Imagine, you're coming from a long practice session. You have your pads on, two bats in one hand, and your keeping gloves in the other. Then a child stops you for an autograph and you have to put everything down. And if you don't, the kid will think he's such an arrogant man...
MS Dhoni, in an interview to Outlook, Oct 27 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Yaad ke benishan jazeeron se
Australopithecus tags me, so we regress…
My oldest memory
Riding on Moti’s back, Moti being the neighbour’s enormous dog. Also eating Moti’s lunch, out of his bowl. Yechch!!! Mother says I was about two-and-a-half. Life before that is a blank. What’s the use, I ask you.
10 years ago
In Chennai. I was getting used to a new job, in a new city. Plus ça change…
My first thought this morning
Shit, I need to write the Switzerland piece!
If you built a time capsule today, what would it contain?
A laptop (of course), some token amounts of RDX, a bottle of packaged drinking water, Tiger DNA, a photograph of the Taj Mahal (just in case, paapam, they don’t have it), a DVD of a Bollywood potboiler (which one, though? Sholay, Hum Aapke Hain Kaun? Drona?)… many more things.
When I don’t have discipline with an ordinary weekend bag, you think I’d have it when it comes to packing a time capsule? This is going to be my favourite past time for the next week, putting together this trunk.
This year
Has been good to me.
14 years from now
I will be… shudder… 14 years older. It doesn’t bear thinking about, so I shan’t. No idea what I’ll be doing.
I tag
Ze Gaga
The Kid
The Kiddo
My oldest memory
Riding on Moti’s back, Moti being the neighbour’s enormous dog. Also eating Moti’s lunch, out of his bowl. Yechch!!! Mother says I was about two-and-a-half. Life before that is a blank. What’s the use, I ask you.
10 years ago
In Chennai. I was getting used to a new job, in a new city. Plus ça change…
My first thought this morning
Shit, I need to write the Switzerland piece!
If you built a time capsule today, what would it contain?
A laptop (of course), some token amounts of RDX, a bottle of packaged drinking water, Tiger DNA, a photograph of the Taj Mahal (just in case, paapam, they don’t have it), a DVD of a Bollywood potboiler (which one, though? Sholay, Hum Aapke Hain Kaun? Drona?)… many more things.
When I don’t have discipline with an ordinary weekend bag, you think I’d have it when it comes to packing a time capsule? This is going to be my favourite past time for the next week, putting together this trunk.
This year
Has been good to me.
14 years from now
I will be… shudder… 14 years older. It doesn’t bear thinking about, so I shan’t. No idea what I’ll be doing.
I tag
Ze Gaga
The Kid
The Kiddo
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Neevena nanu talachinadi?
If you met Sheetal this morning you’d see the broadest grin that ever split a face. [Digression: this slipping into the third person is of course the fault of Facebook’s status messages – I always thought people who spoke like that were a little weird but the way I’m taking to it is alarming]. Coming back to the broad smile, it’s because I’ve been doing a bit of web-cam chatting with my family. Internet connectivity at my place has been established, and I’m old enough to marvel at the internet still. Really, it is the best thing since sliced bread, no, since the wheel.
When we were children, gathering at the neighbours' to watch the telecast of the Telugu classic Maya Bazaar on DD, what wonder, what delight there was when Sasirekha (Savitri) opens the magical mirror box to see her lover Abhimanyu (ANR) in it. A magical song follows, and some gentle dalliance. It is all explained now – it was a laptop, of course.
It’s been near three months since I left home and my mother has been saying that she can’t immediately bring my face to mind. It took a little setting up: internet at my end, some software installation at the other, but it was done finally. Shweta looks the same, mum looks gaunter than I like and my father, I’m happy to report, is as sprightly as ever. His excitement at this new activity took the form of breaking into jig behind Shweta, playing peek-a-boo behind her head. And they wonder why we never grow up.
===
Since I stir nostalgia, I must slake it:
When we were children, gathering at the neighbours' to watch the telecast of the Telugu classic Maya Bazaar on DD, what wonder, what delight there was when Sasirekha (Savitri) opens the magical mirror box to see her lover Abhimanyu (ANR) in it. A magical song follows, and some gentle dalliance. It is all explained now – it was a laptop, of course.
It’s been near three months since I left home and my mother has been saying that she can’t immediately bring my face to mind. It took a little setting up: internet at my end, some software installation at the other, but it was done finally. Shweta looks the same, mum looks gaunter than I like and my father, I’m happy to report, is as sprightly as ever. His excitement at this new activity took the form of breaking into jig behind Shweta, playing peek-a-boo behind her head. And they wonder why we never grow up.
===
Since I stir nostalgia, I must slake it:
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Kabhi neem neem
Few things anger me so consistently as the stupid, unfeeling chopping of a tree. Came home last night to find a street light throwing rather more light on the walls than it was accustomed to do. It was late, the last day of production—it was only a hazy bewilderment. This morning, with something akin to horror, I found the tree had disappeared. Morons, who know nothing of what a tree can mean, have shorn it—humiliating the young neem, stripping it of dignity and robbing it of several years’ work.
It might be the handiwork of corporation walas who like their electricity wires to survive unhindered, but they seldom clean out a tree like this. I suspect the fell hand of my landlords, who are painting the house and may well have thought they’d like everyone to admire the new coat without the interference of greenery.
I have been telling myself to get a grip, to stop bewailing spilt milk but it’s all I can do not to storm off and speak to them in very cold accents.
It might be the handiwork of corporation walas who like their electricity wires to survive unhindered, but they seldom clean out a tree like this. I suspect the fell hand of my landlords, who are painting the house and may well have thought they’d like everyone to admire the new coat without the interference of greenery.
I have been telling myself to get a grip, to stop bewailing spilt milk but it’s all I can do not to storm off and speak to them in very cold accents.
Monday, September 15, 2008
High Hopes
The Stok Kangri story...
===
On my first day in Leh, I fancied I detected a strain of worry in Pankaj Lagwal, our guide for the trip. Taxed with it, he smiled but admitted it: “I’ve been here for two weeks now, and look at the mountain constantly. Only on two days have I been able to see the peak.” We raced up to the terrace of the hotel Kang-Lha-Chen, and brought out the binoculars. As he’d said, the peak yonder was veiled, shrouded in cloud and rain. We could see why he was worried—what was a pretty sight here was probably a fairly vicious storm up there. Stok Kangri was having a right royal snit.
I and five others were in Leh to make an attempt to summit Stok Kangri, the trip organised by adventure operators Aquaterra. The highest of the Stok range, the mountain is an imposing six-thousander; what makes it even more special is that it is a non-technical climb—accessible even to fit trekkers without mountaineering skills. The word on Stok Kangri has gone around. Come August and climbers from all over the world descend on Ladakh, making their way to the mountain in what is part pilgrimage, part ego-trip.
On day two, we were still being acclimatised and the itinerary included Khardung La and a leisurely tour of a couple of Leh’s fine monasteries. The long mountain road back was a thin dark imprint in a land of white dust. We looked, as we tended to do, at our particular pile. There was a shout—we pulled up and brought out the big lens. The weather on Stok Kangri was clearing, and only a few wisps of dark cloud still clung to the peak. For the first time since we arrived we could see it fully—the object of our current desire. It is a beautiful mountain.
The next day, from admiring the scenery we went into it. Our group of six: Aman Nugyal, Amit Sharma, Takako ‘Coco’ Inamori, Aaron Wolff, Rajesh Huddar and I. Assisting Pankaj with guide-work were Chain Singh and local boy, Rigzin Tamchos. The route took us past Spituk and over the mighty Indus; the bridge so heavily adorned with prayer flags I was only able to see the river through the chinks. Then from a point in Zingchen, we started to walk, making our way through rain to stop at Rumbak (3,870m). This was the first time I was trekking at elevations so high. The two days spent getting used to the thin air helped but not enough. The trek was arduous enough but the challenges piled up with the weather. Ladakh’s summer, July to September, is known for its congenial temperatures—climate change, however, knocks all assumptions out of reckoning. Like it did in 2006, it has been raining incessantly here: the streams are swelling, and we were obliged to trek and camp in the rain—never one of my favourite things to do.
I puzzled the first couple of days at my fatigue—not all your reading of how altitude affects the human body prepares you for the fact of it. Terrain I thought I should be traversing with reasonable ease became formidable; my feet seemed dipped in treacle, my breath dragged in far less than I needed. It was lowering.
If the first foray was gruelling, the second day was tougher still. We headed to Moun Karmo (4,250m) via a cruelly-placed pass called Stok La (4,890m). Footsteps became small and great effort seemed to be needed to make even minuscule advances. Once over the hump though, we skied down mud paths, and made quick work of the descent. When we finally tramped into camp, I sat down to watch lammergeirs in the cliffs surrounding us.
So far, we had been circling Stok Kangri like wary boxers. It was time to make a move. Day Three saw us make a bold stroke—we moved to Stok Kangri Base Camp (4,975m). This, I must say, is something like an international camping festival. A widish meadow with a stream running by, it is a necessary pit stop for trekkers on their way up and those on their way down. A shack here provides the essentials—instant noodles, energy bars, chocolate, beer and rum. Tents of every hue are pegged here, and the scene has campers walking about, kitchen fires going with wholesome aromas, and mules and horses tethered here and there, nibbling at grass and at each other. I fell asleep to the hum of voices and the jangle of mule-bells.
We were now to see the whites of the eyes of our target. Advanced Base Camp (5,315m). A flattering name, for all it is really is a pile of rocks, with barely enough room for four tents. Our cook Ravinder conjured up some divine khichdi and soup, and we all huddled into the kitchen tent to tuck in. The air was nippy—Stok Kangri (6,153m) was sending out tendrils of biting cold to run their fingers down our spines.
Our bid for the summit started, as these often do, in the middle of the night. The plan was to climb up to a ridge on the mountain and then crawl along the ridge to the summit. The weather seemed fine and would hold out, God willing. Layers of clothing were donned, miner headlamps were fastened, a preparatory cup of tea was imbibed with biscuits. We set off over rocks at first and then over the glacier, stamping to keep the ice off our shoes, digging in the pick axes as we scrambled for purchase. We began to climb now in earnest. A trail of sorts there was, but difficult to pick out in the dark. All I was sure of was the direction: up. In the distance behind and before me, I saw headlamps bobbing in the dark—about 20 trekkers were trying to summit that day.
A few hours into the foray and it started to get light over the east. The sun crept up from behind snow-rimmed peaks, lighting them an eerie and utterly gorgeous orangey-yellow. I was tiring. Some of the others in my group had long gone ahead. Nausea rose up my chest and I was beginning to get light-headed. Rigzin was with me, holding my hand to prevent me falling, sometimes dragging me, sometimes urging me on. Stopping, gasping, grunting, moving...Some time after daylight, I staggered onto the ridge and flung myself down.
I was wondering if I should climb on. My tired mind came up with reasons for ‘not’. The summit, if made, should be reached, I told myself, only by the supremely fit. I saw no glory in struggling on for the next two or three hours, in such a state as I was in, dragged across by a guide. On the other hand, now that I had made the ridge, I should wait for 10 or perhaps 20 minutes. A renewal of energy would put a different spin on things. This would not be the first time I had been intimidated by challenges that I had eventually tackled.
It was not to be, though. Coco, who had reached about 100m from the summit, had collapsed. She had to be given oxygen, brought down quickly. While those close to the peak would go on, it would be difficult for the expedition to guide me to the summit as well. Fate had taken a hand and made up my mind for me. So I looked around the magnificent Karakorams, took a few pictures and descended, not sure what I had accomplished here.
Ladakh and Stok Kangri beckon climbers like a flame. Over the six days we walked, we must’ve encountered at least 200 trekkers, a large majority of whom were foreigners, some from the US, but mostly from Europe. On the way to Moun Karmo, through the high pass of Stok La, there was a veritable traffic jam and my head hurt from nodding at passing trekkers, porters and pack-mules. Juley, we all went, bonhomous in a fellowship of trekkers, Juley!
Why do people climb mountains? The question has been asked and the retort is ‘because they’re there’. Which puts you in your place nicely. There is nothing to do but to digest that response and ask again. Why climb mountains? Why brave unforgiving sunlight, blistering whippy winds and harsh elements? Why have your face go ruddy, your lips blackened and cracked? Why sleep on slopey, slidey rough ground with pebbles pressing up under your Karrimat? What’s so special about having your body so fatigued it can’t eat? What’s the deal with swaying drunkenly with lack of oxygen as you climb into thinner and thinner air? Why is that spot of land—the highest spindly point of this pile of rocks, snow and rubble—worth so much trouble?
I ask these questions as if the answers follow, but honestly I don’t have them. Nearly everyone agrees though, that mountain-climbing is an internal business. The mountain is inside you, and the obstacles. Whether you summit or not, there are lessons for everyone—character faults loom before you in all ugliness, personality-driven walls come up slap in your way. Your belief matters. What effort you consider significant matters. How kamikaze you’re prepared to be in your attainment of a goal matters.
And so it was that three of six touched down on the peak of Stok Kangri and three of us didn’t. Shall I go back to try another time? I don’t think so. I’m not convinced that placing my foot at any cost over just that precise patch of mountain says anything about anything. I shall probably keep trekking though. Keep that fitness handy, so if an achievement like this comes offered on a platter again, I’ll take it as if it was meant.
===
On my first day in Leh, I fancied I detected a strain of worry in Pankaj Lagwal, our guide for the trip. Taxed with it, he smiled but admitted it: “I’ve been here for two weeks now, and look at the mountain constantly. Only on two days have I been able to see the peak.” We raced up to the terrace of the hotel Kang-Lha-Chen, and brought out the binoculars. As he’d said, the peak yonder was veiled, shrouded in cloud and rain. We could see why he was worried—what was a pretty sight here was probably a fairly vicious storm up there. Stok Kangri was having a right royal snit.
I and five others were in Leh to make an attempt to summit Stok Kangri, the trip organised by adventure operators Aquaterra. The highest of the Stok range, the mountain is an imposing six-thousander; what makes it even more special is that it is a non-technical climb—accessible even to fit trekkers without mountaineering skills. The word on Stok Kangri has gone around. Come August and climbers from all over the world descend on Ladakh, making their way to the mountain in what is part pilgrimage, part ego-trip.
On day two, we were still being acclimatised and the itinerary included Khardung La and a leisurely tour of a couple of Leh’s fine monasteries. The long mountain road back was a thin dark imprint in a land of white dust. We looked, as we tended to do, at our particular pile. There was a shout—we pulled up and brought out the big lens. The weather on Stok Kangri was clearing, and only a few wisps of dark cloud still clung to the peak. For the first time since we arrived we could see it fully—the object of our current desire. It is a beautiful mountain.
The next day, from admiring the scenery we went into it. Our group of six: Aman Nugyal, Amit Sharma, Takako ‘Coco’ Inamori, Aaron Wolff, Rajesh Huddar and I. Assisting Pankaj with guide-work were Chain Singh and local boy, Rigzin Tamchos. The route took us past Spituk and over the mighty Indus; the bridge so heavily adorned with prayer flags I was only able to see the river through the chinks. Then from a point in Zingchen, we started to walk, making our way through rain to stop at Rumbak (3,870m). This was the first time I was trekking at elevations so high. The two days spent getting used to the thin air helped but not enough. The trek was arduous enough but the challenges piled up with the weather. Ladakh’s summer, July to September, is known for its congenial temperatures—climate change, however, knocks all assumptions out of reckoning. Like it did in 2006, it has been raining incessantly here: the streams are swelling, and we were obliged to trek and camp in the rain—never one of my favourite things to do.
I puzzled the first couple of days at my fatigue—not all your reading of how altitude affects the human body prepares you for the fact of it. Terrain I thought I should be traversing with reasonable ease became formidable; my feet seemed dipped in treacle, my breath dragged in far less than I needed. It was lowering.
If the first foray was gruelling, the second day was tougher still. We headed to Moun Karmo (4,250m) via a cruelly-placed pass called Stok La (4,890m). Footsteps became small and great effort seemed to be needed to make even minuscule advances. Once over the hump though, we skied down mud paths, and made quick work of the descent. When we finally tramped into camp, I sat down to watch lammergeirs in the cliffs surrounding us.
So far, we had been circling Stok Kangri like wary boxers. It was time to make a move. Day Three saw us make a bold stroke—we moved to Stok Kangri Base Camp (4,975m). This, I must say, is something like an international camping festival. A widish meadow with a stream running by, it is a necessary pit stop for trekkers on their way up and those on their way down. A shack here provides the essentials—instant noodles, energy bars, chocolate, beer and rum. Tents of every hue are pegged here, and the scene has campers walking about, kitchen fires going with wholesome aromas, and mules and horses tethered here and there, nibbling at grass and at each other. I fell asleep to the hum of voices and the jangle of mule-bells.
We were now to see the whites of the eyes of our target. Advanced Base Camp (5,315m). A flattering name, for all it is really is a pile of rocks, with barely enough room for four tents. Our cook Ravinder conjured up some divine khichdi and soup, and we all huddled into the kitchen tent to tuck in. The air was nippy—Stok Kangri (6,153m) was sending out tendrils of biting cold to run their fingers down our spines.
Our bid for the summit started, as these often do, in the middle of the night. The plan was to climb up to a ridge on the mountain and then crawl along the ridge to the summit. The weather seemed fine and would hold out, God willing. Layers of clothing were donned, miner headlamps were fastened, a preparatory cup of tea was imbibed with biscuits. We set off over rocks at first and then over the glacier, stamping to keep the ice off our shoes, digging in the pick axes as we scrambled for purchase. We began to climb now in earnest. A trail of sorts there was, but difficult to pick out in the dark. All I was sure of was the direction: up. In the distance behind and before me, I saw headlamps bobbing in the dark—about 20 trekkers were trying to summit that day.
A few hours into the foray and it started to get light over the east. The sun crept up from behind snow-rimmed peaks, lighting them an eerie and utterly gorgeous orangey-yellow. I was tiring. Some of the others in my group had long gone ahead. Nausea rose up my chest and I was beginning to get light-headed. Rigzin was with me, holding my hand to prevent me falling, sometimes dragging me, sometimes urging me on. Stopping, gasping, grunting, moving...Some time after daylight, I staggered onto the ridge and flung myself down.
I was wondering if I should climb on. My tired mind came up with reasons for ‘not’. The summit, if made, should be reached, I told myself, only by the supremely fit. I saw no glory in struggling on for the next two or three hours, in such a state as I was in, dragged across by a guide. On the other hand, now that I had made the ridge, I should wait for 10 or perhaps 20 minutes. A renewal of energy would put a different spin on things. This would not be the first time I had been intimidated by challenges that I had eventually tackled.
It was not to be, though. Coco, who had reached about 100m from the summit, had collapsed. She had to be given oxygen, brought down quickly. While those close to the peak would go on, it would be difficult for the expedition to guide me to the summit as well. Fate had taken a hand and made up my mind for me. So I looked around the magnificent Karakorams, took a few pictures and descended, not sure what I had accomplished here.
Ladakh and Stok Kangri beckon climbers like a flame. Over the six days we walked, we must’ve encountered at least 200 trekkers, a large majority of whom were foreigners, some from the US, but mostly from Europe. On the way to Moun Karmo, through the high pass of Stok La, there was a veritable traffic jam and my head hurt from nodding at passing trekkers, porters and pack-mules. Juley, we all went, bonhomous in a fellowship of trekkers, Juley!
Why do people climb mountains? The question has been asked and the retort is ‘because they’re there’. Which puts you in your place nicely. There is nothing to do but to digest that response and ask again. Why climb mountains? Why brave unforgiving sunlight, blistering whippy winds and harsh elements? Why have your face go ruddy, your lips blackened and cracked? Why sleep on slopey, slidey rough ground with pebbles pressing up under your Karrimat? What’s so special about having your body so fatigued it can’t eat? What’s the deal with swaying drunkenly with lack of oxygen as you climb into thinner and thinner air? Why is that spot of land—the highest spindly point of this pile of rocks, snow and rubble—worth so much trouble?
I ask these questions as if the answers follow, but honestly I don’t have them. Nearly everyone agrees though, that mountain-climbing is an internal business. The mountain is inside you, and the obstacles. Whether you summit or not, there are lessons for everyone—character faults loom before you in all ugliness, personality-driven walls come up slap in your way. Your belief matters. What effort you consider significant matters. How kamikaze you’re prepared to be in your attainment of a goal matters.
And so it was that three of six touched down on the peak of Stok Kangri and three of us didn’t. Shall I go back to try another time? I don’t think so. I’m not convinced that placing my foot at any cost over just that precise patch of mountain says anything about anything. I shall probably keep trekking though. Keep that fitness handy, so if an achievement like this comes offered on a platter again, I’ll take it as if it was meant.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Ladakh pictures
Back from Ladakh. Tired, tired, tired. I went to climb a mountain, climbed most of it but not all of it and came back exhausted. I've written a story on it - will put that up when I'm able, but in the meantime, here are some pictures.
Stok Kangri, the lovely one
View from plane
View from tent
Thiksey monastery, which amused me because all the offerings are in recycled plastic - flowers in an old Bournvita bottle, oil for the lamps in a coke 2-litre...
Stok Kangri, the lovely one
View from plane
View from tent
Thiksey monastery, which amused me because all the offerings are in recycled plastic - flowers in an old Bournvita bottle, oil for the lamps in a coke 2-litre...
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
जब कभी भी सुनोगे गीत मेरे...
It’s the death anniversary of Mohd Rafi and Jhankaar on World Space is having a Rafi special. Predominantly 70s though, all the Rishi Kapoor numbers, which are fun enough but not, for me, the real Rafi. Give me the 60s any day.
When I was young, the radio and Hindi film music were obsessions. I’d lock myself in the room, sit in front of the transistor in attitudes of meditation, rocking in appreciation. On Sundays, Radio Ceylon had specials. I remember one hour-long information-packed slot where episode by episode, they went through the body of Hindi film music, year-wise – taking us through the hits, supplying nuggets of trivia. I took notes as if I was going to be examined on the subject. Eventually, the heat of my interest abated and regrettably, the facts have fallen away through the chinks in memory.
One July 31 many years ago, I was looking forward to a day full of Rafi. I had cleared the decks, and there was nothing to keep me from staying unhealthily glued to the radio. Except disaster. I turned the knobs and the transistor went dead. I was near tears; perhaps I did cry. My father took me out to Secunderabad’s Clock Tower area and bought me a new one. Shweta tells me now that she was shocked at such indulgence – my parents were not the sort to give in to every whim. I think now that they were very wise, able to distinguish between unreasonable demands and what was very important to the child.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Aashiana dhoondta hai
Two weeks into the new city now. It has been easier and more difficult than I thought. I call home twice a day, which is normal. I miss my mother, but that was expected. I hate being out of 50km radius from her. She complains I hardly speak to her when I’m home, but I simply hate not being able to.
Delhi is fine. I have been moving hither and thither, have seen two movies, gone to several of its beguiling markets, eaten out few times and met some really nice people. I like it. The metro construction renders the roads cramped and everyone leans on their horns, but what the hey.
Finding a house – a good one – seems extraordinarily difficult. Everyone who has house-hunted in Delhi assures me it is a task of gargantuan proportions. There seems to be a pattern. At first, there is an allocated budget and a certain insouciance; you will even imagine fondly that you will spread the word and something appropriate will turn up, thus making it unnecessary to cough up the one month’s rent the broker will demand. Reality check: no one around you has an aunt or friend who magically has a house that needs a good caring tenant. However, there are several property agents. On my second day at it, I opened an Excel sheet with columns for names, numbers, speciality areas and current status.
Then you begin. You are shown the most appalling houses in various stages of disrepair, in several kinds of bad taste. Up staircases so dark you navigate solely by touch and instinct. Down alleys where you hold up your trousers daintily, picking your way through vegetable (and other) waste. Or you find houses of which only one aspect is extremely right. There is both frustration now and hope. You tell yourself: if I could find such a happy location as I found with House A, accompanied by the nice woodwork in House B and the un-hole-like kitchen in House C, we would be set. Easier said, my friends. There seem to several such houses as you rattle through various enclaves, glancing about longingly, but none available to rent for the price you have in mind. So you inch up a little, and then a little, till you are considering some entirely ridiculous sums of money. This is where we are at.
Even then, the house eludes you, I am told, till you are quite on the threshold of despair and about to give up, give in and beg to be let into the Good Samaritans’ Shelter. When you are on your knees, the House will appear. Insha’allah.
Delhi is fine. I have been moving hither and thither, have seen two movies, gone to several of its beguiling markets, eaten out few times and met some really nice people. I like it. The metro construction renders the roads cramped and everyone leans on their horns, but what the hey.
Finding a house – a good one – seems extraordinarily difficult. Everyone who has house-hunted in Delhi assures me it is a task of gargantuan proportions. There seems to be a pattern. At first, there is an allocated budget and a certain insouciance; you will even imagine fondly that you will spread the word and something appropriate will turn up, thus making it unnecessary to cough up the one month’s rent the broker will demand. Reality check: no one around you has an aunt or friend who magically has a house that needs a good caring tenant. However, there are several property agents. On my second day at it, I opened an Excel sheet with columns for names, numbers, speciality areas and current status.
Then you begin. You are shown the most appalling houses in various stages of disrepair, in several kinds of bad taste. Up staircases so dark you navigate solely by touch and instinct. Down alleys where you hold up your trousers daintily, picking your way through vegetable (and other) waste. Or you find houses of which only one aspect is extremely right. There is both frustration now and hope. You tell yourself: if I could find such a happy location as I found with House A, accompanied by the nice woodwork in House B and the un-hole-like kitchen in House C, we would be set. Easier said, my friends. There seem to several such houses as you rattle through various enclaves, glancing about longingly, but none available to rent for the price you have in mind. So you inch up a little, and then a little, till you are considering some entirely ridiculous sums of money. This is where we are at.
Even then, the house eludes you, I am told, till you are quite on the threshold of despair and about to give up, give in and beg to be let into the Good Samaritans’ Shelter. When you are on your knees, the House will appear. Insha’allah.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Due North
This blog, dear readers, such as it is, will now go out of Delhi. Seeking a change from the sameness, I have sought employment in the capital and have moved here this week.
If you're making noises of disbelief, your reactions will match many I have met. I must, of course, have been responsible for the wide-spread impression that I was a well-rooted Hyderabadi institution, who would grow to a venerable age here, eventually being pointed out to visitors of the city on their first tour of it. Look! Sheetal Vyas, over there, doddering on the sidewalk! We don't know very much about her, but she has been here forever.
Seriously though, it is a wrench. I do do love Hyderabad and leaving is a betrayal. It is really, because my rationale was that it was becoming so unbearable to live in, that I might as well live in another bigger unbearable city as not.
So you find me in Delhi, hefting five bags and looking for a place to stay. So, dear, kind people, if you should hear of a nice two bedroom apartment in South Delhi or even a spacious two room set (as they call them here), please do let me know – my email is on the profile (I think!).
Friday, July 04, 2008
It's every Williams for themselves
It may not be great tennis, but what a story this year's women's final is!
"We have known them as child prodigies, we have known them as youthful champions, we have known them as supreme champions at their absolute peak. And now they are giving us something new: they are giving us longevity. If things go on much longer, people will start to love them. Perhaps we should start," Simon Barnes writes in The Times.
The whole piece is here.
"We have known them as child prodigies, we have known them as youthful champions, we have known them as supreme champions at their absolute peak. And now they are giving us something new: they are giving us longevity. If things go on much longer, people will start to love them. Perhaps we should start," Simon Barnes writes in The Times.
The whole piece is here.
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