And, to round off this short crop of my published writing ... the January issue of Caravan carries a short essay I did about riding Bombay's double-deckers. (A vanishing breed).
Here you are: Back to the frontest.
Comments welcome.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
January 12, 2012
October 16, 2011
Walking the Freedom Trail
The October-November 2011 issue of Conde Nast Traveller is an "India Special". Nevertheless, it carries an essay I wrote after a visit to South Africa last May, perhaps because it includes some musing I did on connections to India in Cape Town's beautiful Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens.
I haven't figured out if the article is online, so the text is below. They called it "Walking the Freedom Trail", different from the title I gave it.
And yes, your comments welcome.
***
Trail to Somewhere
It's a grainy black-and-white photograph, one that practically screams "1960s". No really identifiable face in it, just human forms. Most are in a large crowd, a few off to the side by themselves. In my imagination, one of those figures by himself has his arm up, hand in a fist, shouting something stirring and passionate that, these years later, isn't really identifiable either.
It's in Johannesburg's Apartheid Museum, the photograph. The caption says it was taken at a Cape Town rally, tens of thousands strong. Dating from March 1960, this was one of the early demonstrations against apartheid's perverse pass laws, the mood also fanned that morning by the infamous Sharpeville massacre of a few days before. It was led by Philip Kgosana, then a young student-activist with the Pan African Congress, who lived in a teeming shantytown outside Cape Town. After some hard-nosed negotiation, the police told him that the "Justice" Minister, FC Erasmus, had agreed to meet a small delegation.
"This was an exciting moment," Kgosana would write years later. "Never in the history of South Africa had an 'agitator' forced a racist minister to succumb to an undesirable appointment." Of course, when Kgosana and his colleagues arrived to meet Erasmus, he didn't show up. So much for "justice". Instead, the police arrested them and put them on trial for incitement to public violence.
Days after I saw the photograph, I waited in a convenience store in Pretoria, idly wondering if this was the first time I would meet a figure from a museum exhibit. Kgosana walked in right on time, a stocky man with gentle eyes. Nobody paid him any attention. "Hey guys," I wanted to shout at the shoppers desultorily examining biltong and wafer packets, "this man is in your Apartheid Museum! He's one reason you're here today!"
I held my tongue.
It must be a sign of how far South Africa has come that Kgosana lives today not in a shantytown, but in a comfortable bungalow in a once-whites-only suburb of the city that, more than every other in the country, personified white domination over black. But it's also a sign of that long journey that this figure from the resistance to white rule is now just another 70-something year-old, anonymous in this place. And if people warn you about violent crime in South Africa in these post-apartheid times, the reality also is that this is the continent's most dynamic economy, a vibrant nation with a host of attractions for every kind of tourist.
How far removed from protests against apartheid.
As Kgosana drove me home, I thought: a country subsides into a long night of oppression and brutality. It takes decades of struggle to emerge from that darkness. The guides on the way are heroes large and not-so-large: the Mandelas, but the Kgosanas too. There's an eruption of euphoria in 1994, at journey's end. But inevitably the ordinariness of daily life returns. Which is as it should be.
And that's how Kgosana saw his country. "Sure there's crime in South Africa," he said as we spoke in his comfortable living room, echoing other conversations in other living rooms. "Of course it bothers me. But where did we come from? You can't forget that."
True. After convulsions like South Africa has seen, there will necessarily be a time of uncertainty and unrest. You don't emerge from darkness directly into utopia. Yet if some heroes return to obscurity, as Kgosana has, perhaps that is itself a sign of some normalcy.
Speaking of normalcy and utopias, we visited the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens.
I'll say this: give me one botanical garden, you've given me them all. Oh sure, this expanse of verdant vegetation outside Cape Town is picture-perfect gorgeous. There are elegant bird of paradise flowers (Strelitzia) in dazzling colours, enormous trees, an aroma garden with plant smells familiar and otherwise, and plenty more to gladden a horticulturist's heart. All very impressive, but not quite the place I might have visited on my own.
Then again, that's because I did not know, ahead of time, about the Braille Trail.
Across from the aroma garden, marked by ropes, the Braille Trail meanders into the trees and out again. Just another walk, unless you get into the spirit and use it as it was designed to be used. The name is, of course, the giveaway. This is a self-guided tour designed specifically for the blind. They hold the rope and walk, stopping at regular boards in Braille and English (for those who can't handle Braille). This way, they learn about the trees among which they stroll, the arboreal scents and surfaces that surround them. They get some idea of what fellow-tourists, the sighted ones, experience.
My 11 year-old and I decided to give it a shot.
We grabbed the rope, shut our eyes tight and started walking. For the first few minutes, it was surprisingly hard to keep my eyes closed, to actually trust that I'd be fine without sight, with just the rope to guide me. So I kept opening then, though just slits, unable to shake the silly thought that somebody was watching to see if I cheated. But when I settled into the experience, the eyes stayed closed, it wasn't silly, and I was astonished by just how sensory and fulfilling it was. The 11 year-old, just as charmed.
Without sight, my ears tuned in even faint sounds. My skin registered the gentle breeze. My nose, a series of forest smells. My fingers, the curving strands of rope, the roughness of tree trunks. Twice, I felt my way to a bench for a sit-down, then back to the trail. Simple things when I look back, but they left me refreshed and curiously humbled by this small taste of what it is to be blind.
But more than that, too. All through, words that Nelson Mandela made famous coursed, maybe incongruously, through my mind. Mine was no long walk, but something about this trail had me musing, maybe incongruously, about the one he wrote about:
"I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter … I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can only rest for a moment, for with freedom come responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my long walk is not ended."
Mandela: always thought-provoking. At trail's end, I paid silent tribute to whoever designed this walk, amazed by their singular thoughtfulness. Did they realize it would be so meaningful for the sighted too? After all, walking it with my eyes shut had me contemplating themes and metaphors like darkness and light, new ways of seeing, concern for your fellow human, going bravely into the great unknown. All in about 45 minutes. Long walk, for sure.
And for an Indian, such themes resonate. For they must have meant something, over a century ago, to an Indian whose insight and fibre were forged here. Here, in apartheid South Africa, decades before it woke to freedom and hope.
They remember Gandhi in this country too.
Constitution Hill in Johannesburg, now home to the country's highest court, used to be the site of a notorious prison. The cell where Gandhi was once detained is now a memorial to the man. A serene place to remember him, it has photographs, accounts of his arrests and meetings with various leaders, his writings and even a BBC interview from some months before he died, playing over the buzz of construction next door. This must be one of the few places in the world where you can actually hear Gandhi's thin voice.
From here, Gandhi crossed the ocean to a land yearning for freedom. With a unique cocktail of courage, morality, political savvy and empathy, and with a unprecedented cast of giants among men, he guided India to a new dawn in 1947. Darkness to light, you might say. Our own Braille Trail.
"I can't promise you sunlight and roses," I imagine Philip Kgosana saying that day to the gathered thousands in Cape Town, perhaps to his country itself. "But walk the trail with me. Stay the course. I can promise you hope."
For new dawns, on either side of an ocean, perhaps hope is all you need.
I haven't figured out if the article is online, so the text is below. They called it "Walking the Freedom Trail", different from the title I gave it.
And yes, your comments welcome.
Trail to Somewhere
It's a grainy black-and-white photograph, one that practically screams "1960s". No really identifiable face in it, just human forms. Most are in a large crowd, a few off to the side by themselves. In my imagination, one of those figures by himself has his arm up, hand in a fist, shouting something stirring and passionate that, these years later, isn't really identifiable either.
It's in Johannesburg's Apartheid Museum, the photograph. The caption says it was taken at a Cape Town rally, tens of thousands strong. Dating from March 1960, this was one of the early demonstrations against apartheid's perverse pass laws, the mood also fanned that morning by the infamous Sharpeville massacre of a few days before. It was led by Philip Kgosana, then a young student-activist with the Pan African Congress, who lived in a teeming shantytown outside Cape Town. After some hard-nosed negotiation, the police told him that the "Justice" Minister, FC Erasmus, had agreed to meet a small delegation.
"This was an exciting moment," Kgosana would write years later. "Never in the history of South Africa had an 'agitator' forced a racist minister to succumb to an undesirable appointment." Of course, when Kgosana and his colleagues arrived to meet Erasmus, he didn't show up. So much for "justice". Instead, the police arrested them and put them on trial for incitement to public violence.
Days after I saw the photograph, I waited in a convenience store in Pretoria, idly wondering if this was the first time I would meet a figure from a museum exhibit. Kgosana walked in right on time, a stocky man with gentle eyes. Nobody paid him any attention. "Hey guys," I wanted to shout at the shoppers desultorily examining biltong and wafer packets, "this man is in your Apartheid Museum! He's one reason you're here today!"
I held my tongue.
It must be a sign of how far South Africa has come that Kgosana lives today not in a shantytown, but in a comfortable bungalow in a once-whites-only suburb of the city that, more than every other in the country, personified white domination over black. But it's also a sign of that long journey that this figure from the resistance to white rule is now just another 70-something year-old, anonymous in this place. And if people warn you about violent crime in South Africa in these post-apartheid times, the reality also is that this is the continent's most dynamic economy, a vibrant nation with a host of attractions for every kind of tourist.
How far removed from protests against apartheid.
As Kgosana drove me home, I thought: a country subsides into a long night of oppression and brutality. It takes decades of struggle to emerge from that darkness. The guides on the way are heroes large and not-so-large: the Mandelas, but the Kgosanas too. There's an eruption of euphoria in 1994, at journey's end. But inevitably the ordinariness of daily life returns. Which is as it should be.
And that's how Kgosana saw his country. "Sure there's crime in South Africa," he said as we spoke in his comfortable living room, echoing other conversations in other living rooms. "Of course it bothers me. But where did we come from? You can't forget that."
True. After convulsions like South Africa has seen, there will necessarily be a time of uncertainty and unrest. You don't emerge from darkness directly into utopia. Yet if some heroes return to obscurity, as Kgosana has, perhaps that is itself a sign of some normalcy.
Speaking of normalcy and utopias, we visited the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens.
I'll say this: give me one botanical garden, you've given me them all. Oh sure, this expanse of verdant vegetation outside Cape Town is picture-perfect gorgeous. There are elegant bird of paradise flowers (Strelitzia) in dazzling colours, enormous trees, an aroma garden with plant smells familiar and otherwise, and plenty more to gladden a horticulturist's heart. All very impressive, but not quite the place I might have visited on my own.
Then again, that's because I did not know, ahead of time, about the Braille Trail.
Across from the aroma garden, marked by ropes, the Braille Trail meanders into the trees and out again. Just another walk, unless you get into the spirit and use it as it was designed to be used. The name is, of course, the giveaway. This is a self-guided tour designed specifically for the blind. They hold the rope and walk, stopping at regular boards in Braille and English (for those who can't handle Braille). This way, they learn about the trees among which they stroll, the arboreal scents and surfaces that surround them. They get some idea of what fellow-tourists, the sighted ones, experience.
My 11 year-old and I decided to give it a shot.
We grabbed the rope, shut our eyes tight and started walking. For the first few minutes, it was surprisingly hard to keep my eyes closed, to actually trust that I'd be fine without sight, with just the rope to guide me. So I kept opening then, though just slits, unable to shake the silly thought that somebody was watching to see if I cheated. But when I settled into the experience, the eyes stayed closed, it wasn't silly, and I was astonished by just how sensory and fulfilling it was. The 11 year-old, just as charmed.
Without sight, my ears tuned in even faint sounds. My skin registered the gentle breeze. My nose, a series of forest smells. My fingers, the curving strands of rope, the roughness of tree trunks. Twice, I felt my way to a bench for a sit-down, then back to the trail. Simple things when I look back, but they left me refreshed and curiously humbled by this small taste of what it is to be blind.
But more than that, too. All through, words that Nelson Mandela made famous coursed, maybe incongruously, through my mind. Mine was no long walk, but something about this trail had me musing, maybe incongruously, about the one he wrote about:
"I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter … I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can only rest for a moment, for with freedom come responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my long walk is not ended."
Mandela: always thought-provoking. At trail's end, I paid silent tribute to whoever designed this walk, amazed by their singular thoughtfulness. Did they realize it would be so meaningful for the sighted too? After all, walking it with my eyes shut had me contemplating themes and metaphors like darkness and light, new ways of seeing, concern for your fellow human, going bravely into the great unknown. All in about 45 minutes. Long walk, for sure.
And for an Indian, such themes resonate. For they must have meant something, over a century ago, to an Indian whose insight and fibre were forged here. Here, in apartheid South Africa, decades before it woke to freedom and hope.
They remember Gandhi in this country too.
Constitution Hill in Johannesburg, now home to the country's highest court, used to be the site of a notorious prison. The cell where Gandhi was once detained is now a memorial to the man. A serene place to remember him, it has photographs, accounts of his arrests and meetings with various leaders, his writings and even a BBC interview from some months before he died, playing over the buzz of construction next door. This must be one of the few places in the world where you can actually hear Gandhi's thin voice.
From here, Gandhi crossed the ocean to a land yearning for freedom. With a unique cocktail of courage, morality, political savvy and empathy, and with a unprecedented cast of giants among men, he guided India to a new dawn in 1947. Darkness to light, you might say. Our own Braille Trail.
"I can't promise you sunlight and roses," I imagine Philip Kgosana saying that day to the gathered thousands in Cape Town, perhaps to his country itself. "But walk the trail with me. Stay the course. I can promise you hope."
For new dawns, on either side of an ocean, perhaps hope is all you need.
Silence in the places of men
The current issue of Himal magazine (October-November 2011) is titled "Dust of the road: Trips, travel and journeys". It carries an essay I did based on a road trip through Karnataka, and then a stay in Shillong.
Take a look: Silence in the places of men.
And of course, comments always welcome.
Take a look: Silence in the places of men.
And of course, comments always welcome.
August 15, 2011
Gandhi Out of Africa
The current issue of Forbes India has an essay I wrote after a recent trip to South Africa, and it's nice that on that page they've called it their "Top Story".
Take a look: Gandhi Out of Africa.
Comments welcome, as always.
Take a look: Gandhi Out of Africa.
Comments welcome, as always.
July 22, 2011
Rectifying anomalies in barbers
Notes from a recent trip through the South:
How terminology varies is fascinating, always. Like, you call them signals, but in South Africa, they're known as robots. Just as well that somebody told me that ("Turn right at the second robot") before I ran into the word painted in large letters across the street. "Robot Ahead", now that might prove somewhat unsettling.
Just as fascinating is a word they use in Tamil Nadu. I've known them as roundabouts, and possibly there are other names too. In TN, the word is "roundana". I first heard it from the back of the car I was driving one evening, as part of the directions to where we were going ("Turn right at the next roundana"). The next morning, I saw it on a spiffy road sign, pointing to the said roundana.
Later discussion suggested that it comes from "round thana", though one spirited lady (you know who you are) put forward a case for "round turner". Either way, I like the evolved word. Nice ring to it (no pun intended), roundana.
***
Speaking of etymology and evolution, Chennai has a "Barber's Bridge", I learned on this trip. The story goes that when built in British times, it was called "Hamilton Bridge" after some engineer or official. Why is it called "Barber's" now?
Story goes too that Tamil-speakers pronounced "Hamilton" as something approximating "Ambilton", and that got corrupted to "ambattan", the Tamil word for "barber". And much later, some English-speaking official asked for a translation of this Tamil-sounding word, and thus did Barber's Bridge make its appearance.
All of which reminds me of how Panaji got transformed to Panjim (in particular, the pronunciation as "pan-gym"), and also how "Puduseri" mutated into "Pondicherry". Those stories, another time.
***
Then of course I must list the things I learned while travelling in an impossibly crowded bus to the railway station.
* A large wall of a school-building had these two words painted in giant blue letters: "Washing Water". I tried for a while to figure how you might wash water, then gave up.
* A nondescript building had this sign out front: "Garments Holdall Making Training Unit". I seriously considered alighting and signing up for the training course on the spot, but then realized my Rs 4 bus ticket would go waste.
* Truck on the side of the road had these words on the side: "Love Earth or Leave Earth". Kind of mildly apocalyptic.
* "Don't Take Eatables From Strangers They May Be Drugged." Enough said.
***
Wandering a college campus, I ran across a series of grey electrical junction boxes.
The first said: "BORN MAX (1882-1970) Founder of Quantum Theory in Physics."
The second said: "BOYLE ROBERT (1627-1691) Founder of Boyle's Law."
The third said: "ARCHIMEDES Founder of Archimedean Principle."
The fourth said: "THOMAS ALVA EDISON Inventor of the Incandescent Lamp and 1093 Discoveries."
Question: Where was I wandering?
***
Another railway station had enormous cutouts of a man in shirt and dhoti, with these words: "M Raghavaiah, GS NFIR and President, SRES. Our Hearty Welcome to Architect of VI CPC in Indian Railwaymen (payment of HPCA, NDA NHP MACI) and the only leader of all VI CPC anomalies should be rectified."
That's about as many acronyms as I can handle on a given day. Can someone explain to me what it all means?
The same station also had two large stone plaques set into the side of a building, commemorating the inauguration of the "stop pages" of certain trains.
I had no idea that stoppages of trains were marked by plaques. Learn something every day.
***
On the platform, waiting for my train, I found what I've been searching all my life for: the Crew Booking Lobby. I sneaked a peak inside. What do they do in crew booking lobbies, I wonder?
On a glass partition just inside the door I found some kind of answer: "Momentary Carelessness May Cause Valuable Lives."
Yup, I couldn't agree more.
How terminology varies is fascinating, always. Like, you call them signals, but in South Africa, they're known as robots. Just as well that somebody told me that ("Turn right at the second robot") before I ran into the word painted in large letters across the street. "Robot Ahead", now that might prove somewhat unsettling.
Just as fascinating is a word they use in Tamil Nadu. I've known them as roundabouts, and possibly there are other names too. In TN, the word is "roundana". I first heard it from the back of the car I was driving one evening, as part of the directions to where we were going ("Turn right at the next roundana"). The next morning, I saw it on a spiffy road sign, pointing to the said roundana.
Later discussion suggested that it comes from "round thana", though one spirited lady (you know who you are) put forward a case for "round turner". Either way, I like the evolved word. Nice ring to it (no pun intended), roundana.
Speaking of etymology and evolution, Chennai has a "Barber's Bridge", I learned on this trip. The story goes that when built in British times, it was called "Hamilton Bridge" after some engineer or official. Why is it called "Barber's" now?
Story goes too that Tamil-speakers pronounced "Hamilton" as something approximating "Ambilton", and that got corrupted to "ambattan", the Tamil word for "barber". And much later, some English-speaking official asked for a translation of this Tamil-sounding word, and thus did Barber's Bridge make its appearance.
All of which reminds me of how Panaji got transformed to Panjim (in particular, the pronunciation as "pan-gym"), and also how "Puduseri" mutated into "Pondicherry". Those stories, another time.
Then of course I must list the things I learned while travelling in an impossibly crowded bus to the railway station.
* A large wall of a school-building had these two words painted in giant blue letters: "Washing Water". I tried for a while to figure how you might wash water, then gave up.
* A nondescript building had this sign out front: "Garments Holdall Making Training Unit". I seriously considered alighting and signing up for the training course on the spot, but then realized my Rs 4 bus ticket would go waste.
* Truck on the side of the road had these words on the side: "Love Earth or Leave Earth". Kind of mildly apocalyptic.
* "Don't Take Eatables From Strangers They May Be Drugged." Enough said.
Wandering a college campus, I ran across a series of grey electrical junction boxes.
The first said: "BORN MAX (1882-1970) Founder of Quantum Theory in Physics."
The second said: "BOYLE ROBERT (1627-1691) Founder of Boyle's Law."
The third said: "ARCHIMEDES Founder of Archimedean Principle."
The fourth said: "THOMAS ALVA EDISON Inventor of the Incandescent Lamp and 1093 Discoveries."
Question: Where was I wandering?
Another railway station had enormous cutouts of a man in shirt and dhoti, with these words: "M Raghavaiah, GS NFIR and President, SRES. Our Hearty Welcome to Architect of VI CPC in Indian Railwaymen (payment of HPCA, NDA NHP MACI) and the only leader of all VI CPC anomalies should be rectified."
That's about as many acronyms as I can handle on a given day. Can someone explain to me what it all means?
The same station also had two large stone plaques set into the side of a building, commemorating the inauguration of the "stop pages" of certain trains.
I had no idea that stoppages of trains were marked by plaques. Learn something every day.
On the platform, waiting for my train, I found what I've been searching all my life for: the Crew Booking Lobby. I sneaked a peak inside. What do they do in crew booking lobbies, I wonder?
On a glass partition just inside the door I found some kind of answer: "Momentary Carelessness May Cause Valuable Lives."
Yup, I couldn't agree more.
July 03, 2011
Enemy in our hands
The newspaper Mint has a Saturday "Lounge" section. Yesterday (July 2), I had an article there about driving through the Karoo desert in South Africa.
I need to tell you that the essay mentions a stolid cat.
Please do take a look: The Enemy in Our Hands.
All comments welcome.
I need to tell you that the essay mentions a stolid cat.
Please do take a look: The Enemy in Our Hands.
All comments welcome.
June 23, 2011
About nonchalant claims
One morning exactly 21 years ago, I walked up the stairs to a travel agency near my home in Bombay. At short notice, I had to make a trip to Madras (what Chennai was then called) and Visakhapatnam. There wasn't enough time to reserve train tickets, and I didn't have the time for train travel anyway. So I asked the lady at the agency to get me air tickets.
At the time, air travel within India meant Indian Airlines. (If you can imagine). There was also no convenient web, so she had to call Indian Airlines to reserve seats for me on the three flights: Bombay to Madras in four days, Madras to Vizag about three days later, Vizag to Bombay another three days after that.
That evening, she had my tickets for me. I remember exactly what I paid because for some reason I preserved her bill for years. For all three flights, a total of Rs 1365.
It was a fun trip, and included both a near-accident with a APSRTC bus and a demand by its bus driver that I expose the film in my camera. Those stories, another time. Also, food of sorts was served on all three flights.
This morning something reminded me of that trip. Idly, I decided to check what it would cost me to do it today, in this era of e-tickets and "discount" or "low-cost" airlines. Same constraints: fly four days from now to Chennai, three days after that to Vizag, another three days after that back here to Bombay. I punched in all these details into my nearest online booking engine and selected the cheapest option (of dozens offered) each time.
The flights it gave me: Bombay to Chennai on Air India Express. Chennai to Vizag on Kingfisher Red. Vizag to Bombay on Jet Konnect. "Discount" airlines all.
The total for all three flights: Rs 12182.
In 21 years, the cost for this three-flight trip has risen from Rs 1365 to Rs 12182, a factor of 8.92.
Of course there has been inflation all through that time. Does inflation account for this rise in the cost of flight tickets? Well, on this page, I learn that between 1969 and 2010, "the average inflation rate in India was 7.99 percent." Apply 21 years of that rate to Rs 1365, you get Rs 6858.
Today's ticket price, Rs 12182, is nearly twice that amount.
Ah, you say, but 7.99 is the average since 1969. Perhaps inflation has been generally higher than that in the years since 1990? Well, that's a fair assumption. On this page, I found a table listing year-by-year inflation rates from 1980. Take the numbers from 1990 onwards and apply them to Rs 1365: you get Rs 9500.
Today's ticket price, Rs 12182, is nearly Rs 2700 greater than that amount.
Every time I hear one of those nonchalant claims about how the cost of air travel in India has dropped since the coming of competition for Indian Airlines, yes every time, I think of numbers like these: Rs 1365, Rs 6858, Rs 9500, Rs 12182.
And then I know just what those nonchalant claims are worth.
***
As an aside, for Rs 1365 to rise to Rs 12182 in 21 years, inflation would have had to be just under 11 percent in every one of those years.
As another aside, I have not included in the Rs 12182 the amounts I'd have to pay for food of sorts on those flights today, compared to zero in 1990.
As a third aside, if your reaction to this is "So you want to return to the days of lousy IA service?" please spare me. That's not the point here.
At the time, air travel within India meant Indian Airlines. (If you can imagine). There was also no convenient web, so she had to call Indian Airlines to reserve seats for me on the three flights: Bombay to Madras in four days, Madras to Vizag about three days later, Vizag to Bombay another three days after that.
That evening, she had my tickets for me. I remember exactly what I paid because for some reason I preserved her bill for years. For all three flights, a total of Rs 1365.
It was a fun trip, and included both a near-accident with a APSRTC bus and a demand by its bus driver that I expose the film in my camera. Those stories, another time. Also, food of sorts was served on all three flights.
This morning something reminded me of that trip. Idly, I decided to check what it would cost me to do it today, in this era of e-tickets and "discount" or "low-cost" airlines. Same constraints: fly four days from now to Chennai, three days after that to Vizag, another three days after that back here to Bombay. I punched in all these details into my nearest online booking engine and selected the cheapest option (of dozens offered) each time.
The flights it gave me: Bombay to Chennai on Air India Express. Chennai to Vizag on Kingfisher Red. Vizag to Bombay on Jet Konnect. "Discount" airlines all.
The total for all three flights: Rs 12182.
In 21 years, the cost for this three-flight trip has risen from Rs 1365 to Rs 12182, a factor of 8.92.
Of course there has been inflation all through that time. Does inflation account for this rise in the cost of flight tickets? Well, on this page, I learn that between 1969 and 2010, "the average inflation rate in India was 7.99 percent." Apply 21 years of that rate to Rs 1365, you get Rs 6858.
Today's ticket price, Rs 12182, is nearly twice that amount.
Ah, you say, but 7.99 is the average since 1969. Perhaps inflation has been generally higher than that in the years since 1990? Well, that's a fair assumption. On this page, I found a table listing year-by-year inflation rates from 1980. Take the numbers from 1990 onwards and apply them to Rs 1365: you get Rs 9500.
Today's ticket price, Rs 12182, is nearly Rs 2700 greater than that amount.
Every time I hear one of those nonchalant claims about how the cost of air travel in India has dropped since the coming of competition for Indian Airlines, yes every time, I think of numbers like these: Rs 1365, Rs 6858, Rs 9500, Rs 12182.
And then I know just what those nonchalant claims are worth.
As an aside, for Rs 1365 to rise to Rs 12182 in 21 years, inflation would have had to be just under 11 percent in every one of those years.
As another aside, I have not included in the Rs 12182 the amounts I'd have to pay for food of sorts on those flights today, compared to zero in 1990.
As a third aside, if your reaction to this is "So you want to return to the days of lousy IA service?" please spare me. That's not the point here.
June 04, 2011
Find the teer
The friend wrote from across the country, "find the teer". I had visions of going up to Shillong residents to ask "Where's the teer?" -- and have them give me suspicious glances and edge swiftly away. But it didn't turn out that way. The first person I asked knew what I meant and gave us directions.
"Teer": arrow. Every afternoon, a couple of dozen archers gather on a nondescript ground in Shillong and shoot arrows at a target, two different spells of ten minutes each. A few hundred people, mostly men, gather to watch. That day, we joined them.
We got there just after the first spell was over. Waiting for the second, we watched a few men line up to throw arrows -- yes, throw them, not shoot -- at a small straw target several dozen feet away. One arm cocked behind the ear, the other pointing at the target, take a step forward and, in one swift smooth blur of the cocked arm, throw. Amazing how many of the long slender bamboo missiles struck home.
But this was merely a teaser. Half an hour later, several men who had been tending lovingly to their arrows suddenly rise and position themselves along a curved shooting gallery. They have a much larger target, a straw cylinder on a stick, to aim for, also several dozen feet away across the ground. At a quiet signal, arrows begin slicing through the air in their hundreds. Absolute silence, except for the twanging of bow-strings and gentle thwacks as the arrows either hit home or hit the ground beyond.
Ten minutes like this and a man raises a tarp: time's up. Crowd surges forth. Men peer curiously at the now pincushion-like target. Officials gather the successful arrows, sit in a row. They count. They stuff the arrows, ten by ten, into square holes. Crowd waits, still in absolute silence.
Finally, an official announces "Four hundred and twenty!" But he also has a bunch of arrows in his fist. Walks ostentatiously toward the crowd, throws arrows from the bunch into the ground. One, two, three -- now the crowd counts -- "four, five, six!"
Breaths are released. A hubbub ensues. The crowd disperses to various tables to collect their winnings. 426 arrows hit the target today; drop the "4" and you have today's winning number -- 26.
Thus does Shillong gamble. Find the teer.
"Teer": arrow. Every afternoon, a couple of dozen archers gather on a nondescript ground in Shillong and shoot arrows at a target, two different spells of ten minutes each. A few hundred people, mostly men, gather to watch. That day, we joined them.
We got there just after the first spell was over. Waiting for the second, we watched a few men line up to throw arrows -- yes, throw them, not shoot -- at a small straw target several dozen feet away. One arm cocked behind the ear, the other pointing at the target, take a step forward and, in one swift smooth blur of the cocked arm, throw. Amazing how many of the long slender bamboo missiles struck home.
But this was merely a teaser. Half an hour later, several men who had been tending lovingly to their arrows suddenly rise and position themselves along a curved shooting gallery. They have a much larger target, a straw cylinder on a stick, to aim for, also several dozen feet away across the ground. At a quiet signal, arrows begin slicing through the air in their hundreds. Absolute silence, except for the twanging of bow-strings and gentle thwacks as the arrows either hit home or hit the ground beyond.
Ten minutes like this and a man raises a tarp: time's up. Crowd surges forth. Men peer curiously at the now pincushion-like target. Officials gather the successful arrows, sit in a row. They count. They stuff the arrows, ten by ten, into square holes. Crowd waits, still in absolute silence.
Finally, an official announces "Four hundred and twenty!" But he also has a bunch of arrows in his fist. Walks ostentatiously toward the crowd, throws arrows from the bunch into the ground. One, two, three -- now the crowd counts -- "four, five, six!"
Breaths are released. A hubbub ensues. The crowd disperses to various tables to collect their winnings. 426 arrows hit the target today; drop the "4" and you have today's winning number -- 26.
Thus does Shillong gamble. Find the teer.
May 31, 2011
Baubles, but no trouble
Notes from a sojourn in South Africa, drawn at random. Maybe more to come.
For a town with a huge hole in its middle, Kimberley does a fine job of keeping it hidden. Wherever we drove, we'd run into signs that said "Big Hole 2km" with an arrow. And we'd follow that arrow to the next sign that said the same thing, though one time the "2" had morphed into "3". Finally we rolled down the passenger-side window and asked a slender man on the pavement.
"Two kilometres that way", he said, pointing to our right.
All right, I made that up. He said to go to the next "robot" -- the common way to refer to a set of lights in this country -- and turn right, and there it would be.
There it indeed was. But first we were waved into a parking lot by a woman in a blue uniform whose only work appeared to be such waving. Then we were waved into a parking spot by a man in a blue uniform whose only work appeared to be such waving. Then we were asked to pay what seemed an unseemly sum to merely peer into a hole. Then we walked up a ramp, and there it was.
The world's largest man-made hole. Evidence of humankind's inexplicable appetite for eminently useless shiny baubles. You know, those things called diamonds.
Me, I prefer the baubles I nearly snagged in New Orleans once, recounted here, not least for the lead up to nearly snagging them.
***
Driving out of Cape Town in our Daihatsu (yes, the make is relevant to this story), we stopped by the side of the highway to take a picture I wanted. It was an overcast, windy day, thus pretty cold outside. I didn't feel like exiting the car, so I rolled the window down and aimed the camera.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a car zipping past us, a little too close, and then coming to a stop about 50m ahead of us. A cop? But it had no lights on top. I ignored it and went back to my camera.
Then a man in blue shirtsleeves emerged from it and, visibly shivering, started running back towards us. As he did so, I noticed that the car was also a Daihatsu, and in fact had "Imperial Daihatsu" painted on the back. He arrived at my window and asked, "Is everything all right? Are you in trouble?"
Yes, I said, in surprise. Why do you ask?
"Oh, you know we never see Daihatsus stopped on the roadside, so I saw you and just thought I'd stop to ask if you were OK. I'm with the company."
An amazingly thoughtful gesture, and also excellent PR for Daihatsu. I thanked him, we shook hands and he ran back, still shivering, to his car. So if I ever have to buy a car, and if Daihatsus are then available in India, this one incident alone will make me seriously consider their models.
For a town with a huge hole in its middle, Kimberley does a fine job of keeping it hidden. Wherever we drove, we'd run into signs that said "Big Hole 2km" with an arrow. And we'd follow that arrow to the next sign that said the same thing, though one time the "2" had morphed into "3". Finally we rolled down the passenger-side window and asked a slender man on the pavement.
"Two kilometres that way", he said, pointing to our right.
All right, I made that up. He said to go to the next "robot" -- the common way to refer to a set of lights in this country -- and turn right, and there it would be.
There it indeed was. But first we were waved into a parking lot by a woman in a blue uniform whose only work appeared to be such waving. Then we were waved into a parking spot by a man in a blue uniform whose only work appeared to be such waving. Then we were asked to pay what seemed an unseemly sum to merely peer into a hole. Then we walked up a ramp, and there it was.
The world's largest man-made hole. Evidence of humankind's inexplicable appetite for eminently useless shiny baubles. You know, those things called diamonds.
Me, I prefer the baubles I nearly snagged in New Orleans once, recounted here, not least for the lead up to nearly snagging them.
Driving out of Cape Town in our Daihatsu (yes, the make is relevant to this story), we stopped by the side of the highway to take a picture I wanted. It was an overcast, windy day, thus pretty cold outside. I didn't feel like exiting the car, so I rolled the window down and aimed the camera.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a car zipping past us, a little too close, and then coming to a stop about 50m ahead of us. A cop? But it had no lights on top. I ignored it and went back to my camera.
Then a man in blue shirtsleeves emerged from it and, visibly shivering, started running back towards us. As he did so, I noticed that the car was also a Daihatsu, and in fact had "Imperial Daihatsu" painted on the back. He arrived at my window and asked, "Is everything all right? Are you in trouble?"
Yes, I said, in surprise. Why do you ask?
"Oh, you know we never see Daihatsus stopped on the roadside, so I saw you and just thought I'd stop to ask if you were OK. I'm with the company."
An amazingly thoughtful gesture, and also excellent PR for Daihatsu. I thanked him, we shook hands and he ran back, still shivering, to his car. So if I ever have to buy a car, and if Daihatsus are then available in India, this one incident alone will make me seriously consider their models.
May 22, 2011
Indian abroad
Many more Indians on this sojourn in South Africa than I've seen on previous trips to other places. I don't mean the local Indians, most of whom are from Durban. I mean the Indian tourist, now appearing in tourist destinations everywhere.
Thus it was that I heard the distinctive twang of Goan Konkani on top of Table Mountain in Cape Town, and then in other places around the city. A whole group of Goans, on a package tour. Another group spoke Gujarati as they raced camera-first through the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. Another still warbled among themselves in Hindi.
A middle-aged couple got talking to us at the lighthouse on Cape Point. "Where have you come from?" they asked.
Bombay, I said.
"Bombay?!" they exclaimed, noticeably excited by the mention of the name. Then: "Which tour agency?"
On our own, I said, which set off some quick worried muttering in Tamil. When I interjected something in the language, they grew noticeably even more excited. "From Matunga?" she asked.
At Kirstenbosch, that group of Indians -- kids to grandparents, it looked like -- followed a guide about. But only one or two seemed to be paying any attention to what he was saying. The rest were gambolling along, bouncing off on and off steps, getting photographed against a railing, looking everywhere except at the plants and flowers.
No, but it's really, really good to see so many Indians out touring the world. For all kinds of reasons.
Though not always so good. Also at Cape Point was a large family: apparently most of the wives of six brothers, assorted kids and a few of the six brothers too. They had a guide who was valiantly explaining various things. Like at Kirstenbosch, nobody paid him much mind. Maybe because of the rush their trip was: they had been at Table Mountain in the morning, and were now here at the Cape by 230pm. Took our breath away: each of those two had been an entire day's outing for us.
Done with their visit, the family started piling into their big Volvo bus. Two kids, a fat one about 17 and a thin one about 9, loitered about near me. The younger one took something from his mouth, rolled it into a handful of paper and started looking around for somewhere to fling the whole mess.
Came the loud instructions from their father, halfway to the bus and anxious to round everyone up. "Garden mein pheko," he said, pointing to a patch of green lined elegantly with flowers. "Chalo, chalo, garden mein pheko!" ("Come on, throw it in the garden!")
And the older kid lined up to fling whatever it was into the garden.
I had to say something. "Please, yahan itne saare dustbin hain! Usme kyon nahin?"
The father gave me a long black look, then silently directed his son to the closest dustbin. Not six paces from where they stood.
Thus it was that I heard the distinctive twang of Goan Konkani on top of Table Mountain in Cape Town, and then in other places around the city. A whole group of Goans, on a package tour. Another group spoke Gujarati as they raced camera-first through the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. Another still warbled among themselves in Hindi.
A middle-aged couple got talking to us at the lighthouse on Cape Point. "Where have you come from?" they asked.
Bombay, I said.
"Bombay?!" they exclaimed, noticeably excited by the mention of the name. Then: "Which tour agency?"
On our own, I said, which set off some quick worried muttering in Tamil. When I interjected something in the language, they grew noticeably even more excited. "From Matunga?" she asked.
At Kirstenbosch, that group of Indians -- kids to grandparents, it looked like -- followed a guide about. But only one or two seemed to be paying any attention to what he was saying. The rest were gambolling along, bouncing off on and off steps, getting photographed against a railing, looking everywhere except at the plants and flowers.
No, but it's really, really good to see so many Indians out touring the world. For all kinds of reasons.
Though not always so good. Also at Cape Point was a large family: apparently most of the wives of six brothers, assorted kids and a few of the six brothers too. They had a guide who was valiantly explaining various things. Like at Kirstenbosch, nobody paid him much mind. Maybe because of the rush their trip was: they had been at Table Mountain in the morning, and were now here at the Cape by 230pm. Took our breath away: each of those two had been an entire day's outing for us.
Done with their visit, the family started piling into their big Volvo bus. Two kids, a fat one about 17 and a thin one about 9, loitered about near me. The younger one took something from his mouth, rolled it into a handful of paper and started looking around for somewhere to fling the whole mess.
Came the loud instructions from their father, halfway to the bus and anxious to round everyone up. "Garden mein pheko," he said, pointing to a patch of green lined elegantly with flowers. "Chalo, chalo, garden mein pheko!" ("Come on, throw it in the garden!")
And the older kid lined up to fling whatever it was into the garden.
I had to say something. "Please, yahan itne saare dustbin hain! Usme kyon nahin?"
The father gave me a long black look, then silently directed his son to the closest dustbin. Not six paces from where they stood.
May 21, 2011
Good hope
So we arrive at the Cape of Good Hope two days ago. There's a wooden sign there, English and Afrikaans, telling you where we are. (At the Cape of GH, in case you're not paying attention). We emerge from the car, get our jackets on, gasp at the deep blue sea. Seconds behind us are a couple of enormous tour buses that disgorge hordes of Korean or Malaysian or Japanese folks. They are enormously excited and leap about with whoops of delight.
Then they all run to the wooden sign and line up behind it, some stretching their arms out in what I surmise is relief. ("Hoo boy! that bus journey from Seoul has got me exhausted!")
Someone produces a long banner which they drape over the sign so completely that you can no longer see where you are. The sign says "2010 Supremacy Summit Excellence Award". A woman braces to take a photograph of the gang. I notice that nearly all the women, but nearly none of the men, are wearing sunglasses.
Three thoughts occur to me. No, four. No, five.
* 2010 is over.
* If a "Supremacy Summit Excellence" is 5 months late with its date, how excellent is it anyway?
* What is a Supremacy Summit?
* Someday these Supremacy Summit guys are going to look at this photo and say to themselves: "Hey, where the hell were we when we took this shot?" That's when they'll remember the benefits of not covering up signposts.
* What's with the gender divided sunglasses?
Incidentally, it's not just one photo. I notice that the photographer is festooned with cameras, must be easily two dozen around her neck with more in her hands. Clearly, every single member of the Supremacy Summit has given her her/his camera to shoot the scene. (The usual bane of the digital camera age).
She looks a mite bent over, so much so that I fear she might topple on her face. But bravely, she soldiers on, taking photo after photo of the whooping Supremacy gang. Pretty soon, I understand that it is going to be a long time, possibly weeks, before she is finished and the sign is removed and the world can once more read the wooden sign to know what this particular spot is. So we give up our hopes for such a shot and set out on a trek to the top of the craggy hills behind.
Half an hour later we stop to catch our breath and take in the magnificent view. Far below, like frantic ants, the Supremacy Summit folks are still whooping and waving from behind the banner-obscured "C of GH" sign.
Then they all run to the wooden sign and line up behind it, some stretching their arms out in what I surmise is relief. ("Hoo boy! that bus journey from Seoul has got me exhausted!")
Someone produces a long banner which they drape over the sign so completely that you can no longer see where you are. The sign says "2010 Supremacy Summit Excellence Award". A woman braces to take a photograph of the gang. I notice that nearly all the women, but nearly none of the men, are wearing sunglasses.
Three thoughts occur to me. No, four. No, five.
* 2010 is over.
* If a "Supremacy Summit Excellence" is 5 months late with its date, how excellent is it anyway?
* What is a Supremacy Summit?
* Someday these Supremacy Summit guys are going to look at this photo and say to themselves: "Hey, where the hell were we when we took this shot?" That's when they'll remember the benefits of not covering up signposts.
* What's with the gender divided sunglasses?
Incidentally, it's not just one photo. I notice that the photographer is festooned with cameras, must be easily two dozen around her neck with more in her hands. Clearly, every single member of the Supremacy Summit has given her her/his camera to shoot the scene. (The usual bane of the digital camera age).
She looks a mite bent over, so much so that I fear she might topple on her face. But bravely, she soldiers on, taking photo after photo of the whooping Supremacy gang. Pretty soon, I understand that it is going to be a long time, possibly weeks, before she is finished and the sign is removed and the world can once more read the wooden sign to know what this particular spot is. So we give up our hopes for such a shot and set out on a trek to the top of the craggy hills behind.
Half an hour later we stop to catch our breath and take in the magnificent view. Far below, like frantic ants, the Supremacy Summit folks are still whooping and waving from behind the banner-obscured "C of GH" sign.
March 08, 2011
The Sly Company ... : a review
While I'm too distracted to blog in this space steadily, please bear with me as I point you to some of my other writing as it pops up here and there ...
Rahul Bhattacharya's first book was Pundits from Pakistan, an absorbing account of the Indian cricket team's tour of Pakistan in 2004. For his second book, he turned to fiction. It is a novel, The Sly Company of People Who Care. Tehelka asked me to read it; my review appears in the magazine here: This book is pure narcissism.
Rahul Bhattacharya's first book was Pundits from Pakistan, an absorbing account of the Indian cricket team's tour of Pakistan in 2004. For his second book, he turned to fiction. It is a novel, The Sly Company of People Who Care. Tehelka asked me to read it; my review appears in the magazine here: This book is pure narcissism.
Where the tomatoes cross
The current issue of Forbes India (dated March 11) carries an article I wrote for their "Recliner" section. It's about Major Habib, who returned home to Kapurthala after 62 years to meet his friend from his youth, Rattan Chand Ahluwalia.
Take a look: Major Habib Ahmed's Journey From Pakistan to India. (My original title was "Where the Tomatoes Cross").
The coda that's not in the article: Rattan Chand died last year, just short of his 95th birthday.
Take a look: Major Habib Ahmed's Journey From Pakistan to India. (My original title was "Where the Tomatoes Cross").
The coda that's not in the article: Rattan Chand died last year, just short of his 95th birthday.
January 22, 2011
Post-colonial flight
Today's Mint Lounge carries an essay I did on a recent trip to Laitkynsew, Meghalaya. It (the essay) discusses a post office, Bangladesh and a paper plane, and even has a mention of Hatuey.
Check here: Post-colonial flight.
Your comments welcome.
Check here: Post-colonial flight.
Your comments welcome.
November 15, 2010
Driving Home: Jonathan Raban
Forgot to post this from a few weeks ago. The Hindustan Times asked me to review Jonathan Raban's new collection of essays, Driving Home. My review appeared on October 22, and you can read it here.
Comments welcome.
Comments welcome.
Went and flew
Flew two days ago from Delhi to Bombay. I have nothing against the airline we chose; I have flown it before and been fully satisfied. But this time the experience turned into a peculiar comedy of sorts.
Just before 1130, the monitor displaying flight statuses said "Gate Open" for our flight, which had been originally scheduled to leave at 1125. So we walked down to the relevant gate, where things looked chaotic. (Then again, most gates looked chaotic that morning). People were crowded around 2-3 uniformed officials, all talking in low, urgent tones. The officials didn't seem to be saying much. A few passengers pushed through the crowd and harangued the officials. I had no desire to add to whatever pressure the uniforms felt, so I got in the line and pulled out my book ("Being John McEnroe") to read while we waited.
One of the haranguers came back past me, telling a friend behind me that the PM was flying in, so "no traffic movements at all." Another came back muttering "bullshit cheapos" under his breath. I tried to stay patient, kept reading.
At exactly noon, someone announced the departure of our flight. Many folks milling around suddenly snapped to attention and joined the line. We showed our boarding passes and clambered up steep stairs into the bus. When it was bursting with passengers, it moved. At walking pace -- I am not making this up -- we meandered all the way across the tarmac to an aircraft with a smartly-coloured tail. When we neared, I noticed passengers streaming out of the plane. It had clearly just landed and was still offloading passengers.
So we waited. From where our bus stood, I had a good view of a moving ramp being used to load baggage belonging to Delhi passengers like me onto the plane. From a cart, two handlers put a bag on the ramp. Then another. Both moved angularly upwards. At the top, one was stopped by the lip of the aircraft's baggage compartment door. The other bag bumped gently into this one, then just as gently toppled off the ramp and fell about 15 feet to the ground below.
In quick succession, seven more bags did the same slow-motion toppling act. Like a Marx Brothers film. I didn't know whether to be amused or angry. In between, I did see my own bag making the ascent, and somehow it didn't fall. My bottle of home-made chutney would survive.
Eventually, we climbed the steps into the plane and found our seats. Within minutes, the hostess asked us for our boarding passes. There were three others who had the same seats as us, assigned to them. This turned out to be a common complaint this morning: up and down the plane, people were finding folks sitting on their assigned seats who had been assigned those seats too.
The staff took some time to sort all this confusion out. In between one man who was escorted to a free seat suddenly balked and began shouting: "Yeh koi tarika hai seat badalne ka?" ("Is this any way to change my seat?") He refused to sit down unless he was given his originally assigned seat, now taken by someone else also assigned to that seat. The airline official explained that the flight could not leave unless he sat down. Eventually he sat.
We left the gate at 1305. An hour and 40 minutes late.
On the ground in Bombay, we were standing at the conveyor belt waiting for our bag to arrive. Before the belt started moving, a uniformed head poked through the plastic strips at the end and asked my 11 year-old, standing nearest to the strips: "Yeh [the airline name] hai, na?" ("This is [the airline name], right?")
Which, all in all, seemed like an appropriate coda to an oddball flight experience.
***
All right, you sharp-eyed dudettes and dudes will have noticed that I excised the airline name since I first posted this. Just that I'm not interested in any possible lengthy wrangles.
Just before 1130, the monitor displaying flight statuses said "Gate Open" for our flight, which had been originally scheduled to leave at 1125. So we walked down to the relevant gate, where things looked chaotic. (Then again, most gates looked chaotic that morning). People were crowded around 2-3 uniformed officials, all talking in low, urgent tones. The officials didn't seem to be saying much. A few passengers pushed through the crowd and harangued the officials. I had no desire to add to whatever pressure the uniforms felt, so I got in the line and pulled out my book ("Being John McEnroe") to read while we waited.
One of the haranguers came back past me, telling a friend behind me that the PM was flying in, so "no traffic movements at all." Another came back muttering "bullshit cheapos" under his breath. I tried to stay patient, kept reading.
At exactly noon, someone announced the departure of our flight. Many folks milling around suddenly snapped to attention and joined the line. We showed our boarding passes and clambered up steep stairs into the bus. When it was bursting with passengers, it moved. At walking pace -- I am not making this up -- we meandered all the way across the tarmac to an aircraft with a smartly-coloured tail. When we neared, I noticed passengers streaming out of the plane. It had clearly just landed and was still offloading passengers.
So we waited. From where our bus stood, I had a good view of a moving ramp being used to load baggage belonging to Delhi passengers like me onto the plane. From a cart, two handlers put a bag on the ramp. Then another. Both moved angularly upwards. At the top, one was stopped by the lip of the aircraft's baggage compartment door. The other bag bumped gently into this one, then just as gently toppled off the ramp and fell about 15 feet to the ground below.
In quick succession, seven more bags did the same slow-motion toppling act. Like a Marx Brothers film. I didn't know whether to be amused or angry. In between, I did see my own bag making the ascent, and somehow it didn't fall. My bottle of home-made chutney would survive.
Eventually, we climbed the steps into the plane and found our seats. Within minutes, the hostess asked us for our boarding passes. There were three others who had the same seats as us, assigned to them. This turned out to be a common complaint this morning: up and down the plane, people were finding folks sitting on their assigned seats who had been assigned those seats too.
The staff took some time to sort all this confusion out. In between one man who was escorted to a free seat suddenly balked and began shouting: "Yeh koi tarika hai seat badalne ka?" ("Is this any way to change my seat?") He refused to sit down unless he was given his originally assigned seat, now taken by someone else also assigned to that seat. The airline official explained that the flight could not leave unless he sat down. Eventually he sat.
We left the gate at 1305. An hour and 40 minutes late.
On the ground in Bombay, we were standing at the conveyor belt waiting for our bag to arrive. Before the belt started moving, a uniformed head poked through the plastic strips at the end and asked my 11 year-old, standing nearest to the strips: "Yeh [the airline name] hai, na?" ("This is [the airline name], right?")
Which, all in all, seemed like an appropriate coda to an oddball flight experience.
All right, you sharp-eyed dudettes and dudes will have noticed that I excised the airline name since I first posted this. Just that I'm not interested in any possible lengthy wrangles.
Tweet bulletin: DEL
Sitting at Delhi airport two days ago for a few hours, waiting to catch a flight, I opened up my laptop and began to tweet about what I saw around me. A fun experience, all told. For you poor souls who missed out on my tweets of wisdom, here they are, tweaked a bit but all in one place. Perhaps they add up to a snapshot of the airport, circa late 2010.
***
At Delhi airport (when was it last called Palam?), because I couldn't get tix to travel my preferred way, money- & otherwise: train. Too bad.
Couple opposite, 40-something, blue bag across both their laps, sharing earphones, satisfied smile on their faces as they bop slightly to music.
Headline today about how Delhi has the most obese kids. Looking around, it's true. Not one kid has zipped past who is not plump at best.
Ad nearby for VW Vento asks readers to "Turn on Your Bluetooth Now" to get messages about the car. Are there really people who would do so?
Guy sitting beside me is staring fixedly at a newspaper ad for a slimming program, specifically at the bust marked "36" that's the major feature of the ad.
I mean fixedly.
Another guy opposite gets up to go to his gate; before picking up his bag he bends forward, then backwards, and then sticks out his stomach. Now gone.
I haven't understood why the PA system announcing flights operates in continuous mode: adds to the noise yet it is hard to understand. Useless.
Two Kingfisher hostesses traipse past stylishly in high heels. Behind them, their male colleague slouches along, as different as possible from ladies.
Every time I hear "Appa" I look around. But it's not my kids, who are buried somewhere in the bookstore.
They have been instructed to ask every 10 minutes for "Roadrunner", thus suggesting to the owner that it is a hugely popular book. Will it work?
Shamefaced admission: I had never heard "Waka Waka" and "Waving Flag". Really. I figure I'm the last man alive who could make that claim.
But at the kids urging, I watched Waka last night and Waving Flag just now. Loved them both. What energy, what style.
Woman behind says to another woman behind, in Marathi, "We just went to Sikkim and it was so hot there!" Was it? I don't know.
What a delight airports (and stations, and malls ...) are if you have the time to stop and watch the parade of humanity pass.
Here comes a European-looking lady wearing a hat nearly identical to the one I'm wearing, except with a string around her neck. Mine's better.
Boy, and now she's made a beeline for the seat next to mine and has sat down! (Bust-picture-starer has vanished).
She's reading a page on which I can see only these words "Owain mounted his horse". Not inspiring.
Everyone who pulls out a laptop in a place like this invariably looks around importantly as s/he does so. Myself no exception.
Hat lady just closed up her magazine and cackled loudly.
I wonder if the bookshop owner has got sick yet of kids coming up to ask for "Roadrunner".
Not far away, a man and woman are standing next to each other, talking on phones. As usual, I am convinced they are speaking to each other.
Why is it an article of faith that guys who pump weights simply have to wear ridiculously tight clothes? Do women go for this ghastly look?
Then again, *women* in tight clothes ... hmm. So why not men?
Man opposite me says into his handsfree: "Dude she actually called him gay! Now we can all call him gay! How stupid is that?" WTF moment.
Another guy opposite was reading a magazine with Ajay Devgn on the cover, and has suddenly slumped back and is fast asleep. Was it that boring?
I mean, seriously asleep. Someone just knocked hard into his knees as they passed, and this guy didn't move. Also how to pronounce Devgn?
Is it my imagination or are fewer and fewer women wearing saris these days? In this 1.5 hours here, I've seen three.
And this is your DEL airport tweet bulletin, signing off.
At Delhi airport (when was it last called Palam?), because I couldn't get tix to travel my preferred way, money- & otherwise: train. Too bad.
Couple opposite, 40-something, blue bag across both their laps, sharing earphones, satisfied smile on their faces as they bop slightly to music.
Headline today about how Delhi has the most obese kids. Looking around, it's true. Not one kid has zipped past who is not plump at best.
Ad nearby for VW Vento asks readers to "Turn on Your Bluetooth Now" to get messages about the car. Are there really people who would do so?
Guy sitting beside me is staring fixedly at a newspaper ad for a slimming program, specifically at the bust marked "36" that's the major feature of the ad.
I mean fixedly.
Another guy opposite gets up to go to his gate; before picking up his bag he bends forward, then backwards, and then sticks out his stomach. Now gone.
I haven't understood why the PA system announcing flights operates in continuous mode: adds to the noise yet it is hard to understand. Useless.
Two Kingfisher hostesses traipse past stylishly in high heels. Behind them, their male colleague slouches along, as different as possible from ladies.
Every time I hear "Appa" I look around. But it's not my kids, who are buried somewhere in the bookstore.
They have been instructed to ask every 10 minutes for "Roadrunner", thus suggesting to the owner that it is a hugely popular book. Will it work?
Shamefaced admission: I had never heard "Waka Waka" and "Waving Flag". Really. I figure I'm the last man alive who could make that claim.
But at the kids urging, I watched Waka last night and Waving Flag just now. Loved them both. What energy, what style.
Woman behind says to another woman behind, in Marathi, "We just went to Sikkim and it was so hot there!" Was it? I don't know.
What a delight airports (and stations, and malls ...) are if you have the time to stop and watch the parade of humanity pass.
Here comes a European-looking lady wearing a hat nearly identical to the one I'm wearing, except with a string around her neck. Mine's better.
Boy, and now she's made a beeline for the seat next to mine and has sat down! (Bust-picture-starer has vanished).
She's reading a page on which I can see only these words "Owain mounted his horse". Not inspiring.
Everyone who pulls out a laptop in a place like this invariably looks around importantly as s/he does so. Myself no exception.
Hat lady just closed up her magazine and cackled loudly.
I wonder if the bookshop owner has got sick yet of kids coming up to ask for "Roadrunner".
Not far away, a man and woman are standing next to each other, talking on phones. As usual, I am convinced they are speaking to each other.
Why is it an article of faith that guys who pump weights simply have to wear ridiculously tight clothes? Do women go for this ghastly look?
Then again, *women* in tight clothes ... hmm. So why not men?
Man opposite me says into his handsfree: "Dude she actually called him gay! Now we can all call him gay! How stupid is that?" WTF moment.
Another guy opposite was reading a magazine with Ajay Devgn on the cover, and has suddenly slumped back and is fast asleep. Was it that boring?
I mean, seriously asleep. Someone just knocked hard into his knees as they passed, and this guy didn't move. Also how to pronounce Devgn?
Is it my imagination or are fewer and fewer women wearing saris these days? In this 1.5 hours here, I've seen three.
And this is your DEL airport tweet bulletin, signing off.
November 03, 2010
Anjali and Badu
Walking along one of Shillong's back roads one moist morning, it starts to rain in some earnest. Not heavy, but enough that everyone breaks out the umbrellas and the only people who don't are the four of us, caught in the rain without any raingear. We could keep walking, we won't get seriously wet. But we decide to stop for a biscuit break at a tiny stall near the Set Seven School, plenty of mauve-blazered girls and boys pouring in. The stall is run by a wizened woman who has just opened for the day and says tea will take a while to get ready.
I stand in her entrance and watch the world pass. I am entranced by how elegantly dressed all the young women are (the young men are in regulation grunge wear), and by the sheer variety of umbrellas that parade past. There are polka-dotted ones, frilled ones, one that's got a fanciful leopard print, checked ones, flowered ones … You see quite a variety in Bombay, but this exhibition seems on a different scale.
A Sumo stops in front of me and a young lady emerges: skin-tight jeans and open shoes, just enough shades shy of hot pink to be suave. She seems lost. First she steps toward the store on my left, then the store on the right, then back to the Sumo, then onto the road, then back to the Sumo again. I'm not sure what she's up to with this little gavotte, but eventually she prances off in her pink shoes.
When the rain eases, we press on. We have to find a taxi to take us to a place called Mawlynnong later in the morning. I stop beside a yellow Sumo, marked "All Meghalaya Tourist Permit" or some such. I notice there is already a passenger and am about to move on, but the driver stops me and nods his head to ask where I'm going. "Mawlynnong", I say. This occasions a spurt of chatter in a language that must be English because I can identify several words, but overall I don't understand him at all. Seeing my incomprehension, he whips out a cellphone and punches its buttons. "Calling Anjali", he says, and this I understand. Maybe Anjali is the boss who will take the fateful decision about taking us to Mawlynnong.
A rapidfire conversation in Khasi ensues. Then he disconnects and tells me, "you call Anjali and ask."
"OK," I say, "what's her number?"
"6-0-8-2", he says.
"That's all?" I ask.
"Yes yes, you call Anjali!" He makes to turn his ignition key.
"But this is not a phone number!" I exclaim.
"No no, not phone number, car number."
"Car number? But what do I need her car number for?" I'm perplexed. "Does Anjali have a phone number?"
"Yes yes," he says, and rattles off a ten digit number which I write into my little diary. Why didn't he give me that in the first place?
"And this is Anjali's number?"
"No no, Badu's number! Badu, Badu!"
He turns his ignition key and roars off.
Somehow I don't want to give my business to this Badu/Anjali conglomerate, if that's what it is. So I find another means of transport to take us to Mawlynnong.
I stand in her entrance and watch the world pass. I am entranced by how elegantly dressed all the young women are (the young men are in regulation grunge wear), and by the sheer variety of umbrellas that parade past. There are polka-dotted ones, frilled ones, one that's got a fanciful leopard print, checked ones, flowered ones … You see quite a variety in Bombay, but this exhibition seems on a different scale.
A Sumo stops in front of me and a young lady emerges: skin-tight jeans and open shoes, just enough shades shy of hot pink to be suave. She seems lost. First she steps toward the store on my left, then the store on the right, then back to the Sumo, then onto the road, then back to the Sumo again. I'm not sure what she's up to with this little gavotte, but eventually she prances off in her pink shoes.
When the rain eases, we press on. We have to find a taxi to take us to a place called Mawlynnong later in the morning. I stop beside a yellow Sumo, marked "All Meghalaya Tourist Permit" or some such. I notice there is already a passenger and am about to move on, but the driver stops me and nods his head to ask where I'm going. "Mawlynnong", I say. This occasions a spurt of chatter in a language that must be English because I can identify several words, but overall I don't understand him at all. Seeing my incomprehension, he whips out a cellphone and punches its buttons. "Calling Anjali", he says, and this I understand. Maybe Anjali is the boss who will take the fateful decision about taking us to Mawlynnong.
A rapidfire conversation in Khasi ensues. Then he disconnects and tells me, "you call Anjali and ask."
"OK," I say, "what's her number?"
"6-0-8-2", he says.
"That's all?" I ask.
"Yes yes, you call Anjali!" He makes to turn his ignition key.
"But this is not a phone number!" I exclaim.
"No no, not phone number, car number."
"Car number? But what do I need her car number for?" I'm perplexed. "Does Anjali have a phone number?"
"Yes yes," he says, and rattles off a ten digit number which I write into my little diary. Why didn't he give me that in the first place?
"And this is Anjali's number?"
"No no, Badu's number! Badu, Badu!"
He turns his ignition key and roars off.
Somehow I don't want to give my business to this Badu/Anjali conglomerate, if that's what it is. So I find another means of transport to take us to Mawlynnong.
October 31, 2010
Voices in the night
Walking towards Laitumkhrah in Shillong this dark evening, we hear singing. A good friend had told us, before we left Bombay, to listen to church music in Shillong. Here's our chance. This is the Cathedral of Mary Help of Christians, and there's a large crowd gathered and still gathering here. Many Shillong residents, many dressed in their Sunday best. And singing in at least three-part harmony that I can detect. Three female voices, and a male undertone that might be just the congregation joining in.
I can't say it is beautiful singing, but it does soar into the night. It is interrupted by a few readings, and then a sermon by a green-robed priest speaking in a curiously Kerala accent. He uses a parable from Luke to talk about not putting people down, whatever their sins that we might find objectionable.
We walk on till I start feeling a little sore from the day's exertions. We walk back on the other side of the road from the Cathedral of Mary, the priest still speaking, fragrance of raat-rani sharp in the crisp air. Directly across from the Cathedral is what looks like a large chapel under construction, mostly beams and poles, but with images of Christ and Mary already in place. Below them are dozens of lit candles, so many that we can smell the wax. The small gate is open, so we enter and walk in, up a few stairs to the chapel.
It's when we are nearly there that we notice a lone shape on the floor, silhouetted by the candles. Someone is huddled there, praying. It's too dark to tell if it's a man or a woman, but we can hear a soft murmuring voice. And as we do, we realize the person is weeping. Steadily, wrenchingly.
As quietly as we can, we withdraw.
I can't say it is beautiful singing, but it does soar into the night. It is interrupted by a few readings, and then a sermon by a green-robed priest speaking in a curiously Kerala accent. He uses a parable from Luke to talk about not putting people down, whatever their sins that we might find objectionable.
We walk on till I start feeling a little sore from the day's exertions. We walk back on the other side of the road from the Cathedral of Mary, the priest still speaking, fragrance of raat-rani sharp in the crisp air. Directly across from the Cathedral is what looks like a large chapel under construction, mostly beams and poles, but with images of Christ and Mary already in place. Below them are dozens of lit candles, so many that we can smell the wax. The small gate is open, so we enter and walk in, up a few stairs to the chapel.
It's when we are nearly there that we notice a lone shape on the floor, silhouetted by the candles. Someone is huddled there, praying. It's too dark to tell if it's a man or a woman, but we can hear a soft murmuring voice. And as we do, we realize the person is weeping. Steadily, wrenchingly.
As quietly as we can, we withdraw.
October 29, 2010
This game's for the birds
The November 2010 issue of Caravan has an article I thoroughly enjoyed writing: it's about following Ranji, birds and Vinoo Mankad in Jamnagar.
Take a look, here. All comments welcome.
Take a look, here. All comments welcome.
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