Mumbai is a city, Bombay is an emotion

A friend sent this graphic about Mumbai/Bombay the other day on a chatting app.

I personally don’t like to differentiate between these names and often use them interchangeably, especially when talking to different people. Out here in Australia, I tend to go more with Bombay because not necessarily everyone knows it is now officially called Mumbai.

Although I associate myself with Pune (because I was born there), I grew up in Mumbai. I may not have been proud of this fact before, for bizarre reasons (like overcrowding, too fast), but my recent visit to Mumbai changed this completely. I don’t know what it was, or what I saw and sometimes it’s just so damn difficult to portray an emotion in the right words, but something happened that I now want to be associated with Mumbai more so than Pune; a statement which makes my wife chuckle, given my previous strong disassociation with the metropolis.

There I said it. I love Mumbai.

“Dhanda” is the only word that defines the city

I’ve always known it and I’ve read it innumerable times, but like with each year you become older and wiser, you see the world through a different lens. Sure, the population in Mumbai may have exploded beyond control, but that has also given way to opportunity. The city is known to be one that never sleeps and although that might have sounded trite earlier, it meant so much to me this time around. We reached our friend’s place quite late in the night and after settling in, felt hungry. I was amazed we could order any sort of food (not just burgers or pizzas or fast food) at midnight and they delivered it past the Cinderella hour. We were gorging on fresh rotis, paneer masala and dal kadhi at 1 am!

During my 2^nd visit to Mumbai, I decided to travel on BEST bus/es from the swanky new international airport terminal to Borivali, simply for the thrills. The new T2 terminal is spectacular (at least from the outside) and it only affirms our faith in Mumbai being the financial ticker-joint of the country. This particular bus journey was not without its share of misdirections though. On checking with another passenger on Western Hwy underpass, I was told with great confidence “Haan, Borivali ko 40 aur 348 bus jayega”. Another bus with a completely different number rocked up with Borivali Stn as the destination and I was told this would take me there, so on I jumped. When the bus conductor approached me for a ticket, I confidently said “Borivali National Park”. His reply came via a typical lack of emotion that conductors have mastered over the years “Yeh bus Aarey Milk Colony tak hi jaata hain”. I had to walk a km to get back to the next bus stop to board the right bus to Borivali.

Along the Western Hwy, now gloriously uplifted (pun intended) via a network of well-built overpasses/flyovers, I saw many a number of local businesses – welders, marble craftsman, small shops, mechanics, curtain makers, timber shops, tailors all open and operating way past 10 pm on a weekday. I suppose Mumbai has always been like this, but after living in Australia for well over a decade, this was a shock. The entrepreneurial spirit of the city (or maybe it was desperation to work and earn a living) surprised me no ends. When a customer wants something done at 10 in the night, there will always be people to do it at that hour. The whole of the path along the highway was buzzing with activity, with industry close to midnight. “Dhanda” is clearly one word that defines this city perfectly.

Memories

Memories are strange things. You think you may have forgotten something or at least won’t remember all the details exactly as you’ve experienced decades before; but the way memories quietly bide their time in some dark corner of the brain, waiting for that one little stimuli to respond (just like a Mimosa plant responds to the slightest touch) is astounding.

I went back to the same place I grew up in when I was in Borivali and it all came flooding back - the sights, sounds, smells. Even the people and their interactions with me. I haven’t been back to this place for over 18 years, but it was as if I never left. Sure it had changed a little bit in terms of renovations, clean-ups, but the soul of the place was exactly what resonated with my memories all these years. I was even fortunate enough to stay in a neighbour’s apartment, on the same floor where I lived all those years back.

Perception is also another peculiar thing. The very roads, buildings, rooms that seem huge when you are a kid are generally not that. I walked around a few places and what seemed to take ages back then only took a matter of minutes!

Walking through those lanes again and meeting people from my past was a remarkable experience. Conversations flowed as effortlessly as if they had stopped only the previous night and continued on from there. The small garden where over 20 boys played cricket 18 years back was a bit worn down and even discarded. The tabela where a school friend lived was easily replaced by a high-rise, but the local open spaces where the whole community gathered to celebrate Diwali, Ganpati and Dandiya-Garba were still around. Although public transport has made a few inroads into the area, it still remains the quiet locality it was all those years back though.

Each year, I try and meet different people when I am in India. My wife reckons this is the best way to build relationships and network and I totally agree with her on this (amongst a horde of other things). It was no different this time around. I met and chatted, over countless cups of chai with friends from a very distant past.

Alma Mater

One of the most compelling reasons to go to Mumbai was to visit my school – a place which I haven’t seen since I finished my Year 10 in 1996. The walk to school was admittedly a bit tearful and quite literally a walk down memory lane. A little bit of urban development has admittedly got in the way of this memory, and I had to take a rather circuitous route to get to the school premises. Gone were the 2 small pedestrian traffic-only gates on either side of the Western Highway. The school building has survived the rapid pace of development and although there was an entirely new wing built into the school building, it still looked pretty much the same. I wasn’t expecting to see a lot of my teachers around, but surprisingly, I did get to meet 3. One of the teachers who taught us Geometry was now in charge of the school as the Headmistress. The 2 other teachers, who taught us languages were still around and looked pretty much the same to me, as if age had nothing to do with them.

Given that it was a working Saturday, the school classes were on. I stuck around for the school assembly with the primary students and even joined in reciting the school prayer. This was followed by the national anthem, short speeches, public announcements and then a host of patriotic songs, a student accompanying the choir on a Yamaha keyboard. Not sure if the student was simply bored or was a creature of habit, he cheekily struck the keys on his keyboard to the tune of “Kyonki Tum Hi Ho (Aashiqui 2)” while no one was paying attention.

As the students rushed to their classes, I sauntered out to the school canteen and dug into 2 Wada Paav’s and a cutting chai, as the clouds rumbled overhead in the sky and a few drops caught me unawares. Yes, it rained in Mumbai in February.

Last-benchers reunion (of sorts)

Later in the evening, I caught up with a few friends from school. For years, we nutted it out through the school together enjoying the immense benefits of gracing the last benches of our classrooms. Teachers may have given up on us academically, but ironically, 1-2 of the class toppers were often from this group of no-good souls, or “chikne ghade”/”shame-proof” people as one our teachers described us.

Time and space are non-entities when it comes to catching up with school friends. Some of them don’t even look as if they’ve added 18 years to their lives. I could have started a conversation with any of them back in school and could have continued it 18 years later without pausing for thought. A few of them are even better looking and fitter than they were in school. Sadly, I can’t say that about myself! Although age may not have affected looks, it had certainly toyed with the brain-cells of some schoolmates and it took half an evening to carefully bring them on the same page, when it came to recollecting places, faces and incidents from school. It was almost comical to see some of us gently goading our brains to wander into pockets of memory, while our mouths were busy attacking Dum Aloos and Chicken dishes with gusto. 

I felt even a tinge of jealousy, because unlike me, some of these friends can regularly meet while they are in Mumbai. It’s in these moments of introspection, that I sometimes wish I was back in India.

The evening had to end, like all good things have to, with one friend having to go on to another party later in the night, which would have seen him and his partner return home well into the next morning.

Mumbai is that kind of city. It never seems to sleep. It never needs to, for some. It never does, for some unfortunate ones.

Aapki yatra safal rahe

Commuting in (and out of) Mumbai is an experience into itself.

Citing adventure (and fascination for our little one) as our motivation, we caught the Deccan Queen to get from Mumbai to Pune. It was by far the best and most pleasant journey we ever had. Our little one greatly enjoyed the build-up to the train journey, amazed by the sea of humans descending on the train station and was excited with the whole process of loading bags into the compartments. However, as we pulled out of CST to head to Pune, he was fast asleep by the time we rolled past Dadar!

While in Mumbai, I was fortunate enough to catch autorickshaws to get to a few places in a hurry. I say fortunate, because until that moment when I got out of the rickshaw, I had no clue that the F1 Corporation was secretly recruiting and training rickshaw drivers in Mumbai. I was to meet a friend in a mall for coffee in Kandivali and got into a rickshaw, giving myself a liberal 45 mins (on a weekend) to get from Borivali to Kandivali. The moment I stepped into the rickshaw, the driver coolly plugged into his earphones, reset the meter and set off at a pace I’ve only seen Vettel, Alonso and co. race at. Exactly 21 minutes later, I got off at Kandivali! I had never experienced Mach-1 until then. I’ve heard people in Mumbai are always in a rush and the city has a frantic pace. I was witness to this, thanks to the rickshawwalla.

I boarded the Shivneri bus at Borivali the next day to get back to Pune. The MSRTC has certainly come a long way, from those red rattling STs, to the semi-AC “Asiad” to the current lot of good looking, sturdy Volvos commuting people all across Maharashtra with a winning trifecta of affordability, speed and convenience.

As I hopped into a window seat of a largely vacant Shivneri, a woman conductor (yes, MSRTC has come a long way) came along to issue tickets to the few handful of passengers dispersed throughout the bus. By the time the bus picked up the last of the passengers and made its way out of Sion towards Vashi, I glanced at a wall near a traffic signal. It simply said “Save the unbreakable Mumbai spirit”.

Mumbai is that unbreakable city.

Free coffee, community breakfast and a sea of lycra

Borrowing a line from a book I am currently reading "One of the best ways to put me in a good mood, is to put me on a bike". I've lost count of the number of times my day has started off a little sluggish or indifferent, but has dramatically improved by the time I get on my bike, riding to work. Come the warmer months and these moments of happiness increase exponentially. I am sure I am not the only one with this suite of emotions.

Bicycle Victoria has been phenomenal in getting the riding movement an impetus by organising fantastic rides and incentives for people to keep riding. As part of their yearly programs, they organise the Ride2Work Day each year around October.

"The Ride2Work Program is a nationally run, year round program that encourages thousands of Australians to get started and keep them riding to work." (Ride2Work)

I've sorely missed participating in this event last 2 years, due to some bizarre reasons:

a. 2011 - Lack of coordination. I had most of the things I needed for the ride in, set up the previous night, but forgot to take care of a puncture.

b. 2012 - No bike! I sold off my old one, hoping I would be in possession of the newer one before the event, but that didn't happen and I was left twiddling my thumbs.

Got my bike off the train at South Kensington this morning and rode the rest of the way to Docklands, one of the locations for the community breakfast. I am usually aware of the number of cyclists that use this path to the city (Riding in 3 degrees), but this morning, the army kept coming. Road bikes, mountain bikes, BMXs, fixies, single-speed, folding – they were all there. The usual route past Costco (the one with the heavenly smell originating from the Costco bakery) was closed off for repairs, so had to do a bit of a detour back of the Costco store. The newly assembled Melbourne Star looked ready, but a tad uncertain. A sea of lycra descended on at the NAB forecourt (Docklands).

There was free coffee (one of those great joys, especially when taken at the end of the bike ride), fruits, scrolls and other goodies. After meandering around the stalls, I got my bike engraved (for easy police identification, should it get nicked) and also contemplated a quick massage. Caffeine was probably the need of the hour, so the queue outside the makeshift coffee joint was enormous. A few non-cyclists also sauntered in, eyeing the freebies on offer.

It was good to see so many people actively riding in to work. I mean, who wouldn't  given Melbourne’s generously flat terrain?

As I wound my way back from the event, braving the crazy winds, along La Trobe St and up Peel St, right alongside a bare and unusually quiet (because of the weekly off) Victoria Market, I couldn't wait to get stuck into my protein/muesli bars, secured liberally at the community event. 

A few more noble souls rode past my workplace, reminding me of a H.G. Wells quote “Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle, I have hope for the human race”.

It’s just bad parma...

It all started with a bad parma (as most things do). I love a good chicken parmigiana; especially the big gigantic one, dripping in tomato sauce and a lusty mix of mozzarella and parmesan, with a healthy side serve of chunky chips and customary salad. However, this one turned out to be the evil twin. Although it had all these ingredients mentioned above, this one was not meant to please. Instead, it turned tumultuous once inside my digestive system.

This is what motivated me to get off meat and in the process cleanse the body of any meat toxins. I pompously announced to my wife that I will not be eating any meat for the next 6 months. This wasn't going to be a test of determination or paying obeisance to a particular fad, just a plain self-imposed task. The rules were pretty simple – no meat. Egg was permissible only because it was classified under dairy products last time I checked (although these classifications are subject to immense doubt), and in any case, I didn’t think I was eating any meat via this oval shaped protein packed beauty.
Note: People clambering over each other to prove how I got the egg idea wrong can gracefully exit this post at this stage.

I am not a voracious meat eater. I've always preferred quality over quantity. My meat-eating, could be described as social, at the best. I also haven’t eaten red meat for some years now, so cutting meat totally from my diet wasn't a huge task. The fun was trying to find enough vegetarian options, especially at lunch times.

Normally preferring a light lunch at work, I struggled to find enough vegetarian replacements, either home-made or at local cafes. I can’t see a whole lot of things that could easily replace a can of tuna on toast to start with. Same with a good serve of grilled fish. Plus, it’s not easy when the café counters readily exhibit schnitzels, bacon and eggs, roasts, but position the veggie alternatives as an afterthought. I also feel café owners/take away joints do not experiment with their vegetables much. You’d either have a hastily put (often) salad sandwich, roasted veg focaccias or some sort of cheese/mushroom/spinach pide. Over the last few weeks, I have seen really badly made fried brown rice; even leftovers would have made for a better display. I saw a few salads that probably began life as vegetarian, but the temptation of adding a few bacon pieces or shredded chicken got too much for the creators. Therefore, I can safely say that I feel for the vegetarians out there. It’s not that there are no options at all; it’s just that I feel any creativity with veggies has been stifled. It’s not just the café’s alone – since a lot of friends these days are willing meat-eaters, you often see a plethora of meat dishes make their way into pot luck, but the vegetarians (few in numbers) are often left to feeding their imagination more than their tummies. And can someone please come up with a better Paneer recipe please?

On a brighter side, this is a splendid chance for me to experiment with some great veggie and fruit combinations. A café near my workplace once offered a breathtaking couscous salad, filled in with some really innovative ingredients – pomegranate seeds, cranberries, sautéed spinach, sun dried tomatoes and nuts. This, coupled with a nachos salad (yes, such a thing can exist) made for an extraordinary lunch that day. The next day I sauntered to the café with great expectations, but the lamb and chicken had fought their way back into the salad counter. The sandwich counter was still about 90% meat, with a mixed veggie roll and a salad sandwich putting up a small but futile resistance in one corner. Soy beans have readily replaced chicken at home, Tofu has made the odd appearance in Asian dishes, and so has Falafel from the Middle Eastern kingdom. A whole lot of forgotten veggies and lentils have been resurrected in the diet, to give it a bit of a variety. Salad and soup books have got quite a few pages dog-eared in the last few weeks.

I have also subconsciously started to think about veggie alternatives every time I fantasize about a schnitzel or a hot dog. A book I borrowed from the library gave me some good ideas on places to source protein and all that meat offers, so our family shopping lists has now started looking a tad different than a couple of months back. Amongst other things unknown (and better left that way), I've noticed I tend to eat more frequently every day. I am often found snacking every couple of hours, mostly healthy stuff like nuts, fruits, but snacking nevertheless, drawing in comments such as “Are you bottomless? You seem to be eating all the time” from co-workers. Eating out with mates gorging down copious amounts of poultry can throw you off-track, but I've shown some remarkable resolve in staying true to my intent. Much as I am tempted to quickly pop in leftover chicken nuggets from my son’s meal, I've desisted.

To be fair, it’s not been too bad. I am still alive, can still breathe and am happy to admit feeling much lighter and focussed.

6 weeks and counting. See how far I go.

The heavenly brew

Pounding furiously on the keyboard, trying to a get these documents done before a crucial deadline, I feel a sense of panic creeping in. I need something to soothe the nerves. I need a good strong cup chai.

Chai (tea), or chaha, as I've known it in my native language, is one of those great levellers that has got me through life (so far anyways). I can't exactly remember when my parents first introduced to this divine beverage, but surely it wouldn't have been soon enough. Although my gluttonous consumption of tea is now in considerable control, I can’t think of a day where I’ve gone (without considerable anguish) without a cuppa.

A couple of years back, my sister convinced me to join in her a 3-day detox programme. My wife thought it was a splendid idea, given that she would enjoy the sight of me going without consuming any sort of reasonable solids for 72 hours. I gave in to this popular vote and enjoyed day 1 of drinking juices (yes, multiple), butter-milk, and getting reintroduced to somedelightful fruits. There was one flaw in the master plan though. I could not have any tea or coffee for these 72 hours. When I looked up the word detox; I knew this was the idea – no tea or coffee, because it is precisely the contents of these beverages that you are planning to liberate your body off in the first place. But how does one survive without tea for 3 days? HOW! Perhaps people of a stronger willpower and constitution may dismiss this idea nonchalantly, but I am human after all.
My detox regime lasted 1 day. I actually came home early from work the second day, because I thought I felt dizzy (and bizarre) and up went the pot of tea on the stove right at the moment I got home. I can still hear my wife and sister giggling away from the next room.

Moving on, I believe strongly (as strong as I like my cup of chaha), that I am not alone; at least another billion Indians (mostly) and others can attest to the fact that there is simply no substitute for a cup of tea. Coffee may get the brain firing or whatever it is that caffeine stimulates in the central nervous system, but I understand tea does it in a healthier and gentle fashion. Last thing I want is to get my brain fried up to the point of getting up and participating in a war in the morning. I’ll settle on a good hot cuppa chaha.

Image courtesy: indiverve.wordpress.com

Back when I was in college, I’ve consumed many a cups of cutting chai, that fabulous invention of “more than half, but less than a full glass”, on railway stations, while waiting for another astonishing invention “Mumbai local trains” to turn up. There was something about the serenity I felt in midst of a bustling Mumbai crowd, while I sipped the chai. These were little cups of heaven easily sought and brought for a rupee, back then. Because I spent much of my life in Mumbai, I probably missed out on the Pune style of dunking cream rolls into cups of highly sweetened tea. Amazing how the brain makes and retain these connections. A friend, even after having lived away from Pune for over a decade, still salivates at the mere thought of having these cream rolls, dreamingly as he sips his cuppa.

In India, chai is probably one of those things that generate employment. Not only do the chaiwallahs make a brisk business meeting the demands of millions of people, there are also other specific roles in Indian offices where the primary duty is to serve tea. Your office peon (clerk). Along with countless (and thankless) other jobs, the peon is solely responsible for providing endless cups of chai to office employees and bosses alike. The whole office pretty much functions around this vital cog.

I also like my chai brewed. While tea bags offer convenience and variety, there’s something satiating in watching and smelling the fresh tea leaves do their Brownian dance in a pot of boiling water, infused with a little ginger, cardamom and sugar sweetening the whole concoction to a new level. Stir in the milk while the pot’s coming to a boil and the drink attains a whole new dimension.

Chai served in small earthern cups on Indian trains have their own special taste, one that is perhaps enhanced by the flavour of the earthern cup containing the beverage itself. Similarly, a cup of tea on an excruciatingly hot day in summer, at lunch, between 2 innings of a cricket match has much to offer to the tired body. We may drink our chai in those humongous sized cups or flasks, but there is something entirely charming about sipping it in a cup-bashi (cup-saucer) or better still lapping it off the bashi like a grinning cat.

In Pune, the local tea place has the same reverence and following by tea-drinkers, as throngs of people visiting the local temple on a festive occasion. Sitting in these often crowded and space-challenged areas, as the hot liquid boils to degrees unknown in copper vessels, the chai is poured into small cups and served to be consumed often at steaming temperatures, you experience the same divinity as if you were sitting amongst Gods.

Image courtesy: Mid-day.com

These local tea places are called Amrutulya, which roughly translates to “a place where you get a heavenly brew”.

A heavenly brew indeed.

Down Memory Lane – St Xavier’s High School

This morning, while I was standing near the carriage doors on the train, a group of bleary eyed school kids got on. Coming back from an Easter break, they were eagerly discussing their holidays, how they "like" completely "like" wasted their time "like" doing nothing. One kid spoke about apparently starting his school homework (Business Management, I think he mentioned) on day 1 and only got so far as writing 6 lines, before he realised the futility. The conversation then proceeded on to discussing school teachers and subjects they've taken up for the year.

Kid 1: Who’s your English teacher?

Kid 2: Uhmm…I don’t know her name. You know that Greek chick, who MC’s for that band. She’s pretty chilled out.

1995/96. Year of the milestone-like SSC exams.

In the vicinity of a very suburban housing colony Ratan Nagar, along a narrow rivulet (so claimed by the local municipal corporation), stood, and still does a rather imposing (certainly at that age) building with the words St Xavier’s High School largely inscribed on the building. 

Image courtesy: Google images

School for me and a lot of others was a place that shaped our lives, in one way or the other. While we certainly didn’t have any MC’s masquerading as school teachers, we did have some pretty good humans teaching us values that strengthened our moral fibre, or so I’d like to think.

It wasn't the best of institutions in terms of facilities. We didn’t have a school ground or a campus of anything of that sort, but what it lacked in infrastructure, it made up in environment. My teachers weren't really strict or hard nuts, except for a handful whose reliance on a good whack or thumping was understandable, given the tough shame proof exterior of some students. 

Our Hindi teacher used to call us “chikne ghade” (smooth claypots made of a special non-sticky exterior), specifically in reference to our utterly shameless acts of repeating the same mistakes without remorse. (Chikne Ghade implied the water that fell washed over without seeping in even a teeny weeny bit).

Our Geometry teacher was particularly concerned about our future and conceded that we didn’t have the character to make it through high school, leave alone our careers. She would sneak in unannounced on the class, with a notebook in her hand, one eye out on unsuspecting students, challenging the student’s conscience to use any free lectures to concentrate on studying rather than sketching anatomical or other figures at the back of the notebooks. While our newly appointed PE teacher didn’t have a clue about teaching, or PE, or anything interesting in particular, it was upon us to utilise the 35-40 minutes to the best of our abilities. So we got back to chiding, or shaming or making a mockery of anyone that caught our fancy. Girls were not spared either and often a few even joined in the fun.

I remember our day used to start with a rather long and arduous prayer and communication session. There was a prayer, a hymn, a short story, thought for the day, national anthem, birthday songs and famous last words. (Ok! I made up the famous last words bit). It dragged on close to 18-20 minutes where students were left standing (no one was allowed to sit for the entire session, unless you were sick or dumb enough to risk it). Every class had to volunteer to do this in turns and it wasn't limited to the classroom itself. Thanks to the geniuses who set up the microphone and speaker system at school, you had to broadcast your golden voice, one that didn’t exactly coming out pouring honey at 7 in the morning, to the entire building. There was a set schedule to these sessions, or so we were led to believe, because every Monday or so, the headmistress would come running in to our class (closest to her office) and randomly pick 3 students, one to recite the anthem and prayer, one to make up a short story and one to inspire the building inhabitants with the thought of the day.

One of the nicest things I learnt in school was to use bullet points to answer questions in an exam paper. I thought it saved us heaps of time, because you could think concisely and to the point, without letting your mind drift into hibernation. Our History/Geography teacher actually encouraged us to use this technique, I think primarily because it was easy for her to decipher students’ mastery of alien decryption at such a young age, which they passed off as their handwriting. I was impressed however, because it actually got a lot easier to answer questions and often got a lot of people good marks (almost as close to 100%) in subjects such as History and Geography. Of course, it also helped that these students were brilliant nevertheless and knew a lot of stuff anyway, bullet point usage or not.

I was deeply mystified with selection of some students as Prefects or Class Monitors or the highly ambiguous “Discipline-in-charge”. I could understand and appreciate the role of Prefect/s and Class Monitors, but the term “Discipline-in-charge” was as vague as it gets. They had no set portfolio, no jurisdiction and certainly no pattern of setting any precedents whatsoever. They wandered around aimlessly, snubbed people the wrong way by pointing people to their badges and usually were miles away from any discipline themselves. They were randomly selected and were mostly set upon to handle crowd control if the chaos got of hand. More often than not, they were the reason behind chaos and confusion. Their place in the Prefect/Monitor hierarchy was unclear and they certainly didn’t give a rodent’s backside about this.

I should know. I was one of this breed.

To be continued…

Down Memory Lane - The Hero 332

A few months back, I stepped in to the meeting room, with my trusty old notebook and ink/fountain pen (yes, you read it correctly) in my hand, and settled into a chair.
One of my colleagues who was sitting just across the table squinted at the pen and when the penny finally dropped, with the most curious of expressions drawn across her face, she said "Is that a China pen in your hands?". Fact was, it was. What was even more surprising was that someone actually recognised it as such.
(Note: As the pen originally comes from The Shanghai Hero Pen factory, it is commonly referred to as the China pen or the Hero pen).

My love affair with the Hero 332 began way back in primary school. My mom got me one of these when school year started. Thankfully, back then, the choice was limited and it didn't drive Mom crazy to source a simple pen that did the job. After a few failed attempts to get the right coloured ink for the pen, my grandfather suggested I use the Blue-Black variety of ink. Black looked good, but school authorities had absolute rules on the use of black ink and blue seemed too bubble-gum like. Blue-black it was then.

Given that we were unable to use those terrible ball-point pens until our SSC year, ink pens were all the rage. And for good reason as well. Ball-point pens have a consistency like a certain middle-order Indian cricketer these days. Shocking and embarrasing. Wonder what sets the SSC as any different to other years. Any year, we were writing/scribbling away the same amount of stuff anyways. Anyways, I digress.

Everything about the Hero pen suggests class. The plain-yet-elegant looks, the fine nib, the smooth ink flow. Although it took a good 7-8 dips into the ink pot to quench it's thirst, it was well worth it. From the day I started using the pen, it has performed exactly the same. No big blotches, no sudden spills, no cranky abrasions or designs on paper.

Photo courtesy: Google images

I've used the pen for writing 3 hour exams. I've even used it for 3 hour exams, writing native languages. I may have broken into a sweat thinking of the answers to the questions, but the pen didn't. It kept going and creating wonderful designs on paper. Friends have begged, borrowed and stolen other pens I've owned, but I've fought tooth and nail (and nib) to keep in my possession this little beauty.
I also penned (for the lack of a better word) various essays at school, including 'Autobiography of a pen' using the Hero. The essay told the story of a simple but ambitious pen and it's journey through the scrolls of life.

I stuck with the Hero throughout junior college, only occasionally drifting to the ball-point cousins for limited usage.

I put the Hero to its test at University and it graduated with merits.

I looked back at my colleague and nodded in the affirmative. Yes, this was the simple, yet stunningly effective China pen that I use. Even today. Regularly.

Down Memory Lane - JAM

1998.
I had just moved to Pune for my Bachelor's and like any another youth of the 90's, was still reeling under the swamp of boy/ girl bands, their collective attempts at singing and commendable efforts at keeping their mousse-set hair in one place.

Soon after, I joined Fergusson college and was promptly seen loitering around the campus, usually guided by a hungry stomach.

On one of these hunger-driven days, when I was reasonably close to the Goodluck Restaurant, at the traffic lights, I spotted a colourful rag at the local news stand.

JAM - Just Another Magazine. It had everything a collegian needed to know – career tips, funny articles, spoofs, gossip and the ubiquitous glossy wallpaper (centre-spread).

What started off with a 5 minute flirt, flicking through the mag, ended up being one of the most personally satisfying stints working with them.

Post a few quick exchanges of emails; I became a Bureau Chief – essentially a not-so-secretive eyes-and-ears of the organisation, responsible for reporting any gossip, happenings and events on the college campus.

This reporting took on a range of topics and I certainly didn’t stop at anything specific. My first small write up was about a popular chai stall outside Kamala Nehru Park, followed by a review of an ice cream shop on Fergusson College Road. Just so that people don’t figure out my pattern (stomach-driven), I also reported about other things such as this:
Terminal Terror

Whilst doing my writing, I also connected somehow with the JAM man in Pune – Carson Dalton. He was JAM’s go-to man in Pune. Not without reason as well. He was and is probably the coolest guy I have come across. Not only did he write for JAM, he was also their sales/marketing/business development unit in Pune. He offered me the role of distributing JAM throughout Pune and I gladly accepted this offer.

For over a year after that, every fortnight, I’d visit the cargo area at the Pune railway station, haggle/plead/beg/offer chai to/bribe (more or less in that order) the Cargo Officer to release the magazine gunny sacks that often shipped from Mumbai without the consignment docket, collect around 200 copies of the mag, load them on my trusty old Kinetic Honda and start making the delivery rounds throughout Pune. (When I say Pune, it does not mean literally all of Pune. JAM was available at only 20-30 stores, mostly near the Camp area, Deccan and a select few in Kothrud).

My bedroom walls bore testimony to my allegiance to JAM, via a rather curious and eclectic mix of glossy wallpapers of celebrities, names of whom I’d rather not disclose and further embarrass myself!

It was a thrilling experience dealing with the guys stocking JAM throughout Pune. Starting from a cuppa chai with the Railway Station news agent, to the 2 gorgeous (and flirty) ladies at the Hallmark gift shop opposite Wadia’s, the incredible old woman on MG Road, just around the corner from Westend (she sold the maximum number of copies each fortnight), to the family business outside Sagar Arcade. A few had no clue as to how the distribution worked, but still played well enough when it came to the cash.
Along with offers of endless cups of chai at each news stand, to lively banter about cricket, movies, to the business end of the magazine swap (the part where the shopowner and I tried making sense of the number of copies sold, any owings etc), the delivery round was full of experience.

On a few occasions, I’d have company, with the JAM man Carson, joining me for some chinwag and we’d usually finish our delivery round with a King Burger at its namesake joint on East Street.

In my last year of graduation, my batchmates at Fergusson got together and banged their heads at designing departmental sweatshirt/jumper and I had this to say:
Department Tees

All throughout the last year of my Bachelor’s, we were subjected to some really interesting professors, prompting me to come up with this write up (anonymously, of course):
Nutty Profs

This stint with JAM, and being in good books with the JAM man, I suppose, also got me free entry into some really cool places and events – pubs to organise JAM events, music concerts, quizzes, that sort of stuff. Plus, it was also a handy gig to try and impress the ladies. Ahem.

With growing personal and educational commitments, came lessening of this wonderful association and I handed over the distribution/delivery to another enthusiastic bloke 2 years later.
For me personally, it was more than Just Another Magazine.

We all have our 'Mo'ments

Movember. Official month to grow a Mo for a good cause - men's health. (http://au.movember.com/about/)

For someone who's not a big fan of facial hair, I've decided to keep a moustache for the month of November to support a cause. A cause that is not as widely spoken about as some of other health issues.

I feel a lot of men ignore a lot of signs early on and keep pushing back/ignoring these clues to get a health check done regularly. Admittedly, it's simply not a thing we'd readily put on our smartphone reminders eagerly. No matter what kind of physical activity you are in, what diet you follow, it sometimes pays to go to a doctor and get a health check done.

Last time I grew a Mo was in 2009 for the same reason - supporting Movember. Truth be told, I didn't have a clue how one goes about cultivating a Mo. I was aware that it takes time, a lot of patience and getting used to a lot of tickling around the lips before one can go proudly strutting that Mo. Of course, the direction and growth of your facial hair also influences what sort of Mo you'd want to keep.

I went for the handlebar.

Not a bad effort for a first timer I thought.

I am doing it again in 2012, but I may be experimenting a bit with the Mo, depending on how much I can look after it over 4 weeks.

Much as my wife prefers my clean shaven face, she wholly supports my idea of growing a Mo because she appreciates the cause it stands for. She lost the first important man in her life, her father, to prostrate cancer a few years back and would like to raise the level of awareness about men's health.

This year along with doing it for the actual cause, I also have another reason to do this.

My 1.5 year old boy. I want to make sure I stay in good health and get the appropriate checks done so that I can be around to see him to grow up into a fine man.

Check out my Mo 2012 space: http://mobro.co/swapnilogale

Raising Denver

How it began

Everyone's heard about the Customs' Foster Carer Program, right? We saw it first on TV and immediately thought - that sounds exciting. I remember applying for getting a Customs puppy way back around Mar 2010 and was initially told we would be contacted soonish about this.

It wasn't actually until Sept 2011 that we heard back from Australian Customs and informed that we were successful in our application and that they finally had some puppies now ready to be taken to their foster homes. We were asked to come to their Training Centre (previously in Tullamarine, just behind the airport, but now relocated to Bulla) and pick up a "black lab, 6 weeks, male" after hours. Little V was only 3 months old then and it was going to be a big task, managing 2 babies and of course, the big one - Benji. However, the moment we first set our eyes on this gorgeous, cuddly set of pure joy, we knew it was going to be one helluva journey. Out of the 5 puppies ready to go to their foster house, I reckon Denver was probably the largest in size and most athletic (his jumps were enough evidence to that!).

One of the conditions around raising Denver was that he wasn't allowed to sleep inside the house, regardless of what the weather was like outside. It was a bit disheartening to leave him outside the first night, though Benji immediately jumped in and straight away took control of Denver's bed and his house, in spite of having his own bed laid next to Denver's. It was funny initially to see Denver curled up besides Benji in the same house and that's how they slept the first few months. Personally, I think Denver loved curling up to someone like him, though as he grew bigger, Benji soon had to make his own arrangements.

Around the house

Denver started like all pups do - chewing at anything and everything that he could. He was also encouraged by the fact that Benji still regularly destroyed anything new in the backyard and routinely demolished any attempts of maintaining a proper backyard.

Denver was sharp though. He was quick to respond to his name and even quicker to respond to praises. Even as a pup, you could see his superior hunting skills. He could find anything within seconds, no matter where you hid it in the backyard.  

Benji and Denver had an absolute crazy time in the backyard, chasing each other, playfully biting and rolling each other.

I remember we got him inside the house the first time, to familiarise him with the environment, and the effect 15 minutes later was near similar to when the tsunami stuck Japan. Absolute chaos within the house. He loved going through everything and shred it to pieces.  

I once took Denver to the airport to socialise him in crowded environments and he immediately took to task of sniffing out traveller's bags, as if he was already employed to do so. This was when he was a mere 3 months old. He walked around with an air of absolute fearlessness, inquisitive and watchful every single time. And boy, was he strong. At the age of 5 months, he was already pulling me easily on leash and taking me on regular walks around the house. By the time he was 7 months, he could easily haul my backside and not be out of breath after 30 minutes. 

Splash!

Around 5 months of age, we took him to the local pond where Benji loves swimming. At first, we were apprehensive of how Denver would go in the water. He astounded us with swimming as if he's been to the Olympics, in his first attempt. He even went in further than Benji and absolutely loved the idea of fetching balls that I threw in for Benji primarily. Shaking off the water with gay abandon, without a care of other pets or owners, he would search for Benji and follow him like a little brother. Benji no doubt loved the attention and it kept him fit and on his paws. In hindsight, Benji taught him more about being a tough pet than anyone.

By the time Denver was 10 months old, he was bigger in size and weight than Benji, given his extremely talented parentage and could easily dominate Benji. 

We had to play with Benji and Denver separately, as his foster caring conditions didn't allow us to get Denver to fetch objects like we'd do with Benji. So one of us had to take Benji for a walk while the other played tug-of-war with Denver, letting Denver win every single time (this is crucial for their development).

It was funny to see the amazing similarities and differences between 2 kids (V and Denver) growing up in and around the house. Little V had a great time watching Denver and Benji and also imitating them by licking the windows from the inside, while Benji and Denver did the same on the outside.

 

The Customs team provided food, medicines and all other support over the year and came out every month to test Denver, closer to the house and then take him away for 5 days, every 3 months for a more rigorous training.

Soon after he returned from their training, they would send us an assessment of his skills/shortcomings and ask us to work on a particular thing. One great feedback throughout the year was he was great around other dogs and had an amazing nature. Again, Benji at work.

Ready for the real world

Around the 11-month mark, Denver was taken for his final assessment and we were informed that due to Denver's superior hunting skills, he was to be shown to Australian Federal Police in the next 2 weeks and if he was selected, we would not see him again. We had 1 week to say our goodbyes.

On the last morning for Denver with us, we had taken him to the pond for one last time with us  and that's when I got the call from the Customs guy that he was waiting for us at the car park and since he had the work car with him, he could take Denver straight to the Customs Training Centre once we were done with our walk.

Splashing his way out of the freezing cold water, onto the car park and just like that, Denver was gone.

 

I received a call from Customs 2 weeks later informing me that Denver was successfully selected by Australian Federal Police and that he would now go to Canberra for further training.

Denver not only made us proud by getting selected, but also taught us a few things we easily overlook these days - loyalty, fearlessness, love and a genuine zest for life.

The (Great Indian) Soap-Opera

Been subjected to a number of soaps (both the telly and the bathing kinds) since childhood, I’ve often fantasised about directing a soap-opera, where the soaps are the real stars. Sounds childish and corny. I know. But hey, what the heck.
Creativity should have no bars (no pun intended).

So here goes…

Sabun family

Hamam as Bade Bhaiyya
The straight-forward bro. You always have one in the family. He may be bitter, he may be of strong opinions, but he is honest and he is consistent. Nothing changes for him ever.
Like the Neem Soap.

Lifebuoy at Pappaji
The no-nonsense stern patriarch. Goes about his business, takes care of and feeds the family. Warm embrace and clean image.
Does what a father ought to do. Protect. Safeguard.
Little wonder the jingle goes “Lifebuoy hain jahan, tandoorasti hain wahan”.

Cinthol Lime as Chutki
The quintessential quirky teenager in the family. Fresh, young and vibrant. Perky, zesty and rebellious.
Remember Preity Zinta under the waterfall in the advert?

Dettol as Dadaji
Build to last. They just don't make them like him anymore.
Healthy, vigorous lifestyle. Can more than stand his own.
Often seen as a shining light and a guiding force against all enemies.

Mysore Sandalwood as Amir Chacha
Comes around once a year, usually around Diwali, bringing good tidings, fragrant airs and lots of loving.
Gift bearer, warm natured and nice smelling.

Lux as Maa
Comforting. Always there for you.
Displays a range of emotions, but understands you like no one else. So popular that a number of filmstars often endorse her being.

Pears as Badi Chachi
Popular, good looking and a big show-off. Carries herself well and loves to please everyone.
Welcome anytime, but visits as rare as a mongoose sighting.

Handmade variety soap as Didi
Individual, quirky and always there for you. Like Maa, comes in a range of emotions - very interesting some of them.
Everyone wants one and is usually loved by the masses (as well as the classes).

(Images courtesy Google images)

Storyline
An old tattered shopping bag in the pantry. A little boy is looking with his wide hazelnut coloured eyes at the wide collection of soaps in the shopping bag. He wants to pick one up but cannot make up his mind, so he scampers off to look for his Mom to help him decide.

Meanwhile, in the Sabun family down in the shopping bag, all the family members are scared of losing a family member. Which one will it be this time? The family has seen such disappearances before, but this time around, they are adamant of not losing anyone. They have run out of ideas to outwit these humans, but when all hope is lost, they sight a bottle of bodywash tucked in the corner of the shopping bag…

What happens next? How do they get the young boy to pick the bottle of bodywash and spare the Sabun family members…