Dirty Weekend

For the first time in our four years together, I’m philandering. And I have no excuses. She’s been good to me, faithful companion and helpmeet through good times and bad. She’s never been one of those greedy, high maintenance lasses, she’s always been there when I needed her. But, I have to confess, there have been times when I thought she was a trifle, well, staid. And that, I try to tell myself, can cause a man to stray.

Still, as I back my 800 into the shade of the awning of Shama and Guido Bothe’s workshop in Karlekhind, near Alibag, I cannot help but silently apologise to her for my brazenness.

But when I walk over to the sleek, powerful creature that will be my ride for the next few days, all decency is left behind.

She is the Chinkara 1.8 S roadster, and I have known her all her life. Her creators are dear friends: Shama I know since she was five; and Guido I got to know when they were courting. The Chinkara is, in a manner of speaking, the first child of their marriage. I was privy to the first sketches; watched her chassis being welded together; had long encouraging chats with Shama as they scrimped and saved and borrowed time from his original business, boatmaking, to put her together; helped create their logo and sales literature. And I watched like a proud godparent as she made her debutante entry at the Mumbai Auto Show last year, and continued to steal hearts at expos in Goa, Bangalore and Delhi. The metaphors are getting incestuous, so I’ll cut to the chase.

This is the first time I’m going to be in the driving seat, and I am intimidated.

I’m not one of your vastly experienced drivers who hare off cross-country at the drop of a long weekend. I only got my driving license three years ago. And I’m a cautious, safe driver. Or as less automotively-challenged friends put it, I’m a wimp behind the wheel.

And this is a lot of car. Her pared down body is powered with a 1,800 cc Isuzu engine, the same one that hauls the Ambassador’s bulk around. While her road clearance is as high as a jeep’s, the seat of your pants is just a few inches of the floor. She has a small racing steering wheel, and wide tyres. She is open to the skies, with a roll bar rising above the driver’s head.

We load up the Chink and the Bothes’ Nissan pick-up, and Atul Loke, the photographer, and I slide into the low seats. If Guido is apprehensive about me driving his baby, he doesn’t show it as he helps us adjust the three-point racing seat belts. This is his personal test vehicle, and all his cars are custom-made to the owner’s body and preferred driving style. The distance between the pedals is just enough for his size eight moccasins. My size ten sandals overlap the gaps; so I resign myself to driving barefoot for the next three days.

I turn the key, and am rewarded with a powerful roar. It’s amazing what that Isuzu engine can sound like when it’s out from under the hood of its usual home.

Our first stop is Alibag, 10 km away, to fuel up. As we drive through its crowded lanes, Atul and I have our first taste of what it must feel like to be part of a celebrity’s entourage. In your heart you know the attention is not for you, but you can’t help basking in the reflected glory.

I am now beginning to understand why sports cars play such a large role in a mid-life crisis.

The attendants at the petrol pump are proudly possessive; this is, after all, her home pump. Children gawk unabashedly. Even blase city slickers fuelling up for their drive home to Mumbai after a weekend at their beach houses cannot conceal their curiosity and power down their tinted windows to steal a wistful glimpse.

Rather than backtrack to Vadkhal Naka to catch NH17 to Poladpur, we have decided to take the scenic route to Mahabaleshwar via the coast. So we head off South to Murud. At every street corner we hear words that will be repeated countless times by onlookers over the next three days: “Thé bhug! Gaadi bhug!”

When we reach the open road, I tentatively step on the gas. And she leaps forward, free at last from speedbreakers and narrow by-lanes. Within seconds, my eyes are streaming despite my dark glasses. For, while the Chinkara does come with a windshield, Guido think they are effete things, and has taken it off the test vehicle. The wind, as a result, roars in at you, almost drowning out the engine. This is just like riding a bike - if the bike had a 1.8 litre engine, and the stability of four wheels.

The road twists and turns, so we can’t really give the Chinkara her head. Even so, she seems to be straining a bit, and in the middle of the next village, the engine shuts off and refuses to start up again. We dig out cellphones and SOS the Bothes, and they backtrack to us. We, meanwhile, have been surrounded by a curious throng, who loudly exchange theories about the car’s provenance.

Guido hasn’t been having a great week. Busy with the launch of a client’s boat for most of it, he had been reluctant to make the trip. Our Chinkara had been up on blocks; he had to pull his mechanics off another job to get her ready. Now, his face turns beetroot as he finds that while he was at the pier, one of his boys has taken a shortcut and stretched the radiator hose to fit rather than add a join. The pipe has worked loose, and the radiator was dry. My inexperience has almost lost them a brand new engine. A shopkeeper gives us buckets of water, and Guido fills up the radiator, showing amazing forbearance in not cussing me out.

We set out again, and the beauty of the wide curves of the coastal road wipes away all the stress of the last hour. In the twilight we stop off at Kashid beach to breathe fresh sea air, pluck a few aloe plants and check the car. The engine temperature is higher than it should be, and Guido is sure there’s a leak somewhere. We decide to press on to Murud anyway – the car uses two Maruti radiators in tandem, and our ad-watching tells us we’ll soon find a Ladakhi lad who’ll tell us where the nearest service centre is. It is dark now; I have to doff my glares. Not anticipating night driving, i have no clear lenses. Insects on steroids aim unerringly for my face; despite the cooler air, I am sweating at the thought of being unsighted and losing control of the car. Somehow we do not wrap ourselves around any trees, and a couple of radiator-replenishing stops later, we pull into a guest house at Murud. We dump bags and immediately head out in search of service centres. Alas and alack, the nearest radiators seem to be back in Alibag. But Shama has friends here, members of the extended royal family of the former Nawabs of Murud, who introduce us to their bespoke mechanic. Who finds nothing wrong with the radiator.

Baffled, but relieved, we go in search of dinner and beer. At a sea-side restaurant, we feast on prawns, curried and fried, while Atul, the only vegetarian, wolfs down a fried rice.

Early next morning, Atul and Guido head off to the beach to take some photographs. When they return, the frown is back on Guido’s face. The engine is overheating again. He departs in search of another mechanic. Several hours later, he returns, and confirms that there was indeed a leak. Repairs finished, we set off in the heat of the afternoon sun. Having breakfasted heavily on eggs and poha, we decide to skip lunch. Guido is pretty sure there’s a road South and East of Murud which would take us to NH17. As the road rises, we get a magnificent view from above of Janjira fort, that Siddi bastion that had defied all human efforts to conquer it, and is only now losing its battle against time. The road rises and swoops down in long curves, before ascending a small slope and passing through another fishing town.

Then civilisation is left behind and it’s a full technical rehearsal for the Mahabaleshwar ghat. Step climbs, hairpin bends, bumpy descents, State Highway 96 has it all. I can feel my confidence growing. SH96 joins NH17 about 45 km before Mahad. Though the road is now wide and mostly straight, I can’t really put pedal to the metal because of the number of trucks and busses on the road. Still, having all those horses pulling for you makes overtaking a pleasure. Besides the wicked joy of seeing an entire busload of people gape as we shriek past.

Just past Mahad, we stop to fuel up. We are more than 24 hours behind schedule and Atul is muttering darkly. He’s missed the best light. Again. But at a pit stop at a lone roadside tea stall, he does manage to get some shots of some ancient Buddhist cave temples on the nearby hillside. He decides that he will salvage something out of the day by driving for a bit. We hit Poladpur, where we leave NH17 and take the road to the foot of the Mahabaleshwar ghat.

The sun is now almost down, and we start the serious climb in the gloaming. We make two stops on the way up, one to watch the last of the sunlight struggle to penetrate the haze causes by dozens of grass fires on the slopes below, another in pitch blackness, just to drink in the silence and the starlight. Atul has surrendered the wheel to me now, and I am enjoying myself hugely. The car makes easy work of the climb, managing all but the steepest gradients in third gear. We reach the top near 9 p.m. The lads at the Visitors’ Tax booth are fascinated with the Chinkara, and assume, seeing Atul’s camera, that we’re one of the three film crews shooting in the vicinity.

Instead of crowded Mahbi, we’re heading for the quieter surroundings of Panchgani. We wend our way through the busy streets and then the quick half hour drive to Panch. I had misread a friend’s directions, and we are soon the star attraction of the bazaar as we try to locate out guesthouse. Several passers-by volunteer contradictory directions, but a phone call later, we get into our rooms, stow away the luggage and head out in search of dinner. Atul has commanded us to be awake at dawn, so we settle down early.

My insomnia rising, I go out and sit in the car. The silence, and the clean air, are balm, but the insects beg to differ, so I duck back in, and, surprise, fall asleep immediately.

Early next morn, we head off to Harrison’s Folly, just out of town. An elongated oblong plateau that pokes far out into the Krishna valley, it is a wonderful alternative to the much larger Tableland above Panch, where the guidebooks insist you should watch the sunrise from, and which is consequently crowded and litter-strewn. In relative solitude, we watch a tandem paraglider attempt to lift off, and take skidding turns to raise dust clouds for Atul’s camera.

At breakfast, we decide that the delays warrant an extra day. While the others wander around the market, I head off to visit friends of my parents. The Wyebrows, after an early retirement, had sold their Navi Mumbai house and now rent an apartment that is a part of the 150-year-old Maidstone Virjee estate, a stately olde worlde property with a magnificent view of the Krishna Valley. As we chat in their verandah, one again I wonder why I continue to live in the city, and once again i make an addition to the list of places I’d rather live in.

After a late lunch, we head back to Mahbi. En route, at the strawberry stalls near Venna Lake Shama tries to charm various shop owners into letting her pluck a few kilos of strawberries, apparently a fantasy she has nurtured since childhood. Winning smiles do not work, however, and she sulks as we drive through the town. Our fan club at the Tourist Tax booth wave indulgently as we head back down slope. While Shama drives the Chinkara behind us, Atul balances precariously on the flatbed of the pickup, with me anchoring him to the vehicle as we sway through the curves by clinging to a rope around his waist. Wild people, these photographers!

We head back to Panch for a late cuppa, and decide to move base to Eco-camp, run by Megan and Andre Savard. Andre is an old paragliding buddy of Guido’s, and their property stretches down the hillside. On a flat area, they have pitched tents for rent with all mod cons (fans, lights and mattresses, loos and baths in a separate block), and a breathtaking view of the valley. Megan tells us that the paragliding fraternity, who have adopted the place as a kind of local HQ, now take off from there, and think nothing of making landings in the entrance flaps of their own tents. I step gingerly back from the drop, my vertigo going into overdrive.

Andre wakes us with filter coffee that would dissolve a teaspoon, and we breakfast with his family before heading off down to Wai. SH72 is easy peasy on this side of the mountain. The roads are getting their pre-monsoon resurfacing and are in much better shape than the Mahbi side. We hit the flat land and zoom through Wai and Surul, where we get on to NH4. After a few kilometres of “normal” highway, the road changes dramatically. Expressway-standard, it is broad and well maintained, and the curves are long and smooth. I callously ignore Atul’s offer to drive and for the first time, I push the speedometer needle above 100 and leave Shama and Guido well behind. When we stop to pay toll, I reflect that it’s the best Rs 11 I have ever contributed to the powers that maintain our roads.

But soon we come to the long stretch before Pune where road widening for the PM’s Golden Quadrilateral is in full swing, and the driveable width narrows to two lanes. The Chinkara grumbles as we get stuck behind a convoy of trucks who refuse to leave enough gaps to overtake. We bypass Pune’s traffic by taking the Katrej turn-off, and join the Mumbai Pune Expressway.

This is the Promised Land. Once more, I floor it, but she is not as responsive this time around. Several Qualises – the ignominy! – pass us. And the engine temperature is rising again. We pull to the side at the toll plaza, and wait for the Bothes to catch up. Again, my inexperience has almost cost them a small fortune. A nut had worked its way loose, and the exhaust pipe was close to falling off. Guido gets to work once more, and refrains from making any remarks about the nut behind the wheel, remarking mildly that I should have stopped when the engine first changed sound.

Chastened, I keep the needle at a demure 80kph till we reach Khopoli. Atul and I need to go west pronto, and the Bothes South to Alibag, to get their new three-seater Chinkara variant ready for its buyer’s visit in two days. So we switch cars, and Atul and i find ourselves feeling out of place within the enclosed cabin and seemingly stilt-high seats of the Nissan. It’s a good vehicle, and we cruise effortlessly at 90, with renewed respect for windshields, but... it’s not a Chinkara.

Oh yes, my 800. I must go pick the old girl up from Alibag one of these days.

 

Drive - The Information

From Mumbai, head out via Chembur and the Thane Creek Bridge. At Vashi, you have two choices. The straightforward one: stay on the Sion Panvel Road, turn right at Panvel to follow the Goa road (NH17) via Karnala and Pen to Vadkhal Naka (36km from Panvel)

The road less travelled: get through the Vashi Toll Naka, cross the Vashi bypass flyover, and immediately as you come of it, take the exit to the left, that curves underneath to join Palm Beach road. Zoom down the best road in Mumbai and its neighbourhood for 10km, and when you hit the first signal, turn right. The road first crosses Panvel Creek, then the road from Uran to Panvel. You could either go left to Panvel, and then follow the route above, or if you’re in the mood for a little adventure, go straight ahead. The narrow road, in surprisingly good condition, especially considering I haven’t seen it on any map, winds through forested stretches of land, fields, a small ghat, and a few villages. You will pass, at most, one ST bus and a couple of motorcycles en route. The road joins NH17 about 10km short of Pen. From there, head on to Vadkhal.

At Vadkhal, whichever way you chose to get there, you might want to stop and have a chai and its famous vada-pavs. From Vadkhal, you again have two alternatives. Either turn left at the petrol pump and follow the Goa road, NH17, to Poladpur (108km), which means trucks and busses all the way, or continue on South, to Alibag (24km), which is what we did. From Alibag, head on down the beautiful coastal road towards Shrivardhan. You will pass Revdanda, Korlai, Kashid (worth at least a brief stop, if not a halt) and finally, Murud-Janjira (54km from Alibag). We were way behind schedule, with a dicky radiator, so we didn’t carry on down to Shrivardhan as planned. But the essence of a drive trip isn’t the destination, it’s the journey. If you decide to carry on South, you’re in luck if you’re doing the trip on a two-wheeler: you can take the ferry across the creek, otherwise it’s a longish detour inland before you can swing back to the coast.

From Murud (after you’ve filled up on petrol and food), head out South and West, to SH96. The road is demanding, with plenty of slopes and hairpins, and will prime you for the more difficult Mahabaleshwar climb. There’s precious little in the way of service stations or petrol pumps en route, so make sure your vehicle is in good shape before you set out.

SH96 joins NH17 about 45km before Mahad. Pass right on through, and look out for a petrol pump on your right as you leave the town. If you haven’t filled up already, or if there’s any suspicious noises emanating from under the hood, get it checked now. On the way, keep a look out on your left for some ancient Buddhist cave temples carved into the hillside. There’s a roadside chai stall where you could park your car if you’re feeling energetic enough to clamber up to the temples. 20km from Mahad, you come to Poladpur, which is your turn off for Mahabaleshwar.

From Poladpur to Mahabaleshwar, the map swears there’s s straight 42km road. We were in too much of a hurry to check the distance, but I can tell you that that straight line is a lie. The road twists and turns like a snake with an itch. You should try to make sure you get here way before sunset. The climb is something you’d rather do in daylight. There are parts where road maintenance work has narrowed the carriageway considerably, and while the drops are not as dizzying as, for example, the mountain roads of Garwahl, they can be just as fatal. Added hazards are overloaded local jeep taxis who know every curve by heart and drive accordingly, motorbikes saving fuel by driving with their lights off, and city types who haven’t learned to dip their headlights and who want to overtake whether there is place or not.

At Mahabaleshwar, there’s plenty of places to eat and stay, but I recommend heading on through to quieter Panchgani. (18km). We stayed one night at a pretty spartan private guest house, just out of town, run by Mayflower Restaurant (Rs 400 per double room Ph: 02168-242040/70, email: maymatter@hotmail.com ), and moved the second night to Eco-Camp, which has tents with mattresses, fans and lights (Rs 150 per person, ph: 02168-241164, 022-22021409, email: meg_andre@hotmail.com). Both places have fantastic views, though at the guesthouse you have to walk down the lane to see anything. There is plenty of other accommodation, though we didn’t have the time to check them out individually. Prices range from a few hundred for a room with a bed and shared loos to a couple of thousand rupees a day that gets you health club, disco, kiddie play area and suchlike thrown in.

In Panchgani and Mahabaleshwar, there’s plenty of lovely walks to be had, and for the more atheletic, hikes to the nearby plateaus, horse and camel rides, bicycles to hire, and paragliding. Strawberries are just hitting the market but even if you go off season, Mapro and Mala have outlets that sell jams, crushes and preserves. There’s also mulberries and raspberries and lots of other fruit to bring back home at a fraction of the cost that you’d pay at a Mumbai traffic signal.

For the return trip, you could retrace your steps, or if work demands your quick return to the city, take the longer, but much faster Pune route. Head down from Panchgani via SH72, through Wai to Surul (25km) and then North via the mostly excellent NH4 to Pune (77km). Unless you have a hankering for Shrewesbury biscuits or yearn to visit the German Bakery and the Osho Ashram, you could bypass Pune by taking the Katrej cut off, which joins up with the Mumbai-Pune Expressway. This is one stretch of road you need not worry about getting stranded on. Regular patrols cruise the entire route, there are clearly marked phone kiosks at regular intervals, and the signage is very helpful, telling you at least a kilometre in advance of exits, tunnels, and stopover points. These stopovers have petrol pumps, restaurants and shops, in case you want a quick fill up of body or machine. You can cruise all the way back to Bombay or detour at Kamset (33km, to visit the Bedsa Caves), or make chikki-and-fudge-purchasing halts at Lonavala (50km from Pune) or Khandala (another 5km). 42km from Khandala, and you exit the Expressway just after Panvel, and take the Sion-Panvel road back into the city.

Eating

Meals are available at any of the places along the way. The basic travellers’ rule applies: make sure it’s freshly cooked. You might want to carry your own water though. Along the coastal leg of the route, you’re in luck if you’re a seafood fan. Better still, I recommend that you carry a picnic lunch along and stop under the shade of a nice tree or at a deserted beach somewhere far away from the nearest town to devour it.

Neither Panchgani and Mahabaleshwar seem like great foodie places, but there’s as much variety as you’ll find in any Mumbai suburb, from idlis and dosas to Gujarati thalis, via burgers and pizzas and strawberry milkshakes and filter coffees. We did hear of wonderful Parsi food at Prospect Hotel, but we didn’t get the chance to sample it.

Road Tips

Remember that highway driving is a very different prospect from city traffic jams. Average speeds are much higher, and accidents happen frequently, mostly when someone, drunk on the thrill of speed, tries a foolish overtaking manoeuvre. Trucks and busses abound, and while they are more courteous than their reputations would have one believe, you will get the odd roadhog or drunk, so it pays to be careful. My driving school instructor’s first bit of advice to me holds good: drive like everyone else on the road is a ch******.

In the night, particularly, beware of the ones who do not dip their headlights. The instant of blindness after an approaching headlight catches you full in the face can be terrifying. A useful tip: do your best to look down into the beam thrown by your own lights, though it’s difficult to avoid the hypnotic pull of the lights approaching you.

On the ghats: honk (and flash your headlights after dark) before blind curves around shoulders; overtake with extreme caution; and the vehicle going up slope has the right of way.

The climbs are not nearly difficult enough to demand a four-wheel drive, but it wouldn’t hurt. Check fuel levels and any problems with your vehicle in the bigger towns.

The route

The round-trip route we took gives you a taste of everything barring snow-covered passes and deserts, with fabulous scenery, especially on the way out.

You don’t really need a night halt. Panvel-Mahabaleshwar via NH17 is roughly 190km, Panchgani-Panvel via Pune is 215km, and you could cover the length of either route during daylight hours, even at moderate speeds and with frequent halts, especially if you have someone to share the driving with you. But if you have the time and inclination, Kashid or Murud are good places to halt, and perhaps take a dip in the sea. On the way back, you could detour to Khandala or Lonavala before you hit the plains.

Published (in a much-edited version) in Outlook Traveller, in a column called The Drive, April 2004

Tags: Outlook Traveller

What women want

On the Attractiveness of the Eligible Bachelor

Egad.

A man writing the one article in a men’s magazine that would be better written by a woman. Except possibly the one that helps you understand why the woman in your life needs so many pairs of shoes. Or the one that lays bare for your feeble male understanding the pleasures of a day spent shopping without buying anything.

Ah well. Here goes.

First things first. “Attractive,” “eligible” and “bachelor” are not synonyms. Being one does not imply you are both the others. Or even one of them.

Now that we have that straight, let’s continue.

My research involved focus group discussions and media analysis. (Sorry. Force of habit. More than ten years spent in advertising, you see. It means i dredged a rather faulty memory for past conversations, and checked out magazines.)

Scour the matrimonials, a wise journo friend tells me, when i confess i have no idea what eligible means in this day and age. So, leaving out the religion and community bit, here’s a quick “what’s hot” list, based on the totally random scanning of three Sunday newspapers and several web sites.

One definition of eligible is “someone you can take home to Mama,” so let’s start with what the parents of the to-be brides seem to prefer: well-settled (preferably doctor, engineer or professional, even more preferably in the USA); cultured; fair, or even wheat-complexioned (someone explain this to me - is it ripening stalks swaying in the breeze, wheat grains, aattaa, maida, bread or chapatis?); between 25 and 30 (stretchable to 35 in exceptional cases); good family background; tall would help, but it’s not essential; widowed is ok, just about, just no “encumbrances”; divorced is fine, as long as you’re an “innocent” divorcee, whatever that means.

And the boys’ folks, what do they think will get their pride and joy the right bride? The buzzwords are: any post-graduate degree; well-settled; USA; good family; with car and house, own or company-provided, doesn’t matter; below 35 (or if older, then “looks younger” or is “very well settled.”). And all of them seem to want “homely” girls. Which, if they knew what it meant, would be truly liberated and refreshing. But those are rants i’ll save for another time.

Ok, enough of the Situations Vacant. Pick up a women’s mag, and it’s pretty likely that there will be a poll in it. And that poll will say the highest points in the eligibility stakes go to A Sense Of Humour. Ha ha. And there’s Broad-mindedness. And Caring. And Should Understand Me. Sneaking into that noble list you’ll also find many PC-speak aliases for well-settled. Which also figure in conversations i’ve had with women friends over the years. Some lasses confess to being impressed by swank cars, great clothes, cool apartments, elite degrees and other status symbols. And Green Cards. The sophisticates who would not admit to such material desires use terms like Security, Makes Me Feel Special, High Achievers, Good Taste and Appreciation For The Finer Things In Life.

Which, Gentlemen, brings it down to this: If you want to be considered eligible, you better have trophy value.

Where does this leave me?

The women who seem to place my eligibility score highest are the wives and girlfriends of buddies. One cynic’s theory (no, not me, certainly not me) is that they want all seemingly carefree bachelors safely settled down and domesticated, because that way, their men won’t go all envious and wishing they were single. But i digress.

Technically i am a bachelor. i can’t deny that i’m demonstrably single.

As to the attractive, well, my dearest friends will go no further than to say (now and then), “Hey, nice shirt.” Or, when i look in major need of cheering up, “Ah, you shaved?”

Eligible? Since i passed the age of consent, which was a long time ago, i have spent roughly 75 percent of the intervening years being also unattached. Some of it was voluntary, i admit. You know, the normal thing: you see your madly in love friends getting married, and proceeding to either live unhappily ever after or getting divorced; and you think, not me, never me.

But i’m no misogynist. Quite the contrary. Since my voice broke, there’s always been at least one woman occupying disproportionate amounts of my mindspace. And i’m not anti-relationships either. But i’ve never quite figured out what women want.

The much-trumpeted Sense Of Humour? Doesn’t work. They’ll complain that you can’t take anything seriously. The ones that admit to liking money will complain about the inordinate amount of time you spend earning it and seek consolation with toy boys. The ones that say they like a well-toned body will cringe from the sweat worked up attempting to achieve it. If you’re possessive they’ll call you jealous and insecure. If you’re not possessive, they’ll condemn you for not caring.

Er. Yes. i know. i’m ranting. Sorry. But you get the picture.

And despite all i’ve said so far, i’m a romantic at heart. No, really.

Where was i? Ah yes, my eligibility.

Going by the wish lists, i’m screwed. Or rather, i’m not going to be, not in the foreseeable future.

My bank balance has seen better days. My butt is the kind Botticelli liked. Plus i’m over the age limit, don’t have a 9-to-5 job, earn a decidedly irregular income, drive a battered 800 when i’m not taking the busses, don’t even have a passport, live in a rented flat that’s so far away from the city centre it’s in another city.

But perhaps there is hope. A dear friend - a woman, i hasten to add, and she was consoling me after the last jilting, and she’s happily married - said to me once, “Single women above a certain age, go sour. Single men get better with age.”

So, by that reckoning, if i get that post-grad degree, save up for a house and get a job in an MNC, i’ll be just oozing with eligibility by the time i’m about seventy. And women will throw themselves at me as i hobble down the street. i had better start stockpiling the Viagra.

Hopefully, all the women i know would have forgotten this article by then.

Published in It’s a Guy Thing (GT, for short) the Times of India Group’s Men’s magazine.

Tags: GT (It's a Guy Thing)

Lean Cuisine

When your wallet is on a diet.

Perhaps no one wants your dotcom shares. Or your pocket got picked on the train. Maybe you’re PGing, and they don’t let you cook, and there isn’t much money left over after the rent anyway. Or it’s the month end and Accounts has been sneering at your food vouchers. You still have to eat, but the happening joints are out of the question.

Bombay is a kind city.

There might just be a zunka bhakhar stall around, offering you wholesome Maharastrian peasant fare for the ludicrous sum of Re 1. But there aren’t many of those left after our state last changed governments.

So you look around.

There’s the sandwichvala. Choose your filling: cheese, jam, tomato-cucumber-potato-onion-beetroot. And do you want it toasted? It’s chopped into six bite-sized pieces, slid onto a piece of paper, and you’re offered a splash of ersatz ketchup with more pumpkin in it’s lineage than tomato, despite what the label says. You’re wallet’s lighter by just ten to 15 rupees. Plus a tenner for fruit juice at the next cart, the one with the mixer stealing BMC electricity.

In Nariman Point or Bandra, or near just about any local train station, search for a red cart, with the name painted in white pseudo nib stroke. Take a friend. You can do a one-by-two bowl of soup that you’ll never find in all of China for less than twenty bucks.

You want to sit down and eat? Find a street corner in South Bombay, and you’ll also find an Irani joint. Ten bucks will get you a chai and bun-maska, with sugar sprinkled on it. Or perhaps you prefer the crusty bruns? Another fiver, maybe a rupee or two more, and you can have a bread pudding as well. Or maybe you want to do a mutton potato “pattice” or a samosa with your chai instead? You’ll still get change back from a twenty.

(Oh yes, anywhere except the posh joints - read “non-AC” - tea comes pre-sweetened. If you like yours without sugar, then you’ll have to stump up extra cash for a ‘special’ tea.)

Need meat? A decent kheema at a small Muslim-run place near Mohammadali Road, Mahim, or Bandra won’t cost you more than 20 rupees. Actually, you’re unlikely to find anything on the menu that costs more than 25 bucks, with the possible exception of the Biriyani, Full.

A Maharashtrian joint (Dadar, and what used to be the mills district is a good place to find them) will serve you a spicy, soggy missal, or just the ussal, with a couple of paus. Rs 15, tops, and that’s if the man behind the counter is wearing a shirt. If he’s in a ganji, and also doing the cooking, cheaper. A plate of bhajias, or sticky, sweet malpoas would cost about the same, and the chai - very sweet, very strong - will probably cost one or two rupees more.

Of course there’s daal-rice, roasted paapad and a smidgen of pickle gratis, which you can get at almost any restaurant. Depending on the grade of the place you could pay from Rs 10 up to Rs 30, if the place has uniformed waiters.

The nearest Udupi will get you an idli sambhar, vada sambhar, or, go ahead, go wild, an idli-vada sambhar, for about Rs 12. Dosas start under Rs 20.

Those quintessentially Bombay snacks, bhelpuri and its siblings, sevpuri, dahibatatapuri, paanipuri, can be found everywhere, walking vendors, their dabbas suspended from their necks, cycles, handcarts, hole-in-the-wall stalls, family restaurants, beach stalls. Prices differ, depending on who’s serving you.

And there’s yummy pau-bhaji. The rule of thumb: the cheaper it is, the less likely you are to be able to tell the ingredients, and the more likely it is to blow the top of your head off. Anyway, there’s likely to be a man squeezing the juice out of sugarcane within earshot. Yell, and tell him no ice. You don’t want jaundice, as well as indigestion now, do you?

Need something cheaper?

Hmm. Two or three bucks almost anywhere will get you a hot vada-pau, liberally sprinkled with chilly powder. Or perhaps you’re in the mood for mixed bhajias. Potato slices, onions, chillies, if you’re lucky, spinach too, dunked in batter and fried golden brown. Eat them plain, or crammed into a pau. Look around for the guy selling ‘cutting’ chai. Half a minuscule tumbler for a buck.

Hot boiled channa shouldn’t be hard to find either, with a sprinkling of chopped onion, tomato and chilli, lime squeezed over it.

And as a last resort, there’s peanuts. Which is probably what I’m going to get paid for this column...

Published in It’s a Guy Thing (GT, for short) the Times of India Group’s Men’s magazine.

Tags: The Times of India, In Search of the Perfect..

The Wheels, They Keep On Turning

In which the writer earns his spurs.

My first set of wheels was a black convertible.

I’m told we were quite a hit with the ladies, my brother and I. They oohed and aahed as they leaned in to chuck our chins. Admittedly more my brother’s chin than mine, but them was good days, dude, as Mum pushed us around in our big black pram.

In later, more mature years, I was sole proprietor and chief executive of a tricycle, and at some later point, in a different city, skipping push scooters (having foolishly opted for a dud cowboy outfit the year that was offered me), I had a bicycle. For all of a year. Before it was stolen from a staircase in a pal’s building.

Fast forward many years, and past another cycle, second-hand this time, which lasted close to 20 years (it too, got stolen, a few years ago), since my parents couldn’t afford to buy me a motorbike, and by the time I could afford one, I didn’t want one. Pause, for a sweaty moment, at the time of taking the sardine tin on rails to office, and busses, and cabs and ricks whenever the conveyance vouchers would cover it.

And then, after many years in the salt mines, I suddenly found myself in custody of that mark of middle-class success: an office car. A dinky, humble, white 800. Cool. But one leetle problem. I didn’t know how to drive the darn thing.

A friend drove it home for me, and there it lay in state in front of the building, gathering dust and leaves, and territorial markers from the street’s canine population. Every few days, usually under cover of darkness, I would self-consciously start it, as per advice from less automotively-challenged friends, to keep the battery alive. Eventually, a driver was found, and I achieved what every office goer commits mayhem for: a comfy window seat all the way to work and back. Bliss. All the comforts and none of the hassles of driving through rush hour.

A year later, the driver, as drivers do, went off to seek his fortune elsewhere, and was duly replaced. By now I owned the car, having taken advantage of a discounted offer on it when I quit the company that gave it to me. Driver Two also wanted to make his fortune, but unlike the previous incumbent, decided to do so without leaving my employ. I, at this point, was discovering that dotcom streets were not, after all, paved with gold, and was watching the pennies. So his attempts to pad bills from mechanics, and suchlike shenanigans, were soon found out. And he was quickly downsized, with a fortnight’s salary VRS package.

About time, I decided, despite the advancing years, to learn to drive. Can’t be that difficult. I had set record times on Need For Speed 2 at the office.

Quick research on the driving schools in the area. And National catches my eye with it’s claim to “not create license holders, but drivers.”

Day one. My instructor, Chandu, points out a list of the relevant parts of the driver interface. Hm, many more thingiebobs here than there are arrow keys on the PC keyboard. I struggle to absorb all this complex new information. And he gives me the best driving advice I’ve had till date. “Aisa chalao jaise sab doosre driver c______a hain.”

And then, as I move to get out of the car to ponder the list on the walk home, he said I should start the car. I look at this foolhardy man in the passenger seat with horror. This is Day One. This is a busy street. I am not sure if I remember which pedal moves the wipers and whether I’d paid up on my insurance premia.

But Chandu is firm. I turn the key. The engine rumbles encouragingly. It is a cool day, but sweat trickles down my spine. Following instructions, I floor the clutch, move the gearstick, release the clutch, the car shudders and stalls. Again. This time I remember to use the accelerator. Ah. A difference.This time we lurch forward three feet and then stall. Many tries later, we are moving. As is the rest of Vashi, who all pick this time to go out and pick up the laundry, patronise kamikaze rickshaw drivers, walk the dog or just practice their jaywalking. Despite which, no collateral damage results.

I am gaining confidence. An open stretch of road approaches. “Fast,” Chandu says. Inside, I glow. I’m doing well, and he trusts me to take this baby through her paces! I floor the accelerator. “Fast, Fast,” bellows this maker of Schumachers, “Main bol raha hoon FAST!” A bend in the road is approaching. He’s more confident of my abilities than I am, evidently. I steel myself for the screech of tyres. But the car stops. Chandu has used his set of clutch and brake pedals to postpone our meetings with our maker. Vituperation (his) and indignation (mine) fill the air. And we realise accents had caused a communication lapse. Not Fast. First. As in Fast Gear, Saykund Gear, etc.

Ah.

Let us draw a kindly veil across the next 19 lessons. Suffice it to say that the long suffering Chandu’s perseverance paid off. And I actually passed my test.

So now, amigos, I was a man. For all of a week. Till I did my first rush hour traffic jam. And regressed to quivering infant wanting mummy to come push me home so I could curl up in my crib and sleep.

Published in It’s a Guy Thing (GT, for short) the Times of India Group’s Men’s magazine.

Tags: GT (It's a Guy Thing)

Á la cart

In Search Of... A Midnight Snack.

’Tis late. Hunger strikes. The fridge is either empty or far away. You are solvent, of sane mind and reasonably cast-iron digestion.All the “decent” restaurants are closed. If you want to sit down and eat, it’s either a shady bar, with loud music and, ahem, waitresses, or a 5-Star coffee shop, where the obscenities are all in the right hand column.

Fear not. For the price of a cab ride (or petrol money, if ye are of independent wheels), sustenance may be had without too much of a pain-in-the-billfold. For thou art in Mumbai, Urbs Primus in Indus, the city that never sleeps (borrowed, that, but true), but loves to eat. Just hit the road, and keep an ear peeled for the clatter of ladle against tavaa. Then follow your nose to the nearest cart.

For a start, there’s the pau-bhaji chappies who peddle their fiery fare near VT, on the edge of Azad Maidan. Also available, vada paus, eggs – bhurji, omelettes, half-fry, or as-you-like-it- provided-it’s-oily, and boiled eggs – and sweet, overboiled “cutting” chai. Churchgate’s environs offer similar fare, but not as late, and there’s less variety.

Moving on, and north, Mohammadali Road during Ramzan is a good idea. Especially if it’s so late it’s very early. The restaurants and carts are all abuzz, rustling up delicious, decidedly non-vegetarian pre-dawn sustenance for the faithful. Ditto for Mahim and the area near Bandra station.

Further afield, if you’re near Worli Naka, cast your eyes down the shadowy minor roads. If haven’t been shooed away by the cops, you’ll find carts with the usual bhurji and pau-bhaji.

Dadar station yields provender too. On the West, mainly bhurji vendors under the flyover, but the East, thanks to Central Railway’s terminating a few trains there, and even more thanks to the usual tardiness of the said trains, offers a leetle more. Eggs, of course, plus sundry dishes with “masala” tacked on to the end of their names - which means there’s gravy. A few minutes away, on the main road, there’s a sandwich guy - not a cart, a roadside stall, but he’s in this piece for variety and your cholesterol. Peer carefully - post midnight, his lights are off. But he’ll make you a simple sandwich - jam, cheese, or tomatoes and whatever other veggies are going, and i do believe i once saw baked beans. He’ll even toast it for you for a coupla bucks extra. He also has fruit juices.

In Sion, near the railway station, you kind find simple South Indian fare. Steaming idlis, dosas too. The sambhar is usually excellent, but be wary of the chutney; coconut tends to spoil easily. Yes, more eggs.

All the way into the suburbs, the story continues. Enough people stagger home from the sapping commute to keep many a cart in business. Which is why you’re more likely to find them near railways stations.

Don’t expect much more, though, than the greasy fare you find downtown. But, as consolation, you can wash down your meal with a little steel tumbler of coffee, retailed by entrepreneurial lads on bicycles. They’re easily spotted, here, and near traffic signals, because of the large stainless steel urn tied to the back of the bike, and rinsing bucket slung from the handlebars. Besides giving them a far wider range – they’re usually on the move from signal to taxi stand to bus stop – i guess the cycles also let them disappear more quickly down the nearest bylane when a spoilsport cop van is spotted.

(To be fair, the police don’t normally get tough with the night carts. They seem to recognise that they’re just hardworking souls catering to other hardworking souls and turn a blind eye. Besides, our tireless boys in khaki need food and caffeine too!)

Ah yes, the coffee. It isn’t filter, just a cheap instant, and the hot milk-water mixture in the urns is pre-sweetened, so sucks to you if you’re calorie counting.

But it’s strong, and hot, just what you need to keep you awake on your way home to your antacids.

Published in the Times of India’s Mumbai edition, In Search Of, under the completely grotty title, "Midnight Chowboy."
In Search Of was a weekly column that focussed on a different food-related topic each week. Another sadly discontinued TOI feature.

Tags: The Times of India, In Search of the Perfect..

And The Living Was Easy

Summers Past.

A drop of warm sweat meanders down my spine.

And I’m thinking basketball. Vest so drenched i could wring it, squeeze it dry, quadrangle floor so hot you had to play with shoes or blister.

I’m thinking long, hazy afternoons, a broad almond tree that was pirate ship, Tarzan’s jungle and so much more. I’m thinking chor-police, hide-and-seek and dabba futli over eight building compounds in the long twilight and no worries about being called home now, because the exams were over!

I’m remembering gazing ardently up into mango trees, willing the fruit to ripen, knocking down a few just to check whether, perhaps, that small size and green skin was just the tree trying to fool us. And then the grimace of perverse pleasure as you bit and found so-uuurrrr.

And going up to one particular friend’s house for water, because they had a fridge.

I’m smiling about 25 paise coins hoarded from errands, splurged on little plastic tubes filled with flavoured ice, where you bit through the heat-sealed edge and sucked – pepsis they were called, with a lower-case ‘p.’ Soft drinks were rare – they cost all of two bucks, who had that kind of money? – reserved for restaurant visits with one’s parents.

And that long, sweet last summer between school and college. Three months of utter irresponsibility only now and then sullied with the quaking terror of SSC marks day. Badminton in the still cool, early morning air. Racing off to the lending library to pick up the daily fix of books and comics, and then, lying with them on the cool floor, legs propped up on the nearest piece of furniture, lost in faraway places of the mind. An evening of six, maybe eight innings of cricket, and when bad light – well, no light, actually – stopped play, sitting on swings vacated by the little kids and those strange creatures, girls.

College hols, the games stayed, but there were new preoccupations too. “Summer clubs,” that delightful suburban custom – a month of semi-organised competitions and fun, sports, plays, singing, dancing, cycle treasure hunts. Begging the use of houses and terraces to sit and plan, madly practising and rehearsing, borrowing props, stealing ideas, siblings in different teams not talking to each other all summer.

We’d moved upmarket by then, to the golavala. Almost drooling as he scraped ice into a glass, packed it around a stick, anointed it with syrup and dunked it into the glass, topped up with more syrup and water.

And cycles. Everywhere. Extensions of our bodies. Taking us further than we could run. From one frenzied arena to another. And then racing down quiet back streets, outstripping dogs, avoiding night patrol cops, composing excuses on the way as to why one was so late. Thinking also of how, one day, we too would have motorbikes. Maybe even cars.

And the sudden discovery that there was something compellingly, magnetically, irresistibly attractive about those girls. Twilight hours spent sitting on gates and bus stops in hushed discussions of the relative merits of one lissome lass after another as they passed by on the way back from whatever it was girls did in the evenings. Crushes and lust and heartbreak analysed threadbare, but seldom acted on, except by the bold, much-envied few. At least they said they did.

Which led to the summer of learning how to dance. Feet used to pedalling and running and jumping now having to learn how to take small steps, you idiot, and don’t pull so much.

And the beach, yes, the beach. Contract busses hired, lunches packed, and away, two hours of ribald songs and laughter, to the relatively safe sea of Gorai. Hours in the water, skin wrinkled on the fingers and burnt on the nose and shoulders. Eyes looking, and trying not to be seen to look, at girls in swim suits.

But summer ended when college did.

Yes, there was a certain kick to playing adult. To office clothes, and an office bag, and doing lunch andmaking a salary. But that attraction wears off in summer.

Because offices don’t give you a couple of months of summer holidays. You have to pass kids playing in the street. You can’t pitch hopeful stones into mango trees. Sweat is a social handicap. There isn’t time to idle aimlessly at street corners. There’s only corporate games and posing. They want you to work in summer.

Well, yeah, sure, I can afford more than golas now, but somehow, somehow, I can’t help thinking the trade-off wasn’t fair.

Published in the Times of India’s Mumbai edition, Snaphot,in a slightly edited version. Snapshot was a weekly column that aimed to "capture that quintessentially Mumbai state of mind." Sadly, TOI discontinued it.

Tags: The Times of India, Snapshot

Sex

Do we need sex?

If your instinctive answer is a fervent “yes,” you’re probably male. But then, that’s why you’re reading this magazine and not watching Oprah.

But hold your, er, horses, messieurs. ’Tis not the act of fornication that we’re discussing here. This isn’t about you giving up your sex life - such as it is.

We’re talking about what my father’s 1964 edition of the Reader’s Digest Great Encyclopaedic Dictionary refers to as “the sum of the physiological difference in structure and function which distinguish the male from the female in animals and plants; males or females collectively.” Very disappointing find it was for a certain sweaty-palmed 11 year-old poring through the dictionary for the meaning of words his indulgent aunt said he should ask his parents about (and when he broached the topic with his parents, they in their turn shuffled nervously and changed the topic, which is why, remembering earlier parental directives about finding things out for oneself, he was scouring the dictionary.) The dictionary primly goes on to say, “(loosely) the sexual relationship,” which was as clear as mud to me - er, i mean, that 11 year-old.

We are, senõrs, wondering whether it’s necessary for our species to have human beings of the male persuasion. Or the female for that matter.

There was a time, I will grant you, somewhere after our distant ancestors mastered the art of splitting themselves into different cells - but before cellular phones - when having two different sexes made sense.

I mean, what’s the next step after you divide? You divide again. And then again. After a time, monotony sets in. I’m willing to bet if some bored cells on a drunken weekend hadn’t chanced upon this business of getting together with other like-minded buddies and forming (trumpets here) the first multi-cell organism, life on earth would have pretty much had it.

But evolve they did, and evidently had a lot of fun doing so, since here we are, still doing our best to mingle cells at every opportunity. Then some curvaceous protozoa invented the headache - but i digress.

Let’s stay with homo sapiens. When we first got up on our hind legs, dividing up the work made sense. The larger, hairier ones got to go out in the cold and kill things, while the smaller, smarter one stayed home, snug and warm, and had babies and headaches. This way, despite the fact that ones with the dangly bits between their legs frequently made errors of spatial judgement and went after beasts much larger than them and quickly became breathing-challenged, or, as frequently, got lost because they refused to stop and ask directions, the species as a whole continued.

Those differences have persisted, becoming more complex, more stylised - I can show you an in-box full of gleefully vicious email forwards that alternately rip apart men and women. For gosh sakes, we’ve even got different magazines!

The only real need for different sexes now is for, well, sex. And how much time, deo, depilatory products and tight pants do we devote to the pursuit of a few minutes of frantic coupling? Think of the all the more productive uses we could be making of our time and money. Not to mention the arguments, fist fights and wars caused by our aggressive instincts. Hell, the differences between the sexes has lead to reams of terrible love poetry and, even worse, country and western music .

Time, methinks, for us to evolve.

After all, now that we’re the second most evolved form of life on this planet (happy trails, Douglas Adams), no longer needing to ensure survival of the species by pursuing and subduing sundry mammals, birds, fish and reptiles, there is no real need for us to persist with this stubborn notion of different sexes.

Look at the social insects - all female colonies, a few token males around to impregnate the queens.

And there’s a particularly clever kind of fish that is all female. Until they feel the need to procreate, whereupon the larger ones turn into males and do the needful.

Snails have it all - hermaphrodites every one, doing unto one another as they have done to them. Think about it, multiple orgasms and the ability to pee standing up.

But let us get serious now. Science is already coming to the rescue. A while ago. some boffins scraped a few cells from the udder of a sheep, and hey presto, Hello Dolly!

Well, ok, i’ll grant you that having one’s udders scraped isn’t the most pleasant form of procreatory activity, and the fact that it only creates a genetic carbon copy, a clone, and therefore what price diversity and the elimination of weak characteristics and the enriching of the gene pool - after all, how many Jayalalithaas can this planet handle? But there’s more.

Those men in white coats, after questioning Murlitharan’s action, have also mapped the human genome. I’ll leave it to erudite gentlemen like Mukul Sharma to explain the finer points of that, but it won’t be long before they’re doing cut-and-paste with DNA. Along with eliminating cancer and acne, they’ll soon find ways to combine the excellent X and Y chromosomes of, let’s say George and Barbara, eliminate all the weaknesses and come out with something far more interesting and advanced than W.

Is that so far-fetched? I think not. Someone said it better than i can, and i misquote, I’m sure: the science of today is the magic of yesterday, the magic of today is the science of tomorrow.

Imagine the faces of your great-grandparents a century ago if someone had given them a sneak peek into the future and they had seen, as a random example, cybersex.

So, kind sirs, remember where you read this first.

Because, not long after we get the letter “Dubya” right, if we have any sense, we’ll create a super wo/man. A creature that is the best of both sexes. Whose mind isn’t cluttered with thoughts of who it is going to ask out on Friday night. A being that is complete in itself, not needing another one to make it so. That will procreate when it wants to, with whom it wants to (with mutual consent, of course). Deciding at the time whether one, or both, should have the baby. Sharing responsibilities for the offspring in every way.

We’ll all have the same moving parts in exactly the same places, then. And, being controlled by the same hormones and body cycles, we’ll all understand one another much better, instead of relating to, at best, just 50% of the human race.

Perhaps then, we won’t need theories about Mars and Venus. Because we’ll all just be from earth.

This was one side of a debate, "Do We Need Sex?"

Published in It’s a Guy Thing (GT, for short) the Times of India Group’s Men’s magazine.

Tags: GT (It's a Guy Thing)

Cinderfella

Travelling Late

I’m a Mediterranean kinda guy. I have black, curly hair, love olives, red wine and cheese and I know more about Greek and Roman mythology than about Indian epics. And I wake up about four hours after India does. Which can be a bit of a problem when one lives in Mumbai.

A gracious Providence has surrounded me with people who understand: bosses who permit me to start my day a few hours after everyone else; clients who considerately ask only for afternoon or evening meetings; friends for whom my tardiness is the provider of many witty one liners (and they think nothing of calling me at 2 a.m. because I’m the only one guaranteed to be “both awake and alone” at that hour); girlfriends who... come to think of it, there haven’t been that many. Hmm. Wonder why?

My awry biological clock, a pathological dislike of crowds and a strong parsimonious streak, have, while ensuring that I have a laughable social life, made me something of an expert on getting home in the wee hours, on the cheap.

So, last trains, last buses... they have become my lifeline, ferrying me back from the magazine offices and ad agencies that have underpaid me over the years, rocketing up the silent length of this stretched out city to my bed. But I write here of buses. And ’tis not because I love trains less, but that I love buses more.

Trains I use when I travel, not when I commute. There’s romance in the sound and rhythm of a train chugging through the night, long deep whistle blowing, strange stations with different local flavours of sweet tea and terrible coffee.

Trains get me home faster in this city, but when I look out between stations, my eyes pass over the same things they would have seen at more respectable times, only darker. And the stations are lonely enough to break your heart.

In a local bus, however, things change in the night.

As you wait for them, you have company. A bus stop is a fraction of the size of a railway station, so you’re in closer proximity to your travelling companions.

Beside you, mill workers stand silently, tired, second-shift men with blank eyes. Next to them, boy-men in black trousers and white shirts smoke cigarettes, laughing as they dissect the evening’s happenings at the five-star hotel they work in. Perched on the railings a pair of college kids self-consciously hold hands, whispering to each other, and you can bet they’re not talking about the late show they just didn’t watch. Off to the side, two waitresses from a ladies’ bar (they always travel in pairs), chatter like exotic tropical birds, ignoring with practised ease the male eyes that strip them of their gaudy plumage. Drooping against the slim metal pillars of the bus stop, a young couple, a sleeping toddler in his arms, hers weighed down with a large bag, balance the temptation of the taxi that waits invitingly a few feet away against the straightjacket of the monthly budget.

And a bus arrives, its engine sound unrecognisable from its peak-hour grumbling and muttering of stifled oaths at squawking gaggles of white Maruti 800s. Now it roars impatiently, complaining about the length of time you’re taking to get in.

The bus is in motion now, and the engine shrieks and bellows, like a class of adolescent schoolboys, voices breaking, greeting the last bell of the last period of the last day of term. It races joyously through the night, double rings from the conductor chivvying it past deserted bus stops, hurdling speed-breakers, vaulting potholes, its rattling windows joining the raucous symphony of loose rivets, while a solo horn raises its voice above the din to tell the world to getoutofthewayNOW!

Don’t fall asleep – unless you’re a regular whom the conductor will wake up. It’s your stop now. Move to the front of the bus, and quickly. The bus slows, you’re expected to jump off, not impede its progress by waiting for it to come to a complete halt. And as your feet touch the ground, it speeds away, making rude jokes to itself about your lack of atheleticism.

And you wish you had one measly glass slipper to throw at the baying mongrels that serenade your slow trudge home.

And when it’s really, really late? Heck, just hang around and keep doing whatever it is that’s kept you away from home till now. In just a few hours, the city will wake up again. Way before the sun comes up, there’ll be the first trains, the first buses...

Published in the Times of India's Mumbai edition, Snaphot, 31st May 2001.
Snapshot was a weekly column that aimed to "capture that quintessentially Mumbai state of mind." Sadly, TOI discontinued it.

Tags: The Times of India, Snapshot