Standing up for Stand-up

It was just another weekend. I got a call from Rajesh uncle, dad's friend from Australia. He was in town, and wanted to hang out. He's cool like that. He suggested we meet at Me So Happi in Khar. Sleazy name, I thought to myself. Turns out it was a restaurant, and my brother Aakash was performing there the same night.

A bit of background, Aakash is a part-time student of law, and a full-time stand-up comic. He has shows all over town all the time. Most of the time I don't even know whether he is performing on any given night, and if he is, I don't know where the performance is. Much to my discredit, I haven't been to too many of his shows. I blame Mumbai traffic.

Anyway, I accepted Rajesh uncle's invitation. Come Saturday evening, Prachi and I were off to Khar. There was an unexpected drizzle that day, and the whole of Bombay felt like it was air-conditioned. We reached just about on time. My friend Nipun joined us as well. Don't ask who he is and why he was there, that's a separate blog entry altogether.

The restaurant was shaped like a really long rectangle. As soon as I entered, I thought to myself....how in the world will they do stand-up here? Presumably, the comic would stand at one end of the restaurant. I would be lucky to hear him, let alone see him. I shared my concerns with Aakash and he said it will all be fine. The sceptic in me has taught me not to trust him, especially when he says that is will all be fine. He's unreliable that way.

About 30 minutes behind schedule, the show started. Aakash was the opening act. He had one of those wireless microphones which turned out to be utterly useless. We couldn't hear him at all! I was quite disappointed. The trained comic that he is, he asked early on whether we could hear him, and we replied in the negative. Apparently this was the first time the restaurant was hosting a stand-up show. To my surprise, he took it in his stride and just walked to the middle of the (really long rectangle-shaped) restaurant. I was thinking, he is out of his comfort zone. He was smack in the middle of the room, with the audience on all four sides. He simply continued his routine.

A feeling of dread engulfed me. Not because his jokes were bad (they weren't), but because he was in the worst situation a comic can be in. He was in the middle of the restaurant. At any given time, a significant percentage of his audience couldn't see him face-to-face. He still went on. Waiters kept crossing him to take and deliver customer orders. He still went on. Customers would wave to waiters right in front of him. He STILL went on. People who couldn't hear him because of the bad mikes stopped paying attention and started chatting, which made hearing him all the more difficult for those paying attention. He STILL went on.

The dread turned to a churning feeling in my stomach, knowing what he as a performer would have been going through. But soon enough, it turned to pride. For the fact that my brother took it in his stride and didn't get upset. For the fact that he continued his performance no matter how bad the situation got. After his act, the owner of the restaurant got the message and fixed the situation somewhat. But Aakash didn't benefit from that. He took the brunt...and still went on. I doubt I can ever fully explain it to him, how proud I am. But I am. For the way he handled the situation. After all, the show must go on. And that's just what he did.

My City

I get flashes of moments from my past. The past I spent in Austin, mostly. It's not that I love Bombay any less, but off late this 'Mayanagri' has been frustrating me a hell lot. The city you make your home is supposed to make you happy. Frustrate you occasionally. But not frustrate you most of the time.

I spend over 3 hours a day commuting. Sometimes it's 4 hours a day. And usually I'm the one driving. Which leads to frustration. You may be happy after a productive day. Happy for the humoungus amount of work you got done. But the traffic saps the enthusiasm out of you. And by the time you reach home, you're pissed off. At the uncouth drivers, the lack of discipline and the sheer volume of cars all on the road at the same time.

My mom asked me the other day…'What's bothering you? Why are you always so stressed out?' I replied, 'I love my job, I love gym, I love studying and I love hanging out with my friends and family. It's the commute that I hate.' She vowed to find me a driver to ease my worries, at the earliest. She's still searching. She can't find anyone because either the drivers have unrealistic expectations about hours of service, or salary, or both. So I continue driving.

The point of this post is not to complain about the commute. This city, the city I love so very much, is becoming increasingly hard to live in. No matter what your income. If you don't live close to your office, life is a pain in the neck. 

Sometimes I find myself wishing that I had a chance to live somewhere else. In the same breath, I find myself wondering what the hell I would do if I lived somewhere else. My soul is inexplicably tied to Bombay and all that it signifies. 

I would be so out of place anywhere else. Except Austin, of course. Any suggestions?

The many faces of Air India

So I decided to fly Air India after many flights on Indigo and Jet. The reason was purely logistical, no other airline had a flight to Ahmedabad at the time I preferred. I reached the airport more or less on time, armed with my boarding card and lounge access card. I was looking forward to some quiet time in the airport lounge with the latest issue of The Economist.

I entered the terminal building and proceeded to the check-in counter. I couldn't wait to check in my bag, as it wasn't very comfortable lugging around a laptop bag, a suit and a suitcase with only two hands. I dumped the bag onto the check-in counter and handed over my web check-in printout. The lady at the counter had a disgruntled look, and she frowned while she studied my printout. Then she waved the printout at me and said, “You're at the wrong counter.” I could hear the sound of glass shattering inside my head. “Huh?” was all I could muster. She replied, “This flight leaves from the International Terminal. You can still catch it if you run.” I glanced at my watch. It was 6.10 pm, and my flight departed at 6.55 pm. More glass shattered inside my head. I asked the lady, “What's the quickest way to get to the International Terminal?” She just shrugged her shoulders and muttered, “Rickshaw.”

I grabbed my belongings and sprinted towards the exit. I was stopped at the gate by the same guard who had let me in. He lazily asked me why I wanted to head back out. I told him why. He still insisted on examining my printout for discrepancies before handing it back to me. As soon as I came back outside the terminal, a man dressed in a rickshaw driver's uniform ran towards me, half-screaming, “Ahmedabad? Ahmedabad?” Before I could comprehend how this person could possibly know that I was going to Ahmedabad, my legs had already taken control of the situation and started moving towards him. He grabbed my bag and said, “Sir, this happens all the time, and all I do is ferry hapless passengers such as you back and forth. I'll take you from the inside road and we should make it on time.” I didn't know whether to laugh at the fact that there was person making a living out of Air India's inefficiencies, or to worry whether I'd reach on time. I jumped into the rickshaw and we set off as if a Formula One Race had begun.

My driver weaved in and out of traffic with amazing skill. I made it my mission to hang on my three pieces of luggage and not look at his driving, focusing my eyes at my feet the whole time. He asked me, “Have you checked in already on the internet?” I merely nodded feebly in the affirmative. His face lit up and he exclaimed, “You'll definitely catch the flight then!” In a matter of minutes we pulled in to the International Terminal. I effectively paid him a big tip by not asking for any change back, and half-walked, half-ran towards the check-in counter. It was 6.25pm, the time at which boarding was scheduled to start. The same look greeted me here as well. The lady at the counter couldn't print my boarding pass, so took me to her duty manager. The manager told me, “If you want to catch this flight, you'll have to take all your luggage on to the plane. You can't check anything in.” As I had a choice in the matter. I agreed, and I got a new boarding card. I heaved a sigh of relief. The duty manager added, “Why can't you people make it to the airport on time? You should be happy I'm letting you on to the flight at all.” It took a lot of mental strength on my part to fight the urge to snap back at him, and I set off towards immigration.

The Air India runner-boy who had been deputed to get me through to the gate quickly did a fantastic job and we were at the security check in no time. At security, the guards checking the bags were in no mood to hurry up, even though there was a long line of frustrated-looking people waiting. They were talking to each other in Bhojpuri about plans for Diwali, Priyanka Chopra, Cricket and Kingfisher Airlines (not all at the same time). It was already 6.40pm. The doors on the plane would be closing. I nudged one of them to hurry up as my flight would leave any minute. Bad call. He asked a series of rhetorical questions, like “Tum PM ho ka?”, “Amrika jaa rahe ho ka?” and “Siraf tumhe late ho raha hai ka?”. I apologized profusely, and luckily was allowed by some of the people waiting in line to get checked ahead of them. I continued sprinting towards the gate and my watch showed the time to be 6.50pm. I felt the side-effects of having been a smoker as my heart was pumping and my lungs were heaving. The gate came into sight, and I slowed down. Panting, I handed over my boarding card and walked onto the plane. The plane was new, clean and well maintained. I loaded my bags into the overhead compartment, wiped my face and collapsed onto my seat with my eyes closed.

“Kya hua, beta? You're looking like you just came running.” I opened my eyes to see an elderly air hostess smiling at me. “Can I bring you some water?”, she added. I just smiled and nodded. I told her my story in a few sentences and she smiled politely before leaving me to myself. The plane was empty save a few souls, and I was stretching my legs at in my exit row seat, when the same air hostess returned with a much younger colleague. The young lady asked me whether she could give me a briefing on how to operate the Emergency Exit, to which I nodded. I could tell it was her first time, as she didn't seem confident and skipped minor details here and there (I know, because I travel more than my fair share). I smiled at her, trying to reassure her. In my head, I was wondering whether training on giving safety briefings should be done on the job rather than in advance. I resisted the temptation to ask her a random question on the procedure.

The flight pushed back from the gate on time, and another elderly air hostess buckled down in the crew seat in front of me. She smiled warmly, and my company identity card dangling from my belt caught her eye. It sparked off a conversation between us which lasted till the end of the flight. We talked about my job, about the stock markets, about life as an employee of Air India and even about our favorite airports. Like many strangers I have met before, she was also worried about financial security. She loved what I told her about good investment habits and by the end of the flight, she was ready to start investing! I gave her my visiting card as we landed on schedule and we wished each other a good night.

I know it is a general perception (which I also have) that Air India is an inefficient, unreliable and outdated airline, that it is a drain on taxpayer money and it should be shut down. I don't know what the right thing to do is, but today I got a fresh perspective on the human side of Air India: The check-in staff, the manager, the runner boy and the in-flight crew. Many of them are just pawns in the grand scheme of things and have seen their aspirations wither away with the fortunes of the airline. For these people, I hope that even though Air India might stumble, fall, splutter but in the end it must manage to get back up, wipe the dirt off itself and keep walking.

Married.

It was a cool winter night. I was in bed, watching Youtube videos on my laptop. It was especially peaceful outside, and a slight breeze swayed the curtains from time to time. The Mrs. had dozed off to sleep a few minutes ago, and I had some time off to myself. I love being married, but sometimes I miss being single. Therefore, whenever my wife is out, is asleep or generally not in the vicinity, I do single-guy stuff. Don't get me wrong, that just means lazing around, watching videos, playing computer games and the like.

So anyways, I was watching some random video, and I felt a slight tug at my arm. I glanced to my left, and she was fast asleep. Yet, in her sleep, she was trying to hold my hand. I stuck out my thumb and slowly brought it close to her outstretched palm. Like a baby, she gripped it tight and held on to it. A small smile escaped my lips. It was as if I had my own little baby, looking to me for comfort and solace. In that instant, I felt just a little bit more of an adult. I forgot all about the video, and spent the next half hour watching her sleep, while her hand gripped my thumb tightly; before dozing off to sleep myself.

Married life rocks.

Sugarcane Juice

I had passed it many times before. A nondescript little store, selling nothing but sugarcane juice. Small glass, Rs. 6. Big glass, Rs, 8. Big glass without ice, Rs. 10. I hadn't been inside for about ten years. I used to be a regular when I was a kid. Drinking two, three glasses. It was heaven after three hours of cricket under the hot summer sun. But once I left for the States, the cricket stopped. Once the cricket stopped, the sugarcane juice stopped as well.

I don't know what it was that day, that attracted me towards the store. I was passing by; and somehow I stopped on impulse, and just walked in. It was still the same. Nothing had changed. The posters on the wall, the tables and chairs, the glasses. The so-called waiter tiled his head towards me. “Ek thanda bina baraf!”, I yelled at him, trying to make sure he heard me over the ruckus the cane-squeezing machine was creating. He nodded in disapproval, catching red-handed yet another customer who wanted it cold without compromising any volume in the glass on the ice. He filled a tall glass with the sugarcane nectar and plopped it down perfectly on the off-white sun mica covered table without spilling a drop.

I spent a moment taking the simple pleasure of the a glassful of freshly squeezed sugarcane juice in, and lifted the glass to my parched lips to take in a massive gulp. Some people like to sprinkle masala on the juice and sip it bit-by-bit, but not me. I like to take in as much as I can in the first gulp. I just feel that something so delicious should be enjoyed in abundance, and not in a measured manner.

I finished my glass of ganna juice in two quick gulps, then took a look around. This little place where I had been coming for the last sixteen-odd years, hadn't changed a bit. Buildings around it had been torn down and converted in to 50-storey skyscrapers, but Rajhans Juice Center remained as it was. Homely. It was like a place stuck in time in the midst of this ever-changing megalopolis that is Mumbai.

The waiter beckoned to me to vacate my seat for the next paying customer. I got up and proceeded to the counter where the owner sat. He said, “Dus.” As I paid him with an old ten-rupee note, he smiled. It seemed like he recognized the kid who used to come to his shop after a tiring afternoon of cricket. He asked, “Kasa kai?” I replied with a broad smile, “Majet.” I left the store, nostalgic of my childhood, smiling.

Cities are defined by their ability to keep re-inventing themselves. They are also defined by the un-changed neighbourhoods that keep the original flavour of a city alive. A sliver of my childhood nostalgia had just been brought back to me. I smiled all the way to my apartment seventeen stories above Rajhans Juice Center.

The Violin

There's something about working hard to make a living that really excites me. Some people have their life cut out for them. They get everything on a silver platter, only having to take the effort to enjoy it. Some have to struggle on a daily basis to make ends meet. I have a lot of respect for those who struggle, work hard and come up in life. They might even have to do work that is beneath their dignity and education just to make a living. I recently came across one such example which touched my heart.

It was a peaceful evening in Christchurch, New Zealand. There was a slight chill in the air, and I was returning to my hotel with my parents after a fun-filled day of sightseeing. Happy thoughts filled my mind as I ambled lazily along the pavement, longing for my comfortable hotel bed. The streets were nearly empty as storekeepers wound down for the day. The sheer sense of calm was addictive.

I heard the soft sounds of a violin playing in the distance. It felt like the sounds were playing in my head, and I smiled to myself, thinking that the evening could not get any more perfect. As I walked on, the sounds became louder until I saw a sight that stabbed me like a knife through my heart. Sheltered between two pillars of a downtown skyscraper stood a young girl playing a beautiful violin. She must not have been older than fourteen. She looked beautiful in a black velvet coat with a white shirt and black trousers, her tiny feet dressed in cute black and white shoes with little bows on them. Her clothes were fit for a performance at a prestigious venue. At her feet lay an open violin case, with loose change and small bills scattered about inside.

Every now and then, a stranger would slow down to throw a coin or two into the case. She would give a faint smile to acknowledge the benevolent soul, and continue playing. All the while, she looked straight ahead, her eyes glistening with a steely resolve. I could tell she was not entirely comfortable with having to play on a pavement for money, but was doing it with sheer grit and willpower to help her family earn some extra money and make ends meet. She would swallow hard every now and then. It almost seemed like she was swallowing her pride.

There is no doubt in my mind that she was great at the violin. What should have been a teenage hobby had turned into a difficult lesson in life. It pained my heart that a genuine talent had been reduced to mildly interesting entertainment for passerby. Where I come from, it is not unusual to see people begging for money with pity as their weapon. But this, this was just painful. An innocent girl , and a talented one at that, should never ever have to face the indignity of having to use her wonderful talent to earn small change.

I looked away and continued walking, brutally reminded of how lucky I am.

Moments of Reflection

June 2 12:10pm
Tavistock Square Park, London

After a lot of rain yesterday, the sun is finally out this afternoon. I'm waiting for my dear friend Niyantha to reach the hotel, and there's no better way to spend it than with a book in my hand and the warm sunshine on my skin. I amble over to the park next to my hotel. It's a beautiful patch of land in the midst of the bustling city: massive trees wave gently with the wind, shedding their leaves ever so often. A cobblestone path crosses through the park, lined with quait benches. I plop down on the grass, my tummy tickled every now an then by a wayward blade and start reading...soon oblivious to the world around me.

After a while, I get bored of the book...after all it's one of those heavy management ones. I take to my other favoite activity: people watching. A couple of gardeners toil away, whistling at every pretty lady that walks by. A serious man in a business suit hurries to eat his lunch while typing away on his blackberry. A middle-aged woman patienty helps her spastic friend take sips of a Starbucks frappé. A group of college kids sit nearby in a circle on the grass, chattering and giggling.

It's amazing how this little park insulates me from the outside world. I can barely hear the traffic on the streets bordering the park. I lazily turn over and lie on my back on the warm grass. The sunshine soothes my skin as I close my eyes and smile to myself. I can't think of any place back home where I can do this, especially in the middle of a big city. I feel at peace, convinced that there's no better way to start off my Eurotrip.

An emotional day in Amritsar

Recently I spent a day in Amritsar with two of my best friends, and it turned out to be one of the most emotional ones I have had in a long time. I never thought I could go through such a range of emotions in the span of one day, and I left the city with mixed feelings: joy, sorrow, peace, patriotism, faith and wonder.

We started the day by going to Jallianwala Baug. It was a short drive from our hotel, and we didn't know much about it except what we recalled vaguely from school textbooks. It was fairly crowded, and looked more like a public park than anything else. But as we walked around, a sense of soberness enveloped us. We read about the various people involved with the massacre: their stories, their actions and the consequences of their actions. We peered down the well where several women jumped to their death. We gazed at the hundreds of bullet holes in the walls. A feeling of disgust came over us, at how any human could inflict such pain on another. We were all quiet by the time we left the place, saddened by the first-hand account of what had happened there on Baisakhi Day, 1919.

At sundown, we went to Wagah to witness the daily lowering of the flags at the India-Pakistan border. The sheer realization that we were sitting only metres away from this country that you had been told was the enemy since you were born was overwhelming. It didn't look any different from India, except that the men and women were sitting separately. The five thousand-odd people screaming patriotic slogans got us charged up, and the raw aggression of the jawans got us charged up some more. We left feeling pumped up with adrenalin, our chests swelling with national pride.

As darkness descended, we arrived at the Golden Temple. Very few times in my life have I been to such a pure, serene and holy place. We were enveloped by a sense of calm as we sat by the water, unable to take our eyes off the majestic Temple in the moonlight. The soft prayers that were being sung inside the temple echoed throughout the complex, making us feel at peace at our very core. We took a walk around the complex, and then after praying inside the Temple, sat back down by the water. None of us wanted to leave. The simple beauty in submitting oneself to a higher being, enjoying His presence, feeling Him wean our troubles away, had become evident to us.

It was the perfect end to a wonderful day.

Sunday at the Willingdon

It was a Sunday like any other, except for one minor difference. I was up at eleven in the morning, quite early given my habit of sleeping in on the only holiday of the week. The reason for this exceptional event was that I had a luncheon to attend. My friend Richa had invited me out to lunch at The Willingdon Club. Now Willingdon isn't just any club. It is where Mumbai's elite go to relax, play a game of golf, swim or play cards. It is quite possibly the most elite gymkhana in the city, if not the country. I was partly curious, and partly excited to go check out this exclusive club. I had vague memories of having gone there as a child, but recalled nothing to write a blog about. As the clock struck one in the afternoon, I got into my car and drove to Richa's place, immersed in thoughts of what this oasis of glamour would be like.

I was shaken from my thoughts as Richa opened the door and got into my car. She was dressed well, and I wondered what the occaision was that warranted it. Maybe people dressed up to go have lunch at The Willingdon. At the Radio Club, where I was a member, shorts and an old t-shirt would have sufficed. Maybe they were strict about these things where we were going. We drove to the club, making small talk and discussing the happenings of our respective lives. There was much traffic along the way, and Thrillseekers' Nightmusic Volume 2 playing softly in the background kept me from getting annoyed at it.

We pulled into the driveway of the club, which looked every bit like something the British left behind. The green picket fence, the cobblestone dividers, the uniformed gatekeeper...all lent a touch of serenity to the place. The guest parking lot brought me back to reality. It was one big muddy ditch. It seemed more like a place where the horses from the Mahalakshmi Race Course across the street should've been kept. I grumbled to myself at having to risk getting my beloved Civic Hybrid stuck in the mud, and carefully backed into what could be called a parking slot.

When we stepped into the entrace foyer, one of Richa's friends was already waiting there. They hugged, and she said to Richa, “Happy Birthday!” Birthday? Birthday! It was Richa's birthday? How did I not know this? Had she mentioned a birthday party? Was I expected to know? I felt like a dunce. I admitted to Richa about not knowing the date she graced the planet on, and to my relief she didn't seem to mind. We walked from one restaurant to another, looking for a place to sit. One was full, and they hadn't held our reservation because we were a few minutes late. Another one had a dress code, and none of us were looking spiffy enough to be allowed inside. We finally settled on the verandah, and I soon realized that I was thankful the other places didn't let us in.

It was a breezy rectangular area overlooking the golf course. The ceiling was gorgeous, almost fifteen feet from the floor. Fans with really long stalks hung from it, dispering air at a height low enough to comfort the pampered cheeks of the guests. Some fans creaked under the weight of their own breeze, whimpering in an annoying squeaky tone. They were the same color as the cieling and the walls, a crisp glimmering white that looked like it had just been painted. Large black lanterns with bulbs inside them adorned the walls. The seemed to bask in the sunlight that flooded through the massive french windows that made up an entire side of the room. In one corner lay a massive thermometer, too heavy for one man to carry. The mercury was still accurate, and I wondered of the days, people and events this outdated antique must have witnessed during its lifetime. The sleek marble floor was covered with white cane chairs arranged neatly at spacious intervals. Privacy seemed to be the theme of the verandah, with tables too far apart to allow a conversation to be overheard by anyone. The chairs had lime green cushions, with little yellow flowers embroidered on them. People spoke to each other in a dignified, hushed sort of way, glancing and occasionally smiling at those who passed by. All in all, it was a quiet room with an aura of peace engulfing it.

We hailed the waiters, who all seemed to be smiling almost unnaturaly, with their hands folded neatly behind their backs. They joined a few tables to form one long table. By now, Richa's other friends had started arriving, and we all plopped down wherever we found a familiar face. As for me, I sunk into a chair from where I could see the ongoing cricket match without someone blocking my view. I had a feeling that I would need the cricket to keep me engrossed while everyone talked about unfamiliar people and situations. I had mentally prepared myself to hear a lot of lawyer talk, given that most of Richa's friends would be from the law fraternity.

People started arriving. By themselves, and in groups. Dressed for chilling, clubbing or showing off their bodies. I realized soon that watching everyone was a lot more fun than watching the cricket match. Heck, India wasn't even playing! There was a girl who looked like she was dressed for a tanning session on the beach. She chattered on and on about movies, her home town, and everything else in between. A couple of the guys seemed more interested in the contstant stream of chinese food bring brought to our table. Some looked at me and smiled politely. Some made small talk on where I worked, where I lived and what my thoughts on the stock markets were. Some complained to me about the losses they had made recently, as if I was responsible. But soon their talk switched to work and goings-on at their own offices. It turns out that I know a fair number of people that they know. It isn't uncommon for that to happen when you work or live in South Bombay. Everyone tends to know the same people, and plenty of shared acquaintances surface during first meetings.

I shifted my gaze to the golf course that this spectacular room overlooked. The neatly manicured lawns shimmered in the bright sunshine. There were large honeysuckle bushes lined along the edge of the building, and they stuck their buds out in the welcome breeze. There were a lot of people outside, glad to be able to play a round of golf after the monsoon. Most of the people playing were men, their visors lined with the sweat from their brows, and their fat tummies bulging against their polo t-shirts. The women stood by disinterested, gossiping among themselves. Occasionally, they lifted up their massive sunglasses to take a look at someone handsome walking by. The whole time, they were fanning themselves with large hand-fans. They were only too eager to get back onto the golf carts and move to the next hole when their husbands were done. Tall buildings made up the backdrop of this golf course, and it seemed unnatural to witness such a large open space in the middle of this chaotic city.

I heard my name being called out, and I focused my eyes back to the scene near me. Richa was asking me if I was getting bored. I smiled, nodded lazily to answer in the negative, and took another look at those in front of me. Smiling, laughing, eating, drinking, chattering, teasing...oblivious to the world and the problems that lay beyond the greens. The peacefulness of this place engulfed me. The world seemed a happy place.

*Names have been omitted to protect the author's right to forget them.

The simple (and noisy) pleasures of life

It was 3.30 pm. I was grumbling to myself about having to leave work early. I was being dragged out of office by my mom, since it is Ganpati Visarjan today. I told myself, why must a whole city suffer because one section wants to celebrate this festival? I could have gotten so much work done if I had stayed a few hours more! I got home, seemingly at a loss as to what to do for the rest of the day. I hung out with my brother, wandered aimlessly on the internet, all the while complaining in my head about the non-stop cacophony of drums that was underway seventeen stories below.

The day passed nevertheless, and soon it was time to sleep. I shut all the windows tight, hoping that they would keep the noise out. The same noise which was like a hammer to my skull, which had gotten steadily louder as high tide approached and the larger idols were brought to be immersed. I live in a part of town which serves as a passage for a large number of idols as they make their way to Chowpatty Beach. The sound is amplified as it reaches me up here and comes loud and clear to my window. I wondered when I would be able to sleep, and how I would pull off a productive day at work tomorrow without proper rest.

As I pulled my curtains to a close, I took what I thought would be one last fleeting glance at the commotion below. What I saw left me mesmerized. It was raining, no, pouring down. The sky was lit up brilliantly by flashes of lightning. Water had started to collect near the drains, and the street has begun to flood up to one's ankles. There was a long line of cars, held back by a large procession slowly making its way towards Chowpatty. By slowly, I mean it was moving a metre a minute. There were people dancing in front and at the back of the procession, at the centre of which was a truck with a beautiful idol of Lord Ganesha on it. The idol seemed to be smiling down at the crowd, which looked even happier. There were children, adults, men, women, even a dog or two. They were completely engrossed in the dancing, there was not a trace of worry on their faces. They didn't seem to care about anything around them; neither the water fast filling the street, the cars honking behind them, nor the rain pouring down on their already drenched bodies. Their lives were probably full of problems, but for this one day and night everything was forgotten in the magical experience that was the Visarjan.

In that one moment, it struck me that this was the happiest Bombay could ever be. The combined joy that the people of this city get when they immerse their favorite idol in the mirky waters of the Arabian Sea is far more than the inconvenience caused to those who choose not to participate in this festival. No doubt, life will go back to normal tomorrow, except for the eerie body parts of the clay Ganesha idols that will wash up on shore all along the city's coastline. But it will be a happier life, one filled with memories of the last few days gone by. The dancing, the modaks, the drums, the idols...the beautiful, beautiful idols. This festival unites the masses. It weaves back together the social fabric of a city whose patience is tested every single day of the year, of a city, which seems to be at its wit's end at every traffic jam, power cut and late train.

Thank you Lord Ganesha, you unite this city in a way no political leader ever will.

The Umargam Diaries

The Verandah

It is a bright afternoon. I sit at the verandah, protected from the scorching heat by the shade of the balcony above, and the cool breeze flowing in from the coast. Every now and then, I glance up from my CFA notes and look around lazily. It is impossible to concentrate on something as drab as a textbook when the view is as beautiful as this one.

The coconut trees wave with the breeze not far away. All that stands in between me and that wonderful green canopy is the swimming pool. The water's shade of blue contrasts perfectly with the earthy tone of the tiles around the pool. The tiny ripples created by the breeze continuously deposit small quantities of water at the edges of the pool, which soon evaporate in the summer heat. Every so often, a bird skims the surface, scooping up just enough water in its tiny beak to quench its thirst.

I look to my left. The laborers toil away in this heat. I wonder how they do it. I find myself breaking into a sweat just sitting on my cozy swing, reading notes. There's an old man carrying soil in a large metal bowl. He looks over sixty, and is dressed in nothing but a loincloth and bright blue rubber sandals. Not for a moment does he falter while carrying all that soil, which I imagine must not be a light load. His upper body is naked and gleaming with sweat, rippling with muscles that only hard labor can develop. A girl, no older than eighteen, is waiting for him to bring the bowl full of soil. Once he passes the bowl to her, she carries it the rest of the way to the end of the field. Her facial features and her walk show off an untainted grace, especially when she walks while perfectly balancing the heavy bowl on her head. Every now and then, someone cracks a joke. They all laugh aloud, their toothy grins shining more than the sweat on their brows. They talk in a tribal language that sounds somewhat like Marathi, but one I don't understand a word of nonetheless. Sometimes, they break into a song. One that sounds so sweet and pure, I find myself wanting nothing more than to know what it says.

I am transfixed on watching them go about their routine jobs. Soon, my attention is diverted by the dog stretching lazily next to me. I don't know how he came to call our farm his own, but we just can't seem to get him to leave. I look into his droopy eyes, and he looks back.

I grin, at nothing in particular. Then I take another sip of my Sprite and go back to reading my notes.


The Moon

It's a full moon. I sit at the verandah, absorbing the soft glow that the moon radiates. Its reflection in the still pool makes it seem like there are two of them. A reflection still as a photograph, only moving when the calm surface is disturbed by a bat skimming it to lap up some water. The trees aren't waving about. It is almost as if they are sleeping. It is awkward to see so many stars, most people from a big city aren't used to seeing them at all.

A soothing calm descends over me. I can hear the sounds of a radio playing old Hindi songs. It belongs to the laborers who live on our farm. Their huts are a hundred yards away, but the quiet night allows the songs to pierce the night sky and reach my ears as if they are being played in front of me.

Though there is no breeze, it is unnaturally cool for a summer night. I feel at peace, and wonder whether I am really only sixty miles away from the outskirts of my bustling home town. I know I must get to sleep soon, I have to be up early to study tomorrow. But something about the moon has me hooked, maybe even addicted. I want to continue to just sit there and look at it. Not move an inch.

I finally muster the strength to get on to my feet. Almost as if the night knows I am leaving, it throws a cool breeze my way, weakening my knees. I am held powerless to resist the allure of this beautiful night. I drop back into the swing. I say to the moon, “You win.” It makes me wish I had someone there with me, at that very moment, to share it with.

But for the time being, I am content being moon-struck.


The Beach

It's a perfect evening. Instead of going to the part of the beach I usually visit, I decide to try something new today. I park about a mile before the parking lot, on the side of the secluded coastal road. I climb down the embankment onto a part of the beach that few visit. The sun is a few minutes away from calling it a day, and is celebrating its departure by painting the sky in violent shades of orange and pink.

I take off my slippers and carry them in my hand. The sand is still wet from the waves that have now started to recede. I can feel the sand sinking just a little bit under my weight as I take small lazy steps. The cool sand on my soles, combined with the warm sea water that occasionally laps up my ankles, make for an eclectic experience. It is so hard to let anything worry you when you are enveloped in such beauty.

I always imagined, that if God is indeed with me at all times, I would see His footsteps besides mine on a beach. Simply because it is the purest place for one to walk barefoot. As a kid, I would be disappointed when I'd look back, searching for two sets of footprints. I would only see my own. One day I told myself, that the single set of footprints is actually that of God's own feet. He is actually carrying me on his shoulders. Ever since, I always look back at my footprints and smile at that comforting thought.

I ponder whether the sea has any dangerous creatures inhabiting it. Just then, something brushes against my foot. I squeal like a little girl and run a good twenty feet before I realize that the dangerous creature attacking me is just a harmless piece of seaweed. I pretend to be cool and ignore the kids swimming in the sea who are laughing their little butts off at me.

I can taste the salt in the breeze. The sun is almost gone, and the pink and orange hues have turned purple. Much as I want to continue walking, I turn back. I've walked over a mile down the beach, and my tummy is craving a dabeli (bread stuffed with a spicy paste, a Gujarati specialty). I have been eating them every day, served hot and fresh at the Mewad Special Dabeli-walla's stall. I see a tiny crab scuttle across my path, and hurriedly put my slippers back on. Experiencing nature in its unadulterated form can wait until the crabs are done running around and the killer seaweed has receded back into the depths of the sea. I walk back a little faster, imagining the delicious dabeli. Dayabhai, the stall-owner, sees me coming from a distance and shouts in Gujarati, “Aaje ek ke be?” (One of two today?). I scream back, “Aaje ekaj!” (Just one today!). My dabeli awaits me when I reach the stall. I sit on a plastic chair next to the stall and enjoy every delicious bite.

I pay Dayabhai the princely sum of five rupees, and promise him that I will return the next evening as well. I switch on my iPhone and put on my headphones. As the heavenly lyrics of the song 'Arziyan' from the soundtrack of Delhi-6 fill my thoughts, I walk back to my car. My slippers are back in my hand. The feeling of cool, wet sand on my naked feet is worth the risk of a crab-bite.

If only I could do this every day, for the rest of my life.

Corruption in the RTO

It was the 26th of May, 2004. I got out of the car, overwhelmed by the heat. I wiped my sweaty brow with one of the handkerchiefs I was carrying (yes, it is that hot), and looked around. The vast Road Transport Office (RTO) head office campus stood before me. I was finally old enough to get a driver's license! I walked around for about twenty minutes from one end of the campus to the other, trying to figure out where I could take my driving test. I kept being deflected like a hockey puck from one counter to the other.

I finally found the right counter, and waited another thirty minutes in line for my turn. I finally had the pleasure of standing before one Mr. Ghorpade from the RTO. He looked up at me, and grunted something that sounded like the word 'name'. I told him my name. He wrote it in Marathi on a slip of paper. He then asked me, “Standard or express?” I asked him to elaborate. He was clearly annoyed that I was not down with the RTO lingo, and he bellowed at a timid clerk sitting nearby. The clerk quickly hobbled over, and took me aside. He told me in a hushed tone, “Standard means you take the driving test, and the license will be mailed to you in a month. Express means you attach three hundred bucks with the application, and your driving license will be given to you right away, without a driving test.”

I was appalled at this suggestion, and I told him I would not pay a bribe. In fact, I said it so loud that everyone stopped momentarily to look at me. The meek clerk almost pulled me out of the office by my arm and asked me in Marathi with a bewildered face, “Are you trying to get us into trouble? This is the way things work here.” I gave him a disgusted look and walked back inside. I went up to Mr. Ghorpade, and told him I wanted to get my license the 'Standard' way. He looked up at me again, and smirked, “You are the first one to say that in weeks!” I said to him, “Deal with it. Can I take my test now?” He said he would send someone out right away.

Apparently, 'right away' means about an hour or so in RTO lingo. I sat in my car in the searing heat, listening to songs on the radio. I wished the world would end, and I would go to hell. I'm sure it would be cooler there. Anyways, the driving test supervisor ambled to my car eventually, picking his nose the whole way from the office building to my car. He got into the back seat of the car, as my friend was sitting in the front passenger's seat. He grunted, "Ration card". I said I had brought my passport. To which he replied, "Nahi chalega" (Won't do). I asked him why. He said that the RTO did not recognize the passport as a valid form of ID. I didn't know whether to feel pity at his ignorance, or angry at his incompetence. I told him, "This is the apex identification issued by the Government of India, and if you don't accept this, it means that you are a moron." He frowned at me, and took my passport in his hand. He asked me to start the car, and started flicking through the pages. He read out aloud the names of the countries whose visas were in my passport. "Amrika, Englund, Singapoor, Indo..Indo...nesia, Ostreliya...seems like you have traveled all over. I'm sure you know how to drive. You pass." That was it. He passed me based on the countries I had visited!

I began to protest his lack of seriousness towards confirming whether I can actually drive or not. He said, "Look. It's bad enough you want to make us go through all this paperwork to give you a license, when you could just pay us and get it done in a day's time. On top of all this, you actually want me to take your test? What is wrong with you!" He spat his paan outside my car, and simply walked off. I stood there exasperated, not knowing what to think of it. A full two months later, I got my license. It was my first encounter with RTO corruption. And thanks to the twenty-five year validity of my driver license, probably my last encounter for a long time to come.

I have thought on an off about that incident since. I have wondered, whether my encounter with RTO corruption really ended when I walked out of that campus. I have come to a conclusion that this encounter never stops. By requesting for a driving test, I was an exception. Even then, by not taking my test seriously, the RTO gave a license to one more person who it wasn't sure could drive or not. Thousands of people get driving licenses every day, and I'm pretty sure most of them have no idea how to drive. I don't mean how to operate a car, I'm talking about road etiquette, traffic rules and safety rules. The RTO is not considered to be one of the departments whose corruption affects daily life. But given that it unleashes bad drivers by the dozen every single day, the pathetic traffic situation is as much the fault of the RTO as it is the fault of bad planning. A lot of the traffic jams are caused by indiscipline on the part of motorists. Drivers don't follow lanes, they run stoplights, they park where they want, even if the car end up blocking other people's way. It gets scarier when these illiterate drivers take their cars out on the highway. I have seen people overtaking trucks from the wrong side, and even coming the wrong way on a freeway because they don't want to drive the extra mile to take the u-turn. It's no surprise that India has one of the highest numbers in the world of deaths by road accident. It took forever for the RTO to make the use of helmets and seatbelts compulsory. The law is unsatisfactorily enforced in the big cities, and ignored in other places.

The corruption in the RTO is not limited to the issuance of driving licenses. It also extends to giving vehicles a Pollution Under Control (PUC) certificate. Most truckers, taxi drivers and transport vehicle drivers bribe the RTO left, right and centre to get PUCs for their vehicles, even though the vehicles would not have passed the test. Look at the sky on a usual day, and compare it to how it looks on the day taxis are on strike. The difference will tell you how much pollution is released by cars driving on fake PUC certificates. The pollution levels in most Indian cities are very high, and I firmly believe that the corruption of the RTO is to blame for the vehicular pollution in the country. The pollution has a ripple effect on one's quality of life, and on the incidence of diseases like asthma and bronchitis.

The only way to solve the problems related to automobile pollution and road safety is to take a look at the decay in the RTO first. If efforts are made to ensure that only people with all requisite skills pass driving tests, Traffic discipline would improve manifold. I would even go so far as to say that every driver in the country should be re-tested. I'm not sure how many would pass. The systems and processes should be strengthened to make sure that polluting vehicles are not given PUC certificates. An improvement in air quality across urban areas in India can only do good to the quality of people's lives.

As for my next encounter with the corruption in the RTO, I hope there won't be one.

Life's little moments

A loud bus horn woke me up with a start. I sleepily rubbed my eyes, wondering where I was. A quick look around was enough to tell me that I was stuck in the traffic at the infamous Haji Ali intersection.

I grumbled to myself about the traffic, thinking what the situation would be like once the Tata Nano floods the streets. I was in a mood to complain to someone on how my life sucks because I spend three hours a day stuck in traffic.

As I was scrolling through my phone book deciding whom to call and complain to, I glanced upwards out my window. An overcrowded bus was stuck in traffic next to me. A young child no older than six was sitting on his mother's lap, his tiny fingers tightly gripping the window grill. He looked thirstily into my car, staring at the bottle of Pepsi sitting cozily in the cupholder next to me. A young woman stood in the aisle of the bus, her one hand holding the strap hanging from the cieling of the bus. In her other arm was her crying baby, obviously unhappy at being jostled about a crowded bus.

What was a simple glance into the bus hit me like a train. I sheepishly turned to looking out the window on the other side of the car and switched on the cd player. The Haji Ali shrine gleamed in the evening sun, the peaceful ocean waves enhancing its grandeur.

I closed my eyes, and the sounds of the violin from Suite for Orchestra No.2 in D Major filled my subconscious mind. Feeling the warmth of the soft sunshine on my face; I realized how beautiful life is in all its little ways. A small smile escaped my lips. Sometimes it takes a traffic jam to remind you how lucky you are.

A Walk to Remember

A few weeks ago I took part in the company cricket tournament. To suit our staff, most of whom stay in the western suburbs, the matches were held in the Poisar Gymkhana which is in Northwest Bombay. Since it is very far from where I stay and is very close to where my maternal grandparents stay, I decided to go stay with them the night before so that I would be spared of an early morning commute to the cricket ground.

My grandparents live in Borivali West. I lived in Borivali East until I was six, and spent a substantial amount of time at their home when I was a kid, mostly during the hours between when school got over and my parents came home from work. I haven't gone back to Borivali too often since we moved town-side in 1992, but I still have vivid memories of the place.

I pulled up my car into the tiny building compound. The watchman woke up with a startled look on his face. He asked me who I was and where I wanted to go, and also said that outside cars were not allowed. He was adamant even after I explained why I should be allowed to park my car inside Apparently growing up somewhere does not mean one can park one's car there fifteen years later. Too tired to argue with him, I parked on the street outside and dragged my suitcase up one floor to my grandparents' flat. I was coming to their place after more than six months and pretty much nothing had changed. I thought for a moment whether to tell my fiery grandmother that the watchman had not let me park my car inside the building compound. But I took pity on the poor soul's life and chose not to mention it.

After the customary cup of tea, I looked around for something to do for the rest of the evening. Borivali isn't exactly the most happening place in Bombay. Besides, my grandparents live smack on SV Road, which is undergoing a radical transformation from a quiet suburban street to the retail hub of a suburb of half a million people. The noise and dust overwhelmed me pretty quickly. I figured, maybe I should go visit one of my relatives in Borivali East. I decided to go to my dad's aunt's place. She was, and continues to be, one of my favorite people. I vaguely recall how she would tell me stories from the Ramayana while putting me to sleep on Saturday afternoons.

I began the walk to her place. I tried my best to soak up the surroundings, and notice the changes they had gone through in the last fifteen years or so. I couldn't recognize any of the buildings on SV Road. The old three story apartment buildings with names like 'Kamal Chhaya' (Lotus Shade) had given way to glitzy malls with massive signboards advertising some sale or some brand of perfume. I thought of taking a short-cut I knew from the back side of the building through a back-alley that went straight to the railroad crossing. When I reached the back side of the building, the alley no longer existed. What I saw instead was a construction site. I grumbled to myself on how the only thing constant is change, and walked back the long way to the railroad crossing. The railroad crossing didn't exist either. It had been walled up, and a pedestrian subway stood glumly.

I remember the excitement I would experience while waiting for the faatak (railroad crossing) to open. I would watch all the vegetable sellers shouting away, trying to sell their wares to the people waiting for the train to pass. In the meantime, hawkers selling everything from stationery to trinkets to handkerchiefs would walk among the crowd. There would always be some smart-alecs who jumped over the faatak and crossed the tracks right before the train would come through.

But they were all gone, and all I could see was the entrance to the subway. It seemed dark inside. It had paan stains all over the walls. It looked like the entrance to hell, with the red stains looking like little flames. I made a face describing disgust and went inside. Crossing from west to east through a subway was no fun compared to running across a railroad crossing pretending the train was about to come.

I reached the east side and heaved a sigh of relief. Nothing seemed to have changed. Maybe it was just me, but even the air seemed cleaner. There was a peacefulness about the place which seemed a distant world away from the hustle and bustle of SV Road. I walked towards Carter Road #1, which is where my grand-aunt lives. She actually lives in the same building where I used to live. I recognized a lot of places along the way. Crystal Classes, where Joan miss would smack me with a ruler when I spelled a word wrong in English tuitions. Bharat Gas Service, where I would come with my nanny to order a new cylinder of gas. Chimanlal and Sons, where to this day I don't know what they actually do. The tiny grocer's store into which a BEST bus had rammed into. The whole neighborhood couldn't stoop talking about it for days. They had a clipping of the news article about the accident stuck on the storefront window. The buildings were the same, the streets were the same. It seemed a lot of them hadn't been painted since I had left. I recalled a well at the intersection near my building. One summer, I had engraved my nickname 'Ada' on one of the cornerstones of the well. I remember throwing stones in the well along with my friends before being chased down the street by the building watchman. My eyes hungrily searched for the spot where the well stood.

A big grin appeared on my face as I found the well. It was no longer an open well; it had been sealed off and on top of it was a pigeon-feeding enclosure. However, the cornerstones of the well that once existed were still in place. I crouched down near the spot where I had engraved my name over seventeen years ago. I found the very stone, and I started rubbing the dust away with my handkerchief. A couple of people stopped and looked, wondering what the hell I was doing. A few seconds of dusting later, I saw it.

The letters engraved into the stone had endured seventeen years of dust, pollution and construction activity to be found once again by the very kid who wrote them. I smiled from ear to ear. Unfortunately, it was too dark to take a picture. I took a moment to absorb the memory, to etch it in my head for ever.

I entered the building compound. I saw the watchman's cabin, inside which five of us kids would hide while playing cops and robbers. I saw the boundary wall with the license plate numbers of the residents' cars painted above each parking spot. I saw the cricket stumps drawn with chalk on the building wall, which kids used as the batting end. They all looked much smaller. The watchman's cabin was barely big enough to fit me now. The building looked tired and in need of renovation. The tiny printing press which operated out of a small office on the ground floor was now a tailor's store. As I climbed up the stairs, thoughts filled my mind about how some things had changed beyond recognition, some had fallen into decay, and some bore remnants of the time that was my childhood. As my grand-aunt opened the door, I gave her a big hug.

Everything was the same once again.

Attitudes towards dating and marriages in Indian society

This article is part three of my series on how one's birth year plays a part in shaping one's attitudes towards various things. So far, I have talked about consumerism and government. In this article, I elaborate on dating and marriage. To recap, the four groups according to birth year are: pre-independence, between 1947 and 1965, between 1965 and 1988, and post-1988. Each groups thinks of dating and marriage differently.

The first group has never understood the concept of dating. The members of this group often think of dating as something that 'good children don't do'. According to them, a guy and a girl meeting alone before marriage in not exactly acceptable. Let alone dating and then eventually choosing their spouse, they didn't even get to see their faces before they married them. The parents made the decision, and they simply accepted it. The marriage was not of two people, it was of two families. Once married, they couldn't even think of the possibility of a divorce. The fear of what family and society will think is just too great. Just like dating, the engagement and the honeymoon were non-existent too. Showing affection for the spouse in front of anyone, in public or at home, is not common either.

The members of the second group had considerably more freedom than their parents in choosing spouses. It was not considered inappropriate for them to 'have their eyes on' a prospective match. When the appropriate time to get married came along, the families would be brought into the picture, and the parents would do the talking on behalf of their children. A commonly used term for such a marriage is 'love-cum-arranged' marriage. The approval of the family was an important, but not the only factor in deciding who to marry. Though inter-caste marriages were not common, they weren't frowned upon either. Dating while in college was becoming normal, but it usually meant going out in a big group of guys and girls, with every member having someone special in the group.

The third group embraced the concept of dating and being in a relationship before marriage. Inter-case marriages are common, and so are the so-called 'love marriages'. The members of this group find nothing wrong in finding their own spouse, but also appreciate the benefits of arranged marriages. The last of this group will be married in the next three to five years, and a lot of them are marrying someone they've dated for a few years. With the obvious exceptions, it is uncommon to see members of this group having had multiple girlfriends before marriage. They figure that it is okay to date and see if things work out, otherwise there is always the option of having parents find someone nice for them. They look at the arranged marriage as a backup option.

The last group probably thinks life should be like the way it is in the sitcom 'Friends'. Members of this group will get married much later, and have their first boyfriend/girlfriend much earlier in their lives than those in the third group. They are comfortable with the concept of a live-in relationship and with dating in high school. They look at marriage as a tool to get society's approval for two people living together, something which they do not care much about in the first place. They are also much more accepting of homosexuals then the members of the previous groups. Just like their attitudes with consumerism, they find themselves to be closer to the western world. A lot of energy is spent by the other groups discussing the loosening morals of and lack of a value system in this group.

As of now it seems as if each generation marries later, is more liberal and more accepting of alternative lifestyle choices than the one preceding it. Each generation takes some amount of pleasure in the fact that its value systems are better than the 'kids of today', but worries that its own children would grow up just like those kids of today. Though inter-cast marriages have become very common, so have divorces and broken engagements. One thing that hasn't changed, however, is that very few people marry outside their own religion. Indian society has traditionally been highly segregated and no amount of liberalism has changed that in a substantial manner.

Political sentiments and the Indian populace

Continuing from my article ‘Consumerism in India’ in the last issue, on how one’s birth year affects one’s consumer habits, I feel the same also affects one’s perceptions towards the government and the political system of India. To recap, the four groups, according to birth year, are: pre-independence, between 1947 and 1965, between 1965 and 1988, and post-1988. Each group has a different attitude towards the duties and rights of the government, and what they think of the political class, both of which I refer to as the system henceforth.

The first group has witnessed politicians who were closer in nature to freedom fighters. They have seen a political class that genuinely cared about the progress of the nation, and made use of the government machinery to achieve it. They remember a government that worked tirelessly in the years after independence to create a foundation from which the nation could progress. They still believe in the system, and are willing to wait for it to work, even if it means suffering in the process. They are too scared to try to demand change. They accept the system the way it is, almost as if the prevailing scenario is a part of their fate. The word for the government, ‘Sarkar’ is used extensively by this generation. Just the fact that it actually means ‘master’ tells us that this group looks at the government not as a public servant, but as an entity that is above the common man.

The second group remembers an era of Indira Gandhi’s abuse of the system. They recall a license Raj, corruption, the Emergency, artificial shortages, and abuse of power. Nothing positive comes to mind when they talk about politicians and the government. They are skeptical of the system and always try to work their way around it. They firmly believe that following the law is equal to being left behind. If one has to succeed in India, one must have the government and the various components of the system, such as the bureaucracy, the police, the judiciary, etc. in one’s pocket. Bribing is considered the first step, not the last option. They think of politicians as scum which has to be tolerated. They do not believe in suffering while waiting for the system to work, or in trying to change the system. They simply bribe their way around it.

The third group does not have the patience to deal with an incompetent and ineffective system. As mentioned in the previous article, it is the first group to have had first-hand experience of the developed world in a major way. The members of this group have seen how governments function in other countries. They realize that a country must have an effective and accountable system in order to keep up with the rest of the world. They don’t accept the system as it, nor do they believe in simply working around it. I’m sure there are many who do, but there are a sizeable number of people who are willing to take a stand, ask questions, make some noise and hold the government accountable. They are starting to believe that to clean the gutter; one must climb down into it. They believe that the system is constantly improving and the time will come when efficient governance will be the rule, not an exception. Their efforts have brought about changes the previous two groups never thought possible: a transparent passport issuance system, efficient railway bookings…the list goes on.

The last group is apathetic when it comes to the system. The members of this group are pretty young and have not had to deal with systemic inefficiencies so far. They are used to someone older taking care of everything. They probably don’t consider it important to vote, read a political party’s election manifesto, or even know who the Governor of their state is. Life is fine without having to worry about political issues of the country, and they would like to keep it that way. They feel closer to the developed world than they do to India, and often turn a blind eye to the problems of their motherland. They will bear the gutter’s stench for a few seconds as they pass by, and then forget about it. They will not even consider the fact that cleaning it up is as much their problem as it is someone else’s. What remains to be seen is whether the attitudes of this group will change as it grows up and becomes part of the workforce and mainstream society. Will it become more apathetic towards the system, or will it further the demand for accountability of the third group?

Consumerism in India

There is a lot being said and written on the consumerism boom that has been witnessed in India since the economy was opened up in 1991. I would like to add my two cents (or paise, in this case) to the Indian consumerism debate.

I have classified the Indian consumer into four broad categories, based on age. The people of each category have been shaped by the time they grew up in. Their experiences in life up to the point they become young adults explain a lot about their behavior, their attitude to society and even their spending habits. It goes without saying that the attitudes overlap to some extent over the group, and that there will be exceptions depending on the exact environment one is raised in. This is also my opinionated subjective classification based on my observation and I can only offer personal experience as a validation to my arguments. Here goes:

The first group is those born before independence. The members of this group have seen a lot of pain, struggle and scarcity. In their childhood, they remember India going through the pains of partition, and struggling to find its feet as a young nation. They struggle to accept consumerism as being something that is ‘okay’ to do. For example, my grandfather always tries to appear as if he never ‘wants’ anything. He loves ice cream, but he will never accept the fact. He would be more likely to say, “If there is any ice cream left over, give me some. Don’t go downstairs to buy some just for me.” Sometimes I think he probably feels guilty in regularly consuming something that was considered a luxury when he was growing up.

The second group is those born between 1947 and 1965. The members of this group would have seen India coming to terms with its independence. The days of the green revolution, the corruption of Indira’s term, the artificial scarcities and hoarding mentality brought in by the license Raj are all part of the memories of this group’s young days. One will never see them wasting anything. Everything is saved or recycled. These habits are reflected in almost every Indian home. People my age (early twenties) who have parents in this demographic are used to seeing jam jars being used to store pickles, newspapers being used to line bottoms of desk drawers. This group has seen times when it took ten years to get a telephone line, so when they get something; they take it even though they may not have immediate need for it, thinking they will use it later. On numerous occasions I have seen people on flights who take a soda even if they don’t want one and put it right into their bag or purse for later consumption.

The third group is people born from 1965 to 1988. They form the bulk of India’s working population. When India opened up its economy in 1991, they were old enough to see the rapid change in the social and economic environment of the country. However, they also remember the days of scarcity and are ideally placed to appreciate the striking contrasts of pre- and post-1991 India. This group was the first to start migrating to other countries on a large scale for work and education. Unlike the two groups preceding them, they have had significant first-hand experience of the way the developed world lives. They generally believe in working hard and spending hard, and are responsible for the current boom in consumerism. They have no qualms about borrowing and spending money, showing it off or bring materialistic. For instance, people from the first or second group would not be as comfortable driving an expensive car. They might feel guilty about showing off their wealth, feel scared that the government might come after them, or simply believe that one should save and not spend. But someone from the third group will have no problems buying one, showing it off and working harder to buy another one. You can stand on a sidewalk at Malabar Hill (one of Mumbai’s most exclusive neighborhoods) for five minutes on any given evening, and the number of BMWs, Audis, Bentleys, Range Rovers and Porsches you will see will prove my point.

The last group is those born after 1988. This group has always lived in a time of relative prosperity and consumerism. They can’t imagine waiting for than a day for a phone connection, or when an entire nation had nothing to do but listen to Binaca Geetmala on the radio for entertainment. They are confident of themselves and their capacity to earn money, and they spend a lot of it. They will soon outpace the third group in spending power, and take to credit on a much larger scale as well. On the contrary, the first two groups are still not comfortable using taking loans from people other than family and friends or having outstanding credit balances on their credit card accounts. They consider themselves culturally closer to the developed world and unfortunately will spend like them too once they start earning money in the next three to five years. For instance, most urban kids play less cricket and more video games then the third group. They have tremendous choice in what they want to eat, wear, play with and study. They have add-on credit cards that their parents give them. One regularly sees high-school kids spend a thousand rupees on “a night out” in expensive nightclubs in Mumbai.

This broad classification provides clarity on why people spend money they way to do and what one can expect in the next few years as far as consumer spending in India is concerned. I see a boom in organized retail, consumer lending and luxury goods sales. These groups also tell a lot about people’s attitudes towards society, relationships and the government. But that is another article for another day.

Of weddings and thinking sprees

So it’s wedding season again. I hate wedding seasons. The traffic on Marine Drive is terrible. You go to the wedding of a person who you barely know, just because your family was invited by the groom’s or the bride’s family. You eat oily wedding food. You come back. You repeat the cycle a few more times before the New Year comes.

But I went to a wedding last weekend which I will cherish for many reasons. For one, it was my best bud Chirag’s wedding. Two, it was the first time I went to the wedding of a person I really care about. Three, I got to go to Kolkata for the big day, which meant some time away from my CFA studying.

As I got out the car at Mumbai’s swank new airport, I felt queasy. Mostly due to the generous quantity of beer I had consumed the previous night. But the beautiful airport never fails to light up my spirit. As I looked up at the vast expanse of the check-in area like a big-eyed child looking at the entrance to Disneyland, I couldn’t help but think of how different this place was from India’s ‘other side’. The terminal building was relatively empty, quiet, air-conditioned and sparkling clean. The architecture was modern and it looked world-class. I nodded to myself as I thought of the crowded slums outside the airport. It was another one of those examples where the two Indias co-exist side-by-side. I was prevented from slipping into another lengthy thinking spree by the sight of a Costa Coffee store. The excitement of succumbing to a cup of gourmet coffee to rid me of my early morning blues was overwhelming. I looked at the menu, and noticed that they had a paneer sandwich in ‘mint mayonnaise’. Is that what they’re calling chutney these days, I asked myself. It wasn’t chutney, and the sandwich was surprisingly delicious.

The surprises continued as I began my journey to Kolkata. Check-in took less than a minute, security was smooth and the flight left on time. I flew Indigo and the professionalism of the airline was very obvious. I am a sucker for a sleek product and Indigo was one such product.

I arrived in Kolkata, not knowing what to expect. I had not heard anything positive about the city from people in Bombay, but then Bombayites are prone to do that about any place outside the toll naka. Words I heard repeatedly included smelly, filthy, communist, strikes, and the like. I feared the criticism would come true as the plane pulled into its parking bay. Sure enough, the airport was ugly and reeked of a 1980s communist ideology. It was in the sort of disrepair that could be associated with the old airport of Bombay. I found the car that had been sent for me by the benevolent groom-to-be, and we set off towards my hotel.

Out of nowhere, the bad roads and pedal-rickshaws suddenly gave way to a sleek six-lane road that went straight through the fields on either side. Occasionally, one would have the opportunity to admire a sleek glass-faced office building with a huge logo of some IT company on it. I was glad that what I had heard was being proven wrong. It seems that Kolkata had jumped on to the development bandwagon after all. But sadly, as the trip wore on, that was all I saw of the new face of Kolkata. This city seemed like Bombay in many ways; bustling, crowded, albeit a lot dirtier and a lot poorer. Bombay gives you a showcase of the staggering difference in the lives of the haves and the have-nots, whereas Kolkata seemed to have a lot more of the have-nots and very few haves. It seemed like the city was trapped in time, 1980s I’d say. The effects of liberalization and the IT boom were not very obvious.

After a short stop at my hotel, I went to the groom’s house. It was good to see Chirag after about six months. He was beaming, as any groom would. He seemed to be more interested in the ongoing India-England cricket match than in getting ready for the wedding! Once he did get ready, we left for the wedding hall. About two hundred meters away from the hall, the groom’s guests assembled, and Chirag climbed onto a white mare and the band started playing. I couldn’t help smiling non-stop as I video-taped the procession on my phone. Our ceremony caused a traffic jam, as cars squeezed by. People, both in the cars and on the road, were taking great interest in the procession. The women passing by took time to see what the groom looked like. I’m sure they weren’t disappointed.

The wedding area was beautifully lit up. There was no loud music playing, and the service was prompt to the point of the waiters badgering the guests. Chirag looked smashing, and Richa looked very pretty in her red sari.

The wedding lasted forever. When I left at 1030 pm, the bride and the groom had just gotten started on dinner. I guess it’s just one of those things that have to be done. All through the various ceremonies, Chirag had this particular look on his face. I have seen that look before, in the ending overs of the game when we are fielding first, and it’s almost time for our turn to bat. You know what I mean in this context. I met some interesting people, as well as some old friends. My mind kept wandering to thoughts of how it would be when my other friends would start getting married. Weddings are a lot more fun when the one getting married is close to you. Amid the depressing last few days that I had left behind in Bombay, these few hours gave me an immense sense of happiness. It felt wonderful to see someone so happy, and see everyone around so happy for them. The whole place seemed completely devoid of any negative vibes.

I found myself slipping into many different thought, of marriage, of friendship, of love, of happiness and of life itself. Needless to say, this marriage was a lot of fun to attend.

I wish Chirag and Richa the happiest of married lives, and I thank him for giving me a chance to be present at one of the most important events of his life.

A Week in Bombay

After writing about a week on Tokyo, I figured…why wait for another +1 trip to write another travel article? I’ll write one about my favorite city in the world, Bombay!

First off, you must be a gutsy traveler who is willing to go off the beaten path and do things that are unique to Bombay. I know that the name is now Mumbai, as some politically correct reader might point out; I would advise the reader to deal with it.

Bombay is the largest city in India, with a metropolitan population exceeding 17 million. Although the city appears to stretch endlessly, it is safe to say that most of what I recommend is in or around South Bombay. Hence, upon arrival, one should look for a hotel in South Bombay. It is advisable that one book in advance during the peak months of September-March, when hotel rooms can be very hard to find.

Recommended hotel choices are the Taj Mahal Hotel at Apollo Bunder (~$500/night) for the financially well-endowed to the YMCA hostel at Mumbai Central (~$20/night) for the shoestring globetrotter.

Bombay is the country’s premier air hub and it is well connected to Europe, South-East Asia and the US of A. If you are flying in from the East Coast or Europe, I recommend flying Emirates. There might be an extra stop in Dubai, but it is worth it. For those coming in from the West Coast, Jet Airways flies San Francisco-Shanghai-Bombay. It is accessible by all forms of transport from the rest of India as well.

If you fly in, you will probably arrive in Bombay late in the night. So day one begins when you wake up the next morning. A few tips to keep in mind:

Always insist that the taxi drivers go by the meter. Do not bargain for a fare.
Carry a bottle of water. Bombay can get very humid.
Avoid traveling by the local trains. They are very crowded and the trip can be very stressful for the unaccustomed.

Day One:
Any trip to Bombay must start with the Gateway of India. Arrive at around ten in the morning. The Gateway is a Bombay landmark and taxis are the best way to reach there. It was built in 1924 to welcome King George V and Queen Mary to Bombay. The last British troops to leave India left through the Gateway of India. I recommend taking a short ferry ride that gives you a panoramic view of South Bombay. The rides last under an hour and cost less than $3 per person.
Once done with Gateway, one can walk to nearby Prince of Wales museum, which is now called Chattrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastusangrahalaya (A result of an indiscretionary renaming spree which swept through Bombay in the late 90s. There are some interesting artifacts dating from the last three millenia. Right across the intersection is Regal movie theater, one of Bombay’s most famous theaters. It is noted for its art deco style of architecture and is worth a look. The Kala Ghoda Art District is also nearby, with many art galleries showcasing the best in Indian art. Lunch at Kala Ghoda in Chetana restaurant is a good way to experience a tradional Indian Thali. The food is good, and the prices are cheap. Think of it as an Indian buffet with service.
The evening can be spent shopping around Colaba, which is Bombay’s watering hole for foreigners. Most legal (and some illegal) pleasures can be experienced here. Colaba boasts some of Bombay’s most celebrated pubs. A lot of cheap hotels are also located in this area. One can buy shoes, clothes, antiques and music at throwaway prices (post-bargaining, of course). Beware of touts who will claim to hook you up with the best drugs and girls. If ignored, these touts are mostly harmless except for their nuisance value.

A perfect way to end the day is by having a drink or two at Cafe Leopold. This iconic eatery is the centerpiece of the novel ‘Shantaram’ by Gregory David Roberts.The food and ambiance are similar to any busy eatery in Bombay, but foreigners outnumber Indians three to one on most nights. Buy a Leo’s t-shirt or a copy of Shantaram with the official Cafe Leopold seal on it as a souvenir. If you still have any energy left at the end of it all, walk over to Koyla for a hookah. This rooftop restaurant creates a beautiful ambiance with pebble-stones on the ground, individual tents for tables and a view of downtown. Although the food is good here, the hookahs are the main attraction.

Day Two:
Start off the day with a visit to the Haji Ali shrine. The area is known by the shrine and almost everyone knows the way there. Its uniqueness stems from the fact that it is a 500-year old shrine in a city that is 400 years old. It is in the middle of a small bay and is connected to the mainland by a causeway. Note that you must wear appropriate clothing for a Muslim shrine. The view of the mosque from the promenade is great, but the view of the city from the shrine is better.

From Haji Ali, you can take a short taxi ride to Phoenix Mills, central Bombay’s hotbed of shopping activity. This neighborhood has been characteristic of central Bombay for a long time. Abandoned textile mills, which were remnants of Bombay’s past as the premier cotton trading city in the world are now being converted to swank shopping, residential and office complexes. Phoenix Mills is the first and largest of such redevelopments. You can spend half a day strolling through about 500,000 square feet of shopping space. There are lots of choices if you are looking to buy clothes, electronics or eat. I recommend having lunch at Spaghetti Kitchen. This upscale restaurant is located in the main courtyard and has some of the best Italian cuisine in town. If you get bored of the place, there isalso a brand new PVR* multiplex to catch the latest flicks (It should be open by the time this article is published).

A day spent here is sure to get you hungry by dinner time. For dinner, I suggest going back to Haji Ali to eat at Copper Chimney. Although the restaurant has a branch at Phoenix Mills, I recommend going to the original one. You can watch your tandoori dishes being prepared in front of you. This restaurant has been a Bombay favorite for many years and serves some of the most delicious North Indian food south of Delhi.

Post dinner, head over to the Bombay Dyeing mills for a couple of drinks at the Hard Rock Cafe. The first branch of this world-famous chain in India, the Cafe opened in 2006 and covers an area of 8,000 square feet. It has two live music areas and hosts local bands every Tuesdays and Thursdays. It is world-class in terms of memorabilia, food and music. A tough competitor to Hard Rock Cafe is Shiro, which is right next door. Shiro is famous for its Asian theme (the centerpiece of which is an imposing 25 feet tall Buddha statue in front of the entrance) and South East Asian/House music list. If rock is not your genre, an evening in Shiro is just as fun.

Day Three:
You might be in the mood for something more sober after Hard Rock Cafe and Shiro. You can start off in the morning with a visit to Mani Bhavan, which was Mahatma Gandhi’s residence while he was in Bombay. It is now a museum on his life and the Indian freedom struggle. It is in a locality called Gowalia Tank, which is the birthplace of the 1942 Quit India movement. Less importantly, it is also the neighborhood in which I live. Mani Bhavan is pretty compact and shouldn’t take you more than an hour to tour. A short walk away is Girgaum Chowpatty, the most popular beach in the city. Chowpatty means ‘beach’ in Marathi. There are many chowpattys in Bombay, including Juhu and Dadar Chowpattys. Don’t expect a Copa Cabana-esqe atmosphere, given Bombay’s heat it will most likely be empty. What you can expect is a brilliant view of Nariman Point, the downtown of Bombay. Since there’s not much to do in the mornings at the beach, I suggest taking a short taxi ride to Hanging Gardens. The gardens are perched on top of Malabar Hill, which is one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the country. An apartment in an old building can cost you as much as $2,500 a square foot! The Hanging Gardens are on top of a 10 million gallon water tank that supplies water to South Bombay. If you go all the way to the end of the park, you will see a viewing point. In my mind, this point gives you the single best view of downtown that one can get. The gardens are usually crowded in the evenings, where kids come to play around the famous two story shoe-house.

After having admired Nariman Point from multiple locations, it is time to actually visit it. Lunch can be enjoyed at New Yorker’s, which is right across Chowpatty. This vegetarian restaurant is very popular with the Gujarati community and serves delicious Italian and Mexican food specially suited for Indian tastes. I recommend the Cheese Nachos and the Bombay Masala Pizza. Alternatively, one can eat lunch at the Pizzeria, a breezy eatery at the other end of Marine Drive (The promenade that connects Chowpatty to Nariman Point). They also have a pizza named the Bombay Masala, which is equally good. The evening can be spent sitting on the promenade at Nariman Point and admiring the view of Malabar Hill to the North and Cuffe Parade to the South.

Head back to Chowpatty in the evening to enjoy some Bombay street food by walking down Marine Drive. This promenade embodies the identity of Bombay and was built as part of a reclamation project in the 60s. It has the second largest collection of seafront art deco buildings in the world after Miami, FL. On reaching Chowpatty, sample the Bhelpuris, Pani Puris, Dahi Wadas and Sevpuris at the Bhel plaza at the North end of Chowpatty. If you are going during monsoon, I would avoid this trip. Even at other times, insist that the stall vendors used packaged water to make the dishes. Note that you might have to insist on it, as using packaged water is an exception and not the rule. You can fill yourself up with four or five plates of the various snacks and cross the road to Cafe Ideal for a couple of beers. This eatery has been in business since the 1980s and serves beer and vegetarian food with friendly service. You will get to hear an extensive collection of old Hindi songs, and with the beach breeze blowing you are sure to get nostalgic. Make sure you try the Chili cheese toast and select a couple of songs on their famous jukebox.

Day Four:
It’s time to go to the suburbs! For this trip, I will only include Bandra, the southernmost suburb on the Western line. It is commonly known as the Queen of the Suburbs and has a strong Catholic flavor to it. There are many pretty churches and prettier girls to be seen in Bandra. It is also the hotspot for numerous restaurants, pubs and nightclubs. You can head out to Bandra in the morning. I suggest a trip down Linking Road for lots of cheap shopping opportunities in the morning, followed by lunch at any of the numerous restaurants in the area. The evening can be spent eating Pani Puris at Elco, or shopping for electronics at Alfa. One can also take a walk down Bandstand or Carter Road. The iconic Bandra Worli Sea Link is visible from Bandstand. To get a closer view of the Sea Link, one can also go to Reclamation. The photo opportunity is completed by the numerous skyscrapers under construction in the Lower Parel-Worli belt, which can be seen from Reclamation as well. If time permits, and if you enjoy looking at cool buildings, take a rickshaw ride to Bandra Kurla Complex, which the the second downtown of Bombay. Being a planned area, many large Indian companies have chosen to locate their head quarters in this neighborhood. Swanky glass-faced buildings of companies like ICICI Bank, the National Stock Exchange, the Bharat Diamond bourses (The largest office building in India with 10,000 offices) can all be seen here.

Having seen the glitz of the Bandra Kurla Complex, head over to India’s biggest slum, Dharavi. With a population of over 2 million people, has an annual GDP of $550 million. Many tour companies give tours of Dharavi. I recommend Mumbai Magic, whose tours last a couple of hours.

The late evening can be spent having dinner at the two-storeyed China House at the Hyatt in Kalina, followed by a couple of drinks at the lower level. Note that this restaurant is uber expensive, with drinks that cost as much as $20 each. A meal for two can easily set you back over $200.

Day Five:
The last day should be the most fun. Walk around Bombay’s historic old downtown called Fort. The name comes from an old Fort built here by the Birtish to protect the Bombay harbour. No traces can be found of this fort, but the name has stuck. One can see many buildings from the colonial era which have been beautifully restored. This neighborhood along with Kala Ghoda is one of the few tourist-friendly parts of town. You can find maps at most intersections. Make sure you don’t miss the HSBC building, the Standard Chartered building, the Asiatic Society, Horniman Circle garden and Flora Fountain. You can’t miss the towering Bombay Stock Exchange building, the faceplate of the Indian financial markets. Also make sure to visit the RBI Monetary museum, which provides for an interesting account of notes and other financial papers, as well as coins dating back several hundred years.

Lunch can be enjoyed at any of the numerous street stalls or tiny office eating joints. They serve delicious foods at extremely cheap prices. A meal for two can be easily managed in under $5. Stroll around Oval Maidan, which resembles Central Park but is much smaller, and watch kids play cricket in the afternoon sun. The Churchgate neighborhood is full of art deco buildings as well. Fashion street is a short walk away, and one can buy “original” branded clothes that are strikingly close to the real thing. Don’t forget to bargain, it is possible to strike down the price by as much at 80%, although one can’t expect the clothes to last beyond a couple of months.
Around 6.30 pm, go visit VT Station. This is the southern hub of the Central and Harbour lines, and serves approximately two million passengers a day. Originally called Victoria Terminus, it has now been renamed Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus and is a UNESCO World Heritage site. At this time in the evening, it will seem as if all two million people are in the station at the same time. The sheer volume of people catching the trains (called ‘locals’ by commuters) that leave every minute and a half on average is a sight to see. It is funny and awe-inspiring at the same time when one watches a train get filled up before it even comes to a complete stop at the station.

To end the Bombay trip, I can’t think of anything better than a dinner at Bhagat Tarachand. Tucked away in the narrow bylanes of Kalbadevi, the only way to get here without getting lost is to take a taxi to Cotton Exchange and then walk the remaining short distance. The crowd will overwhelm you and sometimes one doesn’t need to try to move; the crowd pushes you around anyways. This restaurant is a famous brand name with branches all around the Bombay Metropolitan Region, but this particular outlet is the original one. They serve staple Punjabi and Sindhi fare. Don’t forget to sample the Papad churi and the buttermilk that is served in recycled beer bottles. A meal for two shouldn’t cost you more than $5.

If you haven’t fallen sick after eating my recommended street food and loitering about in the heat, stay on a couple of days and give me a call…I’ll be happy to take you to some more hidden places that bring out the real Bombay!

References:
* http://www.pvrcinemas.com/site/PVRStory.aspx
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mumbai_metropolitan_area
http://www.hardrock.com/locations/cafes3/cafe.aspx?LocationID=455&MIBenumID=3
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dharavi
http://www.mumbaimagic.com/dharavi.htm

A week in Tokyo

Tokyo streches as far as the eye can see

I love visiting places that are off the map as far as desi tourists go. Until this summer, I had been to twelve countries on five continents, the last being Canada in 2005. I decided that it was time to add one more to the list.

I was in the process of planning my yearly pilgrimage to Austin when my Dad mentioned that he was going to Tokyo for a week as part of an IT companies’ delegation. He could take one person with him as a +1. My slow mind churned into action and I hatched the idea of going as part of the delegation. Since I was the +1 person with my Dad, I wouldn’t be required to attend the conferences, nor would I have to pay full price on hotel and accommodation. So with my princely sum of 35,000 Yen (~US$ 350), I set off to the largest city in the world, Tokyo!

The thing with Tokyo is that if you’re the average Indian tourist who goes to Bangkok and Malaysia and Singapore, this trip comes as a huge culture shock. Most countries on the Indian tourist path these days have some trace of India…restaurants, movies, Indian people even. But Tokyo had none of those.

For one, very few people speak English. Most of the signs are in Japanese (except, and thankfully so, transportation signs, which are n English as well). Two, the food is nothing like what one is used to back home. Three, you’re going to have a tough time if you are vegetarian. And four, everything is quite expensive, from shopping to travel to food.

But Tokyo more than makes up for these small travel-related hardships. I have been to a lot of great cities worldwide, and I have never seen anything like this place. It is as dense as New York City, as spread out as Los Angeles, as clean and safe as Singapore and as crowded as Mumbai at the same time. Tokyo is more like a collection of many urban centers. There are many downtowns and many suburbs, and they are all linked by an enormous system of over- and under-ground trains, buses and highways. It seems like Tokyo is simply the largest of these many urban centers and so they just decided to call the whole thing Tokyo.

I spent five days there, and here’s an ideal itinerary on what to do:

You will probably reach Tokyo in the late afternoon/evening when flying from South Asia. I recommend living near the Tokyo train station, or near one of its neighboring stations like Shimbashi, which are close yet relatively cheap to stay in. The evening can be spent relaxing and taking a walk to the nearby Tokyo Tower. It’s Tokyo’s answer to the Eiffel Tower. Though it doesn’t come close in the grandeur of the latter, the view from the top is simply breathtaking. Skyscrapers shoot up into the sky as far as the eye can see. It is more fun to go at night, as everything is lit up all the way to the horizon.

Day two can be spent walking around downtown Tokyo. There are two main attractions to see here. One is the Imperial Palace, which has beautiful palace grounds and an imposing view of downtown Tokyo. The other is the Ginza district, which is one of the most expensive office locations in the world. Huge showrooms of every conceivable luxury brand like Cartier, Gucci, Prada and YSL can be seen here. There is also a four storied Apple store with a training auditorium and a floor devoted to iPod accessories. The world headquarters of Sony are next to the Apple store, and a museum on Sony’s past, present and future products is accessible from street level.

If your feet still have some energy left after walking around Ginza all day, a visit to Roppongi is the best way to cool off. Roppongi is where the foreigners, or gaijins, find themselves most at ease. Roppongi can be accessed by metro. The Roppongi hills shopping center is an added incentive to visit this neighborhood. There are numerous local and international chains of watering holes. One of Tokyo’s Hard Rock Cafes is located here. Gas Panic and Propaganda are popular nightspots. Watch out for touts standing al along the street who may try to convince you to enter a ‘hostess club’, a Japanese version of a strip club. You might end up unwillingly spending ridiculous amounts of money (read:$150+) as their rules for entry; drinks prices and acceptable behavior with the women inside are often unclear. I suggest going to Roppongi every evening and visiting a different pub every time. Each of the tiny watering holes in this area has its own identity and each new one I went to had a new surprise in store.

Day three can be spent in western Tokyo. One can take a morning trip to Shinjuku, which is the Tokyo metropolitan area’s largest downtown. All the city government buildings are located here. One can take the JR East line to Shinjuku station and walk down to the Tokyo City Government Building, which is the tallest in Tokyo. It is a vast complex with the twin towers at its center. Each tower has an observatory at the top which is free for visitors. One gets an astonishing view of the city, which stretches in every direction as far as the eye can see. Once done with Shinjuku, Shibuya is a short train ride away. Shibuya is the youth culture center of Tokyo. The incredible variety of hairstyles and clothing styles are worth noting. A lot of anime influence is also visible. Shibuya is home to the largest concentration of LED screens in the world, almost every building seems to have one that is constantly blaring a J-pop video or an advertisement for some cosmetic product. It is also the location of the world’s busiest pedestrian crossing, called the Hachiko crossing. Some places to visit in Shibuya include the seven-storey Tower Records store, the Disney store and one of the numerous pigeonhole eating joints.

Bright lights at the Hachiko junction in Shibuya

Day four is shopping time! Visit the electronics superstores in Akhihabra, which is a short train ride away from Tokyo station. The largest store here is the eleven-storey Yodobashi Camera store, right outside Akhihabra station. It sells every product you can imagine and some products you can’t imagine! If you’re the tech-savvy type, it is easy to spend three hours in this store. A short taxi ride away is the shopping district of Ueno, where one can find cheap everything: clothes, shoes, accessories and more. A day of shopping followed by a few drinks at Roppongi can make for a very satisfying day.

The last day can be spent visiting the Japanese temples in Tokyo. I suggest taking a train to Asakusa, which is home to the largest temple, the Sensoji shrine. A street full of stalls leads up to the temple, where one can buy souvenirs, clothes and cupcakes which are made in archaic-looking machines in front of the customer. As you near the temple, you will see an ice-cream store that sells ice-cream of some of the weirdest flavors you may have seen: unpolished rice, sweet potato, green tea and peanut! Asakusa also houses the world headquarters of Asahi beer, which are in a building that looks like a giant beer mug! You can come back via a river taxi which leaves you in the skyscraper district of Shiodome close to the Tokyo downtown. Some of the buildings are very imposing and provide the urban traveler with a great photo opportunity. If time permits, a visit to the artificial island of Odaiba is advised. Odaiba contains some weird buildings, like the Fuji TV headquarters some very large shopping malls. An unanticipated tourist attraction in Odaiba is a scaled-down replica of the Statue of Liberty. The train ride to Odaiba on the Yurikamome private railway is an attraction by itself. The driverless train leaves from its own station adjacent to the Shimbashi station and crosses over to Odaiba via a massive suspension bridge, providing some great views throughout.

If your schedule permits an extra day or two, I recommend a visit to the neighbouring city of Yokohama or to Tokyo Disneyland. Both provide for a full day’s worth of entertainment. I am sure that a trip to Tokyo will be unlike anything you have ever experienced. The best part about this great metropolis is that if you don’t like what you see, hop onto a train. The next station is sure to bring you something different to experience.

Some useful links:

Tokyo tourism information:
www.tourism.metro.tokyo.jp/english

WikiTravel:
http://wikitravel.org/en/Tokyo