beingdesh

Category: Flashback

  • The Healing Chill of Hebbe Falls

    A chill runs through my body, crossing my spine, and within touching distance of my brain. I can only feel the cold water massaging my bruises, playfully interacting with platelets busy constructing a clot. I can sense a relieving burn crawl over my scratches, and it is extremely refreshing. Suddenly all the tiredness faces an existential threat. I feel a rush of energy pass through my body. Water can do that to you. Chilled water can do it better. A super chilled waterfall after an injury-laden trek tops it all. It can pump life in you within seconds and make you feel alive.

    A couple of hours back…

    Ah, the beautiful landscapes around Kemmangundi (Karnataka), and the soothing winds blowing on this hilltop. Why should we leave all this and go for a trek? Down-treks are easier these guys tell me. I have never been a trekking person – up or down – nothing excites me. I am just going on this one to keep my friends happy. I have been told about this particularly scenic Hebbe falls some 8-10 Kms down the trek. Waterfall!!! So much pain and trouble just to see a waterfall. I am not the kind of person who would trade relaxation for effort on a holiday. Or maybe I am?

    We start the trek as a cheerful, semi-drunk, happy high sort of a group. Few beers had been gulped with an afternoon barbecue featuring my Ajwain Flavored Paneer Tikkas, but it’s the sights and sounds around which have made me high, or so I think. As with most treks in India, this one starts as a dusty and dry trail. Being a down trek we had already started slipping and losing control over the trek.

    A few minutes into the trek and I start laughing rather unsympathetically over a friend slipping. Before I realize I trip and start rolling down the hill. A chill runs through my body, full of fear, of injury, or even death, and I close my eyes. Darkness. Till Infinity.

    As I open my eyes caught in a thorny shrub, with distant voices of my friends falling on ears and prickly and intense pain running through my body I realize it isn’t that bad. My friends come rushing on and apply their healing dosage of Water, Antiseptic, and a healthy serving of trekking gyaan.

    Right now I feel terrible. Ashamed. Dead-like. Tired. Fail. Stupid. Maybe a mix of everything.

    And a few moments back…

    I am slowly realizing the extent of damage- a number of scratches, a couple of cuts on knees and elbows, and countless small bruises all over my body. But somehow I know I am walking towards something special. I don’t know what it is, but the afternoon heat metamorphosing to the pre-evening chill, and the dusty lanes transforming to Hulk-Green surroundings are giving me signs of things to come. All of a sudden through those green leaves I spot Hebbe Falls. I can smell the wet scent of earth, and hear the profound sounds of a waterfall. I had lost sense of all my senses sometime back. But as I stand in front of the waterfall, I have regained them, feeling every bit of the waterfall. I throw my bag and jump in.

  • Spicy Hot Summer, Served With Buffalo Dip

    There are summers, and then there is that idiotic summer.

    I was interning with an organization studying tribal arts in the Rathwa tribe dominated Chota Udaipur region of Gujarat. In a constantly sweltering Sun, which was seldom in mood to bend itself below 45 odd degrees, we roamed across villages exploring styles of Pithora Paintings and scouting opportunities to work on other tribal art forms.

    There are summers, and then there is that romantic summer.

    I remember squeezing out time to go through multiple books at the same time. I fell in love with Arwen from Lord of the Rings and the landscapes of Shire as described by Tolkien, before the book eventually consumed me. I fell in love with villages, with the way Indians lived, took pride in our deep heritage and diverse art forms, and developed a significant admiration for tribal women with their shiny skin and confident demeanor.

    There are summers, and then there is that delicious summer.

    From the 10 year old kid who took me behind his hut at night to mix Gin for me in a earthen pot, to the old uncle who showed me the distillation process for Mahua made liquor, I discovered the existence of Alcohol. I remember taking the first sip, and it was hot, as hot as the Sun on top, it burned my food pipe for a second, but left a deliciously hot aftertaste. Then there was my new found addiction for soft-drinks (the one I always regretted), to unbelievably and brightly colorful Re. 1 shaved-ice candies, popularly termed Jaundice flavored candies by my Professor. But the taste which stayed for me forever was having Huge Makai Rotlas (Maize-Flour Bread, almost 10 inches in diameter), served with spicy hot red-chili garlic dry chutney.

    There are summers, and there is the one that comes alive.

    “You look like a Yamraj”, my friend shouted.

    “I am one, bwhahahaha”, I replied.

    Here I was on one of those idiotic summer days sitting comfortably on a buffalo-back, rekindling my romance with my sense of freedom, with a couple of delicious drops of water flying from the pond and vaporizing of my parched tongue.

    Earlier in the day we had helped our host in the village with some clean-up of his house and then offered to help him take his buffalos for a cleanup. But as I cleaned the buffalos in the village nahar, I slowly soaked in the mood, and didn’t even realize when it became a little adventure involving me and my friend, our host’s son, his friends and the friendly buffalos. We all took a dip in the small pool which had formed at the side of the village stream, saving ourselves from the occasional burst of energy by the head banging buffalos. It was even better with them laying in pool with us climbing on backs, playing “desi” cowboys, or enacting Yamraj and feeling awesome about acting stupidly.

    And suddenly in that one moment everything I did that summer came together, all those images of intense summer heat, beautiful paintings, the earthen pot distillation unit, that spicy chili garlic chutney. And my summer came to life, with a bit of spice, and lovely Buffalo dip.

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    Have you ever gone dipping with Buffaloes in a village pond? Or Elephants, maybe?

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  • Thali Memoirs and A Visit to Rajdhani

    Honestly, I have slightly moved away from the Thali format (by Thali I mean the Unlimited Thali formats, representative of the scores of Marwari-Rajasthani-Gujarati style platters). My initial indulgence in Thalis was a result of petty bets on hogging more rather than any particular interest food. We took so much interest in wiping clean watis of aam-ras, popping those mini-puris and puran–polis, or having more servings of Khichdi-Kadhi than each other, that we hardly noticed the freakishly amazing array of flavors on offer.

    But it helped that in the prime of my hogging days I was based in Ahmedabad, the capital of thalis in India. Slowly I was getting educated about a culinary tradition basic to Indian cooking and eating, the Thali. It took different meanings- from the thali eateries outside Baroda station which were a simple and affordable replacement for home cooked food, to the luxurious experiential dining at Vishala in Ahmedabad. One of my favorites was Pakvaan at Ahmedabad (Near Ellis Bridge), for me it stood for affordable luxury, especially in the cash-strapped days of engineering.

    But then there was what most consider to be the Holy Grail of all Thalis, Govardhan Thaal, at SG Road, Ahmedabad. I remember sneaking past its 56 dish-written whiteboard on multiple occasions, just to be turned-off by the Rs. 120 price tag. I recall when Dad came to visit me and asked for a place where we could go out for Dinner, Govardhan was the place I chose. And I still remember that meal, from the rose-petal-water handwash, right to the rasmalai.

    Times changed and once I came to Mumbai, Rajdhani at InOrbit, Malad gave me an opportunity to relive those Thali memories. Sometimes I feel Thali eating is more about an interesting company, you don’t get time to talk between that quick serving, but you can easily talk with your gestures, eye movements (about to pop-out in case you have had more than enough) and more often than not, a Burrp.

    But then offlate my eating capacity has taken a dip, and the more I have explored food, the more I have started resisting thali. It has become very difficult for me to consume in high quantities, and also I need time and space to absorb a dish, both aesthetically and through my digestive system. Needless to say sometimes the Thali restaurants do come across as slightly intrusive, with their hands popping out of all directions with food, allowing little peace of mind.

    So initially when I received this invite for Rajdhani, I was slightly tentative to go. But then I thought, let’s go, for all the great memories…

    The Visit to Rajdhani

    I will not talk much about the food on offer, because there are few people (Gaurav, Shirin, and Krytie) who have already talked about it. To be short I loved the starters (Patra and Vatana Pattice), then I was lost in the middle with lot of servings, and then regained some ground with the Kheer, a piece of Jalebi, and some Kadhi-Khichdi, and ending it all with a gorgeous Paan-Shot (I like the one served at Punjab Grill much more, guess they use an actual Paan). It’s not like I didn’t like the food, but somehow as I mentioned above I have moved away from the format. But that’s my perspective, a lot of people do love this format (like almost all the members in my entire family).

    I think it is much more important to highlight the processes straight from sourcing to cooking, from serving fresh to developing a signature serving style, from expanding the concept from a single restaurant to a chain, and above all for serving fresh food, daily. So here are two things which stood out for me during my visit:

    Serving FRESH food, daily: Most of the successful players in the business tend to be experts in minimizing wastage, reusing stuff and taking pains to source good quality stuff at minimizing wastage. And yes these are traits more important than having a wide menu, or a great ambience. If you are not getting what I am trying to explain, read something about the restaurant business like Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, its all about minimizing wastage and keeping your costs in control. So a lot of places you go to actually don’t end up serving “FRESH” food, because it doesn’t make business sense (remember the times when you had so much Garlic in your Daal Tadka, or on a Sunday Brunch you had 2-3 types of Shredded Chicken Salads).

    I love Rajdhani because it serves FRESHLY COOKED FOOD. You visit the kitchens and see limited quantities of a standardized menu being prepared, and you notice the limited cold storage, you know you are eating fresh stuff. And given the tough Industry this is, it is a big USP. And believe me it is a USP. It is one thing which makes Rajdhani food similar to food at home, along with the service which is full of Love (or as we do in India, with Ghee).

    Check out this video of our Kitchen tour (and you can take one anytime during your visit to Rajdhani). Mr. Nair, the VP of Khandani Rajdhani, guides us through the cooking process, the techniques, and the history of Rajdhani.

    Speaking the Language of Food: Goto any restaurant and you see people from all over India working as part of serving staff. But go to a Rajdhani and you will only see people from Rajasthan. Why? Simple, these are people who have grown on Daal Baati or a Gatte ka Sabzi, they will serve what they know. Plus these guys have developed their own code-language of communicating to cut down on service time. We got this small demo at Rajdhani.

    The effort which the staff puts in serving is something unachievable in any other format, they know about the food, they contribute to its creation, and also create a new affectionate language around the same, and the feeling is communicated to its customers. I was reminded of this quote from the Italian movie Life is Beautiful.

    You’re here serving, you’re not a servant. Serving is the supreme art. God is the first of servants. God serves men, but he’s not a servant to men.

    Serving really is a supreme art at Rajdhani. (Although as I mentioned above I have moved away a bit from this format, still I appreciate the effort they put in their service).

    The things which is commendable is that apart from achieving the above two, they have been able to replicate the model, and scale it to create a sustainable and a profitable business model out of it. On the sidelines of the visit when I was chatting with Mr. Nair, I recognized his love for Thali format and the cuisine, heard stories of his early days in business running Thali formats in Gujarat, and realized where all this love and affection in the staff comes from.

    And he too like me, loves Govardhan Thaal and rates it as the best Thali Restaurant in India Smile

    I believe that if you are fond of Thalis, Rajdhani is a must visit place, for all its good service, and freshly prepared food. For people like me, I believe there is space in the market for a slightly slow-paced Thali restaurant.

    Featured Image by Gaurav

    Disclosure: Restaurant’s Public Relations agency covered all the expenses associated with the food tastings mentioned above. For more details refer my disclosure page.

  • The First Sip

    Years ago when I was a kid, I had accidentally discovered and realized the existence of Alcohol. I had stumbled upon a bottle of Whiskey, while looking for something in my Father’s wardrobe. Till that point of time I had seen people drinking on-screen, but I certainly couldn’t imagine my father doing the same. There was something different about that moment when I held the bottle in my hands. Excitement, curiosity, or guilt? All I knew was that I will never drink alcohol when I grow up. There was something extremely repulsive about it back then.

    Slowly things around me were changing, I started noticing the bottles of VAT 69 more prominently than Helen Aunty’s cabaret numbers while watching a 70s movie; I realized that the reason Murali Bhaiya made those brilliant appetizers at Nucleus Club parties – the taste of those egg cutlets and smell of that fish fry still lingers vividly in my memory; I realized that drinking alcohol can be fun, can make uncles go mad in New Year Parties, can lead aunties to talk about behaviour of those uncles and can lead to kids getting excited about it. There was always that bit of excitement in class whenever our Chemistry teacher threw out the name of C2H5OH from his mouth. Few of my friends had taken up smoking and chewing tobacco but drinking alcohol was still faraway.  Alcohol in those days to me was a distant dream and I told to myself, I will never ever smoke. But drinking, yes will consider that for sure.

    Few years later engineering college presented the first opportunity to breakaway for many of us. Of course the stupid cinema of 90s had coloured our thoughts to such an extent that many of us still believed colleges to have sprawling lawns, a healthy sex ratio, more pyaar than padhai and those amazing costumes (girls wearing frocks with puffed shoulders and flowery belts and guys wearing tight jeans with Action shoes). Fortunately (much more than unfortunately) I landed up in a dry state. Although the presence of  lawns in my college was evident, I would rather not comment on the rest of parameters mentioned above.

    Gujarat has been a dry state because Gandhiji was born there. It would have been much more interesting if Gandhiji would have been born in Punjab, very very interesting.

    Despite being a dry state, in Gujarat alcohol is easily available. Be it petrol pumps, paan thelas, soda waalas, almost everyone is a supplier or claims to be one. During my engineering years I still thought about drinking sometimes, but the phattu me (or the law-abiding me) was scared to take the plunge. Maybe I was waiting for the right time, maybe I just found spending money from home on drinking an inappropriate thing. As always I was confused to take a call.

    It was in this state of confusion, (just before the placements, end of 3rd year) we set out on a trip to Abu. I had read about Dilwara temple in school textbooks, and heard stories about Abu Road station’s brilliant omlettes and rabdi from Delhi junta boarding the Ashram express. Although I had never realized that Mt. Abu was flocked by Gujarati tourists for another major reason, to get DRUNK. Legally that is.

    The trip was a memorable one for many reasons. 17 odd guys (and healthy ones) going for a trip packed in one Tempo Trax from Ahmedabad to Mt. Abu; one of my friend showing his ability to sleep anywhere, from railway station platform, to roads, to bus floors; visit to Dilwara temple on the final day of trip; all of us running out of money and a saviour coming up with 1000 Rs. But I will always remember this trip as the one I had my first sip. And what a sip it was!!!

    We gathered some money to buy a bottle of White Mischief (yes almost the cheapest Vodka available), a couple of bottles of Sprite, some lemon and Lays American Cheese and Onion chips. 8 of us sitting, 7 of them have had their first sips, and I was the only debutant. Visibly nervous, I was being constantly lectured by my friends about both the goods and bads of drinking. I was in no position to think that much, my motive was just to go for it. It was a mixture of emotions. Excitement, curiosity, or guilt?

    My friend passed me the glass, adding the caution, tera pehla hai, chota banaya hai. As I held the glass in my hand all those memories and thoughts which I have mentioned earlier passed before me. The strongest vision being of Dev Sahab drinking a Vat 69. Cheers they said and I gulped it.

    All I felt was warmth. I could trace the path through my oesophagus all the way to my stomach. I didn’t feel the sprite, neither did I feel the lemon, it was all warm. And I have had it in one shot.

    Hold the drink they said.

    And I kept on gulping them until I was four down. I was feeling warm in a so-called hill station. Slightly dizzy too. People were talking, and as always I was also talking. It was my first sip, and honestly it wasn’t anything special. It was something very normal. Not a big event as I had anticipated it to be. They asked me to go out for a walk so that I could feel better. But I told them I felt good. Or maybe I still didn’t know how I felt like.

    Was it excitement, curiosity, or guilt?

    As I recollect now this wasn’t actually my first sip. I had Mohua (an Indian liquor produced in tribal areas) at the end of first year, but it was a non-significant event, just had a bit in a dona.

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    What is your story of your first sip?

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    Featured image by Prasoon Gupta

  • The Curse of the Ring

    It was my first winter in Ahmedabad. And a cold winter it was. I remember very few things from that period, maybe there was hardly anything worth remembering. Not from that winter, and not from the few months which followed it.

    Although I do remember the irritating smell of fresh paint in the new hostel, the constant playing of Sayonni by two lovely seniors, who were never awake in mornings, and who hardly wore anything more than a lal chaddi. And yes, I recall sleeping a lot, waking up to my roommate singing Kishore Kumar songs. I remember him slowly breaking out from his pre-college cocoon, ready to fly, but confused how to flutter his wings. I remember the dingy and dark classroom, so much different from the first semester, when things were brighter, when gardens seemed greener, and people around me seemed so cheerful. I recall the guys not taking a bath, and I certainly recall guessing which girl had n0t taken a bath. There was a new food court in plans to challenge Brijwasi, putting my new found weight loss to test, a 15 KG miraculous loss was unsustainable few said. I remember me evolving from a small town slightly confused person, to an extrovert and loud, but still a confused person. Film club, cricket club, elections, cultural festival, joy, fights and sorrows, the second semester in DAIICT was about everything, other than studies.

    I remember that it was around this time that I started reading a lot. Past couple of years had been spent in flipping through thick volumes of PL Soni and Morrison and Boyds of the world, but it had still not killed my childhood passion of exploring books. More than gaining knowledge and killing time, reading at DAIICT was about walking together with a brilliant flock of students and faculty who also read a lot. I remember picking up classic fictions from friends, few biographies and short story collections from library, and also at times fiddling with Asimov and HG Wells after which I decided to stay away from Science Fiction as I found it slow-paced and inconclusive.

    It was during these times that I encountered Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings in my friend LKP’s hands. LKP (read la ka pa) always used to carry it around with pride and laziness. A torn book with yellow brittle pages and green cover had been a subject of two recent blockbuster movies and innumerable discussions (although nothing beats the amount of discussions on Matrix during that year) at hostel. Quite naturally I went ahead and borrowed the book.

    It was a slow start to the book, as I progressed I flipped back and forth to have gaze at the Elvish key and the map of middle earth. The initial journey and formation of the fellowship was still not arousing the level of interest I had expected.

    And then Chicken Pox happened.

    It had been spreading in the hostel, I got it, missed 4 weeks, missed the mid-terms, screwed my academics, who cares, this semester was not at all about studies.

    A lot of home-care, further weight loss, and few neem baths later I was back to college. I tried to get a grasp of the acads but they were too distant now. Trying to complete Frodo and the fellowship’s journey was of much more interest to me than exploring shortest path algorithm or breadth first search. So it was a week before the final exams that I picked up the book again.

    And then Viral Fever happened.

    The exam and its results are something which I don’t want to discuss. But over the next couple of months I went through an intriguing journey of discovering rural India and its tribal populace with one of my favorite professor and a bunch of inquisitive teenagers. Even during this period I read a lot and discussed my readings with friends and professor. After the rural internship and vacation I was back on campus again, the bright semester had started (somehow I felt, the odd semesters were always brighter and better, the even ones despite the fests were somehow marred by something or the other) and I decided to pick up the book again and start reading.

    And then conjunctivitis happened.

    People close to me know that I am a bit more than the usual superstitious fellow, and the next thing I did was to give the book back to LKP. A few months later I went ahead and saw the movies, and I have seen it hundreds of times since then admiring each and every piece of what Tolkien imagined and how Peter Jackson articulated his imagination. But it has been extremely difficult for me to order that book. In fact I have never dared to touch a copy of it again.

    The small yellow pencil, wearing a friend’s wrist watch, putting on the same jeans for each and every exam, the timing of a haircut, sitting at the same place or doing the matchstick trick during a cricket match, eating the same breakfast on important days, not drinking on certain days, scratching the forehead before an important meeting etc. etc.

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    Is it only me who is afraid of superstitions or do I have others around for company too?

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  • Return to Korba

    Over the past 2-3 years I have travelled across various parts of the country. Most of these trips were planned and executed around a friend’s wedding, and given I have had so many friends getting married in the recent past, and at locations such as Indore, Dhanbad, Raipur, Kerala, Rajasthan, Interiors of Maharashtra, and Delhi, these trips have resulted in experiences worth mentioning. On some trips the destination overpowered the entire wedding experience, and at some the wedding was an event to remember. Needless to mention I have also returned gastronomically satisfied from most of these trips, learning a lot about the diversity across Indian food preparations, wedding delicacies and food on the road, rail, air and even water.

    But out of all the trips the one which I made this weekend holds a special place, simply because of the people and place involved. And yes as always slightly because of my flirtations with food on the trip.

    I was going back to Korba after about 9 years, a period in which I have moved away significantly from what I was at Korba. A relatively simple person who was mostly immersed in books, gully cricket, and mostly lost in his own thoughts went on to talk, travel, eat, make friends, and talk a lot. I became more expressive and confident, adapted new habits – both good and bad, met a lot of people from different backgrounds, slowly started spending more money and became more experimental about life in general.

    It is interesting to note how roles change once we are back in Korba, whatever we have done in the past so many years, when my school friends get together, we behave as we behaved for all those 14 years in school. Surprisingly, they are the only ones who know how to make me sit quiet. Very rare! And for us everyone is still the same, no one is a Doctor, MBA, Engineer, CA, or a businessman; everyone is just the same old DPS Korba student they were, and I am still the Pattu they met in 2002.

    Korba has changed, the township hasn’t. The city seems well maintained with brilliant roads, shining shopping complexes and even a flyover! Although all the forests around the city have disappeared and all I saw on the road from Churri towards Korba and beyond were just power plants.

    The township remains the same, all our addas are still there as we left them. But I heard that the kids are gone (after 6th most of them are packed away to a IIT/Medical coaching location), people hardly come out, there are no fights in club for badminton courts or on Mansarovar to play cricket, and those community gatherings and activities which gave the township its life have become rare.

     

    Random pic about Korba

    Oh, by the way I also tasted the famous Chhattisgarhi Daal Wada with the spicy brick red chutney (a cross between a schezwan sauce and a pickle masala), my favorite Indian Coffee House Cutlets –potato and beetroot stuffed and shallow fried tikkis (although I tasted them in Nagpur as I knew I won’t have time in Korba), 4 different dosas (one outside the CST subway, value for money Butter Sada; second from Nagpur Coffee House, now Rs. 40 as compared to Rs. 14 back in the days of school; third at a friend’s home at Bilaspur, simple homemade dosas served with a spicy peanut and dal chutney; fourth on the return journey at Bhusaval junction, a regular dosa with a Jeervan like spice sprinkled on top, hot and fresh), and some good food at the wedding. But for me the cutlets stood out, and to benchmark them I even had the railway cutlets (https://beingdesh.com/2010/04/the-story-of-indian-railway-cutlet/), but I would say the Coffee House ones win, again because of the memories attached to it. On the healthier side we munched onto tonnes of Oranges and Sandwiches parceled in Raipur. The craving for sweets was satisfied through Spongy Rasgullas, Flavored Dry Fruit Bites (a sweet which according to me is the true competition to my other favorite, Mysore Pak), and Santara Barfi (a petha style sweet, flavored with orange juice).

    As always I have deviated from the core discussion around Korba to food, but then things have been this way since back I was child, food has always been a key component of my discussion, at Korba, or after that.

    In hindsight moving out of Korba was probably good for me, as I understood life and India in a better way and become truly Desi. But still Pattu remains a part of me, and I hope it continues to be.

  • 11 memories of 2011

    1. Watching Sachin at Bangalore scoring 100 in a World Cup match in Feb. If I would I have jumped from the stands at that very moment, it would have been a great death. And also at the end of it all we won the cup, the cup which mattered the most on April 2nd.
    2. Sitting comfortably on a slowly moving houseboat in Kerala backwaters. Amazing trip to Kerala followed by loss of my costliest cellphone ever and a wonderful wedding of a wonderful friend.
    3. Silence of the noise party at Palolim Goa, and the story of why it never happened. The most amazing of trips with my bestest friends…
    4. Losing a dear friend. Yesterday night as we drove past Lonavla, Naresh was the only person I could think of. Sachin’s birthday, the online world, DAIICT bakar and watching Katrina Kaif songs will never be the same again.
    5. Sitting on Sam dunes and watching the sun set. Nothing else, just so so peaceful and nice.
    6. Gaining weight, gaining a lot of weight, losing a LOT of weight and then putting some back again. The year when I was struck by Jaundice which led to a month of salary lesser than my maid and no holidays leading to no Ladakh for another year.
    7. Dancing at weddings. Too many weddings this year, although I did plan it well enough with some tours. I guess I danced pretty madly at Katti and Dhari’s wedding, Ankit and Apeksha was relatively sober.
    8. Meeting pretty girls randomly. A Brazilian Chef, few Danish linguistic students, an international affairs student interested in mahabharat, a  playwright, a lawyer with an amazing knowledge of tennis and cricket, a journalist who could have better been a food critic, a marketeer with love for wines and cheese and a few others. But as expected this just resulted in more stories getting added to my database. Swear.
    9. Consolidating the REAL friend-list. Hardly any additions to the new friends category, people who were close kept coming closer. Few who were distanced kept going far away. Very few recalls from the past and accidental meetups with old buddies.
    10. Idlis, dosas, upmas and vada. South Indian was the cuisine of the year, if my countless visits to Matunga’s Madras Cafe with Harsh and other friends is anything to go by. The Hyderabad Chutneys Sambhar was one of the best things I had during the year. Also idlis and dosas gave me company during the most food deprived time of my life, Jaundice.
    11. Sutts and the amazing bakar around it. The chai-sutta breaks at office led to really engaging conversations covering all aspects of life with the office gang (I was a pretty active passive smoker this year). Just that the participants kept going down every month.

    Featured image by Harsh Mehta

  • Our obsession with the 100th 100

    कब बनेगा शतको का शतक?
    (आज तक, 193 times since Feb’11)

    Ever since end of February 2011 all of us have been waiting for Sachin to score that century. Personally I have been counting every run of his backwards from 100, from the 16 left against Pakistan at Mohali to the 27 left at Melbourne the wait for that perfect figure still continues. Throughout this time I have been through a multitude of feelings. I have been logical and appreciative of opposing bowlers at times; erratic and abusive to the bowlers, Dhoni and even Sharad Pawar at times; emotional and thinking about the century too much; nostalgic and thinking about classics from Perth to Chennai to Sharjah; a fool to neglect all the other action around him; a connoisseur of the game and loving every moment of the awesome test cricket which has been on offer this year and above all obsessed with him reaching his 100.

    Reaching 100 is not just a milestone for Sachin, it just a manifestation of all our childhood dreams. We have been always chasing that 100, that perfect number. Ask a Father back in 90s and he would have told My kid should get 100 in Maths, बाकी अंग्रेजी वगेरा के नंबर कौन देखता है.

    So the child would run behind that target, he would get a 25 on 25 in unit test, but that is like getting a 100 in Bangladesh or in a Ranji match. One needs a 100 in exams, so he would then get it in Half Yearly, only to hear Son, its still not the finals.

    That kid would burn the midnight oil to get that 100, he would reach 97, 98, 99, but it was always the 100 which mattered. All along this time there were classmates doing brilliantly in multiple areas (like Kallis: scoring 100s and taking wickets), becoming excellent orators (like Dravid, Sanga, scoring 100s and winning hearts with their speeches), being naughty (like Ponting, scoring 100 and being that arrogant naughty brat in the class), becoming school leaders like Head Boy/Girl (like Kumble taking wickets and showing his leadership mettle both on and off the field, or like Ganguly, always leading from the front and scoring 100s too) and going around with pretty girls (like Warnie, one of the best bowler ever, and pretty smooth with girls too :)).

    But there was always that silent humble chap in the class trying to score a century in Maths (or maybe Physics, Chemistry, Biology, our quest for excellence never goes beyond the Science subjects). The entire set of teachers, kids, and parents just looked up to him to score that 100, and he was just expected to do that, where as the rest of the class was doing many other things. Many kids and parent idolized him as the perfect student, as millions around the world have idolized Sachin now, as the perfect student of the game.

    The simple issue here is, for us Sachin is they way we have lived our life for over 22 years, beyond his 100th 100 there is nothing else left for us to chase. Some might say that we have reduced Sachin to a mere number, but its just the way we have been with him, we have just wanted him to score hundreds, hundred after hundred, without thinking about simple things like India’s victory, Sachin’s happiness, and just Cricket.

    For me the attempt to give him Bharat Ratna is nothing different from the Scholar Blazers/Markers Cup/CBSE Merit Certificate (just stamping our approval of his perfection)

    I wish everyone leaves Sachin to his own, like Dravid leaving the cricket ball. The wicketkeeper (read the ghost of that 100th 100) would be there to catch him, but Sachin for sure knows his way around.

    Even the perfect student wanted to participate in debates, become the School Captain or talk to girl sometimes ;).

    Featured Image by Vikas via WikiMedia Commons

  • हैदराबादी प्रेम कहानी… जो हो ना सकी

    महिना था फरवरी का,
    समय था वोह अफरा तफरी का
    Placement का चल रहा था त्यौहार,
    क्योकि आजकल वही तो रह गया है प्रबंधन शिक्षा का सार.

    मैं बैठा था interview कक्ष मैं, सवालों से जूझता
    कभी हँसता, कभी लडखडाता
    अचानक मुझसे पुछा गया,
    आप लगते है कहानीकार
    हम देखना चाहते है आपके विचार.

    मैंने उठायी कागज़ कलम,
    सोचा प्रस्तुत करू हास्य रस, या फिर थोडा गम
    विचारों की धारा बहने लगी
    मेरी इस नौकरी को प्राप्त करने और हैदराबाद जाने की इच्छा बढ़ी.

    बिरयानी की आई महक,
    मन न जाने क्यों मेरा गया चहक
    चिरंजीवी का आया विचार,
    तेलुगु सिनेमा की जय जयकार
    वोह चावल का ढेर, पप्पू के संग,
    गोंगुरा का अचार जमाएगा रंग*
    चार मीनार की वोह गलिया,
    जहा पकेगा इश्क का दलिया
    पर इश्क के लिए तो चाहिए लड़की,
    तेलुगु सीखे बिना छाएगी कडकी
    सोचा मैंने यह सब करूँगा,
    तेलुगु सीख, लड़की पटा कर, शादी करूँगा.

    कुछ वक्त पश्चात आई यह खबर,
    मिली नौकरी छायी ख़ुशी इस कदर
    पर फिर मैं रहा गया मुंबई नगरी,
    न गया हैदराबाद न छायी प्यार की बदरी.

    आज विचार आया की काश कुछ ऐसा होता,
    मुह मैं डबल का मीठा और संग साथी अनूठा होता
    मुंबई की गलिया नाप नाप कर मैं हु थका
    यह था मेरा अनोका रिश्ता, जो हो न सका… हो न सका.

    * Pappu is thickish daal served usually in Andhra meals. Gongura is a super tasty pickle served along with rice and pappu and sambhar and the crispy veggies in an awesome andhra meal.

    This poem is dedicated to the wonderful lady who made me write this story in interview and all the awesome Hyderabadi/Andhra people.

  • Rattu ka Dabba

    He could feel a few giggles right behind his back, he knew it was gone. Again!

    As Rattu turned back and put his hand into his bag’s tiffin box pocket, he felt plastic and not the usual steel, infact before the lunch break this is all Rattu did with his tiffin, as he always scared to eat it before lunch. He kept feeling his steel lunch box between the classes, and almost every day, he would find someone else’s tiffin box in his bag. A yellow colored plastic one, from the one for him (as declared by all his friends). His dabba was always swapped with his supposedly the one’s dabba which usually resulted in uncountable hours of leg pulling (aahhh…who would touch those beastly legs, like Wodehouse said long time ago) and Rattu going mad throwing his Milton water bottle all over his friends.

    But Rattu really liked what Vaifav Ghar usually did with his tiffin, mostly an omlette sandwich, it was always munched during the history period. Ghar used to stand as our history teacher looked somewhere else, showed the omlette bread to everyone, used to take a bow towards our history teacher and start hogging. Everyone giggled as the teacher talked about 3 points for 3 marks, 6 points for 6 marks and so on.

    Lunch break was always a nice time, there were different kinds of people, firstly the looteras. Loot lo iska dabba they said, and started running behind the ones with their dabbas intact. There was always a gang for whom lunch breaks meant playing leg cricket, it had been going on from very junior sections till almost Class 12th.

    As everyone did this Rattu with his group of friends usually used to enjoy our dabbas, saving them from the looteras on the open terrace. The paratha subjis, maggis, sandwiches, idlis, all of them being shared over general chit chat of cricket, entrances, studies, girls, new possible couples, boring classes, good classes, the smell from chemistry lab etc etc.

    Although there was always one weird thing about the lunch break, the girls were always quite. They used to finish off their dabbas, quietly, nicely sharing the stuff among themselves and then go back to the class mostly. Very peaceful. And unlike the boys they never had yellow oil stains on their uniforms.

    Talking of stains almost every bag had a very oily patch in the area where lunch box was kept. Speaks volumes about our Parathas, Subjis and Achaars.

    And then there was the case of Dabba not brought, which was then given to Dutta Bhaiya on the school gate later by the parents, and delivered in between a classroom by Dashrath Bhaiya.

    Rattu’s school never had a canteen once which was closed after cockroaches were found instead of aloo inside samosa.

    Post lunch break was the time for a nap, a slight nap. It was a deadly period to take for a teacher I assume. Much more challenging than anything to keep students awake at that time. Somehow Rattu never fell asleep in school, never ever, even after a nice lunch break. School was always so much fun.

    And so were the Dabbas.

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    Do you have any memories associated with school lunch box?

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