Susegad

Originally released as Goa Diaries in June 2007
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Hello people! If the trivia hasn't reached you yet, I am currently in Goa for a one month Sales Officer training stint, and this place is indeed as full of surprises as I had imagined it to be! Every hotel room has three taps- one for cold water, one for hot water, and the third one for booze. Prawns, squids and pomfrets hang from the trees- just extend your hand and pluck whatever you wish to! Man, is this for real or is this a fairytale!
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Goa went to the polls on June 2, and even the elections were quite extraordinary. No posters, no loudspeakers, and no rallies!!! The Election Commission had come down real hard this time due to Goa's reputation as a truant electorate. Anybody hoarding more than two crates of beer was hauled up for questioning. Goa has had a tradition of leaders defecting at the drop of a hat, and when I guessed the going rate for an MLA as 1 crore before a local, he burst out laughing, stating that 1 crore would be the rate for someone aspiring to be the part of the town panchayat in Goa. When I enquired as to how the panchayat member would earn back his investment, two most ready avenues cited were: granting permission to non-Goans to acquire land in Goa, and arranging for people to smuggle liquor out of Goa. Currently, only two bottles of booze can be taken out of the State's boundaries, and with Royal Challenge costing 310/- here (against over 500/- in Mumbai), the booze bounty game is BIG! A shot of brandy/whisky costs 10 bucks in the hotel I am staying in. Man oh man, talk of temptations! J Some people start hicc-ing as early as 10 AM, and some of the liquor shops open before the chemists. Also, the whole State shuts down from 1-4 PM, for reasons you can well imagine by now. ;)
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I went to Colva and Calingute beaches last week, and found them to be much cleaner than their Mumbai counterparts. There was a CCD right on the beach. Next weekend, one of my salesmen has promised to escort me to a beach which is off-bounds for Indians (I wonder why!). On Colva beach, I was accosted by a lady who ended up giving me a deadly King Cobra tattoo on my arm. Pity I have to bathe daily, and most of it has already vanished.
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Life here is so quiet at times that you can feel your eardrums humming. No wonder Charles Sobhraj chose Goa for his hideout. He was eventually picked up from a bar on the outskirts of Panjim (Ou Croquiere), and the owners decided to put up a bust of Sobhraj which is placed on the seat in the bar where he was having a drink when caught. Complementing the scenic landscape are take-your-breath-away cottages and houses and Victorian churches which are a treat to the eyes. Goa is a place where you can find a 'Cake Palace' serving croissants and soufflés on a deserted highway! No matter where you go to, there is a dainty little surprise waiting for you.
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Talking of dainty little surprises, I have to mention the million Marias that compete with the hills and the greens for beauty. Dressed in flowing skirts with their hair arranged in neat buns, they float past you like fairies. And these fairies are not just drop-dead-gorgeous, they are pretty efficient as well, as almost ALL the shops in Goa are managed by salesgirls. They order stocks, manage accounts, and even lock up the shops at closing time. When I enquired about the reason for this peculiar phenomenon, one of my wholesaler's staff quipped: "They are there to attract customers". When I pretended to be aghast at this, and pointed out to him that with all the shops having salesgirls, this incentive is nullified, he added that they charge less salaries, and are more honest. Whatever may the reason be, it is indeed a pleasure to be selling Horlicks to these lissome lasses.
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It was torturous to keep myself from discussing food for so long, but I intended to save the best for the last. This place does not offer food, it serves ambrosia! I look forward to trying out a new dish each night, and have never been disappointed yet. Fried pomfret, Prawn Xacuti, King Prawns served in hot garlic sauce, Chicken Vindaloo, Prawns Balchao, King Fish Masala Gravy, Shark steaks, Fried Squids… they serve it all with panache! And you can even munch upon Prawn patties ( 3.50/- apiece) and dip your fingers in prawn pickles! I have not been able to lay my hands on a crab yet, as they are caught only when the new moon appears. I wonder what good deeds my forefathers did for me to deserve these.

Recommended reading: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/travel/destinations/india/article565695.ece .

What goes of your father!

I hate them. HATE them. I want to slash their bodies with deep, bleeding cuts, sprinkle tabasco sauce on those cuts, then carve them up into slices the size of gum sticks, and sautee those slices in a pan of hot, boiling oil to be fed to Moninder Singh Pandher and Surendra Koli. I want to dress them up in Pak army attire, hang them from the ceiling dangling upside down, and let Sunny Deol loose upon them. I want to give them a free tour of the Michael Jackson mansion, ending with them spending a night with Michael himself. I want to reward them with a life-long free and compulsory entry to all Himesh Reshammiya concerts. I want to pack them off to Transylvania and shut them up in an attic with Count Dracula and his blood-thirsty brides. Such is my hatred for them- unmitigated, absolute and unrelenting.

I cannot recall how and where it started. It must be having its roots in my childhood, when 'servers' at weddings used to put just one piece- O N E teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy meeny-miny P I E C E- of chicken on my plate, and wait for me to move on, while I stood there, a meek kid, with my eyes imploring them to be awash with the milk of human kindness, rather, the gravy of human kindness, and load my plate with another fleshy leg piece. The abhorrence scaled greater heights with more of those servers finding divine pleasure in depriving me of more of God's wondrous creations at feasts:

• steaming gulab jamuns ["yes yes, just two; no no, no chashni (sweet syrup)..."],
• crunchy shahi tukdas (bread soaked in flavored milk) ["one only... come later"],
• maquti ["no extras..."].

And so on and so forth, I have been repeatedly made to crave, pine, and lust for the sundry variegated delights at ceremonial feasts by satanic, sadistic servers.

I spent two months in Coimbatore in the summer of 2003, undergoing TCS induction training. For 2 months, we survived on a diet of tamarind rice, curd rice, lemon rice, sambar rice, steamed rice, rice rice... and still more rice, as we slogged 18 hour work-days. Several people have confided in me that TCS provided consultancy to the US Army for setting up the Abu Gharib prison and torture base using its own Induction module as the starting point which it toned down to suit the specifications provided by the US Army. At the end of the Crucifixion, sorry, 'induction', at the "Graduation Ceremony", my jaw dropped to the floor as we entered the dining area. Chilly Chicken, Singapore Noodles, Chicken Butter Masala, Biryani, Paneer Bhurji and many other heavenly sights and smells stared at us from simmering containers. I wondered whether the thrifty tamBrahm Ramadorai and the parsimonious Parsi Ratan had had to undergo a heart transplant which resulted in us being served this ambrosia. We (me, and two equally demure friends of mine, mademoiselle Jyoti and monsieur Zafar) were the first in the queue, and we had to poke the sluggish servers with our plates to make them get about their business. Throughout the evening, their impudence drove me mad. They did their best to kill me by boring holes in my back as I walked back after another serving. They evaded, they grunted, they smirked. And they did that not once, not twice, not thrice, but during all the four helpings that I had. I wanted to scream at them, "Is this the way to treat a gentleman?" But being the good-natured pansy and pushover that I am, I suffered in submissive silence. The most spiteful snide remark was saved for the last, as I proceeded for my third plate of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. As I asked the server to cut a thicker-than-usual slice for me, he looked up at me, parting his lips to reveal the most demonic and darned set of dentures I have ever laid eyes upon, and hissed, "Your favorite flavor, Sir?" The query pierced my soul and cut me up irreparably forever. VANILLA? MY FAVORITE FLAVOR? HOW CAN PLAIN-JANE MUNDANE INANE VANILLA BE MY FAVORITE FLAVOR? Me, the King of Ferro Rocher and Choco Chip and Almond Fudge and Nirula's Nutty Buddies, being accused of favoring VANILLA! I fought back the tears welling up in my eyes, bit my lower lip, collected the plate he had proffered to me and walked back to my seat with a heavy tread, vowing not to go back for a fourth helping. (I went for it only after another guy had replaced the rude roach.)

That was 2003, and this is 2009. India has won a world cup. Sonia Gandhi has been canonized. Adnan Sami became gaunt. So did Lehman Brothers. A negro became the President of USA. Rahman got an Oscar. I got rid of my dandruff. But nothing has changed on the I-hate-servers front. I was in ITC (The Maratha), Mumbai, last week for a Sangeet party. The menu was delectable, and I was salivating in anticipation of what lay ahead for close to 2 hours before the start of main course. The servers moving around serving prawns, meatballs, kababs, chilli paneer- the works - warmed the cockles of my heart. But as soon as I picked the plate to start with the main course, I could feel the hair standing on the nape of my neck. I went for the continental and world fare first. I beheld a basket of chicken shawarmas (a middle-eastern wrap filled with meat shavings) on the first table, and was drawn towards them. I asked for one of them, and a dopey-eyed guy thrust one in a plate towards me. I asked him next for hummus (a dip or spread) to go along with the shawarma, and my ears reverberated with his shocking reply: "It is there inside the shawarma." INSIDE THE SHAWARMA??? WAS HE PEDDLING A SHAWARMA CART ON A BAGHDAD STREET??? DIDN'T HE KNOW THAT IN INDIA, THE 'EXTRAS' ARE FAR MORE COVETED THAN THE MAIN DISH. THAT WE LIKE TO INUNDATE OUR ROLLS WITH TOMAYTO KAYTCHUP?? AND MAKE OUR NOODLES TURN BROWN WITH CHILLY SAUCE?? AND SLOSH UP OUR BURGERS BY SQUIRTING SAUCES IN BETWEEN THE TWO BUNS TILL THEY DRIP FROM THE PERIPHERIES AND WET OUR FINGERS?? HOW DARE HE TELL ME THAT THE HUMMUS WAS INSIDE THE SHAWARMA! THE FRIENDLY SHAWARMA GUY AT TANGO'S CORNER AT MALAD NEVER TELLS ME THAT.... HE GIVES ME AN EXTRA SPREAD OF HUMMUS AND TOMATO/CUCUMBER FILLING WITH EVERY SHAWARMA. WHAT DID THIS SERVER THINK HE WAS? THE MONARCH OF BAHRAIN, TELLING ME HOW TO HAVE MY SHAWARMA!! I did not want to spoil my appetite, so I moved on without damning him to the firepits of hell. After stashing away a chicken and tomato pancake on my plate, I was drawn towards another mesmerizing sight- a whole steamed thin crust salami. The guy carving and serving the salami gave me a vapid look and then dropped a salami skin covering measuring 1 cm by 1.5 cm onto my plate. Was I supposed to place it under a microscope, and attempt to unravel the genetic secrets of the piscean populace? I gave him a look filled with such iniquitous scorn that he hastily carved out another meaty portion and deposited it upon my plate. After battling this hostile army of conniving assailants for more than an hour, I reached the desserts section, and my heart sank. NO CHOCLOATE PASTRIES!?! Pineapple, fresh fruit, strawberry, and blueberry pastries only. Strawberry, and blueberry... TOGETHER??? Why was gooseberry left out? And so unkind of them to have not invited mulberry! How racist of them to have sidelined blackberry! And if they were so serious about this berry berry business, who would have complained if Halle Berry was tagged along as well on a platter! Monsters like me would really have had a ball. If there hadn't been badam halwa, and khubani ka meetha, and 3 flavors of ice cream present alongside this prejudiced palate of pastries, I would have had a breakdown.

I am to attend two feasts tomorrow, on the same day. I am sweating in anticipation of what lies in store for me. In case I survive the double whammy, I shall add to this tragic account. In the meanwhile, all I want to ask the slimy servers is: WHAT GOES OF YOUR FATHER if you just gimme what I want!

One dumb thing leads to another...

Aim: to catch a flight from Mumbai to Delhi departing at 8:15 AM on Friday, 19th February 2009, to attend a wedding.

Thursday, 11 PM: I decide to leave at 6:50 AM on Friday morning . Average time from home to the airport (auto): 25 minutes.
Friday, 6:51 AM: I realise that I do not know the airline which I have to fly, logon to the internet and find out that the airline is Air India.
Friday, 6:55 AM: I leave home for the airport.
Friday, 7:01 AM: After sitting inside the auto, I realise that I have forgotten the wedding gift I had bought, decide to not go back to the house for the gift and buy another one in Delhi.
Friday, 7:03 AM: I realise that I have forgotten my phone at home as well.
Friday, 7:05 AM: After dawdling in indecision for several moments, I ask the auto driver to start back for my home.
Thursday, 5:00 PM: I think of getting the printout of my flight ticket, but then give in to laziness and decide to get it at the airport on Friday morning.
Friday, 7:11 AM: I retrieve the gift and my phone from the house and start again for the Mumbai Domestic Airport.
Friday, 7:29 AM: I reach the Domestic Airport (Santa Cruz), get down from the auto and ask the guard for the Air India counter. A taxi driver overhears me and says that Air India flights take off from the International Airport (Andheri). I dismiss him.
Friday, 7:30 AM: I reach the counter which says "Air India". Upon giving my PNR no. and asking for the ticket printout, I am told by the clerk (grinning sheepishly) that my flight will be taking off from the International Airport. He cannot cancel my ticket at the Domestic Airport, so that I can book myself on an Indian Airlines flight taking off for Delhi from the Domestic Airport at 9 AM.
Friday, 7:31 AM: I get inside an auto and ask the driver to 'hurry' for the International Airport. He looks at me from the corner of his eye, sees me sweating, and declares that he wants 150 Rs. for the trip; the auto is rolling down the airport slope.
Friday, 7:33 AM (flight to takeoff in 42 minutes from another airport): After having given the first auto driver a mouthful, I get inside the second auto that comes down the slope and start for the International Airport (to be charged by the meter). I pass the first auto driver, who is still waiting at the spot where I left him, AND DO NOT SHOW HIM THE MIDDLE FINGER AS I CROSS HIM!
Friday, 6:30 AM: I do not do tele check-in, something that my roomie has been trying to teach me for months, and which I have been stubbornly refusing.
Friday, 7:44 AM: I rush towards the Air India counter at the International Airport and get the printout of my ticket.
Friday, 7:46 AM: I reach the check-in counter, to be told that the 'flight is closed'. I tell the check-in executive that I was delayed because I had gone to the Domestic Airport first as the sms that I had received post online booking did not mention that the boarding was to take place from the International Airport. (When I checked later, the mail that I had received post booking mentioned that fact, but I had not cared to check the mail, and I had not printed the same.) The guy gives in after some haranguing, and starts issuing my boarding pass.
Friday, 7:48 AM: I ASK THE CHECK-IN GUY IF I CAN BE ALLOTTED A WINDOW SEAT. HE LOSES HIS SHIRT. THE PERSON WHO HAULS THE LUGGAGE ONTO THE CHECK-IN CONVEYOR BELT INTERVENES... I KEEP MY SHIRT ON...
Sometime in the first quarter of 2007: I agree to the request of a batchmate of mine, to be present at his wedding when he gets married to another batchmate of mine, who he was wooing at the time.
Friday, 7:50 AM: I am given a female escort (no fancy comments please, my nephews read my blog and my bhabhi thinks that I am not a good influence on them) to help me whiz past the security check (this is the International Airport, in case you have forgotten).
Friday, 7:50 AM: I reach the security check to find that there is a serpentine queue which I have to traverse. My attempts to slide past the Indians, Mexicans, Australians in the queue prove futile. My escort fidgets with her fingernails, her threaded eyerbrows glistening with sweat which also causes her rouge to peel off. I ask her to throw her weight around, she throws a look of unbelievable scorn at me, challenging me to point out any weight at all on her carefully crafted waif-like figure.
Friday, 7:52 AM: The escort walks off in a huff after having babbled incomprehensible directions about walking down an invisible escalator and moving towards a certain mystical 'Gate Number 4' to encounter a mythical 'Air India person' after my security check is over. The Mexican and the Australian try to suppress their chortle, while the Indians openly cackle.
Friday, 7:57 AM: EIGHTEEN MINUTES LEFT FOR THE FLIGHT TO TAKE OFF, AND MY HAND BAGGAGE IS PULLED UP DUE TO A SUSPICIOUS OBJECT SUPPOSEDLY CONTAINED THEREIN. I AM ASKED TO STEP OUT OF THE LINE AND OPEN MY BAG. THREE BURLY GUARDS TOWER OVER ME. I MEEKLY ASK THE GUY AT THE INSPECTION MACHINE TO TELL ME WHAT THE SUSPICIOUS OBJECT IS.... HE DOES NOT REMEMBER.... HE STARTS GOING BACK ONE-BY-ONE THROUGH THE IMAGES OF THE BAGGAGES SCANNED TO REACH THAT OF MY BAG.... I RACE MY BRAINS... "SHAVING FOAM??", I BLURT OUT.... "YES," HE SCREAMS.
Friday, 8:00 AM: I try to convince the security check platoon that I only resemble a terrorist, and perhaps am named like one, but I can be trusted with not blowing the AI-E348 routed for Mumbai-Delhi-Shanghai with a can of Nivea Shaving Foam with Moisturisers (20% Extra Free). I also remind them of my departure time, which has as much effect on them as the culpable Foam has on my recalcitrant stubble. They eventually give in. My pulmonary respiration resumes.
Friday, 8:02 AM: I am racing down the escalator which the escort fairy mentioned and which has materialised out of thin air... Gate Number 4 comes into my line of sight... the ominous Air India person jumps out from behind a screen and tries to shove me down another escalator which leads to the boarding bus that is waiting for me.... the bus driver thumps on a knob which opens the bus doors... my head is swimming and I can feel the ground swaying beneath me as I rush forward waiting to be sucked inside the bus by an intergalactic force....
Friday, 8:10 AM: I am on my seat inside the plane.... coiled up and clutching the armrests, afraid that I will still be yanked and thrown out of the plane.... the auto driver, the check-in executive, the escort, the security guys, the Air India person, are all floating in my peripheral vision and reaching out to get meeeeee.....
... to be continued.

The Consortium Of Pubgoing, Loose and Forward Women

The Consortium Of Pubgoing, Loose and Forward Women is a group on Facebook formed to protest the broad-brushing of the country of India by a bunch of boobs.

This protest is not a game of one-upmanship involving chadhis and saris. The point is that such a large number of people are OPPOSING the forceful imposition of a pseudo-culture upon them, and REJECTING the undue right of SRS to propagate their myopic and frog-in-the-well version of 'culture'. They are effectively QUESTIONING the authority of the SRS to function as a moral-meter.

Secondly, the plan to send saris to women from all over India by SRS PROVES that SRS is DISTANCED from the cultural diversity of the country. Will they send a sari to a Goan? To a Kashmiri? To a woman from the North East? To a woman in Leh??? And then declare her to be of questionable character if she refuses to don an attire she has never tried before!

If a pub owner obtains a license to operate upon a particular premise, and if an adult enters the premise to drink, then it is nobody's business to question their right to carry out business as usual. If you allow a rabid individual to start questioning the right of the women to drink today, he will go on to question their attire, their mannerisms, their speech, their right to make decisions for themselves, and will not cease till he has robbed them of the right to live as a free individual. There is no turning back on the road to madness, as a peek into our Paki neighborhood would confirm. The only institutional authority to check public conduct is the court of law, and any attempt to undermine that authority is a threat to the very idea of freedom as guaranteed by the realms of the law.