Down-Shop Memoirs.

An Ode to Mongolia

2010-03-29T12:03:00.006+05:30

If I were to die, I'd like to have the world in front of me. I'd like to give one last glance at the things that I have discovered and the ones I failed to. I'd like to feel the cool breeze of the mountains and watch the soils change color under the setting sun.

I'd like to lie on my back and gaze at the miles that I've left behind. The pastures and grasslands where my soul would roam free, and the mighty peaks that forbid yet tempt, the sweeping empires that were created and destroyed, the pillaged world that gave birth to civilizations. I'd want to witness the history of one man's vengeance and the non-polarity of war's morals; Where death means the beginning, and a beginning signals the end.

I'd like to die where the deserts cling to the mountains, where the grasses cushion the galloping war-horses. I'd like to die in the center of a world long gone, yet not forgotten, ruled by a king despised, yet a warrior worshiped.

Mongolia.

Rollicking Kathmandu!

2010-02-01T15:49:00.038+05:30

Temples, monasteries, power cuts, living goddesses, millennia old durbar squares, surprisingly cheap tequila, hippies, antique shops, lady boys, dance bars, old by-lanes, buffalo meat, revolutionaries, poets and pretty women - Kathmandu! Or KTM - is an exuberant city, surrounded by mountains and dusted with smog.

My fascination with this city continued with a rather streaky plane ride from the border town of Kakarbitta, just across Siliguri in West Bengal, India. During the flight, which was preceded by a rather pre 9-11 airport frisk, I saw the Himalayas clearly for the first time and the air hostess was kind enough to give me a crash course on all the main peaks. While listening attentively, I even got to see Everest from a distance. According to an old saying (originating before the dawn of air travel) a glance at the mountains would have washed away your sins. Hence I believe I landed with a clean slate. Below me, the rolling brown hills, (rather high ones at that) soon gave way to more and more settlements and then the valley appeared and my buddy Kuka and I were finally in Kathmandu.

Norling Guest House - an unassuming Tibetan run hotel in the bustling Thamel area of Kathmandu was where we stayed first. Buff momos and beer later, it was time for my travel mate Kuka and I to get out and explore.

To avoid getting lost, I made a mental map of the area around me using the most vibrant landmarks to make it easier to remember; Dance Bars - dozens of them with names like Titanic, Pussycat, Cobra and more. They were difficult to ignore as garish Bollywood numbers (a reminder amongst many that self-styled big brother India wasn't too far away) permeated the air with ruthless nonchalance; enough to deter anyone. Some of them also had "Dance Bar with Shower" on the sign boards, although in those 4 degree evenings, it wasn't a pleasing thought from any angle.

The next day, I reunited with an old friend who knew the city like the back of his hand, Mr. Pradeep Rai. Durbar Square after square, stupa after stupa, interspersed with old temples adorned with interesting and in many cases sexually liberating architecture; he had a story for all. The famous Pagoda style architecture, which actually originated in Nepal was all around me. The bustling crowds, amalgamated with the timeless architecture created a unique ambiance, coupled with carefree hitchhikers and friendly locals. After a trip to Bouddha, another stupa complex also known as little Tibet, the comfortable winter sun got a little bit unsettling and it was time for a beer.

Kathmandu is wonderful in that respect. You can be smack in the middle of a 2000 year old city temple complex or surrounded by ancient Buddhist stupas but you are never too far away from a watering hole. That according to me is the right balance, as welcoming as only a city that has seen it all can be.

The good man, Pradeep took us to a place which he claimed was dingy, old and exactly what we wanted to experience. The building was old, the place was quite charming, and the acid jazz helped add a Bohemian zing that up till then I had not experienced in this famed city. For a while, I felt like I was back in the early seventies.

Buffalo lungs, tongue and brains graced the table, and Nepal Ice, Tuborg Gold and Calsberg beer complimented our afternoon that day. Add to that a traditional Newari (one of the original inhabitants of the valley) pizza-like dish with more buffalo meat topping and we were gastronomically satisfied. Next we headed off to Kathmandu's durbar square, where we met one of the most interesting people over the whole trip; a Maoist acquaintance of Pradeep - not a gun toting, rage filled revolutionary, but a calm young man with a plan and a passion for his ideology. We couldn't discuss too many things but as the young man made his way around the square we slowly realized who was in control of the place, the city and the country in general.

We rounded up the day with an evening trip to the nearby Swayambhu temple, which was the central plot in an old Dev Anand movie. It was here that we were ambushed by a troop of monkeys. Not very pleasant creatures at all and for a while I was pretty unnerved and wished I had a flanged mace or at least an air pistol, for self-defense of course.

A nice trip to beautiful Pokhara followed the next day, but another town, another story. When we returned from Pokhara to Kathmandu, there were fears of a strike, and I was worried as I hadn't completed my customary KTM shopping. Pradeep was back and we were once again in the now familiar surroundings of Thamel. A night of pub-hopping followed; Sam's pub with its dirt-cheap tequila, Weizen - which was becoming a hangout for us and Rum-Doodle with its curious interiors. This was interspersed with delightful Kathmandu street-food - Buffalo meat sausages and gigantic fried chicken legs, momos galore and quite a lot of other stuff. It was a particularly cold night, so the hot food and the omnipresent Blender's Pride were comforting at its best.

The next one and a half days passed in a breeze as we didn't really explore much, thanks to general laziness further complimented by a rather prolonged hangover - However we did go for an early morning walk to Swayambhu and that time the monkeys were less menacing. After some hurried shoe-shopping, the time came for us to head back across the border, to Darjeeling.

As our bus slowly exited the bustling streets of Kathmandu, I couldn't help but feel melancholic about leaving the city. It was a short trip but we got a little dose of everything, literally and figuratively. At the same time I was looking forward to the prospect of returning and experiencing Nepal beyond its towns. The pull of the mountains are way too strong for one to ignore that thought, for once you've seen them, they've had you.

As for KTM, this place cannot be described honestly in just one article, and even an attempt would be criminal. So my best advice for the reader would be - Pack your bags.

"Urban Life" Legend

2009-07-21T09:43:00.010+05:30

Dazed and confused, and walking in circles.

The last month or so has been a lazy trip where I've just realized one thing. Time is rushing through me and leaving me out of the excitement.

Will be completing 3 years in the catacombs of Bangalore's air conditioned multinational back offices and the Legend is starting to yawn. The Legend is starting to poke, prod, and sneak peeks at the sun with its glistening eyes. The Legend is starting to die.
Circles, circles and black voids filled with silence.

Cloaked in black, the soul approaches the rows of unnerved efficiency and mental decline. Like a shadow it moves across the aisles towards the slave-masters and their machine brains. It's time for the soul to pull their plugs and save itself.

Crouches and waits, before it strikes. There are screams echoing through the emptiness in its head, telling it that it is too late to turn back time.

The screams will have to stop, the silence will have to return, and the void will have to be filled again.

The screaming will have to stop.

The soul will have to protect itself, prevent its unwanted metamorphosis into a corpse choked in plastic, reduced to a binary existence.

The screaming finally stops.

Disconnect

2009-06-03T10:03:00.005+05:30

On an ice float, things can seem so distant. A carnival on the mainland, just a speck of light to me. The music and the laughter, just my imagination.

The sounds and sights are in my head now, as I head towards a winter that shall give me shelter. It's darkness protects me from glaring scrutiny that I am subject to in the carnival of life.

Slowly, but steadily, the sounds of pounding drums decrease and are replaced by a comforting chill of solitude.The barren sea around me and the frozen world that surrounds me reflects the icy enclaves that have grown in my heart, untouched and no longer unraveled by emotions.

No longer watched, no longer questioned, no longer existing.

Poetry

2008-09-11T11:43:00.002+05:30

Have you ever been inspired by hate?
Have you ever been inspired by desparation?
Have you ever been inspired by the knowledge that you will never win?
Have you ever been inspired by loss of love?
Have you ever been inspired because you have nothing to lose anymore?
Have you ever been inspired by doom?

FAREWELL

The grass sways as she turns her head one last time,
As a sinking feeling grows in my heart, drums beat.
A horizon heavy with clouds, the rain waits,
Much to my relief. A respite from the pain.

A last farewell, the clouds gather, short, the respite.
A warning drops from the sky as the mountains cringe,
In thunderous rapture the heavens break,
I turn around one last time! And I’m alone.

Under a weeping sky, possessed by my heart’s yearning,
Heavy breaths smother my tears,
I wait no longer as the peaks beckon, arising in my senses.
She saw me not for the last time, or I be dead.

Lashing whips of rain around a spine of lightning,
I ride yonder with her face in my mind,
A heavier heart does not live; a heavier loss does not exist
Quench my soul, my broken soul.

REQUIEM FOR A DREAM

What’s that creeping in my mind?
Ominous, its moaning cello warning
Ominous, its melancholic tip-toeing
Questions
Questions
What’s it asking? Answers! Answers!

I’ve lost my mind

Its gone quiet…………

It’s come back!!

Bigger, Blacker, an Orchestra, with a hearse
With my name on it
With my name on it

Dances

Dances

Fate, Tears, Agony
Mistakes
Lost

Orchestral behemoth, Paranoia
Schizophrenia

Mirror Mirror

Who
Am I talking to?

Drums
Orchestra
Climax
Conclusion
Answers!

Heart beats, Blacker

Blacker

Blacker

Nagaland Beckons

2008-09-11T09:32:00.001+05:30

I don’t remember entering Nagaland, as I was fast asleep when the bus entered Dimapur bus station. My friend woke me up and told me we had reached, and I woke up groggy and stiff, as you would expect after a night-long bus journey. Dimapur looked and felt just like any other small town tucked away in the North-East. It has a fly-over though and that reminded me of the fact that I was still some distance away from the hills.

Bodo was my companion for the journey and also a self-appointed guide to this beautiful state and I, was in an uncomfortable position as the unwilling tourist, who is trying to hide the fact that he is in town for the first time. All my confidence disappeared when everyone around were fluently conversing in Nagamese, and I knew that if I were to utter the little Nagamese that I knew, well let’s just leave the rest to your gory imaginations.

Thanks Bodo, for finally deciding to come along; a whole half-hour before the bus was scheduled to leave Shillong.

Dimapur was pretty humid I must say, and kinda hot. So after a while of getting used to the stickiness of the air I had a nice cold water bath while our wonderful host, Mayang made a nice welcoming breakfast for us.

Day One was spent just hanging around and meeting up and chatting with some old friends. Then it was decided that we were to visit Kohima the next day. That night I discovered one more thing about Nagaland. For a “Dry State”, the booze was much cheaper than many other places, Bangalore (where I currently reside) included. Maybe it was Dimapur’s close proximity to Assam, but it still came along as a nice surprise.

The evening was spent on the terrace, me fidgeting with my mom’s camera as Mayang, Bodo and Blender’s Pride warmed up in the dusky light with the Patkai range in the back-drop like thick edges of a curtain that comprised the grey Dimapur sky. As we carried on our re-union, I felt at peace and comfortable and far away from all the troubles and responsibilities that awaited me a thousand miles away. It started raining that night while we were polishing off our duties, and that even helped the evening become more memorable; the night sky, the rain drops, good company and the prospect of seeing another new place the next day.

The next day Bodo and I were joined by another friend, cute and bubbly Ageno, as we embarked on our journey to Kohima. We boarded an Alto at the taxi-stand outside the railway station, and I felt relieved as the scenery started to change from the dusty and crowded town-center to a more pacifying green of the more spacey Dimapur suburbs. Bodo was in a very excited mood as there were some old buddies waiting for him and slapped on his face was a smile reminiscent of Jack Nicholson’s joker, Ageno was on her way to deliver some special leaves/decorations for an Angami function the next day and I was once again looking like the “excited tourist”, clicking wildly at anything that fancied my attention as the car slowly curved up the road to Kohima.

The journey captivated me as I looked around at the hills, beautifully done in a mosaic of bamboo green and bamboo brown and the dark clouds that beckoned us as we approached the capital. The rain drops started to appear again and the clouds started draping themselves around the hills once more. As we approached the “diamond necklace”, that’s how my friend described Kohima at night, there was one last hiccup: landslide. Now I felt that I was truly in the groove with the rains and the mud and cheerful men digging away and trying to help the vehicles get through, even though I saw no reason for them to be so happy about it. By accepting the landslide as an integral part of my journey I exorcised that “tourist” ghost in me and felt more of a genuine traveler.

We entered the bustling center of Kohima and hopped off, invigorated and looking forward to a rain-drenched day in this beautiful misty town spread like a serpent over the high ridges that made up this terrain. We met our friends, Bodo’s classmates who made me feel at home straight-away. After a quick bite at Big Bite, our group of six hopped into a Sumo, courtesy Jo, and I had no clue whatsoever of where I was being taken.

The pouring rain was not going to deter me though, and even the potholes of Kohima were not going to shake my enthusiasm as we thundered along and landed up in Dimori Cove, with the surrounding scenery guarded by thick mist. I was happy though as I saw a lot of the surrounding range on our way there and regretted that I will have to wait much longer before I really explore this part of the world. We went to Naga Heritage village, and surprisingly I wasn’t the only one who was seeing the place for the first time. This is where the famed Hornbill festival is held, and that is on my To-Do list before I croak.

Kohima for me went in a blur and sadly I was unable to see the cemetery as it had already closed down when we reached there. But that only gives me another reason to come back. We had to leave back for Dimapur that night itself, and after a sweet farewell in the rain, Bodo and I quietly reclined on our seats as our cab plunged back towards the plains in that dusky grey light, that just one day back seemed so uplifting. I felt the melancholy in Bodo as his Jack Nicholson smile slowly metamorphosized into a long Adrian Brody face. The night ended in a nice dinner cooked by Mayang and we had the usual beers and drinks and chit-chat with our good friends.

Day Three was the hurried last day, and involved a small detour into Hong Kong Market, where I got myself a couple of t-shirts ,a belt and a DVD of sappy Korean movies. I also got my mom an umbrella, although she didn’t seem too thrilled when she saw it. It turned to be one of those summer umbrellas, not exactly made for Shillong monsoons. We also met another of Bodo’s friends and then it was time to go.

Final farewells and final pictures were taken as Mayang promised me he would land up in Bangalore very soon, and Bodo and I trudged along mentally preparing ourselves for a long journey back home.

Three days I was there but being my observational self I saw a lot in this little period of time. I’m not trying to put down a detailed analysis of Nagaland or trying to be the next expert on this place, but from my own perspective, this was a satisfying journey as I got a personal insight to a place I’ve always been curious about.

The scars of conflict are visible in Nagaland, with its large presence of non-civilian forces, and also the effects of this sixty year civil war on the people of this land was shown in the small conversations I had with my friends. But Nagaland is one of those places for which you require to throw away your pre-conceived notions and journalistic point-of-views to truly understand.

The bottom-line is, I’m going back to Nagaland and this time it will not be some 3-day trailer but rather a nice blockbuster trip of this diverse and beautiful place; and maybe a longer article about the icy enclaves of Dzouku or a lazy Sunday afternoon in Mokokchung.

So watch out and Cheers!

Return

2008-08-21T12:45:00.006+05:30

Finally Bangalore welcomes me back after a month's vacation in a rather uncharacteristic manner- a cheerful auto-wallah! A rarity indeed even though this is a fine city, but not that I am complaining.

For a person who comes from the idyllic setting of the North-East, I believe that Bangalore is the closest thing to home, speaking of course on a "big-city" scale. It is laid-back with a pretty accommodating local population but at the same time it presents many opportunities which we lack back home. As a student here I have many memories, good and bad. But the experience piled on and now I'm in a position where I can look back at those bad ones and smile genuinely.

Bangalore comprises of a whole kaleidoscope of Indian culture and it's like the miniature version of the country here. Its cosmopolitan atmosphere was a welcome continuation for me from my days in St.Edmund's where our group consisted of guys from literally all over the place. Another thing about Bangalore that would excite us North Easterners is that it has a pretty good music culture and there is a place for every genre here. So if you are musically inclined, there’s no need to fear monotonous Punjabi remixes in this neck of the woods. After all this is the place where Megadeth, Iron Maiden, Sepultura, The Rolling Stones, Elton John, Scorpions(twice!) and many others have played and enthralled their audience.

Also, you don't have to wander too far if you decide to have some pork and beef for dinner. Of course it requires a bit of "discovering" places in the beginning, but that should be welcome by the little explorer that's in all of us. And that is good news because eventually you will get tired of the more commonly available chicken. Also if you are a foodie then Bangalore is a place where you can find multiple cuisines. Just a walk down Church Street here and you can have choices ranging from Vietnamese duck to a nice heavy steak to some delicious Punjabi cuisine and of course scrumptious biryani (a must on your to-do list for Bangalore). There are lots of nice places to eat and that is something about the city that you will discover with time.

And as Bacchus may bear witness, a lot of us love a pint or two on a warm afternoon or maybe something stronger on a rainy evening, and yes indeed, in Bangalore you're never too far away from a watering hole. You got them dingy bars (of which I saw a bit during my college days), where you can imagine those stabbing scenes which you see in South Indian movie trailers happening often. Such is the "ambience" there. Then you got the slightly "posher" ones with the roof-tops where you can have peanut masala and chicken kebabs along with your drink. And of course you got the pubs where they serve you beer in pitchers and charge you double for cigarettes. The attractive thing about most of them is they play good music, although at times they overdo the Pink Floyd or Doors bit. Then there are the discos and they come with a rather depressing deadline, something shared with the pubs. Let’s just say that if Usher was in Bangalore he would have to stop making love by 11:30 P M because that is closing time for the clubs down here.

Rock concerts, grilled chicken, auto-rickshaws and their shady meters, call centres and their daredevil cabs, flooded streets, branches falling on people and protests against "helmets”, triple life-size political portraits and festive movie premieres are all a part of this booming city and top it up with an old fashioned traffic jam and there's the picture. Forum Mall and the brands you find there, multiplexes where Hollywood movies are actually popular and South Indian restaurants where you stand and have dosa, free pop-corn with a pitcher of beer, these are the mental stills in my head when I think of Bangalore.

That's Bangalore in a nut-shell for you; the beginning of a love-hate relationship with this big city that still tries to cling on to its old identity as an idle cantonment town. This little piece here is just an introduction from my part to this city which a lot of us are familiar with, but there’s so much more to it and each topic deserves a chapter of its own.

Here’s to Bangalore, whether you love it or hate it, you can’t ignore it.

Nightmare

2008-07-09T14:36:00.003+05:30

I had a nightmare last night. It was one of those dreams where you can't run, you can't scream and you know that you will not win.

The earth was crumbling, falling apart at the seams, apocalyptic if that is the word you want to use. I found myself trudging through the ruins of my school and the broken alleys of my locality. A voice whispered in my head telling me not to speak. The voice told me not to open my mouth. If I did, whatever it was that was destroying the world would enter me too, and I would dis-integrate like everything else around me.

I was not alone.

She was tall and beautiful and I saw the fear in her eyes. We were like the last of the sane. I didn't want to let her go and I felt that she thought the same.

Red dust everywhere and the world was coming to an end. I suddenly saw the lane that led down to my house and sprang forth. At the gate I turned back and saw her still standing at the steps a few paces back.

She had spoken? I was not sure as her eyes still had the warmth and she started walking towards me.

But I was not sure.

I picked up two long twigs and set up a crucifix pointing at her. That was when I was sure.

The warmth faded away and her skin paled when she saw the sign. Her fangs were drawn and I realised that her love for me was no more. I crept back and fled to my door. I felt her icy breath float towards me as soon as I turned my back.

In my house I saw my grandmother lying still on a couch and I wanted to wake her and ask her if she still had that vial of "holy water" she always kept but then I felt her cold body, limp and without life. Just like that cold January night seven years back. I didn't want to turn back even though I felt something standing at the doorway.

I didn't turn back and clutched the twigs in my hand and said a silent prayer in my heart.

I woke up and it was three in the morning.

Drenched

2008-05-14T12:46:00.002+05:30

A rainy day in Shillong is not just about the downpour. It creates stories and anecdotes that wouldn’t happen if it was not for the rain.

In school, the rain would slam onto the courtyard and the corridors would be splashed in no time. With my kind of luck, it rained especially when I was in my track-suit [on the days we had aerobics], and much to my mom’s horror I’ll go back home literally brown with mud and water.

The rain brought about interesting games, like the one where we pull each other along the corridors like a sledge. The gymnasium used to be open at times and it was a hall of noise literally. There were these stacks of desks at the end where kids used to literally climb up and down and everyone is having his lunch everywhere.

Rain meant the building was cramped for space and with students running around and emerging from every nook and cranny, there was bound to be the usual bumping, which would evolve into a full-fledged fight. I was one of those guys who saw a lot of fights but was never involved in most. These fights would more or less happen when it rained, and a lot of times, the proposal of postponing them till 3 O’clock was usually made.

As I got older, a rainy day usually meant comics, movies, hot alu-chops and endless waiting for the showers to thin out a little so I can venture out. There were the times when we’d get caught in the rain and get totally drenched.

I remember it was in my tenth grade that the guys got invited for this party by some PM girls. It was a Saturday and we were all decked up and met up in Down-Shop. As we started off to our destination, which was a rented hall in a pretty posh hotel in Police Bazaar, the rain suddenly came down on us and we literally dissolved in it. There we were, almost the whole of 10B, in the middle of Ward’s Lake [short-cut], in our best clothes and gelled hairstyles, drenched and caught unaware like sitting ducks.

By the time we’d reached the place, we were ushered in by our lovely hostesses, and shown the bathrooms straightaway where we all ended up trying to wring our T Shirts dry. That Figueroa [forgive me if I spelt it wrong] wine didn’t last more than a few minutes as everyone warmed himself up and I’ll tell you, the dim setting and the expanding dimensions of that hall, the preceding downpour and the general excitement and nervousness in the air still remains fresh in my memory.

I met a lot of new people that day, and over the years some of them have become my very good friends and part of that wonderful Shillong gang that constitutes my world back home.

So now as I type this while listening to a melancholic Korean song by some anonymous singer,window shades pulled behind me and the sun shining brightly outside, you can only guess what the weather is in my thoughts.

The Cast of Characters

2008-05-06T12:22:00.000+05:30

I never felt the heat till I came to Bangalore.

This past Saturday, a small period of time I spent out in the sun caused me a head-ache that lasted till the evening. Whether it was the brightness outside or the heat or a combination of the two that caused me discomfort, I’m not really sure, but it certainly disrupted my weekend to such an extent that I was not even in a mood for my Saturday beer.

Much to D’s glee, this is the second weekend that I ve not consumed my usual copious amount of liquor. A seminar this coming Sunday means that the dry stretch would continue for a third week most probably.

My mind now runs back to 2001-2003, when I used to skip those torture sessions with PCM and instead opted for a sitting session in Down Shop. We never really hated the sunny days back then, cos they weren’t that sunny. I’m speaking of-course of the days in April which can actually be called the end of spring and the beginning of summer in Shillong.

My mind then wanders to those discussions we had in Down Shop whilst our attendance continuously dipped a few meters away up the hill. There was Malik, there were a couple actually and whoever sat behind the counter assumed the title. The Bandus were always changing, although there were a few regulars, including a Sly! Thanks Ksuid, for introducing me to my namesake.

Then there was “blue jacket dude”, who was really annoying. No one ever knew where he came from but he certainly did hang around, even played a cricket match with us once. Malcolm, the drunken mascot from Steven’s locality [Every locality had one.] was another one who hung around, frequently assuming the role of a Native-American warrior who just fought his last battle. Somehow these characters became a part of these unknown yet recognizable faces that made Down Shop really a nice place to let out those heavy sighs and relax those muscles. A nice session would evolve once the place filled up a little, and there was even space at the back for a few of us loyals.

The “Debu” would walk in and hunch under the doorway while he let out a trademark wail. Love sucks, it stinks and it goes down with a couple of drinks; that was his mantra for a while. Also add to that the uncertainty of PCB and here was a guy who was being driven “over the edge”. Slow walks in too, polite and yet as cynical as one can get sometimes. The Gold-Flake passes around, and the bitching starts. Tarkari plots yet another scheme to put the Math teacher out of his/her misery. P Shome walks in announcing himself loudly. He then brags about how dirty his jeans are (we even had a competition much to everyone’s disgust) while fishing out a cigarette from underneath that bed sheet he wears with the boats on it. Amidst the yells of FIRST BOOK! The Debu triumphantly gloats over the fact that he s mastered the art of acquiring the cigarette (or anything that looks like one and is about to get burnt).

J walks in and walks out. He has an agenda on his mind and always “looked” the least idle from our lot. Vicky marshals himself from across the road with a cigarette in his mouth and his faithful companion of a bag slinging by his side. The talk shifts to the previous weekend’s “get together” and the sins and acts of debauchery that were committed. The ones who were “rocking on” too much were picked upon as well as an inconsolable Debu who realizes that push-ups are not acceptable in most social gatherings, especially if there is a lack of dancing space. Add to that unattended (un)zippers and we actually had a case of public obscenity.

Sometimes the conversations would take “shady” connotations when a member of the group narrated his adventures/misdemeanors of the weekend, and how a mixture of alcohol and dance (?) led to an unexpected encounter.

Ksuid would appear to retrieve his bag from the counter, sometimes it was one of the guys from the other classes. There was a running joke that stated the efficiency of the Down Shop counter; that Malik would even harbour a dead body for you out there for a few days provided there was space. Thanks to this service provided, we never really needed lockers in college.

That was then. Along came sweeping changes in our lives, and even the shop wasn’t spared. The security of Down-Shop has now been replaced by the swankier Palomino, and while I must admit that I’m a fan of the cutlet (which goes really well with the “grease”), the spirit of Down-Shop still lingers around somewhere, misplaced tangibly speaking but sort of left over amidst the new structures. All you Edmundians who read this and were a part of the age where Down-Shop existed will know how central it was to the manner in which we socialized back then. There’re quite a few of them who would still have accounts in Malik’s notebook and there are those who have never tasted such sublime “longs” anywhere else; you all know what this humble eating joint meant to us.

But gone are the days when Bodo would be searching for “buckets” and Slow for cigarettes, in the confines of the shop; The loud conversations, that plank of wood across the ceiling where every one has banged his head at least once (some everyday) and that fire at the end of the room, are now just figments of the past, in a place that we can’t visit anymore.

Decisions

2008-04-30T17:33:00.001+05:30

8
10
18
17

My math scores between 2001 and 2003 do not look very encouraging. SSG didn’t help with her tireless crusade against me and my helpless friends, and this hapless group included Tarkari, O-Sam-a and P Shome. Another thing that went against me was that Calculus involved no numbers, a fact I was not aware of when I filled my forms.

Until then, Calculus was this cute professor in Tin Tin comics.

In the end there I was, burdened by PCM, the most “challenging” of the courses. Cruel indeed, was Mathematics, but it earned me a few gold medals.

The credit goes to Patrick for coming up with this ingenious analysis of examination-leaving skills. Now those who thought they spent the least time in the examination hall would have an imaginary medal to prove it. So in the end, those of us who weren’t cut out for the Math Olympiad did get the consolation a medal to reward our resistance to Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz’s evil spawn.

Physics was another chamber of tortures and in the end it took good old-fashioned mugging up to scrape through those initial exams. Tarkari and P Shome though were in a league of their own. While O-Sam-A and I disintegrated under the formulas, our two commendable Bong Brothers sailed through their integration sums.

Well, those medals were kept aside for a while, when the twelfth finals loomed. Considering that my total over my last 4 exams was 53 to be precise, I needed to double my previous best (18) to pass. Well you can guess the results from this hint; the exam was Istanbul, and I was Liverpool.

35

I look back now and I see an incredible slide in my academic records. But somehow I have no regrets, and while that curve was downward, there was another that went up. My ability to make decisions for myself grew when I started realizing that I was failing miserably when I tried to stick to the safety of norms. I was never cut out for a Science course, and deep inside I knew it. It took two years and a lot of cussing, failed subjects and below par attendance, to make me realize that I hated what I was supposed to be doing.

Maybe that’s why the adventure of a trip to Bangalore looked so promising. That was the beginning of independent Sly.

The Road Home

2008-04-29T13:02:00.001+05:30

In highland spirits I trust, and a dreary three day trip across a dust bowl plateau is worth it when the first glimpses of Umiam Lake are seen. Come June or July hopefully, I’ll see the clouds descend and feel the mist that I dream of everyday.

When you travel for three days in a train, it sucks the life out of you. The Bangalore-Guwahati Express has been a third home to me, considering the amount of time I’ve spent on that train. It meanders along an illogical route and real progress is only made once you head north from Chennai and from then it’s just counting down the hours over the next couple of days.

Predatory eunuchs and the likes will be aplenty, so if you’re a young lad like me, it is always safe to be armed with some change. But that’s not what we want to talk about for now; it’s more about the journey uphill from Guwahati to Shillong.

As the mercury dips, the winding roads make you feel at home straight-away. I never wait impatiently for Shillong once I’m on my way; instead I absorb the sites around me as if it were the first time. Whether it is a small hamlet on the side of a green hill or a truck on its side, an inviting line of liquor shops or incoming bezerkers in their sumos, these are the attributes of a trip to Shillong.

I always thought that the “chaos” of Shillong traffic was more “organized” than the rest of India. And I’m still waiting to be proven otherwise. No angry chants here, no stupid over-taking maneuvers and not too many blaring impatient horns, that’s how I sum up the traffic when I compare it to the madness that is Bangalore. We enter Mawlai first, and the first butcher’s shop that I see makes me smile and think about the syrwa I’ll be having for dinner. Besides the best beef and pork in town, Mawlai has a pretty fierce reputation, and not too many want to hang around out there for too long. I have a few friends there, from school. None of them were “fierce”, one was exceptionally clever, one was real fun and the third was John. I hope I run into these guys soon, it’s been ages since I caught up with them.

As we pass Mawlai and enter the central part of Shillong, the sumo stops near the Civil Hospital. Now I would be a little impatient and I board a taxi and check out the changes they’ve made to the place since my last trip. The last walk is down the steps opposite Mildora’s off the main road, past the lower level of the Parking Lot, left I go past that Naga food joint ( One day, P Shome and I will finally go there ) and up to that little red gate with LD on it.

A hot bath is what I need.

I’m thinking about it now.

Fried mustard leaves, beef and soft rice. I guess I’ll have the syrwa the next day.

Sunnier Days

2008-04-29T11:22:00.001+05:30

A broken heart signals the end of immaturity, that’s what I’d like to believe. No one comes out of it the same and when we pass the “blame-game” stage we realize that in the end it just prepared us for bigger shit that’s going to happen.

You might call me pessimistic but in reality this is an optimistic approach to a struggle of a life.

The weather eased out a little this morning. Finally, some reprieve from the weather gods, but now it looks like it is getting back to normal. At least I’m indoors penning (?) this journal and not outside in the sun.

How I used to love the sun when I was a kid, and the sunniest day of all, Annual Sports Day. Even if it rained the whole week, it never rained on Sports Day until the final March-past was completed. A couple of weeks, even more, of practicing our class drills, and the ensuing after-school sports practice all culminated in this great “social” event. For me I don’t have too many memories of the latter, sports practice. I was involved in it 3 times and the last was in class 10, after a gap of 5 years. I can’t fight it anymore now; I just never was that good in sports. Add to that a family concerned more about grades than how I felt about other things, then I guess you can call it fucked-up to an extent.

Yeah, bring it on guys, I accept it. (Although I had a few memorable cricket moments)

Back to sunnier topics, how I would never mind the sun back then. No one did, as we all frolicked to our tents in our drill costumes, looking forward to the goodies offered in the stalls around the quadrangle by our very own wonderful teachers. It was a small world for me back then, spread over 24 acres and a bit of Canada.

Then after the brief sun came the rainy season, a real dampener on those cricketing aspirants, while for the footballers it only meant a slushier football [Pit]ch. Back then there wasn’t much any of us saw in the rain.

Now I’m looking forward to it.

Laitumkhrah Evenings

2008-04-28T16:52:00.002+05:30

An evening in “my” Shillong would be typically described as the easiest way to watch time fly. Especially if, like me, you are a fan of strolls through the centre of town.

These walks are just a way of meeting up with people, and when you start off alone, by the time you’ve taken a couple of rounds, there’ll be a couple of friends with you as you decide where to have that first cup of tea. Now of course, with the mobile age dawning (?) upon us, this form of socializing is endangered, but for the adventurous (??), you can go ahead and step out of the gate without making a single call or sending a single text message.

Many a conversation have risen in the midst of these walks, some forgotten and some memorable, interrupted by stops at the cigarette shop. It would be safe to say that by five it’s all dark, and as Laitumkhrah buzzes with evening shoppers, it’s time for the guys to start planning.

A pissed off Debu, signals his rage at not getting a puff of the last ciggy rather constructively by buying a packet, and distributing a stick each to everyone. And as everyone tries to keep a straight face for a while, it is but a matter of a few minutes before he lets out his trademark wail and everybody bursts into laughter. This was the norm, and those were the days when we never had enough money for cigarettes.

An evening in Laitumkhrah is a rather unique experience in itself, as the main road looks refreshingly cosmopolitan compared to other parts in the city. It is a correct representation of the mood of the city, where nothing is perfect, yet things move on. The hotspots are the various cyber-cafes and pool joints on the main street. Then the various restaurants offering what is unofficially the most common snack in Shillong- puri sabji, line up the main road while the inhabitants of various hostels around go for their evening walks keeping in mind their curfews.

After a few rounds, it’s Ribok for everyone. Tarkari does not appreciate the samosa, as he peers into it after a couple of surgical dissections. He then decides that the sugar in his tea is inadequate. Sometimes it’s the puri that horrifies him, and this time everyone agrees. They have served us a bowl of oil rather than a puri.

We still eat it though.

When I get back home the first thing I check is what movie they have to offer on the local movie channel. There are certain times though when I get home later than usual, and then the first thing I check is whether that last minute rum-gobble did not condemn me to an evening of sermons from my very concerned mother.I shouldn't smile too much, at the same time I shouldn't be too quiet.

She's too clever for me though.

UFO, the Space between the Two Logs.

2008-04-28T12:47:00.002+05:30

The space between the logs, UFO owes its name to a certain issue of Fantastic Four [April 1998] which featured those incredible Moloids.

The Moloids now live below the earth on the slopes towards the “Dark Woods” of Risa, their underground civilization marked on the surface by 2 mundane logs. If it wasn’t for the man himself, Slyman, Overlord of the Seekers, this would have been a secret that could have lasted ….. well….. forever.

But that fateful night when I deduced the secret behind [below?] my favorite drinking hang-out, they came to me and made me promise that it is all the information that I can divulge.

The Moloids are the soul behind the drinking experience in UFO. They make you look beyond what you see; find hats where skulls are supposed to be, and make trucks braking on the highway sound like other-worldly banshees screaming for your skin. Never doubt the Moloids for then you are toying with eternity.

Dhruba is one of the many examples of the people who were touched by the UFO experience. That fateful afternoon, when the demon called ISCE had “passed” us, was when D learned that there was nothing that bettered nature itself. A few minutes later, Steven was being pulled up from a certain fall, [As mentioned earlier, this is an event that will never stop being talked about]. Saved, was Steven by the grace of UFO, and straight shots of McDowell’s Rum [Something Irish yet again, if only just the name]

Christmas 2002, when the Muffler was almost lost. I shudder to think so, but gladly I am able to tell you that it was retrieved. UFO never loses your things; you only have to go back before it rains.

UFO, “the space between the two logs”, where we all liked to go and chase our demons and angels. I wonder if it were signs of things to come.

An Introduction.

2008-04-28T11:58:00.006+05:30

Its 11:09 AM, and about 33 degrees outside. The AC is not central, and I’m feeling the humidity weighing on me. Then there’s work too.

As I trudge along the day, my mind goes back to Shillong, and the idyllic examples of my existence back there.

The smell of pine hurts your chest in a sweet way, something that is unique with the mountain air of my “Queen of the Hill Stations”. I remember sitting on those giant steps in front of my school’s main field, and even then I used to sit with nostalgia heaving within thinking about my school days, and those optimistic nineties. Little changed about those steps, except that instead of having lunch there, we had grown into obnoxious teenagers trying to sneak a beer in and searching for a quiet place.

We were not trouble-makers at all. We just wanted to be left alone. A motley crue of characters, our group was. Be it the insanity of Debu’s humor or Tarkari’s brooding paranoia. Bahduh was “brotherly” in outlook at times while J was armed with a cattle prod at all times, making sure we were not wasting our precious “youth” by doing “nothing”. Vicky was another one armed with a sense of humor that could be lethal, but it always involved context, so you can’t really say he was Stand-Up material.

We never knew how we ended up spending so much time in Down-Shop, and during those drunken expeditions into the Risa Colony forest. With the self-confessed jungle expert Steven with us, exploring the forest took National Geographic proportions. Each creaky wood that made up the “first bridge” had adventure etched on it and the story of how I saved Steven’s bones near that stream by pulling him up after he almost went crashing down will never stop being a topic. Yes folks, we’re talking about 80 kg Steven and indeed the alcohol blurred the gravity of the situation. The alcohol and the fact that ICSE was over.

It was easily a 15 feet drop.

Well let’s get back to describing my Shillong. The winter afternoons were heavenly indeed, especially if there were oranges involved. It was on one of these winter afternoons that I skate-boarded my neighbour’s blue home-made board into the wall of the rubbish dump near Speedway Motors. In the process, I went crashing too, but I still felt cool. I felt like I was in an Offspring video.

Debu’s house was another place that offered us solace during those bitter cold days. An ashtray which could have just had P Shome's name [The only “confirmed” smoker in our group back then] labeled on it was where we stubbed our troubles of life. And of course a host whose hatred of clothes is well-known, forever trying to learn GnR lyrics and maintaining his look of a SOAD discard, his snarling vocals forever being the background music as Tarkari held a stuffed gorilla in a deadly headlock. [Sorry for the very contextual description of things but on the good side it’ll be like a brain exercise for all you strangers out there]

Then there was UFO, the place between the 2 logs, christened by yours truly. They still call it UFO now, 8 years later. This place is located in the entrance to the “Dark Woods” of Risa, near the dwellings of some Nepalese who Steven claimed to be after his life. [The ever dramatic soft-spoken fat-ass he is]

It’s basically 2 fallen logs and some space in between, on a gentle slope. Gentle enough for Bodo to go crashing down as he went chasing “ghosts”. The surrounding pines were so tall, and their charred trunks made interesting photos. It was there when we laid on the dry leaves and stared at the sprinkled blue beyond the pines. That scene stills stays with me as I type this journal in an office a couple of hundred meters off Bangalore’s M.G. Road.

I can never let it go. Those memories are long gone but it’s something which I will not forfeit forever. Maybe I’m older now, and I don’t know if UFO will still cater to my expectations now, but I wish I can go back and sit down, rest my head on the light brown grass and let the sweet smell of pine soak up this cynicism that the city has bestowed upon me. Maybe then I’ll see the difference in the life that I want and the life I am living. Maybe I’ll realize whether the past really exists or is it just a sugared-up representation of our lives like everybody says.