T'was a slow day. More time was spent looking out the window than at the screen. Hours were spent browsing for the playlist to encapsulate the mood which wavered between boredom and contemplation. "To assuage or elevate, that is the question."
At such a time, a man sporting a disciplined, rectangular moustache and a striped shirt steps up. He intoned in a volume intended for a greater audience than were present
A mexican wave of interest runs through the room as heads appear and eyes peer from far off stations.
Satisfied with this reaction, moustachioed man Kesri fishes out his keys from his corduroy pants. Eyes and ears now follow every jingle, every jangle. The key is inserted into the drawer lock, is rotated from 12 to 9, and then its left alone, the keychain dangling after its last contact with life.
The drawer is slid open. Keen eyes spot a few papers and receipts from bygone expenses, now beyond redemption. But there's a glow in the depths of the drawer. Our man dives and out it comes. A golden, glowing liquid encased in glass, guarded by men in skilts and bagpipes.
Like the Nativity scene from the best seller "The Bible", humans collect , and this bottle gets passed around like a newborn in a village that had prayed its immaculate conception. It is cradled, kissed and cajoled till it reaches the itching arms of its keeper, Kesri Ji. Right then, someone not part of this..this commune, this experience that we are sharing, announces that the dabbas are in. The reverie breaks, throats are cleared and people go about to attend to lunch.
The whiskey bottle, satisfied at having kept the 100 Piper myth alive, goes back to the depths.
It is alive. And one day, it will be had.
That was a week ago.
Yesterday, we bid farewell to two of our co-workers, availing Wednesday Happy hours at PlanB (No relation to Brad Pitt) After which, we make our way back to office to redeem our stock options. Stocks being the bottles saved for worthy occasions.
I discard my shoes that got soaked in the first genuine rains that I had felt in Bangalore.
(Jumping and splashing around in puddles is still looked down upon)
On the onset of feeling the physical manifestations of consuming sufficient alcohol, such as fighting gravity whilst seated on an ageing bean-bag and ploughing through enough carrom games, enquiries towards gastronomic endeavours begin.
Declarations, on finding resonance, become a movement. Bose asked for blood in return for freedom, and he formed an army.
Ours cries of "Khaana!", "Bhookh!!" and "Yaar.. khaney ka kya??" were replied with
"Haan!!" or "Khaana!!" and "Empire!!!".
The last amongst these is a restaurant open late into the night. So Empire we went.
After consuming enough ghee rice, contentment ran in abundance and suggestions of crashing on beds closeby ran amok.
There are some who readily prescribe to reason and others, those who've indulged a bit on the whiskey and divulged a bit more into how their moustache actually belongs to their wife, scoff at these suggestions of safe havens.
"The only place safe from a man-eating tiger is in its jaws."
Convinced of their ability to manoeuvre their bikes to where their better half hopefully doesn't await their return, broom in hand, their own hands move like Atal Ji's did when denouncing "Ye sai baat nai hai". Their inflated ego and sense of purpose, that will deflate anyways on reaching home, can only be subdued with an arm around the shoulder. Also known as the "Bhai" pose. Anyone with their arm around the other's shoulder becomes the elder brother or Badey Bhaiyya, age and stature not withstanding.
Thats how Kesri Ji was subdued.
Amongst sozzled declarations of friendship and frazzled uber calls, I hitched a ride with Gopi, who'd himself ditched his scooty for a Tata Indica with a driver.
Now we are at, what I term, as the meat of the matter, the cherry on top, the bone in the marrow, the aloo in the chat.
Bangalore, the land of great pubs and greater grub, must aspire for more content. And what went down next was just that.
Time: around 2.30 am
Place: Hosur Road
I get down from the cab I'm hitching a ride on and walk the street. I scroll through my playlist, pondering if I should get my bollywood fix or let Poets of the Fall resume from where I left them this morning.
Just then, a car pulls up next to me. Another moustachioed man in a brown shirt says something in Kannada. My face reflects confusion. He repeats. I reply that I don't understand Kannada. He says "Keep your mobile inside". I'm confused now. Is my song choice offensive to a passing cars now?
So I ask him why.
He says "Do you know where you are".
I say "Yes".
"Do you know whats around you"
I look left, then right and reply,
"Yes, cemetery. Hindu one to my right and christian one to my left"
"Yes", he says, indicating I was finally getting the point. "If you shout for help here, no one will come".
Okayy. Apparently, this warning/observation should send chills down my spine but the ghee rice in my gut takes care of that.
Instead, I think, "Kind of an ominous and dark pov of this world you have Sir. I think that if my shouts for help woke up the residents, of the graveyard, we'd have other, more pressing problems at hand."
While this misplaced thought formulates in my brain, I multitask and notice that the car is a Qualis, that its a cop car and that they are cops.
So while they are looking at me, waiting for me to put my fluorescent covered phone back into my pocket so that I can make my safe passage home, I won't, because I'm yet to choose my song.
So 'Time goes by, so slowly.' as Madonna once miserably crooned.
Till I ask them "So... you can drop me home, right?"
The uncertainty of life and death that normally surrounds a cemetery is invaded by this question.
It piles up, the pressure of returning the proverbial "ball thats in his court now". Will he refuse to drop a citizen who asked for a lift on being made aware of the dangers of walking alone with a glowing cellphone their hands?
Maybe, he nodded, maybe not, but I assume the affirmation anyways. Opening the backdoor of the Qualis, I hop in. Its surprisingly spacy as I can't find a seat. I have already shut the door of the car thats moving now. So I tumble like a drunkard on the floor of this modified Qualis till I find a horizontal seating against the side and rest my posterior.
The cop travelling shotgun (bad pun) is watching some movie featuring white people, as their radio buzzes a mix of static and garbled conversation that only cops understand.
If I were more sober, I would have struck up a conversation with them, maybe initiated a friendship that I would have then used to my advantage. But then maybe, I wouldn't have asked the cops for a lift in the first place.
Soon we arrive at my street and I ask them to stop, which they do. I thank them, they drive off and I pick up 'Carnival of Rust' where I last left it. Right at the point where he wails
At such a time, a man sporting a disciplined, rectangular moustache and a striped shirt steps up. He intoned in a volume intended for a greater audience than were present
"Aaj to botal kholi jaye"
A mexican wave of interest runs through the room as heads appear and eyes peer from far off stations.
Satisfied with this reaction, moustachioed man Kesri fishes out his keys from his corduroy pants. Eyes and ears now follow every jingle, every jangle. The key is inserted into the drawer lock, is rotated from 12 to 9, and then its left alone, the keychain dangling after its last contact with life.
The drawer is slid open. Keen eyes spot a few papers and receipts from bygone expenses, now beyond redemption. But there's a glow in the depths of the drawer. Our man dives and out it comes. A golden, glowing liquid encased in glass, guarded by men in skilts and bagpipes.
Like the Nativity scene from the best seller "The Bible", humans collect , and this bottle gets passed around like a newborn in a village that had prayed its immaculate conception. It is cradled, kissed and cajoled till it reaches the itching arms of its keeper, Kesri Ji. Right then, someone not part of this..this commune, this experience that we are sharing, announces that the dabbas are in. The reverie breaks, throats are cleared and people go about to attend to lunch.
The whiskey bottle, satisfied at having kept the 100 Piper myth alive, goes back to the depths.
It is alive. And one day, it will be had.
That was a week ago.
Yesterday, we bid farewell to two of our co-workers, availing Wednesday Happy hours at PlanB (No relation to Brad Pitt) After which, we make our way back to office to redeem our stock options. Stocks being the bottles saved for worthy occasions.
I discard my shoes that got soaked in the first genuine rains that I had felt in Bangalore.
(Jumping and splashing around in puddles is still looked down upon)
On the onset of feeling the physical manifestations of consuming sufficient alcohol, such as fighting gravity whilst seated on an ageing bean-bag and ploughing through enough carrom games, enquiries towards gastronomic endeavours begin.
Declarations, on finding resonance, become a movement. Bose asked for blood in return for freedom, and he formed an army.
Ours cries of "Khaana!", "Bhookh!!" and "Yaar.. khaney ka kya??" were replied with
"Haan!!" or "Khaana!!" and "Empire!!!".
The last amongst these is a restaurant open late into the night. So Empire we went.
After consuming enough ghee rice, contentment ran in abundance and suggestions of crashing on beds closeby ran amok.
There are some who readily prescribe to reason and others, those who've indulged a bit on the whiskey and divulged a bit more into how their moustache actually belongs to their wife, scoff at these suggestions of safe havens.
"The only place safe from a man-eating tiger is in its jaws."
Convinced of their ability to manoeuvre their bikes to where their better half hopefully doesn't await their return, broom in hand, their own hands move like Atal Ji's did when denouncing "Ye sai baat nai hai". Their inflated ego and sense of purpose, that will deflate anyways on reaching home, can only be subdued with an arm around the shoulder. Also known as the "Bhai" pose. Anyone with their arm around the other's shoulder becomes the elder brother or Badey Bhaiyya, age and stature not withstanding.
Thats how Kesri Ji was subdued.
Amongst sozzled declarations of friendship and frazzled uber calls, I hitched a ride with Gopi, who'd himself ditched his scooty for a Tata Indica with a driver.
Now we are at, what I term, as the meat of the matter, the cherry on top, the bone in the marrow, the aloo in the chat.
Bangalore, the land of great pubs and greater grub, must aspire for more content. And what went down next was just that.
Time: around 2.30 am
Place: Hosur Road
I get down from the cab I'm hitching a ride on and walk the street. I scroll through my playlist, pondering if I should get my bollywood fix or let Poets of the Fall resume from where I left them this morning.
Just then, a car pulls up next to me. Another moustachioed man in a brown shirt says something in Kannada. My face reflects confusion. He repeats. I reply that I don't understand Kannada. He says "Keep your mobile inside". I'm confused now. Is my song choice offensive to a passing cars now?
So I ask him why.
He says "Do you know where you are".
I say "Yes".
"Do you know whats around you"
I look left, then right and reply,
"Yes, cemetery. Hindu one to my right and christian one to my left"
"Yes", he says, indicating I was finally getting the point. "If you shout for help here, no one will come".
Okayy. Apparently, this warning/observation should send chills down my spine but the ghee rice in my gut takes care of that.
Instead, I think, "Kind of an ominous and dark pov of this world you have Sir. I think that if my shouts for help woke up the residents, of the graveyard, we'd have other, more pressing problems at hand."
While this misplaced thought formulates in my brain, I multitask and notice that the car is a Qualis, that its a cop car and that they are cops.
So while they are looking at me, waiting for me to put my fluorescent covered phone back into my pocket so that I can make my safe passage home, I won't, because I'm yet to choose my song.
So 'Time goes by, so slowly.' as Madonna once miserably crooned.
Till I ask them "So... you can drop me home, right?"
The uncertainty of life and death that normally surrounds a cemetery is invaded by this question.
It piles up, the pressure of returning the proverbial "ball thats in his court now". Will he refuse to drop a citizen who asked for a lift on being made aware of the dangers of walking alone with a glowing cellphone their hands?
Maybe, he nodded, maybe not, but I assume the affirmation anyways. Opening the backdoor of the Qualis, I hop in. Its surprisingly spacy as I can't find a seat. I have already shut the door of the car thats moving now. So I tumble like a drunkard on the floor of this modified Qualis till I find a horizontal seating against the side and rest my posterior.
The cop travelling shotgun (bad pun) is watching some movie featuring white people, as their radio buzzes a mix of static and garbled conversation that only cops understand.
If I were more sober, I would have struck up a conversation with them, maybe initiated a friendship that I would have then used to my advantage. But then maybe, I wouldn't have asked the cops for a lift in the first place.
Soon we arrive at my street and I ask them to stop, which they do. I thank them, they drive off and I pick up 'Carnival of Rust' where I last left it. Right at the point where he wails
"...Don't walk away, Don't walk away,
OOooOOoo
when the world is burning,
Dont walk, DOnt walk awayeeyeaaheeyeaah...
OOooooOO
when the heart is yearning....
Aaeeeeeeeiiinnnn........"
*Guitar Overdrive till fadeout... *
Poets of the Fall. I feel you.
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