Goa to Bombay (2)

The day after the next, we hired a WagonR and started off for Kolhapur.
The journey was fun; with the driver playing just the one CD he had on loop. By the time we stopped for lunch, I knew all the Kishore Kumar songs on that CD by heart.

We passed through some scenic points, which were like all tourist spots crowded. The crowd spoilt the view really with their insane chatter, when they should have been staring at the horizon peacefully. Breathing in the smells of the forest that lay below us.

By the time we reached the Goa-Maharashtra border it was 1. We stopped at a small roadside restaurant for lunch. They said the food would only be coming at 1.15. This idea of food being bought form home to a ‘restaurant’ was quite novel to me.

It was delicious! Piping hot, home cooked and very different from what I usually have back home.

By four that evening we had reached Kolhapur.
Getting to the hotel proved to be quite exciting. No one seemed to have a clue about where it was located. The locals would point to the right and say go to the left and vice versa. We went round in circles for over half an hour before finally finding the hotel.

 To my delight the hotel we were staying in had a Baskin Robins store right in the lobby. We made plans to go to the Mahalakshmi temple the next day.

And the wings unfurl...

The child stares out of the window, at the leaves and farther away at the hills. He can hear sounds from the highway. They’re comforting, soothing even though they’re far away. The teacher’s voice cuts through.  Staring out the window is not going to fetch you marks, she reprimands, snottily.  Tyrant, he silently curses her, wistfully lowering his head and staring at his book.

The letters soon start playing Tag. The PD chases the I trying to find the W. The numbers start doing the foxtrot. The child smiles happily as they jump out of the book and use his desk as a dance floor. The teacher interrupts again.

The child has wings but he does not know. Each day they get clipped just as Flavius wished Caesar’s would. With every sharp word, with every angry red cross, the wings lose a feather.

The child is crippled. Wounded. He starts taking his anger out by going home and playing the violin till his finger tips are raw.

One morning, she hears him. There is music coming out of an empty classroom. She peeks in to see the child playing at a furious  pace. Gradually, he slows down and a peaceful smile lights up his  face.
She takes him as her student. Slowly, steadily, the feathers grow back. The wings grow, fuller and lighter, than before.

The PD still chases the I, but the child knows that anytime he wishes, he can unfurl his wings, and fly to the distant hill, once just a dream.

Goa to Bombay (1)

My first trip this summer. And it was to Goa, from where we had to get to Mumbai. With pit stops of course!

The bougainvillea

We reached Margaon, Goa at 10 in the morning. Getting into a taxi, the feel of a small lazy town soon drifted to us. Our hotel ‘La Flor’ was a small place, in a rundown area with a railway track opposite the hotel. Imagine waking up at midnight because of a train horn!
Of course the first task was to find a good place for lunch. Asking a taxi driver where we would find local food, we set off asking locals for the directions. At Khamat we had a delightful ‘thali’.

A truck on a train!

The hotel was lovely. Small but you could sit out front under a mango tree. The fusion of bougainvillea, mangoes, cats, trains and shouts of children enjoying the summer accompanied by a gentle breeze was enthralling.

In the evening, impatient to shoot a sunset at a beach, I dragged my parents out asking an auto to take us to the closest beach.
We soon reached Colva, which was your typical tourist beach. Cafes, roadside shops selling beach dresses and water sports. A lot of people were parachute sailing, others using jet skis. Frolicking in the surf was fun. After which I settled onto the sand getting some spectacular snaps of the sunset.

Dinner was cold pizza, and cola at a small café by the sea.

Passport to Sam's heart

The channel, Travel and Living (now, TLC.) used to be one of my favorites. Samantha Brown, peppy, funny and full of life, took me almost all over the world. This poem, written when I was 10, is dedicated to her.

Oh Samantha, you stole our hearts

With passports to different places

You travelled to China, Latin America

And travelled straight into our  hearts

You hosted great hotels,

Went on a cruise

Had fun in Disney Land,didn’t you?

Oh Samantha you made us laugh

With all your funny comments

Oh Samantha, we wish we could

Find a passport to your heart

Oh wouldn’t it be great,

If we could say

We have the passport to Samantha’s heart!

Does this make sense to you?

What follows is a nonsense poem. Inspired by one friend who wanted me to write a love poem and another who thought I could add elements of the subjects we studied, this was the outcome.

O darling,

How much I miss thee

Without you I’m a butterfly without a flower

A song with no lyrics

A river with no water

Cola with no caffeine

A ZMR Karizma without fuel injection

Blood without plasma

Pressure without force

Mole without molecule

Network connection with no device

Algebra without variables

World War 2 without Hitler

Past tense with no past participle

The City With The Pulse- Mumbai

This is what I’m missing I thought. It was eight thirty in the evening and I was sitting on the parapet at Marine Drive. The Queen’s Necklace as vibrant and colorful as ever. I watched a boy, probably sixteen or seventeen years of age taking a dog and a pup for a walk. People jogged by listening to music.

Not only did I not have a place like this to walk around in my town, there was no way I could do it alone, especially at night. During different situations friends and I had been forced to use autos instead of walking, thanks to hooligans on the street. Here, you scream, people beat up the guy near you and then ask what is wrong.

True, Mumbai’s a big city, too big for me, a small town girl at heart. But then you have these wonderful opportunities!
 You have restaurants by the sea where you have a karaoke night with DJs. Bookstores with wonderful collections and cozy armchairs tucked away in corners to escape reality, and cafés with scrumptious food. Believe me serious reading makes one hungry.
 

The true essence of Mumbai is, I guess, the way all opposites seem to live together happily. You have your Bollywood superstars, and you have the biggest slum in all of Asia, Dharavi in the same city. You have people selling toys and porno movies on the same street. Buildings that look Tudor and Victorian house banks like HSBC and BSNL.

Mumbai cannot be described in one article. In the coming days there’ll be more I assure you. So keep an eye on this page.

The Crazy Class Trip (3)

Warning: 24 hours on a mini bus strictly not recommended, especially for people with sensitive backsides.

Imagine this. 24 people, sitting close to midnight on a nearly deserted station. Oh yes, and to top it all one of our classmates wanted to have a dance off with a drunk Michael Jackson wannabe.

The teachers were calling up senior teachers, trying to figure out what to do. One thing was clear. We were not supposed to spend the night in Bangalore. We did try telling the teachers that we could take a Volvo and then later pay. But no. They wanted to do it their way.

We got into our tour bus and started off for some place. I don’t really know the name. The girls and boys were separated and put in two mini buses. Oh did I mention one of the guys had chicken pox?
 

So at 1.04 am, I was sitting on a mini bus, trying to sleep, which was a bit difficult due to three reasons. Firstly I’m a long legged person, and there was no leg space at all. Second, the window on the other side was completely open, and it was freezing cold. Third and most annoyingly, the driver was playing Himesh Reshamia songs and refused to play any others. (For those of you who don’t know, Mr. Reshamia sings through his nose, and it can be quite irritating.) Two guys were on our bus, and one refused to sleep saying that most accidents in the state of Karnataka occurred because the driver fell asleep.

In the morning, my phone was the only one with charge so it was used to call up the parents. We finally stopped at a petrol pump to freshen up. My friend and I made a beeline for a shop asking for a plug point to charge our phones. I must say I fell in love with my phone all over again because in fifteen minutes it had four bars. We stopped to breakfast at a small roadside joint. Lunch was at four in the afternoon. And I finally made it back home by around 1.30 am.

Here’s the best bit. A week later I got chicken pox, and so did all others in the class who hadn’t gotten it before! Moral of the story? Never ever let your teachers plan your class trips!!