Backpacking Across Spiti [Part2: Love At First Sight]

Read Part1 here.
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There's just one bus from Reckong Peo to Kaza every day at 7AM [11 hours, 330INR]. And it's not just a bus, it's the lifeline of the region in every sense of the word.

It serves as the only newspaper delivery mechanism with the driver promptly 'delivering' neat bundles of 1 to 3 newspapers rolled up and tied together with rubber bands from a moving bus. It serves as the only vehicle carrying officially sealed bundles of India Post without supervision to far flung post offices (including Hikkim - world's highest post office at 14,400ft - routed through Kaza). It serves as a lot more, best understood by talking to Mr Mohan Singh - one of the four conductors on the route - well versed with the region.

Talking to locals is the only way to learn about Spiti, which, with a population density of less than 2 people per sq km, is a land of stories that didn't find their way out. Take out the-relatively-easier-to-live-in Lahaul and what remains is a land of criminally few people and vast stretches of almost virgin beauty.

"Hunooz Spiti Dur Ast" - Nizamuddin Taulia

If the roads from Rampur to Peo were dramatic, I was in for the proverbial roller coaster. I got a ticket only till Nako, which looked somewhere midway on the map. The Nako village [Alt 12000ft, Population 572] and the Nako lake after a short trek, which I got to know later, would have been a fantastic option to explore. But after being forced to miss the Kinnaur gems of Sangla [9000ft], Rakcham [10000ft] and Chitkul [11300ft], I wasn't destined to explore Nako, too.

I was not feeling well at all. It wasn't mountain sickness, though. It was the fact that I needed to use a washroom urgently and the roads weren't helping. After a couple of hours that seemed like an eternity, the bus stopped at a sleepy highway village of Spillow.

'Strictly for 10 minutes,' shouted Mohan Singh.

The short clip shows the roads between Spillow and Pooh. The roads are pretty much the same from Peo to Spillow, too.

Almost in slow motion, I ran down the bus and then a small hill with a bottle of Kinley and the Dettol squeezy handwash, which by the way, is the biggest invention by mankind since sliced bread and condoms. A few minutes later, I personified world peace.

No adjectives or pictures can do justice to the incredibly humbling experience the rest of the journey was. It can only be lived. Especially the last hour before we leave the district of Kinnaur and enter Spiti would remain in my memories as the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen.

 Pic coutesy Sagar Bolbhat, a friend I made on the trip

Pic coutesy Sagar Bolbhat, a friend I made on the trip

I didn't get down at Nako and got a ticket till Kaza. The bus stopped at Hurling [4000 ft], the second village of the Spiti district after Sumdo, for lunch. It was where I met Dorje from a village called Chandigarh in Spiti who regaled me with Spiti stories.

One of them was about Chandigarh, the 'newest' village of Spiti around 50 years old. It had a population of 250, huge by Spiti standards. It was during the Chinese invasion in the 1962 war that the Indian goverment decided to relocate some people closer to Indo-Tibetan border to the plains of Chandigarh and Mohali. Not willing to leave their home soil, the villagers from several small villages set up the settlement on the highway and called it Chandigarh!

The other story was about a living mummy in a village called Giu which was 10km away from the place we were having this conversation at. Apparently, a buddhist saint asphyxiated himself with his knees to achieve the supreme form of transcendental meditation in the fifteenth century. In the 1975 earthquake, the mummy got washed up in the Spiti river only to be discovered when a ITBP digging shovel hit it on it's head and it started bleeding. The proof of the pudding lies in the fact that hair and nails still grow on the mummy's body!

One of the only 11 'mummified' Buddhist monks that somehow didn't get destroyed by the locals fearing the Chinese post the Cultural revolution. Carbon dating confirms the times of the 15th century. [Pic courtesy trekearth.com]

Planning to do Giu along with Tabo, I sat on the bus only to find myself catching forty winks involuntarily and wake up suddenly every few minutes to look outside and marvel at an entirely different terrain than the last time I woke up. The experience, in itself, was a unique one. It was almost a trance, with the night's sleep catching up with me in funny way.

Photo credits already taken by the photographer in the pics

Almost used to not having proper roads in the much more hospitable plains. I was pleasantly surprised by the work done by BRO and ITBP in such hazardous terrains. Hats off, to not just their willpower but also to their weird sense of humor exemplified in small boards that one finds all along the way.

Their acronym makes everything just so cool!

At around 7PM, the bus reached the much awaited basecamp for the next few days: Kaza [12000 ft, Pop 3000]. Fell in love with the place the moment I got down the bus!

Kaza Bus Stand [Pic courtesy human-vagabond.blogspot.in]

Met a couple from Sweden in the bus who told me about the two best places to stay in Kaza: Sakya Abode and Deyzor. Tired like a dog, I buckled up and started walking when I came across the best little thing in Kaza: Sol Cafe. 

                                  

 [Pic courtesy Ecosphere]

Stopped by to have a cup of some seriously good coffee and met some great people, in turn. I would spend all the post-travel evenings that I would spend in Kaza in this little place meeting more interesting people than I could have ever imagined. The Seabuckthorn tea [50 INR] steals the show with the special Sol Sandwich [80 INR].

Sol Cafe, along with Taste of Spiti, is run by Ishita of Ecosphere for the last 12 years on the sheer strength of her iron will. They are 'developing the ecological and cultural conscience' of Spiti promoting eco-tourism, sustainable livelihoods and seabuckthorn - a local berry that's supposed to be awesomesauce for our health. It's run through a well-oiled chain of volunteers who participate in short or long term assignments on things as big as conservation development and as small as running the Sol Cafe. [Know more about the enterprise, which is no longer not-for-profit, here] It is here that I made friends with Abhishek, Shaishavi, Vera, Tien and Sumant with whom the mountain ropeway at Chichum was an experience of a lifetime a couple of days later.

It was here that I also got the much needed roadmap because it was getting increasingly confusing with all the stories and I desperately needed to put things in perspective using a map. The 10-rupee map that made everything crystal clear looked something like this:

Fingers crossed, I next went to the infamous Kaza ATM, only to find it out of order. Little did I know that it would not be working for the next four days and I would not be able to check out of the hotel till a wonderful couple from Chandigarh bail me out! 

It was then when I overheard people talking in Spitian and the only words I could hear were 'Spiti Festival'. I took a chance and asked them what were they talking about and it happened to be a question of amazing consequences.

Serendipitous as it might sound, it was the penultimate day of the Spiti festival: the annual cultural/sports extrvaganza of the district where people from all the villages walked tirelessly up and down the mountains for three consecutive nights in the dark and assembled in the Kaza Government school.

The folk dances were breath taking and so was the innocently explosive response of the crowd after every performance. I had seen the likes only in pics in the online travelogues. Witnessing them firsthand blew me away. Below are some pics from the Spiti festival - absolutely not doing justice to what the experience was like.

It was pitch dark till the time I decided to move on to the hotel. There was no electricity in the village and the only sounds were those of a few travellers and a lot of dogs. The mountains still looked majestic! [I try finding other adjectives for them but there's nothing - not even one - that does justice other than majestic] 

With a torch for company, I would have gone to every corner of Kaza before finally stumbling across the hotel Sakya Abode which, for future references, was next to the Sakya monastery.

Sakya Tangyud monastery [Pic courtesy Rudolf Schratter, Tripadvisor]

Sakya Abode, though not looking as beautiful without electricity, is still the best hotel in the district [Pic courtesy - Tripadvisor page]

I was told that it was impossible to get a room in Sakya without prior booking but I was lucky to get one, though I did see many of my cotraveler friends having to switch hotels because Sakya Abode was pre-booked!

Hotel food is so damned good that when I was came back to Kaza and didn't get a room here, I stayed at the hotel next door so that I could get food here. More importantly, the dining area is just too good with amazing coffee table books and retiring travelers with whom one can share a conversation or two with ease.

Dining area, Sakya Abode [Pic courtesy hotel website]

It was here that I met Mr Tsering Bodh, the property owner who also runs two other properties and organises camps, treks and all things in and around Spiti with several collaborators online. He is a rockstar with proud Spitian roots and a Delhi education. He knows what he does really well and is down to earth like few others. He happened to play an important role in my journey. 

It was also here that I met Poonam, the stud caretaker-cum-waiter from Assam who loves spending 6 months every year in Kaza!

I got a room downstairs for Rs 1000 a night, which Tsering reduced to Rs 900 at the time of final bill! This, by the way, is super expensive by Kaza standards where you can get a room for as low as Rs 200 and an equally comfortable room as Sakya Abode would cost Rs 600. 

But I'm glad I stayed here as some of the people and the resulting experiences I met here probably changed the way I think forever.

[To be continued in Part 3...Spiti Festival, Key, Kibber, Chichum, Langza, Komik, Dhangkar, Tabo and back to Kaza]

Backpacking Across Spiti [Part 1: What You Seek Is Seeking You]

“Sometimes, the only way to find yourself is to get completely lost.” - Someone stoned upto his balls.
With a recently fractured wrist, chronically swollen ankles and a Wildcraft Gangotri 65 for company, I set on to discover the mythical land of Spiti with a childlike sense of wonder, hoping to discover a part of me which I had really started to miss for a long time.
Little did I know that our discovery of self is routed through discovering everything else, giving ourselves a much needed break from the mundanity of everyday existence. It’s only when we don’t need the daily masks is when we put down our guards: ready to absorb every single experience like a sponge rather than trying to preempt, critically analyse or dismiss it summarily. It’s only when we realize how monstrously insignificant we happen to be is when we understand how blissfully inconsequential our issues are.
And that realization, if not an orgasm, is pretty fucking close to it.
This would be the right time to violently lament the loss of my cellphone which had the surreal pics of the incredible terrain: the mischievous Sutlej, Spiti, Chandra and Manalsu rivers, snow capped peaks against the bluest skies, awe-inducing majestic mountains of various hues, patterns and rock formations and the best-at-heart humans I ever met - the gentle people from Spiti.
The phone was lost on the penultimate day in Spiti. It was shattering. It was the first time I felt bereavement in the 27 years of my existence. Not only did it make me cut the trip short by at least couple of days, I didn’t even feel like going to the seemingly divine Chandrataal lake after camping at -10 degrees for the night.
All of the memories, gone in a jiffy. More on that later, though. Some pics used in the travelogue were saved online and some others belong to friends I made on the trip.
Shimla and the Kinnauri Shaadi
Like every other place on the mountains, there are two ways leading to Spiti. One is the Delhi-Chandigarh-Shimla-Rampur-Reckong Peo-Tabo-Kaza route, which although of the same length, takes a couple of hours more than the other one which is Delhi-Chandigarh-Manali-Gramphoo-Batal-Kaza route which happens to the one where you get to high altitude (13000ft-Rohtang Pass) very quickly. People with prior experiences of mountain sickness should prefer the former.
This, in entirety, summed up my preparation for the trip which was ‘planned’ one day before I left for Shimla. It was only the sheer curiosity that the Chacha-Chachi of Batal generated in me that my I dumped the thoroughly planned Parvati valley itinerary for an absolutely unplanned foray into the district of Lahaul & Spiti. More on the couple later.
Booking a bus to Shimla was my first brush with HRTC (or Himachal Parivahan, as it’s better known) and it was love at first ride. Some much more glamorous states can learn a trick or two from the behemoth that the Parivahan is, which isn’t just the lifeline of the state - connecting otherwise totally cut off villages with the mainstream - but is a pleasantly potent combination of punctuality and courtesy.
This is a daily affair for HRTC [Pic courtesy Team BHP]
I have problems sleeping on buses. For someone with no such peeves, the semi sleeper Volvo [9 hours, 850 INR] would the most comfortable journey that would be in store for the next fortnight or so. After a dinner hault at Rai, Sonepat and a 3AM hault for tea, the next thing I knew was that the bus had reached Shimla, 2 minutes before the scheduled arrival of 5:30AM.
The hill-town was still sleeping although there were a few early birds on their morning walks. Had booked my first ‘Zo Room’ Bridge View Regency which, upon enquiry with the local folk, was a 40 min ‘walk’ up the incline or a taxi costing me 350 INR or a three-hour wait for the ‘lift’ which took people up in a minute at a nominal cost. The wind was pleasantly chilly; it had rained in the night. I took out the jacket, gloves and the skull cap, buckled up the backpack and started walking.

It took me an hour of walking amidst scores of monkeys jumping from buildings to wires to roads with impunity and chatting with some really jovial policemen over cups of tea to reach the hotel where the room wasn’t ready. The chai sutta on a rickety-ish chair on the rooftop where the sun was rising against the haphazardly stacked-up houses on the hills felt strangely princely. Might have to do something with the fact that Shimla, the summer capital of the British Raj for a long time, was after all the seat from where one-fifth of the human race was governed. 

Rooftop, Bridge View Regency, Shimla [Pic courtesy hotel website]

Shimla should be the best place to have a tablet of Diamox/Acetozolamide. For an average healthy adult, it should help one acclimatize for the next week without sweat. Shimla should also be the place where one should find a Himachali contact and get a BSNL sim using his local address proof, in case you haven’t already got one on you. Kaza, the district HQ of Spiti, gets only BSNL network. The places around Kaza have no network at all but it’s good to have an option to connect in Kaza at least in case of emergency. The best thing to do, though, to that emergency sim+phone is to keep it switched off to discover Spiti in all it’s glory.

After a bottle of the heavenly Himachali apple cider called Tempest (8% alcohol, 100 INR) and the above two duties (Diamox+BSNL) done, I was all set to go all touristy. I walked for five hours non-stop exploring the capital town teeming with honeymooning couples, romancing teenagers and sunbathing oldies and it was a delight. 

Went to the Lakkar Baazar bus stand and enquired about bus timings. Could do Sangla-Rakcham-Chitkul or Peo-Kalpa depending upon when I woke up and reached the bus stand. Like the rest of the fortnight ahead, I had no idea where would I be sleeping the next night.

The evening was well spent on an edge of the cliff seat in a quaint little joint called Cafe Simla Times with beer and some seriously kickass Caesar Salad to myself.Had whatsapped these pics to a friend. [Pic courtesy me]

Woke up a little late only to find a monkey in the room. Had left the balcony door unbolted after spending a couple of hours there the last night. Reached Lakkar Baazar bus stand around 11 to discover that I was late. The only feasible option was to go to Rampur and spend the night there. I ‘planned’ to go on to Sangla the next morning, walk a delightful 6 hour trek to Rakcham that I had heard so much about and head to Chitkul, one of the many ‘last village on the Indian side’ along the Indo-Tibetan border.

Only, I did neither of these.

I met Rajesh, a man from a village near Karchham [my age, married with a 3 year old kid] who I made good friends with on the bus to Rampur. He invited me to the ‘reception party’ of his sister-in-law who had already eloped and married. There was a small problem, though. The party was on the same night and there was no definite way to reach Lakho, a small village in the Kinnaur district where he hadn’t gone before, too. We decided we’ll figure out once we reached Rampur, the bustling-by-neighborhood-standards valley town around 6PM.

Rajesh took me to the CM’s palace (which was shut for visitors following an episode of alleged sexual assault) and to meet some of his friends. Had some beer and smoked up some of the finest stuff ever. Add to it the daivik shakti stories the guys narrated in the most matter-of-fact way ever that raised every hair on my body.

The evening had already become unforgettable. Only, it was just the start.

We went to the bus stand at 11 in the night. We heard there is a bus to Reckong Peo around midnight. The ‘plan’ was to drop the idea of going to the wedding party, get down at Karchham around 1AM, walk 3 kilometres to Rajesh’s village, have his mom’s parathas and figure out life in the morning.

Instead, we stumbled across an Innova looking for two passengers.

Having bought the already occupied front seat in return for the occupant’s fare, it was a moral responsibility to not sleep. There was practically no road for long stretches with width of the stretch being no more than seven feet at times. Rajesh had personally witnessed a bus accident 3 days back where the bus fell off the road killing all passengers on the spot. There were obviously no street lights and a vast nothingness accompanied the car on the left throughout along with the gurgling sound of majestic waterfalls which we could only hear. Summing it up, the next three hours were spent on world’s most dramatic roads (according to WikiTravel) between Rampur and Reckong Peo which I can never, ever forget.Imagine these roads at midnight [Pic courtesy devilonwheels]

The Karchham plan was dropped midway when Rajesh’s brothers-in-law forced him to attend the party on phone. So we got down at 2AM in the middle of nowhere where the only sound was us breathing and the only light was our cellphones. We had to walk down a mountain for a couple of kilometres before Rajesh’s brothers-in-law would come to escort us to the village.

We had majestic black mountain shadows on both our sides. For a brief period, I must say I was scared and had second thoughts about Rajesh as well. Thankfully, I hadn’t slept at all in the car and the stuff had started kicking in. Being zoned out reduces the ability to think straight, which, in the circumstances, was to scream ‘What the fuck am I doing in the middle of nowhere with a person I just met 12 hours back and where am I going to’ to Rajesh. But then, he wasn’t in complete senses, either.

So, we continued walking for what seemed like an eternity to find our hosts searching for us. They took us to my first brush with the nicest Pahari people I could ever imagine.

Decked up in grey and green Kinnauri hats alike (literally all of them), drinking the Himachali alcohol from a kettle (literally all of them) and dancing for hours holding hands (literally all of them), Rajesh’s kin impressed me royally. They were really poor. There wasn’t enough place for everyone to sleep. But it didnt seem to bother anyone at all, not even the mysterious army man from ITBP whom no one seemed to know but was a part of the celebrations. Clicked a couple of selfies with him, too.

My backpack was kept in open with the luggage of rest of the guests. Apparently, theft is the biggest crime you can commit in Lakho. It meant that the property was safe in the open. Human life, not so much.

In a period of two hours, there were seriously bad scuffles between the bride’s and the groom’s side at least ten times. There was a lot of blood involved. But the dance continued despite everything. It was a routine affair. I made a video which had the dance and the fight sequence both-in-one. Could have been one of my most prized possessions.

[On hearing that I lost my phone, Rajesh, right now, is waiting for an opportune time to go to Reckong Peo so that he can send me the images he clicked through an active internet connection. The pics would be uploaded in a couple of days.]

Had a pristine view of the Kailash parbat from where I was sitting. If I were lucky, I could also chance upon The ShivLinga. It was visible once a month from Lakho. It wasn’t the day, unfortunately. Watching the sun rise against the mighty Kailash was therapeutic, though.

The mighty Kailash. Kinner Kailash trek is open for 2 to 3 months in a year which can take one pretty close [Pic courtesy me, Whatsapp]

Rajesh told me there are buses around 1PM to both Kaza and Sangla and he would take me to an enchanted forest before dropping me off to the bus station. Only, he was flying higher than kites. Luckily, I wasn't.

I left at 6AM for a 4KM total trek up the mountain to Reckong Peo. No words can do justice to how the Sutlej river looked flowing along with the way. The sky was divine blue and the mountains still had morning snow at the peaks.

I hadn’t slept at all. All throughout the trek, I kept on marveling at Rajesh’s family and the unforgettable experience when a car stopped which I sat into only to realize that the driver was learning how to drive. Up a fucking mountain without roads! The co-passenger was the instructor who kept on guiding - “Good, ab doosra lagaao”, “Clutch chhodo”, “Teesra lagao theek se”. I almost peed my pants.

Thankfully, I got down soon and reached Reckong Peo bus stand at exactly 7AM to find that there was no bus to Sangla today and the only bus in the day to Kaza left exactly at 7AM.

My cellphone showed 20% battery and I had 2500 rupees in cash (there was just one ATM in Kaza which was almost always out of order). Worse, the morning ablutions hadn’t been performed and calling the ride to Kaza spine-chillingly-bumpy was an understatement. I had to take a call between staying back in Reckong Peo doing absolutely nothing all day; and risk shitting my pants, having a drained cellphone and be out of cash in Kaza.

I had less than a minute to decide.

I sat on the bus, which swivelled off to glory the very same instant.
[To be continued in Part 2 here...the bus ride, Dorje, Giu, Kaza, Sol Cafe, Spiti Festival]

Oh Calcutta! - Part 1.

Click to read the series on Facebook: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3.
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"City of joy." - Dominique Lapierre

"Bollocks." - Oscar Wilde

They say Calcutta grows on you. It's an acquired taste.

To start with, you might hold a hankerchief over your nose trying to avoid the morbidly foul smell as you enter the city, only to be repulsed by the smell of your own sweat, thanks to the lovely weather. But then you start appreciating the blatant mediocrity that this place is. Because, admit it: if you did have options, you would obviously not be here. 

"I electrocuted myself in my balls everyday. That got me through Calcutta." - Mark Twain

Appreciating mediocrity is Calcutta's DNA. They loved their Orwellesque Commie delusion for 30 years. And right when it looked like capitalism would finally make some progress, they uninstalled Dhotiwalas to instate an even more regressive regime that called every naysayer and their daddy a Maoist. Poriborton and how!

They are intellectual people who love their carrom boards and their tobacco. Collectively orgasming over Robindro Shongit and everything else slowass, it's a wonder they love a sport as fast and furious as phutboul. Collectively fervent of the glorious past and the kaalchaar, they can't hear a word against Sotyojit Ray, Sourobh Ganguly or even Osok Dinda.

"Bring back Dada, bring back Dinda." - Every Bengali Ever.

Durga Puja is on: the biggest carnival of the year. The only 4 days when the city has a semblance of nightlife. Extraordinarily curvaceous females in cheap mascara that flows down their cheeks with gallons of sweat, draped in backless blouses disgustingly wet under their arms. Sex starved males ogling at the aforementioned curves  sitting at Maddox Square, high as a kite. And groping every gropeworthy mound of flesh in gropeable distance.

Groping is an Indian art form which has been around longer than LK Advani. But what makes it special is that the chicks don't seem to mind during these days. Much like the traffic police that is so emasculated that one can't help pitying the poor sods.

"You are my chicken fry. You are my fish fry. Kabhi na kehna kudiye. Bye bye bye." - Bappi Lahiri

...to be continued.

"Bring back Dada, bring back Dinda." - Every Bengali Ever."Bring back Dada, bring back Dinda." - Every Bengali Ever.

PAST KA BLAST

The juices have dried. The patience is gone. 2 years, 2 posts. Can't get worse than this, I guess.

So, like all infamous intellectual bankruptcies, this one will go down the same wire. Here are some of the blasts from the past - the flashback.

Ravi Shastri and The Orgasm: An interplay of Ravi Shastri's seemingly rectal raping cliches doing an orgy. The post went viral in April 2011 with more than 12000 page views on blog and around 200 shares on Facebook. Was a tracer bullet, I guess.

A-Z of B-school placements: A trip de nostalgia for every XLer. A sneak-peak into the hallowed portals for the rest. The true meaning of XL culture and the biggest event on campus.

Boyfriends Rejoiced, Chintu Pissed: The article whose much inferior sequel written by yours-absolutely-not got published in Faking News here.

Mumbai Blasts and Armchair Patriotism on Facebook: A cynically pragmatic take on the hyper excited.

She: About the lady of my life.

Why MBA?: Honest ramblings, suitably tempered with the lentils of MBA jargon to give simmering humor. A question whose answer is not even 42.

Bunking Chandra Chatterjee: The life and times of a serial bunker. And red-handedness.

My God In Ayodhya: God's frustration with us - the descendants of human beings.

So Ja Bachche, Laado So Ja: Hindi prose meets poetry. On the lines of Insha Allah Kashmir, a documentary on the trials and tribulations of the valley.

Life. 40.: A 40-word mini-story.

I'm sorry.: The post which had offended a lot of people without a chromosome.

Pink Freud: Psychedelia scribbled.

Confessions of a Bloody Erection: Life and times of an erection. A man's best friend, a man's worst foe.

A Lot of Mush, A Lot of Room: Too sugary a tale about a pair of lovers.

One: Some disturbing images woven into words.

Main Shayar Gumnaam and the likes (here, here, here and here): Couplets.

Claimer!: Disclaimer is just excuse for being a wuss. So, I claim and this is what I do.

Sachin. God.: How I grew up watching the Maestro. What this man means to me!

Mr. Shit: About the man who plays Shah Rukh Khan in every movie.

The XL-IIMC rivalry and posts about the same. (here, here and here)

Thanks.

Ishaqzaade Movie Review: Counter Strike meets Bollywood!

An intellectually bankrupt director who, in all probabilities, masturbates to the likes of Vishal Bhardwaj and Tigmanshu Dhulia.

A script that promises to go places in bits but never actually does.

A male lead forced down the throats of the audience - no pun intended - with changes of heart faster than you can bat an eyelid. Imagine a pathetic Irrfan Khan in a Sonu Sood avatar. Langda Tyagi meets Ricky Bahl meets Shaktiman. Someone who can pronounce the 'z' in Parvez flawlessly but can't differentiate Zoya from Joya. 

A wannabe female lead who isn't sure what she's all about and ends up being a cross between Anushka Sharma, Farida Jalal and Mamta Kulkarni. 

A Gauhar Khan trying her best to do a Sushmita Sen and failing miserably.

Pseudo real-life characters.

Extraordinarily fake desi dialogues. ('Ye generator ki behen ke saath kaun bhaag gaya.'  followed by another reference to the same sibling in the very next line.) 

Third grade supporting characters. Cost-cutting, YRF?

Typical YRF costumes on the lady with bosom closeups galore in trademark 0.8x reel speed.

More bullets fired than Border and Saving Private Ryan combined. Quite strangely though, the only corpse that falls is the protagonist's weirdly self-righteous mother!

Superlative background score and the title track.

An anti-climax just for the heck of it that does nothing but evokes a 'Acha chutiya banaya beta!'

Summing up, go watch Ishaqzaade if you want to watch idiots talking about Copper Sulphate when their asses should ideally be on fire.

Main pareshan, pareshan, pareshan, pareshan!

Book Review | Mafia Queens of Mumbai

Crime | Non-fiction | Tranquebar Press | 308 Pages | Rs. 250

Mafia Queens of Mumbai | S.Hussain Zaidi and Jane Borges

Imagine Dawood Ibrahim running like a headless chicken scared of his police constable father. Imagine him going to the safe havens that a freedom fighter turned smuggler provides in her shanty building in the most criminally active area of Mumbai. Imagine another petite lady - with no experience other than domestic - trying to revenge the death of her husband by going after Dawood and doing more damage to his business than any deadly gangster ever.

Imagine Haji Mastan nervously smoking cigarette after cigarettes, waiting for a seventy-year old woman to give him business advice. Imagine a mainstream Bollywood actress leaving everything behind for a gangster and ending up in international penitentiaries for more than five years. Imagine an ambitious wife showing her white-collared husband the way to underworld. Imagine a prostitute brutally raped by an animal Pathan time and again before she valiantly visits a feared gangster making him her Rakhi-bhai, and then using the influence to emerge as the most known name of Kamathipura, improving the sex workers’ lives like none other. Imagine contraband finding it’s way to holes dug under gas cylinders.

Imagine millionaire bar dancers, molls, vixens.

Such and several other stories find place in this collection of mini-biographies of 13 ladies who defy logic, sense and perceived notions to become the cornerstones of the underbelly of Mumbai. For everyone who loved the gruesome detail of Black Friday, Hussain Zaidi is back with another chill down our spines.

Despite the authors’ early disclaimer about how their aim is not to glorify these women but to responsibly give an impartial account, they falter consistently. There is a visible effort to impart them a minor-celeb status, although there is no attempt at sensationalizing. Well-researched facts expectedly find favour. There is laudably little creative license taken and the narrative tone is still aptly picturesque. There is a photo feature, too, that puts faces to the names. Zaidi, especially, has succeeded in showing those sides of some hugely notorious dons that we’ve never been aware of and with a sense of authority that is never doubted even for an instant.

Having said that, the reader would undoubtedly feel a little cheated as the book progresses. The first three stories are detailed, exhaustive and simply un-putdown-able. It is then the narrative loses steam. The rest are a little rushed where one could do with a little more meat.

Overall, it’s a must-read for both the uninitiated and keen observers of Mumbai’s organised crime world not just because it spans the entire crime landscape of Mumbai but also because it is done differently, with extra feminine spice.

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About the authors

Currently the resident editor of the Asian Age, S. Hussain Zaidi is one of the leading crime reporters of India. He has worked for several mainstream dailies and is the author of the bestseller Black Friday: the true story of the Bombay blasts. Jane Borges is a journalist with Asian Age.

There is a foreword by Vishal Bhardwaj, one of the most respected Indian film directors, who’s going to make a full length feature film on one of the protagonists.

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

A-Z of B-school placements

This article was also selected to be published on America On Line (AOL)'s Coolage. Find link here.

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Year after years, generation after generations, everything else on the campus comes to a screeching standstill. We call it the placement season. XL-culture manifests itself in its divine unadulterated form when throat cutting competition is lubed with pampering and support. Presenting the A-Z of this extravaganza which, invariably, makes some eyes well up with satisfaction while shattering some dreams forever.

The terminologies might vary across B-schools. But the essence remains the same everywhere.

A- Attendance Call: You smoke that puff, chew that mint, make that phone call, read that report, cross those fingers, take that breath and pee those pants.

B- 'Bahot companies hain be. Load mat le.': You aren't getting shortlists for hours. The guy next to you has got eight. It is then when this quote of the season suddenly finds its way to you through every piehole you come across.

B- 'Bahadur Bhaiya, please report at the Logs desk.': For some weird reason not even known to Team Logs, Bahadur Bhaiya is more sought after than the Placecom Secy.

C- Cactus Tree: The official band of XLRI. All vocalists. The wake up call. Masterpieces include 'Chad gaya upar re', 'Choli ke peechhe kya hai' and 'Mujhko Ranaji' among others.

C- Controls: Wannabe Godfathers beating the same old offer-refuse quote to death for ages now. Hugest contributors to Indian GDP through BishuDa. Pastimes include drawing lines and dots on pink sheets.

C- CV: A4 size tissue papers for company representatives. Also used for shortlisting.

C- CRISP: The unsung heroes. The thankless CEOs.

D: Day 0/1/2: Larger the number, more widened the a-hole.

E- Extended shortlist: This is when you start believing that God exists and that He's one hell of a sadist.

F- Final round shortlist: The closest you can get to a job and still not get it.

G- Group Discussion: You say it best when you say nothing at all.

H- Holding Area: Best compared to a public toilet. Who's outside wants to get in. Who's in dies to get out.

I- Interview: The Gadha-Baap metaphor.

J- Job Loss: The disease with no cure known to man.

K- 'Kat gaya, bey.': Your favourite reply to any question asked to you regardless of the context.

L- Logs: A superset of Cactus Tree. Job description includes watching movies with earplugs, waking up people and lying to corporate bigshots to stall process on Placecom's behest. (I was a Logger :D)

L- Long term goals: Sawaal Dus Crore Ka. You know nothing about it. The interviewer knows that you know nothing about it. You know that the interviewer knows that you know nothing about it. You still bullshit. He laughs inside.

M- Master CV: The sum total of what you haven't done in your life and have managed to get it verified.

N- Notice Board: A wooden whore copulated by a Controls guy every two minutes.

O- Offer: Orgasm.

P- Placecom: Secret Service that never lets truth get in the way of 24-carat haggling. Activities include talking in hushed voices and oscillating in suits with no destination.

P- Pecking: Placecom sponsored Viagra leading to some serious KLPD. Contemporary Swayamvara.

P- Psychometric Test: Brainchild of the mind-numbingly important department of Human Resources. Purpose unknown.

Q- Questions: Cues that start the noble phenomenon of lying. Also, what company representatives are obliged to do in between cigarette breaks and hitting-on-the-HR-chick sessions.

R- 'Random process hai bey.': The usual reponse to 'Kat Gaya Bey'. Normally followed by 'Sutta maarega?'

S- Services Girls: The only reason why there are no riots. They make the rape worthwhile.

S- Small Audi: World's most densely populated space capsule with all basic amneties inside for survival. Mating ground for Controls.

S- Skirt: A widely common feature of successful Group Discussion participants. Usually results in Day zero signout, quality inversely propprtional to length.

T- 'Tell me something about yourself': In this very order, these five words spell doom. HR's idea of a full-tossed delivery which, in essence, is a beamer.

T- 'Tera nahi hoga toh kiska hoga?': Intended to be a rhetorical question. Answered by 'Skirt waali ka'.

U- 'Uski kahan lagi?': An inexplicable obsession with people you think are less deserving.

V- Verifier: The God who you never bother to talk to after the process.

W- Well Call: A cue to go missing. Usually followed by a quick phone call to Logs.

W- 'Walk me through your CV': A manifestation of the height of laziness. A lesser evil than 'Tell me something about yourself'.

X- XL Bonding: Respect! Impossible to explain to someone who hasn't been through the process.

Y- Y chromosome: An insurpassable handicap.

And when it's all over, Z- Zzz: The surreal sleep that had been eluding for a month. Usually followed by celebrations of unforeseen dimensions.

Boyfriends Rejoice, Chintu Pissed

This article has been selected to be published in Rashmi Bansal's 'JAM:Just Another Magazine'. (Find online link here.)
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This article was also selected as 'Tangy Tuesday Pick' on Blogadda. Find the link here.

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My sequel to this article was published on FAKING NEWS!! Find the link here.

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The Telecom Regulatory Autocracy of India (TRAI) has come up with a new pigeon off its hat. No consumer shall be allowed to send more than 100 sms per day from September 27. 'This is it! This is how the world's gonna end in 2012,' exclaimed a perspiring Chintu profusely thumbing his way to glory. 'This was all I did all day! Copying Ramesh Srivats's tweets and sending them to everyone on my contact list. Or, forwarding anything remotely funny that came my way.'

Chintu aka 'StudMale17' – as he likes to call himself – is worried that the babes might not 'dig' him anymore. He said, 'Shayari se ladkiyan patai jati hain, maamu.' When asked about when he last went out with a girl, Chintu got agitated and threatened to spam the correspondent's inbox if he didn't leave immediately.

India Against Corruption And Almost Everything Else (IACAAEE) has announced another fast-unto-death in opposition to the new regulation. 'The constitution gives us the right to send as many SMSes as we like,' remarked a visibly stoned ICCAAEE president, 'Or something like it.' He also added that a Lokpal would not have let such draconian regulations get passed though he seemed to have no explanations how, as usual. Our sources tell us that the IACCAAEE camp is pissed by the fact that they won't be able to send any more mass-inflammatory SMSes that rhyme so much every line ends with the same word.

The Frustrated Boyfriends of India (FBI) is celebrating, though. They have changed their tagline to 'We have a life, now'. The association members seemed to have been victimised for years by continuous tele-stalking: a phenomenon mastered by the urban Indian girlfriend who needs continuous text updates about her beau's whereabouts, whatabouts and whyabouts along with a daily minimum of 50 texts that smelled of mush and cheese. The celebrations were short lived, though.

FBI's counterpart 'Girlfriends of India: Just Ossom' - that has no logical explanation why they use the acronym GI-JOE – has issued a new charter of demands that makes it mandatory for every boyfriend to own a dual-sim cell phone and send at least 190 sms/day. When asked about the relaxation of 10 texts, the spokesperson answered that the remaining would be used by the girl to vote for her favourite contestant at Splitsvilla through her boyfriend. GI-JOE also approved of FBI's new tagline and allowed them their booze party of the month.

Also celebrating is Indian Beliebers, the national chapter of Just-in Bieber Fan Club. They left an official text to the correspondent that read: 'Nw wl d wrld relyz hw u can typ lyk us n sav chrctr spce. V stnd crrctd.' The correspondent will get back to you once Justypography experts have deciphered the text that seems to have originated from the area surrounding Rahul Gandhi's residence.

Mumbai Blasts and Armchair Patriotism on Facebook

The post was published on Viewspaper. Find the link here.

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It's the same old tale. Explosions in country's favourite city and ensuing knee-jerk 'reactions' on social media. Fits of armchair-keyboard patriotism. What suddenly gets fashionable is talking about Kasab/Afzal and blaming the goverment - the easiest one can do without the tiniest of research/understanding. The media is in a frenzy misinterpreting every single official press release: rabble-rousing at the time we need it the least. I'm still unable to come to terms with how are news/entertainment channels broadcasting half-hour programs unfairly blasting an uncharacteristically balanced statement by Mr. Rahul Gandhi. What follows is my understanding/response to whatever happened and is happening.

One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. A cliche beaten to death. Still relevant. Religious scriptures are misinterpreted and people are brainwashed. They think they have a cause. And they're passionate about it. So much so that the desired ends justify every possible means. It's incredibly easy to rationalize when you have a decent education and food in the belly. The root cause, as I understand, is the sheer volatility and inflammable sentiments of what we term 'terrorists'. To me, they're just a bunch of extremely passionate believers standing by their belief. Isn't that exactly we are taught and we appreciate?

You're no different. They're told that their 'brothers' (criterion: same religion) are being massacred. They react. You see that your brothers (criterion: same country) are being massacred. You react. On Facebook.

It's just that they're ready to take a couple of steps more than us rational-in-our-AC-rooms intellectuals. But the root is the same. The volatility. The impatience. The urge to revenge. The tendency to club together individuals who happen to share nothing more than the same faith.

Killing Kasab/Afzal doesn't solve shit. If at all, it'll make matters worse. I'm not justifying the inordinate legal delay. The protracted (lack of) prosecution is indeed shameful for the entire nation. But let's move on and not crib about the same old thing. Can someone please explain what will killing them achieve? What message do we want to send across? And more importantly, TO WHOM? The to-be bombers? Let's get a hang of the ground reality. Our stereotypical Mr. Terrorist doesn't consume the media we do. For all we know, Mr. Kasab/Afzal might just be projected as ideals who made the ultimate sacrifice and who need to be idolized. What next, Mr. Facebook-status-updater?

War with Pakistan is not a solution. War is not a solution. To anything. Does anyone understand the consequences? Does anyone even know how is a war started? On what grounds? Like Uncle Sam does? Go - bomb - fuck civilians - destroy economy - destabilise region? I don't know either. All I know is that it is more difficult, destabilising and detrimental than beating up an eve-teaser.

Fuck you, media. Do I need to explain?

Stop envying Rahul Gandhi. The sooner you accept the fact that he was born with a silver spoon in one of his holes and you weren't, the better it gets for you. Stop blaming him and his motherfuckin' family for everything that goes wrong in this nation, however rotten they are.

Acquired wit, Inherent Stupidity. I have special sympathies for people with status updates: 'Kasab's birthday, have a blast'. Trust me dude, you're not funny. Escpecially when 500 people have posted exactly the same! At least make the minimum effort of validating. Kasab's birthday was Sept 13 for the record. Plus, ramblings like India should have expected something like this is dumber than anything Digvijay Singh has ever farted. How I wish you had the ability to think!

For fuck's sake, understand the meaning of a 'secular state'. What amazes me is the tendency to update 'status' in a fraction of a second spewing venom about a word one doesn't even understand. Foremost, we are a secular republic only in theory. Officially we don't have a religion and that's everything we can boast about. Religion is involved on a daily basis on both macro and micro level. But I don't want to even get started in that direction. What beats me is allusion to secularism-fathered impotence. Now, what's being potent? Let's have the balls to uneuphemise our life. It directly refers to seeing every Muslim in bad light just because the perpetrators have often belonged to that religion. Can any premise be any more flawed? Can we be any more prejudiced?