldn't even have noticed its presence if not for the familiar blue and red board of the archaeological survey of India. Needless to say, there wasn't even a whiff of any touristic presence; even the door to enter the place was locked. Some random villager did happen to have a key, and some enthusuastic and resourceful scouting on the part of a couple of villagers managed to get us entry to the place.

Now being well off the touristic track, and this part of Saurashtra never having come under any foreign invasions (in fact, not even under British rule), meant that for a change here was a pre-historic temple well preserved. In fact, even Ellora is nowhere near this well preserved (of course, Ellora is several dozen times bigger).

This whole place has a very Indiana Jones feel about it. In fact, the local legend claims that solving the frieze pattern in the temple leads to uncovering some hidden treasure. Very Treasure Island esque, if it is to be believed.

Wild things

2008-03-05T07:13:00.006+05:30

And I outdo myself yet again. After the sunset series, two of the subjects which have long been eluding me in my photographic conquests (being birds in flight, and animals in the wild) have been dealt with sufficiently. Please see below for details.

PS: The lioness was captured (photographically of course), in Gir national park and the seagull was in a ferry off Okha in the Gulf of Kutchh.

Before (and after) sunset

2008-02-26T17:19:00.009+05:30

I have become real good at capturing sunset shots it seems. Repeated experimentation and trial & error, and here is the result of some of that (I am sure gazillion people used done the same techniques before, but even Christopher Columbus must have been mighty thrilled discovering America when the Vikings had already done so).

1. 1/100s, f8.0, ISO 200, Cloudy White balance

This one is my favorite. Zoom right into the sun in aperture priority with a high aperture and meter for exposure. Cloudy white balance works best just before and after sunset (Sunshine is preferable before that). If the camera has AF lock, keep the focus locked, zoom out and click. Or what I did was switch to manual, increased f but used the camera recommended exposure time. Thats why the photo looks darker than it really was.

2. 0.3s, f6.3, ISO 200, Cloudy White balance

All exactly the same as the previous photo, but metered by zooming into the point where the sun had just set. Of course, reduced light means longer exposure time. (2) was taken 25 minutes after (1) from exactly the same point.

3. 0.4s, f6.3, ISO 200, Tungsten White balance

Taken more than half an hour after sunset. I figured the colour temperature of the late twilight light was similar to tungsten light (I later learned it is not actually) so tried taking this one with tungsten white balance but surprisingly the sea is in a very genuine shade of deep blue, which is what I wanted to capture in the first place.

4. 1/125s, f8.0, ISO 100, Daylight White balance

Nothing special, except that I used high DOF so that the waves, sun and sky were all in focus. I guess this photo should have been taken in ISO 200, lots of time to try that.

PS: All photos were taken in the same place, but at various times of day (and tide)
PPS: As always, no digital modification whatsoever.

Royal Challenge

2008-02-25T14:37:00.004+05:30

Some quick thoughts on Bangalore Royal Challengers.

1. If this was a first class premier league and not a T20 one, Bangalore would have begun as outright favorites.

2. The name "Bangalore Royal Challengers" is pretty shady. I'm glad they didn't call it "Bengaluru Royal Challengers", which sounds shadier.

3. Bangalore did reasonably well to buy 6 foreigners and no more as opposed to the big spenders who went with 7 or 8, and almost seemed to forget the 'not more than 4 foreigners in the starting 11' rule while bidding. Of course, this means that Chanderpaul and Cameron White will still be spending a lot of time warming that bench.

4. To bring a footballing analogy into this (Damn, I seem to do a lot of this), I think Bangalore Royal Challengers will begin the IPL like Liverpool in the EPL. Lots of talent but will eventually falter to the "big" 3.

5. Bangalore Royal Challengers will arguably boast the best bowling line-up in the IPL- assuming of course that the usual starting line-up is Zaheer Khan, Kumble, Steyn, Bracken, Praveen Kumar.

6. The batting on the other hand, while being stodgy, is not exactly what I'd call swashbuckling. I worry for Bangalore Royal Challengers in all those big run chases.

7. Skimpy does a detailed job of analyzing possible starting elevens for all teams. In addition, I think Dravid will bat in the top 3. I don't see the point in him batting anywhere lower for a T20.

Notes from a small town

2008-02-16T08:47:00.005+05:30

Notes from travel in 'off the beaten track' Gujarat will follow in a deserving blog post(s) of its own. This is just on "life" in a small town.

Okay, maybe town is not the accurate demographic identifier, but I am unsure what to term a settlement where you can drive from one end to the other before reaching 3rd gear.*

Mithapur essentially consists of a soda ash plant and the township which feeds it. Nothing more, nothing less. That's why it's very difficult to answer "So what's new ?" when such a question is addressed to you in Mithapur. I mean, there is only so much that can change with soda ash.

The problem, when you live in such a small township, is your life becomes as predictable as the chemical formula of soda ash. And then there is the local telephone directory, which contains gems such as "Upper brine filtration", "Ammonium chloride line B", "Main bicarbonate office" amongst other such nettlesome memories from inorganic chemistry.

It appears that I have picked up 3 "Gujarati" words- Kem cho, BSE and Sensex. It also appears that using these 3 in conjunction with each other is enough to convey anything here.

Back to the town itself, it is christened "Mithapur", The people who created Gujarati language were the original ones with a sense of humor, since meethu in Gujarat means both sweet and salt. If you're wondering how does someone distinguish between "This food is too salty" and "this food is too sweet", all I can say is that there is no such thing as "too much sweet" in Gujarati cuisine.

And then there are the drastic changes to my dietary patterns. Good changes (if you're speaking from my mom's brahminical point of view). Basically Gujarat is to non-vegetarianism what Pol Pot was to Cambodian human rights. And the place I live in currently is not just Gujarat, but Saurashtra, which is the Gujarat of Gujarat. I do feel bad for all that coastline lying wasted here; there are just unmitigated opportunities for some 'Mahesh Lunch Home' level seafood (meanwhile makes mental note of what the first place I will go to after returning to Mumbai).

On the other hand, this place is great fun, and an extremely welcome change from Mumbai and its local trains. More on that later.

* The original use of this expression, I believe, was used by my dad to describe Singapore. But in this case, I am not even exaggerating.

Why did the nilgai cross the road?

2008-02-08T22:59:00.001+05:30

Can anybody tell me what this animal is? It strutted with a substantial aplomb as I was trying to make my way on the same road that it was on. Even when a Komodo dragon did the same act on me in Indonesia, I could at least identify the aforementioned specimen of fauna. But I am rather embarrassed to admit that I have absolutely no idea what this organism is.

Is it a
a) cow
b) horse
c) deer
d) mule
e) donkey
f) nilgai
g) none of the above ?

The only thing I know about the animal is that it is rather camera shy and the 12x optical zoom my camera boasts needed to be used in all its glory, to capture even this.

Lights, camera, action

2008-02-07T11:22:00.000+05:30

Two photos I took last weekend which merit a mention here. Both are taken from 26 storeys high, and have absolutely no tampering from picasa/photoshop etc.

Night skyline in Bombay. Wide angle, ISO 400, 1.6 seconds exposure, f/8 aperture, cloudy white balance.

Sunset in Bombay. ISO 200, 1/5 second exposure, f/8 aperture, manual white balance (which accounts for the extra brilliant reds).

On the road again

2008-02-06T13:25:00.000+05:30

This post is being composed on a highway from Jamnagar to Okha. The roads are, as Monsieur Modi promised, excellent. I am en route to a place called Mithapur in Gujarat. Now most Indians would translate Mithapur as "sweet town", but apparently in Gujew, it means "salt town".

Not that I have any issues with a place being named "salt town". In fact, the last time I had been to one, it was called Salzburg, Austria. But this salt town I am told, does not boast of Alpine scenery, nor was the Sound of Music shot there.

However, it is a quaint little coastal hamlet boasting of several deserted beaches in its vicinity. More travelogues promised over the next 7 weeks of my life, which will be spent in the aforementioned hamlet.

Club Futebol de Manchester Unido ?

2008-02-02T09:54:00.001+05:30

I foresee interesting times for ManU. For one, there are 4 players currently in the squad who are native Portuguese speakers- Cristiano Ronaldo and Nani (Portugal), Anderson (Brazil), and Manucho (Angola), plus a fifth in the youth team- Evandro de Carvalho Brandao (Portugal), another striker. Add to that Carlos Tevez who is Argentinian (and Spanish is for the better part, mutually intelligible with Portuguese).

Summer transfer rumors notwithstanding, Miguel Veloso, also Portuguese, is a very likely ManU transfer target this summer. Potentially, we could have a situation next season where the entire midfield (Ronaldo, Nani, Anderson, Veloso) and the forwards (Tevez, Manucho) can all communicate to each other in Portuguese. Of course, that makes it difficult for the English speaking minority to communicate to the Portuguese speaking attackers. Essentially a very similar situation to Arsenal (French) and Liverpool (Spanish).

The way ManU are playing right now, who's complaining of the Portuguese connection?

Though I do foresee a potentially interesting fallout of this come 2010 when it seems Fergie might actually retire finally. Jose Mourinho for the manager post, anyone ?

Update: In the dying hours of the transfer window, ManU signed Brazilian teenager Rodrigo Possebon from Inter. I wonder how that escaped the radar of the footballing world. Another Portuguese speaking footballer in the kitty. No wonder Carlos Queiroz is more at home in Manchester than Madrid.

The 7 habits of highly effective Mumbaiyyas

2008-01-16T17:01:00.000+05:30

(Part 2 in a series of posts) on Mumbai.
I have noticed over the past few months in my adopted home that there are roughly seven distinct stages by which one morphs into a Mumbaiyya/ Mumbaikar. (Note that by Mumbaiyyas, I mean anyone who has lived long enough in Mumbai to consider himself/herself a "local", and not only the authentic Marathi Mumbaiyyas. Anyways, the rate at which people migrate into Mumbai, it's very hard to say what a "true" Mumbaiyya is).

So, over to the seven habits of highly effective Mumbaiyyas

1. Calling people Bhai: Which of course means elder brother. Which is sometimes disconcerting if you are a 24 year old male and at the receiving end of such an acclamation. (I mean, who gave me the mandate of being all of Mumbai's elder brother I say). Of course, coming from Bangalore, I am used to calling random strangers Guru, which of course means teacher, and is quite a ludicrous greeting in itself. The jury may be out on which one is more asinine, but I sure took some time referring to every stranger as my elder brother.

2. Actually understanding how local trains work: Here I don't mean being able to get in to a local train and getting out. But actually understanding 'insider info' like
a) knowing which side of the train the platform will be,
b) being able to decode cryptic messages like "B S 9 02", which is the only signposting you will see in a local train station, and actually knowing what it means*.
c) knowing useful hints like "don't take a Virar fast if you don't actually have to travel" that far, and so on.
d) understanding statements like 'I took the 8:11 fast instead of the 8:04 slow' and actually believing the above statement makes for meaningful confabulation.

In addition, you must also be able to gleefully wear that knowing, smug, expression when you see an obviously non-local person trying to unsuccessfully negotiate his/her way through the local trains' countless unwritten laws and undertake a journey.

It appears that worryingly, I am already at this stage.

3. Develop an overpowering obsession of roads and traffic. See this for more info on this. Fotbw has gone on to provide her insider, sociological-psychological-anthropological-philosophical-cultural take on Mumbai's all encompassing neurosis with roads and traffic. Apparently, showing off an intricate knowledge of roads, traffic tips, shortcuts etc is the native way of showing "I am more of a localite than you are". Which is why traffic is an oft repeated theme in conversations. After 9 odd months here, this theory is starting to make a lot of sense.

4. A sincere belief that it takes 25 minutes to get from anywhere to anywhere else in Bombay. This one had me flummoxed for a while. "From Bandra to Nariman point takes 25 minutes, and once the Worli Bandra sea link is ready, it should take only 15 minutes". Replace Bandra & Nariman Point by any 2 random localities and the numbers 25 and 15 never change. You could as well say 42 and the total randomness of the choice of those numbers would remain.

For a brief while, I remarked to myself how it was such a happy coincidence that all places in Mumbai seemed to be 25 minutes away (and I attributed the fact that it was actually taking more like 2+ hours to bad directions & un-knowledgeable taxi drivers). Of course, it didn't take long to realize that on a good day here, you could jog backwards blindfolded and tied-up and still beat the traffic comfortably.

A corollary to this inexorable belief in the efficiency of the traffic is also a (mistaken) belief that every other city has "far worse traffic" than Mumbai. This includes places like Pune, Jhumritilaiya etc
My good friend the cuplord, has been in Mumbai for exactly the same duration as me and he already is past this stage. He has also in true Mumbai spirit, has hit upon the magic number of 25.

5. That unique Mumbai whistle. I am actually very fascinated by this one. I am sure that if properly studied, this can disprove all laws of acoustics. It involves an elaborate twisting of the lower lip with the thumb and index finger and emitting a high pitched whistle. But what I really never have understood how it works, but somehow the person who the whistler is attempting to reach out always responds and nobody else. It is truly a marvel of nature that in the vast crowds you are usually subjected to in Mumbai, one expert whistle, and you can draw out the exact person you are calling. I'd really like to skip levels 3 and 4 and get to 5 directly.

6. Developing a very warped sense of the phrase 'good weather'. Also extrapolate to include the word 'cold'. For the uninitiated, let me explain how Mumbai weather is. The maximum temperature is 33 degrees 365 days a year. It starts raining at 9 AM on June 1st and stops in early September. The minimum temperature is 24 degrees except in 'peak winter' when it drops drastically to 22 degrees, or in especially cruel 'cold waves', maybe 21. It is this kind of weather that permits Lonavla to be considered as a hill station.

Now granted that all cities can't be well endowed weather wise, but after what I am used to, it's very hard not to be tickled to death when the sweaters and monkey caps come out here in January. Especially when the sweaters come accompanied by sentences like "Oh, its such a pleasant day. What fine weather". Sigh. These are the times I miss home most.

7. This is the terminal stage of acute "Mumbaiitis". By this time, you start believing Mumbai is the universe. Juxtapose this with the geocentric theory, where they conceded that there were other places in the universe, but the earth was the center of it all. Mumbaiitis on the other hand, seems to ignore the existence of all places outside Mumbai.

Some common associated symptoms are a sincere belief that Mumbai is the perfect city and the paragon of urban settlements. This includes, but is not restricted to, a belief that "Mumbai has great infrastructure", "Mumbai is the safest city", "Mumbai has clean beaches", "Mumbai is not as polluted as other metros in India", "the indomitable spirit of Mumbaikars", "Mumbai has the best lifestyle" (whatever that means) and so on. Asinine as the above statements may sound, these are commonly held beliefs in 'born and brought up in Mumbai' circles.

While it is common to be fond of the city you spent most of your life in, the parochial obsession the city holds with itself is hard to understand for outsiders. By the time you reach this stage, you usually have either a road or locality in Mumbai named after you. To this set, Navi Mumbai is the "east coast of India", and the universe ends abruptly a little beyond Panvel.

Post script: I don't hate Mumbai to the extent that my 1st two posts suggest. In fact, I don't hate Mumbai at all. But I think of Mumbai more like a dust allergy. It is really despicable the first time, and once you get used to it, you hardly notice it, and it only bothers you once in a way. Also, if you look up Mumbai in a thesaurus, you'd probably find 'Bangalore' listed as it's antonym. Which is why getting adjusted to this place (if you're used to Bangalore) is so hard.

* For the absolutely uninitiated, that means 'Slow train to Bandra with 9 coaches in 2 minutes'.

Dial M for monkee- the history of a nickname

2008-01-07T13:24:00.000+05:30

To those who haven't spent the last few days under behind a rock, "monkey" is the word of the day, week, month or even your year. And it seems that it is a racial slur. Point being, if monkey was a racial slur, i can sue nearly all the people I know in this world. And if I expand monkey to include monkee, monks, monka and other variants, I can sue ALL the people I know in the world.

Flashback to a scene in 2002 in an engineering college in Mysore Road. In the midst of an engrossing discussion on Robbie Keane's late equalizer against Cameroon the previous day in the world cup, Kodhi stepped up and made a profound statement, whose profundity would have made even Abhay proud. "Doesn't Atul look like Monkey in Dexter's laboratory?" was the exact statement. It took a while to even register that he wasn't continuing the aforementioned discussion.

Now the world is used to look-alikes coming from Abhay, (Doesn't maldini look like a shoe, doesn't this twig look like Kanti being among his celebrated ones), but the mimetic statement from Kodhi didn't exactly spur our pea sized brains into working overtime. However, Kodhi pertinaciously held on to the perceived look-alike, choosing another opportune time to reprise his statement. This time he made the "Doesn't Atul look like Monkey in Dexter's laboratory" statement just as I was getting thrown out of an Analog Communications class for ostensibly sleeping in class (in fact, I was doing precisely that). This time, for some reason, Kanti and Abhay, the other 2 celebrated members of the back bench, readily acquiesced.

Written history keeps little record of the next few days that transpired soon after, but by the time of the quarter finals (a couple of weeks later, for those of you who spent 2002 hiding under a rock), all my close friends were introduced to the concept of calling me 'monkey'. Maybe it was because the alternate nickname which was floating around that the time (being Tul), in spite of its mellifluous 'cute'ness is actually a Kannada expletive, not used often even in its home state.

Even family was getting used to the idea of 'Hello, can I please speak to monkey' phone calls, back in the days when landlines were still used. But I decided one fine day, more for the heck of it than anything else, that from henceforth ,my nickname shall be 'monkee' as opposed to 'monkey'. It was a small, yet significant metamorphosis of the appellation. When questioned, it was easy to get away with a vague ass reason like "I'm a big rock n' roll fan, and Kodhi gets some really lousy ideas, that's why I was nicknamed monkee". Eminently believable on both counts.

The egotistical me that usually came out when I was a quizmaster meant that the 1st question of any quiz would have to be a self dedication. In the process, over the next few years, I single handedly gave The Monkees far more references in Bangalore quizzing than they could have ever got otherwise. So much so that all possible fundaes about the band have been exhausted by now.

Cut to scene in IIMB circa July 2005. While logging into BRacket for the 1st time, for want of a display name, I randomly typed in my old college nickname. I had little idea what popularity levels this moniker would reach. Barely 1 term on, I was universally 'Monkee' to the batch, and even a professor would go on to call me Monkee in my class. I would then famously go on and get embarassed during placements when Indum screamed out "Mooooonnkkeeeeeeeeeee" from one end of MDC to another, prompting several stunned i-bankers to wonder whether they had come to the right place to recruit after all. Of course the fact that said person repeated said feat several dozen times over the day somewhat reduced the shock value, if any.

The 'monkee moment' hall of fame would include the time I was made to climb a tree in Coorg during a class trip in the 2nd term of IIMB. Well, it seemed like an obvious thing to ask someone nicknamed monkee to do. Of course, the whole act was partially (make that largely) self initiated. The most famous 'monkee moment' in IIMB of course undoubtedly occurred when a certain "akka" sincerely asked me who Atulya Bharadwaj was, on seeing my name on some list. On volunteering that the aforementioned name was in fact me, came what reinforced 'brand monkee'- "but I thought monkee was your name. At least your family name or something" *

From there, it was a matter of time before batch mates, juniors, friends, friends' parents etc were to know me as Monkee. Several French classmates during exchange would also get to know me as Monkee since "Atulya Raghuram Bharadwaj" was quite a mouthful for le Francaise, who could never get past the 't' in my first name while tryong to pronounce it.

A certain fotbw also ensured that even at the workplace, this name would start to make its presence felt. Cuplord raised a valid point once. If MS 'Vindi' Banga can still be known by his dorm name, me in senior management would prove embarrassing for the company (and at the very least, me). I for one, would not want to be a shareholder in a company where a "Monkee Bharadwaj" has to address the annual shareholders' general meeting.

Of course, Andrew Symonds has taken the moniker to entirely new levels. So now that suddenly it is an ethnic slur to refer to someone as a 'monkey', I can sue a few people for the heck of it. I think I should start with Rags, who amongst his several million accomplishments, came up with the derived Monkesh patrike name, from where this blog takes its name.

* That statement was actually made in all earnestness

Cricket vs Football

2008-01-02T18:03:00.000+05:30

This started off as a random discussion recently between me, Kodhi and Kanti which I extrapolated. The fortunes of cricket teams and international football teams seem to have some parallels.

Australia = Brazil. Strongest by far, and consistently been that way for a while now. Way too much talent in all departments of the game, and even a B side would be amongst the top 8 in the world. A lot of players from here would find it easier to make it to a "World 23" than a "Brazil/Australia 11". And both arguably produced the greatest ever player in the game.

India = Argentina. Lot of passion, huge crowd support, very entertaining teams, but underachieve when compared to their potential. Have had the occasional big wins, but still falter against the top team(s). And both arguably produced the player who can be considered as equal to Bradman/Pele.

West Indies = Uruguay. Had some past glory in the ages gone by. Nothing much to show for in recent times, though both seemed to promise a revival in the 90's/2000's but that was a damp squib.

England = England. Need I say more! Invented the game, but cant play it for squat. Highly overrated, only they think they're good, too much media coverage. But lots of money and excellent domestic setup nonetheless.

Pakistan = Holland. Lots of stars but no results, big underachievers, and too many injury prone players. Holland produces strikers the way Pakistan does with fast bowlers.

Sri Lanka = France. Some very entertaining stuff again, sometimes unconventional style, emerged as serious contenders out of the blue in recent years.

South Africa = Italy. Big time chokers, some bad luck. And could have won far more than they have done so. Falter against some really weak times at times, and also quite inconsistent.

New Zealand = Sweden or Mexico. Have barely ever come close to winning a world cup, and probably will never win a world cup, but will possess way too much talent to be counted among the lower rungs of their respective sport. Yet, they never seriously challenge the top guns either.

The last few are somewhat force fit.

Kenya = Ghana or Senegal. Lot of spirit, from a continent with not much sporting infrastructure, but well capable of a big upset once in a way.

Bangladesh = South Korea. One moment of glory, and for some reason, they seem to think they deserve to be amongst the elite purely for that. They can consistently be walloped by any of the top teams.

Zimbabwe = Cameroon or Nigeria. Had their best lot of players in the 1990's, played almost as equals with the big guns of the game, caused their share of upsets, and then faded out. Lot of mismanagement in the national game too.

Canada = Ukraine. Both qualified for a single world cup, largely on the basis of an individual talent, had some fun, and gracefully exited. Not much expected of them once said individual talent retires, and will probably never do anything of note again.

PS: Abhay strongly disagrees with the India = Argentina analogy, and suggests that India = Holland or India = France is a better analogy. Any comments?

Map Schmap

2007-12-28T22:47:00.000+05:30

I recently received this email from some company calling itself Schmap. Briefly, what they had to say was this

:: Schmap: Oslo Photo Short-list

Hi Atulya,

I am writing to let you know that one of your photos has been short-listed for inclusion in the fourth edition of
our Schmap Oslo Guide, to be published early January 2008.
(Link to Schamp's site where the photo was to be found)

While we offer no payment for publication, many
photographers are pleased to submit their photos, as Schmap
Guides give their work recognition and wide exposure, and
are free of charge to readers.

A quick background check of Schmap revealed that it was in fact some genuine thing, and according to reader reviews, purported to be a "wikitravel meets Lonely Planet" online travel guide. And they sure had a smart way of sourcing their content. Without paying a cent for their photographs, and without worrying about copyright claims, they are relying on photographer's egos (The photographs are credited to them, remember) leading them to grant permission to use their photos for the guide(s). Fair enough. I was more than glad to agree. It can't be too long before they can rely on the same route to source their text content and reviews as well. Basically, not too long before the likes of Lonely Planet and Frommer's are driven out of business.

PS: Having established Schmap's credentials, a quick google of the mail's contents revealed that I was most certainly one of a multitude of people contacted this way.

And a further check to see what photo of mine they had actually decided to use proved to be a bit of a disappointment actually. The selected photo was an arbit, out of the way, almost an apology of a snap, taken almost as an afterthought in front of the Nobel Freddsenter (Nobel Peace Center) in Oslo. Apart from its obvious, current claim to fame, it used to be a disused railway station. Still, not a very impressive building, and certainly not an impressive snap.

Well, for now, who cares...

I'm famous!

2007-12-24T09:50:00.000+05:30

Yeah seriously. At least somewhat. Okay, maybe famous is too strong a word, but "famous" enough for me to be accosted recently by a seemingly random stranger and asked "Excuse me, are you the quizzer from IIMB?"

Let me clarify from the outset that I wasn't attired in one of Planet Mars' seemingly endless range of IIMB jackets/sweatshirts/t-shirts, so there is no way he could have known I was the quizzer from IIMB. I wasn't even in one of the several Quizcorp T-shirts that I am a proud owner of, so there wasn't anything in my external guise to suggest that I was a quizzer. In fact, I was in lemming-wear (ie: business formals, which makes all people look exactly the same). My completely perplexed and clueless countenance must have suggested to him that I wasn't going through the same pangs of face recognition that he was, so he finally suggested helpfully "You did the un-maad open quiz this year in IIMB, and the college quiz last year". Now both of the above are inexorable truths and I made no attempt to gainsay them. This was far better than a naive 6-year old me running up to Kamalhassan and saying I was a big fan of his when I couldn't possibly have named even two of his movies. This chap at least got 2 basic facts about me right.

I continued mumbling some nonsense and he continued with more helpful hints in a seeming attempt to re-jig my memory. "You, Mukka and the other guy did the quiz together I believe" (Whoa, I always thought Udups wa the most famous quizzer of the 3 of us, but seemingly not). I finally found my voice and retorted with "No, I remember doing the quizzes of course, but I didn't know I was this famous".

An awkward silence followed that remark. That sounded somewhat biggety I know. But it IS spooky to be recognized in far away Mumbai, mind you, where I am as yet a nobody (of course, this is a somewhat presumptuous corollary of assuming I am a 'somebody' in Bangalore to begin with). And then, before I could ask who he was, he was off in a flash. An apt ending for a brief 42 second interlude in my otherwise mundane Mumbai existence. Of course in a parallel universe, instead of the random guy, it'd been some cute chick, and we would have ridden off into the sunset, but this'll have to do for now.

C'est la vie. For now, I am going to believe I actually am famous. At least in my own surreal world.

Blog FAQ

2007-12-18T15:02:00.000+05:30

A response to some of the frequently asked questions (D-oh) that have come in my direction in this blog's short existance

1. Why is your blog so Europhile?
A: Because I am Europhile. Okay ?

2. No seriously, it appears that even if you get to writing a post on a meal in a Bangalore darshini, it would still have Euro-centric allusions. Why ?
A: Okay, it's like this. My life is not as exciting as yours. But when I was on exchange, I was almost arrested (twice), spent a night like a hobo on a footpath, got spaced out, nearly got into a shoot-out, got mugged, got stuck in quicksand, snowstorms, participated in a country's first democratic revolution, while meanwhile playing for their Under-21 football team (okay a couple of those may be made up, but you get the drift). But in the past one year, when compared to stuff before, it is like Vinod Kambli's latter career as opposed to his earlier years. And you will agree that the above are somewhat more blog-worthy than "I traveled by local train to office today instead of bus". Yes, that's why I write about year old stuff. Moreover, i did not blog a year back, and hence I'm making up for lost time.

3. Does that mean that since you did not blog for the last 24 years, you will now make up for lost time by blogging about 24 years of trash?
A: Hmm, I didn't think of that, but now you're giving me ideas. And you know how my memory is!

4. Ugh, not that memory thing again.
A: Look, was the Monagesque article blog-worthy or not? What about the Oktoberfest one? If historical articles are fished out from the closet, I guarantee they will have some level.

5. Why is your blog called atulyab? Isn't Monkee either your name or your family's surname or something ?
A: No it isn't. In spite of the universal popularity of the nickname "Monkee" in both IIM Bangalore and RV, that's not really my name. I was christened Atulya Bharadwaj by my parents and my birth certificate still swears by that name. So get used to it. Swalpa adjusht maadi.

6. You seem to dislike shopping
A: You catch on fast, don't you ?

7. I am a female, I am smart, funny, nice, and I share the same interests as you. Will you marry me?
A: You catch on fast, don't you ? Hey seriously, where were you all this while ?

8: Do you have any questions for us?
A: You're kidding right? I've outgrown the age where I attend final placements and needed to answer such questions.

More as and when needed.

Introducing

2007-12-17T15:38:00.000+05:30

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's common man rang the chants on a quiet morning in an Engineering college in Mysore Road, Bangalore. The world had witnessed the birth of it's latest superhero. And this superhero would not be a radioactive spider, nor a mutant, nor a half-alien, half-pigeon, half-Inca, half-meteorite monster. In fact, there was nothing special at all about this superhero. He was scrawny, short, bespectacled and was as noticeable as just another peanut in a bowl of peanuts *.

Little wonder then that he was called "Common man". The nomenclature was given by a certain friend of the author (let's call him, for want of a better name, Co-dee). So what unusual ability did he possess that earned him the "common man" appellation in the first place. Well, it was his uncanny ability to turn up exactly at the scene when something big was about to happen. Whether the class babble mouth was about to announce some juicy bit of gossip to his/her best friend, whether some random riots were about to break out, or if anything newsworthy was about to happen, somehow he was there. It was in this uncanny ability that he stood out like a diamond in a bowl of peanuts *. The similarities he shares with the eponymous RK Laxman comic character played no small part in being given the appellation.

So given his tendency to (unknowingly) prognosticate interesting or cool events, it was somewhat inevitable that he would have a lot to raconteur about. At least a lot to blog about. And that is what promises to follow in (a lot of) blog posts.

With that we conclude the pilot episode, and move on to the real stuff.

Post Script: One of my friends was in a Hari to comment that a lot (actually he said 'all') of my blog posts have largely been rants of various sorts, which is a very accurate observation. I don't see what the problem with that is. Scott Adams made his living from the same. Marvin the Paranoid Android would not be the most lovable character from H2G2 if he ranted any less. Ditto for Bender, Futurama. But point taken. Common man's adventures, at least the early ones, promise to be a lot less 'rant'y. Which doesn't mean we're talking 'Happy Days' but more like 'Family Guy'

* Credit to the same Co-dee for the very unusual similes

Common man and the porn stars

2007-12-16T16:03:00.000+05:30

Common man was having the time of his life. Well, there was the little incident in the morning when the huge German hunk tried to mug him of his money, followed by the scuffle, fistfight, brawl and chase sequence through the back alleys of München's red light district, and then also the other incident where the burly security guards mistakenly thought he was an arsonist and attempted to bayonet him, but apart from that, he was having a wonderful day.

As far as reasons for the above go, he was getting in touch with his hedonistic side in a bierzelt on the last day of Oktoberfest. He was muttering quiet praises to King Ludwig I and Queen Therese in particular, and fat Germans in general, for initiating this famous celebration of bacchanalian revelry. Of course, the Weißbier laden kegs being dished out by the Löwenbräu-Festhalle tent he was in was hardly potent enough to cause any level of inebriation. He was currently on a greater high from roast chicken than the beer itself. Anyways, it was impossible not to be taken in by the festive atmosphere in the midst of all the dirndl and lederhosen clad revelers. Never mind that he had to trip and trek his way to his table through all the Bierleichen (literally 'beer corpses') dotting his path back outside.

One of his fellow travelers in a bout of what would be described as 'chool' in Kannada, or as 'geela' in IIMB, decided to shoot voyeur snaps of some German bombshells, who were somewhere midway between a polka and a stupor (both drunken induced of course). While Common man mused about exactly how much of that watered down Weißbier would it take to knock someone out this badly, his co-traveler went on a clicking frenzy at a rate that was the photographic equivalent of Shahid Afridi's batting.

Of course, all stories have to have a twist. The twist in this one was that his antics were soon discovered by the German bombshells in question and (even more worryingly) by their German chaperons as well. Common man geared up to do what would have been wisest under the circumstances; ie: run, but before he could, 12 German men and women surrounded them, waving those giant kegs in their direction. To his utter surprise, they were not in the least offended or angry about the Peeping Tom. In fact, they seemed positively thrilled. "You photo me, I photo you" was what one of them managed to mumble through his inebriated stutter. Before he and his friends realized it, the report of 12 camera flashes rang clear through the cool October air, this time with the German bombshells draped all over them, "A sure improvement over standard L square-Romanov and bad Punjabi music fare" observed Common Man with glee. "Why are they being so nice to us. Shouldn't they be pissed off?" asked one of his friends, in a mixture of 3 Indian languages, so that the Germans didn't understand. Pat came the reply from Common Man "Just enjoy yourself while it lasts" in 3 more languages.

Just as Common Man and his friends were about to take leave of their new found German buddies, one of the girls, who was giggling continuously through the last 7 minutes, stepped forward and gave him a visiting card. The quick dialogue exchange followed.
Common Man: Danke schon
German girl: Giggle, giggle
Common Man: Auf wiedersehen
German girl: Giggle, giggle
Common man sees the contents of the visiting card and pupils dilate in horror.
German girl: Giggle, giggle

For in the card, all it said was "www.content suppressed.de The best party site in town". Now come on, every guy past puberty knows what a 'party site' is. With pictures of him clicked by 12 pissed off and drunken digital cameras who were proprietors of some smut site does not cause a lot of quietude. Common Man felt like a killer standing with a gun in his hand over a corpse that he did not shoot, if you know what I mean.

The mood was sombre in the Eurocity ride back to Paris. Words like 'morph', 'voyeur', 'porn site' wafted through their minds like the smell of a freshly fried mackerel in a Goa beach shack. Once back home in Bretagne, neither Common Man nor his friends had the courage to go see this site that the card announced. It was a week later (a week in which he cursed München, Bayern München and all München related topics in general) , while chatting with a female friend and he mentioned the incident. After she "Lol'ed and smileyed for some 10 minutes, all she had to say was, "face it. Why would anyone want to see your pictures on the net, even if morphed". This unremarkable stating of the obvious was the epiphany that he needed. After expeditiously extracting the card from it's hiding place and entering the rogue URL, he was indeed directed to this 'party site'.

"Welcome to the best party site. We home deliver confetti, balloons, birthday cakes and all party related paraphernalia in the München urban district" proclaimed the site in 6 different languages. THAT was all. No porn, no smut, not even a picture of the ones he had supposed were the "stars" of the site. Gah, Common man was actually trifle disappointed. But he heaved the proverbial sigh of relief. If it hadn't been early morning, he could have ended the story by riding off into the sunset.*

Epilogue: Common man has now learned to run as fast as his feet can take him every time his co-travelers start photographing subjects indiscreetly. Who knows, maybe the next time, they really would actually be running a party (smirk) site.

* Credits are in order for Dorky Guffaw who was the first to do that trick.

Of Cinderella, Brontitall and other arbit stuff

2007-12-14T14:53:00.000+05:30

On second thoughts, there is one thing in the world more despicable (for the gentlemen) than buying clothes. (Refer earlier blog post for the context). It's buying shoes.

I mean, seriously. Usually men have it easy in this area. All formal shoes come in one of two designs- black or brown, which means even my colour blind self has no quandaries in that department. Hawaii chappals come with a level of standardization that would have made the Ford Model T proud. And when it comes to buying sports shoes, I adopt a Dickie Bird signaling out-like pose pointing my finger forward at some random exhibit in the shop, which the shopkeeper gladly packs up. In fact, if the Bernini sculptures referenced in Dan Brown's 'Angels and Demons' were as unequivocal in pointing at the right direction as I am, Robert Langdon might have saved many more cardinals and archbishops.

No, that's not the demon I'm talking about. Some quirk of fate compelled me to go buy Kolhapuri chappals for myself, the occasion being a cousin's wedding. No disrespect to the cousin being referenced here, I mean she's a real darling and all that, but being made to buy Kolhapuri chappals reminded me of the cricketer in Monster.com's Stuck in the wrong job ad series. I simply didn't fit there. Helpful hints from well meaning relatives like "You live in Linking Road, the happening place for shopping, you won't have problems" didn't help neutralize my cold feet.

Another twist of fate found me on a Saturday afternoon in Pune in the company of two good friends, a cuplord and a half-naxal, half-commie. After some wise counsel with myself, I decided that the half-naxal, half-commie, would have an undoubted advantage when it came to shopping, by virtue of being a female, and furthermore, by virtue of being a localite. In my own version of the on-site off-shore global delivery model, I suggested outsourcing the buying act to her. She jumped on to the task with the alacrity of a French youth biting off grapes from vines at a Provençal wine harvesting festival.

Anyways, cut scene to a Commercial street-esque crowded shopping street in Pune, except that this one had less parking space and more bhel puri stalls. I was herded into one of several shoe stores by the aforementioned couple, and promised that the "job" would be done soon enough. My presence was not really required there but for checking if my feet fit the infernal shoes. i would have gladly acquiesced to having had my foot chopped off for the fitting exercise if only my feet had not been so useful to me. So with Kolhapuri chappals covering most of the foreground and all of my mind space for 15 minutes, various shades of brown and various designs were being flashed in our direction before the inevitable choice had to be taken. I hope at least Cinderella and her sisters had a better time trying out shoes than I did. After taking into account my price sensitivity and the other parties' fashion sensitivity, a certain specimen was soon picked and the salesmen grunted "365" in my general direction. Co-incidentally, apart from being the number of days in a year, it was also the marked price of the aforementioned item.

At this point of time, cuplord rises to the fore with a helpful, "I am an i-banker, I know how to negotiate best, and hence also how to bargain best". In response to the shopkeeper's 365, he responded with "360. No more". The shopkeeper clearly affronted that someone should quote so high a price while bargaining refused to deal with the cuplord anymore. Cuplord was still bargaining in basis points while I decided to take matters in my own hands and quoted a "Saadé do sau" as my offer price. I have since been informed that Saadé do is not the correct Hindi term for two and a half. Apparently, inductive logic fails and adding a Saadé before every number does not yield in it's being incremented by half. The creators of the Hindi language must be sharing a quiet laugh somewhere, as their ploy of confusing non-native speakers is clearly paying rich dividends.

The next 42 seconds passed off in a breeze, and all I recollect is walking out of the store with a pair of slippers in my hands, a lighter wallet and a clearly uneasy stomach. The sound of the shop assistants sharing a hearty laugh at my (and cuplord's) expense still reverberated along with the traffic noise. Gah, who would have thought that simple wedding shopping would lead to so much trauma.

Sigh. Am I the only one who thinks that Kolhapur is going the way of the Brontitall planet and the Dolmansaxlil Shoe Corporation. (Hitchhiker's guide, for dummies). For my own wedding, I must seriously take up on Watsan's suggestion of getting married in my usual IIMB attire (ie: white T-shirt, faded shorts and Hawaii chappals).

When in Rome, do as Bill Bryson does

2007-12-13T10:56:00.001+05:30

The gist of this post is going to be "Bill Bryson rocks". Not too much more. No humorous dialogue, no exaggerated accounts of my (mis) adventures. No. If droll wit is what you were expecting, go to http://dilbertblog.typepad.com. Or better still, read the earlier posts in this very blog!

So, why Bill Bryson? He isn't what I'd call my "favourite author" (That honour goes to Douglas '42' Adams). Why indeed is Bill Bryson the 1st author to merit a mention on this blog. Well for one, atulyab.blogspot.com set out to be a travel-oriented blog with a humorous touch (or humour-oriented blog with a travelous touch, depending on my mood!) and simply put, Bill Bryson is to humorous travelogues what Rinus Michels is to total football. Furthermore, if at all I ever get down to writing a book in this lifetime, a Bryson-esque travellogue is certainly what I'd be aspiring to write (Special reference to cuplord again for pointing out how my life was worth a book being written!)

So back to the man. This whole pipe dream of book writing was largely inspired by Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe. It has several parallels with my own life. BB undertook a 4 month backpacking tour of Europe while in the middle of college. I did my 3 month long peregrination in the middle of college too. (Of course, like BB, I did not drop out of college at the same time. Furthermore, I could identify personally with at least 15 cities covered in the book, having been there myself. Also, unlike his other works, the book is based more on his solo observations, with more focus on the cities/countries than the people in them. Again very exchange-esque.

Of course, to enjoy a Bryson, it doesn't really matter whether you have been to the place he is describing, or even whether you plan to go there at all. A strong example is Notes from a big country. It takes super talent to write a book about arbit, out of the way locations in the USA, and still make it as interesting as it was.

A final word on Bryson's magnum opus, A Short History of Nearly Everything. In Bryson's words, "It was as if [the textbook writer] wanted to keep the good stuff secret by making all of it soberly unfathomable.
– on the state of science books used within his school"
I sometimes wonder if my electronics text books were written in the same way, would I have ever made my way towards IIMB at all! Andrew Tannenbaum is probably the closest ever attempt to 'do a Bryson'.

And finally, a pic I call "Nearly everything, of a short history". Apart from the title, it shares little with the book, if at all, but is a living and breathing example of history, as seen by the Romans. In one little snap, the site of Brutus stabbing Caesar, the site of Mark Antony's speech, the Roman senate, the 1st Catholic church in Italy, also the last pagan temple, the Settimo Severo (all victory arches are invariably modeled on this) right down to Michelangelo's Palazzo Nuevo, Monumento Vittorio Emanuelle to name a few, basically 2500 odd years of Rome through the ages, all captured in one little frame. Signature stuff from Rome!

Back to the subject. Bill Bryson rocks. Full respect to Bill Bryson.
Fuller respect to the one who introduced me to Bill Bryson, the (oddly named) Barbie.

Mumbai, part 1

2007-12-10T15:17:00.000+05:30

Mumbai. A city that dazzles, surprises, fascinates... And disgusts. Usually, all at once. This post however, will attempt to do none of the above. Though it will make an earnest effort to capture some ideas (read ramblings) on the author's city of residence for the past 6 months, Mumbai. Lets just call it part 1 of n, for algebraic convenience.

One thing about his adopted city totally captured the fascination of the author. It wasn't the night life, not the Plutarch display of opulence of the city's affluent, or its antithetical squalor with which it co-existed, or its incredibly efficient local train system. It was, in fact, the city's overpowering obsession with traffic and roads.

Seriously, this actually beats the British and weather paradigm by light years. Young couples, as they cootchie-coo on Marine drive, discuss the traffic jams. Top executives begin board meetings with ways to beat the traffic on their way home from Nariman Point. Future Sachin Tendulkars and Vinod Kamblis exchange notes on the traffic as they steal a quick single in Shivaji Park. And strangers chum with each other on the Virar Fast by discussing the Worli Bandra Sea Link (which for brevity's sake will henceforth be referred to as WBSL). Oh, opportune time for the Worli Bandra Sea Link to make a dramatic entrance in the story. Never in the recorded history of mankind did a city rhapsodize so much. Not Roma with the priceless San Pietro, and certainly not Pisa and its beloved Torre Pendente, as Mumbai did with the WBSL.

"The WBSL is our deliverer from all our woes" remarked a Mumbaikars in earnest. "The WBSL is our panacea, the answer to all our prayers" remarked another localite, who was probably in more need of a exorcism than a flyover. "The WBSL will now truly make Mumbai the center of the universe" remarked another localite with practiced nonchalance. This frequent rhapsodizing about the WBSL made this author very curious about the true nature of this supposed civil engineering wonder.

Earlier this year, this author had to go to Prabhadevi, in an office he was told was superb simply "because it had a view of the WBSL". Nazareth, circa 29 AD couldn't have a more upbeat misc-en-scene about its newly arrived messiah as Mumbai did just now. All along the way, his co-passengers were constantly chanting "WBSL, WBSL" in a manner that would shame the most fervent Hare Krishna member. His curiosity piqued, and by now expecting a giant 18 lane flyover with Bentleys plying on them, with gorgeous cheerleaders cheering them on, the 1st thing he did on descending in front of the office was ask his co-passenger (who we shall call FOTBW), "So where is the WBSL?".

FOTBW raised her little finger and pointed towards a construction crane in the sea, where it was unglamorously flanked by 4 half complete concrete pillars. It was from a scene not out of place in modern day Beirut. 4 half complete pillars and a seemingly abandoned construction crane. THAT is the WBSL. THAT IS ALL the WBSL is about! At least for now.

The author wasted no efforts to ridicule the hype that went about this WBSL thing for the next few months. But it seemed that the God poetic justice had a sense of humour. Or maybe he was from Mumbai. Come October, he had to shift offices, and guess where his new office was. Yes, in fact it was facing the very same WBSL he always ridiculed, which by now had grown from 4 half built pillars to 8 half built pillars, and continued receiving paeans like never before. Like Coleridge's albatross, it always raises its ugly head where I can see it and like the rising sun in Japan, its always there to see, whether or not you like it.

Apparently, he is not the only one. A half-commie, half-naxal friend of his, also had a misfortune of having an office facing this "wonder of man-made creation". Apparently, in her line of work (related to infrastructure), people are sent to this office as a punishment to remind them of the lousy job infra is doing in the country. To add insult to injury, one also has to witness devotees of the WBSL with their teary-eyed "Oh WBSL, WBSL, save me".

C'est la vie.

PS: All cities, flyovers and people mentioned in the story are real. Everything else is grossly exaggerated.

Of clothes shopping and terrorists Part 2

2007-12-10T10:40:00.000+05:30

Monte Carlo, Monaco, November, 2006

Atulya was a proud young man. A sworn formula 1 fan since childhood, he stood at Casino square ogling at the most famous spot of real estate in the sport. Also at the expensive cars. Uh, and then also at the hot women (okay, you got me there).

On his way to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo (to non-Francophiles, that’s the railway station) after a walk along the Monaco Grand Prix circuit, our hero decides to take a walk up to Grimaldi palace which had the best view of Monaco. He didn’t think much of the 2 cops suspiciously tailing him. Only while crossing the road, did a cop catch Atulya’s attention with some elaborate gestures coupled with some very rapid French. Our protagonist believed the cop was either engaged in an elaborate Monagesque mating ritual or was telling him not to jaywalk. Choosing not to antagonize him, Atulya responded with a non-committal “Bonsoir. Merci beaucoop. Au revoir” before setting off. Apparently, the cops weren’t done. Atulya was puzzled. That combination of French phrases usually got him what he wanted. Even in Germany! Why the hell wouldn’t this Monagesque cop get away, he thought with mild irritation as he turned around.

Somewhere around this time, Atulya realized the cop meant business. He wasn’t sure what exactly tipped him off, but it was probably the firearm the cop had aimed at his head. Once he put the proverbial “life flashing by his bespectacled eyes” away, Atulya sought to exonerate himself from whatever this Monagesque cop thought he had done (Isn’t Monagesque a cool word. I shall make it a point to use it several times in this story. In fact, I think I shall adopt citizenship of Monaco, so that I can refer to myself as “Monagesque”. Anyways, back to the story, which will henceforth be presented in dialogue format).

Monagesque cop: (With gun still aimed earnestly at Atulya’s head) Quelle nationalité êtes-vous?
Atulya (somewhat stunned): Je suis Indienne.
MC (looking a little relieved): Vouz passeport, s’il vouz plait?
A: (Somewhat relieved) D’accord (Then rummages in backpack)
MC: (Screaming) NON, non, non, non, non, Attendez.
A halts in his tracks, petrified. The cold November night air didn’t help either.
MC: Some very rapid French
A: (Somewhat confused) Pardon? Je ne comprendres pas
MC: (In a horrible French accent which reminded A of the Pink Panther) Aye veel tache you passeporret meyeselff (Then bends down, never taking his eye, or gun off A at any time, and very slowly grabs A’s passport out of the bag)
MC: (leafs through the passport for more than 5 minutes as if it were the latest Superman comic before finally saying) Monsieur, C’est Anglais.
A (huh?): huh?
MC: N’est pas comprendrez *
A(repeats like an idiot): N’est pas comprendrez
MC and A stare at each other for a minute before A decides to break the ice.
A: Parlez vous Anglais?
MC (Hesitatingly): Oui, en peu. (Then continues like Pink Panther). Aye donnt onderstained you passeporrt. All its in Anglais. What ees you nayme, you day off birrth, and oll deetayls of you passeport. And vot ees you doing in Frronce ?
A: I can help translate. Then reading off the passport- Ici mon nom, ici mon pere nom, C'est mon jour de naissance, c'est mon lieu de naissance. And I am an exchange student in Brest, Bretagne.
MC is very decidedly noting all this in a little notebook, never taking the gun off A’s head. And after a deliberately practiced double-take): Why Brest ? Is that even a real place?
A is very relieved since he thinks the ordeal is over, but MC relentlessly holds on to A’s passport. A sophisticated looking walkie-talkie surfaces from MC’s pocket who then flags down a passing patrol car and he whispers something to them. Now there are 3 MC’s. 3 guns and a very very petrified A.
MC (clears his throat as if about to make a dramatic announcement, and then speaks to walkie talkie): Rapid French, rapid French Interpol rapid French rapid French Al-Qaeda, rapid French more rapid French.

Whatever colour was remaining in A’s face drained at the import of the words he heard. Even his bench mates in engineering college, with their weird look-alikes and death jokes, could not have suggested a more ridiculous scenario than the one the Monagesque (see, here I go again) cop just did. MC then goes on to give the man at the other end of the walkie-talkie all details of A’s life which he could glean from A’s passport- which owing to A’s limited French, and MC’s even more limited English, wasn’t too much.
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui, oui
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Non, non, non, non, non, non

This pattern continued for some 10 more minutes. With the 4 guns still trained against A’s head, it felt more like 10 years. Mind you, this whole incident takes place right next to what would have been the starting grid of the Monaco GP. Normally this would cause multiple orgasms for most F1 enthusiasts, but these scenes are best enjoyed without 4 guns aimed at your head. By now, A had had enough time to invoke the names of most of the 330 million strong Hindu pantheon, at least the ones whose names he could remember.

While A continued his lamentations and MC finally concluded his recriminations over the walkie-talkie, and an apologetic looking MC (with his even more apologetic looking walkie-talkie) gravely walks up to A: Aye am sourry. Eet seems you are not the terrowreest vee wear luking four.
A: Hello? Excuse me. You thought I was a terrorist? From what angle do I look like a terrorist to you? I object to this gross misrepresentation of your powers as a Monegasque cop to question unsuspecting tourists of their inalienable rights to roam this country as they please.

Of course, A didn’t really say the last dialogue. In fact, he was running as fast as his legs would take him to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo to the first train that would take him back to the (relative) safety of his friend Mukka’s place in Nice.

Post script: A politely told the shop assistant that he wouldn’t actually “grow any taller”, who was rather amused. A was amused too. He was more amused in Shillong when his very kind host asked if he was older than his sister or not (he is in fact 7 years younger), but what the hell, between being mistaken for a terrorist, and a growing schoolboy, he’d take the latter.

PS: All characters in the story are most certainly real, but the events may be (for lack of a better word) "somewhat exaggerated".
*- Please pardon spelling mistakes in French. My French is apparently good enough for small talk with Monagesque cops, but not good enough to spell correctly.

Of clothes shopping and terrorists Part 1

2007-12-10T10:28:00.000+05:30

Bangalore, November, 2007
Atulya Bharadwaj was engaging in the most despicable act known to mankind.
Buying clothes
(Please note: by “man”kind, the author here refers to “Man” kind only, not the proverbial “mankind”, Feminists, please excuse. Go read “Y the last man” or something)

So the hero of this story, Atulya Bharadwaj was conned into the most despicable act for a man- buying clothes, which were to be worn to a cousin’s wedding. Now there are several reasons (most of them owing to genetic deficiencies) why Atulya considers buying clothes so despicable.

a) Being colour blind, the greens, the reds and the browns were like Chinkies to him. ie: They all looked the same. And somehow every designer since antiquity seemed to believe that these are the colours all men’s clothes should come in.
b) His somewhat short and lean stature meant that nothing ever fit.

So back to the clothes shopping. Point a) above was being sorted out by his helpful and ever patient mother, offering helful fashion advice such as “No that is greenish brown, this is brownish green, and the other one is more burgundy” (As if it made any difference to him). But that still left genetic deficiency b). There is nothing in the world that could sort that out. And just like F.Alonso and the McLaren team management, they just didn’t fit.

To exacerbate Atul’s growing impatience, a demented but well-natured shop assistant offered some blindingly useful advice to his mother. “Buy this maydum (Madam said in a way only Kannadigas can), when your son grows little taller, it will fit him”.

Now THAT is where Atul drew the line. Looking younger than your age is one thing, but a virile, young 24 year old lad being confused for a pre-pubescent kid is another. Atulya instantly exploded in a barrage of invectives against the life, the universe and everything in general. To further add ignominy to the situation, our protagonist forgot that he was back in his hometown and spoke in Hindi to the assistant.

In the midst of this mildly comical scene, our hero’s mind harks back to a scene which occurred nearly a year ago, when (as being mistaken as someone younger/more harmless goes) the opposite happened.

Flashback continues in part 2

It's...

2007-12-10T10:12:00.000+05:30

Let me begin by repeating the title. It's...
And a hearty 'K' to one and all.

So... it seems I have arrived. At least the blog has arrived (Le blog est arrive, for those of you who don't understand English).

Sadly, monkee.blogspot.com and simian.blogspot.com were taken, so I had to take drastic measures (such as using my real name).

After half a decade of resisting the advances of the "blogging world", of procrastinating, pretending to be tech-illiterate, and general NED, I have made my entrance (please feel free to add sound and light effects, artificial smoke, screaming cheerleaders to mark this momentuous occasion). Many thanks to the several dozen people who kinda goaded me into this (special thanks to the one who said "Your life is interesting enough to have a book written about it").

So, let the good times roll.

PS: For those of you who didn't understand the significance of the title, you really should start watching Monty Python.