The Goaniac Speaketh

October 3, 2007 at 7:10 pm · Filed under personal, travelogue

I’ve had a swell trip. Needed it. Life was getting too mechanical, until someone walked into my life and rocked it. Too bad it won’t last long, but hey, never mind.

Like I was saying, before I interrupted myself, I’ve had a fucking swell trip. Why the profanity? Well, it was swell and it had a bit of you-know-what too. More on that later. Right now, I’d like to drop in a quick word about this gem on the West coast.

Something about this locale that atleast one Portuguese found special. I still can’t figure it out - but what I have discovered (again) is that this place is heaven.

And it changes you. Drive about towards a bustling Panjim marketplace, sucking in a bit of the Miramar beach on the way, and you’ve soon forgotten your troubles. If that isn’t helping you unwind, the booze will.

They told me that Goans booze like fishes. They’re superfreaking accurate. The good - or bad - or even, ugly - thing is, that it rubs off onto you. Now, the world knows that I stay away from alcohol the same way a nun would stay away from fornication. Perhaps its time to disclose that I’ve converted and shatter your miserable dreams.

Yes. Maybe it’s Goa. Well, not maybe, it sure as hell IS Goa. She’s seduced me into consuming that blessed chilled wine the same way Miss Kournikova would convert a gaylord to heterosexuality.

Okay, so I’m the kind of guy who tends to appreciate everything in life. I can gulp down a warm glass of rasam at any of Bangalore’s southie roadside joints and still sigh, ‘Life’. I can walk down to Nandhini’s and hog till Mr. Telugu-turned-Tamil-turned-Kannadiga screams mercy, or like the last time, ‘no more rice, sir’, and walk out, satisfied like the happiest man on earth would be, although his stomach might not exactly stick out further than his nose, like mine would. Or I can have a chilled ‘maghai paan’ right after the aforementioned meal and claim that I’ve seen enough happiness to call it quits.

Those, however, are nothing - I repeat, nothing - compared to the happiness and satisfaction that this place gives you.

Tell you what? Goa isn’t about getting your ass here and walking around in fake designer shorts, with a bottle of chilled beer in the hand. Nope. It’s about freedom, to do what pleases you without giving a damn to what the ‘others’ think. Balls to the world. It’s my life, and I’m living it.

Simply put, I can do whatever the fuck I want to, which incidentally includes the use of profanity on this blog, but hey - it’s my blog - so if you have a problem, there’s a back button waiting for your click.

And in this umbrella of freedom, you find other things that please you too. For instance, let’s face it, you might catch me at the Grand Ashoka for a family dinner, formals et all, but deep down, everyone knows I’m far from being sophisticated. Give me a NH-4 dhaba or a Vidyarti Bhavan any day. Okay, I do spend time at CCD but I’d pick the mallu chai at the HAL airport any day.

And that’s what I like about Goa. It’s far from being elite. It’s for just about anyone. It doesn’t really matter how many zeros you have in your CTC, because in this place, everyone freaks out anyway.

Here we go.

—

I get off the flight. The Kingfisher ‘flying models’ are hot - we all know that - but this one in particular was a tad hotter. ‘Thank you for flying’, she went. It’s a voice that captivates the mind of a man, momentarily seductive. I walked on. Ahead of me was a firang, wearing a pink shirt so bright that it might put the Sun to shame. The slippers, for lack of a better word, were orange in color, and bore a striking resemblance to the one outside my neighbour’s loo. Hawaii chappals, if you may.

I ran out and before I could see them, they screamed ‘Sandy!’. Shivendra. Who’s with him? Oh, Rohan. I thought they’d say hello. They started off with ‘fucker, why were you late’ and continued bitching at me all night. Who cares? Friends we were, and I was back. Eight months, eight long months away from folks that I’d bump into everyday. In fact, the bus that waited out there on the highway didn’t have friends. They were bros in all senses of the term.

I hopped in. A few faces I didn’t recognize. The driver had a mixture of a grin and a frown, although the grin stuck longer. And they were all there, a rather large group in the end. Shripad, knew he was there, it was his idea initially. Kul was making smart-arse remarks that never made sense. Not that half the things we do make sense anyway. Vinod was doing his absurd dance, steps that could well pass as homosexual seduction. Sudhir was singing as he always does. Anil and Vijay. Meet, fag in the mouth. Amey, huddled in a barely visible corner of the bus.

And I was glad to be part of the gang again. It’s what I was here for. In the end, Shripad realised he had fucked up, and introduced the new faces - mercifully. Well, they were new to me, atleast, although I’d heard a lot about them from Shri itself. Panchdoot and Swapnil from Mumbai. The third (formerly) unknown face was Vaibhav, Anil’s pal.

We halted. Booze. No night in Goa is complete without a drink. I looked at myself. Here I was, back in Goa, first time without family. Had the place to myself. Could do anything I wanted. I didn’t have to drive. I looked back, over the last three months. Three, long months. Three months that brought immense happiness, and probably inflicted lifelong agony too. Mixed feelings. I thought I’d let go.

Earlier, I used to booze for the heck of it. To be a part of the crowd. To just, well, socialize. Not anymore. That night, I boozed till I dropped. I succumbed, not to temptation, but to myself. I knew, for sure, that my tryst with alcoholic virginity had ended right there, and I also knew it would begin once I step out of Goa again.

I quit alcohol because I didn’t enjoy the fact that it takes control of your mind. I like to be in-charge, almost always. But somehow, when I thought about the last few months, I had just three words to summarise it all. And really, what the fuck? Rum kissed the throat, my body kissed the sand, and I kissed life a new hello. In retrospect, I’m glad I unwound. I pride myself on my subtlety, but here I was, as open as can be.

Besides, I wouldn’t have the balls to walk up to a lonely girl on the beach in the middle of the night and exchange niceties, but more on that later. Watch this space.

We dragged ourselves back to the hotel the first night. We were reluctant. The sea was lovely. She was too sexy to be ditched. Got back to the rooms, and realised that the sands of Baga had entered my body from every possible orifice. And settled in every little nook and corner where it could. I mean, every one of them. Yes, that one too. I attempted a shower with some success, but I was too exhausted, and soon, was lying face-down on the bed. The legs had formed a ‘V’, and I was fiddling with my cellphone, texting frantically and flipping through photographs of someone I really missed. Someone, I know, I’d have loved to have with me then.

My roommates both shared one dimension of their life with me - TIBCO. Okay, so I’m a geek, a nerd, a whatchamacallit TIBCO ass-licker, and yes - I can talk TIBCO and integration at 2.00 in the night after 3 pegs of Bacardi in Goa. Sue me, but here I am. So we did talk. We discussed random ideas about integration, implementation, and things that eventually bored one of us to drop dead and fall asleep. The other guy was still listening. We digressed into spirituality, family, philosophy, before the voices faded into sleep.

Night numero uno in Goa. It was over.

—

I woke up to a busy morning. I might’ve been the last one to rise. I yawned, and saw my friend walk in with a foam of white around his mouth. Fuck, I had forgotten my toothpaste. I borrowed his with a tinge of embarassment and applied it. The middle-finger came handy, that early in the morning. I know a dentist who would curse me while reading this, but hey, I enjoyed rubbing my teeth with skin and toothpaste. Nature had been calling, overtime, so I responded and showered. I was fresh as a daisy, ready for the day ahead.

We walked into this little restaurant that could pass off as a slum-dweller’s mess. Who cares? The chai was lovely. For the record, I had two. And, for the record, I never have two chais in the morning. Yes, that good.

We drove down to Ambolim beach, one that Shiva insisted was unexplored and virgin. It wasn’t, as we found out eventually, although it ended up being a great beach with few people. And we played volleyball, or perhaps, what we would call volleyball. Because we played like the Sreesanths - with a lot of passion but horribly wayward and erratic. At any rate, we had fun like I’ve rarely had in recent times.

That afternoon, at the shacks on the beach, I guess I tried out nearly every flavour that Bacardi Breezer offered at one session. Cranberry, Jamaican Passion, Wildberry and Melon, atleast. JP was the best, undoubtedly. I shoved in a few gulps of coke, with a bit of soda, and a few sips of beer. Hardly ate, just the one sandwich we shared, and the fries I shamelessly stole from under Kul’s nose.

I was tired. Phsyically, mentally, emotionally. When a man reaches that state, there’s only thing he can do, and no one, not even God Himself, can stop him from it. Yes. Exactly. I slept in the comfort of the back seat amidst the noise, the hulla, and the Marathi song that was blasting in the background, and although it had been ages, it seemed like I had just dozed off to glory when I woke up with a start. I looked out of the window.

The Calangute market, and a drizzle was on. Make that a wet Calangute market. The showers stopped. Oops, it’s here again. Oh, another pause. Someone up there is playing games with us, like He does anyway all throughout life.

Bermudas. T-shirts. Bandanas. Random shit. And I had to shop for someone special. Back to the bus, bags in the hand. And then, back to the hotel. Another quick shower, fresh for the evening.

And what an evening! Yes, I boozed again, more this time - gulped down peg after peg after peg. To make things worse (or better), Meet introduced us to some stupid games that amazingly made sense at the time, although I suspect he thought of them on the fly. The first was a silly little number game, where we had to do our best to ‘not’ guess the number. The one who did went bottoms-up on the drink. Atleast three of us felt the kick, and atleast three of us were sloshed.

The second game was sillier. It involved everyone going ‘Fuzzy Duck’ in order until someone interrupted it with a ‘What Shit’, in which case it went the other way with ‘Ducky Fuzz’. Sounds simple, but I shit you not, it’s far from easy. People quipped all kinds of things, including ‘Fucky does’, ‘Duck Fuzzy’, and ‘Duck fuzz fuck’. A two-peg-sloshed Shiva went on saying ‘fuck the duck’ until he realised that few could hear his suggestion of making love to the aforementioned poultry.

And then, the first sinking feeling of unhappiness, or perhaps, short-lived happiness.

This was the last evening with the gang. The bastards were leaving right after this night. Damn them.

Not that I’d be alone - no - I had planned to stay the extra day myself. Knew I’d have a girl for company all day tomorrow. But, seriously, the gang is irreplacable, and at the risk of sounding gay, dudes - I missed you the next day.

They left, shouts of ‘Goodbye’. Even as they were leaving, profanity hung all around. The bus finally took off, and for the first time ever in Goa, I was alone. Absolutely alone.

—

Only till daybreak. I checked out of the hotel, picked up the car and then the girl - and her friends. Now this one, she’s decent company, but her friends could do with a little bit of moderation, if you may. Either ways, we had breakfast at Coffee Day, if you’d believe it, and then set out for a bit of shopping, as I wondered what came upon me to accompany three women my age on a shopping excursion. Ouch.

So I dropped them at their hotel for lunch and asked the one I knew if she wants to meet when the Sun went into hiding. She agreed.

And I was alone again, but this time - happier. Of course, you want to know why?

The rented Black Santro. Ever seen the inviting Goan roads? Ever driven in Bangalore? It was just me and her. A boy and a toy. Filled up gas. Set out from Panjim, on the way to Calangute. 80 kph. 90. A black Innova honked from behind, and call me racist if you have to - I love black people, black clothes, black i-Pods and black vehicles - so I let the guy pass. 100, now. The car was wobbly, so I pulled down the shutters as the A/C came into play.

110. Sexy roads.

Damn, I loved the place. Picked up a sandwich on the way and then drove out again. Mapusa. Aldona. The Church. Back to Panjim at about 3.00 pm. I was just meandering about in the vehicle, when my cousin-sis saw me, and she screamed ‘Sandy’ loud enough to be heard back in Bangalore. She hopped in with her friend, and mercifully, I had lunch, after threatening to starve through daylight.

Which was a good thing. For the first time in Goa, the food intake had caught up with the booze.

We shopped - correction - *they* shopped - and I did a decent act of babysitting before we went to church at Panjim. I prayed in particular for someone special. Well, I prayed after ages, really. Not many agnostics would mentally prostrate in front of Jesus, but I wonder why, at that moment, Mother Mary seemed just too divine. I couldn’t walk away without asking for that one bit of happiness for that really special girl that deserved it.

It was time to drop my cousin back to her Bangalore-bound bus, but not before a quick zip through Miramar beach. The first time she experienced my driving skills (or perhaps, the lack of it) but it was a ride those two - and I - won’t forget in a long time. Can put good money on that. They left, and I headed back to pick up you-know-who who I ditched in the morning.

Now, yours truly isn’t a fan of silent women, but there are some who are best left speechless. So I didn’t complain all evening when I did all the talking, driving and laughing. Wonder what went wrong that day with her. I didn’t care, I was having a ball anyway, as she remained non-existent throughout. Two things about women, at this stage, from a guy who claims to have understood them in bits.

First, you don’t ask a woman what went wrong. Second, if you did, and she starts talking, don’t argue. In fact, don’t ever argue with the opposite sex. It’s pointless. A waste of time. Brain damage.

They win all the time.

And she won. Fuck me blind, but here I was dating a girl in Goa at Inox. A movie-date, would you believe it? Johnny Gaddar it was, when instead, I could take the Santro to any corner of Goa, to any pub or restaurant in this blessed part of the world, to anywhere she wanted to. She picked Inox, and like I suggested earlier, I knew better than to argue.

The movie was fine. The night, however, sucked. I dropped her back, took a decent round of the Goan roads at night myself, and then retired into the comfort of my Miramar room. Had loads to do the next day.

—

First, I checked out from the hotel in the morning with my kitbag and the rucksack. Then, I drove back all the way North to Calangute and returned the vehicle, bidding her a tearful adieu. Black Santro, for fuck’s sake, I’m gonna miss her! And finally, I picked my stuff up, took a bus down to Panjim, where I shopped for some Kaju and Port Wine (don’t forget to pick it up from me, Miss N) before hopping on to a cab headed for the airport.

Dabolim.

That’s where it all started. This is where my ballad with Goa began. And this is where it ends. I left this building with oozing enthusiasm. I saunder back into it with reluctance.

I’m going to miss you loads.

Adieu

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Bengalooru Bellige - 24/09/2007

September 29, 2007 at 10:32 am · Filed under bangalore, personal, photoblog

05.00 am - I arrive at the Chinnaswamy Stadium - Gate 11 - to purchase tickets (they were being sold at Gate 1, the distance between them, about a kilometer).

There are around 600 people in front of me. Some were sleeping against the same wall others urinate on. Most of them didn’t look like they would come for the match anyway, probably spending the night to make a quick buck on the ticket. Some die-hard fans had come in the tricolor as if it were the match itself.

06.00 am - There’s a bit of a buzz now, and there’s a guy who’s arrived there to sell coffee and some snacks. He doesn’t change his price. People are grateful for a cup of warm, blessed coffee on a chilly Bangalore morning. The cops have finished their drills and are now lining people up.

07.00 am - The first signs of trouble break out. People who tried to sneak into the queues were first talked at, then shoved away. Not a single soul kept mum on the incident. This was more than just a queue. A passer-by would think that our lives depended on it.

Speaking of morning joggers, a rather awkward looking firang who can’t keep his head straight runs about. He gives a quizzical look, almost as if he hasn’t seen many brown people together before. He asks the cops about it. The cop replies and Mr. French still has one clarification. ‘What is cricket?’

The queue is stunned.

08.00 am - They are already selling tickets at the other counters. And they merged my queue with the 200 buck one. Guess what? Did I mention 600? There are about 1500 ahead of me now, easily, after the merger. Crap. A TV9 reporter and a cameraman arrive at the scene. The media is capable of anything. The reporter is dramatizing it as if we were the crowd outside Shaheed Bhagat Singh’s execution, although in numbers, we did give that crowd a run for their money.

09.00 am - Our ticket-counter opens, mercifully, and the queue starts crawling. Based on initial calculations, by the time we get our tickets, it would be about 12 noon. I can’t wait that long. I started looking around for people.

10.00 am - A ‘friend’ walks by, suggesting that he had an extra ticket. I made the purchase, he made his profit, and I drove to work with a ticket in the pocket and a sense of satisfaction all inside of me.

Later, I found out, 30000 tickets in 3 hours.

Why all the trouble? Simple - there are a few things in life that I would go through all this for, even daily, if needed. The crisp smell of the turf. The spirit of cricket all around me. The warmth of our country’s people all around me. And an environment where people forget their race, religion and culture, and simply pour into the stands like rivers of passion to cheer for their home team.

All roads in this part of the world lead to only one place today. India take on the might of the Oz at Bangalore, in a few hours from now.

The Chinnaswamy wicket always had a bit of grass on it. Wickets will be there for the taking. Expect a good battle between bat and ball.

I shall make the move right away as the KSCA have oversold. Ciao. Match on.

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A ‘reporter’ remembers

September 24, 2007 at 11:01 pm · Filed under cricket, personal

I was always the odd-job guy. Did a bit of everything - tech, writing, camerawork, and even arranging indoor cricket at office. On late-nighters and weekends, I transformed our office cubicles to fielding positions, and my team-lead would practice a few catches. The wireless keyboard became a bat, two files mounted on each other were the stumps, and fielders were found in the form of plants, printers and desks.

We were about eight of us, and most were into their late 20s or early 30s. I was the youngest, the kiddo. I was also the most passionate about the game. But at that moment in office, in the middle of the night, we were kids again. And we loved cricket, more than anything else that ever mattered.

So when I got an opportunity to accompany a freelance journalist to do a bit of camerawork for TV9, I jumped. It was the first time with the media, and here I was at the Zayed Cricket Stadium in Abu Dhabi for the DLF cup, plugging in my laptop, setting up the wireless connection. I was in awe of the surroundings - wherever I looked, there were pros. The CricInfo commentators, folks from Times of India, the Star TV cameramen. I was understandably nervous.

I thought I’d take a leak and rushed to the restrooms. A few seconds later, a firang walked in, talking on the phone. Where have you been, Sanjay? Oh, alright, that’ll be fine. I didn’t need to look up to know how it was. Deano was a feet away, taking a leak too. Ali Zaffar, the Pakistani popstar, was running his hands through his hair, looking at himself in the mirror. This was the friendship cup - loads of goodwill on the cards.

We had the press badges for just a day, and were more than keen to make the most of it. We took off, interviewing fans and celebrities alike. I did a few bites as well - and a memorable special thirty-second moment I compiled with kids from a school, where they all quoted their favourite cricketer, one after the other. Dhoni, by then, had infected their hearts.

And there was this gorgeous Indian girl, her face glowing in the tri-colour. There’s something about women and patriotism when they go tother. We spoke to her, and she could only say ‘marry me Yuvraj’. I did mention to her that Yuvraj Singh, at that time, was going out with Kim Sharma. I was, of course, fishing more than reporting or spreading awareness.

India lost that match, but for me, it was more than successful. It rekindled dreams of journalism, and more importantly, it made me happy - happier like I’ve never been before. Out there, on the turf, as the cameras flashed and the players and officials scrambled to bring some order to the chaos, I could’ve sworn I belonged there. I was clicking away too, furiously, while shooting enough videos to fill a hard disk or two. We rushed, as we did earlier, clipped the video, tuned the audio, and uploaded it on the remote server.

I also made my way into the press-conference. I popped the same question to Rahul and Inzy, then the captains. ‘Do you think this friendship idea really works, or is it a way of fabricating goodwill at the surface for the people?’. Later, I was told it was a bold question - I still hadn’t been injected with the fright and sensibility of knowing what to ask. Inzy replied very dryly, suggesting that the sport is the one thing that could bridge the gap between the countries. Rahul was diplomatic - he reiterated the focus on the team while disarmingly drifting away from the questions.

Those two never made it to the crowd. They never knew what it was like to grow up as an Indian among Pakistanis, and support your team with a thousand others. They had no idea of how the fans resorted to religion - screaming Ganapati Bappa Morya or La-ilaaha-illAllah at will, in the stands. There was as much goodwill in the stands as there would be on a battlefield. In retrospect, I’m glad they shied away from the question. Atleast they didn’t lie.

I walked out with the other reporters, wishing real bad if I could pop in the next day too, for the second match. A european woman - mid 30s - walked up to me and complimented the questioned I popped. She asked me who I worked for. I didn’t know what to reply, so I just shrugged and pointed at the badge. “I’m a freelancer.”

“Oh? That’s good. Well, see you tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I would be around tomorrow.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I had the pass for today only. I’m not covering it tomorrow.” I tried to make it sound like I was busy the next day.

“What? But what if you get some time tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Here, give me your badge.”

She stamped it for the next day as well. “If you find time, do drop in.”

I waved goodbye, and as I looked back at her, those pair of foreign eyes had just one thing to say - “I know how much you love this game”. She had seen through me. She knew, for sure, that I wasn’t a reporter. I was just another Indian fan in the ocean.

You can all bet your rear that I was there the next day.

I had cursed the media hype earlier, and I still do, but I came across a few genuine journalists whose life’s objectives were simple: bring the game to the country. They slogged it out there, running around with their cameras and mikes, enjoying the fact that they were bringing those pictures live to a billion people around the world. On that day, I also realised the power of the media. I could walk in, wherever I wanted, through any commando or security-check, and I wouldn’t be questioned.

And then, I realised, how the country had succumbed to this power. And it continues to. And it will.

Here are a few personal shots I managed from my point-and-shoot around the stands and on the turf.

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Bastardisation

September 19, 2007 at 11:31 am · Filed under personal, religion

My heart breaks into a soulful scowl everytime I think about it. Why is it so difficult for the world to accept two people as they are? Why is it oh-so-impossible for a guy and a girl to just lead a sweet little life sugarcoated with the one thing that makes the world go round? What does religion have to do with all this anyway?

A lot. For one thing, legitimacy.

But of course, it isn’t as easy as simply ‘loving’ one another, is it? With feelings come a sense of responsibility - a ‘legitimate’ relationship, if you like, and to sustain the wretched aforementioned ‘L’ word, one needs to have what they call religious compatibility. Because we live in what they call soceity. After all, what would the neighbors think? What would family think? Friends? We can’t just seclude ourselves from the crowd, can we? We all need to co-exist. It matters.

Balls.

Let me tell you what matters. A guy, a girl, and their feelings coupled with the mental maturity to spend the rest of their lives without bitching too much at each other. Period. And yes, because the family has to be ‘taken forward’, the guy’s manhood must work and the woman follows ten minutes of pleasure with nine months in pain. That’s a given - it happens all the time - so before we digress to much, yes - sex.

Oops. Therein lies the problem. That damned ‘L’ word again. What of the kids?

A common scenario, for the heck of it. Hindu guy, Muslim woman. They love each other. Kapish? Nope. Marriage? Sex? Children? But who cares? The couple love one another, and that’s what matters right? The child will grow up and be just fine. But a few questions first.

What does the ‘Hindu law in the nation’ (whatever the fuck that might be) call the child? Take a guess? Yes, but of course - illegitimate. And what does Islam call the child? Take three guesses or three hundred, but we all know it.

Where does this leave the product of love bastard? What does it feel like to wake up one day questioning your own legitimacy in soceity? Is this the price one has to pay for love? Didn’t God and Love go hand in hand, when we last checked?

“He that loveth not, knoweth not God, for God is love.” - John 4:8

To the rest of the world, it’s a quote from the Bible. To me, it’s a paradox.

I don’t care about myself or anyone being bastardised. I don’t care if someone’s a Hindu or a Muslim or a Christian or even a Satanist. Because all roads lead to Rome, and one day the world will wake the fuck up to this reality.

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