Page from pandemonium

Do you believe in magic?

It is astonishing how frequently we turn to luck, chance and fortune to make things happen, problems to sort themselves out and difficult situations to phase out.

A conscious look at ourselves as well as others around us can sometimes highlight this interesting fact, particularly in context of crisis. Do we really look for miracles?

If you were to make a list of difficult situations and how these were resolved, you might end up with a list that looked like this;

1.  I have no idea how I passed the exam!
2. I was sure we would run out of petrol, somehow the bunk came along just in time
3. What luck! they had three tickets left
4. My reservation got confirmed at the last minute
5.  I am so glad you're here, can you help me with this? I am stuck

What really is it? No mentioning how things can swing right the other way and give you something like this;

1. I knew all the answers, I just $%@#%^ up
2. I ran out of gas at the traffic light, and the cop fined me for not carrying my insurance papers
3. I swear the tickets were in my pocket
4. They bumped me off the flight
5. It was raining, my phone stopped working

Last evening I had to get out, even if it was just for an hour or so. The sultry afternoon had simmered down to a rather pleasant evening. I had half a mind to pull out my camera and take a few shots of the mango tree in my garden, juxtaposed against the deep orange hue of sunset. Somehow that never happened. Anyway, I head off to meet Hari who I’ve not seen for a fortnight or so.

On the way it starts to rain with some significance. Always a delight to watch, men on bikes turning their handkerchiefs into knotted caps that are mostly ineffective, people huddled under lone pan shops nineteen by the dozen and collectively staring out at those who choose to buffet the rain, in disapproval.

 Despite the traffic jam under the airport fly-over I make it to the comfort of Hari’s flat, also benefiting from the drop in Celsius. His balcony is always an excellent place to reminiscence. Peering below I recall the nasty full toss delivery that knocked my lights out, the brilliant Diwali bomb we set off years ago in the basement, in May using an agarbati as a timer that all took to be an unseen terrorist attack, except for the psychiatrist on the second floor who knew it was us straight away.

 Memories now run, like the rain in streams and collect in isolated pools presenting larger and larger images from the past. The hours always seem to slip by here. After an extended session of listening to some brilliant Louis Armstrong and JJ Cale, we head out to the “Convenio” for some fruit juice to compensate for the particularly salty chicken curry we had for dinner.

 The stroll we take along the lengthy HPS wall takes us by surprise. Now under cover of darkness and only dimly lit, the majestic blocks draws us to take a close look. Unsatisfied with the view from behind the gate, I climb the wall between gate one and two, stopping only for a second to picture the next day’s news. “Ex students caught trespassing at 1 AM” or “ Ex student breaks leg while attempting to trespass”. Too late, Hari had already made a leap of faith and I follow immediately.

We take the broadened road leading up to the main block. Dogs start barking in the distance but this doesn’t threaten us. In case we are spotted, we hold our ground. No need to run, everything can be explained, we once belonged here. As we advance closer, I fail to recall ever being so thrilled or excited to get there. The first day of school, the day my mother had to meet the principal for a similar offence as perpetrated by us tonight, the boards, nothing felt like this.

The walk round these towering blocks in the dead of the night was surreal, with the wind whispering in our ears, continually reminding us of the contempt we once had for these high walls and splendid domes. The months and years that crept by, punctuated by the half hourly gong of the bell. The voices, thoughts and aspirations of so many generations that rose from within these halls, rooms and corridors now gently condense and fall as huge drops of rain as I looked heavenwards, drenched in awe and wonder.

Reality check first. We’re Indians. Therefore by default, do we really care about something as frivolous as the casting couch? Dream on baby. When was the last time Shobha de or anyone else loosely associated with women’s rights stick out a finger to do something constructive, rather than shoot off their gob in a manner that is nothing more than a media grabbing exercise than anything else.

What about Shakti Kapoor? Diabole vertses en un veses! The virtue of the devil is in his loins. Full marks to India TV for their outstanding endeavor in bringing to light something as important as this, had it not been for their investigative journalism, nothing would have stood of the way of Shakti Kapoor from receiving a Bharat Ratna. Show me an Indian who is actually surprised by what Shakti Kapoor said (except himself of course) and then we might be able to give India TV the credit for having some bite in their sting operation.

There’s no use in fooling ourselves. In an overtly male chauvinistic society such as ours, we all know only too well that incidences such as these are only different faces of the same beast. To react to such incidences is merely sensationalism. It’s like winning the third prize in a game of tug-o-war.  As for dealing with the real issues that affect women on a daily basis in less dramatic yet more damaging ways, if you look to India TV or any other news group in expectation of their instrumental role in changing society as whole, you will continue to be disappointed.

It really was Nisha’s fault. Having volunteered on our behalf so casually, no one really had time to react or object to her brilliant idea, before six tall glasses of milk brimming with the goodness of bhang had arrived. With equal ease we drank the concoction, after toasting to our health or some crap like that. Pretty contemptuous for a bunch of first timers, but anyhow it was too late to make amends.

I am seated, facing the wall with the octagonal citizen clock hanging from it. Nothing seems to happen. Tick follows tock follows tick. Suddenly I realize that it is by no accident that a black bag is placed directly below it. In less than three minutes this whole cafe is going to be blown to kingdom come. We need to get out of here quickly. I alarm the rest as discretely as possible. They all are amazed by my super sharp skills, as they acknowledge my discovery. We then walk out quietly, already all eyes are on us; this is far more complicated a situation than I had imagined. Anyway, we make a dash for the car as soon as we are out of the café.

Praveen’s fiat roars to life, as does his radio. We listen to the local news broadcast silently and with great intent. Farmers union meet being inaugurated by minister for agriculture, film star visits orphanage and auto drivers threatening to strike over issue of seven seaters being allowed in the city. Following the news bulletin is an equally gripping interview with a freedom fighter turned politician/ poet. The ride is punctuated by stops at half a dozen juice shops before we finally halt at a supermarket that does have Cheeku milkshake as per Anu’s specific demand. Here we end up with a 1.5 litre bottle of coke and some dry fruits, as the fruit is not “farm fresh” according to Anu. The dry fruits procured definitely hold as the bargain of the century. With a 750 gram pack of almonds comes a 50-gram pack of cashew nuts absolutely free. Ganguly expresses his deep appreciation for the immense value-for-money deal by giving the floor manager the most generous bear hug I have seen him give in all seven years of knowing him.

After a triumphant exit from the supermarket we proceed to Swati’s house, as her house is empty and “safe”.

Luckily for us the cricket is on as we make ourselves comfortable. Along with the first session of play, we have a pickle tasting session that leaves more almonds in auntie’s homemade pickle in a two-litre jar than mango pieces as the almonds look beautiful in the jar when held up against the light. Swati’s younger brother drops by the house briefly, as we shoo him off as soon as he asks us why we were so caught up in a game between England and the West Indies played five years back. What an idiot!

Suddenly we realized that we were all starving, following the appetizing almonds and pickle. The only place worth a shot is Nitin’s as only his mother had the ability to tolerate the lot of us. We decide to go; naturally we leave the television on as we intend to continue where we left off after lunch. Nisha suggests that we take the bottle of pickle with us as it goes particularly well with dosa.

At Nitin’s house, already are visitors. A memorable sight indeed, for Nitin’s mom who couldn’t figure out why Nisha was brandishing such a large jar of pickle. Things got even more interesting when she actually offered some pickle to some of the guests present. To top it all, Praveen walked in last with the packet of almonds that now had more pickle in it than almonds, in full view of everyone present.

After all the excitement of some of the visitors leaving hurriedly, we were fortunate enough to have hot dosas. I lost track of how many I had after the third. Defeated after the thick feed, I slumped into an easy chair and was out like light whilst the rest resumed watching cricket much to the frustration of Nitin’s grandmother. I must have slept for about three quarters of an hour before I woke up to sound of Ganguly crying inconsolably, surrounded by the rest of the click. Nisha looked as if she was going to break into tears too. Horrified, I slowly started to make sense of what Ganguly was saying.

He spoke of how passionately he felt for the plight of the Bengal tiger, their dwindling numbers as a result of decades of poaching. He blamed the English, the Indian government and its ineffective laws, and above all jungle boy, for portraying the tiger as evil. In a way, we all felt bad for Ganguly, though I could not work out how he got to thinking about tigers while watching cricket.

Well, England were 231-4 at tea, when we decided to leave. At least I had enough fun for one day, psychedelic milk and all. I think the effects of the trip began to wane in roughly the same amount of time for all of us. The drive back was quiet, the silence only broken by a sad-sweet Rafi number that went on for ages.

 So that was it really, except for the fact that Nisha managed to drop the bottle of pickle on the concrete drive outside Swati’s house while handing it to her. It really was a pity to see such good pickle going to waste, but then I suppose there was no point crying over spilt milk.

A growing trend, though somehow passing unnoticed in the usual Hyderabadi style, is the somewhat shameful incidence of under aged drinking in local pubs, particularly among young girls. At random, a visit to any pub will confirm the almost complete lack of any age verification whatsoever. Moreover, women are allowed entry with minimum fuss.

The incentive and convenience is certainly there, within a three-kilometer radius of the most prestigious girls college in town, one finds quite a few prominent water holes.  Then there’s peer pressure, that invisible strain and force that looms over those on the weaker side of twenty like a sword of Damocles.

Lavanya* & company certainly saw fit, an afternoon pub lunch. Perceiving a woman’s age is always a difficult proposition, especially if you are a bouncer with one eye closed. Under any other circumstances it would have been nearly impossible to miss the students garb, complete with shoulder bags straining at the straps and slings under the obvious weight of books.

The chronology of events under these circumstances is usually more than predictable. When the singing becomes incessant, laughter unprovoked and without signs of abating, that’s usually when the lights go out. Quietly slumping to the floor, followed only by delayed shock and response from her click, Lavanya fell flat; nose first as if in final protest against the unfair and premature rite of passage into adulthood as set by society.

*Name changed for obvious reasons

Undoubtedly the pride and joy of people both sides of the lake.Remember what's important is that the pond is preserved as it were.To how many people these days does water come to mind everytime they see Hussain Sagar?

The stinking tank would have surely stung Salar Jung, who in his infinite knowledge could have never foreseen deterioration of a Nizamesque design to such an extent.But we keep it very simple, we have a Multiplex now, so for those unsatisfied-go jump!

Unlike Salar Jung,thankfully most of us know which one is the real eye-max.

Heavy rush, come early.

along with every subtle joy, although nothing in particular seems to spring to mind. As a matter of interest, who really does look forward to the relentless summer months these days?

Now thats something, summer slowly slipping down the "I am looking forward to" list.That subliminal order of all things nice that autocue while in daydream, a momentary lapse of focus, or while driving home in autopilot mode.

Here comes the sun.