And…just like that…I started blogging

I have been thinking of blogging for a long time, and constantly lost the battle to procrastination.  The official reasons, if anyone asked ( a few did, but i just think they  were being polite) was that i didnt think i had anything blogworthy to write. And i had no broadband internet.

Broadband internet i got sometime in June. And like every net-savvy Indian of my age, loaded my hard drive with films downloaded from the net.

Then, a few days ago, Greatbong (whose blog i read and admire) wrote http://greatbong.net/2009/08/09/five-bits-of-unsolicited-advice-for-bloggers/#more-1034 about how he started off blogging. This article more or less got the ignition going, albeit still in neutral gear.

And then, today…just like that… I decided that it was time to roll. Made one of those impulse decisions to go with WordPress, and started blogging.

My first post….My first confession…and I’m a blogger.

Watch this space.

Culinary exploration in Mylapore

I had heard so much about the great traditional messes of Mylapore that were supposed to serve the yummiest South Indian Tiffin, I decided to go exploring. So last Sunday, I made my way to Mylapore. I reached there at about 8.00 am, parked my bike in the parking space in front of the temple entrance, and made my way into the temple. After all, i havent been inside one in quite some time. Might as well visit this ancient, historically significant, beautifully carved monument while I am at its doorstep. I was glad to find the temple was not crowded, and I  quickly finished my darshan and set out exploring.

The most famous mess I had heard of was the Maami mess. This is what I sought. Someone, somewhere, a long time ago had told me that it was on the same street as the temple main gate. I exited the temple, took back my shoes, and set out due right. There were houses, a gas stove repair “agency”, and some other shops. Nothing looking like a mess. Then, I saw a group of people standing in front of an ancient wall with a single open window and eating out of plastic plates. This was an eatery, surely, but not the one I was looking for. I’ll come back to this one. I walked some more, saw nothing, and decided to ask someone. A shopkeeper gave me directions, to one of the bylanes off the main road, but told me the mess was closed on sunday. An eatery being closed on sunday struck me as the height of audacity. But I did go the said loacation, and sure enough there was a backlit board sponsored by Coke saying this was the place. And it was indeed closed. And one of the local residents confirmed that they are indeed closed every sunday! I’m sure this will make an interesting case study on how to build brand, reputation, and stay solvent by keeping your hotel closed on the one day of the week that all eateries do maximum business.

Now, back to the window in the wall. (pic above) I went up to the window and peeped inside. The window had standard, old world vertical iron bars in a wooden cross frame. The bars from the lower end had been removed. It was very dark in the room that lay behind the window, and the huge man that sat on the other side blocked anylight that would otherwise make its way in.

“All over saar, poori masala only. He he he. Sunday saar” he said. The size of the man, his overall shape and his jolly demeanour seemed to embody the spirit of the Laughin Buddha.

“Okay. Poori masala” I said. When I had walked past earlier, a his customers were eating idli and dosa. Now, I was left with Hobson’s choice. He boomed something to someone inside the dark room, and in a few moments, a plastic plate with a grease paper as lining, three pooris and the standard dry potato curry masala appparated on the window sill. I craned my neck to take a better look inside, and saw there were atleast three other men inside, and huge stainless steel vessels. From what i gathered, they made the food elsewhere and brought it here for sale. The poori masala was good, and cost only Rs 21. There was a vessel with chutney for the idlis and dosas. I tasted some, and it was good. Another man walked up, asked what was available, and was given the same Hobson’s choice. He said okay, and wanted only two pooris. “Illa Saar, three pooris. Minimum three pooris only saar.” replied the large man behind the window. Now that he was at the end of his business day, maybe he did not want to upset some carefully done calculations as to how many pooris he could sell. He would not give less that three, but you could always ask for four (Rs 28). A glass of water was kept ready at the window, and dumped the paper lining into the blue bin and washed my hands, letting the water drip into it. By the time i had finished, he had served one more customer, and turned away another, saying it was all over. I came back to take this photo later. A better camera than that on my phone, and i think i have a prize winner in a photography contest.

 

I did another round of the area, looking for someplace to eat some more. And sure enough, there was Mylai Sree Karpagambal Mess, appropriately named after godess Karpagam, an avtaar of Parvati. This one was on East Mada Street, almost opposite the Bhavan’s auditorium. It looked like the interiors had gotten a fresh coat of paint, contemporary furniture, and good lighting. There was also an AC room, and the menu board listed the AC and non AC rates for every dish. But if the man sitting at the counter was anything to go by, plus framed b/w photos of some people with small bulbs underneath them, this place was two hundred years old. I asked for Idli, and the waiter said the new batch would take ten minutes. So I settled for dosa, vada and filter coffee. The food was delicious, and the filter coffee was at it should be. This was tiffin heaven. There were multi containers with chutneys, and sambar, and each was really good. And it cost me just Rs 70. The ancient man at the counter took the payment. I tried to have a conversation with him, but the ol boy was having trouble with his hearing. And thus, fortified with three pooris, he he, dosa, vada and good filter coffee, i set out to face the day.

Mylai Sree Karpagambal Mess

 

On F1 in India

(I wrote all this down the Sunday before the F1. The last few lines I added today)
The whole debate on F1 being sport, entertainment or elitist pastime is so ridiculous it unfunny. But maybe its unfunny because there is too much funny money thats at stake. By the same standards that IPL is a sport, this one is too. There are a fixed teams of people who play according to a set of rules, to maximise a particular result. The winners get prizes; there are people who pay to watch, and the result, at least technically, is dependent on one team outperforming the others.

Of course, like IPL, there are too many businessmen who are “passionate about the sport” and have put in a lot of money. Of course, everyone who has access to a TV channel microphone or newspaper blog/columns has an opinion. (any spacefiller set of words will do. Orinigality ore relevance be damned). The TV rights and the marketign rights are a killer, and there are pretty blonde women in skimpy clothes who will be involved with the whole circus.

But does that meet Indian standards of sport?

For one, there is no committee under the Ministry of Sport (or is it HR ministry?..well.. whatever), you don’t get grace marks in standard 10 exams for motorsport, and there is no reservation in the Indian Railways or other sarkari bodies for racing excellence. And from what I heard, Suresh Kalmadi’s family members have a stake in all the Indian F1 circuit and promotions and everything. Did they ever put in their money into hockey teams or firms that make boxing gloves or anything? Not that I know of. And the Indian junta actually watch F1 on TV. They recognise the faces of Vettel and Button and even Eccleston. Outside of Cricket, they only sportsperson that most people can recognise is Sania Mirza. Speaking of cricket, in India, its not a sport. Its a religion. So the criteria listed above need not apply.

Maybe, like Cricket, not being a sport is a good thing here. In cricket, like it should be in F1, the interests of all the parties concerned are transparent: Money. Megamoney. In millions of US$. Managing a team, getting star players and gettign good playing facilities needs money. But if there is megabuck in crores to be earned from a well organised, well played event, investing the lakhs that are needed for proper facilities and decent player fees is sound business sense. Else, you have to float tenders and buy treadmills at ten times the cost, to get a decent ROI and effort. Or you need to be bribed into selecting incompetents with ministerial recommendations. But where the money is big, you invest. And expect that the investment function efficiently for returns. Else, whatever money and effort you put in is not investment, its an expense. And expenses are what you either avoid, or inflate, or leverage for personal gain. In India, sport is an expense.

And of course, F1, unlike even cricket, is totally unaccessible. Any five year old can play cricket in any convenient street corner. And enough five year olds actually play well enough to make their way from poverty and no facilities to the Indian test cap. This happens in other sports also, albeit to different levels of access. Sports like football and hockey, which require very little equipment, are easier to get into. Somethign as costly as shooting requires an industrialist father. But you get the point. Not so in F1. Even getting into the lesser leagues of motorsport is extremely expensive. So is watching the race. Tickets are coveted, prices are high, and will continue to be high. And since the price is high, there are a lot of add ons like the boxes and the food and the hostessess and access to team meetings that make it all the more coveted. The aam janta will have to be content with watching IPL, regular cricket and F1 on TV. The middle class junta can, with a bit of luck, actually afford to buy cricket match tickets. Tickets to F1 cost as much as a 2D/3N family vacation to Munnar. Moreover, F1 will always have a slightly elitis following, since a major part of the enjoyment comes from reading about the teams, strategies, races, technology and a lot more on a continuous basis. This bit of dedicated followup is an elitist pastime. The cricket elitist debate, discuss and ponder over everything from Bradman to moisture on the pitch to the exact muscle that is strained by Rotator Cuff injuries. The rest of the worshippers of cricket dont generally go beyond “arre Yuvraj ne kyaa mast six maara…seedha stadium ke baahar gaya!!”. They just might find noisy cars going round and round a tad boring.

Speaking of the elite, can India afford to host such a huge track on so much of real estate for such a small period of active utilization? And all this for the entertainment of the elite? Important questions that require a lot of debate. But they all arise from having skewed policy and too much corruption in the first place. Any projec that requires land, be it an airport, racetrack, IIT campus or housing complex, has to buy the land from someone. That somones are usually a bunch of farmers. They, like most rational human beings, are ready to sell if the price is right. But the price is never right because everyone is trying to scam them. Not anyone’s fault. As for utilization, there will invariably be uses found for this piece of land. There will be political gatherings, award ceremonies, rock concerts, film shoots and motor races. At least, an F1 track will be more useful than shopping malls around the Taj Mahal.

And as if to settle the matter conclusively, the Sports Minster was not invited to the inaguration. Befittingly, he was inagurating a new track at P.T. Usha’s athletics school. Poetic, eh?

The death of Mohammed Ayazuddin

Mohammed Ayazuddin, son of Mohammed Azharuddin, breathed his last in a hospital room sometime in the morning of September 16^th 2011. He was all of nineteen years old. 

That Sunday, he had taken his newly gifted 1000cc superbike out for a spin, taking along his 17 year old cousin as pillion. The road they took was the Outer Ring Road, where two wheelers are actually banned. For some reason, the bike crashed. His cousin Ajmal-ur-Rahman, died the same day. Ayaz battled for life for about five days, before he gave up. 

They say he was a good cricketer, full of possibilities.

 The poor boy died of irresponsibility. On his part. On his father’s part. The kind of irresponsibility that makes a father buy a superbike for his teenage son. Technically, as a 19 year old, he should have got his license just a year back, and so he must have been quite inexperienced with riding bikes; even normal 100-150cc bikes at normal speeds. (of course, every boy who has access to a bike learns to ride on the sly as soon as they reach teen age). To gift such a young man a 1000 cc bike, capable of speeds close to 300kmph, is an act of sheer irresponsibility. To not insist that the bike be ridden only on a race track, and that too after being trained on how to handle these bikes, is even more irresponsible.

 This young man, on his part, succumbed to the temptation of wanting to take his new toy out for a spin. Which young man wouldn’t? Tragically, he took along his younger cousin as pillion; his first act of irresponsibility. The second was to go on to a road banned for two wheelers. Maybe that was the only road where high speeds were possible.

 And what was fated, happened.

 The death of a young man, a talented sportsman, is sad. Sadder still is that such a high profile tragedy has not prompted anyone into action. Why aren’t the superbike manufacturers doing something to train their customers on how to ride responsibly? After all, do they want their customers to crash just because they didn’t know any better? And what is the law enforcement doing to ensure that untrained, irresponsible people don’t get onto machines they cannot control? They have been lax as it is in not being able to prevent certified nut cases and uncertified drivers from letting loose on the street. But in this case, there is not even a token gesture.  Movers and shakers were quick to offer condolence to Azhar. But John Abharam was the only one who actually made a statement about safe superbiking in the media. And that was all.

 Mohammed Ayazuddin. Hope his soul is in peace. As for the father who bought his young son a machine he couldn’t control, when will his soul ever find peace?

On turning 29

It seems to be a bit late to be writing this, considering that I turned 29 way back in May. As I write this, I am closer to 29.33 rather than 29.

It’s an odd number, this 29. For one, its prime. And it’s just one less than 30, a round figure. The age of 29 feels like the end of youth. A twenty-something is so much younger and energetic and carefree than a thirty-something. It feels like the last days before responsibility, complete and absolute will sit heavy on my shoulders. My twenties were my decade of freedom and frustration; of triumph and failure; of heady highs and dreary lows. In my twenties, I turned from boy to man.

I have grown too. In height, half an inch perhaps; in weight, a full ten kilos! And my athletic ability peaked when I was 25. Now, I struggle to run the six kilometers that I finally managed to run with ease in my last term in Goa. But then, I finally realised my boyhood dream of learning martial arts. Not that I am very good at it, but to be able to live out a boyhood dream…that’s something. My hairline marches resolutely backwards, my tummy, steadily forward. I started twenty embarrassed that the hair on my head hid one or two strands of grey. Now, I observe the few greys in my stubble with nonchalance. Pimples are gone; the first light furrows of wrinkles and crow’s feet lend gravitas to my emotions now. Not that I feel much nowadays. The anger and the desperation that was has changed into a deeper, quieter fury and a resolve. On trips to faraway lands in unreserved train compartments, feeling the sun and the breeze on my face, I was happy and laughed the laughter of youth; the laughter of a man who has everything he wants. Now, as I ride my own bike to far-away places and exotic restaurants, I am happy, and smile the nirvanic smile of a man who needs nothing more. The smile of little dreams lived out.

Eight more months to go before 30. A long time to go, as the moments march; a short time, as the days fly. I don’t know how much things will change, and what will remain the same. but then, it will be a new decade. I hope it will be as interesting as this one was.

Two interesting restaurants in Chandigarh

I was recently in Chandigarh on a business trip. Such trips usually leave me with too little time to indulge in any proper tourism, and a city view that is perhaps much too coloured by encounters with autorickshaw drivers and commercial vehicle fleet owners. So i don’t usually blog about my visits to places, unless there is something specifically interesting.  Now, Chandigarh, if you remember your geography, was designed by Le Corbusier in a grid pattern, and is called City Beautiful. Well, city beautiful it is indeed. But  it is also boring. The Sukhna lake, the Rock Garden, and all the grid pattern tree lined streets.. and thats it. As for food, there are the usual suspects, namely Mc D, KFC, Copper Chimmney and the lot. And in the other places, I didnt expect anything more than butter chicken and paneer. Well, i was in for two surprises.

Café Nomad by Backpackers

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I stumbled upon this restaurant in Chandigarh. It was my second day in the city, and once the wonder of being in a planned city, with a matrix layout of roads wears off, you realize there is pretty much nothing to do. Which is why, after walking around the Sukhna lake, and with time to kill, I happened to find this place hidden in one of the blocks in Sector 7C. The backlit board had Café Nomad written prominently, and by Backpackers at the bottom corner, with a graphic of a backpaceker in silhouette. The theme is all Arabic and Middle Eastern. It reminds one of the films about Baghdad and Egypt in the early 20th century. There are chandliers, artefacts like jars and vases on the walls, and a lot of paintings and photographs of the Middle East, Europe, East Asia. The table and chair are all wood, square, in a 1940s style.

a film poster from the old days

 

paintings and photos on the walls

curios to set the ambience

menu and furniture

brick lined oven, wine, and one of the waiters

 

 

There is also a brick oven at the far end. (as a reminder of our times, there is also a coffee vending machine sitting on the other side of the room The menu features a lot of pictures in black and white, of Arabs, Englishmen in arab garb, camel trains and the like. The menu features a all sorts of mid east foods, filled with pita and falafel and grilled meats. The starters were pita and soups. This was followed by the section on Pizzas, followed by grilled meats. The far east section follows, mostly filled with Thai and very little Chinese. There is no Indian section; which seems to be a good decision, lest the only thing that gets ordered are Tandoori Chicken, Paneer and Dal Makhni. The mocktails were interestingly named, each having the name of a city (like Tel Aviv Red and Addis Ababa something). The dessert was a whole lot of ice creams and mousse. I ordered a Chorba with Ras El Hanout and Noodles, which the menu tells me, is a a soup, with the Ras El Hanout being a group of spices with no particular formulation. Hence, the chef just puts in his own formulation of REH. And what I got was a noodle soup, with a tangy, spicy taste that felt good. This I followed up with lamb kebabs, with hummus and pita. The kebabs were excellent, being well marinated, well done and just right. The hummus and pita were good too.

 

Ras El Hanout

Kebab, hummus and pita

I guess a disclaimer is necessary here. I am not much of a gourmand, and have never been able to articulate the taste of anything beyond saying Yummy or Yuck or ok, but needs more salt. Hence, don’t look for an informed opinion on the food. I am informed, just that I don’t have a proper opinion. Anyway, this post was to highlight an unexpected find in an unexpected place.

 

 

Bistro Flamme Bois

And on Friday, the autorickshaw-walla did me a favour by swinging around the back road of the SCO where my hotel is. I hadn’t known such a road existed, and caught a glimpse of another new age restaurant that had Bistro Flamme Bois on the backlit board.

I hadn’t expected this just about 300 crow-fly meters away from Nomad, and went in for a recce. The night was young yet, just about 7, and the patrons had yet to come in. I ran into Chef Peter, who has been all over the Europe and Asia, and invited me to take a look. And look I did, and decided to come back after a few errands. The décor was a nice modern setup with paintings, wood paneling and an open pizzeria right up front. I came back at about 9.00 pm, and if the Skodas, Mercs and pimped up Mahindra jeeps were something to go by, the Bistro was not a secret to the well heeled of Chandigarh. (when I came out, there was also a Jaguar XF in their midst!) The place was almost full, with families, a mixed group of expats and Indians and NRIs speaking a mix of Hindi, Punjabi and American (maybe Canadian; I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.). The menu was mostly Continental, with generous amounts of grilled foods. And invariably, there was a Chinese section. You can’t have a restaurant in India that does not serve Chinese. Italian was restricted to various kinds of pizzas and pasta; no Lasagna. I ended up ordering a Carlsberg, a salad, and Chicken Escalopes with a bacon or pork stuffing. The food was good, the portions adequate to sate a hungry appetite, and the meat was well done. The chicken was served with potato wedges , veggies and a mustard dip. Overall, a very satisfying meal, that cost me about 800 bucks.

 

The address: Bistro Flamme Bois, Sector 7C, SCO 19, Chandigarh. Unfortunately, Google could find them only on the C’garh Justdial page.

On maturity

stage 1: when you do as you are told

 

The stage marked with obedience, because you doint know better. You dont know the universe you are in. You dont know the other people you are with. More importantly, you dont know yourself. Don’t know what is safe and what is not; don’t know whether the consequences of non compliance are. So it makes sense to just go along

 

stage 2: when you question what you are told

 

The stage when the wold as it seems clearer, and some things dont quite make sense. Or perhaps, te whys and the wherefores are not very clear. That’s when you think, and wonder. That’s when you question. Some of the questions are answered without any fuss, and make a lot of sense. Some answers are still not clear, and seem time locked. Apparently, the answers will reveal themselves at some point in the future. Some questions are deemed dangerous. The question is met with a frown, and a sharp rebuke that such questions are not welcome. Any more questions, and there will be consequences.

And some questions have no answers. And no aplogies either

 

stage 3: when you protest against what you are told

 

By this time, one is a bit more aware of the universe. One is more aware of oneself. Some of the mystries of the universe have been revealed. Some of your own sttrengths have been tested. You ahve pushed against the universe, and in some places, the universe yeilded. In some, it pushed back. But now, you are no longer satisfied with merely asking questions and gettin no answers. And some answers you get are unpalatable. Some things about the universe are wrong. And you say it out so. You protest. You contest. The universe frowns back; but you knew it would

 

stage 4: when you rebel

 

When you believe that you can push the universe so hard, that the universe will yeild. When you believe that you are stronger than the universe; or atleast, will outlast the universe in hand to hand combat. And you believe that what needs doing, needs doing, damn the consequences.

 

Of course, the consequences are quite damning, but it gives you a sense of fulfilment. You think you have proven your strength against the universe. You feel strong. And you feel the need to proclaim your victory with drum beats and flags.

 

The feeling of strength could just go to your head. And you get stuck on a treadmill for more and more power. Unfortunately, one also makes the mistake of assuming that what works today will work forever. But the universe is not static. It changes, and suddenly, you are the one that is yeilding. Its when you learn to learn, or lose. Some people just lose small change like money or jobs or position. Some lose their lives; and some lose whole kingdoms that the world assumed would be theirs to rule forever

 

stage 5: when you reach stability

 

Having proven your strength, having asked all the questions and discoverd most of the answers, you realise that the universe is just as it is because it cannot helpp being itself. The universe, which seemed to have a mind of its own, actually reveals its shackles and its fears. And you know your own constraints and your own fears. And you have realised that there are some battles you dont want to fight; because you dont care for the stakes, or you dont dare lose the stakes. And the universe is not the suffocating enemy you thought it was. You see where the universe needs your help, and you put in your effort into it. Some places, you see where you can bend the universe to your will, to serve you, and that you do. Somewhere, the univers has to be broken before it can be rebuilt with imporvements. Inspite of being a long and hard process, you do it. The lessons learnt from being a rebel are put to use. Coaxing the universe, willing it, destroying it and rebuilding it. In some ways, you feel stronger than the universe. And you settle into a pattern. You grow in the ways you want to grow, and just keep at growing. The war has turned into a journey

 

Sometimes, you are caught unawares, and you lose a battle, and a lot more. This is the test of where you stand. You either manage to grow back, or you just retreat, never to recover.

 

So where do you stand?

 

 

 

 

A long time… that made me realise what I had, and what i really valued

It’s been a long time since the last post in May, though I had promised myself there would be an average four posts a month. Ah, if wishes were horses…etc….Sometime around July 2010 i took up this new assignment that I, and many others in my group, considered a dream assignment. The dream run lasted a month or so, and then, the work piled up; and piled u some more, and then some more….

My martial arts classes were the first casualty. the classes were in the casualty ward anyway, and this was merely the last blow. (hmmm..interestingly apt words or what?) And then, I was staying on in the office later and later, and getting all worked up about the work. The assignment did show me, though, that I could be tenacious and bull headed about getting things done if i cared enough, but I also realised i was a sucker for a pat on the back and a word of praise. So isn’t everyone, you ask? Well, there’s a difference of degree in how sore you feel if the pat or the word is missing. I was gettimg more and more strung up, and even more tense, and snapping at people. And good friends learnt that a safe distance was a long, long distance. As work pressure increased, I was ocassionally workign 25 hours a day. (well, what else do you call it when you wake up at 6 am and sleep only at 7 am the next day?)

Sundays were also spent on duty, checking emails every half an hour or so, and then responding to them. I was slowly becoming a mindless zombie. But through this all, one of the few things that kept me going was the sense of loss. Loss of all the things like my classes and my health and my sleep and the basic feelign of being a decent, civil human being, that I had taken for granted. The loss of waking up in the morning and feeling like a Good Morning; the loss of strength and flexibility in my muscles and joints, and the loss of sleep. After a really big milestone, when the pressure was a bit off, one of the Sundays, there was absolutely nothing to do, and I just spent it zoned out in front of the screen, with something playing. Just being able to sit with nothing to do was such a big relief. It was something i had never done before. something I had never imagined I would do or like doing.

The worst of it was over, but not quite.There were still the late nights, the unreasonable pressure, and a feeling of having lost it all despite having won it all. And the feeling that I had to get back. As a close friend said, after a particularly bad fight, that I seemed to have vacated my own life. Well, it was time to take bac my life. The first thing I needed was a holiday. That i got, by driving down to Pondicherry, without a plan, without an idea, and without a worry.Holed up in a shack near the Auroville beach, and just spent time with aimless wander and sitting on the beach, doing exactly nothing. The difference was, this time I was choosing to do nothing. Evils like the internet and email were forgotten for the five days i was there, and boy, was I glad not to have to bother about anything. I got back to what was still a pressure cooker, but stronger. The realization of how etheral everything is, puts it all in a new light.

And then, quite suddenly, things turned around. I got a chance ot go back to my old department, and I took it. I never thought I would be so glad to be able to leave the office at exactly five thirty, and so glad to open my inbox every morning and see no new emails. I recovered, and the first thing I have put myself into is gettting back into shape. Of course, i resolevd to excercise evryday, but so far, I have been able to jog only three times a week. But it feels good.

And then, there is also the resolve to make up for lost blogging time. Two long, thought out and abandoned posts later, this, off the cuff, in one unedited stretch, is my blogpost after a long time. Again, I promise myself a blog a week. It seems like the promise of old; but then, this time, its a purposeful go at reoccupying the life that I had vacated.

the Delhi visit

In office, it was the silly season post KRA evaluations; the twilight zone between the close of one financial year, one year of performance, and being assigned the new list of to-dos for the current FY. For reasons too complex to mention here (some other time, some other post, maybe), I was, uncharacteristically for my department, told to fly to Delhi for the rest of the week.  I happily did, as the assignment was basically go there and do nothing for exactly five hours a day and come back. (if you really must ask, I was to observe a Focus Group Discussion; just observe, not report, no nothing. I could give inputs to the execution team if necessary. Such assignments come few and far between) So I flew into the National Capital on sunday morning, with nothing to do.  So I headed off to India Gate, Rashtrapati Bhavan and all those grand buildings that i had only seen on TV so far. More on that later (maybe).

What I want to write about, however, is the Metro. I rode the Metro every single day I was there, and came back impressed. Two years or so since the first run, the service is still spic and span. That, by itself, should count as a great achievement in this country. The stations were neat and clean, well lit, and well guarded. At least, CRPF personnel, body scans, luggage X rays…the works.  Every possible nook had a route map of the network, and the maps near the ticket counter had fares too, so you knew exactly how much a trip would cost before you even stood in line. Wish it were so everywhere.

A normally unrurly public actually attained civility once they entered the Metro station. I didnt see anyone spit, or litter; and everyone stood in line to buy tickets and for security check! Thus the train, the stations, were beautifully clean.  The trains have a no-eating-or-drinking-inside policy. I found it strange, till it struck me that this was perhaps the one rule that prevented the trains from becoming mobile refuse collectors for peanut shells, chips packets and banana peels. But of course,one can buy all sorts of  packaged food from the many stalls and restaurants in the stations.

The people have taken beautifully to the system, and seem proud to have the trains running above and below them. The stations have become the new landmarks, and the pillars of the overhead portion have become new signposts. The hotel where the FGDs were being held was exactly opposite Pillar 97, I was told, and so it was. Guess many people, myself included, were glad to have something in our midst that actually works.

Something that works adds a bit of confidence, and a spring to ones steps.

Would India have had a better waterway system if the capital was on a coastal city?

In my line of  work, which is worrying about trucks and their business, we come across quite a bit of studies and charts showing various metrics regarding the various modes of transport. And in every chart, there is polite lip service done to waterways transport. It almost seems like unkindness not to include it on the chart, yet the unspoken understanding is that waterways transport does not amount to much.

Which set me thinking: Why is it so in a country with such a big coastline and so many rivers and canals that waterways have been ignored?

 Waterways are a boon for transporting pretty much anything, because the energy required to push a loaded boat through water at slow speeds is much lesser than what is needed to push the same mass on land. Yeah, the speeds are slower, much slower, but for a country obsessed with asking “average kya hai?” about any and every vehicle including Rolls Royces, where roads were designed for bullock carts and stayed that way, and low operating cost and slow speed should have been a killer combo.  And the technology is not so complicated either. Boat and ship making are pretty much established sciences that have steadily trotted along with the times, and if you have access to diesel engines and some knowledge of gearboxes and propellers, you are pretty much on your way to a nice efficient boat system.

The British did realize this, and did their bit to build canals and ports wherever possible, they also had good ferry systems wherever they put their minds to it. Case in point, Kolkata and the Hoogly river. (The Portuguese also left behind a system of ferries to navigate the river systems in Goa.)  And while on Goa, iron ore from Goa and Karnataka is carried down the Mandovi and the Zuari in barges. They carry the ore some distance out to sea, where it is loaded into ships for export. And like everything else the Brits did, it all worked well even after they left. For some time. There was the Buckingham canal, to name one, that was a jolly good ride till the 60s. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buckingham_Canal

There were ferries on the Ganga too. But somewhere along the way, the Indian administration dropped the ball. All the attention in the first three decades of independence went into heavy industries, roads and rail. And waterways were neglected. The B’ ham canal along the Andhra coast right up to Chennai was never allowed to recover from the cyclones in the 60s.

http://www.hinduonnet.com/thehindu/mp/2002/09/23/stories/2002092300130300.htm

All that canal and river navigation would require would be some construction work to build proper jetties and ghats, and a unit to make and maintain boats. Most rivers in north India are perennial, and  there is also a network of canals criss crossing the landscape. For the stretches on the river and canal bank, a ferry system would have been an easy to operate, cheap system of transport. At least, it would not have been more complicated than maintaining and running trains and rickety buses on bad roads. Yeah, there was the need to periodically desilt the waterways, but then, river silt makes for very fertile top soil. Any farmer would have welcomed a load of silt in his field from time to time. Or it could as well be used for construction anywhere. In fact, Salt Lake, Kolkata is built on silt from the Hoogly.

And then, there is the long coastline of India. we have built sand castles, admired sunrises and sunsets, made salt and revolutions, built legal and illegal structures, built ports, gone fishing….. except make use of all the free water to run ships all along the coast. Ships could easily carry everything that did not need to be pretty quick (which includes everything in this  country except VIP motorcades). For the west coast, denied a decent road and rail network till recently, it could have been the most obvious, and the cheapest alternative. Instead, we built roads up and down mountains, tunneled long tunnels for the Konkan rail, and basically stretched the travelling time from Mumbai to Trivandrum into a three day train journey.

Why?

Its just a hunch, but could it be that the capital was New Delhi, do far away from the coast, that the sea was never in the immediate consciousness of the babudom that made policy decisions?  Well, they did make half hearted attempts to develop inland navigation, but never quite got it right. And the states never got it right, because, dependent as they were for hand outs from the Maai Baap in Delhi, they missed out on grants for coastal navigation and inland water development?

Could it also be that the boat has always been something in the hands of the lowly fisherman, and the high brow Bhadralok who made  it to babudom, didn’t have the humble boat in their consciousness either?

Or maybe the scope for siphoning funds from road and rail contracts was so much more lucrative than from building vessels and desilting.

Anyway, a paper on the operational difficulties of coastal cum river vessels is here:

http://iwai.gov.in/paperonseccumrivervesseldt161209hq.pdf

On how I survived the Jaipur shopping expedition

26th September 2009
Second day in Jaipur. The second of three days. One day before I board the train back to Chennai. Which means it is the 11th day of my current tour.

Now, I am not much of a shopping person. I may take some time to decide on brands, and I may spend a few moments weighing the costs versus the benefits of two different offerings, but comparing one design versus the other, one colour versus twenty seven other is not my kind of thing.
But then, sometimes, you have to bite the bullet. Slowly. Surely. Painfully. Rajnikant has it easy when he catches bullets with his teeth on screen; its over in a jiffy.
My mom has been celebrating the fact that I am on tour to locations as exotic as Jaipur and Jodhpur. She expects me to come back leading a camel caravan loaded with whatever stuff they sell by the camel load to tourists. Now, I know my duties as a person on official tour, and did a quick recee of the local forts in whatever daylight was left over after seeing customers; ate local food in local restaurants, and did my bit for the economy by hiring local autorickshaws at loot rates. I visited some convenient corners of Jodhpur, and bought bangles, and the locally made puppets for the display rack at home. There is only so much I can pack into the one bag I have brought with me on this trip. And so I planned to stay off the tourist shopping circuit in Jaipur.
But fate and Mom deemed otherwise. She calls me up as I am strolling the bazaar after visiting the Albert Hall Museum. Till then, I was quite immune to the glitz and sparkle of the multi hued wares and the call of the salesman. But the call changed everything. There she was , pleading and cajoling and mothering me into picking up something (either a dress top or a cushion cover or dupatta) with all the embroidery and mirror work.. so cute. After all, she couldn’t come to Rajasthan, and I was there. Finally, naujawaan and free willed adult I may fancy myself to be, but I entered a shop where there was all the handi-crafty looking fabrics hanging from the walls and ceiling. The salesmen were two young men, and I think, experienced as they were in selling all this, they knew me for the sucker I was.
They offered me a seat, and started pulling out sarees. I said I didn’t want sarees. I wanted something decorative. One of them hollered, and a third salesman apparated, seemingly from between two closely packed stacks of sarees. He was duly instructed to bring cushion covers, which he pulled out from the same closely packed stacks of fabric. And in a moment were spread out before me what were assuredly the best designs in cushion covers at the best prices. The same things were available in handicraft showrooms for triple the price for foreigners. But here, the samaritan salesmen sold it at one third those rates.
The dazzle of multicoloured embroidery in pink and purple and off white and red and blue and brown did it. They brought back long suppressed memories. Of my boyhood. Of the time I was a reluctant hostage in a saree shop when my mom bought sarees. Of yards and yards of sarees on counter tops laid out for my mother’s inspection. Of endless minutes spent as she contemplated the reds and the blues and the greens and the purples as the salesmen stood patiently, and pulled out more saree boxes that divulged even more sarees. It was a battle of wits and wills between Mom and salesman. One, convinced that she could outlast a whole shopful of sarees without being adequately satisfied that there was a saree worth purchasing; and the other, that the infinite vastness of his store’s inventory would definitely yield not one but ten that would break the customer’s resolve, and make her buy atleast two. And then, there was me in the corner, unwilling hostage, forced to accompany Mom on this trip for some reason. I would sit, stare, contemplate the infinite sarees. Rue the fact that I was close to missing another episode of He-Man or G I Joe. In those days of Doordarshan, a program was aired once a week, with no repeat telecasts. An episode lost was lost forever. I would try to be helpful, suggesting that the green one was nice, or the mustard yellow one was definitely yuck. Yes, but do you have any more sarees, with better designs..? Yes madam, in a moment… and out would come yet another box, and a dozen more sarees…. Another hour of slow trauma…..
Back to the present: there were about seven cushion covers in as many colours and as many designs spread out before me. I was in a mind-jam. Couldn’t decide between the mauve and the vermillion covers. Only a hundred rupees each.. after all, look at the painstaking work that has gone into it.. and remember, we are not charging you five hundred like the showroom wallahs do to foreigners. Then they befuddled me a bit more by bringing out covers in sets of five, for five hundred rupees. Ah, advantage me; five covers are more difficult to pack into an already full bag, hence it will be single cushion covers. Now they bring the game to another level, bringing out the wall hangings. One meter lengths of cloth, that have no purpose of existence other than to hang from a wall. Of course, there has been elaborate embroidery done on them, plus tourists….Now, this was playing unfair. Even my mom, when she asked for sarees, got sarees, and not sarees AND bed sheets. But they had taken the game to a new level. But one thing that I had learnt from all those lessons of yore is that perseverance pays. Somewhere, mom had to give in to my whining and come back home, albeit empty handed. And I stuck to cushion covers. They agreed that cushion covers were a good choice, but I should also relook at the blue one. And the yellow one. But I had made my selection, and shortlisted the mauve and vermillion. I am proud of the fact that I had made a choice within five minutes of the pieces hitting the display area. And I stuck to them.
I think the sales guys were a bit miffed at a patent shopping sucker resisting their persuasive charms. They pulled out yet another astra, and threw gents kurtas on top of the wall hangings. Short ones sir, like T shirt. Only hundred rupees sir, best quality. But my resistance was fiercer. No kurtas thank you. I returned their serve with a powerful volley. Threw back the bargain gambit at them, to prove that I was no complete green horn. Now, lets be serious, and you tell me the real price. Two hundred only sir, all fixed rate only. After all..blah..showroom..blah..foreigner..3X prices..blah…labour input…blah. .. No, seriously, the real selling price. I’ll give you one fifty. Oh No sir..(two more iterations of previous dialog).
And so I walked out of the shop with two cushion covers for two hundred rupees. I know, I suck at bargaining.

The salesguys also took it as a personal affront that a pure sucker had walked out of the shop with only two hundred worth of shopping. So the lead guy threw in the final gambit. Sir, those puppets.. the ones you were looking at.. you take them for three hundred.
No sir, no puppets. Don’t want them, for any price. I turn around.
Arre sir, two fifty, final offer sir.
No sir, don’t want any puppets. Cant fit them into my bag..
Sir… ..

And I walk away. I have survived yet another shopping expedition.