Intrepid in Iran – On the road to Persepolis

Continued from Intrepid in Iran: Day 1 - Getting there

* Tall, stocky, blue eyes and impressive whiskers. That was Shaiky Bhai, our taxi driver, who spoke less than a dozen words in English, but who could expertly maneuver a vehicle with one male passenger in front, and 4 tightly wedged female passengers in the back. He convinced us to abandon our original plan of checking into our hotel and then going to the bazaars. “It’s Eid,” he told us in Farsi, “not a single shop will be open. It’s better if I take you to Persepolis instead.” Seeing the empty roads and shuttered shops en route to the city, we agreed to his plan.



* Ask me anything you want to know about Shiraz, Shaiky Bhai offered. I was keen to know if the famous Shiraz wine had any connection with the city. But when Heeba mentioned the word ‘sharaab’ (alcohol), even the unshakeable Shaiky Bhai sounded scandalized. Note to self (I jotted in my diary): 1. Avoid mention of alcohol while in Iran. 2. Consult online sources.


* We stopped at a restaurant before hitting Persepolis, and decided to sample some of the fine Iranian fare we’d heard so much about. Every single eye in the packed restaurant was on us as we entered. Did my headscarf slip? Is my costume ok? I did a rapid scan. All seemed fine. Then it struck us, that perhaps it was that invisible sign above our heads – TOURISTS AHOY! With our headscarves and tunics, I thought we’d done a good job of blending in, but the swivelling heads in the restaurant told us otherwise.



* We took off our shoes, positioned ourselves around the sofa bed, and waited to place our orders. Heeba had recommended the authentic Iranian stew. The waiter ruefully informed us – no stew, but do try the rice and kebabs. No problem, we thought, we still have 3 more days to try the stews. We piled our plates with juicy red tomatoes and pickled vegetables and waited. The rice and kebab dish turned out to be just that! Plain rice and grilled kebabs. The rice was flavoured with tiny stands of saffron and oodles of butter. It certainly was delicious (as all butter-laden fare usually is) but made one incredibly sluggish as well. The thought of catching a quick snooze on the sofa-bed was tempting, but we had a date with history.



* 512 B.C. 512 B.C! I couldn’t help marveling that I was standing amid ruins that were really that old. Even in its crumbling state, it seemed magnificent. Now known as Takht-e-Jamshid, Persepolis was originally built by Darius the Great and his heirs over a period of 150 years.




The walls still held exquisitely perfect etchings of humans, of beasts, of enchanting tableaus involving kings and visitors from exotic lands. Even the graffiti scribbled by vainglorious visitors had a certain aura, the oldest one dating back to the early 1800s.



Gaurav, Sonya and me climbed to the top of the mound where one of the emperors had been interred in a tomb. The view of the palace complex from the top was spectacular. If only we could watch the sun set over the ruins, we thought. But visiting hours were ‘8 – 17’ only, as the board at the entrance informed us.



* By the time we headed back to our vehicle, I was hot, tired and sorely uncomfortable. I had re-adjusted my headscarf at least 500 times, and I was one step away from itching my head like a primate. Compounding the discomfort was the dual layer of clothing I had donned. I couldn’t wait to reach the hotel and excavate myself from all of it.


Coming next: Mind your language

Intrepid in Iran: Day 1 - Getting there

* “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this to you, but you’ll need to cover your head and your butt,” wrote Sonya in an email, a week before our proposed trip to Shiraz in Iran. I was about to mail a droll reply about how my low-rise jeans weren’t all that low, when she sent me a link to the dress code for tourists in Iran.

The idea of a dress code for tourists in itself seemed remarkable. And then the thought of wearing headscarves and full-sleeved, butt-covering tunics felt a bit archaic and chauvinistic, even. Gaurav, the sole male presence in our 5-member troop, attempted to console us by declaring, “I totally understand. Even I can’t wear my cutoff trousers.”


* Apparently, no one in Dubai covers their butts. I combed every store in Lamcy Plaza and could barely find a top long enough to disguise the (rather unmistakable) fact that I have a butt. I somehow managed to cobble together a wardrobe for the 4-day trip. But when I reached the airport, 4 pairs of eyes zeroed in on the two exposed inches of denim-clad gluteus maximus. When clenching or shirt-tugging didn’t work, Sonia pulled out the ‘emergency robe’. My first thought was that it looked like a bathrobe. But it did an admirable job of not only obscuring my posterior, but also every other non-linear shape neck below.


* “What happens if you don’t wear the proper attire in Iran,” I timidly asked Heeba, the American-born, Dubai-based Iranian in our group. “You go to jail,” she said, with utmost seriousness. “You must understand, it’s not a custom, it’s a law.” I pulled the bathrobe around me tighter.

Anachronistic, chauvinistic or whatever else Iran may be, I had made the choice to visit. And I didn’t have to agree with the rules, I decided. I just had to go along. So when the plane touched down at Shiraz International Airport, like every other female tourist on the flight, I patted my headscarf into place and disembarked.


* ‘Iranian Cultural Heritage Handicrafts and Tourism Organisation would be highly grateful if you could kindly fill the following form and hand it over to the officials’ – read the flimsy yellow flyer we were handed at the airport. One of the few perks of being an Indian travelling to Iran was the Visa On Arrival status. But this form seemed a bit too informal for an officious document.

Apparently, it was. On filling of yellow flyer, one was handed a handwritten slip with visa fees, which had to be paid at another counter, following which another more officious-looking form had to be filled and handed over along with passports for the visa to be processed.

“How much time?” we asked the polite but harried staff on duty. “One hour at least,” he said, with an excessive emphasis on the last two words. “Maybe they’ve never had so many tourists visiting,” whispered Heeba.


* I expected to see beady-eyed, long-bearded officials skulking around the airport, looking out for inappropriate attire or manners, but most of the staff – all male, incidentally – seemed unconcerned, a bit bored, even. They didn’t even raise an eyebrow when a gaggle of kids from the French tourists’ troupe proceeded to knock down the stands while playing a boisterous game of tag. A little reassured, I sank into the airport chairs and nodded off a bit.

Two hours later, and just seconds before the next international flight arrived into Shiraz, we were handed our passports and visas.


* WELCOME TO SHIRAZ, said the banner just above the exit.


Coming next: Day 1 - The ruins of Persepolis

Absolute Lee turns FIVE

5 years ago, on a slow day at work, I hopped onto the blogwagon. I picked the first name that came to my mind, 'Absolute Lee'. And since rediffblogs insisted on a tag line, picked the second thing that came to mind, 'About the girl-next-door with the mind as wicked as the boy-next-door'.

Unlike most blogs at that time, mine wasn't an online diary. Nor was it a place to vent feelings or other personal stuff. I was doing a writing course at that time, and Chapter 1 started with the injunction to write everyday. The blog seemed like the perfect place not just to explore writing but also to track my progress. The focus of the blog was on experiences, stories from everyday life. A quotidian chronicle, as one of the early blog friends described it.

I had started the blog when I was on a sabbatical from advertising, and was exploring a career in freelance writing. But when that didn't work out, and I hopped back into advertising, and moved to Dubai as well, the blog tagged along like a bit of excess baggage. I willed myself to keep it going through trying times. Even with long absences and lack of motivation, I couldn't bring myself to pull the plug, as it were. It was a comfortable place to come back to every now and then. And once in a while, I could even surprise myself by posting every day, like I did last August-September.

Recently, having joined a Writer's Group in Dubai and trying my hand at fiction, I find I enjoy it immensely. It's still raw and 'work-in-progress', but it's also stimulating and the feedback from the group is gratifying. Writing the blog all these years, has helped make the transition to fiction a lot easier, I feel. People in the Group comment about the 'voice' in my writing and one has even described it as 'creepy but endearing'. (Another way of saying girl-next-door mind as wicked etc.??)

Thanks all of you for being around, for your comments, and for making this a fun hangout.

To Persia, and back

Over three years in the UAE, and until four days ago, I hadn't visited a single country in the Middle East. So when a couple of friends mentioned heading out to Iran during the long Eid break, I leaped at the opportunity.

We travelled to southwest Iran, to the city of Shiraz in the Fars province. And what a marvellous trip it was! Unlike anything I've ever done before (but then I say that about all my journeys.) Will post vignettes in the days to follow. Stay tuned.

Atlantis, The Palm

It's hard not to be impressed by Atlantis at Palm Jumeirah. Driving down the trunk of the Palm with swank buildings on either side, you can see Atlantis looming ahead. By the time you've passed under the lofty arches and have reached the entrance, your imagination (mixed with a bit of buzz and hype) is in overdrive. And while projecting a nonchalant air on the outside, you're in fact a giddy schoolgirl inside, dying to get to class the next day and announce, "You'll never believe where I was yesterday!"

Three weeks ago, a fire broke out at Atlantis which started in the main lobby area, just above this glass sculpture. Although the resort opened as planned on September 24, you can still see signs of restoration (behind the black screens) and get a whiff of charred remains. Somehow this only adds to the aura of Atlantis. Unlike the fabled city which sunk overnight, the Palm Atlantis virtually rose from the ashes, in time to meet the public.

The souvenir store at Atlantis. Where you can come away with cuddly sharks and jolly jellyfish.


A glimpse of the ceiling. A nautical theme runs through the Atlantis, but it feels a bit uneven in parts. Something like The Little Mermaid meets the local fishmarket.


The entrance to the Lost Chamber. This was the best part of the entire Atlantis experience for me. (I haven't checked out the Aquaventure theme park and its 'Leap of Faith' ride yet.)


The last time I'd been mesmerised by aquatic life was when I was snorkelling in the Great Barrief Reef in Cairns, Australia. Nothing can ever compare to that sublime experience, but watching these beautiful creatures glide so blissfully, I couldn't help feeling that I could watch them for hours and still come away marvelling.


These fish reminded me of (what I know as) ladyfish, until they opened their mouth, and some membranes popped out, with the end result being rather comical.


Buttoned-down tuxedos. What the well-dressed fish are wearing.


The exquisitely graceful jellyfish. Beauty with bite.


And a few more...


You cannot appreciate the phrase, 'slippery as an eel', until you see this exhibit. My efforts to get an entire eel in a picture was repeatedly thwarted by their ceaseless darting through the enclosures.


You don't want to be alone at home with this critter. Nuff said.


The almost-genial looking piranas.


The little 'Nemos' or clownfish. I also spotted the rescued whale shark gliding majestically in one of the aquariums.

There's a better way, I discovered later, to experience this marine life, than running around the aquariums, gawking at the fish and pressing close to the 2-feet thick wall of glass.

The Lost Chambers Suites, on the other side of the glass wall, have the better view. But for sheer indulgence, there's nothing to beat the $25,000-a-night Bridge Suite replete with personal butlers and chefs, and a gold-leaf dining table.

Humans and nature or humans v/s nature - the debate raged in my mind as I drove back home. Environmentalists have been concerned, people have protested, and even the old nutjobs are ranting.

What really caught my eye when I was reading about the fabled city of Atlantis was this bit...

... there existed an island nation located in the middle of the Atlantic ocean populated by a noble and powerful race. The people of this land possessed great wealth thanks to the natural resources found throughout their island. The island was a center for trade and commerce.

...For generations the Atlanteans lived simple, virtuous lives. But slowly they began to change. Greed and power began to corrupt them....

...Soon, in one violent surge it was gone. The island of Atlantis, its people, and its memory were swallowed by the sea.

A moving experience

One of the disadvantages of an open plan office seating is that eye contact can easily be made, and conversations can be carried out with someone seated 10 feet away without moving from one’s seat. Think 16 somewhat excitable people in such a setting. And for good measure, add the non-stop blare from a couple of computer speakers. For someone like me, who gets disturbed by the uproar caused by a falling pin, such a work environment can be quite non-conducive to work.

So when, during the day, the decibel levels reach those of a shooting range, I head to the only quiet corner in the entire office – the women’s loo. In the tiny 3’ x 5’ space, sound recedes and focus returns. Scattered thoughts meld and sparks ignite. Now, if there was only a way to fit a computer and a net connection somehow…

So it was a couple of days ago, that I headed to the ‘Thinking Room’ and sat on the only seat available. There was a brief to worked on, and the glimmer of an idea had been forming in the back of my head. I closed my eyes to allow it to take shape, unhindered by thought or movement. The stillness was almost perfect – within and without.

And I began to feel a gentle vibration. Like something from deep within. I could feel it travel from my toes to my temples. Warm spirals of energy. This was an extremely rare experience. Something I’d only read or heard about. I had felt something milder during meditation, but for the first time, I could feel the vibrations so perceptibly. I felt I was on the brink of something momentous. Some great Universal Truths were being revealed to me. I felt connected to the Source and to living things everywhere.

I emerged from Thinking Room, feeling energized and tranquil.

A colleague passing by looked at me and with awe in his voice, asked, “Did you feel it?”

“How did you know?” I asked, suddenly disoriented.

“Apparently, it was a big one in Iran,” he said. “Almost 7.5 on the Richter scale.”

Coming soon...

I've missed you, blog.

Thinking aloud

The trickiest part of taking a break from writing is finding the right words to break the silence. What if you've lost the ability? What if you trip over your own self-consciousness? Perhaps, these words would never have been written if I wasn't battling 'copywriter's block', and needed to empty out. In a way, cut a vein, and let it all bleed out.

Intense, huh? But that's a pretty accurate word to describe life lately. Intense. Kilimanjaro was ticked off the list three months ago, but there are some bits of that experience that don't fit comfortably. And then there was the onerous exercise of moving house followed by the even more formidable task of setting up house. Again, intense. Some other changes too - people moving away, new priorities, new challenges. Too much 'new'.

One of these days, we'll find that elusive balance. One of these days, we'll stop living inside our head. One of these days...

Just did it!

For all of you waiting with bated breath... WE MADE IT!

All four of us reached the 'roof of Africa' on Saturday, 17 Feb at 8.45 a.m.

We're all in different stages of recovery right now... Updates when we reach home.

P.S. thanks for all your wishes, prayers, helpful tips and crossed fingers...

Breaking in the new hiking shoes...

...on the slopes of Jebel Jenas in Ras Al Khaimah. It's a moderately difficult 5-hour trek, say the good folks at Mountain Extreme.

Moderate or difficult, we'll find out tomorrow.


Update: The trek was both moderate and difficult. I could swear the incline was 75 degrees in places. And in places, following a goat track at the edge of the precipice was thrilling. But best was the silence, where you could hear even the flapping of a bird's wings... Pics and update will follow.

Am-Bushed!

Thank you, Mr. George Bush!

An unexpected holiday is always good news, except if you're heavily pregnant or if you work at a petrol pump, or if you happen to be wearing those 5-inch Manolos.

M' assalamah Mr. Bush. Do come again... next week.

Gear and now

Also posted at The Kilimanjaro Blog


Mountain of caravans, mountain of greatness, shining mountain - no one quite agrees on the real interpretation of 'Kilimanjaro'. But among the multiple meanings ascribed to it, my personal favourite is 'little white hill'.

Little, indeed.

But Kilimanjaro may well turn out to be a molehill as compared to the bigger problem I'm facing now - gear shopping. There are hardly any outdoor outfitters in Dubai, and the only two I've found - Columbia and Timberland - seem woefully inadequate.

Sample conversation:

Me: Do you have fleece jackets?

Salesman: Yes, ma'am. Right here... (points to a row of sleeveless jackets)

Me: Don't you have jackets with sleeves??

Salesman: Ok, look in the children's section. You might get your size.

If he didn't get advanced hypothermia from the look I gave him, I would be very surprised.


It doesn't get easier when it comes to shopping for the right pair of boots. "Walk down a ramp to check that your toes don't get crushed," suggested Alpha.

Not only were there no ramps in the store I went to, but even options were hard to come by. One pair of tenacious leather boots which would've shredded any toe that fell under it, and one pair of boots with Gore-tex fabric, which didn't inspire much confidence.

All's not lost though. It turns out there's a store right down my street which stocks ski gear at almost throwaway prices. I've never understood their business model, but I'm not complaining right now. I've managed to get a few pairs of gloves and socks, and a fleece jacket or two.

My final resort is to order gear from Alpha's friendly neighbourhood REI and get/request /implore/beseech Alpha to lug it to Nairobi.

Tying a shoelace is like Kilimanjaro, sometimes

Until a few months ago, Kilimanjaro was a personal goal. Having been out of the trekking circuit for close to 3 years, it was a challenge to get back in shape to be able to do a high-altitude trek. But once the training got underway, an opportunity was presented to do more than achieve a personal milestone. And that was to raise awareness and funding for a cause that's close to my heart - Rheumatoid Arthritis.

As some of you might know, my sister, Preeti, had Rheumatoid Arthritis for 7 long and painful years, until she succumbed to complications arising out of the illness almost three years ago. She was 32 years old. The last few years of her life saw her struggle to maintain her familar smiling face even as her joints got swollen and stiff, and her normal stride turned into an awkward limp. Activities that most of us do without even a second thought like jumping aboard a train or sitting cross legged or even raising an arm, fell under the list of movements deemed 'next to impossible' for her. Once, I watched with mounting dismay as it took her a full five minutes to take off a T-shirt and by then, she was panting and staggering with the effort.

Rheumatoid Arthritis is like that. It's also chronic and indiscriminate, striking without any precedent. There's 7-year-old Mazhar*, I've come to know through the Emirates Arthritis Foundation, who's had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the past 2 years. Initially, when it took him almost an hour to get out of bed in the morning, his parents attributed it to laziness. It was only when he cried incessantly and complained of pain even when his mother hugged him, did they suspect something was amiss. Now, the 7-year old, with large, curious eyes, has to sit in the sidelines and watch as his friends play football. Some days it takes him an hour just to wear his shoes. He misses school frequently, and his parents fret that he's unusually moody and silent.

Dr. Humeira Badshah, a rheumatologist with the Emirates Arthritis Foundation asserts that there are treatments that can control the disease, enabling patients like Mazhar to lead a life that's as normal as possible. Most patients respond well to the new treatments, and in time are able to return to school or to their jobs. The main deterrent however, is the cost.

My goal is to raise Dhs. 40,000 (USD 11,000 approx.) for Mazhar's treatment. It's a steep figure, but then, at 19,340 feet, so is Kilimanjaro. In aspiring to one, I'm hoping this other goal will be accomplished as well.

So here's a earnest plea to all of you reading this - if you can contribute a small amount, any amount, for Mazhar's treatment, it would be a huge help. If you can pass on this appeal to family or friends, it would help even more.

You can contribute in cash, cheque or wire transfer. The team at Emirates Arthritis Foundation is also trying to set up an online payment option. Until then, if you would like to contribute, simply write to me - absoluteleela {at} gmail {dot} com. Or to Cathy Leibman, Director-Operations, Emirates Arthritis Foundation - cathy {at} arthritis {dot} ae

I look forward to your generous support for Mazhar. Because a 7-year deserves to be in the playground, not on the sidelines.


* name changed on request

You know it's a new year when...

... you can't find a single empty treadmill at the gym.

Long live resolutions.

Priceless Pictures # 13: Wish you all much suckcess in 2008!

Sign in a Mumbai local train:



Also see: Priceless Pictures # 1, # 2, # 3, # 4, # 5, # 6, # 7, # 8 , # 9, #10, # 11, # 12

The highest blogger meet in the world

Also posted at The Kilimanjaro Blog


In the last four years that we’ve known each other (virtually, of course), Alpha and I have tried to meet up a few times. It’s a bit tricky getting the co-ordinates right when you’re on two different continents separated by a couple of oceans, but she was in Bombay once, and I was almost in Bangalore, another time. And then, last year, she planned Europe, while I considered Australia… It’s not a small world, after all.

Just when I was beginning to imagine a dotage blogger meet, the tectonic plates shifted somewhere, and our agendas and venues came together. I suggested Kilimanjaro, since it had been on my wishlist for a while. A mountain lover herself, she not only got fired up by the idea, but also got Pi and half of Pittsburgh interested. She then scouted around for tour operators, decided the route, sent off a flurry of mails, started raising funds for charity, packed and repacked her bags, started the blog, and if Pi tells me she’s already at the airport waiting for the flight due in February, I’d believe him.

Jokes aside, I totally credit Alpha for this trip coming together so far. I’ve had a lot on my mind the last few months to focus on this trip, and I’m grateful for Alpha’s determination. When you set out to reach the peak of the highest free-standing mountain in the world, it’s exactly that kind of focus you need. And hopefully, the rest of us will match up in the coming weeks.

If not, I've full faith that Alpha will sling us over a shoulder and saunter all the way to the top.

Climb every mountain

I cannot remember how and when the idea of climbing Kilimanjaro took hold. It might have begun as a vague thought sometime this year, but it’s a dream that’s been taking shape for the last few years, ever since I did the high-altitude trek in Ladakh in August 2003. That was the start of the mountain madness, and the weekend treks in the mountains on the outskirts of Bombay only fuelled the mania. Moving to Dubai in 2005 put paid to that obsession, but only for a while. And now, Kilimanjaro beckons.

There couldn’t be a more curious bunch than the four of us who are doing this trip. Alpha and I have known each other for close to 4 years, through our blogs, then through emails and then the surprisingly lengthy phone calls. We’ve never met, although we’ve been in the same city on one occasion, and in the same country, another time. She’s tried her match-making skills on me a few times, unsuccessfully, I might add, and I’ve asked her for recipes a few times, which she still hasn’t parted with.

I know Pi, her husband, only through her (expectedly biased) posts, and I don’t know much about Nai, the 4th member of our troupe, other than the fact that he was Alpha’s classmate, and of good character - as I was repeatedly assured by Alpha when she tried to book us into the same room. The last ditch attempt at match-making might just have borne fruit, except that Nai’s wife wouldn’t hear of it. So separate rooms it is.

We still have about 7 weeks to go before we meet up for the first time in Nairobi. And a busy 7 weeks it’s going to be, with training, gear shopping, and of course, regular blog updates at The Kilimanjaro Blog. Your comments and encouragement, are welcome as always.

Congratulations Patweeta & Ashtrix!

Bhubaneshwar's buzzing with excitement as the Wedding of the Year gets underway. Tomorrow, the golden couple of blogdom, Patrix & Ashweeta will tie the knot. In a not wholly unexpected departure from tradition, there will be three of them walking around the sacred fire - Patrix, Ash and a laptop. Patrix and Ash will take turns to blog about the ceremonies for those of us who aren't attending. They will also be exchanging vows - "I promise to be true to you in good times and bad, through rediffblogs.com and blogspot.com, through sickness and health, so help me, Blog." Patrix will be making a grand entry on a white horse, and has been horsing around um... practising his horse-riding skills for the last few weeks on the old rocking horse retrieved from his parents' house in Panvel.

Jest aside, here's wishing you amazing twosome a memorable day, and an amazing lifetime ahead. The Apache Blessing says it all...

Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other.
Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other.
Now there will be no loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other.
Now you are two persons, but there is only one life before you.
May beauty surround you both in the journey ahead and through all the years,
May happiness be your companion and your days together be good and long upon the earth.

Yet another brilliant sunset

Don't you just love December?

There's a wee nip in the air these days. Not the kind of weather that makes you grab a jacket and thrust your hands deep in its pockets. But the kind that steals up on you and makes the hair on your forearm quiver. The kind that makes you roll down the car windows so that the wind can style your hair.

People seem happier, or is it just me? The prospect of vacations and festivities, reunions and revelry seems to infuse a happy glow everywhere. No matter how the year has turned out this far, December can make it all come together. Leave November to its neuroses, and leave January to handle regrets and resolutions, December is for getting carried away, unabashedly.

Someone I met recently has sworn off meat, spirits and smoking for a whole month in anticipation of the hedonism to follow in the last week of the year. That's how seriously people take December.

And what better way to start off December than with a long weekend. It's the UAE National Day today. And there's another anticipated holiday on account of Eid sometime soon. And there are trails to discover, and locales to explore, and conversations to continue...

Don't you just love December?

Remembrance

It was a minute after midnight. The Cuban band took a break from the rousing samba numbers to play the familiar birthday melody. The crowd joined in singing and clapping, not knowing who was being wished. It seemed the perfect moment to whisper a wish for her too, and imagine her celebrating in some celestial hangout with newfound friends, and dancing uninhibitedly into the wee hours of the morning, the way she always loved to. She would have been 35 today.

Tell me a story... - II

Continued from ‘Tell Me a Story’


The bus wasn’t expected for a couple of hours, we were told. P and I had just about exchanged dismayed looks when the errant bus rumbled into the terminus. We scrambled aboard, relieved, until we realized that we hadn’t a clue of how to reach our final destination from wherever the bus dropped us off.

“I have a map, if it helps,” a voice piped up from across the aisle.

It was the elderly man again. Helplessness trumped over mild irritation, and we decided to consult the proffered map.

‘Karnataka: One State. Many Worlds’ – read the text at the right hand corner of the map. P and I pored over it, getting our bearings. The elderly man helpfully pointed out our destination and remarked that we weren’t too far from the bus stop. We thanked him for his help, and I casually asked if he was a frequent traveler in these parts.

“This is my third visit,” he told us, “my crew’s already gone on ahead.”

What crew, we inquired.

“The camera crew,” he said. “I work as a producer with Discovery Channel, and we’re doing a segment on Karnataka.”

Appearances can be misleading, I thought. Here I had pegged him for a small town schoolteacher or even some religious sort, on account of the beads and longish hair. He certainly didn’t fit the image of an international TV producer.

Conversation flowed more freely after this revelation since both P and I work with media-related organizations. We exchanged notes about work and Discovery programmes and travel, when he told us offhand that he had a yearly routine of driving to Germany.

Drive, I exclaimed, a little too loudly!

He confirmed that my hearing was good, and that he did indeed drive to Germany taking a route via Pakistan, Iran, Turkey and so on, until he reached Germany.

”How many days does it take you?” I asked, fascinated.

“23 days, including rest days,” he replied.

But why Germany, I had to know.

Sensing that he had finally captured our attention, his diffidence receded and his manner became a bit oratorical.

"Germany has given me two things most valuable to me," he said, and then after a dramatic pause, continued, "Firstly, it's given me my doctorate - I did a PhD in Psychology at the Berlin University. And secondly, it's given me my boss."

What a workaholic, I thought. But once again I was in for a surprise.

He laughed at my stupefied expression and said, "Surely you know what I mean – I’m talking of the boss at home! I met my wife in Germany."

Apparently, they travelled to Germany for Christmas every year, she by air, and he, by road. His return route was equally convoluted and took almost 5 weeks, since he decided to spend time in remote islands along the way.

He seemed to be a devoted husband though, and couldn’t stop gushing about how he considered her words as commands from God, and of how he was perhaps the only Indian male to wake up each morning and touch his wife’s feet.

P had a giggling fit, which she quickly turned into a cough. I was amused too, but there were jaw-dropping revelations to follow.

He wasn’t in his 50s as we’d assumed. He was 73 and travelled ten months of the year, including the trip to Germany. He slept for 2 1/2 hours at night, and meditated another 2 1/2 hours. He spoke of papers he’d written and his theories of God. He painted a fascinating picture of places he’d visited. Truth and fiction seemed intertwined in parts, but that only added to the mystique of the story teller. He showed me notes he’d painstakingly handwritten – programme synopses, journal articles, and even an article on a Christian saint, ostensibly requested by the Vatican!

The bus was lurching violently on the unpaved road. It was almost two hours since we’d left the bus station in Hubli, but I hardly noticed. He insisted we keep in touch, but didn’t have a business card. I offered mine, and he said I’d be hearing from him soon.

I never did, but that didn’t matter anyway. I had my story after all.

The dog ate my post today...

... we'll be back with a new dog tomorrow.

Tell me a story...

I love listening to a good story. Especially if it’s a life story that’s filled with intrigue and achievement, agonies and triumphs, love and adventure, folly and madness, particularly madness. I can always sense when I’ve met a person with such a story. A few words exchanged, and I just know. I feel a bubble of curiosity building up, my focus sharpens and time becomes obsolete. A quiver full of questions appears by my side, and I’ve to restrain myself from shooting all of them impatiently. I can listen until the person has outtalked himself or herself, or until they seem uncomfortable to lay it all bare. I’m curious but not voyeuristic.

Listening to a good story thrills me beyond belief. I can recall and recount the details right down to the expressions long after the encounter. I feel privileged and humbled by the sharing, invigorated by the experience, which often enough is all too brief. Glancing back at this year, the moments which stand out, right next to special times with friends and family, are these encounters with ‘story tellers’.

The digeridoo player from Australia, the demolitions expert from the Canadian NATO force in Afghanistan, the photographer-philanthropist, the Moroccan flamenco guitarist and psychology enthusiast, the divorced parlour assistant separated from her 6-year-old daughter, the pilot-musician-entrepreneur, the environmental activist and organic farmer from a small town in Karnataka, the manicurist with aspirations of becoming a lawyer, the septuagenarian producer from Discovery Channel… I’ve been enriched by their stories.

As it usually happens, the introductions come about innocuously enough. You’d never suspect there was a story waiting to unravel. I was, in fact, studiously ignoring the short, bald old man in the white kurta and checked mustard yellow pants with some kind of beads around his neck at the bus stand in Hubli, Karnataka. We were in unfamiliar terrain, and a bit disoriented even. Our bus seemed to be late, and even the bus stand attendants were unsure about when the next bus would arrive. So, when the elderly man tried striking up a conversation with us twice, we were a bit terse…

To be continued

Friday Brunch Menu

1 Pajero
1 Jeep
1 UAE Off-Road Explorer
5 off-road enthusiasts who abhor wasting a Friday morning tucked under the covers
9 litres water
Miles and miles of empty roads
10 kms. of sand dunes
Half a dozen wild camels
A sprinkling of shrubs
1 destination - Fossil Rock
6-7 wrong turns
1 sweltering sun
5 lost but contented souls
1 dozen plans for the next weekend

Ten years on...

... the magic hasn't faded.

Michael Hutchence
22 Jan 1960 - 22 Nov 1997

10 years ago, a rockstar on the wane hung himself from the door of his hotel room, and became immortal. He was on tour in Sydney, promoting his album, uncannily titled, Elegantly Wasted. It was an ignominous end to a life which seemed so full of talent and promise, but in the annals of rock and roll, it was a scripted finale almost.

I admit I'm an unabashed INXS fan, and own all of their music, except for a couple of early albums. It's not the typical music I listen to, and friends are rather amused by my incongruous passion for INXS. But to me it's music that connects me to a time of growing up, and MTV, of 'seeing' music and not just listening to it on the radio. And then of course, there's Michael's voice - deep, seductive, glorious. Marry that with an in-your-face sensual stage persona and you have a perfect recipe for a schoolgirl crush.

I've lost count or probably never kept track of the number of times I've listened to the ballad, 'Never Tear Us Apart' from the 1987 Kick album. It continues to be one of my favourite songs of all time. Kick was the album that catapulted INXS onto the world stage, and won them the Grammys. But personally, I prefer an album which came later, and which received a lukewarm response - Full Moon, Dirty Hearts. It's unusually mellow in parts but runs deep, with songs like 'Please' (with Ray Charles), 'Full Moon Dirty Hearts', 'Freedom Deep' and 'Kill the Pain'.

By the mid-90s however Michael's much-publicised private life was catching up with him. His penchant for high profile girlfriends such as Kylie Minogue, Helena Christensen and Paula Yates meant that he was in the news, and not always for the right reasons. When the spiral of drugs and depression got too much, it seemed he decided to sing his swansong, leaving behind a rich legacy of music and several generations of fans who refuse to let go.

I was standing
You were there
Two worlds collided
And they could never tear us apart.

- from 'Never Tear Us Apart'

An Encounter

He entered the hospital waiting room while the nurse was measuring my height and doing some other preliminaries.

“Have you grown taller?” he asked, smiling

I was taken aback by his friendliness as well as by the question.

“Oh, I wish,” I replied.

After the nurse had left, I asked him if he was there to see the same doctor. He said, yes, and that it was his third visit.

“You mean, he didn’t cure you on the first attempt?” I asked, attempting a bit of humour.


“I’m just here for follow ups. I had a brain tumour removed. And I’ve to follow up to ensure everything’s ok up here,” he said, tapping his forehead.

I could have bitten my tongue. But he didn’t seem to mind my weak joke. I noticed there were faint dark crescents below his eyes. Old battle scars.

“That must have been something,” I murmured.

“Well, yeah,” he said, “it was a benign one but it was causing pressure on the brain, so they had to take 80% of it out.”

“And what of the remaining 20%?” I asked

“Well, that’s still there. They’re monitoring it. It’s been 2 ½ years now, and it’s behaving itself. Who knows what the future holds…” he trailed off, still smiling.

The doctor came out of his chamber and asked me to step in. He noticed the other person in the waiting room and waved at him, recognizing him. He waved back.

He looked up and smiled when I came out. I muttered a ‘Good Luck’ before leaving.

20%, I kept thinking. Imagine walking around knowing there’s a latent volcano inside you.

I just wish I’d asked him his name.

Welcome...

... to our 10,000th visitor, who stumbled here looking for 'DUBAI UNREAL ESTATE' (caps not mine).

Unreal, it is. Sigh.

SALE!

Philip Roth, Peter Carey, Tim Winton, Alice Munro, Margaret Atwood, Alan Holinghurst, Paul Auster, Naomi Wolf, Neil Gaiman...

... for just Dhs. 3 each! (Rs. 33 or thereabouts)

The Magrudy's Warehouse Sale over the past weekend, was the best sale I've ever attended. We're not talking second hand or soiled copies - they were brand new books most of them still cocooned in plastic. It was maddeningly thrilling to turn the book around and still find the yellow price tags listing (what now seemed) exorbitant prices.

Initially, when I entered, the hardbound books were going at Dhs. 10 and paperbacks at Dhs. 5. But, the prices were slashed in the last hour before the sale. It rankled a bit to find 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix' going for Dhs. 5.

"Take it, take it," pleaded the salesman. "

"I've already got a copy," I said.

"Gift it to somebody," he squeaked, thrusting two copies at me.

It wasn't just the salespeople who'd gone mental. Someone near me had picked up an empty carton, having dispensed with the Magrudy's blue net bag, and was stocking up for a very long winter. Another was wheeling around a supermarket trolley stacked with books. This was what 'Booktopia' would be like, I told myself.

An hour and a half later, fatigue and thirst got the better of me, but not before I carried 18 books to the cashier.

"50 dirhams," said the cashier. I happily paid.

As I was about to pick up the bulging bags and leave, the cashier asked me to wait. He picked 3 more books off the counter and put them in my bags. Diwali bonus, he said and winked.

I could do with a bigger apartment for Christmas.

Going, going...

Sleeping bag - check
Pullover - check
Red Devil - check
Phone - uncheck

...we're going camping.

Radio, some one still loves you...

There's nothing to beat the sheer popularity of radio in this country. In all the time I've been here, I've rarely heard anyone discussing a TV show or a news article with as much passion as radio shows. Phone lines of popular shows are constantly jammed with garrulous callers who breathlessly reveal personal details with unrestrained candour. I once heard a guy tell an RJ, "You're the best thing to have happened to me." This, to a disembodied voice on the airwaves. People are known to enter their cars and turn on the radio before the air-conditioning.

I'll admit it takes your mind off traffic and crazy drivers on occasion, but I'm not one to go 'Radio ga-ga'. If anything, I'm allergic to dial-in shows and inane, superfluous chatter. I'd rather listen to static than to some pseudo-chirpy RJ banter punctuated by forced, grating laughter. The only thing that's music to my ears, is music. And thankfully my iPod accomplishes that without any back chat.

Still, once in a while I venture out among the airwaves, to listen for new music, or radio commercials (part of the job) or sale announcements (part of life, heh). Last weekend, I was listening to my one-time favourite radio station called The Coast. It used to be the only radio station in the country that played great music without any commercial breaks or RJs. Naturally, an aberration like that couldn't continue for long, and now, it's just like every other radio station, commercials, RJs and all.

The Coast RJ was reading out a letter from an ardent listener, "Dear RJ, I've a problem of sorts. I'm 8 months pregnant, and my doctor says I'm due on December 6th. Now, I've just bought my tickets for the Justin Timberlake show on the same day. What should I do - give away the tickets or take the chance and go for the show?"

Now this is one question that's seldom found in the Training Syllabus for Aspiring RJs. But that didn't stop Mr. RJ from venturing an answer, first pausing to employ the classic 'Miss Universe Question Round Trick' i.e. paraphrase the question to gain time to formulate a winning answer,

"Dear X, I'm not 8 months pregnant, but if I were you and I had bought tickets to the Timberlake show on the same day that the doctor said I was due... I would definitely go for the Timberlake show."


For everyone's sake, I hope Justin's entourage has a midwife or two.

Bemusedus Felineathus - (s)potted at Lime Tree Cafe, Jumeirah

what would you like?

i'd like
to
live in
a place
where
leaves
turn
yellow
and red
and
fall in
soft
heaps

i'd like
a room
with
a
view of
mountains
tall
silent
ones

i'd like
white
wicker
furniture
and
kettles
and
shelves
lots of
shelves

i'd like
a
day
with
no
to do
lists
or
chores
or ringing
phones
or
thoughts
of tomorrow

i'd like
mint tea
by
the window
with
golden light
peeking in
and
a bird
or
two
stopping by
for
a chat

i'd like
to
pore over
old photographs
or read
old letters
which i
always
said
i'd read
someday

I'd like
that
i
sure
would

Mozart turns mallrat

It's possible to find just about anything in a mall in Dubai. A ski slope, an elephant water clock, and, as I discovered last week, a Philharmonic Orchestra.

It was incredible enough to find that Dubai had a Philharmonic Orchestra, but to have them perform with an Australian Jazz Quartet an ambitious concert titled, 'Jazz meets Mozart' - well, that was almost like finding parking at the mall on a Friday night. Almost.

The lobby of the Dubai Community Theatre and Arts Centre (DUCTAC), just above the ski slope, started filing up by 7.30 p.m. but the concert only began at around 8.30. One easily excused the delay when the musicians began playing. Spellbinding just doesn't begin to describe it. A rousing samba rendition of Mozart's haunting Symphony No. 40 made it impossible to keep ones feet from tapping. But my favourite was the overture from 'The Marriage of Figaro', Unlike the energetic piece originally written by Mozart, the jazzed up version had a slow plaintive beginning with just the lead violinist and the saxophonist which progressed at a steady pace with a few piano solos, and then built up to the familiar crescendo with the entire Orchestra furiously working their instruments.

The conductor, Philip Maier, seemed very self-assured, and the Orchestra never struck a wrong chord. Two hours later, as I was driving back home still humming snatches of melodies played, it struck me that for once being a mall rat wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

I'll have a six-pack, thank you...

Sign at the Dubai Metro construction site,

"SAFETY COMES IN CANS. I CAN, YOU CAN, WE CAN."

Dibbaaaah!

Discovering Dibba

Dibba is probably the antithesis of Dubai. Craggy brown peaks every where you turn, blue green waters which sound like a thunderclap at night, a horizon interrupted only by palm trees and unpretentious buildings, and a pace of life that regards hurrying as entirely unworthy of effort. An apt example of unpretentious would be a shop sign along the way – Food Selling Grocery. As basic as that. It’s almost a matter-of-fact announcement - you want fancy, head south to Dubai.

There wasn’t enough time to soak in Dibba on a weekend packed with team games, wild revelry and other assorted madness. But one of these weekends a return trip is due…

Going with the office gang

... to a beach resort in Dibba, the north-eastern most town in the UAE. Flanked by mountains and the sea, Dibba promises some spectacular views. More, when we get back.

October checklist

Return from Bombay without excess baggage - check
Get upgraded to Business Class on the flight - check
Smuggle common cold viruses into Dubai which torment for weeks - check
Mark blog anniversary - check
Start the gym - check
Get back in touch with a friend I'd always want to get in touch with - check
Go on a somewhat interesting date - check
Fix and service car - check
Get lost when dropping and picking up car from service station - check
Try out two new recipes - check
Neglect blog - check
Write out goals and plans - check

There, always helps to make a checklist. Haven't given up on the diary, Parmanu, it was just taking a while and encouraging procrastination. One of these days...

Hubli Diary

* The first indication that all’s not well between Andhra Pradesh and its neighbour, Karnataka, is when I start chatting with the girl seated next to me on the bus. Hailing from Hubli in Karnataka, she studies in an engineering college in Hyderabad which she describes as being located in ‘the back of beyond’. When I tell her I’d missed my bus earlier, she says disdainfully, “They’ll never tell you when the bus is leaving. At least you know the Karnataka State Transport buses will leave on time.” She goes on to say that when she got a chance, especially on the weekend, she hopped on to the first bus – the first Karnataka State Transport bus – and headed home.



* The 12-hour ride in a non-air-conditioned bus passes comfortably enough, although my neck feels like someone twisted it into a knot while I was sleeping. I reach the Hubli airport at 9 a.m. and realize glumly that I have a 3-hour wait before my friend P arrives. There’s nothing to do but wait, read and people-watch.



* I’m reading Pico Iyer’s Sun After Dark, and there’s this chapter titled ‘Nightwalking’ about his experience dealing with jet lag. ‘It’s not quite a dream state and yet it’s certainly not wakefulness, and though it seems another continent that we’re visiting, there are no maps or guidebooks yet to this other world. There are not even any clocks.’ Sitting bleary eyed outside an airport located in the heartland of Nowhere Familiar, I get an idea of what he means.

* The Hubli airport is quite unlike any airport I’ve known. It’s small, cosy and unbelievably quiet. A man stands on tiptoe and peers over the wall to check if the flight has arrived. A Buddhist monk in deep red robes arrives with a small suitcase, takes off his slippers and puts on a pair of shoes before entering the terminal. There are 2-3 security guards with the rakish-looking hats which turn up on one side, and a few more airport personnel. The sky is a gentle blue, and there’s even a mild nip in the air. It’s almost too placid for an airport.

* Two men arrive in a van and disembark with a flat, elongated package which they deposit right next to where I’m sitting. The soporific airport witnesses an unexpected burst of activity. Three airport personnel troop out, followed by three more. Even the security guards leave their stations to investigate the hubbub. “Chidiya aya?” (Has the sparrow arrived?) asks one of the airport staff. When the white wrapping is torn aside, I see a mount board with a picture of a kingfisher and the logo of the Kingfisher airlines. I notice the staff are dressed in the blue and white colours of Air Deccan, an airline that has recently merged with Kingfisher. From the ‘sparrow’ quip, I gather that the staff don’t think much of the merger.

* P finally troops out of the airport just after I’ve looked at my watch for the 5001st time. We head to the Hubli bus depot to catch the bus to Dandeli. Unlike the bustling Hyderabad bus terminus, the Hubli depot resembles a ghost town. There’s no one behind the ticket counters, and the forlorn guard shakes his head sadly when we ask him about the next bus to Dandeli. Maybe in 5 hours’ time, he says. P and I look at each other in dismay. We ask the man at the small snack shop, and he says, 15 minutes. There are two American tourists trying to get information to travel to Gokarna, and ask us if we know how to get there. We express ignorance, and later wonder if they will ever get to their destination.



* The snack shop with its array of food is rather tempting. Against my better judgment, I opt for the veg patty, which turns out to be so good that I order another. There’s a colourful sweetmeat which looks like a cross between a biscuit and a pastry, which I’m tempted to try. It’s called ‘manpasand’ and is a thin-crusted pastry filled with fruit peel and coconut. It’s a bit too sweet for my liking, but the resident canine doesn’t mind it at all.





* A red bus trundles in, and people in different corners of the depot holler out to us with a finger thrust in the direction of the bus. We take it to mean that it’s the bus to Dandeli. We gratefully clamber aboard and get ready for a long, bumpy ride.

Hyderabad Diary

* The cell phone beeps at 2.45 a.m. giving me a nervous moment. It’s an sms from the roaming service - ‘Welcome to Hyderabad etc…’ I’d reached around 3.30 in the afternoon, almost 12 hours before the welcoming sms.

* On the way to the hotel, I take in the sights and sounds. On the face of it, it looks like any other city. Like Bomay, perhaps. Populous, busy, colourful. The autos are all-yellow though, not like the Bombay’s yellow-black ones. There are film posters all over the city heralding the newest star son on the blog - Chiranjeevi's son, Ram Charan Teja.



*‘Here’s the famous Punjagutta flyover,’ announces Smiley pointing to the city’s newest attraction. A couple of days earlier, a section of the bridge had collapsed leaving 4 dead and several wounded. I glance at the fallen bridge before a person riding a motorcycle captures my attention. He’s speaking into a cell phone being held to his ear by the person seated behind him. “That’s nothing,” says Smiley, “I’ve seen someone holding a phone to the ear of another guy who was peeing.” Hands-free takes on a whole new meaning!

* I’m not much of a foodie, but I am converted in the short time I spend in Hyderabad. Midnight Biryani at the Park Hotel, steamed dosas at Chutneys served on a banana leaf, and delectable Hyderabadi Haleem from Pista House. Considering, it’s Ramadan, there’s a haleem stall almost every few paces. Mutton haleem’s most popular, I figured, followed by chicken. One place even advertised fish haleem. Even with my newfound passion for food, I’m not sure I would try that in a hurry.



* Hyderabad can rock! The moves on the dance floor at F-Bar in Lumbini Mall leave me breathless. It's a week night, but that doesn't deter the avid party goers, who look most crestfallen when the place shuts at midnight.



* Visiting Golconda Fort isn’t on the itinerary. But considering the Salar Jung Museum is shut on the very day that I am there, we head to the Fort. It turns out to be an awe-inspiring trip. Standing amid the ruins of an 800-year old fort was, one tries to imagine what it was like all those years ago. Even the ruins are spectacular. The sheer scale of the fort is apparent after one has huffed and puffed to the top. Except for a few Japanese tourists and a few Indians, there aren’t too many visitors. The fort lies tucked away in a corner of the ‘old Hyderabad’ - away from the slick IT City and other swanky constructions, indistinguishable from each other - an almost forgotten souvenir of a glorious past.



* If travelling on the interstate buses, you have to read the ticket like you would read your rich uncle’s will. Very, very carefully. The information printed right at the top is the location from where you purchased your ticket, followed by the time of departure. In a less obvious corner, is the actual departure location, which turns out to be at least 15 kms. away in the direction of rush-hour traffic. Now, if you’re the kind to speed read the ticket, you turn up well in time at the wrong location, and then make a mad dash across the city only to arrive at the interstate bus terminal where there are at least a 100 buses arriving and departing and you’ve no clue if your bus is among them.

* I miss the bus, but the resulting adventure turns out to be more fun than imagined. Getting information from the beleaguered information desk, haggling for a teeny refund, watching ticket officials wrestle with unfamiliar computerized systems and finally, getting onto the next available bus an hour later all turns out to be a memorable part of the Hyderabad experience. I am pleasantly surprised to discover there’s a ‘women’s seat’ on the bus, which means I don’t have to fret about my seatmate. It’s been a very long time since I’d done a long bus journey, and I’m glad that I didn’t take the flight.


To be continued: Hubli Diary

Where we ring in another 'ear

"Sex... sex...," said the guard at the airport entrance as I was rolling my trolley in.

My blood ran cold. I could scarcely believe that I was being solicited by a security personnel and that too with so many travellers and airport officials milling around. He had an almost bored expression on his face, and didn't flinch when I looked him straight in the eye. Was this what our much touted 'new' airports were all about, I thought indignantly.

I drew myself to my full height, almost standing on tiptoe, preparing to deliver a scathing rebuke on his unseemly behaviour.

He looked uneasy at my steady gaze and said, almost in a puzzled tone, "Sex 751?"

Was this some code, I wondered? Worse, was he bargaining? My mind ran amok with possibilities. The lascivious brute then started pointing to my hand, and I involuntarily looked down, and spotted my ticket and passport. A familiar number on the ticket caught my eye, and I stared at it for another second before the fog lifted.

I was on Flight CX 751.


P.S. Blame the incessant sniffling for affecting my hearing.

P.P.S. Absolute Lee is now FOUR 'EARS OLD. Thanks all of you for being around.

Bombay Diary

* It’s amazing how religious fervour can bring a city to its knees. ‘Don’t even think of stepping out today,’ I was told almost every alternate day of the first week that I was in the city. Mumbai’s preoccupation with the immersion of Ganesha threw my carefully ordained plans into a tizzy. Friends fled home from work and plans for a night out in town had to be postponed. On the 11th day, I headed off early in the evening to a friend’s place in Mahim (or ‘may-hem’ as my aunts used to say). There was not a soul on the street. It almost felt like a ghost town. We stepped out later in the evening, and it was a dramatically different scene. We found it interesting to watch the throngs headed back after they’d immersed the idol. Some seemed to have a glassy-eyed, bewildered expression, and they walked back heads low, almost as if the lights all around were too bright for them. “Like stepping out in the night when a disco shuts,” said Ara. Ah, we said, the expression becoming completely clear to us.

* Riding on potholed roads ought to qualify as a low-intensity aerobic workout. Further, riding the stretch from Hill Road to Mehboob Studio in Bandra can prove to be a better and cheaper option to the physiotherapy one was undergoing in Dubai. Honestly, my back has improved considerably in the last couple of weeks.

* ‘You’ll be surprised by the Western Express Highway,’ says Ana. There are lane markings and it’s a comfortable drive, she convinces me. She’s right. There are lanes marked out quite clearly and for the most part, seems to be a smooth ride. I can’t help noticing that my auto driver seems to drive right on the line, rather than within the lines. Oh well.

* Some things are comfortingly familiar. Like travelling by the local train. I step in and my eyes automatically scan for a seat opposite to the direction of travel – an old habit. If there’s no sitting room, I head to the window where I can stand in relative comfort. The other day I was making my way to the window when I inadvertently stepped on someone’s foot. I was awarded a generous shove which sent me flying to the window. I bit back a retort – another old habit. A dozen stations later, the same lady called out to me and offered me her seat. Are you getting off, I ask her. No, but I’m getting another seat at the next station. You’ve been standing all the way, so you must sit down. Some things are comfortingly familiar.

* My old book haunts bear a haunted look. Crossword at Bandra has a cosy coffee shop, but little else. The one under the Pedder Road flyover is no better. I mean, there are books, but I miss the days when you could spend hours browsing through the expansive sections, and reading the little recommendations hand-written by Sriram. The recommendations these days are printed, and rather yawn-inducing. Most of the books I asked for were out of stock on each of the three occasions I went there. Surprisingly, Strand Book Stall also proved disappointing. There seem to be more management and self-improvement books than quality titles. Ara tells me Landmark is the bookstore to visit. Next trip, perhaps.

* Metal detectors in malls, a swanky domestic airport, the high cost of parking (25 lakhs per year in Nariman Point!!) - it’s taken a bit of getting used to some of the changes in the city. But one new occurrence that still has me gobsmacked is that Alison can read. Two weekends ago, we were in the B.E.S.T bus, when she leaned over and peered under the seat for a few seconds. She then turned to me and waited. What, I asked, unnerved by the steady gaze. Leela, don’t be an idiot. Before I could narrow my eyes, she pointed to the poster above the window of the bus – “You’re not an idiot if you look under your seat.” It was a public service message to warn against explosive devices. Make sure you check next time, she told me before looking out of the window.

The city’s changing too fast for my liking.

Back, but not quite...

Mumbai-Hyderabad-Hubli-Dandeli-Hubli-Mumbai. The last few days have been exhilarating, enervating and also, eye-opening. From a fast-paced metropolis to a small city to a wildlife sanctuary, the rapid transition has been bewildering at times, and there's a curious sensation of being jet-lagged now that I'm back in Bombay. The old seasonal allergies have also begun to rear their stuffy heads, and I'm hoping to get through the last few days without coming down with something dreadful. Updates will follow...

Going trippin'

Heading out of Bombay for a few days where there will be no net access, no connectivity (hopefully) and more wildlife than homo sapiens. Will be back on Tuesday with news and pictures.