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.

And thus, I was sent forth into the perilous world of luxury suits. A world where prices are an inconvenient element of the conversation and pocket squares lead to debates not unlike those about the West Asian peace process. In this merciless world, all that stands between high fashion and eternal sartorial damnation is one, solitary pleat.

Read the whole story here.

Just received this in the mail. Absolutely no way this can’t cheer up your day immediately.

So the missus and yours truly are at this birthday party at the neighbour’s. Which one you ask? Let me explain.
Opposite our humble abode lives the sweetest woman in the world. Coming to think of it, she is exactly like that old woman in Rosemary’s Baby. (Except for the devil worship and baby stealing bits of course. So far.) The dear Mrs. P is lively, caring and always eager for a quick daily chat in the little corridor outside. And she makes wonderful tea with lemon grass (tannis root?) and a crackerjack sali par eeda (thin potato fried strips with an egg cracked over them and fried. Or vice versa. It’s a Parsi thing.)

Mrs. P also has a hybrid spiritual side to her: half mildly reformist Parsi and half whirling bhajan singing Art of Living adherent. So she has both a large knitted portrait of Lord Zoraster on the wall and a little picture of the one with two Sri-s. She also has tons of old furniture and precious looking china in cabinets that I am sure is worth a truck load of cash on Ebay. Exactly the sort of things that old people routinely bequeath to their young neighbours in their wills. (Fingers crossed. Wait patiently ye private wealth management people.)

So last week she asks us to attend a party she was throwing on her birthday. “You must come Sidin and missus. It will be a fun birthday party!” And in order to further kindle our enthusiasm to never seen before heights she continued: “Everyone from the satsang is coming!”

Now I have nothing against the Art of Living types. Most of the committed satsangis I know are nice, peaceful people. The kind this world needs much more of, no doubt. Yet the average satsangi isn’t the sort of person the author or his wife normally part-ays with. And of course the satsangis here were going to be at least 50 years old. We both nodded and mumbled in that way we all do when we want to say no, have to say yes and try to say nothing.

There I am exiting from the lift carrying a nice bouquet of roses and daffodils (not sure) for the neighbour lady when a man in an embroidered kurta immediately welcomes me with open arms, slightly bowed head and pleasing smile that screams “Extreme internal harmony and oneness with self all thanks to guruji”. I tell him I need to pop home for a wash and will be over in a second. And then I sit cowering for the wife to arrive.

If you are one of those people who keep a running track of the ways in which men are different from women (and not just in that way though it is an interesting one). I have one more to add to that list: Woman have a natural ability to endure any social gathering even if it means eating large slabs of egg-less chocolate cake and sitting through kirtans and pujans after a refreshing day of risk management at the office. Things like bua’s son’s wedding, landlord’s brother’s shaadi and colleague’s house warming. Married men have no idea what to do in these surroundings. We stand around in a corner trying to look sad and moody so no one (except chicken tikka bearing waiter) will talk to us and we don’t have to explain why we gave up consulting to become a writer and such things. Or, even worse, explain why the Sensex is up and whether Suzlon is a good buy.

The wife, getting all woman-y, quickly drops her stuff and runs next door. I follow her a few minutes later when she called and told me I’d better pop over pronto or she would do something terrible to me (clue: rhymes with ‘ditch flap’). I stand behind her, with my arms crossed over my chest and aloof. In front of us three dozen people milled around the birthday woman while a large chocolate cake was being cut into pieces and someone was giving out disposable party thaalis. Suddenly I see an old man chatting with the missus. I take a step back so as to avoid even over-hearing something and being sucked in. Suddenly, shudder, the wife turns around and points at me.

(Enter: Uncle from front right with wisdom of the ages gleaming in eyes. Also cake precariously balanced on plate.)

“So why did you give up consulting to become a writer son?” he asks me while the missus moves nimble-footedly around behind him and grins over his shoulder.

I try to tell him about creativity and imagination and making a difference.

“Do you know what is the problem with the Indian media?” he suddenly asks me. Oh crap. I knew, from that inflection in his voice which made it sound more like a statement and less like a question, that I was in trouble. “Of course uncle. I know the problem… it is terrible and I think we should spend a few moments now silently contemplating upon it and then perhaps meditating upon the solution?”

“Son… let me tell you EXACTLY what is wrong with Indian media. There are seven or eight things actually…”

Drats!

The missus can barely keep a straight face. Little does she know two can play at this game.

(Sidin deftly swings uncle around by the elbow and plants him in front of unsuspecting missus who, meanwhile, is tucking into a heart portion of veg biryani.)

“…Uncle at this advanced stage in your career I am genuinely surprised, nay concerned, that you may have not planned for your retirement years. Missus why don’t you tell uncle about that wonderful capital guarantee scheme you guys launched recently… the one that not only creates wealth but protects it too!”

If looks could kill I’d be a photo in one of those handouts they give away in church after the funeral. I walk away cake-wards while the missus begins to expound upon Section 80cc or some such.

As my wife explains capital guarantee to him I am approached by Mrs. P who asks me what I think of the party. “Oh the food is just superb aunty. And good show with the plastic plates. We don’t want anything to happen to them china plates no?”

Suddenly, without a warning, I find uncle next to me. “So I hear you are a big fan of quality management. My company is getting ISO 14000 you know. We are very proud. Very proud. I am sure you must eager to know about ISO 14000…”

Ayayyo! ISO!

The smirk the missus had on her face. Punch? Counter punch!

“…Uncle did you just say you used to run a factory! Will the coincidences never stop? My wife used to live next to a factory in her childhood and many are the nights she has told me how she is dying to share those hundreds of memories with another like-minded soul… Missus! I have finally found someone who is simply jumping to talk about that factory in Ashok Vihar…”

The wife was not one to give up easily. A few moments later…

“Sidin… uncle was telling just telling me about his pest control company. Isn’t it true you once caught malaria from the ancient (UNESCO heritage) toilets at the Mysore Palace and took a solemn pledge to further the cause of pest control till your last breath???!!!…”

Thus began an hour of the most fine verbal thrust and counter-thrust you will have heard in your lives.

“…indeed you raise a poignant issue about global warming. We are irreversibly destroying the world … OH GOOD GOD MY PHONE WHICH I ALWAYS LEAVE ON VIBRATION IS THROBBING IN MY PANTS AND I MUST ANSWER IT… Missus will you keep my company with uncle while I answer this phone in the stairwell outside where the signal is best…”

BIFF!

“Uncle my husband is an eager student of the US Presidential elections. Perhaps you should discuss your opinions about the immaturity of Indian political reporting with Sidin who is in the kitchen eating cake…”

POW!

“While on the subject of India versus China, uncle, I am remembering my wife’s recent trip to Hong Kong when she was able to get a holistic sense of the raison d’etre of the Chinese realpolitik…. MISSUS! UNCLE WANTS TO DISCUSS THE RAISON D’ETRE OF THE CHINESE REALPOLITIK… YOU KNOW, THAT THING YOU GOT A HOLISTIC SENSE OF!”

CRASH!

“Of course young people today have very little morals. I agree with you completely uncle. If you just read some of these blogs young people write today! By the guru, I swear they are all filthy. If only we had someone who knew blogging really well… Wait a goddamn minute here…”

JAB!

Spare a moment here to reflect upon uncle’s sheer unflappable conversational stamina. The man was going on and on, only stopping to pop a little channa puri into his mouth.

“… yes yes inflation is a serious problem in today’s age and times. I have no idea how these banks manage with loans and all in this difficult scenario. Oh what a coincidence! You won’t believe who in this room used to work in a bank before she moved to insurance!”

KERBOOM!

And on and on it went till I finally had to do something that had a fifty-fifty chance of working. I told him which business school I graduated from.

WAIT! Stop saying all those “He is such a pompous prick after all!” type things to yourself. The thing is this: when I reveal that morsel of information one of two things happen. Either people completely clamp up and go silent, or they have a million new things to ask. (I have been told this is because they either immediately hate me and assume my is IQ in the mid 1000s, or they go ga-ga and want to know everything about life at the IIMs inspite of the fifteen “MBA lit” books that are out there. Even a new one apparently titled “Watch out! We are MBA!”. Sigh. I don’t know what to say.)

Uncle immediately went quiet. He never spoke again after that. To either of us I mean.

We partook of our channa puri, biryani, cake (eggless) and quietly made an exit after handing over my bouquet.

The tension at home simmered for a few minutes before we both declared a truce and went back to our favourite past-time of late: two-player golf on the PS2. (So much potential for innuendo-laden golf jokes. I know. But the wife proof reads all blogs. And this is, at worst, a PG-13 blog.)

And, if you’re wondering, the wife picked Annika Sorenstam and whipped this blogger’s ass by 14 strokes. (Ha!)

Aunty had a wonderful birthday of course. And we have passed on all your kind regards to her.

P.S. The MBA book news is true:

Nakul Kapoor walks into a premier B-School in Mumbai, Nurturing huge ambition, albeit with little direction. Soon he develops a circle of friends, each of who is a world apart from one another. Yet, there is an apparent force which keeps them together – a bond that heralds a joyous journey ahead.

Watch Out! We are MBA!

And please to find a recipe for sali par eeda here. The pictures are wonderful. Food porn if you will.

“Hello?”
“Hey… Pastrami… wassup.”

“Screw me. Where have you been man… What has it been? A month since you blogged?”

“A little more than that. Almost one and a half actually…”

“What happened man…?”

“Well I’ve just been busy with things Pastrami. You know how it is…”

“No I don’t. People were beginning to worry you know. Leaving comments and emails and all that.”

“Oh well things happened. I bought an ipod. And then there was that exclusivity agreement with this newspaper…”

“Gasp! Exclusivity agreement you say? Does that mean…that…this blog…”

“Not to worry Pastrami. I’ve managed to keep this blog indie. So to speak.”

“Ah. Good news that is. So which newspaper is this?”

“You know. The business paper. The little orange one that can.”

“Ah, so can we expect business as usual here? Or will Domain Maximus fade away into the cyber sunset of zero posts and spam comments?”

“Tut tut. Hold that tongue Pastrami. No such thing will happen. Business is back to usual with immediate effect.”

“So we will get to know what happened to you in Goa after all?”

“Absolutely. Life is a Beach Part Two is being polished off as we speak…”

“Good news that. You had me scared there for a moment you know.”

“You truly care Pastrami. I truly hope your bank does not go bankrupt and your desk does not get chucked into the rubbish heap of contemporary banking…”

“Sigh. Who knows. Anything is possible in this economy.”

“Don’t worry P. JP Morgan can always buy you guys out.”

“I doubt that. Ok I need to go. Plans for the long weekend?”

“None made yet. Blog a little of course.”

“Excellent. Bye Sidin.”

“Bye bye Pastrami.”