What an idea, sirjee!

I love it, I just love it.

There’s this Japanese cafe, about which I learnt via Marginal Revolutions, that has this marvelous way of redefining the way restaurants do business.

Walk in for a bite, and you get what the last guy ordered (and paid for!). You, on the other hand, have willy-nilly foisted your choice on the next guy who walks in – and you’ve paid for him too.

It’s not something you’d want to do everyday, of course. On the days on which you just have to have a steak burger, you might not want to step into a place like this.

On the other hand, there is hardly a better way of deciding between free will and determinism, no?

What would be a good Indian name for a venture like this?

Takdeer? Naseeb? Luck by Chance? Or something else altogether?

Sehwag = Wawsomeness

Chanced upon this interview because of this post – but my favourite passage, possible of all time, has simply got to be this:

Let me give an example: I was batting on 291 at Chepauk, against South Africa. I told Paul Harris, “Come round the wicket and first ball I’ll hit you for a six.” He accepted my challenge and the very first ball I hit him for a straight six, and there was a long-off, long-on, deep midwicket and a deep point. I was so tired and he was bowling on the pads and I was getting bored. So rather than spending 10-15 minutes to get to the triple-century I gave him good advice.

What arrogance, what realism. Federer, in his interviews, sometimes comes across as a tad – how shall I put it – superior, but when you think about it, he is completely justified.

And for much the same reason, so is Sehwag – both can back up their seemingly outrageous statements.

Go read, and enjoy.

Department of Arre But!

Now, we have a small, glocal community here on this blog, and on other assorted pages on which I wield my keyboard. Friends and acquaintances drop by, read what I have written, and occasionally leave a comment, much to the gratification of the undersigned.

I was not aware, however, that my fan following has apparently extended to the high and the mighty, not to mention the kooky. Pray tell, exactly what should I make of this mail I received but moments ago?

If these pages are not updated regularly, it is because I’m in shock.

Bambai Main Aaya Mera Dost…

Each of us have it, you know – the favourite part of a favourite song. I mean, all of us have THE song all right, but even within the song, there is this little bit that we wait for. The highlight; that riff on the guitar, that piece on the sax, that roll of the drums.

Take mine, for instance. It’s towards the end of What It Is, a song by Knopfler, when the whole thing just builds to a fantastic climax, and nirvana is attained. Especially if a mug of beer is at hand.

So the point is, now imagine a weekend that feels like that little moment. A weekend that starts on seventh heaven and spends the rest of its allotted time banging away on the roof, wanting to hit the eighth. That was my weekend gone by.

Halfway through the Bacchanalian carnival that the rest of world called Saturday and Sunday, one got the feeling that this one might be really special, and magically enough, nothing came in the midst of that feeling lasting all the way through until the time of hammering out the post. And beyond.

Old friends, good friends and old good friends came together over the space of three nights and two days, and painted a rather rowdy canvas that seems too perfect to be true.

A canvas that is truly riotous in nature, and yet perfect in every niggling detail. A canvas containing an ensemble cast that played out their roles in synchronous perfection. If the panel on the left details a drinking binge that ranks right up there on the all time scale, the one on the furthest right pays homage to the ideal of the perfect Sunday. The panel in the middle describes a lazy Saturday that included visits to old, fond memories and a match, watched in a pub, that played out in wondrous fashion.

That lazy Saturday also includes six bowls of phirnee, reason enough for Kulkarni to tick the entire weekend a success.

Which is the point, really. No one thing stands out at the highlight of the trip. Everything, beginning with the prawns and bacon on Friday night, down to the last shot of tequila on Sunday night… everything was as if the good fella up there was dishing out benevolence by the ton.

And everything in between, including the Ramzan food, the fine single malts, the lazing around, the all time Indian Test team and other sundry vignettes of vicarious pleasure to all concerned… everything was just perfect.

These ones don’t happen often – and perhaps they shouldn’t, if you see what I mean – but when they do, it is important that they be cherished.

Ergo the following.

To Willingdon and Mac, then, and to three quarts that pretend to be trousers. To undergarments that pretend to be shorts.

To singing songs that cannot be recollected and to the chugging of mugs.

To walking in the rain. To buddy boys.

To waking up late. To hangovers. To canceled lunches, and to yet another nap in that living room. Again.

To butter chicken. And roti. And mutton samosa. And biryani. And phirnee, and phirnee and phirnee. Sigh.

To Gerrard. Damn, the man can play.

To Man Utd, to Arsenal, to Diaby, the referee and Wenger.

Not to Berbatov. Damn, the man can’t play.

To fate, offsides and raucous cheers. To a pub that reverberates to chants of “Man U! Man U! Man U!”

To greasy grub. To mutton, chicken and beef.

To phirnee, phirnee, phirnee.

To random rickshaw rides.

To Glenfiddich. Aaaich.

To waking up late. To the magical relief one gets on having a shower in Bombay.

And begins to sweat again in five minutes. Sigh.

To yet another conversation about cricket, old style. May they last forever.

To Leopolds. Rock on, baby, rock on.

To steak and onions. To beef chilly fry. To chicken sausages. To the beer tower. To caramel custard, to caramel custard, to caramel custard.

To walking around in Fort. With friends. Because.

To not going to Alibaug. Because.

To John and Denzel. Not bad, boys, not bad.

To Theobrahma’s. And the best cheesecake I have ever eaten. As also the rum and raisin brownie, the chocolate fudge cake.

To Churchill’s Cafe, and the mixed grill lasagna.

To bliss.

To start off for home, and realize no one is home.

To look at each other, and decide as one.

To insane grins, to Toto’s.

To American Pie.

To tequila.

To buddies.

To a train ride home after ages.

To all of that, peoples, cheers.

Mind It!

1.30 P.M – Waiting to get on to a flight that will eventually reach Chennai. We’re going to say hello to Namma Bengalooru’s BIAL on the way.

1.35 P.M. – Two old ladies ask me something in some language that I cannot decipher. Probably Tamil, perhaps Kannada. Make note to self to see if they disembark at BIAL.

1.36 P.M – Realise there is nothing that stops them from being Tamilians in Karnataka. Or Kannadigas in Chennai. Or something else altogether. Waiting to board a flight can lead to random thoughts.

1.40 P.M – Slight headache. Urge to sleep due to verrry nice party last night. Red Bull ki jai ho. One can, coming right up.

1.45 P.M. – Seat right at the end of the plane. In the middle. Not aisle, not window. Sigh.

2.00 P.M. – Pilot informs me that we’re flying to Chennai via Bangalore. Really. Air hostesses do the seatbelt – oxygen masks routine. As always, wonder if banging on the panel above will loosen the thingummy that will release air masks. That’ll be fun. No?

2.05 P.M – Plane whirs and rambles and positions up the runway. Gathers its skirts and gets a move on. I wait for the sinking feeling in tummy.

2.06 P.M – Sinking feeling comes.

4.00 P.M. – About to land at Chennai. So much for Red Bull giving me wings. Peer outside. I can see purple, lemon yellow, bright green houses. Chennai is loud.

4.10 P.M. – Call wife, mum. Call the guy I’m supposed to meet in Chennai. Ask for address. Practice saying Vellacheri three times. Sweating already. Welcome to Chennai.

4.15 P.M. – Rickshaw driver nods approvingly when I say Vellacheri. Asks for 350. Guy I’m supposed to meet had said nothing over 150. I’m good at negotiating, we settle at 250.

5.00 P.M. – Chennai rickshaws are way better than Pune rickshaws. Made by TVS. Better engine, firmer suspension. Seem roomier too.

5.15 P.M. - Random introductions, long meeting. Ennui.

9.00 P.M – Get dropped at hotel. Step out for a bite. Karaikudi restaurant. Specializing in Chettinadu cuisine. Or authentic Punjabi dhaba. When in Rome…

9.01 P.M. – Where is Chettinad anyways? Tamil Nadu? Karnataka?

10.00 P.M – Nice place, this. Satiated tummies; benevolent thoughts. Lungi clad waiters, banana leaf on plate, chicken curry, appam and rice. Butter milk. Weird coconut milk preparation served with appam. Not touched.

10.30 P.M. – Good night.

7.00 A.M – Kaapi and dosai. The good life.

8.00 A.M. – Drive out to East Coast Road. Some offsite thingie planned for the day. Guys in the car, from the company I’m visiting, too friendly by half. Point out some IT park that is the largest in India. Yay! And other things of note.

8.30 A.M. – Keep waiting for sight of the sea. Our resort is only 25 kms from Chennai, and ECR, thus far – no great shakes.

9.00 A.M. – Rice for breakfast. Tastes quite nice. Poori and some gravy. Not so nice. Maidu Vada in Chennai is Vada. But tastes as good as Roopali. Roopali’s coffee is better.

9.30 A.M. – The festivities begin. Must stay awake. Raise hand and ask pointless questions to keep self awake. Deliverables, road maps, plans and I don’t know what. Why did Man Utd get Owen. WHY?

1.00 P.M. – Lunch. Excellent mutton curry. Truly fantastic. Hog. Curd rice and gulab jamuns. Burp. The afternoon is going to be merry hell.

2.00 P.M. – These Chennai guys! They turn the AC off. OFF! Apparently is too cold. Has anybody died of sweating? Apres the trickle, the deluge.

4.00 P.M – Coffee break. Man Utd should have gotten somebody else.

4.30 P.M – More ennui. Ennui more.

6.00 P.M – It’s over! Run down to the beach, volleyball. I suck at it. Cricket. Not too bad. Sweating profusely. It’s windy, but humid as hell.

7.30 P.M. – Mandatory dancing session. I and my twelve left feet execute a graceful ballet. Smothered grins, polite applause. I retreat to the bar.

8.15 P.M. – Wise decision. Happy Kulkarni.

9.00 P.M. – Fantastic fish curry. Much conversation. Nice guys, these people.

10.30 P.M. – Ride back to the hotel. Sleepy heads.

11.30 P.M. – Reach hotel. To sleep or not to sleep? Cab coming to pick me up at 2.30 A.M.

12.30 A.M. – Need For Speed. Good game!

2.00 A.M. – Sleep… Game…. Sleep… Game. Game! C’maaan!

2.30 A.M. – Cab on time. New guy, I think. At least, that is what he seems to be saying.

3.00 A.M. – We’re lost. Glory be, we’re lost. The driver knows squat, so do I. Nobody on the streets. I’m going to miss my flight. Dammit.

3.15 A.M – First suspicious, then friendly. Cop pats me on back, directs stream of information at cabbie. We’re on our way!

4.00 A.M. – Finish security check. Stay awake in case I miss flight. No plug in points at Chennai Airport. Battery on laptop drained. Walk around. Walk around some more. And some more. Must stay awake. Sigh.

4.15 A.M. – Clamber onto flight. Aisle seat. Praised be the Lord.

4.30 A.M. – Flight takes off.

4.31 A.M. – Baby in seat next to mine starts crying. Howling.

4.32 A.M. – Monster’s mum smiles apologetically, goes to sleep. Baby pauses to look up at her. Resumes howling.

4.33 A.M – Monster continues howling.

4.34 A.M. – I consider howling myself.

4.35 A.M. – Arrrrrggggghhhh.

4.36 A.M. – There is no other seat, sir. I’m sorry. Of course you are.

4.37 A.M. – No. No. No. Why me?

6.00 A.M. – We’re about to land. Gigantic Lungs Inc. has not ceased operations for a second.

6.15 A.M. – Flight lands. He stops! He stops crying! Looks at me, gives beatific smile. Burps.

6.30 A.M. – We’re disembarking. I have my revenge. I burp back.

7.00 A.M. – Warm, cozy bed. Snug blanket. Home. Good night.

That Damn Itch

I’m not going to apologize for the hiatus, not because I don’t feel like apologizing (I do), but because it’ll happen again. The hiatus, I mean. So learn to live with it, as I have.

There’s been plenty to write about, of course – the rains came and went, pigs flew in Pune, schools and colleges shut down, and all sorts of insane things happened. But the strain of having to write a post a day finally told on Kulkarni – and although he struggled manfully under the burden for as long as he could… well, one day he couldn’t.

And that explains the pause. But now, at long last, the all night candle vigils, the letters written in human blood and the screams of anguish can cease and desist. Kulkarni is back.

Seriously though, I don’t think I’ll be putting up a post a day. Too much effort, and goes against my very ethos. What I will be doing however, is trying to post with somewhat more regularity.

About what?

Well, about travel. Turns out traveling and writing are two things I like doing, so I’ll be combining the two for the nonce.

There’s a trip to Aurangabad, a trip to Bombay and a trip to Bangalore coming up on consecutive weekends, so let’s talk about these hip and happening places – from the rather jaundiced view of a Punekar.

And in the meantime, a short ‘post-it-notes’ kind of post on a short jaunt I undertook to Chennai will follow shortly.

I might have ended by saying “promise”, but I know you lot. I’ll spare myself.

Cheers, all.

Places to go and things to do in the rains

Lonavala?

Sinhagad?

Mulshi?

Mahabaleshwar?

What else?

Treks to forts around Pune – and there’s more than you can shake a stick at.

Swiming in the rains – try it if you haven’t already. It’s fantastic fun.

The old favourites: snuggling up in a blanket and watching movies / reading books.

But, and I think I’ll find much agreement here – going to office is totally not on the list. Not at the best of times, but particularly not on a grey windy day.

Time to head for Sinhagad

… on bikes.

Time to stop halfway up the climb and have a cup of chai.

Time to stand atop the summit and listen to the howling wind.

Time to feel the cold grip your face.

Time to experience the monsoons in Pune.

Chala!

It’s raining in Pune

And not that I trust them with a fly’s life, but the Met Department says it will continue to rain for the next three days.

And I swear to god this is true: it stopped raining while I was reading that report, and it has not rained since.

Mal Tup – Where Art Thou?

I don’t know if you ever ate over there – a little run down shack just before Khadki Station on Bhau Patil Road.

It used to serve Mallu food, and man was it good. Beef Chili Fry, chicken curry, beef biryani, egg curry and so on and so forth.

It was fantastic, and it is, of course, not there anymore.

Anybody know if it’s shifted elsewhere? I wouldn’t mind a plate of beef biryani round about now.