purisubzi

Category: Life etc.

  • Hyderabad

    Nikal re, mian?

    I am moving cities. In a week’s time, I’ll be saying sayonara to Hyderabad after having lived here for more than 20 years. Sure, I went away for a couple of years in the early nought’s, but I never felt that I’d left the city. I always knew I’d come back. But it feels different this time. It feels that when I drive out over the Lakdi-Ka Pul, the bridge’ll collapse and I’ll have no choice but to keep heading straight.

    When I first arrived here in the late eighties, it was a lazy little city (it still is!) with green avenues and wide roads. Begumpet was a cozy residential area, Ameerpet still had a Gold Spot bottling factory and Kacheguda was the end of the city. I loved the smell of it – the tang of tamarind, the gentleness of saffron, the pungency of chillies and the slightly odious draft from the Musi. I grew up here. I ran away from home when here. I made tens of lakhs of rupees here. I lost all that here. I feel in love here. I kissed the woman of my dreams watching the moon shimmer over the lake. I saw her die here. I tried to kill myself here. I survived here.

    Pico Iyer once said that certain cities draw you into their souls and never let you out. You become one with the city. You are but a reflection of the place and the place is but a reflection of you. And so it is for Hyderabad and me.

    Khuda Hafiz.

    45F

    It is 5.15AM. Grubby eyed and disheveled, I look around Afzalgunj bus stand. Sleepy passengers, early commuters and the homeless bunch around in small groups. There’s a faint whiff of the stench that the Musi is famous for. I head out of the bus stand and onto the road leading to a bridge across the river. A few hundred metres later, across the ghostly traffic signal, I spot the familiar neon sign of Basra Hotel. I walk in – the interiors are just the same as they were years ago – dirty and yellowing with tables that were new decades ago. The walls have a patina of brown grease. The owner sits at one of the tables, stroking his not so magnificent, henna-ed beard and swatting a fly that comes dangerously close to his mouth. From inside the tiny kitchen at the back of the place, I can smell the heavenly, thick milky tea that Hotel Basra is known for. I order one. And a plate of kheema samosas.

    I am in Hyderabad.

    Bus No. 45F is belching smoke as we lurch through the dimly lit streets around Kachiguda. The lanes of Nimboliadda are quieter than usual, empty pushcarts lined up at the end of each. Garbage. I hope that since this is the bus’ first trip, it might make an exception and pick up passengers at the railway station, but it doesn’t. I am content to merely observe the bright lights of the roundabout that precedes the magnificent white building. Buzz. Tightly spaced buildings of Narayanguda come and go, each filled with students cramming various equations and formulae. EAMCET Factory. Speeding across the RTC ‘X’ Roads, with its empty cinema theatres is a thrill. Post 7AM this usually turns into a nightmare. Musheerabad with its busy Irani cafes and the devout streaming into mosques for prayer. Kavadiguda with its narrow main roads, rusting garages and small industries. Crossing up from the Bible House and onto Kingsway and the hundreds of shops selling hardware, electricals and other things one normally doesn’t think of. The staid, yet proud building of the Secunderabad Post Office at Patny. The smelly MCH swimming pool and then past Paradise circle and Yatri Nivas. Shyamlal Building and Begumpet. Sheeshmahal and Ameerpet.

    It feels strange this morning. There’s a warmth in the heart, but it feels somewhat unwelcome. I hadn’t been to Hyderabad and travelled on its roads for a number of years. I had made a big deal of moving out. Of moving on. Of letting go. I was determined during this brief layover not to get drawn in by the seductiveness of the familiar. The comfort of a geographical blanket. Yet, here I am.

    It feels like your first love inching back into your life and demanding friendship and space. Possibly even more. Like first love, this city knows how to push my buttons. It does so fearlessly knowing that I’ll give up. It does so knowing that I’ll cry my guts out. It know that no matter how much I’ve moved on, there’s a tiny, tiny part of my heart that beats exclusively for it.

    A few years ago, I stopped calling it home and was determined not to come back and call it that again. It’s taken me all of a few hours to change my mind.

  • India’s Shadiest Bars

    This piece originally appeared as a chapter in my book in 2013, but this version below has some edits for clarity, typos and other inconsistencies.

    If it weren’t for the time spent at places like these, I wouldn’t have been half the traveller I am now. As my friend Shashanka once wrote:

    And not just any bar, but shadiest bar that the town has to offer. Because that is where the true flavour of the city can be seen – that’s where the nomads, vagabonds, the scoundrels and all other interesting people gather. All you need to have is a little bit of time and a cast iron stomach.

    These shadiest of bars is where the crazy ideas were hatched and the unplanned detours imagined. All aided by some of the worst beer (and one case, local spirit) that one can buy in the country. Alcohol so bad and foul, that it can only be termed as good.

    So, if you ever find yourself in these towns and want to get the most local of all experiences, visit these bars, and partake of all they offer.

    Atul

    Alcohol is prohibited in Gujarat without a valid (and expensive) permit, but that hardly bothers anyone. People always find a way to get the maal. For people who live in the southern areas of the state (around Valsad and Vapi), there is always the welcome escape to the Union Territory of Daman. But not everyone wants to drive 100 kilometres for a bit of beer and chicken.

    Enter Maasi ka Adda. Situated right behind the police station (not in the least bit surprising, isn’t it?) on the Atul-Valsad highway, this hole in the wall is just that. One first squeezes out through a perfectly sized gap in the compound wall of the police station to hit another thick, tall wall guarding a small haveli. You stand in front of a milk booth like opening guarded by cast iron railings. Hanging by this booth are some scraps of paper and a pen. Just as you write down what you want and how much, a woman’s hand will miraculously extend itself out and collect the scrap and the required money. Twiddle your thumbs nervously for a minute or two when the railings open out a bit more and out comes your supply.

    Take it 20 meters down the path towards Ahmed chacha’s butcher shop where you’ll get the finest kheema samosas in that part of the country, lay out your spread and share ribald jokes and equity market wheeling and dealing with a bunch of contended and drunk Gujarati middle aged men. 

    Beer to order: Cobra Strong
    Shadiness scale: 8/10

    Firozpur

    Firozpur is a typical garrison and border town. Chaotic traffic in narrow streets lined with huge, old trees and lovely, pretty buildings.

    As with such towns, the grimier side doesn’t take long to reveal itself. Heading towards Azadi Chowk from the Cantonment Railway Station, you’ll find an ancient, nearly in ruin place called International Beer Bar and Restaurant.

    Once you enter, it is as dark and dingy as it gets, with an overpowering smell of fresh desi ghee being used liberally to cook everything. Forget the peeling yellow enamel paint on the scraggy walls, forget the broken and clearly worn blue, cheap Nilkamal plastic chairs, forget the chipped tables with Sunmica tops from the 1950’s.

    Simply sit down and ask for a few bottles of Thunderbolt beer, order a casserole of Butter Chicken and rotis as they are flicked out of the oven. You are guaranteed the finest Punjabi dhaba experience for less than 200 rupees.

    Beer to order: Thunderbolt
    Shadiness scale: 7/10

    Koraput

    Koraput is one not most people’s tourist map and for that one must be thankful. Nestled in the valley of the Kolab and surrounded by lush, green forests, it is one of Orissa’s hidden gems. Like most of India’s small towns, it is full of character and has an amazing, crowded and thriving market. At the end of the cacophonous street that leads away from it is the bus stand.

    And at the back of the stand, smelling absolutely rotten with dried, caked urine turning the road a ghoulish yellow and lined with shacks selling “Gob Sooye”, “Needles” and “Briyani”, is the Sun Bar. In two parts.

    First is the shop where you buy the alcohol – this is very typical of such establishments found in rural India, shuttered from top to bottom with a small opening in the grill to pay and receive. Next to this shop is a small tunnel about five feet wide and about the same height. This is the second part of Sun Bar.

    Crouch into this tunnel and proceed for about ten metres where the ceiling suddenly rises to twenty feet and reveals a large room with fluorescent tube lights wrapped in red and green translucent film. With beer (or whatever you’ve got) in hand, make yourself comfortable on wicker chairs or thick floor mats and order mutton chops. Enjoy the surreal, trippy lighting and let the haze of country cigarettes and plain old rolled joints permeate your senses. Cheers!

    Beer to order: Jungle King 12000
    Shadiness scale: 9/10

    (more…)

  • Arrival

    There’s a baby at home.

    As of today, he is just under three weeks old. His voice is clear, loud and has a pitch that could shatter a thin, low quality wine glass. As with most babies, he expresses his voice most fervently when most of the world is asleep. The neighbours may have installed double-glazed windows, but for those living within the walls in which he sleeps, there is no respite.

    The first day he came home, I couldn’t go anywhere near him because I had the flu. I am not the father, yet even my underdeveloped paternal instinct cried out for his touch, his smell. An excruciating 48 hours later, I held and cradled him, carefully balancing his neck, nuzzled his head and gave him a kiss.

    (more…)

  • Climb Mountains

    Climb mountains.

    Climb mountains to learn balance. Climb mountains to learn how to carry your own weight. Climb mountains to know the sturdiness of your knees. Climb mountains to learn how to fall. Climb mountains to learn how to get up again.

    Climb mountains to learn how to listen to music. Of the wind. Of the birds. Of the insects. Of the forest. Of the quiet.

    Climb mountains to put distance between you and the person you love. Climb mountains to reap the dividend that the distance provides.

    Climb mountains to find new words. Climb mountains to learn how to make those words say things you want to say.

    Climb mountains to see stars twinkling high above. Climb mountains to see little towns below dance to the light. Climb mountains to see the darkness of deep forest. Climb mountains to see the moon paint silver. Climb mountains to see slivers of white pushing through.

    Climb mountains.

  • Going Home

    I arc my back and shuffle a bit towards the left. The constable’s swinging lathi misses me by an inch. The second time, I am not so lucky. A thick cylinder of dry cane and rope slices its pain through my pants and onto my thighs.

    “Saab, don’t hit me. Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me, please. I have a ticket. My name is Amar. I am going to Raxaul. Please don’t hit me.”

    “Behenchod, madarchod. How dare you cut the line and try and jump into the coach? Madarchod, bhosad, saale.”

    I beg him to stop. The man next to me pulls me out of another swing’s arc just in time.

    “Give him the 50 rupees. He will stop”, his eyes reflect deep knowledge and an instinctive fear.

    (more…)

  • Rettai Vaal Kuruvi

    It is the easiest thing to recall in this world where you were when you first listened to a piece of music that continues to move you after more than twenty years.

    The dark, musty room at the back of the house with its thick wooden pillars had the sole free power point. It was into this that my cousin sister and I plugged in the recently purchased National Panasonic cassette player and radio. It was a compact and beautiful thing. With its matte black plastic shell, a shining steel handle and a solitary speaker sheathed in a just dark enough grey that was bigger than anything I’d seen, it was love at first sight. I had probably listened to a couple of songs on it when my father presented me a recorded TDK cassette of Rettai Vaal Kuruvi.

    There’s one in particular you’ll like, he said.

    My love affair with Ilayaraja’s music began then. Raja Raja Cholan.

    Throughout the late 80’s and early to mid 90’s, every visit to Madras would involve at least half a day’s visit to the record and music stores to scour and buy cassettes. We would buy all sorts — rock, pop, jazz, Elton John, Grateful Dead, Genesis, Richard Marx (a confessional moment if there ever was one). But the most anticipated purchase would be the latest score or compilation of Ilayaraja’s.

    I had just begun to appreciate music, its tones, its nuances, its ferocity, its rapture. As much as western music gave all this to me, it was Ilayaraja’s tunes that gave me that most elusive of feelings — one of simpleness and gentleness. That the most complex of melodies can also be the most simplest.

    I soon wore out the tape that I had of Rettai Vaal Kuruvi. Disappointment written all over my face, I went to my grandmother, who while mildly disapproving of my musical tastes, sent me off towards a shop she knew that sold music and occasionally fixed players and radios. I had walked down TP Kovil street dozens of times earlier and even bought tens of rupees worth of pencils, erasers, paper and other stationary at the Excellent Stores, but never noticed Bright Musicals a couple of shops down.

    If there ever was a misnomer for a place, this was it. Bright Musicals was a rat hole of a shop. It was a few feet wide and a litte bit deeper with an almost blackened ceiling showing years of grime and cobwebs. There were wires of all sorts of colours strung across like garlands. At the back of the place was where Mr. Mohan the owner, usually sat and tinkered with broken tape players. The front of the shop had one small glass cabinet that had blank recording tapes and a shelf full of new and old releases of Tamil movie songs. His son, Murugan, usually handled this part of the operations.

    The evening I walked in, Murugan was playing a song I had heard vaguely, but never paid too much attention. The slightly nasally but immensely sad tone caught my ear. I stood there the entire length of the song, not speaking a word to anyone, trying to gather the mood of the song. The deadbeat progression, the tortured voice of Kamal Haasan, the vague, yet fitting sounds of the synth. I had heard Thenpandi Cheemaiyile. I had a new song to love.

    Not until this morning, after a brief conversation with Aishu did I realize how much I had missed listening to Ilayaraja. For the past five hours, with the old player dusted off and the BASF and Maxwell tapes respooled, I’ve reconnected. Back to the days of that musty old room. Back to the days of Bright Musicals. Back to days of joys of listening to Yesudas’ voice set to sublime melodies.

    Raja Raja Chozhan Naan
    The song that started it all.

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9U3rKubu-Y

    Thenpandi Cheemaiyile
    The song that defines sadness for me. Often, this song plays for hours on loop when I travel on the dusty, pothole ridden roads in the deep interiors of Tirunelveli and Ramnad. It is as if the song and surroundings become one. (There are two versions of this song. I prefer the one sung by the master himself. The halting, hesitant voice adds another dimension.)

    Rakkamma Kaiya Thattu
    Probably my favourite song of Ilayaraja. Just pure, unbridled joy and happiness.

    Elangaathu Veesuthae
    One of his later gems, this song captures so much meaning that it is impossible to qualify it in a few words. Like Thenpandi, I listen to it for hours when out traveling in the winding roads of Theni and the Cardamom Hills.

  • Steam

    The first thing I ever fell in love with was the Flying Scotsman. It was green and black, full of exquisite lines and curves, intricate machine work and made by someone who cared and loved. It went around a set of tracks hauling coaches that on the inside looked like a rich man’s house.

    “This is the first time he’s setting up the whole thing, you know? 7 years ago he bought it, much before you were born. He didn’t know you’d turn out to be a boy, but I suspect he would have turned a girl into a lover of that.”

    In my head, my mom’s voice is still startlingly clear a quarter of a century later.

    (more…)

  • Bangalore Cantt.

    Everything looks golden. The gables, the roof, the rails, even the shit on the tracks. The winter sun comes gently up from behind a line of rain trees. Light streams through glass fronted gaps in the roof. Beams bestowing warmth to those who seek it on the ground.

    It is quiet. Immensely quiet. For a public space.

    Farida is raising swirls of dust in rhythmic motion with the broom. They rise up, circle around her and fall back to the ground. Only to be pushed a further ahead near the collecting pan. A few stray particles enter the beams of light. They shine like imperfect diamonds. She’s wearing a bright blue saree. The white blouse is stained, wrinkled and torn around the edges. “I take an hour to sweep one platform”, she says weakly. Years of poor protection have taken out an lung. She wheezes along to the station manager’s office.

    There’s a faint aroma of coffee brewing and banana bread baking.

    AS Rao is as genial as ever. “How are you, saar?”, he beams. As usual, he is dressed indifferently. A loose, white shirt that has seen several hundreds dips in bluish whitening wash liquid. A pair of black trousers that clearly have seen better days. Pleats are non-existent and the waist buckle, with is fraying edges, is precipitously close to shaming him in public. Most comically of all, he wears a black blazer that is several sizes larger than his small frame. It hangs over his small like a cheap curtain. I am about to engage him when he darts across and accosts a young lady. “Where is ticket?”. The lady has been caught. He escorts her across to his office. Beaming. Proud. His eyes twinkling like a cat who’s just discovered a quart of cream.

    Strong air of crisp vadas being fried. The splash of mustard seeds in hot oil for the coconut chutney.

    The light now is blindingly white. Enveloping the mouth of the platform canopy. I half expect the ghost of Peter Johnson to drive a train through the white. The proud, red locomotive burning through wisps. He on the footplate, leaning out, tall. Waving his green flag in the textbook swirling manner. One toot. Never more. “Those people down there have ears, you know, boy?”, whenever I used to hold the horn paddle for an extra second. There’s a sigh. There are a couple of tears. There’s a wry chuckle.

    Bangalore Cantt.

  • The Train Driver

    Peter Johnson was a tall man. Very tall. He was also very fair-skinned. And spoke perfectly weighted English in that oh-so propah accent. If he hadn’t peppered our first conversation with random bits of shaniyaNe, punNaku in guttural Madras Tamil, I would never have know that he was from Arakkonam.

    Peter Johnson was a train driver. He liked to be called that and not the new, slightly upmarket term “loco pilot”, the Indian Railways likes these days. “Boy”, everyone was a boy to him, even his 10-yr old niece, “Listen to me. These fancy terms are for sissies and panzies. Loco pilot, it seems. Pfft. Our bloody engines don’t even have the power to get off a station, let alone fly.”

    Peter Johnson liked his booze. Single Malts to be more exact. I asked him about it once. Over the loud clackety clack of the rails and the low hum of a traction motor inside a locomotive doing a steady 107kmph he explained. “My father was a bit of a rebel you see. He liked to piss my grandfather off by doing things that weren’t approved off. Expensive alcohol was one of them. Cheap saRRaKu, yes. But MacDugan Highland Malt? Strict no! I simply followed in his footsteps.” A mischievous wink sealing the conversation.

    Did I mention Peter Johnson was tall? Yes. “Bloody designers, haven’t they come across anyone who’s 6’4”? I mean look at this control stand”, he pointed out at oddly shaped protrusion that held the brake lever. That box containing relays and electronics was making life difficult for him to stop the train properly. “Every time I try to apply the brakes, I feel like I am masturbating. Frankly ridiculous, boy, frankly ridiculous.”

    Peter Johnson was also one of the most caring people I knew. When you ride the footplate as much as I did, you are bound to encounter a run-over or two. So it was on my first ever trip with him. On the Coromandel Express to Vijaywada. Approaching Ponneri, on the outskirts of Chennai, a middle-aged man in lungi and garish pink shirt, shuffling along the tracks, dragging his bicycle decides to cross. We honk continuously. 300 meters. The staccato blasts from the horn, loud and clear seems to have no effect on him. 200 meters. Inside the cab, I instinctively move back a few inches. 100 meters. Peter Johnson holds steady on the controller. “Get off the track, you deaf bastard”, he yells. 10 meters. The last millisecond the pink shirt turns, his eyes locked onto mine. Fear. Confusion. Death. The dull thud a fraction of a second later. I am stunned. Throat is dry and there is near instant vomit.

    “Don’t you dare puke in my cab, boy, don’t you dare.”

    “Aren’t you going to stop?”, I control the rising nausea and ask.

    “Bollocks. What are they going to find? All I’ll do is report it to the station master and get on with it.”, the voice cold, calculated and experienced.

    “As for you, boy, let me tell how to deal with it. First, get over the fact that we are guilty. Second, what you saw was real. So don’t put it in your dreams and think about it endlessly. It is cold, plain fact. Someone died 5 min ago. That’s all. Now, go to the rear cab, shove your head out the window and puke your guts out. It helps. Cry if you want to.”, a weird commanding genteelness has taken over his voice.

    Of course, one doesn’t forget these things in a hurry. I cried a lot, puked a lot and didn’t eat very much for the next three days. He kept calling every six hours. “Boy, are you OK?” “Boy, do you want help?”

    Five days later I meet him for dinner. He gives me a big hug. “You’ll be alright, boy, you’ll be alright.”

  • A Bombay Morning

    Bombay looks beautiful in the morning, I whisper to myself. The view from seventeen floors high is spectacular. First rays of the summer sun are slanting across thin, tall buildings. In the far distance, the mangroves are already simmering. A pigeon flutters into view, it’s peculiar whitish grey feathers offset by an outrageous twin striped forehead. Is this a pigeon at all? Down below, the temple bells are signalling the cacophony of the day ahead. An autorickshaw pulls up to the entrance of a building across the road. From it come three people, two of them alive. The other draped in white, shoulders and upper torso stained in red. Three women wail and beat their chests. A crowd gathers but soon disappears. No time for the dead. The 6.29 fast to Churchgate waits for no one.

    On an adjacent roof, eight people are still sleeping. Sheets in all hues, wrapped right over their heads. The temple bells are now roaring. Pigeons are fighting for sitting space. Bombay affords little of this for even them. Two women, one of them wearing a bright orange salwar kameez, come up on the roof. Both of them carrying brooms. One walks to the edge and starts sweeping. The other uses it liberally wake up the still sleepy. I can hear silent howls as the sheets are parted and eight people suddenly come to life. Inevitable pulling and pushing at the staircase. One person hurriedly pulls up his slipping underwear.

    I can smell coffee.

    One express train whizzes past the station. Staccato blasts from the horn telling people to get off the tracks. A slow, local train too starts. A push cart seller of papayas rounds the corner and disappears. His dark, swarthy appearance contrasting the bright blue shirt and white cap he is wears. One middle aged man, with a large belly, on his morning walk pauses for a breath. Hands on hips first then hands on knees. A red towel to wipe the sweat off.

    The coffee tastes just right.

    Reading Thomas Keneally now. Out in the living room, a mother and daughter are tickling each other away. Short giggles with loud guffaws from both of them with a protesting “Mamma?” from the child thrown in between. A moment across walls.

    It will remain my favourite memory for a long, long time.