Domain Maximus

Today’s short blog post is a retelling of events (with extra Pshaws) observed at the Lilavathi Barista last night:

Customer looking at TV during IPL match: Who is that thin, dark, scrawny commentator?

Barista (the common noun): Oh that’s Srinivasan…

Customer: Srilankan dude?

Barista: I don’t think so. I have no idea. Only that he is Srinivasan.

Customer: Must have been a spinner.

Barista: I don’t know man.

Customer: Must have been a spinner or something. Thin fellow. Why do they get these country types to commentate?

Barista: I have no idea!

Customer: Pshaw!

Barista: Pshaw indeed!

Sigh. From “Srinivasan’s” Cricinfo entry:

At 17 years, 118 days he became the youngest Indian Test player against West Indies in Antigua later that season. He was not yet 19 when he won a Test match for India with 12 for 181 runs against England at Bombay in 1984-85 – by the end of the series he had 23 wickets and was adjudged man of the series. The icing on the cake came when he was in the Indian one-day squad that won the World Championship of Cricket in Australia in 1985 – he played a leading part in that triumph.

But thereafter it was downhill. He played one Test in Sri Lanka in 1985 and did little of note. He was an even bigger disappointment in Australia a few months later. The magic was gone and the little bowler, who seemed set to break all kinds of records, was but a shadow of what he had been 12 months before. He made a brief comeback as a member of the 1987 World Cup squad but he was not a success.

Nobody loves poor Laxman Sivaramakrishnan anymore. And here’s a link to a 1997 Panicker Rediff interview with the man on what went wrong. Click on the link at the bottom to page ahead.

p.s. That Barista guy sure knows nothing.

Pranab Mukherjee has said something about Maoists winning elections in Nepal being awesome and spectacular and something to that effect. Which I really don’t have an opinion on. Best of luck to the Nepalis and hope there are not too many of them around the Chinese border the night the Red army invades.

Or so the many erudite commenters at Rediff think. Be that as it may I was quite enamoured by a gentleman who not only left a profound comment but also came back later to painstakingly point four spelling mistakes he had made in his brief but impactful statement. Haiku-like if you will.

At first I read “Who welcomes intervention occupation” and figured out it must be one of those profound Pink Floyd lyric type thing. And then I figured it out. Image for your enjoyment…

Someone give this guy a copy edit job somewhere. (Even though he did miss that H in Afghanistan.)

“Darling… you are impressed with my remarkable intellect yes?”

“Of course Sidin…”

“Not to mention that sense of humour that so bewitches you…”

“It still bewitches Sidin… except when you make puns of course…”

“Ha ha of course dear. Not so punny sometime eh?”

” ”

“Sorry…”

It is always good to sort out such critical relationship issues with the missus when one is moments away from hitting a beach (Morjim) in North Goa. One that is almost entirely populated by Russian, Scottish, Irish and other such country-ish young men in tiny swimming trunks. Some of these gentlemen, I gathered the previous night from a pleasant waiter, were tourists looking for a small break after a few years of military service.

My glee took little suppressing.

So I reminded the missus of my many fine characteristics while we went down to the seaside cafe for breakfast. Our first tryst with a Goan beach would follow.

“Missus… these scrambled eggs are not bad at all eh?”

“Not at all and this toast is so goo… OH MY GOD IS THAT A MAN STANDING THERE WITH THIRTEEN PACK ABS AND A SPEEDO ON?”

“I know. I have no idea how they scramble it this way. You think they add a little milk maybe?”

“Shaddup Sidin. Check out that guy before he runs into the sea will you…”

So I did. The guy was a Russian god. Remember that statue where the Greek (roman?) guy is bend over and about to throw a discus? Yeah, well compared to tourist boy, discuss man was a fat slob. I, in contrast, was a continent. A slow, undulating continent.

I ordered extra bacon to help me cope.

Finally, after two blog posts, we were in Goa. And our holiday had begun. Yay.

And, would you believe it, it was my first time. Goa I mean.

It is a matter of fact. A Universal Theory of Everyone. Everybody in the world except me has been to Goa. Ek dum. Fultu. All humanity. Dad, mom, cousins, the complete cast of both Bombay to Goa movies, neighbours, Mrs. P. next door, landlord, Pastrami, Pastrami’s parents, Pastrami’s neighbours… you get the idea.

But not me. For some odd reason, just the way I never ended up getting a driving license, I’ve never been to Goa. Not that mallus need a reason to really go to Goa. When we want to throw back a few drinks by the side of large water bodies and want to see foreigners in skimpy clothes we have a simple solution: home with a DVD player.

Yet Goa and I always eyed each other from afar, the twain never meeting.Till this holiday. And I was beginning to like it already.

The Montego Bay resort was nice enough. Our cottage was ethnicool with thin wooden walls, uneven floors, a bed that broadly satisfied the dictionary definition and a refreshingly austere bathroom with a shower drain that didn’t.

But it was stone’s fling from a very clean, mostly untouched beach, had a passably good cafe with cold beer and all-day breakfast (sooper!) and Greg. (Greg was the guy who was great with a WagonR but not so hot with the English language. When he spoke both Wren and Martin went Mach 3 in their graves. They were spinning blurs.)

Post-breakfast we walked down to the beach and planted ourselves on deck chairs by the water’s edge. Few things calm as much. It was like that exact moment in school when you finish your final annual exam (General Knowledge, Moral Science, Sewing), run back home, hand over the question paper to your mom with all the “questions I am sure I got right” marked and then sat down for lunch with NOTHING to do. Bliss.

Both of us leaned back into the chair, carefully within the shadow of a beach umbrella, and pulled out our books. And we tried to do as little possible. Sometimes I just sat their and looked out at the horizon. Sometimes I turned over and my eyes would fall on a very large Russian guy, most of who was on the chair, sunning gently. So I turned back to look at the horizon.

Life was good. Life was too good.

“Sir. Yeh chairs free nahi hai. Aapko pay karna padega.”

A gentleman soon appraised us of the fact that those particular set of chairs was owned by the Russian shack outfit next door. The Montego’s chairs lay behind a fence so far up-beach that the sea was invisible due to the natural curvature of the earth.

I was miffed… but we moved seats anyway. The view was no longer the same though. So I called the waiter.

“Boss do you have any Royal Challenge…”

The missus speed-frowned.

“… golf accessories by any chance You know. Here’s to you Jay! And all that.”

“What?”

“Ek Virgin Mary and don’t go easy on the Tabasco.”

Large swathes of Morjim, we later learned, was controlled by a strong local Russian mafia. And anyone who has seen any of Schwarzenegger’s lesser known movies know that the Russian mafia are scary bastards. If you don’t have the other half of the same dollar bill they immediately respond with comas.

But one positive, if you will, byproduct if this foreign influx is the handful of excellent restaurants that have sprouted up around the beaches in Goa. So for lunch Greg recommended we check out a place called La Plage further up the beach. Apparently it was the only foreign run place that gave desis bhaav. Also apparently the grub was supposed to be top notch.

As with many things in life, there were two ways to make it to La Plage, a long walk up the beach, or a relaxed saunter through the Morjim surroundings via the road that ran parallel to the beach. Was there a difference in distance between both routes? We asked Greg.

“Sir means you try to walk up the road Morjim or beach and way go to beach up there. La Plage. Half hour. Every peoples are going La Plage.”

“Ok. But which route is shorter? Which way should I go?”

“La Plage”

“Very good. Thanks again Greg. Anything special I should order there?”

“Sunday.”

“Wha… ok thanks.”

We could walk up and down the beach whenever we wanted to. But a nice early afternoon march through the heart of Morjim seemed more appealing. The wife had misgivings, but I insisted. “Besides how much longer can this route be? They are both parallel routes no?”

NO.

We walked and walked and walked and saw hardly another person out on the road. So much for cultural gleanings. There were several restaurants on the way and each time we saw what looked like an out door dining place from afar the missus chirped up: “That has to be La Plage.”

Only to be disappointed time and time again. I was running out of brownie points like resumes out of Bear Stearns.

En route we were able to spot several unique items of local interest. The highlight was when we quickly photographed, in its pristine natural habitat, a large bright orange spool of underground fibre optic cable just sitting by the road gently melting. Also several tourists in dreadlocks and what looked Fabindia-factory-seconds zooming about on rented two-wheelers looking very (narcotics) business-like.

Also, was noted at many restaurant blackboards on the way, the intense popularity of the Mojito cocktail. And this being Goa the cocktail was being sold for anything from 45 to 60 bucks. Can you build a Mojito pipeline from Goa to Wadala? Do we have the technology? Can we get FDI? Private Equity? Venture Capital?

Mojito-backed Securities. He he. Ayyo.

Forty-five minutes later we were at La Plage and a moment later we were ushered to our seats. I ordered a bottle of the famed King’s beer for myself and a mild Mojito for the missus. (Of course she couldn’t drink all of it. It’s what is called a plan, you single men.)

And at that moment I saw him.

“DARLING IT”S MY FAVOURITE PERSON IN THE WORLD SITTING THERE!”

“What!!!!!”

“I said: DARLING IT”S MY SECOND FAVOURITE PERSON IN THE WORLD SITTING THERE!”

“What!!!”

“SCREW HIS POSITION IN MY PERSONAL RANKING OF INDIVIDUALS IN ORDER OF PREFERENCE. IT”S WILLIAM DALRYMPLE!”

Initially we had doubts. Surely not more than one famous writer can be expected to be at a random restaurant at any given time. (He he. No? Ok.)

But then WD got a call from someone and I couldn’t help but overhear it as I leaned forward and cupped my palms around me ears. Benazir Bhutto was dead. Column was needed. Would he write? But of course! What would be the terms and conditions? He informs them of price. (Brief pause in surveillance while I regain cardiac activity.) They agree. Bye. Click.

So I got up and went to him.

“Hello!”

“Are you William Dalrymple?”

“Hello!”

“Are you…”

“Yes I am. How are you!”

“Ahge lkeres nerhhey neerssa”

Missus: “He is a huge fan. He decided to write for a living after reading your From the Holy Mountain book.”

“Oh excellent! And are you having fun?”

“Hjsdsd kjerwe wehhe.”

Missus: He writes for Rediff and Hindu and all…”

“Oh! What’s your byline?”

“Sidlko Vadfghrerrr…”

And then we took a photo and quickly left him alone before I made a complete dunderhead of myself.

(Later I would email him my byline. And he would email back! Score!)

If there was one moment of my entire Goa trip that will never be forgotten, that will forever be imprinted on my brain as if by permanent marker, that even now sends a shiver down my spine, it was that single moment when, right after we bid farewell to Darlymple, Rohit Bal jogged past me in slow motion wearing a pair of swimming trunks and nothing else.

It will haunt me even in my old age that.

If we weren’t tucking into food or sipping on cocktails, we spend our time taking long walks down the beach, sometime in knee deep sea wash, the clean water frothing and foaming. Morjim is simply superb if you’re the type who likes peace and quiet. There wasn’t a single vendor of any boat, diving or any such service who approached us on the Morjim beach.

So later the next morning we decided to hire trusty, woefully a-syntactical old Greg for a trip to the reasonably famous Mapusa market. And whatay market it was. I would love to say, like those travel and living people on TV, that the market throbbed with the life of the town, the sheer engine of commerce whipping up a cauldron of sights and sounds and smells and all that. But I, to be honest, can’t.

Mapusa market is like any other bustling market in Thrissur or Trichy or Mandaiveli. Lots of people, lots of sliding and gliding to avoid bumping and grinding, and moderate heat and dust. Nonetheless it was lively and an hour or so well spent just roaming around. We finally bought a bag full of sweetmeats of some kind from a shop along with a few packets of biscuits for the cottage. Before leaving, as I sometimes like to do, I tried to kick up a conversation with the shopkeeper:

“So tell me, good man, what are the special things I should buy from Goa?”

“Booze and fish. Thats all they have here. Booze and fish. Where are you from?”

“Kerala.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

For dinner we decide to peruse of the legendary Fellini’s. Accessible through a trail of narrow streets lined with bizarre people and shops, Fellini’s is famous and rightfully so. I had the best Pizza I have ever had there. Giving due allowance for the three mojitos I had with it.

But not before we were subject to some special Customer Service of the desi kind.

I’ve written an entire column about this before, but to recap, there is some strange pleasure many of our compatriots get from treating each other like crap. And what better place to unleash intra-national spite than a restaurant packed to the rafters with tourists and one unsuspecting desi couple waiting for a table. The waiters kept ignoring us while running to firang customers who walked in. Even when I caught them by both arms and looked them in the face. They would just nod and walk away. And probably share the joke with their mates who all tittered at us as they walked past.

WTF! Did they not know that I worked in the media? That I had a photo taken with THE William Dalrymple? That I had just been asked to work on a Bollywood script? That I once had 18 idlis in one sitting with one little katori of coconut chutney as evening snack?

Finally I spotted a mildly stoned firang who seemed in charge and appraised him of our situation. We got tables in exactly five minutes.

Important note: Go to Fellini’s -> eat pizza – > and then some more -> wash it all down with great cocktails -> try not to repeat old engineering college drinking songs with missus -> go home.

Our final day was left for some serious touristing. Off we drove to the capital: Panaji. We saw the churches, clicked them snaps, saw the museum (Very good. It’s across the road from the church with St. Xaviers remains kept in the silver casket.) and grabbed lunch. We also tried, unsuccessfully, to locate a Cafe Coffee Day or Barista of some kind. Instead we fortuitously landed up in a cafe run by a bunch of super-sweet old ladies who made good chai and nice snacks. And while they weren’t looking, we nibbled on the bebinca we had in our bag.

I’ve had bebinca, Goa’s official dessert, only once before, at that Goa Portuguesa place in Mahim where it tasted like something that had somehow been interrupted in it’s original intention of becoming a shoe. But this shop opposite Mapusa market had slabs of wonderful, sweet, delicious bebinca. We were soon peeling and eating it all day like a pair of…err…bebinca junkies. You must, must go and buy a bag of it. And buy some for me too. We’re all out.

By sundown, exhausted in a nice, warm and glowly fashion, we reached our local bus boarding point. Greg dropped us off and we shared a few words in parting.

“Sir you enjoyed Goa. I hope you will come again, Call me ok.”

“You just… how did… sure Greg. I will give you a call. Take care and have fun yes? See you next time. I hope you had a great time showing us around too…”

“Mapusa,” Greg said solemnly before driving away. We peoples issa missing him.

We were there an hour early and then spent forty minutes looking for a clean toilet. Finally we found one inside one of those big, shiny antique stores that scream “Firangs! Firangs! Come and buy authentic Indian souvenirs actually made in China!” We went in with full bladders and ginger steps. And left with three thousand rupees worth of stuff.

We got suckered. It was the most expensive leak I’ve had in my life.

A little after ten we boarded our bus, settled into our seats and stretched. It had been a great holiday really. Good, uncomplicated fun and William Dalrymple. Not to mention several top notch meals. Could things get any better?

Sure they could. Half an hour or so after taking off, the bus people switched on the TV and powered up a DVD of Chak De India. We were well pleased.

Busy week with many thousands of things to do. But what to do… the need to keep reader amused overwhelms the self…

So let me share the fascinating works of Vilayanur S Ramachandran. (Yes Pastrami, the brain guy. From Chennai. Correct. The very same.)

I am halfway through his first book, the tremendous Phantoms In The Brain, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. But to save you some of the 540 bucks it costs at the Imax Crossword here is, ah my love for you all, VSR’s talk at TED in March 2007. The intro from the TED site:

In a wide-ranging talk, Vilayanur Ramachandran explores how brain damage can reveal the connection between the internal structures of the brain and the corresponding functions of the mind. He talks about phantom limb pain, synesthesia (when people hear color or smell sounds), and the Capgras delusion, when brain-damaged people believe their closest friends and family have been replaced with imposters.

Wait wait. Don’t run away. Listen to the man. Listen and drool.

So where were we when we spoke at length last? Ah yes. That Goa Trip. A part two was due no?

Regular readers may note that this blog has quite the habit of throwing up Part Ones and then never touching the concerned topic ever again. Part Twos simply refuse to appear on this blog. It’s not a conscious thing mind you. I’m not trying to develop one of those stylish quirks that will probably pop up, years hence, in a Bournvita Quiz or something.

“Which Pullitzer Prize winning writer is famous for never writing sequels to any of his blog posts…”

BUZZ!

“Sidin Vad… Vod… Va… Vaku… ah screw it… Amit Varma!”

Left to me I’d just write up the whole thing in a single post. But apparently that is a total blogging no no. 6000 words plus. Scroll scroll, scroll scroll. Carpal tunnel.

So for the first time ever, here is the sequel to the first part of a multi-part blog. We, the missus and I, were on that bus to Goa remember?

Part 2: Because if Rocky and Rambo can do it so can Vadukut

It is just past dawn on the morning of the 27th of December.

Normally, if I were to use it in conversation, the above sentence would be followed by the statement, “and I was still asleep in bed with my lungi somewhere in the room going about its business.” or “and my wife woke up like she does every morning in that irritating way that women are able to. They then look down upon us guys because we sleep late after an hour or two of Fashion TV Zee Jagran and won’t be up till she’s halfway into the lift. Also lungi is gone.”

Unfortunately I was a traveller in India using surface transport. This means that as I progressed towards my destination I would inevitably cross state borders. And what floats invisibly, yet surely above these state borders? Yes sir, you hit the nail on the head, telecom circle limits.

Just past dawn on the morning of the 27th of December, around 6:15 AM or so, the “great Indian mobile roaming handover communication SMS frenzy” invaded my cellphone. One moment my phone lay harmless in the seat-back pouch in front of me, blinking that green light in a soothing, intermittent manner.

The next moment all hell breaks lose.

It’s ironic really. Even my wife, that fragrant blossom, doesn’t get all misty eyed and sentimental when I leave my home in Mumbai for long periods of time. (To Kurla in the evenings, for instance.) The most she will do is ask me to take care, eat healthy and leave my ipod behind.

Your mobile network is a completely different proposition altogether. Mobile networks hate to see you leave. They absolutely detest it when you switch from one network to another. So the moment you cross one circle they send you at least three SMSs: one to say bye, one to say thanks and another one, a last ditch attempt perhaps, to sell you “LTST JDHA AKBR WLPPR N RNGTNS! SPCL OFR! LK NO VWLS!”

Equally upbeat are the networks when you stray into them. Immediately they welcome you with warm embraces, damp eyes and “the best network coverage in Goa and Maharashtra… NO SIGNAL”

(Of course I am exaggerating here. Cellphone customer service isn’t all that bad. Just last week I asked Vodafone to de-activate my voice mail. Within just three hours, as they had promised, my international roaming was activated.)

So there I am sitting in the bus when wave after wave of mongol cellphone networks attack me with welcome messages. Each time my phone emits a pleasant delivery tone: “Ramba Ho Ho Ho Ho” from Armaan.

In mild panic, I switched my phone into Flight Mode and put an end to the whole ruckus. I made a mental note to change my SMS tone and looked at my watch. Egads. Mapusa must be only a few moments away. The previous night I had asked the driver to give me a yell when we reached Mapusa.

The exact same moment I got out of my seat the bus went into a lurching right turn. I immediately succumbed to inertia and bundled into my wife, who lay in her seat balled up inside her blanket. Yes, head covered and all. She was less than pleased and rolled up her sleeves.

Fifteen minutes later, when the pain had subsided and she had gone back to sleep, I tried to get up again. This time too the bus went into a terrible, sudden lurch. I dropped myself back to the seat again and held on tight for dear life. I waited for the road to straighten out.

It never did. I have no idea what deal is. But at some point, a few hours out of Panaji, the road to Goa completely loses it. There isn’t a single straight stretch of tar for hours. Buses, and the people within, get thrown about like soft toys. (The kid who was puking all night? He stopped. I have no idea why.) First left and then right and then left and then right and then you know how this is going. (Mallu joke: “The road was just like governments in Kerala!” Ha ha. Ayyo!)

At some point I picked up courage and clambered forward, seat handle to seat handle (also one ponytail), and finally made it the driver’s cabin. “When do we reach Mapusa? We were supposed to be at Panaji by 7:30 am no? Where are we now?”

The two gentlemen there, driver and someone who sat around doing nothing (EA to the driver?), looked at me and smirked. The driver however, had to break off amid-smirk and throw us into a hard right to avoid a palm tree of some kind. They said that we were still hours away and would only reach Mapusa by 9:30.

I clambered back, dropped myself into my seat, reached across and pushed apart the curtains. For the next two hours I looked out of the window and nibbled on some incredibly bad chocolate I bought the previous night at one of those mid-route pee-break places. Something made in Turkey. Not a delight at all.

Mapusa!

The bus reached Mapusa at exactly 9:30 AM. The EA to the driver came and woke us up at 9:29:56 am and asked us to disembark in an orderly fashion. A blur of hectic activity later we were standing outside by the side of the road with what we hoped was our luggage lying around us. The bus thundered away in a cloud of dust. And immediately took a hard left.

Across the road stood the famous Hotel Green Park; famous at least among the members of the bussing industry. Green Park was one of those hotels named aspirationally. Like those roadside dhabas you see on the outskirts of Lonavla, Ambala or Ongole. “Hotel Luxury”, “Hygiene Inn”, “Famous Dhaba and Pharmacy”, “Surprisingly Little Chance of Explosive Dysentry Cafe”.

And so on.

We called the man at Montego Bay who told us that our pickup would be here shortly. Someone called Greg would come with a WagonR. We were asked to have a cup of tea or so at Green Park while we waited.

As soon as we stepped in I knew that Green Park was a ‘Medimix’ class hotel. (The sort of place that has room service only in spirit, has furniture exclusively made of formica and will also have at least one item in the room that belonged to the previous resident. Like hair. When a medimix hotel says “sumptuous continental breakfast is included in room tariff” they mean corn flakes for the first fifteen people. And yes, Medimix in the bathroom.)

The missus sat around looking miserable while I snacked on a light Breakfast Platter and waited for Greg.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting in the back of a WagonR trying to figure out what Greg was saying. In the beginning I thought it was some form of Konkani. And I responded in Hindi. Greg looked at us dumb founded. Then we figured out that he was actually speaking in English, only with a heavy accent and grammar so bad it made Inzamam sound like a Harry Potter character.

“So we is now going to the Mapusa and then the Montego Bay. Lot man foreigners are staying there. Means there is mmmm few Indian peoples there. Me see some there today while coming you know there Montego season now okay.”

“Ah so you are saying that there are a few Indians there?”

“Yes also my grandfather. He also.”

“What?”

“Indians. But many wants go Portugal.”

“Ok.”

Somehow it was like speaking to Jar-Jar Binks but without the option to skewer him with a light sabre and put an end to the conversation. But Greg was a remarkably sweet man as we would learn further through that weekend.

We reached Montego Bay an hour or so later and quickly moved into our little cottage set back from the beach. The room service boy soon let us alone. I closed the door behind him, drew the curtains and looked at my wife in the eyes. Finally, we were alone.

“Sidin,” she said in that husky drawl she gets when we’re alone sometimes, “please for god’s sake go brush your teeth.”

This holiday was going just fine.

The last and final part of the Goa Saga, because this one is really too long already, will emerge this weekend.

Stay tuned machaan. Don’t forget to return. Don’t be a balti.