The Trip.

This is dedicated to my fellow book maniac, writer, arm chair philosopher and more than that my friend, my buddy; Neha.
I am writing cause you inspired me to take it up again. Cheers buddy !

All events, places and people are real and malice, if any is purely intentional .


Chapter 1 : The Plan .

Like all great things ever done, the brilliant idea to blaze a trail all the way to Kashid, one of the many beaches littering the Konkan coast, came about in a haze of smoke and alcohol fumes. There we were, Chacha, Bravo, Joshi ji and me, all sprawled in Chacha's flat on a Saturday night. Chacha and Bravo were drunk, I was stoned and Joshi ji was stretched out on the bed; 8 hours of traveling with 5 hours of waiting at the railway station thrown in had left him incapable of thinking straight. That probably explained why he agreed to such a hackneyed plan in spite of being the only sane and sober guy in the gang.

It all started with Bravo's insistence that we all were young men, it was the weekend and instead of wasting the best years of our life sitting at the same old place, doing the same old thing we should go out there, do something. All this was rendered in English punctuated by " Dudes ! " , with an expression suggesting imminent violent outburst at our frustrating lack of enthusiasm. Chacha and me agreed on the young men and weekend part but we slightly disagreed on the wasting bit as we felt entitled to a bit of R & R after working our asses off the entire bleeding week. Turning up everyday dressed and sober counting as work of course.

Chacha had the day before confided to Bravo his heart's desire to get on his bike and ride into the glorious sunset...well, till Goa anyway. This had planted the wander bug firmly in Bravo's head and he was now holding him accountable to his words. We, who knew Chacha had heard these varied and wild heart's desires atleast 5 times per beer can and reacted to it the same as to the latest weather report; polite interest tinged with disbelief. Bravo thought Chacha meant it. Chacha now realized that with his boastful outpourings he had burnt all bridges to an honorable retreat from a road trip. I was in disagreement with the general idea of anything involving moving my ass, the reasons being I was stoned and...yeah well mainly that. Chacha the sly bastard seeing in my reluctance the salvation for his pride immediately agreed to the plan of going somewhere as long as I was ready. I said fine as long as Joshi ji is going. Joshi ji looked up vaguely and mumbled sure why not, whatstheproblem. Later retrospection revealed that his tired brain had registered that we were planning a trip only up to Lonavla somewhere, a mere 80 Kms or thereabouts, nothing farther.
I looked at Chacha, smirking at his cunning, I looked at Bravo all testosterone-whiskey-what-you-lookin'-at-bitch, I looked at Joshi ji oblivious to the cruel and unusual punishment he was about to be subjected to and I was filled with that reckless urge that generally ends in pain and misery with malice to one and all. I said fine. Lets go. But we will under no condition turn tail halfway. And we would be going to Kashit, somewhere in the vicinity of Alibaug. 270 Kms flat out . That wiped the smirk off Chacha's face. Bravo broke out into another round of "Dudes ! " but with a positive ring to it. Joshi ji lay on the bed. I looked at the watch, it was 1:00 am. We broke up to collect clothes, jackets etc. While going down the stairs Joshi ji seemed to revive a bit and fully grasping the madcap plan turned to me and begged to let him off the hook. I politely declined. We were all set within half an hour. Bravo and I caught up with Chacha under his apartment block. There Bravo had the overwhelming urge to feed biscuits to a scrawny dog that had ambled up to look at the 3 morons who were all geared up for a trip in the middle of the freaking night. Finally sorting out the dog, strange urges, a sober and abusive Chacha we picked up Joshi ji and we were on our way.

The best lines I have ever heard

I heard these lines in Goodwill Hunting. They are the best lines I have ever heard and everytime I hear them, its like the first time.

Dr. Sean ( Robin Williams ) to Will Hunting ( Matt Damon ) :

So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan right? [Will nods] You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that do you sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.

Nearer to thee my God

The little drop had been hanging there for quite a while. The progeny of a brief half-hearted spell of rain and the the clinging dirt on the parapet wall. I had not realized how much time had passed in this tenacious struggle of viscosity and gravity till the embers of my joint made it a burning issue. Was it silent ? I don't know. It could be. But for me all that existed was the slow, curling short-lived wisps of smoke and that fucking tenacious spit ball of a drop.
I hated it. I wanted it to fall. I wanted it to feel the shapeless, impotent rage I felt. I so desperately wanted it to fall and go splat on the floor. The only other thing that existed was that oh so intimate and personal rasp of the joint flaming up with each drag and the interrupted patter of drops hitting the floor, the ceiling, the mud and any goddamned thing that was lying beneath the clouds outside my four walls. It still hung on.
Around me were scattered the so called outpourings of my creative genius. Sketches of what looked like fat skewed men and women etched in charcoal. They were supposed to be anguished souls desperately trying to escape from the mundane. Shit, they looked more like figures of men and women with equal amounts of rigor mortis and obesity all bearing the vacant expression of having died while stoned. This was why I called myself an artist ? I could not believe it. It was as if the honeymoon was over, I had finally seen the hitherto hidden and it had lost its charm and I saw it for what it was : mundane. I burned them. I watched them burn. It was all smoke and ash. It all curled up and fell on the cigarette ash. It was all the same, grey, indistinguishable ash.
How I wished I could burn the things that filled me the same way.

Now they put little grey pictures of cancer ravaged lungs on the cigarette packs. That's ironic. I looked at the three walls I could see. Grey, moist and mildewed . I was dying already and the pretty little stubs were my coffin nails. It started to rain. I looked up out of the window at my torment. It was not there anymore. In its place slithered a rivulet swollen with the many drops it had swallowed. I had missed out the final climactic struggle . Had it held to the last, even when the speeding rivulet came its way or had it given in and fallen ? I did not care. I lit up one more coffin nail and blew the dancing dirges out of my lungs.

What a wonderful world.

What do you do when nothing can stimulate you ? That feeling of excitement before the curtain goes up, the lights go out and the show starts. Its gone. Its like you already know whats next and it does live up to your perverse and cynical expectation of being "that's it, huh ?". And I am surrounded by idiots who enjoy it as if it were an orgasm. And they all look at me as if I am the crazy one. I am not just talking about crappy movies, lame comedy shows where regular bursts of canned laughter signifies something funny was said. Nope. These are the necessary evil that all must bear. One might as well complain about the weather. Just talking about anything that comes under the category of "Normal Fun ".
OK. Fine. There might be something in there that's making them all break out in applause, laughter, ooh-aah and stuff. But really ? Ok. I am willing to believe that the expressions of excitement and wonder is not part of a conspiracy to purposefully annoy me. If its true then either there is something wrong with me or something wrong with the majority of people I interact with.
Sure the scenery is nice, nature's glory, blah blah blah. You see it, you like it, you smile and move on. But to get i'm-so-thrilled-i'm-gonna-wet-my-pants excited ??? People, get a life. And they look at me as if I'm a freak to not enjoy it as much as everyone else. Everyone has their own threshold for jumping from ok whats this to mother-of-god-Awesome ! .
Let the world laugh at me cause I am different, but I laugh at the world cause they are all the same ! I am taking refuge in corny quotes. Damn.

Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden

I came across a really touching piece of poetry by Auden. I read it through and then I read it again. The sorrow within it is palpable and comes across as raw, wrenched out from some depth of misery...
Here it is :


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

- Wystan Hugh Auden

The Rape at Route No. 96

The same men were there. Armpits damp, eyes glazed, faces prematurely aged. One glimpse was enough to know that this was a gang of workers. Their entire existence defined by days just like these. Days filled with sweaty armpits, dirt caked beneath their nails, calloused feet poking out their shoes, eyes jaded by the monotony of it all. Some were smoking cheroots, some sucking snuff stuffed in their nether lips, some idly sitting or squatting depending on how soon they had got to the bus stop. It was a bus stop because the sign said so. Apart from that there was little to suggest that it was one. Three poles stood, all bent and drooping like old souls who have seen and gone through enough to make them like that, wanting just to lie down and turn to dust and ash.
The men were all staring time and again at the bend in the road. Dusk was sweeping in. The shadows came creeping swallowing the last sentinels of the day, those pockets of light trapped amidst the lengthening shadows. There is something special about dusk: the light seems to come form nowhere but is everywhere, the light fades slowly, sadly. And the widowed sky pulls on the mantle of darkness.

There is a crunching of gravel and the hollowed out eyes snap to the turning on the road. She is coming. The men start up . Slippers are thrust back on, veshti's pulled tight with all eyes still glued to the road. She slows down, bit uncertain. She comes to a stop a yard away and they pounce on her. Its a melee of arms, legs and snarling faces as they all pounce on, but no one can get on top, so they start it.: the bickering, snarling, scratching. Sweat glistened hands grab her. Rough calloused hands made greasy with the sweat, slide down, groping, clutching. Slippers are kicked off, shorts torn. Their ragged, stale breath comes in gasps. Teeth grinding, sinews flexing, they all fight to be the first. Finally one tears in, pushing and shoving, his entire body bucking and heaving with the effort. There is a sound of clothes tearing, flesh slapping on flesh. There are some onlookers there. They just stand there mouths agape. They are too shocked by this display of animal ferocity. They are all fascinated by it to be sure. Repulsed but still fascinated. Perhaps on some level they realized that violence and the primal instincts can never be completely bleached off by the moribund morals of a society and civilization long since decadent. They are always there, these primal emotions of lust, anger, hatred, fear. The sight of these instincts breaking through the sheen of civilization's morals has always fascinated men and women. It sets their hearts beating, a sensation of fear, fascination and thrill overcomes them. The sight of a man getting beaten to death, a dead body mutilated and bleeding, the spectacle of modern gladiators in an arena called sports letting lose their primal aggression to win at any cost. We love it; the blood, the sweat, the sight of a man driven only by the adrenaline surging through him obliterating all else... we need it.

The light fades. There is a silence now . The men are done. They are tired. They hang on panting.
There is a sound of a whistle and the Bus for Route No. 96 starts with a rumble.The gears fall in with a groan and she lurches forth struggling to carry the human cargo who fought so hard to get in and be a part of it as it had been everyday since before they could remember.

My Family and Other Animals - II

Being a widely spread out clan, I have seen that the idiosyncrasies are as much a product of the environment as divine providence.
The sons-of-the-soil sorry, persons-of-the-soil ( political correctness ! equality of the sexes ! ) are the stout loyalists, faithful to the clan, the family code, who have been brought up in the birthplace of the great and glorious family. They are the ones who regurgitate the elder's wisdom whenever faced by anything that has a question mark at the end of it. Its quite fun to have a debate with them on the finer issues of morality. After getting thoroughly confused they grab on to this age ripened wisdom and steadfastly refuse to recognize any other alternative. Unlike wine, seldom do things get better with age; wisdom is one of them.
Then there is the " Northie" cousin. Born and brought up in the liberating and corrupting land of the Aryans. They dress differently, speak Malayalam differently that too in an accent and grammar which lapses into a mix of Hindi and English. They are the stuff that a linguists nightmares are made of. They crave for food items like aloo-ka-parantha, butter-chicken,aloo-mutter-ki-sabzi that in the land of the Idli-Dosa leave them confused and perplexed. They are full of wild weird ideas all picked up from the fantasies of enid blyton and angrezi movies. These they try to preach to their other simple and innocent cousins. It always reminds me of the white sahib and the darkies he valiantly tries to emancipate.They never realize what an ass they are making of themselves and the only reason the others even come with them is cause they are fond of the slightly loco cousins from the north. The one good thing is their escapades are the funny family anecdotes that one can think about whenever things get a bit too dull and you want to laugh till tears stream out.
From further away are the cousins who have finally achieved that great Indian dream.The Expatriate cousins. They come once a year laden with everything from axe deo's to zip chains,all of it meticulously listed out by the cousins back home. They can very well get it from the corner store but its foreign so is bound to be superior and can be bragged about to less fortunate wide eyed friends as, " Its Foreign bhaiii! " . It always amazes me that the very same cousin who drank water straight from the well for well nigh the majority part of life and swam in the local pond meta-morphs into a mosquito fearing, bottled water, pukka sahib, hygiene freak. Carrying a case of bottled water, they sit fanning themselves, saying " No AC huh, its sooo hot ! All dusty too, wonder how you manage". And at chow time they take a look at the food on their plates then look at you as if you are trying to poison them. With a grimace they take a bite and say, " Lovely food, but so oily noo " . They insist on speaking Malayalam interspersed with English especially when talking to their kids. The kids speak more English than their Lingua Mater. I can never forget the one time one angrezi kid and my very desi granny were left in each others company. For three hours my granny and her cronies tried high and low to figure out what exactly the kid meant by "sugah". By show and point and wild gesticulations they finally figured out the baffling thing as sugar.

My uncles are a mixed lot. Like Tigger singing about his family of tiggers to roo, I have the jolly uncle, the stern uncle, the scheming uncle, the silly uncle, the simple uncle. They all have this thing of getting their mundu's in a tangle whenever there is a question of the great and honorable family honor. Except for the jolly uncle. He is an irascible old gent and one of the originals.

In my family the majority has always been held by the fairer sex. The males have always been in the minority. Coupled with the national weakness for a boy which my family resolutely shares, the minority boy section has always been a pampered lot. And this always raises the hackles of the females. Sure, they are super achievers, doctors, engineers, techies ... you name them and they have gone and done it. But there is such a thing called femininity, and they have as much of it as a pack of lionesses out on the hunt. The silly fool who coined the term " Weaker Sex " should make an in-depth study of our clan's females. I cant help but feel sorry for the poor blokes who have and would get married to the lot of them. And the wise elders have the gall to suggest them as role models for a future bride as opposed to my own choice. Every-time they suggest that I mentally cross my legs and pray to god to keep my manhood safe .

But, the Family for all of its varied and various wretchedities, meeting them is always a great rejuvenating experience that teaches a cynical and arrogant bastard like me that when making a complete ass of myself in the pursuit of that mystical something that all of humanities' pompous oddballs idle away their youth to seek, it feels good to be surrounded by those who love you, tease you and accept you for who you are and embrace you to the ever warm and welcoming family bosom. And I wouldn't have it any other way .