Back again

So, after a long hiatus, the blogger is back. After one whole year, to be specific. You might be wondering where I was all this while. I mean I know none of you are really bothered, or are that jobless to pause and listen to the cause of my absence. However, I feel this compelling need to tell the world that – drumrolls please – I HAVE GRADUATED in the meantime, and, this does not end here – MANAGED TO GET HOLD OF A JOB TOO. Yes, you can now come and pour out all your tales of injustice and oppression and discrimination (you-get-the-hang-of-it) – and be rest assured, I shall be more than pleased to tell you my hourly rates.

Peace.

My Big Bang(alore) Theory

Help! Heyyllpp!! HEYY-LL-PPP!!

I sat up straight in my bed, concerned. Somebody answered from the bed beside me “Don’t worry child. They are just trying to give Cecilia’s mother a bath. The old lady isn’t very fond of water!”

That’s how my first morning in the Bangalore YWCA Guest House started.

I was doing my summer internship at Alternative Law Forum, a renowned organization that carried out legal interventions in response to various social issues. The Guest House was a 10 minutes walking distance from my office, and kind of cheap - the two main reasons I think made my parents finalize on it, apart from the “security reason” which consisted of a scrawny old man with a rusted rifle sitting on a stool next to the main gate and a big black dog named Shadow. The latter was much more efficient than the former, for obvious reasons.

The bed next to the window was allotted to me.

Joyce McDonald, aged 88, lived right opposite. Maximum time of the day she loved to spend in the attached bathroom. (The reason I could be seen running down the road every morning in an attempt to reach office in time.) In the occasional breaks, arranging and re-arranging and re-re-arranging the wardrobe was her favourite pastime. She would empty the entire heap on her bed. And with trembling hands start stashing them in the folds of her quilt in an attempt to “iron them”. And then invariably end up losing something or the other in the mess. So that would mean starting the process all over again. Thus it continued. There was one black scarf which was particularly adept at getting lost – and would eventually be found from all sorts of unlikely places, which once included even the bucket, where it was kept so that it doesn’t get lost, but well, memory tends to fail when you are old.

She would get up every morning with a vow to attend the 9 o’ clock mass, but due to the unavailability of some piece of clothing or the other (that would finally emerge from inside the quilt) or just due to spending an excessive amount of time in the toilet (at times I used to wonder whether she manages a second round of sleep in there) she never succeeded in reaching the church before 11 AM. And all the time she would blame the clock for running too fast - purposefully!

Somehow, she was rather fond of me and gave me occasional tidbits of chocolates and peppermints in return for opening the lid of a jar that got stuck, or for lending the scissors, or most of all, for finding some lost skirt or handkerchief. And she found an ideal audience in me. So out came all the stories starting from how everybody is after her property and how she never gets a call from her daughter who’s the manager of a call centre at Baroda to how she hated her flannel nightsuits as a child as it itched just at the wrong places. Everything. Some were downright hilarious - like the time when she mentions she had been in the British High Commission at Delhi for 17 years and I, thinking that I’ve really underestimated this grandma of mine, ask what she did there, to which she proudly exclaims “Oh, I was their telephone operator!” – but most of her stories made me feel bad. More so, when I imagined my own grandma in her place.

Hope she can spend her last days with her daughter...before it's too late....

Ahmedabad to Kolkata – via Delhi (Part 2)

....continued from Part 1

Option a) wasn’t happening. I wasn’t keen on c) either. So next thing I was talking to some Indigo customer care official over phone, who offered me this web check-in facility that is possible even after the 45 minutes deadline, but without my luggage. Right. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Swarnali can take care of my luggage I guess. So what do I have to do to avail this facility? Maam you just need to get a printout of some blah blah and show it to some bleh bleh.. Ok, thanks...I suppose I can get this done from your kiosk at the airport? No maam we do not have any facility for that. Wait a minute...I am stuck in the middle of a highway with nothing but some cattle in sight...you telling me to go to a cyber cafe for this when I am already dangerously short of time? Sorry maam, then we have no other option. Click.

By this time some sympathetic co-passengers had gathered around me, listening to my conversation with rapt attention. One of them suggested I get down at this place called Mahipalpur instead of travelling all the way to the bus depot at Dhaula Kuan, as Mahipalpur would be closer to the airport and thus might give me a little leverage of time. Others expressed their support by collective shaking of heads and started getting into the bus. The bus driver finally seemed to understand the emergency and picked up speed. I sat with my fingers crossed. Both hands and toes.

The situation was almost like an India-Pakistan cup final, with the scoreboard reading 20 runs needed from 10 balls. Every second counted. Every speed breaker mattered. Half of the people inside the bus were staring at me. I in turn was alternately staring at my watch and at the road ahead, thrice every second, and mentally making up promises, fifteen to the second – please God, just let me through this time, I would never ever...well, you know how these prayers end.

It was dot 2:35 PM when the bus screeched to a halt at Mahipalpur. The domestic terminal gate closes in 10 more minutes. The two of us, along with another gotta-catch-a-flight-as-well guy stumbled out of the bus, caught hold of the nearest auto and yelled AIRPORT!! Shaken awake from his afternoon siesta, the scared driver tried his best to imagine the rickety auto as a Ferrari and started speeding past red lights amidst the busy Delhi traffic. Swarnali kept shouting in my ears, giving last moment instructions on how to contact her brother in case I miss this flight and need another ticket booked, assured that she can take care of my suitcase and virtually pushed me out of the auto as soon as it reached the gates of the domestic terminal. It took me a while to figure out my way and then I made a dash for the lift doors. The digital clock overhead turned 2:48 PM in warning red fonts.

Upstairs it was almost an entire new world. I had never been to Delhi airport before and could not help but marvel at how big and bright it looked. At the same time I could feel people staring at me and realised what a sorry sight I looked - with my flyaway unkempt hair, tensed face and sweaty clothes with all the dust accumulated from the highways – I was the sharpest contrast possible in this sleek glossy high-profile place. Any other day it would probably have bothered me. Today I was beyond all that. So after asking a couple of security guards and almost slipping and falling on the overpolished mezzanine floor more than once in my haste, I finally located the Indigo counter with the sign KOLKATA. A pretty lady wearing cherry red lipstick looked up from behind the desk, smiled and took my ticket for processing. I was about to melt with a sigh of relief when she returned the ticket back with 2:53 PM scribbled in one corner, smiled and announced - Sorry maam. You just missed your flight.

My world turned blank for a moment. What to do now? Both parents were blissfully unaware of anything. The next flight was at 8:00 PM. My account barely had three thousand rupees.

Umm...absolutely no way you can allow me on this one? I tried pleading with a puppy face. Her smile was unfaltering – Absolutely no maam. We are firm on our policies. Adjusting you in the next flight is the most I can do.

I did mental maths in my head – next flight at 8 o clock means it would reach Kolkata by 10:30 PM. Late, but still manageable for dad to come and pick me up from the airport. Okay so what do I do to shift myself in the next flight? Nothing maam – you just buy a fresh ticket. That would be...mmm hmmm...costing you....ah yes, 7180 INR only. I felt like hitting her. And painting all her teeth with that cherry red lipstick. The smile was sickening.

Shifting aside from the queue, I weighed my options. Do I call my parents first? Or do I straightaway ask Swarnali’s brother to book the tickets? If so, then do I collect my luggage from Swarnali as well? Don’t airports have stationmasters? Won’t he listen to me? My thought process was interrupted by somebody crashing over on the counter to my left. Gasping for breath, a short bald middleaged man panted the words 6AE-239 to the boarding officer. Hang on for a second – that’s the same as my flight! Thank god, atleast I have company.

The officer behind that counter wasn’t smiling or wearing cherry red lipstick. But he gave the same verdict anyways - Sorry sir. You just missed your flight. Obviously, the man would not have that for an answer. He started off with a series of Please Sirs in assorted pitch, tune and facial expressions layered with a thick Bengali accent that would put Mamata Banerjee to shame. The officer tried ‘adjusting’ him in the next flight. The man almost bent down to his knees – Syaar...pleese considaar syaar...I do not have anyyy moneyyy syaar...syaar pleeseeee syaar....it continued.  

I was watching the entire episode from the sideline till that time, fascinated. Then after a while even I chipped in. Startled by this new addition the officer was thoroughly confused by now.  His feeble promises of adjustments drowned midway by our collective Please Sirs. Finally, exasperated, he decided to call some senior and after mumbling something in hushed voices, made another call that ended with “will be sending over two more, don’t close the gate.” I could almost hug him then and there. But then thought the better of it and saved the love for the ones waiting back home.

Moral of the story – Always book your tickets well in advance. Time tide and/or reservations wait for none.

Simplified moral of the story – Do not go to Kolkata from Ahmedabad via Delhi. At least not the way we just did.

Ahmedabad to Kolkata – via Delhi (Part 1)

The semester was coming to an end and everybody was looking forward to going home for Diwali. I was no exception, except for the fact that I had no ticket. Yet. The train reservation was showing a waiting list in its hundredths, while flight rates were 11k and above. Tatkal agents weren’t of help either. Then Swarnali, my roommate, came up with this brilliant brain wave – lets go via Delhi! I was up for anything that made me reach home within the next two days. Even a 16 hour bus ride. Little did I know what was in store next!

So after a number of phone calls and permissions and confirmations our itinerary stood thus – catching the Delhi bound bus from Chiloda at 5 PM – reaching Delhi at 9 next morning – Indigo flight for Kolkata at 3:30 in the afternoon – and then, finally, home sweet home. Swarnali booked the Kingfisher flight at 6, from a different terminal. She was in a lesser hurry.

The manager of ‘Seema Puja Travels’ told us the bus would be a red one, with Rajyasree written on the sides. On reaching the bus stop and spotting no such matches, we decided to keep our luggage on the sidewalk and have some dabeli (local snacks, equivalent to burger). Suddenly a man appeared out of thin air and barked Seema Puja Travels?? With mouthfuls of dabeli we could only nod in affirmation. Kya khade khade patties kha rahe ho? Bus kab se udhar wait kar rahi hai !! – and with that, took both our suitcases in his two hands and ran. Earnestly hoping his direction would be towards our bus, we ran after him. After 15 minutes, panting, we along with our luggage were shoved inside a grey bus with absolutely nothing written on either side.

Never in my life have I seen a more crowded bus. The seats, the bunks, the isle, even the steps were overflowing. Screaming toddlers with smudged kajal, blushing newlyweds with scarlet vermillion, weathered villagers with handmade bidis, bored businessmen with shining ipods – it was the choicest selection of a medley bunch.  Somehow managing to squeeze in, we talked amongst ourselves for some time and gradually dozed off.

It was almost 10 in the night when we woke up. The bus was speeding through congested roads of Udaipur. Hundreds of hotels and restaurants went by – big, small, medium - the driver stopped at none. Finally when we were about to fall asleep for a second time, the bus came to a halt at a shabby roadside dhaba at 12 o clock. Sleepily we got down, had some stiff, cold biscuits – no, make that frisbee, dipped in some brownish liquid, which the shopkeeper claimed to be rumali roti and tadka, respectively. Our next stop would be Jaipur, announced the driver as we climbed back up into our seats inside the once-again speeding bus.

Medamji? O medamji...?? I opened one eye to discover I was the one being addressed. Dawn was breaking outside. The signboards of the roadside shops read Jaipur. Swarnali was fast asleep.

Aap kahatak jaoge? Now that’s certainly none of your business thought I and curtly mumbled Dilli and closed my eyes partly to finish my dream and partly to avoid further nosy questions.

Par yeh bus toh aur nahi jayegi! ....WHAT?!! Both of us were wide awake now. His grin showed an uneven set of rotten yellow teeth. What do you mean nahi jayegi??

Ji, yehi last stoppage hai. Dilli waalo ke liye dusri bus ayegi. Hmm. Seema Puja Travels manager, you should have mentioned this. Our relation ends with this trip. Today.

The pink city at 5:30 in the morning was cool and fresh. The soft rays of the rising sun from behind the old buildings brought out its ‘pinkness’ and made it lovelier - that’s the closest I can describe. We were told it takes about 5 hours to reach Delhi from there. Assuming the new bus starts at 6, we calculated we would reach Delhi by 11 AM, or 12 at the most. A two hour delay from the scheduled arrival time in these routes is condonable we presumed. There would still be enough time to go and have lunch somewhere and then wait at the airport. The plan looked short and sweet.

Only that it remained neither. Short or sweet, I mean. After encircling the same four-point crossing for the third time, ensuring that no passengers, old or new, have been left behind, when our bus finally hit the highway, my wristwatch was showing 8:30 AM. Thereby meaning it’s at least 1:30, or rather 2:00 PM by the time we reach Delhi. Ok, cancel the lunch plan. Grabbing a sandwich from the airport cafeteria can suffice. Domestic terminal gate closes 45 minutes before departure – so I have to be there latest by 2:45 PM. Achievable goal, if the driver cooperates.

But before that, I would give the Seema Puja Travels manager a piece of my mind. Oh wait a minute, somebody already is giving his. Poor voice from somewhere in the front seat – his Kolkata flight was at 1:00. No way he can board that today! Tchh. Ohh he is talking courts? Compensation? I can do that part better baby just you wait! But of course, the bus manager wasn’t available to appreciate my legal prowess and all I got in response was the Vodafone lady announcing that his phone is currently switched off.

After a while judging from the milestone readings, it seemed we were making decent progress and probably would reach the airport just in time. That was until the driver decided to pull up beside this motel at 11:30. I am officially doomed now. To make it to the flight in time, I can either a) ask the driver to drive like Schumacher b) call and explain the Indigo people my current situation and hope for some relaxation of the 45 minutes deadline or c) cancel my ticket and pray to God to fix up the mess.

To be continued....

The customary introductory post

Okay, so finally am bored enough to start a blog. As the custom goes, lets start by saying something about myself. 

"A mop of short messy hair on a sunny face. 206 bones, 640 muscles and a 1.3 kg brain - thankfully all in working condition. A carefree nature. A bit of a temper. And an avid interest in almost everything in life except studies" - That's my favourite self-introduction till date, written for Orkut about 6 years back. Apart from the short hair growing longer and messier, and Orkut going almost-dysfunctional in the meantime, the rest is still the same.

Over the years, this "about me" had attracted considerable number of "frandships", some of which developed into inseparable bonds, and for the rest I couldn't care less. However, one from the second category was a real chart-buster ...probably intrigued by this unique bio-numerical analysis of myself, it asked "Hi, are you a post mortem?" :P

On a serious note, as of today I am a final year law student, hoping to make it big, somewhere, somehow, someday. PS - Don't ask "civil or criminal", cause am neither. Also, I am not interested in defending your case for free. Like all lawyers, I like the smell of money. ;)

Enough of useless rambling for a first post. Hoping to come back with more. Later.