As London beckons....

In dino dil mera, mujhse hai keh raha.....tuuuu khwab saja....tuuu jee le zara.....hai tujhe bhi ijazat kar le tu bhi mohabat....sings loud the music player of my laptop as I am penning down this blog entry. Berang si hai bari zindagi....kuch rang to bharun.....main apni tanhai ke vaaste....ab kuch to hai karun....And as I listen to this song from Life in a Metro I feel life is the best thing that has ever happened to me. The journey of life which we take up everyday, moving ahead experiencing things sometimes does leave you sometimes with situations that cant be analysed on the rule book of rationality. And I have fallen in love with life over and over again because of these reasons and situations that have made me feel so alive, so needed, so fulfilled and so loved. But most of the time we give reasons and justification to lose all these chances of picking up life and placing it on a roller coaster ride by citing n number of reasons. Maybe even I have done that a lot due to various reasons at one point of time finally seeing life moving away from my hand and leaving me deeply in grief. But somewhere it did teach me that these chances of living are very short lived, and so sometimes impulse should guide you on your journey of life at least when these opportunites of living are thrown up infront of you. In these ocassions you just have to get on the roller coaster and enjoy the thrill of the fast speed at which life goes over there and experience the significance of living altogether. And maybe that is what I have learned from the trip to Pune one fine day in April, suddenly impulsive to the core. And the roller coaster has not stopped moving since that day, bringing in it wake new experiences and making me feel all the more alive every day.

Pune happened one friday evening. With no plans to go, I was still enticed into the brashness of it by an impulse for doing something for somebody, who really expected it. There is a great sense of acheivement one does feel when one meets somebody's expectations. Pune was just like that. The mind was hazy about the details but I do remember today, the flight booking part and calling up somebody and saying "Can you do me a favour and book a hotel for me at Pune?". And as they say, rest is history. Barely 36 hours spent in the city of the ferguson college made me see life in a whole new way, made me feel that brashness and impulse need not be negative thoughts and feelings, and that someimes the eyes do speak more than the words uttered. And the same thing happened in Pune, Pune was about exploring, expressing, sharing, nurturing, caring and a whole lot of knowing. The games that we played till the dead of the night, in the form of sharing the secrets of our life was one game that I would remember for a lifetime. And when the time came to leave Pune, that Monday morning as the dawn was breaking, and it was early morning, and the taxi was waiting and blowing its horn, I really did hate to wake somebody up and say goodbye. The moment would always be there in my memory well inscribed with its intricate details. There was so much to be said, so much to be expressed and yet there in the airport we could not even speak more than a few words. There was so much to say but so little time and watching those last moments perish and the seconds ticking away was really painful. If John Denver's song ever seemed most appropriate to me, it was at these moments. Thanks Pallavi for making me listen to this song and Deeghii for making the meaning of it known on that monday morning at the Pune airport.

And when Pune, intense with its 36 hours of experiencing life happened, it was a matter of praying hard for the universe to conspire for just another chance to experience the life that 36 hours had offered us in Pune. And Paulo Cohelo in his famous book The Alchemist has said that if you want something really hard, the whole universe conspires to make it happen. And lo it did happen, in the city of Mumbai in the form of a visa stamping. Deeghii came down for me from Pune in search of the string of life, for the thrill of life, for experiencing it all in those few days of Mumbai before we both flew off in search of new places to the Europe and middle east. Mumbai as a city is synonymous to life, its fast pace, its local trains running by the seconds hand of a watch, its night life, its hurridness all make it one place where life cannot be missed. Its there to be grabbed with open hands right infront of you and making you feel that it is yours fully. You tend to blend in the liveliness of Mumbai and experience it in its own way. Mumbai would remain etched on the contours of memory for all the reasons it did have to offer. The night spent watching the light waves on the stairs of the gateway. The whole world infront of us was just the sea with its innumerable launches all shrouded in shades of black and so peaceful and the towering gateway in its gleam of orange behind us. The heart to heart talk we had there, which finally did break the ice and gazing at the stars made me realise that even the city of busy billions could have places that offer its own serenity. And Deeghii you made that night special with your voice against the serenity and calmness of the waves splashing against the rocks. The rythm of the waves clashing and the heart to heart chat that we had are to be cherishd for a lifetime. If one were to ever experience the wild adrenaline rush, my suggestion would be to go to Chowpatty and get on in one of those human operated giant wheels (not really giant-but it does seem like a giant). With every risk of toppling, which incidentally I did make it do once, a complete wobble, I was very scared to hop into one of those. But still on Deeghii's insistence I did try to enjoy the ride and keep my eyes open while it went up and down. Alas most of the time my eyes were shut close. The day ended with another brash incident in the form of a visit to the Hard Rock cafe in Parel. The entire feeling of hard rock being played in that great factory kind of a cafe with famous rockstar posters hanging from here and there, and all illuminated in the faint low light of the cafe, it was one heck of an awesome feeling getting completely sloshed in gallons of beer and tequila and we both partied for hours together till late at night. The other days were spent roaming around the entirity of Mumbai and finally culminated in watching the movie "life in a metro" while experiencing every bit of "life in a metro". I would remember the way you shouted when the monkey snatched away the black berries packet from your hands, the way we had tons of green mango, the launch ride to Elephanta in that special launch, the way you poured the beer, the way we saw the stars and the planes flying out of Mumbai sitting on the Juhu beach and telling ourselves that a few days hence we both would fly out of the country. And fly we did in search of our destinies, but Deeghii you made me experience life in its fullest form every moment we spent together in Pune and Mumbai. And now London beckons, inspite of a whole lot of problem including the visa and the recipisse and a whole gang's misinformation about leaving France for London. And all this is just to experience life with you and make it feel special. You are the alchemist chosen by destiny to give the golden touch to my life. Make it happen. Honestly, truly, deeply London here I come.....

Taxi No. 9211 in Paris

Last Sunday and for the french, Dimanche I was out on an assignemnt. An assignment that cost me a healthy meal of chicken biriyani and raita by the famous chef of the fourth floor of Maison de L'Inde called Mr Mushtaq. I was supposed to go to the Charles de Gaulle aiport for the second time in more hospitable climatic conditions as compared to the first time and pick up a colleague cum friend who was coming from India for the same project. I say that climatic conditions were more hospitable because of the fact that the day I landed straight from a scorching 43 degrees Delhi heat, the temperature that welcomed me to Paris was a mere 8 degrees centigrade. Considering the fact that I had fully disregarded any ideas that had come into my mind of carrying a jacket along in the hand luggage instantly hit me in the form of a cold shock as I repented putting the lone jacket in the check in baggage. Nonetheless things were not that bad this time as the temperature was a comfortable something, but I surely was sad to miss the chance of not being made to cook combined with the joy of eating biriyani prepared by some non suspecting good soul. I also realised that no matter whatever way you try, and even if you have a 3 zone monthly pass it would still take u to some 8 euros to reach the airport from the place I stay which incidentally is the same even if you have not shelled out 70 euros for the Orange carte 3 zone monthly pass which by any estimates is very very unfair. The permutation and combination that I tried to do to save some money to reach the aiport with my much beloved monthly pass left me frustrated and made me reach late to the aiport even after spending the same 8 euros.

So finally the mission came to an end when I safely spotted the one and only Anirban Mookherjee at the CDG airport desperately searching for me as you would search for a public urinal when your bladder is seconds from bursting away. I was at the CDG on a Sunday afternoon trying to spot the one and only Anirban who was coming from India on one of those Air India flights that makes you realise why Kingfisher is a hit with its pretty beauties in red as compared to the dreadful aunties in sarees. Last hard on board an Air India flight, the pretty aunty who was serving drinks, when asked for a second helping by a young gentleman on board to fulfill his dollar dreams was flatly refused a second helping with a strict glance and a small lecture on the effect of alcohol on young livers. Must have been a cost cutting measure of the aviation minister I guess, which aims towards making people feel miserable by portraying horrifying thing so that they give up any notions of asking for a second something. So there he was at CDG, hard to miss because of the extra flabs that made him one of the boradest creatures roaming the terminals. After all the formalities and encashing of the travellers cheques which is like a regular feature that is entrusted on people's shoulders to make them feel all the more uncomfortable when they reach onsite finally we made our way to the taxi stand.

Well the story gets interesting henceforth as we both decided that if it is a taxi that we are going to hire it would be a Mercedes. Daimler Chrysler needs to be the preferred choice as we cruise down the roads and alleys of Paris. Well not that we were spoilt brat sons of big buck dads who own oil mines or Hilton hotels but still this was more to do with the fact that the first taxi fare from the aiport to the destination is always refundable from the coffers of the company provided you insist and not forget to take the bill. Later on it becomes a really miserable affair to book a taxi to take you from one destination to another on the streets of Paris when you consider that it takes the same amount of money for a to and fro bus trip to London from Paris as it takes to come from the aiport to the centre of Paris. So our Mercedes dreams were all the more justified under this kind of economic disequilibrium situations. Safely avoiding a Peugot we got into the Merc taxi parked behind and incidentally thanks to all the conspiracy that god plans out high high up above there much above the tropospheres and stratospheres the taxi driver knew english. The Queens language in the land of the Louvre and the Eiffel tower is as uncommon as finding Polar bears in the savanna grassland. So, intellignet is the human who does a course at the Alliance Francais centres spread across the cities of India before landing up at CDG so that the merci and the bonjour and the et and the le and the homme and the femme do not seem to be things that an alien is speaking to you. So the queen's language speaking cab driver was inquisitive about everything and more than the inquisitiveness he had an opinion about everything. So at the mention of the fact that we were from India, his inquisitiveness went on to which city we were from and form that to why we were there and which company and what postion and finally when this ended, the barge of opinions started. So he started off with an opinion of India followed it up with an opinion of the cities of India and finally reached a climax with the opinion about Shahrukh Khan and bollywood movies which he said his wife likes, his kids like and possibly his neighbours also like.

The famous Merc Taxi....

Unluckily even if he had an opinion about Indian actors and his knowledge seemed to be far and spread, he confessed sheepishly that he was not well aware of the roads of Paris and was completely unaware of the place that we wanted him to go to i.e. Gopi's house which was soon to be Gopi and Anirban's house. Now this place is too small to give anyboday any persepctive about the person called Gopi. His irritating nature has most of the Infosys staff and a lot of French citizens utterly delirious and prying for his blood. Anyway more updates about Gopi would follow in later posts as I get to know this person better (its a torture beleive me). So Gopi's abode which was somewhere in a god forsaken place was our destinantion. And I was at the helm of guiding the entire convoy i.e. the lonesome taxi to the destination of Becon les Buryeres where incidentally I had been only once. So being entrusted with such kind of jobs was quite a nightmare in its own way when you consider that in Paris a single wrong turn can land you up in circles as you would be sitting happily in the taxi seeing the meter go further north too many cents at a time.

The only way out was to consult the map. Unlike the streets of India where asking directions is as simple as peeing on the roadside. But in Paris just like the way you cannot pee in the open roads and lakes, in the same way the first thing you should set your hands on, not to get lost is the ubiquitous lanes, bylanes and the metro network of the Paris city is a map. Incidentally all the metro stations have such maps which are very much gratuit and hence you dont really have to think of shelling out some 10-15 odd euros for the map. So off we went on a wild goose search for Gopi's house with the help of a Paris tourism map which had safely disregarded most of the roads and only concentrated on the 14 metro lanes and 6 RER lines that have penetrated the city of Paris and now rest on layers and layers of tunnels. So with the map, I told the cab driver to go right, then left, then again right and so we went on traversing paths that the map showed till we reached what was the station of Becon from where Gopi's house was a stone's throw away. Alas the only problem was that the house was on the other side of the station and unlike India you were sure not to find any unmanned level crossing to cross over to the other side. So off we went on a detour of a further kilometer and finally reached Gopi's house who was err not waiting with open arms but more of a whole container full of sambhar and rice which we safely avoided by feigning overeating at Mc. Donalds at the airport. But more interesting is the fact that Mr Cabbie was hell bent on convincing me to the fact that I was quite a good choice when it came to Parisian taxi drivers and I should really think of becoming a taxi driver if I really had any kind of appreciation of the talent that god had bestowed on me. Inspite of repeated interruptions with me saying "I work over here for an IT company", Mr Cabbie made all efforts to convince me to take up the full time profession of a cab driver, which by any standards is worth considering as an average one way from the airport to the city usually costs some 50 euros which by any standard is more than the one way flight ticket to Amsterdam next weekend. It seems Paris is giving me the opportunity to explore a lot of these alternate professions if I am by chance kicked out of my job which I feel seems highly probable considering the last two weeks development where I have goofed up like anything. But in this case like in all other case where you goof up, the actual goofing up part could be attributed to someone else. So the latest dilemma is that of choosing between becoming a cook or a taxi driver of the taxi carrying a number plate of 9211. Still pondering.....

Slammed a Grand Slam...

The lips relax, the hands lose grip, the whole world around turns into deep shades of black, something inside tells you dont lose it up but someone else says give in to me, life is beautiful on this side, and then there in that dilemma someone shouts out in the most unearthly voice possible a single phrase which sounds like "Endoneel" and I realise that I had drifted off to a place much more wonderful than Switzerland called Sleepland sitting right there in the client office with my boss infront of me and my onsite PM on the other side eyeing me with disgust. The look on his face would say it all that if ever this project goes out of our hand, this sleeping beauty is the one who would be thrashed and smashed and bashed up in the most beautiful manner on the streets of chic Paris. The French obsession of removing the R when it comes to pronunciation of words with R has made me Endoneel from Indranil.

So here is a post from chic Paris with me desperately stopping myself from falling asleep after a tummy full meal of pizzas that had cheese spread on it in similar plethora as makkhan is spread on alu parathas in the dhabas of Haryana and Punjab highways. The pizzas with its thing crust and Margarita cheese toppings made the entire office crowd hog like anything and what better way to celebrate a bon appetizing lunch than to drift off into a siesta and bring the Spanish influence to France. Yet am alive and awake and am trying to procure toothpicks from somewhere so that I can hold the upper lids in place and not fall asleep. This unique technique comes from a purely British soul called Mr. Bean and considering the immense love for the Britishers that the French posess I might be a dead soul walking the streets of Paris if I tried any of my pure British ideas. Colonialization has had its own disadvantages as I see it now.

Chic Paris, as I refer to this place because of its obsession with anything fashionable gave me the chance of a lifetime last weekend to do something that I had so desperately wanted to do. Well later about that part but firstly about the fashion brigade called Paris. Everyday from dawn to when the metros and the RERs finally stop for the day late at night (lifelines of Paris, I take one everyday and I realise how important it is to my existence) , the streets of Paris seem to be transformed into big fashion ramps. The old, the young and even the kids on the street seem to be fashion concious and seem to be wearing something so chic, so fashionable that you can compare it with any of the glossy Vogues or Elles. So here I was in Paris where smooching on the streets is as common a sight as people peeing on Indian roads acheiving one of the rare dreams that I never thought would ever be possible. I got to watch a grand slam match (the French Open) at the Roland Garros. Even if it involved standing in the line for 3 long hours and being subjected to a real PITA sardar for some 6 hours yet at the end it was all worth it. The website of French Open apart from hosting an obscene amount of Maria Sharapova photos and thanking the sun for showing its face finally also talked in fineprints about entree de soir. Now going by my knowledge of French which is of as high quality as Jayalalitha's knowledge of Hebrew, I was able to understand that soir in French was evening. This was more to do with the complimentary copies of Direct Soir that are handed out every evening on the entrance of the La Defense station. So finally it was so deciphered from the site that evening tickets would be available for sale from 5 p.m for the last match of the day for seats that had got empty since morning. The optimistic sardar of MDI who had an opinion about almost every thing on earth wanted to see the best match that was being held in the Chartier court (a Nadal match) finally realised after about 40 minutes of waiting that it was not supposed to come our way. So finally Mr. Opinion had to change his opinion and shift to the second best. Thus we bought tickets for the Court 1 match without even knowing who was playing whom. A mere enquiry from a 40 something tennis enthusiast standing ahead of us in the line to get in the stadium about who was playing whom bought a sarcastic answer which sounded like McEnroe. Mr Opinion beleived in him and tennis enthusiast 40 something had a good laugh about this. Then there was another war of opinions between surd and tennis entusiast about Paes and Bhupati parting ways which slowly drifted off to discussions like if they were gay or not?

Hewitt was playing Nienmen (a Finnish guy) on court 1. The clay court's brown effect, the BNP Paribas green ads, Lacoste ads on the stands, the sheer power of Hewitt's serves, the stamina and of course the gibberish of Sardar made it all the more memorable. The sun shining down, the mexican wave and the match which lasted for 3 hours and the sheer stamina associated with it, enticed me. All in all it was a great day watching a great match which Hewitt one with his sheer stamina but with a Finnish guy giving him a tough time.

Cook na Kaho.....

And before Ekta Kapoor, if you ever watched television devoid of the Saas-Bahu sagas you might have come across a chef named Sanjeev Kapoor with a million dollar smile hosting a programme called Khana Khazana cooking delicacies and smiling away to glory. Seeing him host this show for years I had this weired notion that cooking is one of the most fun activities you can ever indulge your own self into. After spending 15 days away from the country in a different continent I can fully vouch that my notion about cooking was as much away from reality as New Delhi is from New York. So everyday on the 4th floor of the Indian hostel in Paris, you would see a cook with as disgusting a look on his face as a person subjected to hours of Sidhuism trying to make some delicate cuisine which finally looking nothing more than blobs of green and red and hating every bit of it.

The only solace is that everybody on the 4th floor except Mushtaq (a lawyer who looks 40 but claims to be 20) hates to cook. Considering the fact that it is easier to procure camel meat rather than proper Indian food at an affordable price in Paris there is no other option than to cook dinner and to pour out obscenities while doing the same. While the lunch always lasts of items like pizza, panini, pasta or burgers, items for which in Paris you spend a fortune when you convert the same into INR from euros. It just took me 3 days to convince my mind not to do the conversion and curse myself for spending a fortune on lunch. So its been poulet(chicken) cheddar or menu viaggio or a thon(tuna) and dinde(turkey) pizza on which I am surviving in Paris. The cooking misadventure started with the ingredient buying misadventure from La Chapelle which happens to be one place in Paris where you will see more saree shops than boutique shops, more hindi and tamil DVDs than French DVDs and more Indians and Sri Lankans than French in general. After the initial delght of finding stuffs that looked Indian the biggest decision that I had to take was what all things I could take to cook. Considering that my knowledge of any kind of recipes was no more than anything which you could count on one hand, it was too easy to make that choice. I bought the bare essentials that Air France had refused to carry with its horrendously low 20 kg restriction and then I set of cooking. And from then on I have cooked egg curry and forgot to put salt in it. I have cooked scrambeled egg and burnt the container in which I was cooking. I have cooked rice that required another round of microwaving after they were cooked to soak up all the water, and I have perfected the art of microwaving already cooked rotis. I guess the same plight is shared by every resident of the 4th floor of Maison De L'Inde well except Mushtaq that is who is ever ready to cook. So we have a Sarathi Da who tried to make a curry out of cucumbers and it turned out to be one of the most disgusting dishes I have ever had in a long time. Then there is Bhaskar Da who stays the life of a bachelor even while being married and curses his post doctoral research for this plight. He has perfected the art of making different kinds of chicken dishes and is one of the most resourceful guys on the floor in whose closet u will find every masala and even ginger garlic paste. Then there is the guy from IIT and the duo from MDI who beleive in nothing but ready to eat menus. I guess the topline of Kohinoor has increased drastically with these guys coming to Paris. And finally there is Prashant who stays with his wife in the hostel and calls me Indhra inspired by a Chiranjeevi movie (supposed to be a big hit) and cooks every night for his wife. Last Sunday he was seen wearing an apron covering him from tip to toe which his wife had bought for him so that his clothes dont get soiled cooking. Its such a nice feeling to see people love each other like this and get closer because of a common dislike for cooking. Evenings in the fourth floor are times when you will find everyone sharing the disgusting things that they have cooked and eating together as if competing for the title of the worst cook. But still its fun....Its the way of life and it is what life together in a hostel means. There are strong attachments that you build waiting for the pressure to build in the pressure cooker to cook your rice, which takes a great deal of time on the hot plates of the hostel. And I guess this one year which would be spent cooking makes me a better cook to share a kitchen and take up half the cooking responsibilities with the one whom I want to share the rest of my life with. Over the phone she has been teaching me a lot of new recipies and so have I been teaching her microwave cooking in which I have perfected myself over years. Aur isiliye mujhe ab se cook na kaho, chef keh lo yaar. Sanjeev Kapoor you better watch out, a competitor is on his way in the romantic city of Paris learning the tricks of the culinary trade.