Another thousand miles

Blisters on your bum can do wonders to your mind. Surprisingly in a good way, provided that you earn those burning blisters in the right way. There are quite a few such good ways on the Kerala-Tamil Nadu border. This borderline runs across the Western Ghats, which geologically is not a true mountain, but a faulted edge of the Deccan Plateau. Still, at elevations of 3000-6000 ft, the ranges sure give you a true feeling of the mountains. And monsoons are the time to ride through them, if you believe your skin is naturally waterproof.

There are ten excellent routes across the 600 km long Ghats that we have travelled, of which six are on the Kerala – Tamil Nadu border, and the rest four on the Karnataka border. Two of these routes, the Teni-Munnar and Athirapalli-Pollachi, are so frequented by us that we know them as much as we know the streets we ended up living. So much so that, the teashop owners on the route know us, and greet us with ‘It’s been a long time!’ when we pull up. Well, this time, it had been a long time indeed. Even the guard at one of the check posts exhibited his familiarity by asking, “Veettil poyittu varua, alle?” (On the way back from home, eh?) It’s a great to feel home, while on the roads.

If you ask me which is the most beautiful of these ten routes, I’d be fighting in my mind for an answer. Either the Athirapalli-Pollachi route, which has countless waterfalls by your left and right along its 40 hairpin bends, or the Bathery-Ooty route lined with majestic, centenarian Eucalyptus trees could be called the best. Then, the Teni-Munnar and the Udumalaipettai-Marayoor routes are equally good. The Tenmala-Tenkasi and Kumali-Kambam ones are not any less good. The Mysore-Mattannoor and Madikeri-Badiaduka routes too equal in their beauty. It’s a tough time deciding, and an easy time riding. By the way, there’s this overcrowded National Highway 47 that takes you from Palaghat to Coimbatore, through the dried-up, plain land gap in the Western Ghats, which we would never consider taking. All these Ghat routes are pretty much deserted. This time, we hardly saw two or three vehicles, while we were crossing the uninhabited stretches of the route.

There were a couple of unpleasant incidents too for us. In one, we tore our jackets at the elbows. No great fun. But we were happy that we didn’t buy the Rs. 17,000 jackets we had plans to buy. Then the next day morning, we maimed a son-of-a-bitch. A very bad feeling for another few hours. Still, was consoled by the thought that it didn’t tear more of our jackets, or killed that son-of-a-bitch, which didn’t listen to its mommy and was looking only one way while crossing a two-lane National Highway.

Apart from that, and a broken clutch cable – which we changed in a record time, the bike was in as good mood as ours, with its engine sounding like a song. With a puny 350cc engine that’s placed too high on the bike, a Bullet may not make a decent cruiser. Still, the machine is simple and sturdy enough to make a real good companion on the road. It rarely gives problems, and even if it does can be fixed by yourself. The only instance it gave a serious trouble in the 50,000+ km long company so far, was when one of its valves got screwed up. It took an hour to find a mechanic who knows to work on a Bullet, and he took the whole day to change the valve, granting us a great time with chilled beers after chilled beers on that boiling-hot day. The next day morning we woke up and changed the route we had planned, only to have a pretty nice surprise. Instead of a Chennai-Bangalore-Mysore-Ooty-Chennai, we ended up doing a Chennai-Bangalore-Mysore -Madikeri-Bangalore-Chennai. Nothing to complain. The general rule we follow while riding – to ride half the days you have in one direction, and then find another route back, avoiding the roads you already have taken – proved to be the best riding plan. The extra beer was only a treat we deserved. Hope, the roads will never run out.

During monsoons, the greenery of the Western Ghats, especially the South Western montane rain forests, is contagious in every sense of the word. The lush green life almost vaporises into the air, filling it, and filling you in turn. And when the drizzling stops, the mist comes folding you in its cold, moist comfort. As the roads take you winding the hills, one after the other, cute dark green pyramids of little hills turbaned with light, lone, white clouds, play hide and seek with you. When you are riding towards west, there’s nothing much of a chance with the South Western monsoon. It will come pouring, when you least wanted it, right when the wind had dried your wet clothes from the previous shower. But when you are riding to the east, you can play chase with the hovering rain cloud, and can even beat it. On the plains, you have a better chance of winning, than on the hills where every alternate turn will take you back under the clouds. And if you stop for a tea, like the legendary, lazy rabbit, the cloud will take you over, and wait for you to finish the tea to splash its grace on you. And there are times, when you think you have almost left the clouds behind, but still at your heels, and the road takes a right turn, right in to the middle of the cloud. Right then, with a childlike excitement, the clouds shower the rains, and the losers grin a stupid grin, warning each other to be careful on the slippery road.

Once the Ghats are left behind, you are out in the scorching sun again. But, during monsoons, the clouds cover up the sun most time of the day and give you the best riding climate possible on that terrain. Still, the plains are boring in comparison, even with the fresh greenery of the fields, and swelled up rivers that unless stay as depressing stretches of sand dunes most part of the year – credits to over 50 dams that are on the South Western Ghats. When you are back on the National Highway pestered with trucks, and buses, and cars – all of them believe asphalt roads are not for bikes; bikers don’t pay toll at tolled roads, after all – there’s only one thing to look forward to, other than a truck coming against you on your lane. The evening, and the drink.

The drinking dens in Tamil Nadu are very different from the ones you see in the neighbouring states. I have written about them earlier, still they are worth telling again. Through out India, one can find same services offered in different classes, under the same roof. An economically viable colonial hangover. In trains there are up to five different classes of comfort – or discomfort, depending on the end you are looking at – provided, obviously, at five different rates. At a bus station we have three or more different ‘types’ of buses that commute the same routes – equal distances, almost equal speeds, but very different rates. At a restaurant, one can find the cheapest self-service counter, slightly expensive service area, and a premium priced air-conditioned dining area. To substantiate the price difference, and the faithfulness to the colonisers, the plates and uniforms of waiters are kept to match the each class. The food served though, is from the same kitchen. Bars are no exception. But slightly different in Tamil Nadu.

Alcoholic beverage marketing is under the complete control of the state government in Tamil Nadu. All the retail shops are owned and operated by the government, with its employed staff. They are called Wineshops for some strange reason, and sell every alcoholic beverage except the wine. These places don’t serve alcohol, as a rule, but only sell you bottled drinks. There will inevitably be a small shop close to it selling disposable cups and water and cola and pickles. Though, drinking in public is an offence punishable under IPC-268 and IPC-502, I never have heard of an instance of the invoking that law in front of a Wineshop. Apparently, IPC-502 says, “Whoever, in a state of intoxication, appears in any public place, or in any place which it is a trespass in him to enter, and there conducts himself in such a manner as to cause annoyance to any person, shall be punished.” You can actually sue someone for talking nonsense, if he/she is drunk.

In contrast to these retail shops, the bars that are licensed to sell and serve alcohol are luxurious. With cosy couches in an air-conditioned hall, and 5 to 6 varieties of snacks on the house with the drink. They also put low wattage bulbs in different colours to lighten up this luxury. The bar we walked into went a step further. They serve every drink, except beer, in wine glasses, may be with the same allusion as of the Wineshops. No, not even brandy glasses. That too with stirrers, which are logically placed upside down in each drink. While paddling in the rum and water in our glasses with the broadened end of the stirrer, my companion said, “the laughs are on the house!” “Very entertaining place,” I replied through the laughter. And there were no more miles to go before we sleep.

Confessions of innocent minds

It’s something I’m so sure about. Well, almost. The last t thing I do look like is a six feet tall wooden box with netted windows on its two opposite sides, and a supposedly holy soul that has knowledge over right and wrong residing inside it. Agreed that my ears are huge, but not as big as small, netted windows. But people, quite a few of them in the last month, came up to me and made me wonder whether I really look like a confession box. And I kindly forgive them without even asking to say five Hail Marys. Thinking back, I see that it’s been happening with me for years and years, and I can’t remember ever since. May be, I just had an overdose of it in the last few weeks.

They tell me things I never wanted to know, without being asked to. I’m not talking about people who are friends, and may want to excrete the disintegrated thoughts in their heads once in a while, and use my big ears for a comfortable commode. They make me feel wanted, and when they look relieved I would be stinking with pride. That much silly a person is what I’m. But here I wasn’t referring to them, but people, whom I never have met before, and won’t ever meet again. Like a person, who stands in front of you in a queue, or stands next to you in a bus stop, or the auto-rickshaw driver, or the bus conductor. And these people don’t leave me with a feeling of silly pride, but more of wonderment and an unwanted burden of knowledge.

May be this is happening to not just me, but to you too, and to everyone else. I wanted to know. I smile at the fellow, who’s waiting for the elevator to come down, and tell him that the beef masala in Indian Coffee house is the best. He didn’t smile back like I would have done hearing something of that sort; and with a slightly bewildered look on his otherwise blank and bandaged face, he tells me that Dr. Venu’s consulting room is on the ground floor itself. I should have replied him that it is raining in Cheerapunjee, but I didn’t. I don’t even tell him that I don’t want to know where Dr. Venu sits to consult, and starts to climb up the stairs, thinking why I can’t respond the way that fellow did when someone tells me beef or potato in someplace is the best. The next day, I learn from the board that lists the entire faculty in the hospital that this Dr. Venu is the consultant psychiatrist. So, that must be it! All these people who tells me things are freaks. Or at least, I should think that they are.

Granted that there are more crazy people in this world than anybody would want. But is it that they recognize one belongs to their religion when they see me? I have every right to disagree; it just can’t be so. If it were so, I would have done the same to them too, right? And I don’t. So the blame naturally would come back to my looks. Everyone knows people generally go by looks, at least in the case of perfect strangers. My good friends tell me that I got looks good enough to make little kids trust in their mothers’ love and cling to it with their good little lives. And to make big girls believe in what their mothers told them about strangers. Anyways, for sure, I don’t look as an easily approachable thing as a trash can. And hear what happens to me!

An auto-rickshaw driver tells me that the Government should bring a rule to make it compulsory for rickshaws to have transparent roofs, so that childish couples stop cuddling together behind his back. He tells me that he has given it a good thought for a good time. I don’t ask him how long he was waiting for the good guy to turn up to expose his brilliant idea. A lift operator tells me that for the last three and a half years he’s going up and down and hasn’t reached anywhere. I smile, trying to look like I understand him, and don’t tell him to quit his job and take a walk. I don’t have the heart to hear that he got a wife and three kids and an ailing mother, and he has to go up and down to run a family. A recently married nurse, with really beautiful eyes and fairly beautiful body, tells me that she should have cut her hair short before the marriage, because she wants to cut her hair short and her husband doesn’t allow. I smile again, trying again to look like that I understand, and don’t ask her to cut off the relationship and hair in one go. The guy who sits next to me in train tells me that he got two TVs at home – one for his parents and one for his grandmother, because they want to watch different serials at the same time – and he doesn’t get to see TV. He doesn’t stop there. He says that he used to watch the serial about Sree Ayyappan’s legend with his grandmother, and he has stopped it because the actor has put on weight over the past year, damaging the image he used to get when praying to Sree Ayyappan. No, he didn’t dump this piece of invaluable information during a conversation. It was a stimulus, not a response; and the response he got was a smile that would look more like dumb than understanding. He told me all these, just like that, when I was listening to Mr. Enderby’s belchs, burps and farts.

When I come to think of it, books are just like these people. They tell you same or similar things when you are least suspecting. But there’s this big factor of choice, to make a difference. As for Mr. Enterby, Anthony Burgess wrote the story in four small volumes. And with my kind of luck I find the second volume first. I wait for a couple of months without opening the second volume, and find the third one– on which the blurb says it’s the last of the Enderby trilogy. Then two or three more months later I see the fourth volume, which the author had no plans to write when he published the third one. And beside that fourth volume I find the spanking new edition of Complete Enderby with all the four volumes in one, and would cost me less than the price of four books together. Just to substantiate my long wait for the first volume, I pick up the fourth volume and choose to give it a chance till I get hold of the first volume. And about a year after I picked up the second volume, I find a 1969 edition, which claims to be the Complete Enderby with only the first two volumes in one. Well, a classic example of how does 20^th century literature, or at least the blurbs on those books, look anachronic today. But like I said, there’s this big factor of choice, to make a difference. I waited for a year, patiently, to hear the belchs, burps and farts of Mr. Enderby, and he will lock up his gas factory on my wish, if I bothered to close the book and look out through the window. May be, that’s the reason why I happily pay for the book, and deter to show any gratitude when I get the same or similar things from people for free.

I haven’t told you anything yet. On a ten minutes bus ride, the guy sits next to me says that he’s recently returned from U.S. of A., and has no plans to go back. He tells me that he’s researching on the activities of black powers and devil worshippers in India - who work with the help from their headquarters in America. He tells me about the Goat of Mendes, and the Intellectual Decompression Chamber. He tells me that they spread their messages through advertisements of consumer goods. He tells me that every meaningless headline in any advertisement is a Satanic message smartly hidden, and will decipher itself in our subconscious mind. I resort to chance, and my stop arrives. On another bus ride, a longer one of about two hours this time, the guy sits next to me says he built a two-story, 5,000 sq. ft. house about 20 years back with just Rs. 60,000. He tells me that he’s a retired physics professor and was wise to get Laurie Baker’s student to design and build his house. He says if everyone in Kerala were as wise as him, the sand prices wouldn’t have reached today’s Rs. 7,000 for a truckload from Rs. 150 that was the price 20 years back. He tells me if everyone has adopted Laurie Baker’s methods in construction, there would have been still sand left in Kerala’s riverbeds; and it’s this sand stealing that lowered the groundwater platform making our rivers and wells go dry. I converse with him without a choice with monosyllable sentences for two hours. I didn’t even tell him that it’s also a wise idea to dig one’s own grave.

I told you about just five or six people. And I met about a hundred of them in the last 3-4 weeks. As I’m writing this piece, I dream of a beautiful world where every single one of them were a computer literate, and had Internet access, and ran their own blogs to write about the things they want to talk about. On a second thought, I think it’s better the way as it is. If that were the situation, each one of them would have asked me to read their blogs instead, making me write down a hundred URLs. And I wouldn’t have been left with anything to write about in my blog.

Timepass

Timepass is the name of a bourgeois bar in the holy town of Palani in Tamilnadu. Bourgeois, the adjective, was coined by the fellow-alcohol-aficionado with whom I was travelling. In his observation, there are not many places for a bourgeoisie drunkard in Tamilnadu. You have the wine shops that sell everything except wine all over the state. These shops owned and run by the State, and very much a proletariat’s place. For a bar to be bourgeois needs swing door, cushioned chairs, and inevitably, yellowish grim lighting. These places serve alcoholic drinks at 2 to 4 times higher price, depending on the quality of the swinging front door, than in the wine shops. These doors, by default, work as push-to-open from both sides, as there won’t be many who want to go out in the evening, or any who can go in at the closing time.

This particular bar, Timepass, has got a curious thing on the wall near the counter. A regular size wall clock with its hands moving anti-clockwise. More than confusing the time that has passed, it provides to the purpose of the badly needed excuse to a customer. When the waiter comes to tell you it’s the closing time, you can stare at the clock for two minutes and tell him, there still are two more hours to 11. I don’t think not many customers see this opportunity and try to exploit it to their benefit, as the clock is still there, and was there two years back. But then, bourgeoisies never had much trust in rebellion.

And while the clock was steadily tock-ticking, we were chewing on the snacks and masticating memories of encounters with policemen we met on the road. The subject was on the top of our minds, because that day afternoon too we were stopped at a border check-post. The policemen at border check-posts never wear caps. The cap sits on the table all day, looking over the procedures, and listening to the noises of the wireless equipment stands next to it.

The bag tied on to the luggage rack of the bike, is full of explosives, the one who stopped us was almost sure. I am still wondering how he would have reacted if he had found anything that he expected. He looked a lot relieved seeing only spare clothes, some clean and some dirty, and a couple books in the bag. Clutching at straws, he was hanging on to the elastic strap we use to tie the rain jackets over the bag when it’s not raining. He wanted to know whether we strangle people on the road with that elastic band, and pull out their eyes with the hooks. Though, all he could ask was why we are carrying around a suspicious elastic string with deadly metal hooks. At the end, he consoled us saying that we just look like thugs, but are actually not. He warned us against the danger too. That every single policeman who spots us will trouble us. He was a good pastime, and cut short our time in Timepass by half an hour.

We took his warning lightly. But he was right about this brothers and sisters,-in-arms. Two days later, we were stopped and checked five times. Longtime back, a bunch of policemen had warned us not to walk to the peninsular tip at Dhanushkodi, because the naval guards might shoot us down. We did walk to the tip and came walking back without any extra holes on our bodies. May be, we were lucky. Or they were. They might have had enough quails (read crows or cranes) to shoot down that day. On another occasion, they had warned us for carrying a Swiss Army Knife. They had said, highway petrol officers would put us behind the bars and charge us as highway robbers. That too didn’t happen after travelling with the same knife for thousands of kilometres.

Policemen are the most brilliant pessimists I have ever met in my life. Still once in a while they get unpleasant surprises. Like when they see that you actually carry all the required documents. But this guy’s intentions were noble. This committed officer at the border check-post, all alone almost hundred kilometres away from any support staff, was not risking his life, armed only with a cane baton and an unloaded 303 back in his cabin, not in an effort to squeeze out a 50 rupees note out of our wallets, but to ensure the safety of millions. Unfortunately we were not villainous enough to make him a hero.

It’s cinema that spoils our policemen, observed my companion. In reel life policemen look like policemen, and thugs and terrorists look like thugs and terrorists. Sadly for us, in real life only policemen look like policemen. You can never argue with a person who wears a uniform, whether it is a nurse, a waiter, or a policeman. The most sensible thing is to listen to them, and tell them what they like to hear. And never try to tell them anything that they already don’t know.

Two days after the drinks at Timepass was a day that commemorates the death of a freedom fighter belongs to the region, and we were travelling from Madurai to Tanjavur. Police barricades were made at every junction anticipating some trouble from the admirers of the local hero. It’s a tricky situation. The observant of the day has to shout patriotic slogans, but has no idea against or in favour of whom. When this patriotic spirit is spiced up with local spirits, police barricades at the places where the procession pass through are a necessary backdrop for this ironic comedy. And it was our third involuntary stoppage at one such junction.

They want to know where we are coming from and where we are going. We always start from a place, and hope to reach the same place. But that answer is not something the protectors of the people like to hear. So, we told them the place we started in the morning and the place we wished to reach by evening. The lady officer in charge of the battalion at the junction gets suspicious. She wants to know if our intention is touring the locations, why are we not doing it in DVD coaches; preferably in the ones those have window curtains.

Now, the basic rule for any uniform-wearing personnel is the blind following of the hierarchy. If your boss is suspicious, you too are suspicious, by default. This is generally referred as discipline, and causes chaos, or aggravates, most of the time. The low ranked actors re-enters the scene. And about twenty five policemen, and women, gathers around in anticipation. The job of the outer circle of these curious things in khakis is to chase away the inquisitive public. And all wanted to know what’s in the bag. The bag opens, once again, to reveal its unglamorous contents, including a couple of books wrapped in polyethylene bags.

Books, of course, are meant for the curious. They wanted to know whether they are ‘crime’ novels. No, they aren’t, the one you are flipping through is about the author’s misadventures as a petty criminal, when he was a narcotic addict, and drug pusher. The latter part of the answer was a just thought that was dead before born. Yes, there’s a camera that’s been double wrapped in the bag! “What is this? A camera! Call Mariyappa! He knows everything about cameras!” Orders the queen bee. Constable Mariyappa pushes his way through his less-privileged colleagues, with a hand held camera in his hand, and starts shooting the procedures with the fervour of a greenhorn journalist. He inspects our camera, and turns to his boss helplessly. “It’s not a digital camera. I know to check pictures stored only in a digital camera.”

Now they are utterly disappointed, but still as clueless, after seeing the unexciting contents of the bag, and a camera that doesn’t have digital image preview. What they want to know now is why are we taking this bad road, when there’s a very good NH connecting our starting point and destination. There are no bad roads, and we were looking for the longest possible route; I wanted to tell them, but didn’t. Instead, I told them we thought this route is shorter. No, this one is longer, and in a worse condition compared to the NH; the officer is not convinced, as he is not supposed to. The roads in Tamilnadu are almost as good as national highways, I said in an attempt of justification. No, not as good as an NH, the state policeman replied modestly, as if he’s been flattered.

We are ready to continue our ride after 30 minutes of interrogation and scrutiny. But the lady officer in charge still can’t make a decision. With her short, thin frame, and what-do-I-do-now look on her face, she resembled a high school kid with a big fake moustache, playing the part of a tough guy who forgot the lines during an emotionally intense scene in a play he was acting at the school competitions. It could be the moment of my life, she must have been thinking, feeling the weight of the situation on her tiny shoulders. The two stars weigh a tonne now. The hearts of every single man in uniform, and the two on the other side of the fence, filled with compassion and genuine helplessness. One of the senior constables suggested that we could be allowed to leave. And the lady, gave her consent with a silent glance.

You would be going through the same drama for another twenty times, said one among them as we started off again. One is good pastime. Twenty are real waste of time. If you have walked on the roads of Bangalore after midnight, you will understand what we were feeling right then. In that place, and time, you will find a pack of street dogs at every 300 meters or so. And they are not there to respect the rights of a pedestrian. They will stare at you, and if your eyes meet theirs, they will bark! Seldom, they bite too. The trick is not looking at them in their eyes, and walk past as composed as you possibly can, while feeling their stares right at the back of your head. They still might bark, or bite. But seldom. The same might work with policemen, I suggested to my companion. And it worked with a pretty good success rate. We were stopped only in two more instances. Now, I didn’t suggest this analogy with any intentions of insult. I respect dogs a lot.

And time passes, without making any major changes, and repeating same mistakes.