My first Ton.

I learnt to ride by accident. No, I did not find myself astride a bike after a night of drunken revelry or anything, my brother had a small sporting accident. Languishing in his bedroom, his dear ride was languishing in the garage. Making rueful headlights at my car which was (and still is) my pride and beauty. How it would almost misfire on hearing me start my car and ride away.

Finally, one day, my brother singularly attuned to his mechanical side, asked me to get on his bike and start it. He was a little worried about the neglect of a month on the bike's battery. With a bigger brother's stern instructions to just start the bike and idle it for a while, how could I not take it out for a spin.

I had learnt to ride when I was a small kid on my uncle's KB100. But that was about a decade ago, when I was just 15. But, as they say, it is not something that you easily forget. Pretty soon I got the hang of it and was pottering about inside my building compound and parking lot at a top speed on ten km/hr. The main issue I had was that, my brother's bike was a P180, 5 speed with one up and four down gear shift. A huge difference from a KB100 all down format if you ask me. So for now, I had to make do with two gears only, first and neutral. Neat. Parked the bike and looked at the engine closely. Hero Hondas have their gear shifts mounted on the tank where it is usually visible. Bajaj, on the other hand believe that a label should be over the implement. So, the pattern is over the gear shift at the bottom of the bike. Success. Proud of my sherlockian actions, the next day I took it out to try the other four gears too!

Kicked the engine over, engaged first and.. dumped the clutch. Hmm.. interesting results I must say. I never knew that the sky could look so different when viewed over two round pods housing the speedo and tacho.. esp. when the tacho was doing numbers like 9k and redlined. Grabbing the brakes was not really helping me, till I grabbed the clutch again. Immediately the tacho came down and so did the front wheel. Waited to get my breath back and looked up to find my mom mouthing a silent scream from the seventh floor balcony. I had done 10 m on just one wheel and that too without a helmet. Not something that endears you to moms who just have had one son down and out with a broken leg. Ma ki mamta does have definite limits apparently. Sheepishly, I killed the engine and wheeled the bike to the garage. Straight to the temple and praying for success at this endeavor, I decided then and there a couple of things. Never to underestimate your ride and never to ride without protective gear.

Day Three. A visit to the local training school. Got my learners license. Got home, took my brothers helmet. Took the bike out and slowly started it. With the magical piece of paper in my back pocket, my skills seemed to have improved. I finally discovered the realm of second and third gears.

Cut to next week, I was getting pretty good on this thing and was pretty decent at low speeds, so time to take the show on the road. One of the great things about my locality is that it has one great incline that is a dead end. After 10 p.m. traffic is almost non-existent. But, I was patient. I waited till all of 11.30 and then took it out. Like a nice little boy, looked left and right and then away I went. First, second, third, fourth and then... fifth!! I was in motorbiking nirvana. Then suddenly a stationary cab (they usually park here for the night) turned in on the road and I was out of tarmac too fast for my comfort. Hit both the brakes and got ready to fall. Dint happen though. The bike stopped in time and pretty much easily. Thank god for discs.

As you can now imagine, I was pretty much hooked on two wheels. Got around all the time, every where on it. My mom was also pretty happy with the state of affairs, because her grocery hating second son, now would always offer to shop for her.

Got my license endorsed for two wheelers. To celebrate, went to the bike shop and bought the best helmet I could see for myself. A full face AGV. Plain visor and lots of reflective tape at strategic places to help blind and drunk drivers identify bike rider at night. Slowly I was discovering the nuances of the bike. It's clunky gear shift, the weight of the clutch and the service part of it.

A puncture and three services later, the bike was in as good a condition as I could get it on my limited budget. A new rear tyre, a new battery (the old one just could not take the month of neglect and died. To be fair, it was more than three years old as it is.) and boy did it go.

It accelerates real good and touches 80km/hr (my normal riding speed now) pretty much on time. Actually, the bike feels so good nowadays, that I get by with the clutchless gear changes almost all the time.

Soon, I felt that the day had come to crack the cherry. Had been riding for half a year and still hadn't cracked the ton on my speedo yet. One fine sunday morning, got up at six and took it out. It was a brilliant day. Cool and breezy with the sun just rising. Took it to the western express highway and let it rip. Man what a symphony! While I do agree that Pulsars are not the best sounding bikes around, any engine revving its way to the redline sounds absolutely great. Especially if you are hanging on to the handle bars with an insane grin on your face.

Went right through the gears without the clutch, finding the sweet spot to upshift all the time. It was one of the few rides you get in your life time, where everything goes just right. Each time I would shift up, the bike would respond with a gentle surge and add another 30k to the speedo. By, the time I could think of looking at the speedo, the needle was struggling against the 110km/hr mark. Immediately let the throttle go and cruised down to a more normal 60. Man, was it bliss. I had started out from nepeansea road and was almost upto the domestic airport before I knew it.

Now am hooked. I use the bike to commute to work. Riding at a sedate speed of thirty most of the times. I am very careful of the gear shifts. Depressing the clutch fully before each shift. I watch my mileages too. Not revving the bike over much and keeping it in its power band with each shift. But, come night, when the city sleeps. I take to the road. Marine drive at night is a drive which should not be missed. Even at Sixty, with the cross winds and the bumps it's an interesting ride, but at ninety or so, it absolutely rocks.

It's been a great journey so far. I am currently looking at making my bike better and myself a safer rider. I am also looking for a second bike, a Jawa / Yezdi road king for a friend. So if any of you have any rides out there, please do let me know.

I loathe this world!

You got to give it to the all mighty creator. When he has it in for you, he really does not let go. No one carries a vendetta as well as him. Cities, states, countries even do not really matter. Just goes to show how all pervasive he really is.

While, I do not mind his all pervasiveness or his crossing city boundaries, his personal attention to my character building really needs a lot to desire. Here is what is happening in my world.

Kolhapur, a wonderful city, with old Maratha architecture and great hotels; at least from the outside. I am staying at this great old palace, called the Shalini Palace. A chateau indage hotel, it is a Shahu Maharaj’s palace converted. Huge rooms, huger balconies and seemingly all empty. I checked in and did not see a single guest occupying the hotel. The front desk told me that they have about 40% occupancy. In the early morning dawn, walked out in to the balcony and had a nice cup of insta-coffee. Life, seemed to have forgiven me. I was thinking, OK, time now for me to move on. Concentrate on business at hand.

I had come with a lot of hopes for this conference. Oh, sorry, did I forget to mention that I was here on business and not recuperating from my sad little biking incident? Well now you know. I am carrying about three hundred sets of brochures and CDs and what nots. I go real early to the hall, set up my stall. And guess how many people visit? A dozen. I collect about three cards and hand out 12 brochures.

At the end of this stifling day, interspersed with bad lunches and worse ice – cream (they murdered even plain vanilla ice cream), I pack my bags up. Easily about 50 kilos on each arm, I head out to the Auto Stand. What do I see? Nothing. Well, with 100 kilos hanging on your arms, nothing is not a welcome sight. I let them down and wait. Finally, conveyance. Bring it down to the hotel and have some sad dinner. My wrists all swollen. I had forgotten that common sense tells you not to overload tendons after eighty kilos have landed on them rather hard. Well, now I seem to have done it. Definitely need to get it X rayed back home.

Today. Going by the past trend, I carry only a small amount of brochures. Reach early again and sadly it’s the same story. Not too many ENTs interested in Cochlear Implants in Maharashtra it seems. Almost all of them come to the stall just to inquire about the cost and then leave. Do not even bother to read the latest literature on them. Seemingly even doctors believe that money comes before a life full of sound. Hmm, interesting.

A day spent vacuously staring at the stall opposite; chit chatting with the med-reps next stall. There is nothing remotely interesting on display. Even the competition seems to have given this conference a miss. Bad lunch, but surprisingly decent dessert this time round, Ras-Malai. A few calls and then it’s time to pack-up. Wanted to go to the courier company and send all the brochures back. Would have been mighty difficult to carry all of that back with my broken arm. Guess what happens? I lose my wallet at the conference. I do not notice till I get to the hotel. Rush back and it’s not there. I call in advance to ask a couple of acquaintances to look for it and keep it safe in case it’s there. It is not. What could I expect? It was not the cash that mattered, neither the train ticket back. It was all my plastic. These little one inch by two inches rectangular pieces of my financial liquidity were all in there. I do not have a single pai now. Thankfully, the hotel I paid in advance. All my ID was in there. I come back to the hotel, hoping against hope that I must have packed it in my bag, even though I clearly remember not doing anything of this sort. It’s not there.

With a heavy heart, I get to the reception and ask him to get me the number of the nearest Police station so I can get a letter to cancel all my cards and get my DL back.

Here is the conversation I have.

Voice of police: “Hello, Havaldar Jadhav speaking, rajawadi police station”

Me: “Hello, I am Vidyabhushan, I have lost my wallet at the Mentcon 07 at DY Patil hospital at Kadamwadi. Can I come down and get a letter to get my cards cancelled?”

VoP: “Speak to sir please”

Sir: “ Yes, what is it?”

Me: “Have lost my wallet, can you help me?”

Sir: “Where? At Kadamwadi? Please report to Sahapuri Police Station”

Me: “But, I don’t have any money, how do I get there?”

Sir: “Call them and ask!!!”

Me: “Sir, but please, apply some common sense, I am a stranger here, no cash and you expect me to go to a police station 5Km away? Sir, how?”

Sir: Bzz Bzz (that was not him, it was just that he hung up on me.

Went back to the reception. Asked him if there was a bar in the hotel. Yes there was. Went and had a stiff one. Feeling a little more in control, went to the reception told them the case and asked them for a loan of 500 rupees to get to the station and back.

Made it to the Shahapuri Police station. What I went through there, is not really publishable. Want to put it all behind me. The constabulary wanted me to go to a magistrate and get an affidavit before they would even enter this on their books, like the magistrate is God who will turn all statements true. I still do not understand how me making a statement in front of a magistrate would change anything? As if I would lie to the police, the guardians of the law and order and not to the magistrate, who to me is just a bureaucrat. By this time Mom had called all her connections in the higher ups of police and they were trying to call me on the phone. I spoke to the senior person there and he was understanding and got the constable to record my report and give me the letter.

I thanked uncle who was calling me and got back to the grumbling constable who took down my application in Marathi. Not one of my best written languages. I somehow got it done and got the letter, and then the ass has the gall to ask me for Baksheesh. I imploded. What part of “I HAVE LOST MY WALLET, MY CASH AND ALL CARDS?” do you ass not understand? I just stood and stared. He stared back, I sat down and started calling the uncle, I was noting down his badge name and asking him his number. I told him very casually, “Bloody fool, till now I’ve been decent. Now lets have it out, you and me.” Against the ACB. By then the senior came out and told me. “Sir, Let it be. I got it done na, please let it go.” He had heard uncle calling on the phone, so knew who I was speaking about.

So, I calmed down, in a very controlled voice, told him in chaste hindi (somehow I speak kind of chaste hindi when I am really stressed) “I have lost all that I carry. You still ask me for a bribe, what kind of a buffoon are you? Then I stormed out.

Back at the hotel. Tapping away at the laptop. Need another stiff one and then I’ll turn in. Dad has arranged for his friend to give me money to get back. Been to the railway station and gotten my ticketing done too. Got a few customers here who can help me out in case I need anything. But right now I only need God to forget about me for a while.

Dear lord forgive me for past sins and any rash words.
With you, never wanted to cross swords!
You are the best and will always be,
Now can you just let me be?

Vibhu.

I hate this world.

Not that the world has too many lovable qualities, still, till date it was never this hateful. With my usually amiable disposition such extreme statements are not usually my style, but I am beginning to get the hang of it.

Woke up early, real early, around Sixish. That’s earlier than the sun shows his face to me. One of my standing principles has always been, never to wait for someone who will not be there. Usually saves me a lot of aggravation. I broke it. Always a first time, right?

With just a cuppa coffee rode out into a beautiful morning. October mornings in Mumbai are to die for. Especially, if you are riding the marine drive. With typical Indian timing, late as usual, the sun rose and smiled at me, a little wickedly I thought. Oh Mumbai, what poetry. Dawn on the waves, beautiful people with dogs walking the promenade. It was great. Then a corolla decided that it did not want to share space with a puny little bike anymore and coolly moved in to my lane. Wonderful. Eighty to twenty in three seconds. Heart pounding and finger pointing, I rode on.

Pretty soon I got to the place where I was headed. Turned out to be a place where I should not have headed. Got new directions and, stonewalled again. Finally made it to a place where someone was willing to help. God bless early rising Mumbaikars. Then, he turned a sad face towards me and gave me news, the bad kind.

Called a very hopeful person up and told him, that no go. He sighed and said all right. I then drove to the airport to collect a phone. A decrepit phone that has been with my company since the dawn of our office and plans to continue in that manner till it enters the record books or something. On this beautiful morning the traffic was so light, I made it quicker than my colleague who was coming down on the suburban local five stops away.

Then we turned back officewards. An empty stomach and three hours of riding was getting to me. So was the early Mumbai traffic. It was like the whole world wanted to use the western express highway to get to work. I then added the crowd in the suburban trains and was awed for a moment. There are actually so many hardy souls in Mumbai, who do brave inhuman conditions and travel to work daily to earn their livelihood. Had read about them in the morningers; but, first time in 25 years did I come bumper to bumper with them. Parked at the side, bowed my helmeted head in respect and then let rip.

In true Mumbaikar – Biker fashion, I zigged and zagged. Twisted and turned, bleeped my horn and cleared the log jam. It was just like dodging the meteor belt at the Star Wars sequels – prequels or whatever Lucas named them. And was I accelerating. A ton on the speedo, made it to the office in half an hour. Dropped my colleague off and thought now I’ll take a break. Head home have a nice breakfast, chill a little. Was not feeling too good, so thought I’ll work from home this morning.

Trundled out from the office lot. Thinking no hurries now, as I was traveling in the opposite direction. My wrist and back needed a break. Mumbai roads are not really made for long distance riding on two wheelers. Actually the only reason these roads are made, I think, is so that the ruling politico’s uncle can make about a million times what I make in a year and then get a percentage of the insane amounts these company service centers charge for setting the bike right after three months of riding.

On the home stretch now, the final kilometer before home. Slowing down for a signal when this huge grey Santro (all right a small grey Santro) decided to swerve on the road and see what happens to the small helmeted guy trundling homewards.

Well bikers and the road have a love – hate relationship. The road carries us along to our destination and saves us from wasting time on the trains. But, when it really comes to the nub, it really is not a very welcoming surface. I found gravity and momentum really are two forces that should be experienced only when you are upright and not horizontal and close to the surface. I rolled from the bike in an elegant two point somersault and found to my surprise that leather is really fragile material; especially while it’s still on your bones. Three abrasions and a bruise was what I got for an experiment in the functions of a steering wheel by a seemingly 16 year old female driver. Not to mention that a grand’s worth of cloth covering my lower limbs were letting atmosphere in where atmosphere had no business going. I sat up and observed my self. A small crowd had already gathered muttering, “Whose fault was it? Do you know whose fault was it? Is he bleeding? No, wow amazing. Such a long skid and no blood?”

I got up, gave her a silent stare and then took pity on her trembling lip and watering eyes. Someone handed me the decrepit phone back and I put in the bag. Stood up and stretched. Checked the bike for any damage; of which there were none and kicked it alive. It started at first kick and then came home. Reached home and found that while that helpful some one had handed me the old phone, my beautiful smart phone was missing. Someone picked up when I called and had the nerve to tell me to stop calling as he was already removing the SIM card off it. Thanks a lot for the same and all that.

Took my car to the police station and pleaded with the khaki protectors of the guilt-free and innocent to get me a certificate of loss. The constabulary of the city is so helpful that they usually point out the nearest police station except their own. As if they were a telephone exchange. “Sorry boss the lane in front of Stephen’s church belongs to the Gamdevi Police exchange. All crimes originating there should be reported to them. You see, we got an agreement with the Gamdevi Gangs, they do not operate here and so we do not harass them. You understand na?” But, I did not understand and demanded to see the senior guys and they grudgingly gave me the certificate.

Came back home and went to the doc to get meself fixed up. They got this nice little liquid they put on abrasions called tincture benzene or something. It smells evil and man does it sting. They dab little wisps of cotton soaked with this devil’s brew and seal the broken skin with it. Being stoic and manly and all that, I waited till I got in the car to hold my hands and whimper.

A couple of whimpers later, I took the painkiller the doc so thoughtfully provided and tried to sleep. Each time I would enter the REM phase, the decrepit phone would ring with some shweta trying to sell me a HSBC credit card. She somehow has gotten fixated on this number and still calls up and hears my voice and says “Oh! Sorry sir!” and hangs up.

So here I am. Poorer by a phone, a couple of sq. centimeters of leather and without sleep. The tincture benzene seal still hurts and my ankles swollen. I still hate this world.

Dentist and the Tooth

My dentist is a nice guy. In fact he’s a great guy. But, don’t blame me for not liking him too much. Each time I go to him, I loose either a tooth or about a grand. Needless to say, I like both of them too much to make this guy with the white apron, green mask and shiny little bits that go whir inside the mouth my favorite guy of the month.

This visit was not too bad. He had a whole array of pain alleviating stuff lined up in the shiny tray he had in front of me. Made me recline on this nice comfortable chair and then turned on the light. A dab of this ointment and then a jab of that needle and pretty soon half my mouth and the lower jaw was numb. Thoughtfully his assistant handed me a tissue to wipe my drool away.

Then came the dreaded moment, the great reveal. With great foresight and about Rs. 350, this guy wonder had taken an X-Ray of the wisdom tooth. He held it against the fluorescent screen and tut – tutted. Believe me, it’s not a good sign to have your dentist tut – tut when you are reclining on his chair with half your jaw numbed.

“It’s curved” he says. “There is a bone also that prevents me from taking this out. You should have come in sooner.” I nod my head dumbly; loquacity is not really a viable option with a nice jab of lindocaine in your jaw.

Moving to his little chair next to my jaw, with a nice shiny medieval looking thing in his be-gloved hand, he said now relax. Yeah right. Took a couple of deep breaths and let go. By this time, his assistant had moved into position and had a nice grip of my face. What with the good doctor prying away with the pincer thingie and the assistant twisting my face sideways, the tooth came out easy. He plonked that in the tray and then put a swab in my mouth.

Don’t speak, don’t spit and don’t gargle. Remember these three don’ts.Just a liquid diet and cold ones today. Come back after a week for a follow-up. Do you think India will win today? That will be Rs. 1200 please. Wait outside for fifteen minutes and then come back in.

Waited for fifteen minutes. He was really good, all this had taken barely fifteen minutes of his time and already the numbness had begun to recede. I went back in after watching India’s bowlers bowl dispiritedly at England. Our chances of winning were slowly dwindling away.

He asked me if I wanted to look at the wicked curved wisdom teeth of mine. I said yes, definitely. I wanted to know if I had to cremate them or bury them under a peepal tree. I really did not want to come back from the afterlife just for a tooth. He had it rinsed and put in a small plastic sealie for me.

I have them now. The curved pieces of oral agony. They lie on my desk, waiting to be gilded. So, they can also take part in the final journey of the flames with me. Somehow, Mom doesn't look too happy about them though.

Rains.Monsoon

Well it finally rained. The monsoon rains, not the middling pre-monsoon showers in which you can almost dodge between the shafts of rain falling from the sky.

It was Mumbai rain at it's best. A symphony of water, wind and gray skies. It was rain that made rivulets in the drains of the streets, dragged stones for many a meter before laying them at rest at a culvert or a turn. It was rain that stopped or at least slowed the great Mumbai traffic on it's tracks.

I have a thing for Rains. I cannot just let them be, I have to go out and enjoy them. This day was no different. I had an umbrella in my hand and it was looking good and folded up and dry on this wet, wet Saturday.

So what is it about the Mumbai rains that calls me so? I wondered. Can it be because it lets me be free and mock the gentle public of this city, who crouch in inadequate shelters trying to escape getting wet or huddle under flimsy contraptions of canvas and steel to try and keep at least ten percent of their clothes dry. Or is it some deeper longing for water. After all, our bodies are supposed to be made up of almost 70% water, so can this need be osmotic? After the long dry summer, can the cells of my body need to replenish and the only way to do it would be by communing with these beautiful big drops falling from the sky. Hmm.. maybe. Never let thoughts stand in the way of a little happiness.

So, off I went from the office to home. Walking in this torrent. Smiling a superior smile at all the passengers of the cars stuck en-route to shelter and safety of their homes. I was already dripping wet and thoroughly enjoying it. I would hand over my umbrella to old ladies stuck by the sudden onset of monsoon fury and need to cross the road (must have collected at least three blessings that day).

Rains in Mumbai affect almost all things of this city. It causes great hardship to people traveling, it is not easy to travel around 30 km after you get dripping wet and it is actually tougher, if you have to do it with around another three thousand dripping wet men in a crowded suburban local. They stall cabs and this in turn causes traffic jams. Now, in such inclement weather, it is pretty difficult to find a traffic policeman. So, it falls on the shoulders of those who are most desperate to get home and don't mind getting a little wet.

Soon, some of these good Samaritans would climb out of their cars and start directing traffic and requesting other drivers to hold their tempers and lane changings in check. Soon, the jam would be cleared and all of them would get back in their cars and go home, deed for the day done and done well.

Seeing the good will of the public had a strange effect on me. I too felt like contributing to the good of public transporting in Mumbai. So, I decided to help each and every car that was stranded on my way home. Pretty soon, I came onto my first case. It was a black-yellow or the more melodious sounding kali-pili. I could hear frustrated horns from people behind him cos he was stranded in an oblique angle, blocking the whole street. The driver was some 16 yr old from one of the northern states almost frantically trying to start his car and flooding the carbs in the bargain. I got to him and told him:

" Dude, get out"
"Huh? Why"
" We need to get your car to the side"
"It is not starting sir"
"Dude you need to get out so we can push the damn thing"

After a little pushing and instructing the poor youngster in the art of maneuvering the car with one hand on the steering wheel and the other pushing, we finally got the car to the side of the street. After it was safely parked at the side, I told him to let it rest a while and it would start as soon as the distributor dried. Now, I did not really know if the distributor was the problem, but it felt good to offer advice that gave hope to the weary and unready.


Onwards I walked, feeling all good inside. By now I was all warmed up and had also gotten my technique down pat, rock the car a little and as soon as you get the forward momentum going, push a little harder and away you go. Another Kali-Pili and despatched to the sides in pretty much the same manner.

Then I came to a small Maruti suzuki. It was an old eight hundred with an even older parsi lady. She was trying to start the car but it had given up the ghost. So I asked her if she needed some help and she said if I could just start her car.

Now, this was a tricky operation, how to get her car started. By now I was almost home and the traffic was pretty much nonexistent. The narrow lane that connects our locality with the great wide world was already under a feet of water and was singularly uninviting to people with their minds in the right places.

So, instructed her very clearly. She would have to pop the clutch. This would involve putting the car in gear and depressing the clutch and when the car was moving, just let the clutch go. The car should start then. With some false tries, she finally managed to get it started and then drove away with a thank you dhigra.

Deeds done, I went home to a steaming cup of coffee and settled down in the room to watch the rains come and stall the cabs all over again.

B.E.S.T Proposal.

One of the things pretty high on my wish list is to be a Double-Decker bus driver on the streets of my great city. These things are huge and cumbersome. No hint of power steering, no traction control or syncro-mesh gear box, or independent suspension. They are brutes of steel driven mainly by Indians' everlasting confidence in God and Brit engineering. The great Leyland company offers a cash prize to anyone who topples this bus by driving it rashly. Needless to say this prize has been unclaimed for about more than 50 years now.

The nub of the whole thing being, that I just can't imagine that I am the only one in Mumbai or India for that matter who desires being the driver of such a legendary public conveyance, so here goes a proposal to the BEST.

Start a course offering lay public instruction in driving a Double-Decker bus (DDB). They can charge a tidy little sum for the same. They own huge vacant plots where they can set-up a training track.

BEST can test the general driving skill of the prospective trainees before they let them start the course. They can also have a waiver stating that the trainees are learning at their own risk and it is not binding on BEST to let them ride the bus due to any reason whatsoever.

Then they can train the whole batch at once on the recently laid test track. Theory lessons interspersed with practicals on the working of the bus transport system in suburban Mumbai. Along with history lessons about BEST and it's role in making Mumbai what it is. There would be simulators along with detailed GPS maps of the city routes for the trainees to familiarize themselves.

After a fortnight or so of intensive testing, there can be a test. Candidates who pass this test, can get a license to drive the DDB on a select short route, on a Sunday, when the roads are not that crowded. Hopefully with the help of traffic police, a short diversion can be created for about three or four hours on that route.

They can have family and friends of the drivers, lined up at the different stops on the way, to try and simulate almost real life conditions.

Even the bus could be different. Open top bus, with streamers and other decorations. Serve as a warning to other vehicles on the road too. A celebration party for all the successful candidates on the bus itself at the end of the day. With a ceremonious handing over of the BEST license and Badge stating the wearer is formally trained in the rigors of DDB driving.

Wot say BEST?

Wish List.

Am having a thing for lists nowadays it seems. Just the other day waiting at a doctor’s office, being bored and tired at the same time, my mind took a break. It went back to all the stuff happening at work, some good and some bad. It took me a moment to realize, that even when my mind was taking a break, I was actually thinking of work. I have become the degenerate corporate type, who just cannot leave work alone.

Wrenching my attention from office, I started thinking of all the things I ever wanted to do. So, without much ado, the Vibhu Da Brahman to do Wish list:

1. Much thought went into the first one. It’s probably the most mundane, but has been bugging me for quite a while. Learn to ride a bike. My Bro has got one; need to get it on the road. For all my practicing, can’t seem to find more than one gear, except neutral that is.
   
   
2. Another locomotive one. Learn to fly. Does not need much explaining now, does it?
   
   
3. Learn and cook a great vegetarian seven course meal. From aperitif to dessert.
   
   
4. Learn Sanskrit again. Me gramps tried to teach me the Upanishads, never understood the need for it back then. Now I know. Nothing better than learning to read and understand them in the language written.
   
   
5. Learn to pray. Really pray. Empty the mind and speak to God. All those texts written, maybe I need to give them a chance.
   
   
6. Read and understand the Holy Bible and the Koran. Learn what the big deal is.
   
   
7. Put a week long smile on mum’s face.
   
   
8. Swim with the dolphins.
   
   
9. Blend the perfect cocktail.
   
   
10. Research and help develop the perfect gait for man. Using biomechanical tools, develop the most energy efficient gait man can have, with charts for different height – weight ratios, diagrams and mannequins to explain. Maybe start a great new revolution, help India win the Olympic gold! With our dependence on labor saving machines, we seemed to have forgotten that we evolved this way for a reason. Feet for walking and hands for picking stuff.
    
    
11. Build a prosthesis and rehabilitate people using the patented energy saving gait.
    
    
12. Climb the Himalayas. By foot, chopper or sherpa. Does not matter. Get to the top.
    
    
13. Build an iconic car. Fast and faster. Run it on Indian roads.
    
    
14. Build my house. My very own. Stuff science fiction is made of.
    
    
15. Write a great song.
    
    
16. Learn to play the guitar. Well.
    
    
17. Write a great short story, one that stands up to all the greats in the world.
    
    
18. Feel. Period.
    
    
19. Mourn a day for all the millions of Indians dead due to war, famine and all of their consequences.
    
    
20. Rejoice for all the thousands of Indians born each day.
    
    
21. Write a great poem, one that makes her smile.
    
    
22. Be a double-decker bus driver for a day.
    
    
23. Take a load of cargo, Trans-India, on a multi-axle.
    
    
24. Learn to farm.
    
    
25. Earn a profit on my farm.
    
    
26. Learn three languages. French, Spanish and Arabic.
    
    
27. Restore and use my very own vintage bike.
    
    
28. Be rich.
    
    
29. Be happy while rich.
    
    
30. Dream forever. For dreamers do live.

I think that about covers it for now.

Vibhu Da Brahman.

Stolen Mobiles!

This is for all Mumbaikars who have had their phones flicked, stolen or robbed at gun, knife or stick point. Sometime back I formally joined the ranks of the mobile-phonetically deprived of the city. A nasty slick pick-pouch robbed me of the sublime joy of answering missives from friends, colleagues and clients. Of talking to near and dear ones, while on the move or just plain listening to music that I like while whiling away time in public transport, getting transported from one end of this mega-polis to the other.

But I digress. To help people deal with this problem, I have made a list of all the things that I went through and hopefully others would find it useful in dealing with such issues as and when they arise.

1. Stop the bus, train or cab wherever you may be on discovering the loss of the phone. Let out a primeval howl of anguish that lets the world know, that you have lost something you rely on for survival and succor. Something, that brings joy and sorrow to your life, your gateway to love, life and happiness. In case you notice anyone trying to sneak away, do try to question him gently with the handiest, stick, bag or fist as the conditions may be.
   
2. Check your bags, pockets and surroundings again. Sometimes mobile phones like babies have to be constantly watched, because they have an un-nerving tendency to wander away. To be found, in the most unlikely of places. Enlist the help of others in this search for the holy cell, use their phones to ring it up and locate it Van-Dam style by sound only. If not found, use the howl again. With practice, it usually gets better and sounds more frightening.
   
3. Get off at the next stop and demand to frisk all passengers detraining or getting off the bus. Proclaim that, this is your fundamental right under the Indian Constitution, sub headed in the TRAI act, which incase any one asks, stands for: Telephone Retrieval Act, India. Create a scene and delay all the passengers. God, cannot be cruel to just one, he works on whole populations and not individuals.
   
4. Get yourself to the nearest police station. Get a complaint registered. Increase their work and take away their performance incentive. Mobile phone convictions are very low. If you trouble them enough and are loud enough (use the howl if you have to, only in dire emergencies though) they usually have a stock of recovered phones and they let you take your pick (usually works only if you are twenty something, in a fetching dress and are sobbing hysterically about your father killing you for losing this phone) This should last you till you have saved enough to get a new phone.
   
5. Always carry the IMEI number around. Policemen have the habit of asking the most awkward questions and the most incontinent of times. If you don’t know where to find the IMEI number, this page is not for you.
   
6. Use the pay phone and call up the office and home to inform them that the phone is lost.
   
7. Go to the relationship center and get the card discontinued or blocked.
   
8. Enjoy your new found status as the unconnected. One of the rare breeds of isolated men and women. Sit in a garden, feed the sparrows, philosophise. Try and ignore the blissful neighbors talking on their life line to humanity and sanity.

And if all these don’t work, get out that credit card, walk in to the store, purchase a new one and call me to share your agony.

Vibhu.

A list of things I like.. May it always grow!

After a dreary day when everything was going wrong, I realized that there are so many things that I really like but have never actually thought about much. So today I will set down stuff that needs to be documented, if for nothing else just to remind me to enjoy life as it should always be.

The feel of an early morning when there is no work to be done.

The cup of coffee when you are tired and in need of succor.

The smile on your mother's face when you give her a gift she never expected.

The satisfaction of completing your work on time.

A nice stretch at the end of a good nights sleep.

The warm fuzzy feeling on waking up after a good night's dreaming.

A self satisfied smile after reading some of your own good works that make you laugh inwardly.

The memory of good clean water when you dive in.

The push of the waves, those bring you back to the shore. Effortlessly, feels like the hand of god.

The high of good conversation with a dear friend.

The smile in the voice of a friend when you call after a long time.

A good joke in your message inbox.

Setting a new name on the speed dial.

The first morsel of Dal roti after a full days work.

The first morsel of Mom's Dal roti after a full weeks hotel fare.

The first smile on Mom's face when she kisses you after a full week’s absence.

The first smile on your face when you get your first birthday kiss.

The goofy look on your face when you get your first kiss.

The feeling you get when a mobile customer care agent actually solves a problem on your service.

The feeling when you see less than usual on your monthly phone bill.

The feeling you get when you see more than usual on your monthly phone bill and you think back of all the wonderful conversations you had this month.

The feeling of checking your bank account on the tenth of the month and finding that you still have all of your salary left and that you can actually go the ATM and withdraw some money.

An E-mail from a long lost friend, sending me photos of his latest trip to exotic places.

An E-mail from a long forgotten girl friend, thanking me for the things I did.

A kitten rubbing against your leg, when you come back from work.

The same kitten coming running down to greet you when you come out of the lift.

And so much more. Man, it feels good to be alive.

Faith.

Faith moves mountains and parts seas. One of the many clichéd statements we hear almost daily. Well, I believe in clichés now.

It started out as a normal day. Week day, so had to go out to work, earn my bread, make my directors happy and earn my accountants some profits. I got up late, (as usual) so rushed through the morning. Was finishing my shower and just slipping on my ring when it slipped through the drain.

Let me tell you a little about my ring first. It is a gold ring, with a moon stone set on it. It is a pretty old ring, not a ring of power or anything, but something that I associate with happy memories for a very long time. It was a ring that helped me get in to conversation with my first girl friend at college and all that. It has been with me through thick and thin fingers, so forms an eternal part of my life. This ring was made by my grandma and handed over to my mum; I saw it on the day of my eleventh birthday and immediately asked for it. Surprisingly, she agreed and gave it over.

As you can imagine, when I discovered it bouncing its way down the drain, I was terribly distraught. I dried myself out and then did what every 25 year old engineer does in such situations; I went to mom and said, ma the ring has gone down the drain.

Thoughts such as, it is just god’s way of telling me not to attach too much importance to material possessions were already coursing through my head. I was already imagining myself making a clean start with new confidence and leaving old ideas behind, embarking on a bold new journey with no ties to the past, fresh ideas and fresh thoughts equaling a fresh new life. When mom said, just stand in front of the family temple and pray. You will get back your ring. 25 years in this world has made me realize that when it comes to such matters, it is always better to listen to your elders and betters, so that is precisely what I did. I stood in front of our family deity and told him how much I like the ring and how much it means to me. I did not do anything as blasé as telling him that I would give up all my bad habits, fast for three days in a week and give alms to the poor. I just made a heartfelt request and did as all Indians generally do, left it in his hands.

I finished my breakfast and was preparing to go, when I saw my Mom taking out her favorite prayer book and reading a few choice stanzas. I gave her a hug and asked her, please mum, please get that back for me. She smiled in complete confidence and asked me to forget about it and get to work.

Work was hectic and was busy the whole day. The missing feeling on my finger was really bothering me and I was plagued by a phantom ring all day. I would look to feel for the stone to turn it around and around on my finger (one of my nervous tells) but it would not be there.

Lunch was not an afternoon affair, because I could not find time for it. So, by the time I got to it, it was already early evening. Then mom calls. She starts reciting lists:
One chiffon silk saree
One sweet perfume
One set dress material
One dinner at the fancy restaurant. Etc. etc.

Immediately I understood she had done it. She had gotten my ring back from the dead. She called plumbers, the cleaning lady; a whole team of impromptu ring rescuers and got the ring out for me. She then had it cleaned and sterilized, ready for me to wear.

The feeling of slipping the ring back on my finger is something that still lingers till date. Rationally, I know it’s just a ring and should not count for much, but in some matters ration can go take a hike.

Thanks Mum for a great gift. The ring and the Faith.

The moon is dying.

The following is dedicated to the one and only LMJ. A person who with the power of her conversation makes me ascend greater heights of folly.

A silence on the other end, does tend to give you great artistic freedom..

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"The moon is dying."

The statement reverberated in the plush confines of a Delhi office. It was no ordinary office, but the office of the exalted ruler of the most populous country on earth. A country which on the turn of the new millennium had finally awoken from its slumber and was charging like a lumbering elephant (animals, slow to start, but on stampeding, exceedingly fast and difficult to stop). Using the Two Billion or so Indians as currency, the Indian economy had risen by astronomical percentages in the past few decades. But all this is unimportant in view of the immediate demise of the closest astronomical body.

The Great Exalted Ruler Of Most Populous Indian Nation (GEROMPIN) or Grumpi as he was called behind his back, looked suitably abashed at the maker of the aforementioned silence creating statement, the Chief Astrophysicist of the Most Populous Indian Nation (CAMPIN) or Champi as he was known to all and sundry.

With a most undignified opening of the oral orifice, GEROMPIN gasped and asked what, why, how, when and where in rapid succession. With great reluctance at parting a state secret, Champi decided that the time had come to make Grumpi familiar with a few facts of Indian life and it was not going to be very easy on him. Traditionally Indian rulers have believed in beheading the messenger of bad news and somehow unreasonably, Champi was quite attached to it. (The only other person with that failing was his mother, god rest her soul).

Champi began, "A long, long time ago when the Himalayas were still adolescent, just a middling sized lump of volcanic matter on Mother Earth’s body, India was being settled. Though the name India had not been decided yet, the seeds of the culture and the nation were being sowed. At that time the master Indian race were past-masters in relativity physics and time forecasting.

They had realized that ten thousand years down the line, evolution and great Indian politicos would necessitate a cheap source of energy for helping Indians down the destined path of glory and riches. Otherwise the phase of existence that should have been “Sat” yug or Satellite yug would turn to Kal yug or dark yug. So they gave us the technology to harness cheap light energy.

Here Grumpi timidly raised his hand, “us?” He asked, “What us are you talking about. This is the first time I have ever heard of this. Is not our energy coming from the little Middle Eastern country we annexed about twenty years back, what was it called, some southie or something. Not to mention rivers falling on fans and stuff like that?”

With great forbearance Champi replied well these things do provide a small part of our vast energy needs. But that’s just to fool the world. We get our energy from vast satellite and terrestrial power plants that work on a specific frequency of light, special receivers that charge deep underground power cells working on 88% efficiency. The next generation of power cells would be able to work at 88.25% efficiency. He paused here with a happy smile of remembrance of the party they had when the scientists discovered the new material that could conduct light energy more efficiently. He had almost gotten laid that night.

Grumpi was trying hard to fight the glazed look on his face. (Something that had taken a semi-permanent residence on his facial configuration since the conference started. He interposed,” You mean to say I captured the whole region, solved the middle east issue, the contentious Jew – Arab conflict, with Christian leaders baying for Jerusalem just to throw dust in the eyes of the world???!!!”

With a look of almost Gandhian patience Champi said that is true. Now stop interrupting and let me get on to the important stuff. In layman’s language, the light of the moon makes this country run. The great elders put receivers of the suns rays on the dark side of the moon. These receivers kept the moon full and bright, the moon then beamed this light down to earth at specific intervals- Amavasyas. With 88.25% efficiency it takes us twelve hours to charge our reservoirs to last us for a fortnight.

With so much intellectual input, Grumpi was actually smoking in his seat. Squirming uncomfortably, he asked,” So where is the problem?” (Almost added O great one) and after a pause, “How come you know all this and I don’t?”

To this the great Champi replied, “We come from a long line of moon worshippers. Our lineage was started to keep the secret and put it to good use when the time arose. So for the past forty years, I and my cousins have been keeping your economy running.” All this with a smug smile that surprising did not increase his facial popularity factor to more than the pre-existing two.

Now Grumpi had almost had it. He had sat for two whole hours listening to this fool with the ugly mug and getting insulted in the end. It was reminding him much too disconcertingly of his school days. So with a chilly smile he said, “So this moon death is all your family’s fault, huh?”

The chilly smile won the contest over the smug one and brought Champi back to earth and reminded him about the li'l fact about Indian rulers and messengers. Hurriedly he moved on.

“No, No. We did our best. All the equipment is in excellent running order. It is just that the receivers are not receiving the regular hertzial excitement to keep them in perfect functioning order. “

Grumpi growled “ Hindi Champu, Hindi”

Champi: “It is just that, for the solar receivers to work, they require a particular sound transmission. For the past few years this particular sound transmissions have gone down drastically. We tried different frequencies, but nothing seems to work. Do you remember a couple of decades back, when you were the information and broadcasting minister? You passed just one law....?”

Grumpi: (Beaming) ” Yea. The high point of my career, The B.I.A.S.E.D Law, Ban Item dances And Songs in Entertainment Directive law.”

Champi: “You used to say that all the Autos and taxis playing these songs gave you a head ache. Well actually these transmissions kept the moon going. For the past twenty years we have been trying to recreate the particular frequency. So in the interest of Humanity can you please get HIMMESH back?

A sound Miracle.

Feel good stories are not something that I am usually good at, but some times you really need to put it down, maybe just to remind you that things are really not that bad to never lose hope.

About two and half years back, A small boy in north central India was diagnosed as having severe to profound hearing loss. Hailing from a lower middle class family with limited means, it was almost certainly a sign of doom for the child. The best hearing aids their money could buy did precious little to help him hear. Till one day, they attended a Cochlear Implant Education Program (CIEP).

Here they got information that meant a cusp in their lives. Here was a device that offered new hope and maybe a better quality of live envisioned till now. It was a device which could make their child, till date a stranger to sounds, hear again. Maybe learn to call his parents mom and dad in the normal way. Maybe, learn, understand and enjoy birdsong, the pitter patter of the first rain which till date was just a musty odor.

On hearing the cost of the whole operation and the subsequent therapy required, the father (the only wage earner of the family) was staggered, a feeling not very new to Indian fathers and mothers when they discover their children are hearing impaired. But, with typical Indian sanguinity and faith, he shrugged his shoulders and went to work.

Hard were the insults to bear, the insult to his pride when he had to spread his hands towards neighbors, family and so called friends. To collect monies he knew could change his boy’s future. He changed four jobs, because employers were not interested in his sob story, they could not understand why the assembly line had to suffer just because his young son was deaf and that he had go ask for donations from friends and strangers alike.

Insults such as, “Why don’t you put him in the orphanage? Abandon the child; you cannot take care of him. Turn him over to the state.” Were commonplace to him. With Mahatma like patience and humility he withstood all and went about his task of making his child’s future secure. At the end of it all, he had a sum of Hundred thousand rupees, about one sixth of what he required for the operation. By now he had already changed four jobs and relocated thrice.

At his final destination he met an Audiologist who referred him to a leading hospital and surgeon in Bombay where this surgery routinely occurs. The importance of this decision was that the Dr in question was very successful in raising funds for the needy and a letter from him was something that would ease the fund raising troubles a little, With great hope in their hearts they came to Bombay. Strangers in a strange land, with almost no money to stay in hotels in this oh so expensive city, they stayed at stations braving heartless people and police batons. They moved from station to station when the police got too much to handle. One man, woman and a deaf child. They had no idea that there were shelters to be had just outside one station, a temple that let people use the dormitory for free and also provided food at hugely subsidized rates.

Finally they met the good doctor at his free OPD and got the required letter. They also got a list of people and trusts to whom they could apply for funds. Returning to his town, the father went about applying in his usual fashion. Couriering scores of applications and getting rejects as he went about baring his soul and pride to the refusals to strangers again.

Recently we conducted another CIEP in his town. Reading the Ad, he came to me and said, “Hello sir, we have spoken often on the phone but never met before. I am ---.” I recognized him and asked about his son’s progress. He said the son was doing fine, but he wasn’t. Looking at his eyes I felt, the least I could do was talk to him awhile. Out came the complete story, all the pain and anguish, the rejections, the humiliations, everything. A person, who had spent the last couple of years of his life asking strangers to help, now felt only a stranger could understand his burden. Things had come to such a pass, that he said he was contemplating something that should never be. Shocked and scared at my inability to console him, I sternly told him that this could never be, that he had to think of his family. He replied that it was the only thing that was stopping him. Finally after some more useless platititudes, I took his leave and left his town.

A couple of days later, I got a call from someone, telling me that there were funds available for one CI surgery, if we had a good candidate. The only rider being that the surgery should be scheduled immediately. I almost screamed over the phone, there is this --- from ---. He has already done the prelim work up and also has a date for this week. Then came the bombshell, this person wanted someone from some other region. I said, I will check, but please keep him in mind. At the end of the day, came the message that brought a smile to my face and a glow to my heart. --- has been selected for surgery and is coming down to Bombay. I was with a friend then and in a theater, I almost jumped for joy. With great control I asked if this was confirmed. And yes it was.

It was another auto major who had contributed. I thank all Indians who have ever bought their vehicle in the last forty years or so of their existence, they have saved not one but so many lives. Every time any of you rides an auto or a certain brand of bikes, I want to thank you for giving a child the gift of sound. God bless you all. Amen.

Where is the food!

Travel a lot nowadays and so as usual my diet has become pretty much vaired as it can be. From simple dal roti to all the usual usal / misal varieties of rural maharashtra.

The previous month, things had gotten to such a head, that the moment I used to board the ST bus, I would in my pidgin Marathi ask the driver of the conveyance, where in God's brown Maharashtra are you stopping for dinner? Is it any good, has it got a Michelin rating? On hearing the Michelin bit, he would sneer at me and say wot sir, this bus takes JK tires not Michelin.. but well, am stopping in Deopur because the owner of the canteen there is the cousin of the husband of the daughter of the ST corporation chiefs aunt.

So I ask is the food good, he very simply said no. Already fearing for the assault on my delicate duodenum lining over and above the jarring of the spine and the attack of high frequency and mid frequency noise on my beautiful ears, I would groan and ask why, o great mover of the rural poor, why do you do this..?

He justs looks back at me over his shoulder, starting the bus, saying.. the owner of the canteen is the cousin of the husband of the daughter of the ST corporation chief's aunt...