The human circus

I have come to realise something, of course about myself, so have no clue if it'll interest you in the least or not but thats beside the point.  I am passionate about writing and photography, probably why I want to be a war correspondent someday (all of us are allowed to pamper our dreams and think of the impossible).  Herein lies the irony - while I photograph people horribly, am most inspired to be my usual self while writing about people.  Well, since writing is the order of the day right now, here's a toast to all the interesting creatures ambling across the hallway at the departure gate.

The chic-chick - I am a guy, a chick has to be the first living thing I will notice, so spare me the judgmental shake of the head.  Book in hand, with a bookmark almost midway, clearly thoughtfully placed there to give the impression she has been poring over the rather gripping issues of the novel for quite some time now and is totally entranced by the author's style and delivery.  Sporadic mobile checks in case the phone magically went into silent mode and she missed a call or a message, even more irregular is the frequency with which she opens the book at the bookmarked page and completely unbelievable the way she flips a page in the time by which it is humanly possible to be have read only 2 sentences!  I don't blame her in any way for putting up a front, don't we all.  Am not a saint myself with earphones in my ears pretending to be listening to some heavy metal when what's really playing is Gravity by John Mayer. ;)

The wannabe-chic-chick - These variety come in a close second to the above category, much like the cheap Nike knock-offs you can easily get hold of at the Customs Good shops.   There are a few elementary mistakes these amateurs make in trying to be a part of the "elite gang".  Firstly, unlike the chic girls, who make sure their book seems ribbed at the edge and used, these girls carry around a brand new book without bothering to give it a look of ownership, a dead giveaway to even the most ignorant of observers.  Second, they buy themselves coffee at the Lipton outlet - blasphemy, as a chic-chick you are allowed to only be sipping at coffee that has a brand clearly showing on the outside of the cup and the least you can settle for is CCD, no offence to the brand intended.  The list goes on but one significant piece of information they miss out on is the shoes - chic-chicks don't need to flaunt good shoes - its all about comfort.  They know guys look at only the face and well elsewhere, so might as well be comfy with the feet and give them their well-deserved rest.  The wannabes fail to understand that and want to present themselves as the complete package in the process losing out as they look more clumsy than raunchy trying to stabilise themselves on the heels.

The banungi-main-Miss-India - I do not know where the innocence we used to associate with childhood went, but it just feels like my generation missed out on what the new gen-X or gen-Y whatever they call themselves, now considers as "hip'n'happening".  I have right opposite me a young girl of not more than 12 years of age wearing what would be deemed as censorable by Ms. Asha Parekh if she ever got into moral policing of the society.  It is an age of Westernisation, agreed.  We have gone beyond our reservations against women's liberties, agreed.  But there is that very fine line between liberation and outright disobedience.  Grace and shyness is what makes our women and girls ever so fragile and effervescent in their essence.  Am not an orthodox believer in women's suppression, but I am one of those who still thinks that the sexiest garment ever to adorn the female form remains the saree.  I am one of those who believes that 12 is too young an age to let your daughter flaunt almost half her belly to on-looking middle-aged men, more interested in that exposed skin than the innocence that sprinkles around as she playfully plays throwball with her younger brother.  There is a time when she would want to glamourise and accessorise, but this is not the age.  Hell 12 is not even allowable age to enter the beauty pageant.  People must have some sense of cognisance to have placed that rule into effect! ;)

The arranged-marriage couple - Being at the turn of my life when am being pushed into the whirlpool of arranged marriages more and more vehemently by my mom and dad, I probably seek out couples I can judge and measure for myself the feasibility of getting into such a predicament.  The husband, sitting cross-legged, usually the left over the right, newspaper in hand, flipped over to the business page, no longer is sports the mainstay of the paper, deeply engrossed at a weird angle as if with invisible specs on the tip of his nose.  The wife, sitting in a slouched position, usually to his right, and preferably at the corner seat or an empty seat between her and the next passenger, bored out of her wits, looking at her nails if from a city or mostly at her feet if from a smaller town.  Hardly any words are exchanged between the two, except for when the wife tries to make a vain attempt at small talk quoting a mildly objectionable remark from one of the relatives they had visited over the weekend or a common friend who was getting involved with something dicey.  The husband lets go of the paper only when the final boarding call comes through, leaving the wife to lead the way and trailing behind close to her almost stepping on her flat sandals, over-protective as if every guy with spiked up hair and a laptop listening to music and typing away frantically is a stalker out there to molest his wife!

Final boarding call for the Jet Airways flight to Mumbai .. the rest will come once am in Mumbai .. taking notes till then! ;)

At the hawai-adda

Its been quite some time since I last opened my laptop at an airport.  Its a happy-stance that I haven't felt the need to do so the last few times, more probably due to the last minute arrivals at the airport and having my name blared out on the public address system as a final call for boarding the flight.  This does not necessarily imply that I have set up shop with my laptop at airports in particularly convenient circumstances.  One can never forget the horrors of the 8 hour delay at Istanbul airport on my way to Venice, or the missed flight to Milan and the 5 hours spent at the freezing and rather dubious train station shivering, cursing.  This time though, I must say am very relaxed, earphones popped in, some of my favourite tunes playing, still 2 hours left for the flight depart, the airport virtually empty.  Only one complaint though, since I have been spoilt over the past few days, the air-conditioning isn't working here!

You might wonder at the sense of leaving for the airport almost 2.5 hours before departure.  Some of people who are close to me opine that I am a control freak, well agreed, but seriously even I am not paranoid enough to leave so early on what is barely a 20-minute drive.  It started at 11:14 a.m. when I got a call from Mr. Satish at the front desk (ACTUAL names have been used because I want the people referred here to know what impression they left on me, though the chance of anyone ever acknowledging the existence of this blog is remotely 0.1%).

Satish: Hullo Mr. Gupta this is Satish from the front desk.
Mr. Gupta: Well hullo Satish, good morning, how are you? (Okay fine I wasn't this polite, its just not in me to be that way, but you get the drift!)
Satish: Sir would you be checking out today?
Mr. Gupta: Yeah.
Satish: Okay sir.
Mr. Gupta: Ok, anything else or can I hang up?
Satish: Yes sir.
Mr. Gupta: Well .. umm .. fire away anytime you're ready.  (I swear I DID smile 'coz I was amused, and wasn't being cynical for a change)
Satish: Sir you had asked for a complimentary drop to the airport.  When do you want it?
Mr. Gupta: Why yes I did, I guess around 12:30 should be fine as my flight leaves at 2:30.

*Break.  I need to explain myself here.  It is not paranoia to reach the airport asap, but me being considerate of the fact that checkout is to be done around noon, which is why I asked for a drop at 12:30 and not late*

Satish: That is okay sir we understand, but your checkout is before 12, so please leave the room by then, your cab will be here at 12.
Mr. Gupta: *dumbstruck*
Satish: Ok thank you sir.
Mr. Gupta: *still dumbstruck wondering if he was just told to literally "LEAVE" the room by 12*

*Some time passes by*

Mr. Gupta: (12:02 p.m. at the front desk, handing over keys) Here you go, I'll be checking out now.
Satish:   Did you drink from the bar?
Mr. Gupta: What bar?
Satish: In your room.
Mr. Gupta: You gave me an empty fridge *you dumbfuck - that wasn't said out loud*
Satish: Hmm
Mr. Gupta: Hmm? What's that supposed to mean?
Satish: Nothing sir.  Did you take anything from the mini-bar - something to eat if not drink?
Mr. Gupta: Ok, I had nothing taken in or out of whatever secret corner the mini-bar was in.  The secret passageway was not revealed to me nor was the entry password.  *fine I did not say the secret passage line - you don't have to be SO particular as a reader - just enjoy the friggin' post!*
Satish: This is a feedback form sir, we hope you were happy with our service and will visit again
Mr. Gupta: Well on the whole I was pretty happy, especially the room.  But explain something to me if you can.  How many rooms do you have?
Satish: Well sir around 25 on each floor, so umm 100 and more.
Mr. Gupta: Okay, and of these how many are occupied?
Satish: Around 23.
Mr. Gupta: And how many checking out today?
Satish: I guess 4 or 5.
Mr. Gupta: So tell me my dear fellow, what are the chances of 81 different customers, all wanting separate rooms coming in at the same time and flooding your desk? While you're at it, also calculate the chances of someone wanting room number 403, which neither faces the Central mall, nor is it in one of the comfy nooks and crannies of the hotel.  When you're done with the calculations, key in the amount of time required to clean up a room after checkout.  To this, add the  amount of electricity you save if the guest is out of the room for around half an hour.  Now add the probabilities and multiply it to the two cost I just told you.  That is the amount you saved by asking me to leave at 12 sharp and not a minute later.  Now from this "saved costs", deduct the following one by one:

1. The tip I would have left the guy who carried my luggage downstairs
2. The tip I would have left the guy who served me well at the cafeteria all three days I asked for special food while I was ill.
3. The generous donation I would have made to the fishbowl you have here labeled "Staff benefit"
4. The room rent for 5 days I would have stayed here the next time am coming down in June.
5. The above tips all over again.
6. The donation one more time.

Now repeat these calculations multiple times over the next few months as we would be making corporate trips to Indore on a continued basis.  What does the figure come out to? *short pause* Arre, you stopped calculating! 

Satish: Sirrr ..

Mr. Gupta: My dear friend, irrespective of what the hotel guidelines say, always remember that you are in the service industry.  Serve with a smile and keep in mind that you can forego the little nuances, if it means giving your customer a memorable experience and exceptional service.  Watch Rocketsingh if you haven't already. *I think I should become brand ambassador for that movie the amount I have quoted it over this trip*

Satish: Extremely sorry for the inconvenience sir, but .. 

Mr. Gupta: Never mind laddy, keep it in mind next time .. (LADDY?!?! I know, I was thinking the same too, what did I take him for, an 8 year-old boy and me a 50 year-old hag, and am not Scottish for heaven's sake!! And yes I now agree that the Rocketsingh reference was way too corny even for my style!)

Just to be clear on my stance, I ended up giving the tips and though the donation to the fishbowl wasn't generous, I made it nevertheless.  The generosity was more to scare him than to actually go through with.

Now at the airport, I wonder if I was too hard on the bloke.  Ah bugger, I hate afterthoughts and introspection.  Its way better to just draw a blank and forget.  Egad, didn't realise the crowd's grown since I started writing.  Okay call for security check .. will continue after a short break ..

J'adore Indore

Everyday, well almost, there seems to be an update of pictures and albums being shared by my friends from their trips to Goa, Bangkok, KL, or even home.  The thing about photographs is you love browsing through them, even more than reading your favourite book.  Its got something to do with our undying love for laziness and lack of exercising our brain!  Every album I sift through, smiling, surprised and more often than not completely awestruck and mesmerised has one thing in common - people.  It might seem rather mopey of me to complain every once in a while about having to go about alone every place I wander off to.  Such is the irony of it all, I ended up alone on a business trip as well.

To be honest, I was not exactly on cloud nine when I got Indore in the lottery system we used at office to assign cities.  I try not to be prejudiced against cities, but Indore just did not have a very welcoming ring to it.  Sure it could possibly translate into an important business hub for us, but the prospect of going to a newly industrialised town of a state already lagging behind in development did not seem to do the trick.  Planning to make the trip as short as possible, so that I could be part of the Mumbai madness again, I laid down a jam-packed itinerary for the next two days.  Our business event well, much to the amusement of many.  Rocketsingh stole the show, but that's a story for some other time.  As luck would have it, the positive response generated meant I had to prolong my stay for at least 4 more days, because of the weekend in between.  

I am an avid traveler, and its rather blasphemous for me to get goosebumps on the prospect of having to stay in a city on the premise of being "possibly bored".  Yet here I am, a mug of coffee by the side, music playing, typing this post on a Sunday afternoon.   Its cool inside, with the AC blaring and the scent of fresh lemon all around, compared to the scorching dry summer of Indore at 45 degrees on the Celsius scale.  Not surprised anymore as to what I am doing inside at this hour are you? :)  Due to lack of companionship on such trips, I often find solace in my writing and photography, more as a way of talking to myself than to you, dear Reader.  It makes for brilliant conversation.  You might bob your heads sideways at such a remark, please spare yourselves the trouble, its not meant to sound bleak.  I must confess, however, I committed a mistake for this trip.  I chose to not pick up my mammoth camera, a decision I have been regretting ever since Friday evening came.  

A bout of tummy trouble from Friday evening's dinner that carried over to Saturday morning did not particularly cheer me up.  I sulked most of Saturday morning, wondering how I'd be able to get through the painful two days of holiday without considering suicide for want of game.  Chats with a couple of friends back in office, telephone conversations lasting 10 minutes were short-lived engagements.  The prospective dinner date also didn't seem enticing anymore.  I just lay in bed blankly switching between TV channels cursing everything I came across from mind-numbing soaps to ridiculously-misrepresented news.  Logging in and out of my Gmail account didn't help much, except add to the annoyance of a few who were not particularly happy seeing "Kshitij is online" notifications pop-up on their screens every 10 seconds!  It was time, I had to budge from this situation and make something of the predicament I found myself stuck in.

Picked my satchel, changed into shorts, put my sneakers on, wet my hair, left my key at the reception and wandered out into the simmering heat.  It was 7 in the evening, and it still felt like the sun was overhead trying to suck every last drop of water from inside of us with a straw.  I hailed a rickshaw and asked him to take me to the Sarafa market.  If nothing else, always go for the famous food joints in a new city, is something I have learnt from experience, you never get disappointed.  After a lengthy bargain of the graduated payment scale depending on where the rickshaw driver would drop me off at the market I finally got moving.  Now the unique feature of Indore traffic is that irrespective of the number of wheels on your vehicle, your average speed hovers around 20 kmph, not because of traffic jams, but as an understanding people here have established by choice.  

So after a rather lengthy and tiring rickshaw ride, I was finally standing at Rajwada, which equated to 30 bucks as per the agreement with the driver.  He zoomed off as a traffic policeman came charging towards him yelling to move away from the building's entrance.  Like any other tourist, my first instinct was to look up at an angle of 45 degrees to the ground to get a feel of the surroundings.  Another fun fact about Indore - buildings here suffer from stunted growth, hardly any grows beyond 3 storeys, so for a bloke of height 5 feet 7 inches, 45 degrees was quite a stretch, and all I ended up seeing was towering lamp posts and haywire wiring.  It wasn't difficult to spot the entrance to one of the most busy streets of Indore at night time, so I ambled slowly towards the noise and brightly illuminated street.

As I approached the first few shops, I was greeted with shouts of "side ho be andhe", "hat hat hat abbe hattttt" and the Mumbaiyya "smooch sound" as bicycles and motorbikes squeezed by in a lane which was far too narrow for even three people to walk side-by-side.  I was amazed and completely dazzled by the brilliant colours on display in this little street - the yellows of poha, the light browns of gulab jamuns, the whites of rabri, the reds of chutneys, all adding to an aroma that would tingle your senses!  Fun fact #3 about Indore - NEVER look away from the street you're walking on, you will be hit!  Apart from the usual two lane traffic, people here have a habit of forming a single file "geisterfahrer" (German for "ghost driver") either side of the usual traffic and trampling pedestrians is their favourite sport.  After being rammed into by two bicycles, I reached Vijay Chaat House and opened up the small paper chit on which I had scribbled down what to have and preferably where.  "Khopra pattice" it read against Vijay Chaat House.  I have a penchant for trying out new cuisine, but unfortunately my tummy has an affinity for trouble, so I had to first check what exactly was I getting into.  

A small shop with no place to sit and people regularly ordering stuff, knowing the rates, handing over change, what were my chances of squeezing past them and asking patiently, what exactly the khopra pattice was and how much was it worth.  I took out a 10er, waved it at one of the guys and ordered one.  A sumptuous blend of mashed potato and finely ground coconut fried into a small ping-pong ball, the pattice simply melted in my mouth, with an after-taste of tangy chutney.  I had worked up an appetite by now as I went in for another round.  Bidding adieu to the considerate guy handing over the food to me having realised I was an outsider, I moved forward to check off the next item on the list - Joshi restaurant.  A restaurant, here?  As it turns out, not a restaurant but an upgrade of the usual mobile junk food vendor, "Joshi dahi-wada dhaba" had been in business for several generations.  What makes such specialty places a delight to visit is the warm welcome you receive and the eagerness to display their art with food.  So while I ordered a "bhutte ka khees" - a concoction of powdered corn and grated coconut lined with minced tomatoes and onion, sprinkled with a tangy spice and coriander leaves - Joshi ji tossed up a plate of dahi wada for me.  When I say tossed one up, I mean he literally tossed it up in the air.  Jugglery, apparently, is a genetic trait in the family.  Onlookers stood in awe, locals most of them, as they watched him swerve the plate full of curd in the air and sprinkle one spice or the other as it landed right in the palm of his hand before being spun into the air one more time.  For these locals this sight was a part of their daily routine, yet every time they'd stop by, the amazement in their eyes would be afresh.  Gobbling down the delicacies I listened intently as he narrated stories of his childhood, legends of his forefathers, how they had served in royal courts and been renowned for their talent in cookery. The enthusiasm in his stories and preparation was infectious.  People who knew the stories by heart, joined in, as they kept prompting him to tell me the one where his grandfather cooked for the Viceroy, the one where they cooked a meal for 500 people in a matter of 2 hours, the one with his great-grandfather coming up with a cure for fever by accident stumbling upon a recipe he was trying out.  Okay, some of his stories were just too fantastic to be true, but where is the harm in giving an elated man who loves his job a clap of appreciation even if he glorifies it just a little!  I was almost full, burped out, and took Joshi ji's leave, promising to come back again before leaving for Mumbai.  I ended up having fruit rabri and matka kulfi on my way back, before getting on to a rickshaw lest I burst my tummy out of gluttony.  The ride back to the hotel was equally slow as the one from it.

Entered my room, changed into my night clothes, and cozily nestled into my bed, put my specs on and sat up half way with a book in hand, picking up from where I had left it the day I left for Indore.  On page 95 I slid the bookmark in, smiled at the fun I had in the evening thinking being alone here isn't all that bad after all and slid off into deep slumber with VH1 playing on the TV and the dim light on the other side of the bed still on.

The Ostrich Effect

God gifted us a mind of our own.  It is truly marvellous how we can bend reality to our will by a simple thought.  If “understanding” is the most valuable asset we associate with our cognitive abilities, “denial” is by far the strongest.  In Calvin’s fantastic adventures, a magician’s illusions and a schizophrenic’s imagination we find elements of “escapism”, yet none personifies the true essence of absolute ignorance we lead our lives in.  It’ll-probably-disappear-if-I-look-the-other-way underlines our existence, the way of life that has made it easy for us to forego so much.   I won’t preach, for that we have church.  I won’t plead; it’s what Greenpeace and the like do best.  I won’t mock either; your mirror’s doing a pretty good job towards that end.  I will, however, relate to you a string of unrelated events that possibly triggered off this post, or at least had something to do with the motivation to write after such a long time.

A-rupee-a-day-keeps-the-guilty-conscience-at-bay Two trains of thought have prevailed ever since begging for alms became a way of life for the destitute.  While some argue that giving alms to the poor only demeans their existence further and encourages others to follow suit, others pacify their sense of duty to society by dropping in a few coins.  The louder the clang in the rather empty bowl, the more you contribute to your account of “good deeds” with God feeling content of having helped out someone with an amount you might have squandered off on an irrelevant piece of gum.   Applause.  Honestly, I laud anyone who can pacify their conscience thinking they have improved someone’s life by dropping in some change for want of either getting rid of them at the traffic signal or giving in to their million pleas. 

When I pulled out a 10er and handed it over to the boy sweeping the train along with the half finished 5-star in my hand, I invited a lot of stares, judgemental ones.  A middle-aged woman snorted in disapproval clearly showing where her allegiance lay amongst the two schools, while another young professional smirked dismissing the act as a pretence of “Godliness in man”, a school girl stood awestruck at the proposition of someone just casually handing over a piece of chocolate to a stranger.  Amongst them stood a stooping old man, clinging on to the side rail tightly to keep from falling over, wrinkled and beaten down by the April heat.  He simply nodded and smiled, raising his imaginary hat in appreciation.  I smiled back.  That was the best after-taste of a 5-star I ever had.

Does-he-qualify-to-take-this-seat I might be tooting an old horn here, but spare me for being repetitive.   First class, local train to Borivali, fairly empty, a middle-aged man fights his way through the seamless crowd on the platform to crawl in.  He takes a shoddy piece of cloth that was surely intended to be a kerchief, gives it swish with the left, and dabs his face, trying to wipe the sweat off.  Damp already, the rag is hardly of any use except for transferring the beads of sweat into a thin film.  The droopy eyes examine the entire coach, squinting, blinking in quiet desperation.  Clutching on to a dark blue pouch with papers sticking out he holds fast to the side rail trying hard not to tip over as the fast local whistles past Santa Cruz station on towards Andheri.  He is not frail, just tired: beaten.  All four corners of the seats, from round the corners of their eyes look up, trying to judge in their own way if the stranger is “old enough to qualify” as someone you ought to get up and give your seat to.  Here’s what probably goes on inside in their heads:

1. Colour of hair – black with streaks of grey – CHECK
2. Type of clothes – plain shirt with tailored trousers – CHECK
3. Shoes – Unpolished wicker shoes cracking at more than 2 places – CHECK
4. Ability to hold on without falling – managing, but doubtful - CHECK
5. Amount of luggage – just a small pouch – REJECTED

The moment one of the criteria qualifies for a “rejected” it becomes reason enough for them to simply sigh, give a little shake of the head, and continue picking their noses leaving the stranger standing there, waiting to get off at Malad.

A-straight-face-is-best-served-with-a-blank-stare-into-nothingness Most people I come across, unfortunately, are masters of pulling off a straight face in wake of an awkward moment where they are most likely to come out with two donkey ears.  Consider an auto-rickshaw driver who knowingly took the longer route to reach some place and I caught him in the act and pointed it out to him, all he’d do is stoop a little, look into the rear view mirror, measure up the level of annoyance I have with him, realise it ain’t much and there’s nothing much I can do about it and simply look away after staring at me for 10 seconds.  As if that is going to pacify me! 

I order a dish with chicken that is supposed to come out sliced and marinated in a sumptuous sauce garnished with herbs.  What arrives is a concoction of diced prawn floating in an oily gravy and a side helping of bread.  It took me 10 seconds to simply get beyond the initial lack of comprehension of how that could be even remotely close to what I wanted.  When my eyes meet the waiter’s, and he realises the goof-up, the smile goes, the sparkle turns into a stare as he looks deeper into my eyes with that trademark straight face.  What is he expecting –play dumb and hope that I’d start feeling uneasy and stick with the dish and not create a ruckus at the restaurant or to magically make me FORGET what I ordered?   The audacity!

In every walk of life, it has struck me, something catches your attention which tweaks an aspect of the way you live life.  I know not if these events did the trick for me, but for all I care, they were enough for me to get back to writing.  Disconnected though it may seem, it is what I intended it to be.  We love sticking our heads into the sand and hope or rather imagine that what we do is never really observed, that if we ignore strongly and long enough it just won’t matter anymore and magically disappear.  We just might have taken “aal izz well” a little too seriously! ;-)