Somewhere in Space

When I was still in school, well, just as I was finishing with it, I was lucky enough to become the proud owner of a 1942 model BSA 500 cc beast the papers of which included its first registration in the deserts of the middle east and an English Lieutenant who was its first owner. To me it was the quintessential Arab filly. Lovely to look at, hard to control. Fiesty as hell and totally unpredictable. Of course I fell in love with the bike, and in the process, developed a kind of look down on other bikes of lesser proportions or vintage. (I did migrate to a JAWA later and to a Royal Enfield BULLET too, but my fancy for the vintage 500-750 range bikes remained.

Which is why many years later, when I went to my mechanic to address a small problem with my Jawa and spotted a Triumph 650 in his workshop I became worse than a spoilt kid. I went up to Peter Paul, the mechanic and told him that I’d be grateful if I was allowed to ride the bike for a while. Peter thought I meant taking a small spin and readily agreed. Since Peter’s shop was at one end of Tank Bund, I took the bike up the bund and back. And I was besotted.

The bike was an incredible ride. It had the most hypnotic beat and its suspension was to die for. And she had speed, raw speed. The only problem was that now I wanted to ride the bike for a real long distance. SInce it was Saturday and Peter’s shop was going to be shut the next day I had a brainwave.

What if, I asked Peter, I take the bike and use it tomorrow and Peter could repair the bike on Monday. Peter objected and talked of the owner’s ire if I was caught or I damaged the bike in any way.

I on the other hand, accessed every favour that Peter owed to me (and to my friend Saeed who had introduced us) and literally bullied him into agreeing that I could keep the bike for the weekend and I’d try and keep a low city profile.

So the Triumph was mine on a Sunday. My mother was in a great mood and agreed to pack me a picnic lunch and a nice little plan to explore Shamirpet was in place. To make it more interesting I included a girl friend in the ride components. And early morning Sunday, after a hurried breakfast I was set.

I went and fetched the girlfriend and headed out to Shamirpet with the girl cooing in my ear about how this was the sexiest bike she had ever sat on. I preened. And rode on.

While the Sunday traffic was almost non existent, the highway was a plain black ribbon with nary a wrinkle. And we rode, thankfully helmet free and let our hair enjoy the breeze. My collars however couldn’t contain their excitement and flapped so frequently on my ears that my lobes became raw.

In contrast to my BSA which had only spring suspension, this one had shock absorbers and new ones to boot. Instead of two individual seats, mine and the pillion’s, this one had a single, sloped up curve of a seat and the balance was nice and comfy.

The ride was magical, and after a nice lunch on the rocks by the lake, we headed back to town where I proceeded to return the girl to her house and the bike to Peter. I picked up my Jawa as arranged and drove home for an early night.

Just as the last morsel of dinner was consumed, the girl called and said ‘what do you call a victory over a girl who had been resisting your charm for a while now?’

A Triumph, I said as my eyes twinkled into the darkness of sleep. And roared into a dream.

 

 

 

Sundays you’ll agree, are special. Even if the week has been a lazy cruise, the dawn of a Sunday sparks off the desire to do something different, something unique.

There was a time when Sundays meant going to Sarovar Hotel for Dosas. Another time when Sundays were Telugu Morning shows (this was when we were in Calcutta). In my teens I have too many Sunday morning escapades involving long motor cycle rides and long hair flying into my mouth to talk about.

And the nice thing is that my whole family has taken up the Sunday banner in their own special ways. If one member thinks Sunday is Beer Garden time, the other prefers to laze in bed and wake up late to a cook made masala omlette. Today however I thought I’d do something which I had never done before.

When you are as old as I am, and have been blessed with an incredible variety in life, thinking up of something unique to do is difficult. But I was determined.

After a lot of thinking, lateral and otherwise, I came up with an idea. I was going to spend this Sunday morning doing nothing but deluding myself.

And delude myself I would in a style that could not be repeated. Even if it meant my delusions made me seem a bit more insane.

A lot of ideas crossed my mind. But you have to admit that simple delusions like thinking I was good looking…or thin…or hirsute… were too easy and also implausible to conceive. Finally, only a walk back into memory land provided a solution.

In the movie business, you are as good as your last hit. And memories are legendarily short. It was to the award winning legends in this domain that I addressed my flight of fancy, this Sunday’s edition.

How many of you, I asked them…have had the privilege of having a theatre constructed to screen your debut film?

Naturally the resounding answer was NONE !

So I pulled up a picture from my archives…

And thought back to a few years ago when a movie I scripted, directed and produced for the Government of Andhra Pradesh had a special theatre constructed for its daily exhibition.

The theatre is in Lumbini Park and is called the Laserium. And the movie that I am talking about has been playing there for more than 6 years…perhaps a Guiness Book recognition is in the pipeline.

It is the longest standing hit ever produced in Hyderabad and no Raghavendra Rao, no Raja Mouli can ever hope to replicate, let alone challenge my record.

So what if hardly anyone knows that my contribution to the film is more than just my voice…so what if the dazzling display of lasers steals the show…it’s my movie that holds the show together and it will always be a memorable production I was involved with.

So I delude myself today, that I am a successful movie maker…that I have audiences eating out of my hand (so what if it’s only popcorn)…and that mine will be an unrecognised legacy that I hand over to the kids and their kids…

and the wife calls out ‘Coffee’ and my reverie is broken with the delicious reality of home made Mocha, courtesy of my friend Bhaskar who waved his magic Dubai wand…and made my Sundays Special.

Wow!!! A theatre built exclusively for my film…sounds fancy eh?

Now ssssshhhhhh…allow me a Sunday delusion…and yes, you are welcome to indulge in yours

I had been hearing about Govind Bhai’s dosa bandi for a few years now. Its location near Charminar (in a lane off Chaarkamaan) quite fascinated me. The idea of a significant number of people from the ‘old city’ trooping to a bandi to eat a Dosa or an Idli intrigued me.

For some strange reason, ever since I heard about Govind, it had become difficult for me to make the trip to the bylanes of Charminar and check out the stuff and the scene. Many a date fixed with my dear friend Harshvardhan Khemani who was actually the first guy who told me about it had to be cancelled for some reason or the other.

But this morning, the stars seem to have agreed to let me go and go we did for an amazing trip into wonderland. Thank you Harsh.

The first doubt that was clarified enroute was that the bandi was frequented by a lot of the marwari / kayasth hindu population who live in the old city and are possibly responsible for the reputation (mostly) of communal harmony that we enjoy. And true enough to expectations, the bandi was surrounded by a few cars and many people, all standing in a kind of make believe queue, awaiting their dosas or whatever.

Govind Bhai unfortunately had taken the day off, but Gopal mia who stood behind the 3 feet long sizzling stone slab seemed to be handling the crowd with aplomb.

Having parked our car, we found a strategic point to park ourselves and the process of wriggling into line was faithfully begun. The trick was to nudge our way to the front of the crowd and engage in a one-on-one with the Chef because that was the only key to succeeding in getting your order serviced promptly.

In line obviously were veterans of this battlefield and it took a magical combination of muscle and manners to walk deeper into the circles and finally get up close and personal with the Chef’s Assistant.

That is also when I got my first glimpse of how the dosa was cooked, or the way the cookie crumbled.

Now, follow me closely. Look at the sizzle slab as it gets a final splash of water before a small katori spreads the dosa dough on it. One. Two. Three…and finally Six. Six dosas begin to take shape.

And that’s where the similarity to other dosa bandis ends. The first ingredient that rudely lands on the centre of the dosa, each dosa, is a lump of Amul or Vijaya Butter. A semi molten cube about 2 inches cube, the butter immediately begins to melt in the face of the intense heat. But then the speedy hands of the Chef sprinkle on the butter, wallops of ‘kaaram podi’ (Chilly based Powder), dollops of finely cut onions, some kothmeer and the whole mush is flattened into a goulash that covers the dosa.

A quick flip and a Playboy worthy centrefold and the dosa is ready. To be dunked in Chutney and crowned with the ‘Kaaram Podi’…and then served on finely printed newspaper tearaways.

A similar exercise is followed to butter fry the idlis and to crispify the vadas.

There is a blue can that stores sachets of chilled mineral water and a blue can for garbage disposal.

The dosa when eaten tastes like a blob of butter with a dosa wrapped around it. But the taste grows on you…even as you are struggling to fight the guilt of having broken several rules of healthy eating.

While all this is going on, I find the regulars welcoming us to the club…including us in fly by conversations…smiling at us as the enjoyment begins to tell on our faces. We are all friends…we are all devotees at a unique temple of the Dosa God.

And we are happy campers by a mile. Can I have another dosa please…with an upma filling if you please?

Walking in the footsteps of the Buddha...

Feeling the relics of the past...

everything is serene...

everything is at peace...

there is a better world...

in our minds...

Nirvana...

Walking in the footsteps of time...

listening to the echoes of our heritage...

everything is a legacy...

to be nurtured and cherished...

there is a better world...

in our minds...

Eternity..

Walking in the footsteps of love...

listening to the whisper of romance...

everything is a charm...

as traditional as it is modern...

a celebration of grace and harmony...

a celebration of...

togetherness.

Walking in the footsteps of hospitality...

feeling the warmth of friendliness...

everything is a warm hug...

and a heartfelt smile...

a festivity of colours and hues...

an incredible shade of...

India...

As the plot unfolded I was taken back to days before my memory span existed, and got stuck in what I call Aradhana mode. Yes, the same ‘mere sapno ki rani’ Aradhana where Sharmila Tagore played the role of a young girl who becomes the loving victim of the moment of passion and then spends the rest of the story coming to terms with a world that is not forgiving of pre-marital sex and children out of wedlock.

But that was the 60s and the 70s. And this is now. I’d expect Dramanon and the author to reflect that the world was a better place or at least a place that’s more evolved. But sadly Bora’s reading of the world seems to be in a time warped Braille. Only the language has blossomed into a bouquet of blasphemies and vulgarities and the bodies have stopped pausing for distracting butterfly shots and indulge in a strange passionless kiss and a naive hips-apart hug.

Dey who played Karan did well to portray the friend who blundered into being a lover. But the third point of the triangle, Shekar...disappointed. When it was Maya’s time to perform she assumed that enacting a role that demanded a slutty, smoking performance (as she describes herself) was enough of a challenge and that no extra effort was required to reflect the anguish of a girl who blinked, just for a moment.

More than the play the script left me disturbed. I couldn’t accept that issues which were almost non issues in my parents’ time are still being touted as issues now. Today’s youth is a generation that knows about pills that you can take after the event and safely prevent pregnancies so I really don’t know if the subject was a current dilemma that society encountered everyday.

The interspersed TV viewing scenes however deserve mention as an innovation well executed and the Skoda Man who drives by at 11 every evening set the tone for the banter and for the finish in a comfortably loud pan.

I keep getting invited to various conclaves, meetings and summits. To help the world decide on matters of great import. It has nothing to do with who I am, or what I have achieved…not even what I have dreamed…but it has everything to do with a statistical gem that was taught to us in school and college and calls itself something random.

You see someone somewhere decided that the perfect sample of sane and insane members, from different parts of the country, with diversely different sets of opinions and with an ideal balance of sex ratios was to be found in the members of the HPS Batch of 1972 students and their spouses.

How did they come to this conclusion? Well I guess it was a random choice and nobody gave it much thought really, but since we were projected as a perfect sample, a perfect sample we became.

The problem was that among our members there were two types of people. The many who had legitimate occupations and filled agendas and a few who had nothing to do but perambulate through life with a silly grin connecting their ears across their faces.

Needless to say I was chosen to be the lead member of the latter group, and thus became the scapegoat who was sent on these junkets whenever someone in the world screamed out loud that he or she wanted help in trying to find a consensus.

The Captain of the Indian Cricket Team was an issue that raised its ugly head too often for comfort and when the call came from BCCI we all decided to meet informally at the Sailing Club and make our choice obvious.

The problem with the Club was that the accompanying drinks were designed to lead conversations astray. And so they faithfully did. So our august group which started off discussing the Do’s and Dhoni’s of Indian Cricket suddenly digressed and started debating the greatness of a man who had no hesitation in saying ‘I am sorry’ vs the impudence of a Mukher who insisted on being referred to as a jee.

In the bevy of outswingers that followed, in the midst of all the doosras and theesras that flew and in the silence between loud, raucous cheers we decided that one candidate was better suited to be the President of India than the others. For chrissakes, one of the hopefuls had not even thought it prudent to have a haircut. Another looked like a rubber stamp with a beard. There was even a lady who thought Mamata was a voice of reason.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, we decided who the next President of India was going to be. Sorry, we are sworn to secrecy and can only reveal all when the deed is done.

What I can tell you however is that we are going to meet in the next couple of days to discuss the Captaincy issues. And we have to apologise to Sharad Pawar that he could not be made a team captain whilst he was MP, but we were considering making an exception in the case of Tendulkar, unless of course Saurav also got himself nominated to the RS.

I thought I had a problem with the language of mathematics. I always used to get confused between ‘addhai’ and ‘dhed’. Occasions wherein I paid one instead of the other with sometimes hilarious consequences are too many to recount.

But just as I stopped crying about my not having shoes when I met a man who had no feet, my mathematical challenges paled into insignificance when I met Prof Y. Z. Reddy who is popularly known as X Maaaastaru in Cuddapah District.

He told me about an errant student of his who for the life of a dinosaur could not fathom the difference between thousands, lakhs, crores etc., and always got confused by the number of zeroes these represented. Even when they tried to teach him street level jargon like peti, khoka and so on, it just didn’t work.

So this kid lived his adolescent life below the pass mark and stumbled from one class to the next only because his family had a grave digging background. Any one who did not treat them well, this family took very gravely…and seriously annihilated families by the dozens.

That would have been okay and the kid would have got tucked into the many folds of history if not for the fact that his father (God Rest his Soul) became the Chief Honcho of an enterprise called Andhra Pradesh.

And lo and behold, the son put the scare of the holy ghost in all and sundry and started collecting funds as a hobby. The only problem was that when he actually wanted a few thousands, he would ask for a few lakhs…and when he wanted a few hundreds he would demand crores. Poor chap. Even after he had grown up his counting skills were still suspect as hell. Or so the CBI enquiry established.

And now we come to the moral of the story. Those people who are good at maths, allow themselves to be limited by their vocabulary. But here is a case of the chap who didn’t know his onions from his tomatoes waking up one morning and suddenly being told that accumulation of obscene wealth to the tune of several lakh crores was not acceptable…was not quite the gentlemanly thing to do.

Last heard of, the lamenting son was planning to impregnate his wife again in the hope that she would beget him a son who could be taught the right numbers…so that by the time he was a full grown man, he could set right the books of his father and get him out of jail or CBI Custody whichever was closer.