Girls at a Mangalore pub were violently beaten by the members of Shri Ram Sena. According to the Sena, the presence of girls at a pub translates to immorality. What a piece of shit this Sena is.
India has progressed a lot, but considering its huge illiterate population, it’s an unsafe place to be in with some very stupid, firm beliefs.
We awaited Deva, the guide who would take us to our campsite in Rishikesh. It was night. Suddenly a dark man appeared and introduced himself. Next moment, we were tripling on his bike – Deva, my bf and a precariously accommodated Malvika in a skirt riding high. Chills down the spine. Meandering roads. Goosebumps on my legs in the cold night air. Abandon all around.
A dip in the Ganga rapids as the raft nose-dived into a whirlpool. Gasping for breath when the raft went down again, dunking us again before we recovered from the first dunk! Back above the surface, water in my eyes, twinkling sun, a sunny warmth on the back before another swell of water crashed rudely in my face.
Then that comical truck hitchhike with Twitchy n Puck. Twitchy the truck driver with a bristly beard and moustache. And doll eyes. His assistant Puck, a nimble boy…pixie like. A short cough and splutter later, the truck decided to take a break and stalled. In the blink of an eye all you could see of Puck n Twitchy were their compact arses and Vistory sign ‘V’ legs poking outta the heavy engulfing engine, beneath the bonnet. Next moment Twitchy was trying to revvvv up the engine from behind the wheel with Puck still in it. I believe they were violating some safety norms but they trusted the truck as a large but gentle elephant.
Pondicherry
Ran into Australians making a documentary film – Farside MC. They were touring South India on Enfield motorbikes (Runs like a gun!), had helped tsunami victims, stayed in cheap motels, fought over travel-strategies, stopped at many mechanic workshops.
“Welcome to Indiaaaaahh!!(hic)” announced a drunk hospitable waiter to us. We were taken by surprise as he sweetly accosted us on the roof of Hotel de France where my bf and I had pulled a table for a romantic private dinner on New Year eve. Weirdly, the roof was deserted except for a nice open-air bar with high stools and a cabinet full of the correct glasses for wine, beer, whisky. And out popped this man deciding that anyone who was not Tamilian was French!
Typical South Indian food everywhere. No rotis anywhere. Italian food at places. We went bonkers over murukkam, which is an orange, crunchy, spiral snack to eat. It’s available in greasy, large glass jars in every one of the small shops from Chennai to Pondy.
Got washed to the shore by the sea, my T shirt to the chin. I stood up to find all the sporty young guys standing in the waves stock still, full of admiration for my fantastic lingerie.
I remember sitting on the windy, rocky beach on new Year eve, watching fireworks bursting and sparkling in the sky. Continuously. All the while, as we pointed out faraway ships from mist from imagined shapes. All the while, as we went and got coffee. And it continued as we got bored and left.
Auli
We went to Auli off-season and enjoyed a lot of solitude and attention and discount. Ski-ed for about 4 hours the first day. Finally, my bf and I sat down abandoning our skis. Suddenly we realised that in the vast white expanse, from distant peaks to our feet, we were the only two humans in sight. I knew then how Neil Armstrong must have felt.
The sight of 3 furry black wolf-dogs cavorting in the spotless snow, kicking snowflakes about themselves.
The stories of cannibal Aghori yogis and of massive cadaver-munching fish found in the hereabouts, testified personally by a fellow passenger in the Sumo taxi. “Bhagwaan Kasam (God Swear)!” he pinched his throat.
The stardust in the eyes of the youngster who descended the 9 hours from Joshimath to the plains each time a John Abraham played in the movie halls.
He went to see the mistress of bizarre, parody, loud laughter, moods, androgyny, double chin and arched brow. Watched her over his glass from a safe corner, jealous of and enjoying her.
Last night my friends and I went to Rashtrapati Bhavan. The building is so huge and so intimidating that even though people are allowed to drive up to it, you will find very few souls in the area; just the guards.
Rashtrapati Bhavan is the Indian President’s residence and the biggest palace in the world. Although it was built for the British chief in India – the Viceroy, he hardly had the opportunity to live in it as the Brits were kicked out of the country soon after the palace was built.
We headed towards the palace from India Gate on Rajpath road. It was night and the area was bathed in twinkling orange light. The palace was completely invisible in the mist until we came close to it and its form emerged slowly. A lone ice-cream man sat at requisite distance from the President’s house. His customer’s came, made their purchase quickly and drove off. In the sky, we could see the moon swimming in vast, vast space. Maybe it’s the only place in Delhi where one can look from horizon to horizon.
We drove upto the gates very carefully; hoping that no one would mistake us for terrorists and shoot us DeAd. On reaching, we were told by the guards that if we had visited from 10 am to 8 pm, we could have gone even further (and perhaps given the President a tip or two!). Phillip destroyed me when we raced on the wide road. What a Maurice Greene! And then, we turned and went, happy to be living in the capital of India, the seat of POWer.
Where one can be the helper on a ship, battered and tossed in Scandinavian seas; the type where huge calories are burnt per day and can-food is shoved down to keep the body going. Or a 1 month something in Cairo. Or the itinerary-planner plus something in a hut-resort in Pondicherry or Andamans. Or a copywriter for 1 month in Buenos Aires, another in Barcelona. But not a cook in China.
Not just dreaming actually.. the copywriter bit seems v v possible. But dirty jobs sound nice too.
