The hitchhiker's guide to my apartment

Located in the west precincts of Andheri, J-504 is best described as laidback. Not the quaint sort of laidback, but the rugged unkempt kind. Nestled between two impoverished settlements at the fringe of what might be called civilised society, J-504 nevertheless enjoys a magnanimous view of Gilbert Hill. What makes it cool is that, it’s the only monolith column of black basalt rock squeezed out of Earth 66 million years ago.

The customs check happens on the fifth floor of a rundown building, through a door that has a portal-like opening at its centre. The locals are likely to peer at you annoyed in case of a surprise visit. Trespassers like salesmen and anyone in want of money are received with caution and are most likely to have their visa shortly rejected.

Lay of the land

As you enter the 800 sq ft republic, you will first be greeted with a sprawling sofa set with a bright red coverlet that hides the decade old upholstery underneath. While the establishment of the sofa set belongs to a distant lord to whom monthly compensation is paid by the locals, the owner is not incumbent to provide for maintenance of the boxy piece of shit, if I may. However, travellers to our apartment can find themselves a cushiony spot at one of the corners and entertainment can be made to order through a 30 inch plasma screen. Though what that entertainment may be will remain at the locals’ discretion.

The living room district gives way to the food district which is usually devoid of much food. The refrigerator is its highlight. However a trip to its doors will leave your appetite unsatiated.

Languages spoken

The three occupants are proficient in English and Hindi. While from time to time certain locals may also be persuaded to speak in Bengali and Punjabi. Communication is not particularly difficult but there have been cases when dumbfounded tourists grapple at the versatile meaning of the word ‘thingy/thing’ that the inhabitants refer to.

When to come and how to greet

The best time to travel to J-504 is past the twelfth hour when the sun is nigh in the sky and residents can no longer escape its brutal glare through the curtains. Visits on weekends before 2.00pm are highly discouraged and tourists and travellers alike may experience long delays at the customs check.

If you’ve paid a visit before, you shall be received with a hand-shake or a hug or the occasional Namaste, depending on the locals’ opinion of you from your previous visit(s). In this case, let the locals take the lead. However, first-timers can enjoy the benefit of doubt and may proceed to pick a gesture of their choice. We suggest that you have a concrete gesture in mind to avoid the socially awkward half-hug-half-shake. Warning. You shall be judged.

BYOB: Bring your own baggage

The rule of thumb when packing is, “anything that you need, bring it yourself”. This applies to booze, snacks, toilet paper and personal butlers. If you forget something, it can be ordered at the venue, as long as you pass the buck around. More specifically, your buck.

Culture and beliefs

If there’s one thing that the residents of J-504 hold dearer than their primary needs of food, water and shelter, it is their slumber. Quite contrary to the old adage, two-thirds of the population are early to bed but always late to rise. Despite the occasional stink eye from their bosses, the residents have staunchly held onto their principles - man was not born to work. Here’s the thing – if man was created in the image of God, well, we don’t exactly see God running to catch the 8:15 local, do we? Or charging down the corridors of heaven, to sign the Great Big Muster in the sky, before he’s marked absent for half the cosmic calendar?

After all, is there anything superior to lazing on a Sunday afternoon (or better still, a Monday morning) flat on, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, such as the mating ritual of a rhinoceros beetle?

Living with the locals

There’s always a sort of inane charm in diving into the local life. Daily activities such as tending to the wildlife (check ‘wildlife’ section), collecting water from the watering hole, minor plumbing and laundry, can help you see life from the local’s perspective. For a change of scenery we recommend a walk to the quaint tin-roofed grocer round the corner for a pint of milk. Children playing with marbles, chicken chasing goats, cows and dogs lounging next to wooden carts selling fresh spinach and tomatoes; such is the rustic quality of the environs of Gilbert Hill.

Recreation

The government of J-504 offers some seriously combative recreation opportunities. Two-thirds of the population are known to spend hours if not sometime days in the strategic art of Warcraft. Stray cursing and childish fits of banging fists and stomping feet are encouraged to give the sport a ‘hell-may-care’ attitude. But when it comes to proving your mettle, the locals accept nothing short of Global Domination or like they say, “How Risky do you feel today?” For the next eight odd hours you could be Sun Tzu, Alexander, Kublai Khan, Hitler or the United States of America; crushing those who oppose you under your war-mongering boot heel. And since everything is fair in war, a game of Risk is a socially acceptable form of ruining love, friendship and kinship.

If the Machiavellian pursuit of warfare is not up your alley, you could always put your money on Monopoly. Or take your chances with Scotland Yard, Scrabble, Spook Story or Mad.

Nightlife

Most of the music tends to be from pre-90s recordings with a fair mix of impromptu live performances. The more-the-merrier philosophy is rooted into our nightlife. What may start off as a friendly gathering of few has the potential of quickly turning into a dozen. In any case, if you think you might go overboard, buddy up with a local you get on well with and look out for each other during the night. That way they can stop you making a beeline for unsuitable partners you won’t fancy without your beer goggles on, and send you safely to bed if you look worse for wear. We won’t tell.

Social faux pas such as switching on the white tube-light, playing Honey Singh numbers and singing through the nose; are grudgingly tolerated.

Food and beverages

“Refer to section BYOB”

Visa extension

If you wish to extend your stay, an extension to your visa should be applied. Extension may or may not be granted depending upon the reason for the extension, and whether the Department of Immigration is convinced that the applicant does intend to return to his/her country after the stay. In other words, the extent of your stay is contingent to the locals’ sense of humour.

Wildlife

We have a cat. His name is Maximus Wolfgang Targaryen. He bites.

When Joan Didion said, ‘we tell ourselves stories in order to live’, I think she meant - the stories we delude ourselves with.

I used to think that if I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning, I’d hammer through the noon and end it with a Thud! Whack! Clanggg! before I hit the sack. But once I had a hammer, I realised I wasn’t hammering as much I said I would.

A road-tripper’s recipe to beach-hopping: Sri Lanka south coast

Nay-sayers said it couldn’t be done. Well-wishers said it probably shouldn’t be done. The fact that the mercury would rise to its zenith high in the peak summer didn’t stop us from travelling to the southern coast of Sri Lanka last month. After a rickety eight hour bus-ride that saw us descending into the plains from the hill country, we reached the bustling sea-board town of Weligama. If you are travelling along the same route, keeping a day in hand for the Yala National Park would seem like the most obvious choice. However, short of money and time – my fiancé and I headed straight for the holy trinity of sun, sea and sand. It would be safe to say that any road trip involves the road (duh!), a pair of trusty-ish wheels and at least one companion (who you will most likely fall out with at least once a day. But regardless the offense these silly skirmishes that start with ‘let’s stop for a cola’ have a knack to smooth itself out soon enough). Like life, which’s about the journey and n

Rude Awakening Series: You might find it offensive. But so is the world around us.

It has been one year and nine months since my last entry. A lot has happened since. The dude who used to say “You’re fired” on reality television is now the very real President of United States of A, Delhi beat Beijing to become the most polluted city in the world by a chest-thumping margin, the planet regardless of our skeptical opinions has continued to become warmer - putting the birds and bees out of business. On the other hand, some things haven’t changed. North Korea is still batshit ballistic, China ghost towns are at best dead, Japan is LOCO but still zen, fortunes (as usual) have waxed and waned to the changing tides of tax reforms, share prices and demonetisation. If there is a hidden lesson over the months that I have learnt, it is this - nothing changes or gets better in this world unless we act (as opposed to react) upon it. And it is with this foolhardy notion that I once again set about to write; to abuse, to anger, with a direct intent to offend the blogosphere.

Three salad dressings with a side of honesty

Salads. The healthy-and-mighty of all meals. The snooty accompaniment to a glass of rosé. The veritable rainbow on your plate. In Fran Lebowitz’s words, a salad is not a meal – it is a style. Well, as long as ‘style’ includes a fair amount of mud under one’s fingernails – I couldn’t agree more with Fran. Sure, it’s fashionable to eat a salad – but there’s a certain panache to going down on all fours in wet mud, rummaging through fresh lettuce pods every morning and wondering what you’re going to dress them in. While it’s far from the fashion statement that salad has come to symbolise, growing your own food definitely is a style of its own. There are many categories of salad snobs – the ingredient minimalist, the chop-it-right evangelists and the brigade of dressing-goes-first, but the only consensus between the salad factions is that you don’t actually need packaged dressing. A homemade vinaigrette made from basic ingredients lives just as happily on your refrigerator door, not to ment

Other Names #12: Kaamkar Das

The rain pelted incessantly for six years and five months and twenty-two days over the city of Someplace. There were periods of drizzle when people stepped out but soon, they began to realise that the respite was only a forecast for more rain. At first life came to a standstill and then boredom set in. People stopped going out altogether so establishments had no reason to stay open. The public gardens were flooded and turned into veritable marshlands with crocodiles and snakes which put an end to walking. A thick layer of moss covered the asphalt under the waterlogged streets that made cars and motorbikes skid off their paths and often into death. People received their weekly supplies of grains from a government helicopter that came twice a week to drop sealed packets onto the terraces. Time stretched into infinite seconds over Someplace and its people came to be characterised by their glassy eyes, wet yellowish skin and a perennial dry crust around their mouths. Kaamkar Das was one of

Project Other Names #7: Dr. Prarthamesh Potty

Professor Potty scratched these words on the blackboard, punching the period at the end for dramatic effect. He turned to face his class of forty. Forty miserable, clueless schmucks, most of whom didn’t know the difference between a period and an ellipsis. And yet they thought a minor in Creative Writing would be a piece of cake. An easy grade to brighten up their mark sheet. He had overheard on his way to class, some of the students casually joke, “Next class…” proceeding to clutch their tummy and ejecting a fart-like sound from their mouth. The joke lacked half-a-decent punchline but regardless, the junior year would pick it up from their seniors, giving new life to a lame old gag. Professor Potty did not have a sense of humour. At least, none when it came to his name. You would think after years of being tormented by friends, foes, colleagues, relatives, lovers and eventually his own children as well, the professor would at least pretend to smile and take the power out of the old

Other Names #8 and #9: Sahil and Mira

It had been three years since Sahil had last seen Mira. A lot had changed (physically) for Sahil in that time. His jaw had hardened to an angular shape, he had lost that baby beard that everyone made fun of and the unruly curls had been tamed to a neat close crop. He had returned to civilisation - unrecognisable beyond repair, as his friends often remarked. So, it came as a surprise when Sahil found himself looking at Mira, untouched by the passage of time. She still had the look of an alert school girl. Head held high, a neat round chin, wide thin-lipped mouth, snub nose, bright eyes and a forehead that was often flushed with effort or appreciation. She was finishing her thesis in Sanskrit from Xavier’s when they were together. Sahil always marvelled at how much the professors delighted in her – as though they were grateful for anybody who still took up ancient languages, especially for someone so gifted – but they were always worried as well. The problem Mira used to say, was becau

Footnotes from college and my holiday in Istanbul that has nothing to do with the former

The following is best enjoyed with food or beverage that's a tad bit sour, bitter or whatever seasoning that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Besides teaching me calculus and semi-conductors that have been of no future consequence, the four years at an engineering college furnished me with an elementary knowledge of scientific thinking. I was glad to learn that the minds of people (themselves a product of natural causes) was a function of the brain subject to the laws of cause and effect, like any other part of their body. And that these laws were the same as those that governed the movements of star and atom. I exulted at the thought that the universe was no more than a vast machine in which every event was determined by a preceding event so that nothing could be other than what it was. These conceptions not only appealed to my dramatic instinct; they filled me with a sense of liberation. It gave me such satisfaction to learn that the Earth was a speck of mud whir

Other Names #10: Mrs. Ghosh

She sat on a wooden bench facing an empty communal pool, contemplating its green chlorinated waters, with her hand resting on the silver handle of her cane and thinking about death. The first time Mrs. Ghosh had visited Dolphin Square, she was no more than five herself. Her father, a district magistrate in the Calcutta high court and a skilled swimmer himself had unceremoniously doused her in the pool. It was the first of many days that would become her entire adolescent years. The pool was emptied and cleaned once every year in the winter. There had been numerous deaths at the bottom of the diving board but all of Calcutta’s best swimmers frolicked to the murky green pools to compete with children from nearby slums who inevitably turned out to be stronger and swifter in the district championships. Every second Sunday of the month, young people who couldn’t afford the membership fee of the government run swim club, competed against each other to earn their place by merit. It afforded t

Portrait of a criminal as a young thug

He is five feet and eleven inches tall, hundred and three kgs heavy, with sweaty arms and a glistening moustache, shoulder length black hair oiled and tied into a small ponytail. He has a wild demeanour and suspicious eyes. Beyond that, in his twenty-seven years he has piled up a tall and ugly police record: a multitude of arrests, from petty theft and battery to rape, narcotics offences - and all this without a single felony conviction, being officially guilty of nothing more than what any spirited citizen might commit in some drunken or violent moment of animal weakness. Word of caution: If you happen to get in an argument with our young criminal in the making - your chances of emerging unmaimed depends on the number of heavy-weight allies you can muster in the time it takes to smash a beer bottle. In this league, sportsmanship is for old liberals and naive fools.

MADTROTTER

Search This Blog