The Great Indian Coast to Coast Dash: Mangalore to Chennai

The day started out good, lesser pain than I had anticipated. There was a dull pain in the nape of the neck and my ass hurt, a dull, generalized pain. But not really bad, considering what we had rode through the day earlier. As we lumbered up and started preparing for departure, the memories of yesterday’s ride (only the horrible part near Mangalore) kept coming back to me and I was wondering if I would make it back on similar roads. Shiv had talked to many people and found an alternate route that would let us avoid the hell of yesterday. Really fearing the ride, I packed my bags, and went to put my leg over the bike for another day of hard riding. When we got to the bike we saw that the fat rear tyre was flat, and I could not but adore the bike for not giving up on me during the ride yesterday. I mean such a noble character, this bike, goes through all the trouble I put it through, doggedly moves along to my destination, takes a nail in it sometime and yet, wounded, gets me home before revealing its wounds. Wow! As Shiv moved out to get a repair guy, I promised the Avenger a wax polish as soon as we got back. The repair guy was fetched, the rear wheel detached and taken to his shop, the puncture repaired, and the wheel re attached. In the meanwhile, Maheep had had another forty winks, and we had lost an hour.
Finally, as we set out, I had four seats to choose from. The driver and pillion seats on the Avenger and the Unicorn both. Considering that I’d be on the Avenger for the larger part of the day, and driving for atleast half the day, I decided to try the contours of the Unicorn’s pillion seat. Hopefully, they would make contact with virgin areas on my ass, and redistribute, if not reduce, the pain. As we rode out through the streets of the city, stopping at a mechanic’s to do some adjustments on the Avenger’s brakes, I realized that there was no improvement in the pain because of the change in seating arrangement. Also, during our Chennai Mangalore ride, we had been complaining about the inadequacy of the Avenger’s pillion seat. (After all, the only comparison that we had was the Avenger’s front seat, and I am almost sure that there is no more comfortable seating on two wheels southwards of Rs 1 lakh. A rather expensive proposition for a Sofa, you will say, but then again, which sofa can go throughout the day at 100kmph and can run at 80kmph till the tanks run dry or the roads give up? ) so we realized, that the Avenger’s back seat wasn’t that bad at all. Maheep also realized that he would be on the Avenger for the day, so we had a switch, Shiv with his leather half gloves and yellow – orange shirt riding the Avenger, me on the Unicorn’s pillion, with Maheep driving.
We had now cleared the city limits and were proceeding on Shiv’s daily bus route, through some lush green village roads with sparse traffic, keeping up a comfortable 60 kmph through the twisting roads. We crossed Infosys, situated on a panoramic hilltop surrounded by bright green valleys, overlooking the sea. Lovely, how someone had thought to make a sweat shop for I don’t know how many thousand people at the spot ideal for a retiree’s cottage. Or ironic. Whatever. We had now cleared the outskirts of Mangalore and were climbing, steadily scaling the Ghats on our way to Madikeri. We had planned to go through Madikeri to Mysore and then join up the Chennai bound NH7 at Hosur, trying to bypass Bangalore somehow. Based on our harrowing experience of the day before, we had estimated a total riding time of 20 hours with another four hours of breaks. We were optimistically hoping to be in our flat by 4 AM on Monday morning, and, in case of further derailment of plans, had decided to spend the night at Bangalore or Hosur.
Going through the consistently breathtaking scenery on the roads leading upto Madikeri, I felt refreshed, just taking in the sights, stopping at some places to just look at the mountain tops piercing the cloud cover, a distant mountain stream furiously foaming and fighting its way down through dense growth and stubborn rocks, resting a while as it crossed roads rather tamely and then continuing its struggle. Soon, I was driving, and in order to reduce fatigue at this early stage, we were frequently switching between the driving and pillion seats. The climb, the scenery and the twisting roads, coupled with moderate traffic kept us at 40 kmph, and frankly, remembering the crawl at which we had been moving the day before, we were not complaining.
Soon, we entered Madikeri, a quaint little hill town bustling with sightseers. I took a painkiller for the headache and body ache that I had been having, Maheep took one too, and we crossed town, looking out for a place to eat and sit. We found a small hotel overlooking the valley and stopped the bikes. The ride upto here had been rather tiring, and Shiv had decided to make this his return point. We ordered chai, food and more chai, and as the order came, sprawled on the hard sofa in the lobby in an effort to channel our body weight through other parts of our body than the posterior. The rest was refreshing, and I thought it better to have such stops, assuming that we would be riding late into the night. The food, rather tasty, arrived, and were ready to part in a short while. We asked about the directions and the road conditions and got three contradicting opinions, one saying that the road for the next 30 km was bad and then good till Mysore, other saying that the road for the next 30 km was good and bad from there, and one guy plainly saying that the roads were bad throughout.
The goodbyes were said, and we rode off, starting our descent towards Coorg district. The downward journey was not much different from the ascent, the roads average, traffic moderate, and the twists ranging between irritating and interesting.
The first 20 odd km went by in an hour, the scenery continued to be lovely, the path twisting and under wheel conditions average. We were soon descending at a much lower rate, and making faster progress on account of the less twisty roads. The scenery was still amazing, though by now we were used to this scenery and were not stopping so often to take pictures. A few houses did stand out, cuddling at the feet of a small hill, ensconced by the jungles, pretty little hideaways from the bustle of Metros, keeping up a symbiotic existence with nature in all its beauty.
I had been thinking as I rode along, and had been considering the purchase of a cushion to bolster the sagging morale of the pillion rider. As we rode at a fairly fast clip through Coorg countryside, I spotted a small mattress shop and did make the purchase. If nothing else, it would at least provide a re distribution of the pressure points. The pain in the posterior was now reaching my head, and was being prevented from reaching majestic proportions only by the fairly good ride that we were having then. The roads were now straight more often than not, traffic moderate and under wheel conditions good. We had upped our speeds to around 60kmph and were making good time. I was still hoping to be in my bed by 4.
We almost crossed Mysore without realizing it, having taken the bypass and never really having entered the city. Soon, we found ourselves outside Mysore, on the Bangalore side, staring at a well marked 4 lane highway with medians. On some asking, we understood that some fast riding awaited us from here on, at least upto Bangalore. Having travelled the Bangalore Chennai route, we knew that we could do that stretch at close to 100 kmph consistently. So, the only patch of uncertainty lay between entering Bangalore and leaving it. Bangalore traffic was something that I wanted to avoid at all cost, especially after such amount of riding. Bangalore was, essentially the halfway mark in terms of distance, even though time wise, it was well beyond the half way mark. As we stopped for chai at a road side tapir, I did a re calculation of travel times, based on much higher average speeds that I was now looking up to. I kept a clear 2 hours for the Bangalore stretch, and assumed a steady 80 kmph average speed for the remaining distance. Surprisingly, this working showed that I’d be in bed at 1. Boy, was I happy!
We set off, determined to beat my calculations. Having seen excellent conditions after such a long time, I had the opportunity to twist my right hand freely and we were soon cruising at 90 – 100 kmph. The under wheel conditions were excellent, roads arrow straight for the most part, but the traffic was now dense, though fast moving. I have always considered this kind of riding to be my forte, and I believe that I can use the bike’s sharper acceleration and handling to keep rather fast speeds going through the dense traffic. Having had this opportunity after a long time, and remembering the college time Tumkur – Bangalore runs, I was rather pumped up, or maybe the painkiller was finally working, helping us to go on a fast clip, at one point taking on a train and beating it. The sanitized, boring highways that I so did not like yesterday was the best thing for me at that point of time. I was, as always, trying to max out on daylight riding, hoping to cross Bangalore with some light remaining, the Bangalore Chennai part now seemed to be my backyard, and I was totally confident of crossing it in the night, even with one of us sleeping most of the time and both of us sleeping some of the time.
As we approached Mandya, the rains started their race again, but this time even they were moving fast, and we did get drenched more than a couple of times before we finally managed to outrun it. The entire stretch was almost continuous high speed riding, with only a couple of stops to change drivers. A traffic signal at Mandya was the first time that we stopped for more than a minute. Fatigue was telling now on both of us, and we dicided to slow down for a while, on the lookout for a decent place to stop. Café Coffee Day signs on the highway were enticing, though we did not stop there, choosing to ride on in the face of receding lights. We did stop, but this time it was for the outflow of fluids. I stretched my legs a bit too, jogging for a short distance and doing a few sit ups, trying to keep the legs alive. We set out again, still clinging on to near 100 kmph speeds, getting nearer and nearer to Bangalore as the light kept falling steadily.
As we were approaching Bangalore, I had been thinking of a road that met the Hosur road as a flyover near Attibelle. I remember someone saying that it was the road to Mysore, the Mysore Infrastructure Corridor, a stretch of almost uninterrupted highway with little traffic. I was not sure if the road was operational, but had been asking about it, as taking it would mean completely bypassing Bangalore’s traffic.
We crossed Wonder La and soon saw boards showing different roads for Hosur and Bangalore, something that I was hoping for. We took the Hosur road and were soon delighted to get on a six lane highway that was almost totally empty. This was also the first toll booth that charged for bikes too. We paid up and raced on, happy to see a well laid, empty road stretching out as far as the eyes could see. The bike was soon doing its max, trying to climb over the 110 mark, when, looking at the mirrors, I saw the sun, diminishing glory as it slowly stepped down from its throne. The rays hit the wet roads and bounced off, giving the entire road behind us a beautiful golden radiance, and giving me the image of being Sooraj’s satwa ghoda, riding right out of a setting sun. the road, though was not complete, and at multiple places, we had to move out on to public roads, and then turn around and rejoin the MICE road after crossing the unfinished stretch. At one such point, we took a wrong turn and were on to the Bangalore traffic, and very suddenly, the time required to reach Hosur had gone up by threes. A situation that I was not ready to face, we turned around and after going through a one way street, were directed to some bad roads that took us back on the MICE. Relief. The throttle was twisted in fury and the bike broke out in high speed ecstasy yet again.
Very soon, we exited the MICE, having reached Electronic City. We were now running low on fuel, and traffic had increased substantially and under wheel conditions deteriorated significantly, resulting in a 50 kmph ride. Petrol is expensive in Karnatake, so we took only a couple liters, enough to clea the Electronic City traffic and reach Hosur. The highway around Hosur is under construction, and the night driving conditions are extremely bad, with a total absence of lighting, dug up patches of roads just about anywhere, and the intercity buses and trucks racing through the darkness. Many panic braking situations presented themselves, me stopping just short of a flimsy, almost invisible sign that said ‘Diversion’, and was the only defence that was provided to motorists from a 10 foot fall. And oh, did I fail to mention that it had been raining, reducing visibility to less than one car length, making the driving as much of guesswork as much as it was skill. We crossed the bad stretch at a fairly average speed, and, drenched, stopped for some food, and, of course, chai. We had entered Tamil Nadu, and tanked up on the slightly cheaper fuel as I went into a stinky public bathroom, stripped and tried to wring my clothes dry. And the socks. Wet socks, I believe, are the most morale declining factors that I have ever encountered. As we sat at the restaurant, shoes and socks drying at nearby chairs, drinking almost a jug of chai each, we realized that it was only seven. A relaxed ride would mean 5 hours to Chennai, and the warm bed. Suddenly, a new prospect reared its head. Coast to Coast and back inside 48 hours! Wow! A comfortable target, we had a good meal, loads of chai, and then we set out again, almost on the home stretch now.
I made slow progress initially, the rain and spray from vehicles forcing me to drive blind, looking out for the tail lights of vehicle up ahead. This is not really confidence inspiring riding, and I was soon getting irritated, when I was overtaken by a guy in a bike, no helmets, no raincoat, riding full throttle, weaving his way between the trucks and buses. Thankful of this Godsend, I raced up to about two cars length behind him and stuck to his tyreprints. He braked, I braked. He raced, I raced. He had taken away all my risk and doubled my speed. For the first time, I was glad that such stupid riders existed. The rains continued till the slight hilly terrain that is encountered till about 60 km from Hosur.
From then on, as the rain subsided, and traffic thinned, we steadily increased speeds, with the speedo again trying to break free of the 110 kmph mark. We crossed Krishnagiri after a couple of hours of fast, but boring riding. More chai and some snacks, and some walking to free up our limbs, and we were back on the bike again. The rain had now stopped, but the wet socks stuck to my feet with a damp, depressing chill that was creeping up on me. I had an idea and decided to test it on Maheep. I asked him to remove his shoes and tie it to the bag tied behind the bike, thus ensuring that the socks dry out quick in the hot air coming from the engine. The idea was successful, and so after a few minutes, we stopped again, this time Maheep put on, and I removed my shoes, and also my socks, and tied them to the bag. As I was about to pull my leg over, I realized that there was another piece of clothing that was giving the same damp feeling to other vital organs. I decided to step out of it, and then ensued a towel covered road side strip show, on successful completion of which, I was feeling much more free and dry.
We got on the bike, Maheep driving and rode towards the East Coast, which was at that time reeling under some very picturesque lightning. After a while I realized that my jeans, still wet were not drying up as they did not get too much air. A driver switch solved this problem, and very soon, I was totally dry after a long, long time, even if this had come to me at the cost of a few intimate pieces of clothing. Another couple of hours and we had entered Chennai, the deserted outskirts very similar to the day before (even though it felt like years) when we had left them, heading out to the West Coast.
At 15 minutes past midnight, we pulled up in our flat, the trip meter reading 1514km, and the clock registering the trip completed in 46 hours.

The Great Indian Coast to Coast Dash: Chennai to Mangalore

No. I dont mean along the coast. I mean coast to coast, through solid indian heartland.
Well, about the trip.
I have always had this urge, this twitch, to do things that others have not. I spend considerable amount of time trying to figure out such out-of-routine items that would lead people to think that i am not, as aforementioned, ordinary. Some people do go a little out of line and try to suggest that i am mad, but i should remind them that its the abjectly poor that are mad. I, fortunately, am merely eccentric.
Well, about going away from the routine. I was sitting one day, wondering about everything when i realised that going out for long distances on Indian roads is not something people do very often. Especially if the aim is not to reach a destination, but to merely ride. So that settled it, and i decided that a ride from one coast to another would be a wonderful way to get some more eccentricity points.
Being stuck in Chennai, on the Eastern Coast of India, i had a viable starting point to hand. When Shivaditya, a freind from my MBA days moved to Mangalore, i knew that this was more than a stroke of luck. For me, it was divine intervention forcing my hand into the Coast to Coast ride. Of course, while buying a bike, i had also considered the away from ordinary logic and bought a bike that was not a routine bike. Having bought an Avenger 200cc liquid cooled cruiser bike, i now had all i needed to embark on this rather historic ride.
Except, that even in my wildest dreams did i not believe that i would be able to complete the trip inside one weekend, driving alone. So i wanted another driver. Or and extra day. having scouted all around for a driver, i had had no luck till now. So i decided to take the extra day and announced my intention to leave on the Independence Day weekend. Luck intervened and sent some Tanzanians my way, who i had to chaperone around, forcing me to postpone my ride by a week. Next week, unexpectedly, Maheep announced that he would join me. Now i had every ingredient for this trip.
The plan was to leave on Friday night, ride up to Bangalore, which we knew was a 5 hour drive at the max, rest a while and then ride on to Mangalore, arriving hopefully by early evening. Stay the night there, leave late in the morning and arrive Chennai early in the night. Well, atleast that was the plan.
Come the designated day, i prepared myself with the general maps and driving directions and waited for Maheep to turn up from his job as a Bandhua Majdoor. He turned up at 2AM and by 2:30 AM we were off.
Riding out of Chennai through Poonamallee was smooth, very few drivers venturing out so late at night. We had one scare near Porur when i, driving, failed to notice a truck turning into our lane. Panic braking and some good luck ensured that we kept both wheels on the road. As we left Chennai behind and moved into the lovely 4 laned NH4 with good lighting and sparse traffice, i offered the driver seat to Maheep. My next memory is of observing the fuel gauge at near empty, and the speedo indicating a steady 60kmph. On asking Maheep, i realised that the bike had gone into reserve a few miles back, he had slowed down, pulled the bike over to the left, changed to reserve and the driven on. All this, i have no memory of. Safely, then, it can be assumed that i had slept throught the better part of the last hour. For another 40km, we rode on at a steady, fuel conserving 60kmph with diminishing fuel and increasing heartbeat, keenly looking out for a petrol pump. We reached one, and just when our heartbeats had subsided to more manageable levels, we realised that the attendent had locked himself in and was not going to wake up, never mind our hammering and barging on the doors. We took to the road again, me rying calculate and recalculte the range that we had in the limited amount of fuel. Just when my most conservative calculations were telling me that we'd be running dry in another 5km, we reached an active petrol pump, and i realised then how the travellers of the desert felt when they reached an oasis.
Having quenched the bike's thirst, we moved on, having entered NH46 somtime between my bike sleep and increased heartbeats. The roads are a pleasure if you intend to get from Point A to Point B. Well laid, no potholes, well marked lanes, and you can go at your maximum speed for most of the time. For me, out on a ride, these roads presented a sanitised and boring aspect that had to be done. NH46 upto Krishnagiri and through Vellore is excellent for commuters, enabling a Chennai to Bangalore dash in less than four hours for a determined driver in a capable car. We did the stretch in 5 hours, riding and sleeping in turns. By the time we had reached Hosur, taking NH 207 from Krishnagiri, i am certain that we had both managed 2 hours of precariously perched sleep.
Through Hosur and upto Silk Board in Bangalore, the road is in rather bad state, no markings, pothloes nad loads of construction. We reached Koromangla by 7:30 AM, 388kms on the odo, average speed 75kmph. Bhagat as always was hospitable and invited us to his house, gave us a bed to sleep in for the 2 hours that we had decided to stay and supplied us with Aloo Paranthas and Chai.
9:30, time to leave and Maheep refuses to come out of his sleep. "Is this the end?", I Think. Determind to push on with or without him, i give a final try, jolting him awake by mentoining the Aloo Paranthas. He slumbers up, and i heave a sigh of relief. By 10AM we are on our way, looking for Magadi road as the normal route via Tumkur road is also under construction and bound to be slow. We crawl throught the traffic, bouncing from autowallah to another, asking for directions. It is when a brash looking fellow with open shirt, saffron headband and furiously driven econo-miser bike pulls alongside and says something in Kannada which i think is a threat. Realising that we dont understand his language, he asks us "Bikeaa Chennaiaa registration?". I realise then that driving a TN registered bike in Karnataka is not the greatest ideas on earth, considering the animosity between the people. Anyway, the situation ends, and we move onto the Magadi Road, which has some amount of traffic near the city but clears out as we leave the city limits.
Heading towards Kunigal, we enter pure motorcycling Nirvana. Excellent roads, not the sanitised, arrow straight affair, but some well paved roads twisting through some beautiful scenery, carrying sparse traffic on an overcast day. I do not think that things get any better than this. The open roads egg me into entering 'sport' mode, going through the turns and trying to recall the basics of fast cornering and extremely pleasurable riding. Check curve for oncoming vehicle, slot into the perfect gear, move to the outside edge, lean in, power up, apex the curve. Slow in, fast out, flip the bike cornering from one corner to another. Heaven.
And then, sadly, Kunigal. NH48 was under sonstruction for most of the stretch that we traversed, frequent diversions and oncoming traffic kept us at moderate speeds as we crossed Nalligere. The bike was thirsty and we hungry when we spotted, on a desolate stretch of road, next to nothing at all, a petrol pump with a Cafe Coffee Day outlet. Maheep got the bike refuelled while I checked the CCD, not sure what this outpost of coffee brewing would have to offer. Surprisingly, a neat and well kept outlet, with fresh food on offer greeted us. The CCD seats gave welcome relief and change from the bike seats as we ate and de sensitized our posteriors. We asked for a tankful of petrol and got more, with the bike dripping petrol from the fuel tank cap when we put it on the side stand. Scary images of the consequences of dripping petrol on a hot engine restrained me from slinging my leg over for a little time.
I should have waited longer, as the best part of the outward journey had ended by then, even if I did not know it then. The riding conditions deteriorated continuously from then on, the road being the first factor. Potholes appeared, lane markings disappeared and traffic increased as we moved closer to our destination, only half an hour off our target schedule. One hundred and fifty odd kilometers from Mangalore, we rode into some lovely surroundings, Ghat section roads twisting downwards through some lush forestry. Coffee plantations with tall green trees with green ferns growing on their barks. Apart from the furiously twisting ribbon of black road, everything was covered in green, including the sky that was clouded by the canopy of the huge green trees. Maybe this is what rainforests look like. The weather also contributed to the effect, the overcast sky giving a dampish feeling of the imagined rainforest. We went down through the Ghats, and kept on going and going and going. The descent seemed to be unending. Traffic deteriorated, with the Government and Private bus drivers thundering down (and up) the road, banging their vehicles through potholes, taking the turns using both lanes, nary a thought for oncoming vehicles. I sent out a silent prayer for the poor soul sitting in the last seat of that ramshackle bus. I had gone too soon. I should have saved the prayer for myself. The roads just kept getting worse, riding through the potholes got more bone jarring, and the descent did not show any signs of ending. Kilometers ticked by extremely slowly, the twisting, broken road starting to take a toll on my mood, which, till a little earlier, had been extremely exuberant. Then came the rains, filling up the potholes and reducing visibility, and the speedometer went lower another ten. From then on, it was a race against the clouds, which seemed to be travelling at a steady 15 kmph. We would hit a bad patch of road, and make progress at 10 kmph and the clouds would catch us and drench us. A stretch of good roads (comparatively), speeds up to 20 kmph and we would leave the rains behind. We would be proven wrong later, but at that point of time; we thought that this was the absolute slowest we could do on an NH. After an eternity spent going down and down and down, and through potholes, my joints started shaking in their sockets. It was through my bone vibrations that I felt a slight wobbling coming through from the rear wheel. I had not crossed any kind of repair shop for the last two hours. What happens if the bike develops some serious problem? Should I stop and get help? Faced by a situation where I really could not do much, I did what the ostrich does. I buried my head in the sand, hoping that if I refused to acknowledge the problem, the problem would cease to exist. Maheep felt the wobbling too and asked me about him. I gave him some BS about high and low speed riding, continuing my well thought out policy. The bike did not break down. But I did. After seeing signboards showing Mangalore still some 60 clicks away, I abdicated the hot spot and gave the handle to Maheep. We set off again, already contemplating the ride back and if we would be up to it. And then, we hit the bottom. Of the decline. The roads straightened up, no more twists or declines to negotiate, and road conditions improved sufficiently for us to increase speed to 60-70 kmph (I had been riding at 20 for the last 2-3 hours), and the rains ceased. Luck. Maheep had some good time riding through the scenery, and we started making good time. We were trying to reach M’lore in the natural light, and it seemed then that we could do it. It started raining in a while, and we stopped for some chai, having not had a break for quite some time. The rains caught up again, but this time, we decided to push on, still trying to make M’lore by nightfall. We drove through some lush green scenery on small unmarked country roads with a few potholes in between, and managed to keep the speeds up to 60 kmph. I decided to take the handle, trying to throw away some of the frustration encountered earlier. Luck. Potholes crept up with alarming frequency, traffic increased as we neared the outskirts of M’lore. Soon, the potholes disappeared, but that was not good news, as the road disappeared with them. All we could see was a river of grime, ugly brown-black in colour, through which waded and bumped along vehicles big and small. Speeds were below 10 kmph and irritation tops when we saw civilization and the beginnings of a town. M’lore! We thought. Ha Ha! You wish! Thought Someone Else. An auto wallah informed us that M’lore town was still some way off, and off we set, trying to make the best of the limited amount of light remaining. We still were hoping to minimize travelling in the dark. Construction, horribly bad roads, extremely aggressive and rash drivers, the rain and the fading light made up for the worst riding conditions through the ride, making this our time thorough Hell, removing all memories of the Heaven we had encountered, it seemed, in a different life and in a different world. We started switching riding the bike soon, trying not to get too flustered by the conditions. The mind blanked out soon, only to be jarred awake by the harsh horn of an approaching bus. Evading potholes, puddles, broken roads and murderous buses, we doggedly rode on, hoping for the ride to end, for the bike to die, or just about anything that would force us to stop. Another hour and we did reach M’lore, the real Mc Coy this time and headed for the shelter that Shiv had promised. With some difficulty we managed to find the location, and met up with him. We rode on to his flat and parked for the night.
Sofas, chairs and hard floors invited us, and we accepted all their hospitality, resting our Tashreef on each of them in turns. We were contemplating a return by train or flight. A shower, fresh clothes, some hot food and a few phone calls later, we had decided to ride our way back, taking a alternate route out of M’lore to avoid Hell. Some chit chatting and dinner followed, and then, welcome relief as we stretched out on the warm beds, readying ourselves for another day of hard riding.

Pardes: The Beauty

It’s beautiful. And harsh.
It reminds me of a battlefield, the warring clans of the piercing sunrays and the biting gusts of cold wind scarring the lesser beings, forcing their presence on the hapless audience that has no option but to watch on, occasionally being caught in the crossfire.
Both sides fight ferociously. The cold, biting and piercing, has the ability to creep in through layers of clothing, sending a constant chill up your spine. It has the uncanny ability of homing in on the slightest bit of exposed skin, making you feel as if it is concentrating its entire might on that small patch. The sunrays, piercing and determined, make their presence felt in a most pretentious manner, forcing you to seek shelter in abject surrender. Defiance means sunburn, no matter how many of the cold wind troops are present. Where the cold tries to win by sheer omnipresence, the sunrays dominate every inch that they can reach.
Thankfully, you don’t always have to be in the field of fire. Cars with heaters and sun visors do give the required amount of cover while you are scurrying from one building to another.
It’s beautiful. And inspired.
As you drive towards Jozy, as the city is called by those who have chosen to make it their home, you can’t help but wonder on the brilliance of the British. Driving on the R21, the skyline of the city, dominated by skyscrapers, peers at you from between two hills which seem to have been placed there to make the city comfortable, and not the other way round. While in the suburbs, you look around you at the clusters of quaint little cottages, some nestled in the side of hills, some surrounded by dense greenery, some dwarfed by the huge commercial buildings, and some, like a defiant bunch of Red Coats, standing all alone in the middle of nothingness.
It’s beautiful. And wasteful.
On the roads, you realize that most cars around you have one or two people in it. In the few, but increasingly common traffic snarls, you see a line of cars ahead of you, in single file per lane, you can’t help comparing it with India. We’d have fit five times the number of people in there. It’s 3 on a Friday, and almost half the cars are headed out, with a trailer latched on, carrying either quad bikes, trail bikes, camping equipment or entire caravans, headed for a relaxed weekend at one of the many camping spots or activity centers around the cities. Yes, they work only four and a half days here. In the residential, as also in the commercial areas, you see millions of lengths of barbed and electrified fences sitting atop high concrete fences. You are aware of the various private ‘Armed Reaction’ cars that are sitting in the corners, waiting for some sorry guy to cross one of the fences into the motion detected homes and trigger off an alarm. You can’t help but wonder about the desperate state of the ones who attempt to outluck the security system. And then, you stop at ‘Robot’, which is what traffic signals are called, and you realize the desperation.
It’s beautiful. And practical.
You know that from the way the city is designed, with major areas spread out on all sides of the city, connected by well thought out roads and intersections. You know it from the wheelchair friendly sidewalks, from the easy to use and maintain devices fitted in the houses, from the small but powerful cars that they use in the weekdays, and the big trailers that they bring out in the weekends. You know it from the traffic rules, the clearly laid out directions, and from the people.
It’s beautiful. And cruel.
You see the woman, inadequately dressed for the weather, with the hopefully conscious child on her back standing in the open battlefield, being caught in the crossfire. Yes, there are beggars here too. You see the guy in the T shirt who runs to a random car with a small bucket of dirty, sudsy water and proceeds to clean the windshield with before the lights turn green and with time to spare for tips. You park the car at any shopping mall’s parking lot (and that’s where you have to park, as all shops, banks and even post offices are located inside one mall or the other. This is where you realize the meaning of Mall Culture), there comes along a guy in a yellow traffic jacket, making sure that his presence is felt, ensuring tips when the car leaves. And you also see the big expensive cars pulling in and out of the lot, and you realize that even here, it’s just some pockets that are lined with fleece, while many others are, well, empty.
But, it’s beautiful.
You know it from the people. From the many cars that have the ‘Proudly South Africa’ stickers on them. You know it from the traffic manners, you know it from the fact that in the restaurants, hypermarkets and cinemas, you can comfortably talk and joke with the waiters, ushers and attendants, without them taking offence to it.

Pardes : The Cold

It is different, then again it is not.

Its bloody cold here. I know, it does get cold back in Darbhanga too, but this is another kind of a cold. Its omnipresent & omnipotent (whoa! have i found God?), and its terribly persistant. You wake up, you know its cold, so you put on your trusty old sweatshirt that has served you well in the near freezing Ahmedabad Sports Nights. Its still there. So you pull over a sweater over the sweatshirt. After a while, you realise it is still there. So you bring out the big bulky jacket and put it over everything else. You feel warm, happy that you have won this battle against the cold. Then you step out of the blanket. No, it doesnt end there. Its the morning, and in mornings you have to do the morning things, and suddenly, this fine morning, you are cursing the crcodile meat you had the night before. Note to self: No eating in SA till the summers. Till then, only fluids (the after effects require less skin exposure to the cold, after all). Then, you remember that you were playing cricket with the Tibetans next door, and you really cant postpone the shower any longer. Another note: (No physical activity till the summers. That means no cricket, no football, no running away from the black guy who i think intends to mug me, no more standing in the kitnchen and cooking food. That should insulate me from everything. So, thats settled.

Naah.

The Tibetans are SO easy to bowl out. And they bowl like girls (to all the great sportswomen reading this, i did not mean you, i meant the other girls around you who cant throw a ball, and please do not challenge me, i have been out of practise, and i accept that i bowl far worse than you, and by the way, i will be in Chennai in a few months, so what do you say we get together for a ball?). Its too difficult not to go play with them. And the meats here! Its almost like they killed everything that moved, and then they made the microwave and the electric oven to make it edible. And so much of these meats are so enticing, it would be difficult not to taste them. By the way, next on the list is Impala meat. They look so cute, must taste nice. And even though i am rather experimentative, getting mugged is something that i certainly want to give a pass by.

And anyway, they make nice and warm sweaters and jackets here, and the guy who was here has left all of his clothes for me. So lets go out for a walk among the beautiful brown trees, walking on the lush green grass, battling the bitingly cold wind, and hoping for an early return of the burning sun that hasnt been around for the last few days.

Varun Gandhi and Voting (Or is it Convenience?)

I don’t know what Varun Gandhi said, I don’t know where he said that, and I don’t intend to find out. And that is surprising, considering the fact that not too long ago, I knew eggjackly what who said, when and where (and I can prove that by showing you the score that I used to get in the ‘saprasang vyakhya karo: kisne kisse kab kaha’ section of the Hindi Language exam paper from class 5 through class 10. Not that I stopped listening after that, just that they stopped asking after then). And so, I am surprised how many articles show up in my news alerts talking about his speech. My surprise is also attributable to the fact that only today I read an article that says that the voter registration is lowest in the 18-24 age group. Yet, somehow, it is the same age group that contributes to most of the blogs out there. So, are we talkers and not doers?
Clarification: even though I am not registered for voting, I have also not written anything about Varun Gandhi, so the comments here will not be applicable to me. Any suggestions to the same will be VERY severly dealt with. I may even write a piece about how you pick your nose when nobody is looking. So be warned.
So, as I was saying, are we only talkers and not doers? Would seem so, would it not? Or, hidden in the newly developing psyche of the New Indian (or is it the Old Indian in a New dress?) who is discovering himself all over again (after the self discovery that the New Indians did in the 1940s, 1960s and the 2000s, not counting the Discovery of India that the Jawahar Lal Nehru look alike used to do on DD1), doing things that he had never dreamt of before (okay, okay, so I didn’t know that you dreamt about that too, but I am not going to take back my statement), seeing things that he never saw before(and no, I do not only mean the ample cleavage on show these days. I mean, not only that), is another aspect that is hidden in him which will be visible in this preliminary analysis (okay, I know that there are no scientific evidence or methods on display here, but I have the poetic license, you know, so get off my back!!).
I believe there is. It’s the aspect called convenience. I may be wrong, but I firmly believe that the differentiating aspect between the voter registrations and the blogs is convenience. Allow me to explain.
Consider the typical New Indian (not me! I have told you already, get off my back. So what if I am a lazybone. I am writing this piece, and I have the license! So read on, and assume another New Indian). He has wasted the day pretending to be doing some work that may justify the huge pay pack that he receives (convincing everyone except himself in the process) and has reached home, and suddenly realizes that he has nothing to do till he goes to sleep (Reiteration: No, not me. I have loads to do. Every Thursdays, I give Shahid some tips on dancing. Wednesdays are for writing tips to Arundhati, Tuesdays are for Management tips to Credit Suesse, Mondays for driving tips to Karthikayen’s boys, Fridays for collecting material to write in The Times of India food guide. I keep the weekends free. Again, get off my case!). So, about the New Indian. He switches on the TV and sees the buzz about the Elections and in due time the news about Varun Gandhi’s speech also comes along. So he thinks “well, I haven’t registered for voting. I should.” So he brings out the joint winner for the Innovation of the Year award, the tool that has contributed the most in the Discovery of the New Indian - The laptop with Internet connectivity (okay, okay, maybe that device did not even qualify for that award, maybe that award went to that other music device that is so commonly connected to people’s ears, which does for much more that many others could do for much less, that is called the eye plod or whatever, but then again, I have the license, you know, and where, in all my musings, have I said that the words written here represent facts or truths?). So, he sits in his comfortable chair, or maybe a bean bag, pulls up his laptop and searches JaagoRe, the ads for which he has seen in the Telly. Now, he reads, is interested and goes on filling details till he comes to the part where he has to go to the Election Officer to submit the hard copy of the form. Ahem. “What was it that Varun Gandhi said”, he thinks. Ah! This! This is bad! We are good Indians. We don’t care about Hindu – Muslim animosity (of course, he does not think this aloud, because the next sentence, “We care only about the money. And of course, the cleavage on show”, would not go down too well with the fellow New Indians around him, no matter that, considering their orientation, these New Indians would themselves be looking out for either John Abraham’s or Katrina Kaif’s cleavage), we should do something about it. So, what should we do? Well, I have my laptop, I can type, and there are so many websites that put up my crap without charging for it, and, better still, there are others who also read it! Yes, I should blog. So they do.
Well, there, with introspection and considerable assumptions, we have reached a conclusion, even if the conclusion that you may have reached may not be the same as the one that I have reached. But we have reached, and there rests the matter.
More crap some other day.

Tale of two Cities (Or is it?)

Man competes with nature, at least for news coverage. Its an outright victory for man in the digital media, and a slightly less comprehensive one on the print media. On two opposite coasts of the Indian peninsula, two cities have had their normal routines disrupted. One by man and another by nature.

Chennai lies flooded, while Bombay is beseiged by militants.
As I sit at my home typing this piece of self adulating attention seeking piece of crap on a working day, inside office hours, I am secure in the knowledge that I am not alone in contributing to a fall, even if infinitesimal, decline in India’s GDP (I know, I know, you are probably going to say that even when I DO go to my workplace, my contribution is similarly negligible, but you don’t know that for a fact, so clam up. Anyway, back to the crap). There are others too, in my city (the ‘my’ here is merely illustrative, I have absolutely no claims to having founded, helped grow, contributed to the rise, or having made a home in, this city) and in another across the country’s land mass. People who have been asked to stay home, people who have decided to stay home, and people who can not step out of home.
In my city (refer above paragraph for clarity on usage of the word), it has been the hand of God, or the fury of Mother nature (your choice, depending on which gender you believe is superior) that has contributed to the decline in office, and school goers. The city is under water, ankle deep, knee deep, or waist deep, depending on where you ankle stands with respect to the ground, and where you stand with respect to the water, too (my advice, though, is to stand well away from the water, most preferably in the (hopefully) dry and comfortable safety of your home). Roads have turned into drainage channels (I am not sure if that was the original intention of the civic authorities, though, to create the roads as alternate storm drains, which would be a brilliant, or exceedingly sadistic town planning ideology), carrying along with the flow of water tons of garbage (oh! so this IS an incredibly brilliant town planning thing! In one go, you clear away the water, the garbage, and you also have a well washed road!!!), the frequent washed along footwear and various other assorted items.
People generally tackle this in two ways.
One is the defiant, resistance fighter approach, where the chap folds his trouser legs, puts on a rain coat, takes an umbrella, scans the road (or the emergency storm drain cum garbage disposal channel, depends on how you look at it, which, again, depends on whether or not you are a member of the city’s municipal corporation) for the spot with the least inundation, plants his feet there, maintains the precarious balance, and scans again for the next least inundated spot in his desired direction of travel, at the same time keeping a wary lookout for the wave generating vehicles that plough by, sending a deluge of water with the intent of drowning the resistance fighter.
The other way of dealing with it is the cowboy approach, which is rather crass, or practical and fun filled, depending on which way you look at it (which again depends on whether or not it is you who washes and hangs out to dry the stinky and dirty clothes that walk into your home draped over the cowboy). Here, the chap puts all the water destroyable possessions into a polythene carry bag, and, bare feet, commits himself to the mercies of Mother Nature (or the civic authorities, depending on who you think is responsible for creating the current predicament). Such people are generally seen drenched, not bothering whether they are putting their feet in one, or two, or even five feet of water, as long as the head remains above. And I have noticed that these same people are also seen with smiles on their faces rather than the scowl that accompanies the resistance fighters.
Then there is the other city where there are still more people sitting at home when they should be rightfully out in offices, pretending to be hard at work (I assume that people pretend to work because that is what I see, and therefore believe happens everywhere), and this time not because of Mother Nature. They have stayed back because a small bunch of determined people decided to give a larger bunch of markedly less determined people the shock of their life. Why, who and how are questions that are best answered by others, but then the fact is that people were detained against their wishes.
Here again, as I understand, there were two ways of dealing with it.
The resistance fighters, determined to live today and fight again another day (wow, that rhymed!), sat back in their homes, switched on the news channels (but hopefully not India TV), and waited for the day to pass, asking themselves the million dollar question of whether to go to office tomorrow or not (ok, considering India’s Per Capita Income, it may be only a few dollar question to them, but looking at a macro level, for my country, it does work out to be a million dollar question) .
Then there are the cowboys, who walked out to the current media hotspots, mobbing the TV crews while trying to get some TV footage for themselves, shouting comments against Pakistan, getting in the way of the rescue services, praising the NSG, and interfering with the services some more. Again, it was seen that the cowboys carried a smile (on all occasions except when they were being fired at and when they were being pushed out of the TV camera’s range by other cowboys) that almost offset the collective scowls present on the resistance fighters.
Well, the roads will revert to the peacetime job of carrying vehicles and people and acting as an infinite garbage dump and open lavatory, the other city will calm down, the News reporters will move on to other articles of interest, but someday, someone (other than me, of course) will read this and wonder whether the two cities really do have a common tale to talk about.

The Invisibles

I kno, the job sucks. But the job has to be done, and most often than not, it falls into the hands of the chap who is lowest on the pecking order. And quite a few times, I fit that description. So, there have been a few days, only a few, I must add, nonetheless, there have been a few days when I have stayed later than the regular hours at work. Regular hours at work end at 530 officially, barring some of the kind who wish to impress upon others that they are the hard workers. So, generally, the office is deserted by 550, and even the stragglers leave by 6. this here is the story of my office after six.

 

Its hot and humid. The AC is switched off at 530, and by 6 the sweat really starts to build up. The cave that has been passing off as the office is dark, humid and hot by 615. a security guard comes in for his rounds. Now don’t get the impression of a capable guard who can shoo away burglars. The chap who comes in is an old, wiry guy wearing a dull, discoloured uniform comprising of the regulation light blue shirt and dark blue trousers. No shoes, few of the chaps don’t even have chappals. A torn topi that was not meant for his head. Not too uncommon in an environment where uniforms outlast people in the job. He walks in, with a bunch of keys jangling from his hand, almost too heavy for the hand to carry the weight. He shuffles up to the cabin nearest to the entrance, stops, and with an ease and assurance that come after years of practice pulls out the right key in the first try. Key in hand, he opens the door, shuffling up to the switchboard to switch off the appliances in the room. Shuffles out, and the key locks the door. The tired, slipper clad feet carry the frail body to the next door, where he repeats the same process over and over again. He completes the circuit of the entire office, closing the 15 doors, checking the 15 boards, locking the 15 cabins. Having completed the circuit of the entire floor, he goes back, making some notes on the thick hard bound register that he habitually carries. A short while later there is more shuffling, and this time the originator is an old, stout woman dressed in an elaborate, though faded and well worn sari. She carries a purse which is not really cheap, but not exactly new either. The visible contents of the purse are one hard bound register, of the type that is omnipresent in our offices, and a handkerchief. The handkerchief comes out, removing the clouds of incomprehension that had formed. Incomprehension? Well, that old, poor, proud and somehow bitter figure fits into the office as cleanly as chalk fits in average South Indian 3 compartment tiffin box, which is so ubiquitous in my office.

The movements are rehearsed, approaching military precision, yet totally adverse in their intent. Unlike the need for doing things right, as expressed in the precise movements of the military, her movements are orchestrated to be energy conserving and time saving. As if carrying treasures form King Solomon’s mines, she carries the purse with her, never letting it be beyond arm’s length. From table to table, cabin to cabin, the purse moves with her.

On approaching the table, she sets down the purse, takes out the handkerchief, makes one sweeping motion (more symbolic than effective) on the table, moves to the phone, lifts the receiver, makes another symbolic sweep over the phone, and moves on. Table, purse, sweep, phone, sweep, purse. The routine is as predictable as the movement of the hands of the clock.

There is a similarity. Apart from the fact that they are in inconsequential jobs, living out the time that they have left on this planet. It is their invisibility. The same guards and the same cleaners pass by me innumerable times in the day and yet I fail to notice them. It is not that I do not see them, I do. Yet the mind does not register their presence, their existence. It is not just me, it is the general reaction (or the lack of it) to them. It is si hard to believe that in their life, they are probably the centre of universe for a handful of people, or at least a primary pillar of support for them.

In the job that I am, I do wonder if it is a curse or a blessing to be invisible. I debate the pros and cons of the situation, and have come to varying conclusions. Yet today, I understand that there is no curse, nor is there any blessing. It is merely a way of life. As with so many things, you accept it, get used to it and finally claim it as your own.

And that’s the way it is.

 

What happened to my country!

News channels have found the headlines for the next few weeks. Cameramen, reporters and other journalistic professionals have let out a collective sigh, confident and comforted in the knowledge that their jobs have nothing to fear, at least in the next few weeks. Policemen have died in their line of duty; the Common Man has died, well, because he always does. India has been attacked again.

 

I was in Bangalore a few years ago, when Bangalore was the land of pubs and discos, with probably the second best night life in India. I remember being in NASA till 2, 3 in the night, coming out and riding home, with nary a trouble from the law enforcers or the law breakers. I remember the time when Biharis, UPites and anyone and everyone else could go to Mumbai, Bangalore or any part of the country to pursue whatever dreams he had dreamt the other night, or the other day. I don’t remember the time when Kashmir was untroubled, when the Naxalites did not exist or when the AK47 was an unknown entity. But I do know that the time did exist.

 

Some maps have changed, showing her to be headless, having acceded parts of Kashmir to Pakistan and China, but one has to agree that the country is the same. Sure, we have added a few states, subtracted a few, converted a few UTs into states, changed PMs, created new national level political parties, modernized our armies, stopped farming and started servicing, but we are the same country. The population has grown, the Brain Drain has reversed, then started again, we have built a navy, supercomputers and advanced avionocs, but the country is the same.

 

I know that you are probably plussed at the number of times I have said that the country is the same, but this is not a concentrated effort to bore you. It is a feeble and despairing attempt at convincing me that the country has not changed. I have always believed in the lenient, all absorbent India that allowed short durations of incursions and raids, in the long run absorbing the aggressors into the mainstream of her own, giving them a unique yet distinct identification, and a small, cramped yet comfortable and accommodating place in between the millions who have similarly come to be called Indians.

 

And it does seem so difficult to imagine that this is the same country.

 

The first doubts came to my mind when, on a beautiful, pleasant Bangalorean evening, my leisurely stroll on Brigade Road was disrupted, not by another lot of sight seeing, window shopping bunch, but a group of Kannadigas carrying black paint and using it to deface the hoardings that did not carry names in the Kanadd language. Then came the time when bomb blasts became a daily occurance not only in Kashmir, but in Bombay, Bangalore and Delhi. Not too long down the line were the days when policemen became targets, not saviours, and then moved on to becoming exploiters. The day dawned when people let small crimes go unreported, because the effort and money involved in reporting it had become more than the actual crime itself.

A country that had lived on celebrations, devotion and love turned to hate.

Hatred. Of the Fidayeen for the Kafirs, of poor for the rich, of the Mumbaikaras for the Biharis, of the Kar Sevaks for the torch bearers, of the natives for the aliens, and the mother of them all, the hatred of one religion for another.

Hatred that has started affecting the way we live, the way we think and the way we exist. Daughters are being advised to stay away from malls, markets and other crowded places, people are being asked to stay indoors, defying the very social nature of all humans. The average office and school going Indian and his wife know what the AK 47 looks like, the first reaction to every gas cylinder explosion or of a tyre burst is “Bomb!”. The reaction to someone trying to set up a car factory is a violent protest, the reaction to someone taking jobs in your state is a violent campaign, the reaction to someone taking part in one too many crimes is an encounter. Quite a far cry from the ‘Satyagraha’ of yore. The country that was an extremely fit description to “Make Love, not War”, somehow morphed into a hate generating nation, its citizens baying for blood for any reason that hurt even a bit.

I am yet to understand the cause that brings out such forces and feelings for another man, merely because of the birth or the place where one has been living. Agreed, I have not have had any of my people killed abducted or harmed in any way, nor have I been made homeless or jobless.

But the question remains. I hope we figure it out. Because that is the only hope we have.