So, when is the Good News?

Our country is marriage-baby obsessed and that is stating the obvious. A person after crossing the age of 18 is supposed to get married at least by 29 and is expected to get pregnant or be seriously 'busy' in the business of babymaking within a year of marriage.

So what happens to a couple who are married for over 5 years (Yours truly and her hubby dear) and is still baby-less? Well, all hell breaks loose and other than being burned at the stake, the poor couple have to go through all the tortures devised by mankind.

Here's an incident that happened just 5 months after my marriage. We had visited my hubby's village and I didn't understand the intricacies of the Tamil language yet. J had left me at the mercy of the women folk of the household. One of the elderly women nudged me not too gently, "Thala kulikariya?". Roughly translated, it means -"Are you still having head bath?". I was shocked... Was I stinking? I sniffed myself. No, I smelled decent. "Yes." I blurted out in my broken Tamil. "I had head bath." The old woman tsk-tsked. The other women of the household laughed loudly. I smiled dumbly not understanding what was so funny. Later I was told that she was asking me whether I was pregnant. Gulp. So that was 5 months after marriage, now 5 years later, I've compiled a list of such anecdotes that are downright hilarious, audacious, ludicrous...take your pick!

PhD in Babyology - These are the couples I find the most frustrating. Once they have given birth to a baby they behave as though they've graduated in Sexology. No matter, whether they were thinking of making babies, when they were ‘just doing it’; Or whether they're pregnant depends on simple biology, luck and gravity. Suggestions range from the generous- 'Place a pillow underneath, helps in the flow.' 'Watch porn movies.' 'Don't get up for 3 hours after sex.' 'Read Kamasutra.' 'Remember the guy has to be on top' to the weird -'Face north-wards, drives away the bad karma'.

Eh? Guys what do you think we were doing for the last 5 years? Playing Legos?

The Periods-obsessed Mom/ Mom-in-laws - Thankfully I didn't have to face this particular breed but my unfortunate friends were not so lucky. The girl might forget her period dates but her Periods-obsessed mom/ mom-in-law will not. So every month precisely on the day the girl is supposed to get her periods, she gets a call from her mom-in-law, "Did you get your periods this month?". "Yes." Responds the mortified girl. "What were you doing? How could you let this happen?" Click. The call is cut rudely. This ritual continued until the poor girl finally got pregnant.

The Wedding Criers - This group of people are present at every marriage function we attend. They sadly have loudspeakers attached to their mouths and have never learnt to speak softly. " 5 yearsaahhh? No kids yet aaahhh?" the gentleman blares. People around us turn around and look at us curiously. We shake our heads uncomfortably. " Why no-waaa? Why take no steps? Visited doctorsaaaa?" The gentleman trumpets. The entire marriage hall is part of the conversation now. "Next time you come with baby. okayaaa?" Now the decibel-levels have crossed the danger level. The band has stopped playing. And we are the cynosure of all eyes, instead of the bride and bridegroom.

The Church Hoppers - 'If you can't do it, God will do it for you' is the mantra of our God-addicted country. Hence we're dragged to all the churches in the world in the hope that prayer will work where medicine and nature didn't. No need to say that there are experts in this field too. Certain churches and priests (Replace the word church with mosque or temple depending on your religious affiliations) are highly-recommended for their baby-making powers. Advises are also dispensed freely on where to tie prayer sheets, when to eat which food, how much holy water to be drunk, which idols have the special power to create babies. Please note that God will be particularly pleased with those who are willing to suffer physical pain in and around the religious spot.

The Astrologers - This ilk has the talent to predict the future. Random people come up to you and predict the time, year and month of when you will be visited by the stork. "By your next birthday, you'll be pregnant." "Pongal, definitely." "Your next wedding anniversary, you'll turn from two to three." I wish these people were there when I was writing my 12th exam. Would have asked them to predict that I score 98% in my exams and join IIT Kharakpur after that.

Then there are...

The Lifeboats- An aunt who gives a sympathetic look as if I've AIDS and says that she will pray for me, every time she sees me.

The guilt enhancer - People who say - 'It's your duty to give birth to the torch-bearer of the family. Look how your parents/in-laws are suffering because of your crimes.'

The wise ones - Uncles who admonish you - "How long are you going to enjoy life like this? Be more responsible!"

The Good News friend - A friend who calls me up just to check if there is any 'good' news. Of course, the good news is not worthy enough if I reached professional glories or attained other personal goals.

Well it's just 5 years of being child-less, and so the list is short and sweet. Will let you know if we are still not blessed with the life-seed (as one of the uncles had succinctly put it) on our 10th wedding anniversary :)    

My Death Wish-list

Death... My father-in-law, whom I call Appa passed away on 26th January, 2014, Republic Day. He was just 59 years old and had retired 8 months back.  An ex-military man, he was simple, loving and treated me like his own daughter. Appa had big dreams and his enthusiasm for modern-day gadgets especially mobiles surpassed any 16 year old's. I often visualize him nowadays sitting on top of a cloud, wearing full-sleeve white shirt, with the latest iPhone in his hand and laughing at the foolish antics of us mere mortals. RIP Appa.

His death made me pause and think hard. We find an excuse to celebrate and plan everything and anything  - birthdays, marriages, friends' promotions, cousin's first-trip-to-America, our favourite hero's movie release, even the neighbour's dog's naming ceremony.... yet mention the only certain thing in our lives - Death - and we behave as if it's a horror story that happens in our TV sets and not in real life. How do we leave it to chance that once we are dead, people will automatically come to know  how we wanted our funerals to be? Naturally our Ghosts will not protest  from their graves (I personally don't intend to cause a stampede after my death and spoil the chances of a peaceful funeral). This is scarier if you are an Indian woman - People somehow assume that as a pati-vratha wife, you are supposed to be buried or cremated as per your husband's family-customs. Well, if you are dead, there is nothing much you can say or do about it.
So before it's too late, here's my Death wish-list of do's and dont's:

1) Donate and  cherish - It's my wish from the time I read my first Reader's Digest book (an article on how a family had pledged to donate their organs after death had moved me to tears) that whatever is re-usable in my body should be reused. For God's sake, 6-feet under the earth, these organs would otherwise be soon digested by bugs. Instead donate to someone, who will value those organs for life.

2) Keep it simple, dress cool - A BIG no for me is the heavy kanchipuram saree, bridal make-up and jewellery. A simple, neatly-ironed, white cotton kurta and salwar will do for me. India is a hot country and I plan to dress cool for the big occasion.

3) White & yellow roses - I am a simple person at heart. So please don't burden with me with garish ribbons, orange marigolds, stringy jasmines and purple-gold decorations. White and yellow roses will suffice to say that 'You meant a lot to me'.

4) No band-bajaa-baraat - Simple is the keyword here again. There is a reason that Death is called 'eternal sleep'. So please let me sleep peacefully -  no thappatam, kutthu or drinking and dancing in front of my funeral procession. Just lead me solemnly to the graveyard, bury me peacefully and move on!

5) Women aren't chinaware - In some cultures in India women are not allowed to go to the graveyard. Oh come on, we have periods and give birth, we are not made of glass to break at the first glimpse of a dead body. I want the women to be fully present at the Graveyard saying their last goodbyes - otherwise no funeral, sorry!

6) Finally, move on - I am dead and it's done once I am buried. No celebrating 16th day, 40th day, feeding crows, giving clothes to relatives.... Be assured, I will move on even if these rituals aren't followed.

There ends my simple Death Wish-list. Please note that this list can be modified/ amended based on my whims and fancies in future. And anyone who doesn't adhere strictly to the above list.... Beware, my Ghost will come back to haunt you!!!!

Netaji and his missing Topi

            

Netaji was 59 years old. He was the ‘young’ shining star of Indian Politics. His chamchas (followers) lovingly called him Chota Bhai (little brother) Netaji. Dressed in white cotton kurta and dhothi, Netaji was the darling of the young and old alike. As the youth icon of the country, Netaji believed in being tech-savvy - he was active in FB and tweeted regularly. He made it a point to touch elders’ feet and kiss the babies. He was billed to be the next PM of the country until that fateful day…

Now Chota Bhai Netaji had a chota secret. His power, he believed, rested in his pristine white Gandhi Topi.  The topi symbolized him. Whenever Netaji got out of his official car, the topi came first and then the rest of the body followed. In private, when nobody was looking, he would gently caress his topi and talk to it, “ Jaddu ki topi, tu hai power ki putli.” 

Netaji had a professional topiwalla appointed just to guard and tend to his precious Topi. Gangu Lal was given strict instructions to only take care of the Topi and nothing else. This order applied even if the High Command i.e.  Memsahib asked Gangu to buy sabji from the market. So daily night, after the Netaji returned from the Ministry, Gangu religiously washed, starched and pressed the Topi and placed it on the night stand near Netaji’s bed. Every morning, Netaji woke up to first glimpse his precious Topi, place it firmly on his head and then get ready to face the world.

So imagine the shock on Netaji’s face when he woke up one eventful day to discover that his Power ki Putli was not at its designated spot on the night stand.

“Ganguuuuuuuuuuuuu!” Netaji hollered in his most disruptive parliamentary voice.

Gangu came running. “ji..ha.. haan ji.. maalik ji.”

“Where is my Topi?!” Netaji fumed, pointing at the empty night stand.

“I…I.. don’t know maalikji. I had placed it as always on the stand….maybe a right-wing rat took it.”

Gangu shivering and stuttering bend down to look under the bed for the fascist rat and was given a mighty kick on his back by Netaji. Gangu went scrambling out of the room with his tail between his legs.

“Bhagwaan, where’s my topi?” Netaji hollered for his wife next.

Memsahib was a fat puss who had mothered seven wild cats and weathered bigger tantrums than Netaji’s stately hysterics. She could not be easily cowered down like Gangu.

“Haan Ji, like your topi is made of gold. Why don’t you put the CID on the case of the missing topi? Let them sometimes earn their salary.” With that, the Memshaib waddled out, her nose held high in the air.          

Netaji decided to hold his tongue. If Memsahib got angry, Netaji would have to go hungry for a week. Instead, he ordered the household staff to search for his topi. The staff searched high and low, up and down but couldn’t find the topi. They found a year old lollipop under the key stand, a raunchy magazine hidden in a schoolbook and a dead rat in the kitchen but they couldn’t find the topi.

For the first time in his illustrious career as a politician, Netaji had to step out of his house without his trusted topi perched on his head. His driver, gardener, bodyguards, chamchas and favour seekers were left speechless. It was as if democracy had lost one of its salient pillars.   

Netaji without looking left or right stepped into his Laal Bathi ambassador and ordered the driver to make haste to his office – Lok Upkar Charcha Kariyalaya (Centre to Talk on People’s Welfare) or LUCK. He immediately convened a Joint Parliamentary meeting of all parties. The issue of the missing Topi was put on the table and was discussed first before other less-grim issues like education, corruption, women’s welfare and poverty. There were many groans and grumbles across parties; Netas couldn’t believe that someone could hoodwink the country’s top political powers and pinch the esteemed topi. It was decided that it was a National Emergency and a resolution was unanimously passed to locate the Topi before any other work was done. The order passed, the Netas went back to their AC cabins to catch up on forwarded MMSes and bet on cricket matches, satisfied that they had saved the country from the brink of world war.

The National Bureau of Investigation, Secret Services, Army, Marine &Air Force, Royal Guard, Terrorist Cell, Police, Elite Bodyguards and Central Garbage Disposal Unit were all assigned on the Case of the Missing Topi.  The Joint Forces searched high and low, nation-wide for hours but the Topi wasn’t found. A world-wide alert was issued to nab anyone suspicious of smuggling Netaji’s topi. An elderly cleric of a small village in a distant country was imprisoned for wearing a similar Topi. A civil riot ensued that led to 5000 people being killed in the small country.  

The news was leaked to the National Media by the Information Minister’s Under-Secretary’s PA. It was telecasted as ‘Breaking News’ at 10 am, 2 pm, 6 pm and 9 pm. Prestigious anchors dissected, bisected and analysed the news from all angles and passed the verdict that our country’s political system has failed us and we are going through a economic crisis. This verdict caused national turmoil – stock market crashed, petrol & LPG prices rose, schools & colleges closed, onion prices soared and Television serials’ ratings increased.    

At the same time, a friendly argument was happening between a father and a son in a happy family that lived in a town in the central state of the country.

The father said, “The Topi must have developed wings and flown away to a more religiously-tolerant country.”

The son said, “It must have fallen in love and eloped to Topistaan.”

A neighour with nose the size of a cricketing bat over-heard the conversation and caught the words; ‘religious’ ‘love’ ‘elope’ ‘Topistaan’. He put two and two together and concluded that a religious plot was hatched by the green-minded family. Surely, the son of the family planned to elope with the girl of the saffron-minded family staying two blocks away. He passed this information to all and sundry. Soon an angry crowd of saffron gathered around the house and protested against such religious bigotry. The enraged mob didn’t give a chance for the happy family to explain but cut them into pieces and their house was set on fire. The green community couldn’t bear this injustice and attacked the saffron community. The fire, that had burned the happy family, spread across the country killing millions in religious riots. Two neighbouring countries took this as a godsend opportunity and fired a couple of missiles on India to add to the chaos.

By evening, a national emergency was declared. The Netas were forced to leave behind their MMSes and cricketing matches. Grumbling at this unfairness, the Netas blamed each other and the country for the crisis. Finally, after an hour of unruliness, chair-throwing and abuse-hurling, the benevolent Netas decided that it was all Netajis fault. In no time, he was judged as an enemy country’s spy, insane and a danger to society. He was stripped off all the honours he had earned in the last forty years and thrown on the street. His chamchas and servants by some magic melted away. Netaji walked home lonely and miserable.

His head bent low, Netaji entered his house through the backdoor. Too embarrassed to look anyone in their eyes, Netaji headed for his favourite spot under the ancient mango tree. Playing under the tree was Netaji’s four-year-old granddaughter; she smiled seeing him. Clasped tightly in her left hand was Netaji’s Topi. The little girl had used the Topi as a boat daylong in the stream running behind the house; happily unaware of all the violence caused by her innocent game.

The Topi was muddy, creased and torn in places. 

Glossary:

Neta - Politician

Chamchas- Followers

Chota Bhai - Little Brother

Topi- Indian Hat

Jaddu ki topi, tu hai power ki putli- Magic Hat you are my source of power

Haan- Yes

Maalik- Master

Bhagwaan - endearing way to call one's wife

Memsahib - Madam

Laab Bathi - Red Light  

Shanthi Om and Ashanthi Home.

In January 2014, we will be changing our house again. We have already started searching from December 1, 2013 and as on 31st December, the search for the ideal ‘rented house’ still evades us. Now for a person who is lucky to own a house in Chennai or for that matter anywhere else in India, this may not sound as a big deal. You may wonder what the hue and cry is all about. Just contact a broker or better still search in free ads, lo and behold the perfect house for rent lands up perfectly gift-wrapped on your lap on Christmas eve. Unfortunately, this isn’t how the brickwork for renting a house is laid.

Let me explain it in a different context. Most of us Indians (even though a few like me thankfully didn’t have to face the girl-seeing-tea-giving ritual) have a practical knowledge of how the arranged marriage industry operates. The search for the ideal life partner may take months and sometimes years. A friend of mine has been searching for 6 years, another for one year and one after a depressing search of one and half years has finally hooked the perfect catch... oops the perfect match! By the time their parents, relatives and well-wishers have sorted through the maze of country-state-religion-caste-subcaste-horoscope-education-family/financial background-colour-age-height-dowry (and various other weird requirements that I can’t even mention here), the ‘ideal’ life partner ends up looking like Homo sapien Godzillaous. It’s a physically-mentally-emotionally draining journey for the boy/girl whereby at the end of the search they have already contemplated becoming a brahmachari (monk) and running off to the Himalayas.

Anyway in short, that’s how searching a house for rent is like. There is nothing called the ideal match and it’s almost mission impossible to pair the right house to the right tenant. And midway through the search, you feel like packing up your suitcase and living on the pavement. After that, it’s the government’s headache to search a house for you.

So here are my top five peeves against the house hunting business:

1. I am not a slumdog millionaire – In Chennai, every good-looking street ends in a slum. For the rent we pay, the least we expect is to get a decent house. But no, of course that can’t be done. Just like the Snow White story, the broker takes us through enchanting residential areas and parks his Activa right in the centre of an ugly slum. Just picture ribbon-thin, unpaved roads, colourful pots, screaming kids, drunkards, crying women, garbage on the street and leering men in lungis. Perfect setting to make an Oscar-winning movie but not to lead your life in peace.

Shell-shockers #1-Rentophobia

2. Where is the kitchen Anna? – I firmly believe that women should enter the Real estate business. Otherwise, how can anyone with a brain build a house without planning for a proper kitchen? It’s like some Mr. Landownermoorthi thought one fine day… “Let’s build a house and fleece a hapless couple. 2 rooms, 2 bathrooms, one balcony and one hall. All in 650 sq ft. Done!” 

“What about the kitchen mama?” Asks the meek Mrs. Landownermoorthi. In response Mr. Landownermoorthi gives the Mrs a dirty look, throws in a room the size of a matchbox and a matchstick for a washbasin, and calls it a kitchen.

3. Non veg aaa? Aiyo house Ilaaa! – Now Mr. Landownermoorthi comes built-in with several imaginary squares on top of his head, which he ticks, or crosses based on whether we fulfill his criteria of the ideal tenant. ‘Familyaa?’ ‘Yes sir’ - small tick. ‘Christianaa?’ ‘Yes sir’ – small cross. ‘Non vegaaa?’ ‘Yes sir’ – very big cross. ‘Aiyo sir, sorry house no vacant!’ Maybe he visualizes us on weekends wearing long grasses, holding skulls and bones in hand and dancing around a fire in his precious matchbox kitchen.      

4. Parking space, just around the corner – This reminds me of the matrimonial ads in newspapers – ‘fair, homely, talented and well-versed in home-making (whatever that means)’. The real deal will be just the opposite. Indian fair aka brown, wears western clothes, and cooking skills will be limited to boiling water. The broker assures us that the house comes with ‘ample parking space’ while when you ask the House Owner he responds without a break that there’s no parking space available but we can ‘feel free’ to park our vehicles around the corner of the street. So Mr. House Owner you can park your rusted 15 year old Maruthi 800 in a covered car-park while we should park our Royal Enfield Bullet Classic 500 and brand new Scooty Pep Plus in the open? Of course, why not!

5. Advance one lakh fifty thousand wonly and don’t forget broker’s commission please – Even by chance and with the broker’s blessings, you are able to cross the above hurdles, the House Owner bowls the final googly by asking for an advance amount that will make sure that you get an Angioplasty early in life. While behind you, the Broker gently taps on your shoulder and reminds you that you need to pay his commission well in advance.

   

Naturally, the list doesn’t stop here. If needed, I can fill an Encyclopedia on the do’s and don’ts of searching houses for rent. For now, what I need is a Shanthi Home. A piece of land to call my own and peace on Earth. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.

PS: By the way, wasn’t Jesus born in a stable? Hmm. Seems even the Gods have to struggle to get proper lodging on Earth.                           

The twisted tale of the shape-shifting Jackal, the Monkey, the Donkey, and the half-blood Peacock-Hyena

Once upon a time, in a 4x4 concrete jungle, there ruled a she Jackal who could change shapes on will. The kingdom of Hierarchy had ordained the Jackal as the Queen as she was the oldest and the loudest of all. And of course, she could change forms as she wished - a huge plus in the hallowed order of Grapevine where wolves roamed in sheep's clothing, skunks walked free and cats imitated the tigers.

The Jackal had under her rule, a Monkey, a Donkey and a half-blood Peacock-Hyena. The Monkey jumped the highest of all, loved eating bananas, and yes-maned to whatever the Jackal ordered. The Donkey carried the burden of the entire world on her shoulders as if it was hers, never had an opinion of her own, and was used as a football by the team every alternate weekends.The Peacock-Hyena was the newest member of the Jungle. She had two sides to her - one for the world that mattered and the other for the world that didn't count. She exhibited her beautiful peacock plumes to the world at large, which attracted animals from far and wild. She was careful to show her brightest, cheeriest side to the Jackal, while on the other side the Hyena in her mocked and bullied her peers and passed on team gossip to the higher-ups.

The Queendom of Wishdom (as it was popularly called) was ruled with an iron hand by the Jackal. Only a selected few who bowed down to the pecking order could enter and none could leave. All was well in the Queendom until it was decided by the Higher Enterprise of Animal Loyalty (HEAL) to bring together all animals on a Jungle Safari.

As the order came from the all-powerful HEAL, the Jackal grudgingly decided to attend the Jungle Safari with her minions. But it was below her dignity to travel with the horde so she got her own Chariot and traveled in royal style. The two days went in a rush. The Jackal changed shapes to please the mass. The Monkey jumped around a lot and ate bananas to a bunch. The Peacock-Hyena preened and strutted displaying her best. And the donkey seeing the free wild, forgot herself,  tried to develop wings and fly away.

Now the poor donkey didn't know the unwritten rule that in the concrete jungle nobody changed their hues. A donkey can never be allowed to be a dove and fly without fear. Immediately after the jungle safari, the Jackal called an urgent meeting of her minions.

"How dare you?" howled the Jackal in righteous temper, "How dare you not lick my feet and follow my tail at the Jungle Safari? The Monkey got me two ripe and juicy bananas and the Peacock-Hyena pranced along with me all over."

"But wasn't the Safari about bonding with others? Being free and forgetting everything?" stammered the confused Donkey.

"Oh, silly Donkey! I proclaim you peevish, selfish, wildish, schemish, childish, howlish, singularish, animalish...!" the Jackal howled, adding up all the 'ish' she knew in the big world-wild.

"Don't forget to add that she showed 2 cms more teeth than she is allowed." said the oh-so-charming Peacock-Hyena.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" yes-maned the Monkey.

The Donkey cowered, searching for trees to hide behind but found none.

"Why don't we clip her wings to set an example?" suggested the trickster Peacock-Hyena.

"Right! None can have their wishes in Wishdom. Let the Donkey be the example on what happens when one wishes beyond their wildest wishes." proclaimed the Jackal.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" yes-maned the Monkey.

The three pounced on the Donkey suddenly. The Monkey and the Peacock-Hyena held her tight while the Jackal cut the Donkey's week-old-almost-invisible wings with much aplomb. Then they left the Donkey bleeding on the ground as if nothing had ever happened to ripple the mighty Pecking Order.

The next day, the Donkey went back to Wishdom carrying a heavy burden on her shoulders. The Jackal congratulated her on her dedication and commitment to the Kingdom of Hierarchy and Grapevine. The Monkey and Peacock-Hyena welcomed her with open hands.
Only the Donkey knew that what was lost, was lost forever. But she remained quiet and followed the Pack, one among many in the Kingdom of Hierarchy.

When time stood still...

Footprints left on the sands of time fade but memories last forever.  

This weekend, I went to Pondicherry. Nothing remarkable about it, when you consider that Pondi (as it is popularly called) is just 3 hours drive from Chennai and accessible anytime. What made it memorable was that I went out with my office team of 45 people and the wonderful memories that will remain a part of me forever.

We started at 8.30 am and reached Pondi at around 12 pm. The Wildflower resort is difficult to find; we got lost and had to ask for directions several times before we reached the resort. Wildflower is aptly named - safely hidden in a village at the edge of the ocean, in a place where nature rather than technology still rules. It was worth the effort, Wildflower gives you everything to take your mind off the downsides of city life.

Well, there is nothing to write about the office 'team bonding/team building initiative' by itself. It was like any other office party at any other corporate - a bunch of uncomfortable people put together for 2 days in close proximity and deep animosity pretending to be cool and hep and ready to run away at a moment's notice! So as expected there were lots of drinks, games, hugs, smiles, appreciations, dancing, and people breaking into groups based on their pecking-order in the corporate hierarchy. On the brighter side, people let go off their inhibitions and revealed parts of themselves that we never knew even existed. It's a different thing that these same people will again go back to office on Monday and cover themselves in layers of hypocrisy and bullshit.

The moment that remains etched in my memory is the morning after the late night drinking and dancing, when my colleagues woke me up for a walk on the beach. I refused at first in favour of few more hours of sleep. Then something made me realize that I can sleep everyday but this opportunity will be lost forever. The walk to the beach by itself was music to my senses. A rickety fence housing a gaggle of geese, that opened up to an unplanned palm grove, that led to a meandering stone pathway and finally to the clear turquoise ocean. Wild flowers - purple and white carpeted the otherwise pristine and clean beach. The sun hadn't still shown its face and yet it was not dark; it was the Peter Pan moment between blinding darkness and burning heat - when everything is perfect and time stands still for eternity.

Searching for peace...at WildFlower Resort

I was with a group and yet alone. Just the unbridled ocean, sand under my feet, the wind in my hair and nothing else. It was peace. I basked in the knowledge that nothing mattered and nobody can snatch this moment from me. Call it nirvana, meditation, God.... for me that moment was beyond words.  I stood there for a long time watching, at peace, as the waves rose and the sun finally fought its way through the wall of clouds.

The moment faded. Peter Pan went back to the realms of fairy tales. And I traced my steps back to the resort. But that memory still remains fresh in my mind - treasured forever.        

Smile! It's Goa - 2 days of sun, fun and rava-fried shrimps.

We decided to celebrate Diwali differently this year. Let go off the sweets and crackers and head off to Goa. And wasn't that a brilliant decision!

We are unfortunately not one of those super-cool, super-organized people who plan months ahead for a trip, create excel-sheets to track their last penny or mug-up route maps. We are one of those fla-fla guys who get a brainwave a week before Diwali, when the rest of the country have already packed their suitcases.
Our conversation with our friends went something like this...
Friend: "Hey, what are you doing during Diwali?"
Me: "Nothing much..."
Friend: "Then let's go to Goa?"
Me: "Will we get tickets at this time?"
Friend: "Baah! That shouldn't bother you."

With such 'detailed' planning, it's no surprise then that let alone train tickets, we didn't even get proper tickets for any reliable Bus Travels. We ended up travelling in a nondescript Travels called 'Bhavani'. The AC didn't work the entire time, the bus driver somehow found all the holes and bumps in the road, a tyre got punctured in the middle of nowhere and we reached Panaji glamorously 10 hours late at

8pm!    

Day 1 or whatever was left of it...

The bumpy beginning didn't deter us. We cursed 'Bhavani' for one last time and landed up at our resort in Calangute, Goa. Freshened up in no time at all and decided to explore the night life in Goa. We weren't disappointed. There's this 'happening-street' in Calangute called Tito's Lane where all the Cool and the Clueless spend their nights. The street magically comes live at night, with brightly-lit resto-bars, highly-expensive pubs, discos and way-side stalls claiming to sell the best seafood. Targeted mainly at the western crowd, you can expect a humble omelette to sell for a princely 92 Rs (Gulp)! At the beach a LED-lit, cheap plastic headband sells for Rs 150 to Rs 200. At Chennai these cheap gizmos wouldn't have cost more than Rs 20. Anyway you get my drift...

Apart from the costly fares, the street is pure fun and the beach is brightly lit like Diwali all-year-round. We had our dinner at a small restaurant, the name of which I forgot. The food was fine and the bill was finer ;)... it was a jaw-dropping Rs 3000 for 2 beers and a few sea food items. We spent a couple of hours sitting peacefully and admiring a little girl performing fire-acrobatics at the beach. Her father passed a hat around, in which foreigners dropped in notes of Rs 500. My heart went out to the little boy whom I had 'generously' tipped Rs 10 for his brave tightrope walk on the streets of Calcutta. The poor guy had given me a thankful toothy grin - maybe it was his biggest earning of the day. Just shows how packaging and place makes a difference to the price!

It was 11.30 pm. We decided to call it a day after that. We were dead tired after our Bus-ride to explore any further. 

Day 2 on our bikes

We woke up bright and fresh at 10 am next day. Had a hurried breakfast at the resort and headed straight to a guy who gives bikes for rent. Took 2 Activa bikes for Rs 300/day each and decided to explore Goa. Bought straw hats and roadside 'Raybar' sunglasses as it was blistering hot. 

The best part about Goa is that people are friendly and you can never get lost. We visited the ancient church of Lady Immaculate Conception at Panaji and clicked a few memorable pics. We all vetoed against having lunch at Tito's Lane and instead decided to try our luck with the local cuisine.

Discovered a small place called Hotel Sagar which served yummy, simple food at half the rates. Had second servings of 'rava-fried' shrimps and calamari which were delicious. The waiter was so friendly that along with food, he also gave us tips on the best places to visit in Goa.

It was a BIG no for the casinos for the simple reason that we were on a budget and didn't have BIG bucks to blow away in gambling. Instead we decided to have some adventure and try out Jet Skiing at Dona Paula Bay. At Rs 300, for one round, it was worth every penny. 

After exploring Goa for a few more hours in our bikes, we headed back to our resort. An hour of rest and then we went crazy shopping in the streets of Calangute. Haggled like there was no tomorrow to buy some awesome accessories and clothes.

In the evening, we dressed up to party at Tito's Club. Tito's is this hipper-than-thou club where you can party till 3 am, it's free for ladies, drink tell you're dead and the best part is the drinks are free! We got a couples' ticket for Rs 1,500 (Tito's regulars say that this is cheap. In December during peak season, you can expect the couples' ticket to sell for Rs 5000 and more) drank hard and partied harder.

Day 3 and the last day in Goa

The boys woke up in the morning with a severe hangover. So we took it easy and spent the rest of the day at the swimming pool. In the evening, we got up on our bus back to Bangalore. Our bad luck with bus travel continued the way back too. The AC duct in the bus caught fire after just half an hour's travel and we sat on the road for two hours waiting for a replacement bus. Thank god, we had Lays chips and a stray dog for company. But that's a story for some other time....

Must Do's at Goa!

• Hire a bike and explore the non-touristy spots - There's so much more to Goa than pubs and beaches. Bikes can be hired for low rates. Just let the adventurer in you free and discover Goa the way that travel brochures can never describe.
• Try water sports - Holidays are about trying something new and bold. Goa is about water and there's no better way to feel the adrenaline rush than trying out different water sports.
•  Rava-fried Shrimps - I have become a huge fan of rava fried shrimps. Don't forgot to try them when you are at Goa.
  
• Party at Tito's - Let your hair down and have a blast at Tito's.  It's the best fix for months of stress-filled, deadline-jammed office hours.
• Haggle like hell when shopping - There's no shame in haggling. The shopkeepers expect you to bargain if you're an Indian. :) That comes with the territory. If you haggle hard, you can expect a reduction in rates by 60-70%.
• And finally don't forget to try out the seafood. it's fresh and tasty.

I plan to visit Goa again whenever I get a chance. It's beaches, parties, people, food... make for a memorable holiday. And hopefully I will plan better next time! :)