I Don't Drive Anymore

Yes I don't drive anymore, and there is a good reason why. I don't own a car.

Now why is this information important for anyone reading this? Well it really isn't. But if you have known me long enough it will tell you that I have changed. I know. I know. It's obvious. Things change. People change. Big deal.

I suppose I stopped blogging here about five years back. You can see why. Nothing interesting or important to say. And things change in five years. I blogged online elsewhere and stopped there too. I wrote in notebooks and tore them up later. So where is this going? We will get to that soon.

Packaged Idiot was all about my journey of leaving Delhi, leaving home, moving to B-lore, starting afresh. It was a journey full of hope, music and coffee. A rush, a high that I had not felt in a long time. And like all good things that phase ended too, along with the rush, the high.

In the years gone by life took me to Singapore with a parallel stint at Mumbai. The parallel one then moved back to Gurgaon which had become Gurugram by the time I got there. It seems other things were changing too, as I changed. Damn! It's still two homes - Singapore and Gurgaon. Two worlds as different as they can be! Which one do I prefer? Who cares...

In the last five years hope gave way to practicality, music took a back seat or rather moved to the boot, and coffee survived. There is a hot cuppa on my desk as I punch the keys away. When all else failed there was coffee. When everything went my way there was coffee. When nothing else happened there was still coffee.

My true and best friend for life.. the coffee journey continues. Lets see if the journey of this blog continues. Only time will tell.

 I will try to be back soon. Not everything needs to change unless its getting better.

Written on 22nd December 2012... Never got to complete it. Posting as is.

After three grueling months at work, I have been able to finally steal some time away from everything, even myself, to be here at the writing desk. After a slow start, some random posts just to keep at it and some serious stuff as well, the blog seems to have come full circle. Just like life. Its a little difficult to explain but do take my word for it.

The year is coming to a close as well. The world did not end which is a little disappointing. Have to wait some more to see what's on the other side. Would have been nice if we could have all gone there together but no such luck. After fifteen years, I had a year that was a little different. I finally had a year that I wouldn't mind reflecting upon. Mostly I say "good riddance" at the end of every year and move on without a second thought. It's just another day - 1st January. So not sure what's the fuss about. Like when I said "I am 37" during a casual conversation yesterday at lunch in office and a dear friend and colleague couldn't believe his ears. So what's the deal with trying to appear young? Which dictionary lists desirable and attractive as synonyms of young. I haven't found one yet. Who cares if you are 37 or 67? I am sure the world doesn't give a damn.

The highlight of the year was completing a year in Bangalore recently. No one in my family believed I would last this long away from Delhi. Absolutely no one. I have now played host (or shall I say hostess) to a lot of friends and family so the fear of doing a bad job is now waning. The mantra is "If you need something, ask for it" at my place. Better still just familiarize yourself with the apartment and help yourself. And I hereby write a retraction to my previous post. I found excellent paneer flown in from Delhi, outstanding Peshawari cuisine (translates to the most sumptuous & delicious murgh & kebabs ever!), gulab jamuns and besan laddoos just like the ones up north and the same killer sweet jalebis in Bangalore. I found roads next to home where I can push the peddle and do 90 kmph drives anytime of the day without the fear of speed challans. To top it all, my colleagues also introduced me to a dhaba near office which serves authentic north indian food - parathas with white butter and chicken curry kinda stuff! What can I say... Life is sorted. :)

Stick to Coffee and Dosa

I have written so many things that I have come to like about Bangalore that I feel I need to also write about stuff that I don't, just to balance it out. No this is not one of those days when I feel nostalgic about Delhi. It's quite strange but I hardly think of the city that I was born and brought up in. I am ultra comfortable in Bangalore now. There was a time I used to wonder how any one can live outside Delhi. Now I know the answer. My friends in Delhi who were not very happy about my relocation to Bangalore would constantly find fault with this city that I now live in and would make fun of it. I have to say to them - yes the samosas are BAD but they are not made in coconut oil and don't have curry leaves.

That brings me to the first serious issue I have with Bangalore. There are not enough food joints to please the north indian palate. No great sweet shops, no haldiram n biknerwala kind of outlets for chaat cravings. The nukkad ka halwai in every mohalla of Delhi serves better jalebis than you can hope to get anywhere in Bangalore. I have developed a lot of respect for the chain of Agarwal (or is it Aggarwal) sweet shops found in every nook and corner of NCR since I moved to Bangalore. There was a time I wouldn't give them a second look. There is no place here that serves butter chicken even a millionth fraction as good as Swagath (Chandigarh) butter chicken used to be; and the best dal makhni this city serves would not find even a passing mention in Delhi Times food guide. The best quality Paneer in Bangalore is chewy and no self respecting ex-delhite would touch that thing. There are a few outlets in Bangalore that do claim to sell paneer sourced from Delhi. I love the idea of a 787 size cargo plane full of delicious soft paneer from Delhi landing in Bangalore. Or even a cargo plane full of besan or boondi laddoos... Sweet dreams are made of this... Sigh! But I can't even dream of ever finding the kind of Mutton Kebabs that Qureshis (a small outlet in Gurgaon with footpath seating option) would serve, in the best eating joints of Bangalore. With absolute foodies as my closest friends, all my happy Gurgaon memories are about all of us eating out. I miss my friends and I miss having some amazing food with them. The next time anyone is coming to Bangalore from Delhi, please get me some samosas and laddoos. I shall be indebted for life.

The second issue I have with Bangalore is that it has killed my passion to drive. It's not just that I miss the feel of driving on NH8 in the middle of the night - the speed, the thrill. It's also the sheer pleasure of driving on a weekend through Akbar Road, Aurangzeb Road, Lodhi Road-Khan Market, Shanti Path, Chanakyapuri, Rajpath, Nelson Mandela Marg and the likes. Delhi kept my love for driving alive despite the long traffic jams. I crave for a drive as beautiful, and roads as good and smooth. I miss racing my diesel Verna with the Metro from Mayur Vihar 1 till Akshardham station while on my way to office. I miss watching airplanes from NH8, flying over my car and landing at the airport. Driving to Greater Noida on the expressway on a weekend afternoon was so much fun - 23 kilometers of driving bliss. But Bangalore roads are disastrous. It's not that I don't put my new li'l doll of a baby car into fifth gear but I do have to wait till I reach Inner Ring Road for the 1.5 km stretch between Ejipura and Domlur. It's no surprise that this is a favorite spot for speed challans. Shouldn't the Karnataka govt, as a good will gesture, welcome Bangalore residents to use the top gear of their cars on at least one 1.5 km stretch within city limits? I remember how my friends used to make fun of Bangalore roads cause they have their names basis how wide the road is - 100ft road, 80ft road and even a 60ft road! And if you thought parking is an issue in Delhi, Bangalore has surprises in store for you.

Of the 10 - 12 odd FM music channels in Delhi you would mostly end up with at least one song at any given point of time that you like. Unless you like Kannada music, you will not get that lucky in Bengaluru. With one English and just two Hindi FM channels, your dependence on the USB key increases manifold and so does the need to update it on a regular basis. I am completely clued out of new hindi film music scene cause FM channels have been a big disappointment. But the flip side to this is the fact that no matter how low you are feeling, just ten minutes of red fm or radio mirchi in kannada is enough to restore your spirits.

So what makes me love the city so much... North Indian food doesn't compare, but the coffee experience is amazing in Bangalore. The joy of coffee in an open air cafe with signature Bangalore cool breeze can get competition only from sipping coffee in McLeodganj. Some seriously good Andhra food gets served along with amazing Thai and Italian. Be it the roadside south Indian food joints and vada pao outlets, the joy of cutting or kulladh chai and pakodas at the very popular, floor seating tea-cafe called Chaipatty, the best of breads and sandwiches at popular bakeries like Cake Walk and French Loaf, all day breakfast options on the lines of American Diner and the one of its kind UB City, Bangalore makes up for what it does not offer. On three occasions I saw motorists make way for an ambulance despite heavy traffic. Bangalore traffic police is more efficient than what I have seen of their counterparts in Delhi. And there is not the kind of mad honking of horn that happens every time a traffic signal turns green in Delhi. There are not too many cars with loud music on the road (mine always has the munni/sheila variety on full blast - I have the responsibility, after all, to represent the brash criminal-minded Bihari Delhite North Indian nightmare that the very respected Raj Thacekrey is trying to fight!). And I am beginning to like the way radio jockeys say.. Call maadi or SMS maadi to... whatever number on Radio. The only way Bangalore doesn't compare and never will - I can never have friends and company as good as what I left behind in Delhi. I won't name them but they know so damn well who they are. I miss you all. God bless you!

Life has gone Public

It started with a lovers tiff.

"Feeling cool today. Dumped my girlfriend. Happy independence day." Ex-boyfriend's post on facebook after the break up.

Malini Murmu, B.Tech, ex-employee of Infosys and student of IIM-Bangalore hangs herself from the ceiling fan of her hostel room a few hours after reading the post - is how it ends.

It is old 'news' and I am not about to take a moral stand in favor or against the actions of either of them almost a year after the incident. I do not think that this facebook post by her ex was the reason for Malini's suicide. Who can understand the state of mind of someone who is about to end his or her life? I suppose even the person committing the act doesn't understand much at that moment. She left a note saying this was the best form of revenge!

I am actually baffled by this race to go public about our most intimate moments and feelings. A public statement about dumping his girlfriend on facebook made Abhishek Dhan feel cool. What can I say!!!

Privacy doesn't make you feel cool when it is so easy to satisfy our childhood dream of becoming 'public' figures. It's ironic that almost every public figure has expressed the need for privacy but we have this unrelenting urge to 'share' our lives with hundreds of people, all 'friends'. The world needs to know every opinion we form. Life is interesting when it is shared with 'friends', 'friends of friends' or 'public' sometimes simply because of our ignorance about privacy settings. We forget to draw the line sometimes and it's a thin line for sure.

It's good to appreciate but we cross the line when we abuse.. when we express our negative opinion about others. I remember a line from a movie called Lakshya... "hum dushmani mein bhi ek sharafat rakhte hain". Unfortunately, hum dosti mein sharafat bhoolte ja rahe hain. It's good to share but not necessary that everything be shared with everyone. It is also important to be just as sensitive about the need for privacy of those we interact with online, as we are about our own.

About two years back while I was driving to office, some one who was travelling in an SUV company cab right in front of my car clicked my picture using his mobile phone camera.. right there on NH8, driving at about 100 kmph, I wanted his head. It is a minor incident considering the plight of women in Delhi-Gurgaon or frankly any place on earth. But it was a violation of privacy nevertheless and I still feel outraged whenever I am reminded of that incident. We are already so vulnerable with cameras all around us - at work, restaurants, shopping malls, parking lots.. everywhere. Do we need to add to public news feed? Phone records, email accounts, online banking information, date of birth, mother's maiden name, identity document details, credit cards... we need to protect them all. We need to protect ourselves and our right to privacy.

I urge everyone to check and recheck privacy settings on all their online accounts and change passwords regularly. Don't click on random hyperlinks. It can be destructive. There is a genuine threat out there and the IT industry is fighting a daily battle online trying to protect you from attacks that are real, happening right this minute while you read my blog and of which you are not even aware of. Share online what's normal and reach out to people you are close to, offline, in your moments of extreme happiness or pain. To the next generation, and I have quite a few young 'friends' on facebook - don't fall into the trap of sharing too much or personal information in your enthusiasm. Facebook is not a popularity contest or an image management tool. Yes, your favorite color and the brand of shoes you bought, are all getting stored in company databases. No, there are no lucky draws to be won. There is no online lottery. Puhleez...! There is nothing called "Guaranteed Weight Loss". Save yourself from spam. Be cautious of everything you post. And it is fine if you are not so 'cool'.

It's good to have a social community but did that community need to know that Malini had been 'dumped'? Was the fact that she was denied of her right to grieve in private, the reason she ended up becoming public newsprint? Abhishek was booked for abetting suicide. He has since closed his facebook account. But was it the break up or that one status update that changed his life and took another, no one will know.

Look Good.. Feel Great

We are obsessed with looks. Sounds lame but it is deeply ingrained in us... from fairy tales (remember mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?) to newsprint on how Aishwarya looks after delivering a baby. Looks matter. Good and/or bad. Case in point how the entire nation is deriving sadistic pleasure out of the former beauty queen's weight gain. From Dhoom 2 to Baby 1. The perfect plastic beauty is human like the rest of us. Huh! 

"You have gained/lost weight" or "You still look the same" is how you are greeted all the time. Health and fitness are always additional benefits of a balanced diet and exercise regimen, not the primary reason. Fashion, cosmetics, fairness products, hair color, slimming centers, laser corrective surgery add up to most of what you see around you - newspapers, magazines, TV or billboards. 

So it came as no surprise, when I got connected on chat with a batch mate whom I had not seen since we passed out (and probably the only person from my institute who is not on facebook), that the first thing we asked each other was pertaining to looks. Not health. Not family. Not career. Not life after passing out. He asked me if I had put on weight and I countered that by asking him whether he was sporting grey hair. Moments later we burst out laughing, represented by laughing smileys exchanged on chat, at how ridiculous it was. We did go on to talk about other things and promised to stay in touch, but not before we checked each others pictures on chatter and made horrendous comments that only old pals can make and get away with. 

Since we work for the same organization we get to chat often, being constantly logged on to communicator. A lot of our conversations are about Bangalore since he is a Bangalorean settled in the US. He gets nostalgic and I lap up all the info about this city that is fast growing upon me. He also says a lot of things that I don't get to hear from many people, partly because he is honest and blunt, and also because being on chat saves him from getting beaten up, no matter how nasty he gets. He knows he can get away with it, though he does miss the occasional whack on the back I used to deliver while we were at the institute. During one such chat conversation when I said for the millionth time that I was well settled in Bangalore, he asked me if I was being my 'social butterfly' self again. Social butterfly? Me? Really? 

This was a little ironic, cause earlier on the same day another friend of mine had delivered a long boring lecture on how I should go out more often, socialize, make new friends and some boyfriends too. I was wasting single-hood, I had been told. Sometime earlier a friend was being sarcastic on facebook about my endless excuses why I couldn't meet. And another friend who called from Delhi to check for the 20th time if I would be coming over any time soon so that we could meet before he leaves for an assignment in UK for a couple of months said I was always so elusive.

The same person - me. And such diametric perceptions! I have been told I have a nutcase sense of humor and would most likely die in a fit of laughter than of a heart attack in a fit of rage. I have also been told that it takes humongous effort to make me smile and I do that only when Jupiter transits Gemini. Who we think we are and how we are perceived differs. Who I think I am has changed over time and with situations. How I am perceived to be is also so different for all those who have bothered to create a perception. So how many Sushmitas are there in all? 

The answer to "Who am I?" is not easy to find. The virtues are easy to list out. The dark side of us, is something that we like everyone to believe including ourselves, doesn't exist. Mean, indifferent, dishonest, jealous, evil, immoral, cheat are what others are. We like to explore likes and dislikes and believe we are defined by them. Any deeper than that and it tends to get dark and murky. So we don't go there at all. I am someone who likes the color green, mughlai food, Rahat/Shafqat's songs and watching cricket. That sounds safe. Yeah.. People... that's who I am. 

It has been said often enough that life is actually a journey about discovering your own self. Religion and spirituality is about finding yourself through God... or that we are merely manifestations of the supreme being. Nothing more. Nothing less. Who we are and the differences between all of us is because of the grip of 'Maya'. Science says the answers are in our genetic structure. Now that is a better and novel excuse I would say. God and religion are archaic anyway for most purposes. 

Who I am doesn't mean much. We are so insignificant in the larger picture anyway. It doesn't matter how many versions of Sushmita exist today.. how similar or different the perceptions are.. or how good or bad I think I am. We are, who we are.. and that discovery makes sense only if it translates into sensible actions or restraint at the right moment. And I am no where close to sensible actions and exercising restraint. 'Who I am' is not where we should stop. Who we develop into is more important. It gives meaning and direction to life. I like George Bernard Shaw's thought - 

“Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

Happy creating!

Sleep Disorder

It"s been more than a month and it's not a good thing. My attempt at playing (I still don't think it is being) the 'good girl' has been relatively successful but my absence from my blog is a definite downside to this otherwise good state of affairs. Good girl? Yeah. I mean the early to bed, early to rise kind of good girl. I am not kidding. If there was one thing I had not anticipated I would do here in Bangalore, living all by myself, with all the freedom to wake up as late as possible, was to follow the routine that I have been following lately. It's amazing how I wake up at 7am every morning without the alarm. It's almost as if my guardian angel gets sadistic pleasure by giving me a nudge that wakes me up sharp at 7. On the dot! But half an hour too early. Obviously I go right back and snooze for another half an hour. Old habits die hard! Why is sleep so precious in the last leg, just when you are nearing the finishing line? The last ten minutes of sleep that you steal are the best right? I know the feeling too well. Add to that, these days there is no staying awake late into the night either, which means no blogging cause I used to start writing in the zero hour - not the parliament hour but 0000hrs. The most creative hour.

Let's talk more about the last ten minutes of sleep. Most times I linger on because there is some dream that I wish to take to a happy conclusion. For a very long time I used think that I am the largest manufacturer of dreams in this country. And then I met my match. A friend who not only dreams as often as I do, but also remembers all of them. Now that is so unfair. I dream every night too. Well... almost every night. But it's only the bad ones that I remember - like missing the train, getting lost in a strange city or forgetting everything before the exam. And even in case of these bad ones, I forget the details and retain just the bad feeling.. all day.

On the other hand, this friend of mine can tell you in detail, a dream that occurred in the summer of 1986. Let's call this friend S. S never forgets a dream. I mean - NEVER! We speak to each other almost everyday and spend about five minutes every few days discussing our respective dreams. While I struggle to recall what happened in mine, S tells me the minutest details like background, clothes, expressions and dialogue that happened in that morning's dream. The rare evening when I have something to add to this conversation, S gives me the exact interpretation of my dream. Most times these interpretations are positive and definitely sweet. Like the other day I told S about a strange dream wherein I saw an elephant and instead of referring to my never-ending, mammoth weight gain and elephantine looks, S was sweet enough to say that it's an auspicious sign. A symbol of power and strength. Now you know why we are such thick friends. :)

When I went looking for "interpretation of dreams" Google gave me 5.8 million results in 0.35 seconds. Talking to S is an easier and far more entertaining option any day. According to S, bad dreams do not necessarily mean a bad reality. On the contrary, most bad dreams are positive signs. Personally I don't see anything positive in appearing for an exam unprepared even in a dream! It can only signify a fear of failure right? S is particularly lucky in this matter. Here I am telling S about chasing a speeding train or being chased by an attacker and S has had a dream about past life in 18th century Europe! Why don't I ever get these exotic ones? Of being on the beach in Goa let's say. I have day dreamed enough about that to invoke at least one dream at night! I mean there is huge potential in dreams - I could take a stroll on the moon, be the Queen of England, date George Clooney and enjoy Dilli ka samosa, chaat and butter chicken.. all in one night! Just imagine!

But no such luck. The only time I had a premonition dream which came true, it was about the death of a grand parent. It just became a bad memory to have.

Most times the last ten minutes of my sleep is where I try hard to make things go my way in the dream. But it just goes into a state of limbo - an intermediate state made famous by Inception, the movie. The harder I try, the more difficult it gets. And then I give up, get up and make tea for myself. Just as I am about to start the chai-newspaper routine, the phone rings. It is S calling first thing in the morning, all excited, to tell me about a dream in which S was flying! Hmm... And I start another grumpy day.

Goa will happen one day - exotic and real. Till then it's a dream. Just a day dream. 

Identity Crisis

Sushmita has not been an easy name to have. Every time I have said my name is Sushmita, the response has been a confused - "What?".. Having bengali looks (a round plump face!) just made matters worse, cause the few bengalis who understood my name, assumed I was 'one of them' and were left confused with my bihari surname. I have always had to repeat my name several times and ultimately spell it out for most people to understand it. As a child I used to be insanely jealous of girls who were called Preeti, Bhawna, Shweta, Ekta... Life must have been so simple for them, while till date I continue to say, "Hi, I am Sushmita S-U-S-H-M-I-T-A Jha". Quite like Bond. James Bond. Bechara Bond. :(

When Ms Sushmita Sen became Miss India and eventually Miss Universe in 1994, I celebrated more than the rest. Finally, I thought, things would improve. But her unsuccessful bollywood career didn't help me much. Except for the few times I got a "What... Sen?" response to my "Hi I am Sushmita", my name remained an unpronounceable mystery, endlessly and mercilessly distorted by one and all.

No wonder I have been called Sush all my life. Simple and easy it is. Not so much out of affection. 

The problem got solved when I moved to Bangalore. Now no one asks me to repeat my name. To them, I am Sushmitha. Like Anitha, Latha, Lalitha, Harshitha, Mamtha, Namitha, Savitha, Smitha, Vijetha... They are so '-tha' suf-fix-ated! The gentleman filling out the Airtel form on my behalf, when I had just moved, actually insisted on writing Sushmitha and not Sushmita. When I reminded him that it was MY name we were talking about and it did not have an extra 'h' (pronounced as hetch!), he simply said, "You must get it corrected madam!" So my airtel bills are addressed to Sushmitha Jha and every time I call their call center that's who I say I am, deriving cheap thrills from having a forced dual identity. I am even tempted to try the orange flower decorated braid, dipped in coconut oil, to go with the name. Soon...

I must admit though, that besides the flower decorated hair of silk saree draped women, there are other things that you won't have easy access to up north. For example, Chettinad pizza. I swear! Check out the online menu of US Pizza in Bangalore. Remember the "Mera wala pink!" Asian Paints ad? Well the south has it's own typical shade of every color you can think of, though their favorite remains orange. Color on the walls, just like their kanjeevarams, are bright and in your face. You have to see this for yourself to understand. Their deity is always in black stone with eyes firmly closed and the entrance to any temple is larger and more beautifully decorated than the temple itself. By the way, the half ticket bananas (half in size as compared to the full size version we are used to in the north) taste the same. And they are serious about their coffee. There is a coffee shop every 500 meters. No kidding. The roads are.... narrow. Yes I am being polite. It is difficult for me to adjust to NH8 when I land in Delhi now. Mayur Vihar ki gali seems like a National Highway. In short, this place is... different.

The south, despite having it's own set of extremely tough languages, has managed to keep life simple and easy. Natives do not show off. They are sincere in their work and they take their leisure seriously too. You can't get your car serviced on a Sunday as the service centers shut shop on that day. The auto wala would rather sleep during afternoons and the taxi drivers shall not take detours to fleece you.

My knowledge of Kannada is even today restricted to Namaskara, chill maadi and adjust maadi. However, the transition from Karol Bagh to Koramangala, Janakpuri to Jakkasandra, Connaught Place to Commercial Street and Mayur Vihar to Maratthahalli has been seamless despite the language barrier. As they say, one should never underestimate the power of a smile. Used along with basic and sometimes improvised sign language, it has worked wonders for me in Bangalore! I guess that's why mom called me Sushmita.. someone with a sweet smile. Thanks Ma!. I don't MIND IT! :) 

Notes to Self - 1

For the Love of Lavazza

There is nothing quite like the smell of freshly brewed coffee percolating through your senses and spreading in the house on a lazy afternoon, with a half read book lying face down on the coffee table next to the couch and some soul stirring music playing in the background. Well, the coffee maker (along with the not so romantic but so very important washing machine) is a possession I am truly proud of. And at the end of almost three months of being here, I can say with complete confidence that I am addicted to coffee.

The second thought every morning as I wake up is coffee. Naturally the first thought is saved for something more romantic. After all I am entitled to a complete slide show of romantic interests first thing in the morning before I open my eyes. I know a lot of you won't buy the concept. Yes I am grumpy when I wake up, and I don't have the romance gene. Yet I would like the larger population to believe this slideshow theory. It is so much more exotic! Anyway, there is a lot happening between me and coffee these days. I know this is more believable. So let's continue the track.

Having grown up in the 80s, my earliest 'coffee' memory is taking a sip of Nescafe from my mother's cup. My devious mind immediately identified coffee as a possible and good substitute for the horrible horlicks I had to consume every morning. Ma would have nothing of it, but did allow me to have a cuppa occasionally. Much later I realized that it used to be a mug of milk with bare minimum coffee to give it a dash of flavor and that she let me have it only on days when my anti-horlicks tantrum would reach it's peak resulting in a complete strike. Mothers!

The 80s was also when the 'Indian Espresso' was at the peak of it's popularity. Froth on top, sprinkled with some drinking chocolate, it was what everyone went looking for after having dinner at the community hall wedding. I never liked the Indian Espresso. Too much froth and milk for my taste. I preferred home made coffee to the 'machine-wali' espresso any day. So no fond memories there. Though I must say, the experience some of my friends had when they tasted the real espresso is hilarious! Yes, coffee can be that bitter and it can still be enjoyed. :)

The 90s was all about beaten coffee at home. I remember how awestruck I was the first time I saw what one could do with coffee, sugar and a little water. The tutorial happened in our Mayur Vihar kitchen and Kavi Bhaiya (my brother's friend) took me through the nuances of it. The end result was mind blowing. Why else would someone as lazy as me, endorse so much hard work! The enthusiasm spread to the rest of our gang of friends and cousins, and we had several mid night beaten coffee sessions. However, it used to be Vandana, my dearest elder sister, who would end up doing all the hard work while I merely boiled water and added milk. The brothers did nothing except motivating us to get up and get the job done!

And then came the coffee shops - the Barista and CCD war to capture our time and a share of our pocket money/initial paltry take home salary. The grocery shops suddenly had more options besides the good old Nescafe but not all were as good. The new coffee culture had more to do with having an air-conditioned place to hang out than coffee itself. A lot of good as well as bad memories from the next decade have the Barista orange background. Coffee had arrived, but for me, only commercially so, bringing the Gold and Exotica versions with it. Lavazza, Latte, Cappuccino and Americano became household names just like Lipton. But I don't remember ever walking into a coffee shop for just... Coffee. Not until I came to Bangalore.

With the twists and turns of life to mull over when the first sign of maturity sets in, the best companion one can still hope to have is a good beverage. The youthful 'dhaabe ki chai' will always have a special place in my heart and so will the coffee breaks in office - taken primarily for the sake of a break/catching up on the latest and not really coffee. But coffee has begun to grow on me as a standalone experience. It always lends it's own flavor to companionship, and it makes solitude even more special. There are multiple cups of coffee that I have.. bas yun hi.. savoring it till the last sip. And these are some of the best moments of my life...

Sick and Tired

The Bangalore Bacteria and Virus Association shifted base last month. They are now headquartered somewhere near my house. Word must have spread in their community that I had relocated and for the first time in my life, there was one living creature that took an instant liking towards me, quite like love at first sight. The Big V is in love with me and V is faithful till date. He is always with me in some form or the other - fever, cough, cold, upset stomach, headache... most times all of them together.

When V made his presence felt for the first time, my reaction was to ignore him. I am not the kind to give any 'bhav' during initial days of courtship. Not even simple home remedies (not that he would have been deterred by it!). No adrak ki chai, more so because there is never any adrak or milk at home when I need adrak-wali chai; no steam inhalation, no piling on warm clothes (I had left all of it in Delhi - who thought I would need them here!). For more effective home remedies I tried reaching out to some key members of my F&F community. Family and Friends, I mean. As luck would have it, Mom was holidaying in South East Asia and the 'relevant' friend was in Dubai. So there we were, me and V, with just a fictitious cup of adrak ki chai between us. V doesn't like being ignored. So he decided to turn on his charm and then things got serious between us. I gave in. The fever was unrelenting and V finally had me all to himself.

After a week of trying self medication (antibiotic, anti-allergic, paracetamol, B-complex and cough syrup - standard stuff that any doc would prescribe under normal circumstances), I realized that this Virus was not going anywhere. It was time to take a hit on my ego and accept that all my friends, who were insisting I go meet a doc, were right. Not that I actually accepted it. I merely gave in to their demand.

With a heavy heart (because there was no hope of meeting a good looking doc in these southern provinces), I set out one evening, about half an hour after popping a paracetamol, to finally meet a doc.

My first stop was at the nearby clinic that looks (and feels) almost like a shopping mall. I swear I had even got an insert in TOI last month promising great service, discounts and stuff like that. Walk in and walk out surgery kind of service! The paper on which this pamphlet was printed was top class glossy stuff with a nice pic of a happy healthy family on top. This was my kinda place - my safest bet. I mean, I have the distinction of fainting in every hospital I have visited - during visiting hours to meet ailing relatives. I have never made an attempt to go these ghastly places for any tests, except the time one of the banks I worked for insisted on a full check up during the hiring process. Naturally the job meant a lot to me and I went through the drill without any mishap but I had already fainted in that particular hospital on an earlier visit. So we were square!  There is a nice path lab near my place in Delhi and they send a nice old man home to take blood whenever required. And naturally I keep my eyes tightly shut throughout the procedure. That takes care of most situations.

Coming back to Clinic No. 1 - I was pleasantly surprised when I reached there cause there was ample parking space available. Now you wouldn't possibly understand the joy of finding a parking spot in Bangalore unless you actually live here. For Delhities, it's like finding a spot in Chandni Chowk and for Bombayites... ummm... just imagine the worst case scenario please. Feeling like the 'Queen of All I Survey' I parked my car using more space than my modest hatch back needs. As I entered the main hall I was even more pleasantly surprised to see that the place was not swarming with the sick. Aha! They must be expensive.. No wonder there aren't too many people around. Good!

Wait a minute. There wasn't ANYONE around! What was happening here? After a few agonizing minutes of waiting in an empty hall, a guard walked in from the main entrance, coming through the same parking lot I had parked my car in. "What are you doing here madam?", he said. Excuse me! Who did he think he was and what the hell was he saying? Why would any one visit a clinic? Naturally to see a doc. I told him just as much. He said what every cab-wala, auto-wala, shopkeeper and guard says in Bangalore when he doesn't understand a word of what I have said, "Yes madam!".

"Don't Yes Madam me. I said I want to see a doc. A General Physician."
"Doctor comes only on appointment no madam."
"OK. Then give me an appointment now."
"Appointment can be given only by the receptionist no madam."
"OK. Then take me to the receptionist."
"Receptionist has left no madam."

Losing my temper a bit as I usually do when faced with ridiculous situations, I screamed at him,"So that's not my problem! I wanna meet a doctor. NOW!"

"Oh! But today is Sunday no madam. Clinic closes at 1pm madam."

By now I was ready to murder the chap but I have a soft spot for security guards. Most of them in Delhi hail from Bihar. And Bihar & Biharis are sacred! That saved him - the soft spot. He was in no way related to my state.

"So what do I do now? I am extremely unwell and need to see a doctor right away!"

He looked at me - up and down, thinking if you look this gorgeous, you are not that unwell!

I mean I would in all my distorted sense of vanity like to BELIEVE that this is what he thought. In reality he must have cursed bloody unruly North Indians under his breath because I was almost screaming at him by then, but let's not go there. My version is better you see. The gorgeous one.

"Come tomorrow madam."
"I shall go to another clinic. This locality is full of them."

With my standard 'To Hell With You' demeanor, I turned and left. Just two buildings away there was another clinic just as promising in size, shape and looks as the earlier one, with an upmarket pharmacy right next to it. This had to be it. But this one didn't open on Sunday AT ALL! Exasperated I decided to try my luck in another block.

I found another 'sister concern/clinic' there, with a guard at the gate busy on his mobile phone. With a lot of hope I looked at him and finally, the Gods smiled at me. He ushered me in with a wave and I happily walked in. The ground floor had a small red light on top of the entrance gate. Uh... they don't watch bollywood movies at all I guess otherwise they would know that these hideous lights always get installed outside Operation Theatres. This is basic stuff, from Nirupa Roy's umpteen surgeries in films (I love the lady!).

As I went past the gate I was a little surprised to see another gate quite similar to the first one. Well.. what kind of architect did they hire? Any way! As I went past this gate, a voice called out to me saying, "No shoes allowed beyond this point madam."

"What?" I certainly didn't get that. Why do I have to take off my shoes to see a General Physician? I turned around to see a harassed looking couple standing there. Apparently the gentleman had made that 'no shoes' statement. I looked at him puzzled. And then I turned around to see that I was actually right outside an Operation Theatre! I looked at the man again (who, as I had guessed by now, was waiting anxiously outside the OT while a relative/friend was undergoing an operation somewhere inside that very door) and asked him quite sheepishly, where could I meet a doc for a mere sore throat and fever. The man duly informed me that OPD was on the second floor, accessible by a lift at the back.

This is where I lost all hope of finding sense that evening. Why on earth would a clinic have its Operation Theatres on the ground floor as you enter and it's reception and Out Patient Department on the second floor? As you have already guessed, OPD was closed on Sunday. They would gladly operate upon me on Sunday and remove my tonsils if I wished to go ahead but there was no doc to check my temperature and prescribe an antibiotic.  

I tried three more clinics in this block with the same result.
  

By now the poor paracetamol I had taken gave up and Big V's magic was working again. I decided to give up my quest there, came back home and crawled into bed.

I did manage to meet a doc three days after this fateful Sunday and there is nothing dramatic that happened. The doc was nothing like my uber cool dentist in Delhi with an upmarket Khan Market address. And all he did was give me a different antibiotic, a different anti-allergic and a different cough syrup. I knew Big V had won. There was nothing one could do but wait for V to have mercy on me, which slowly after another week, he did, leaving me with a new 'Bangalorean' lesson - This is no place to fall ill. Next time, I am taking the first flight to Delhi. That's it!