Behold! My name is .....

“What’s in a name?” quotes Shakespeare in his popular works of Romeo and Juliet. Of course, he was alluding to the fact that a rose wouldn’t be any different if it was called a sunflower. Some fodder for the grey matter there, but of late I have come across people with some unusual names that I can’t help digging in the deep recesses of my memory to credit as many as I can remember.

Let’s begin at the beginning. When a couple brings a child into this world, I am positive, one of the first things that they as parents of a newborn do would be to discuss what to name it. You just can’t keep referring to it as ‘tch tch’ or ‘hey you’, for that matter. You also don’t name it ‘Surf XL’ or ‘Lays’ because you have not manufactured it; you have given birth to it. If a man has put in effort and if a woman has borne the child for nine months, it’s only fair that they spend an hour if not days to freeze on a nice name that the worthy child can carry it for the rest of its life.

Just the other day, I came across Perpetual, a cousin of mine, (Perpetual, as a name, has always been a muse when discussing names) and after the initial pleasantries were exchanged she launched on a barrage of everything unpleasant in life, so much so that despite valiant efforts on my part (which included flailing my arms in the air) to escape the incessant chatter, I was rooted to the spot. Poor me thought I was perpetually screwed… to the ground, I mean. Another name that baffles me is Immaculate and if I come across someone who’d introduce herself as “Hi. I’m Immaculate” I’d surely retort “What makes you think I’m not?”. A classmate of my brother went by the name Assumption. The list could go on but some people ought to have paid more attention in the grammar classes or should have been detained in the same class for another year if they could not tell the difference between an ‘Adjective’ and a ‘Proper Noun’. Equally amazed am I when come across people named after flowers e.g. rose, tulip et al. or colours like Pink, Violet etc., my only concern being one can get carried away and start naming children Burgundy or Bluish-green. A few years ago, on my trip to Kerala, I had come across a man whose name was Baby Jacob and no kidding about this. This was one Baby that was neither a girl nor a baby. This Baby was a towering 5’11”, had a rough and loud voice, sported a moustache and was forever seen in a lungi, an end of which he held in his left hand as he walked a masculine gait, partially exposing a hairy lower leg. I stopped referring to any girl as ‘Baby’. Another incident reminds me of how misled I was when I was in the eighth standard in school. I had always been under a preconceived notion that ‘Durgaprasad’ was the typical second grade eatery or restaurant in the bylanes of any streets in Mumbai until in std VIII, I came face to face with a bloke who went around with the same name and when we were introduced I couldn’t help but exclaim ‘Holy Prasad!’. I am reminded of yet another chap from std. VIII whose name was Y.P. Reddy. Even the teachers addressed him as YP. And if you are wondering why, YP had a unique first name which if one attempted to pronounce, would result in a knotted tongue in the mouth. If his elder brother is to be believed, it was on one of those days when YP was just born and his father had reached out and affectionately lifted him from the cradle when, without warning and in probably one of his mood swings, YP swung his leg and hit his father right in the family jewels. You don’t need a Sherlock Holmes to deduce how his father got even with him. Now he’s got a name he can’t pronounce and initials of which rhymes with ‘Why pee?’.

This reminds me of the time when my dad told me how I got my name. I was the first born and my parents were debating on what to name me. My dad had a list of names and when he discussed the list with my mom, she disapproved the list. She wanted her first born to have a typical regional name. My dad waved his list at mom; my mom counter argued. My dad recalled that even I raised objection to mom, but my wails from the crib fell on deaf ears. Just when it seemed like my dad was about to give in, one look at this helpless child gave him some inner strength and he stood his ground, refusing to be cornered. He launched a staunch tirade against mom till she relented, however with one condition that he would not have any say when naming future children. True to her word, she carried on with her threat and named my siblings that followed ‘Anita Lopez’ and ‘Preeti Lopez’ and I still get the shivers when I think about how narrowly I escaped being named something like ‘Ramu Lopez’.

Hey Dawg, don’t Bitch!

Ajmal Amir Kasab needs no introduction. By the vile act committed by him and his cronies on 26/11 and amongst them, being the sole survivor, he has toppled every other loathsome creature to become the latest international face of a terrorist. Ever since he’s been captured, he’s been trying to play the cat and mouse game, with little or less regard to the Indian sentiments. Disillusioned even in captivity, I might add. Be it making unjustified demands for newspapers (dude, you ain’t put up in a luxury hotel) or pulling monkey faces in the midst of the trial (don’t blame you for that… I’ll pass). Now, he’s sprung another bolt from the blue by confessing his crime when it was least expected. Goes on record saying “My crimes were committed in this world and the people of this world should punish me. I do not want punishment from God” (dude, seriously, you must be kidding. This condition of yours is monumental, considering you are demanding absolution from the Almighty).

Spare us the sob story, mate. Your trigger happy days are over. Crimes committed by you deserve severe punishment. You are nothing but a murderer. You ain’t shown no mercy. You ain’t getting none. Hey Dawg, don’t bitch. Allow me.

Party time at Kamshet

Needless to say we will all miss flying for a while. But it has been a fab season and we had all come down to Kamshet to bid adieu to the wonderful flying season and celebrate. For all who know Sanjay, Astrid and company, celebrations don’t need a reason and each day gone by is reason enough to make merry. And it is precisely why any visitor, a pilot or not, has a good time at the ‘Native Place’. However, the party on 30th May was a special occasion and it has been a ritual for years where the Nirvana gang gets together with the locals to host a ‘Puja’ to the Goddess for the advent of rains in the months to come. Me and Ash reached the Native place by noon, right in time for a coupla beers, some delicious pork vindaloo and chicken feast. After a snappy siesta, we were on our way to Shelar and we didn’t waste any moment to strap our harnesses on and begin ground handling. Like Anand, a co-pilot, said ground handling is an exhilarating experience and the joy of keeping the glider aloft while your feet are firmly planted on the ground knows no bounds. The place was swarmed with all of us enjoying the ground handling session. There was Noel, Apoorva, Dwayne the Daaku, Ashwin, everyone lost in trying to keep the glider overhead. I, for one, was making the most of the occasion and I was playing with the wings allotted to me with the enthusiasm of child at playtime. I lost track of the time till Vinay came up to me and said it’s time to pack up and party. Reluctant as I was to let go of the wings, the word ‘Party’ somehow struck a chord with something within me and I made my way back. Anand was having a gala time with his wings and he was probably the last person to come off the field. His enthusiasm reflected with the fact that unlike everyone who mushroomed the gliders and came off the field, Anand ran down the entire length of it with the glider aloft right to the point where we were all assembled. Some spirited performance that, and I’m sure he enjoyed every bit of it.

We all moved to the Shelar Mama’s abode. We also had the company of the Local guys and children who were eagerly waiting for the festivities to begin. While the children enjoyed the soft drinks we got started on the booze. Pushkar was behind the music console and he set the mood for the evening with a track called ‘Banao’. The guys had prepared a makeshift dance floor and as soon as the first track was over, someone requested the song ‘Main hoon Don’. The best part of the evening was that the local guys and the children wanted only three tracks to be played and the same was kept playing in a never ending loop. Since all of us wanted the local guys to enjoy, we played along. Someone did manage to squeeze in a coupla Rock n’ Roll tracks, but that was it. The music again went back to playing the same 3 songs in a loop and it wasn’t long before all of us were on the dance floor and everyone was enjoying the same 3 songs and no one gave a damn. Never in my life did I imagine that one day I would dance to the title song from the Jitendra movie ‘Tohfa’ and really enjoy it. The evening was an absolute riot. Another highlight of the evening was the dinner which was meat cooked on wood and there was a flavor to it that simply enhanced the taste. After a fun-filled evening we headed back to the native place which played host to the fireflies at night. We switched off the lights and enjoyed a few more beers in the company of the fireflies. The evening ended with celebrating Dwayne the Daaku’s birthday in the pool. The next morning, as we all started for our homes, I felt that I simply cannot get enough of this place. I am sure everyone felt the same. Astrid assured us that we will all meet again during the monsoons. I am looking forward to it.

For more pictures, Click here

Trekking the Skies

Video: My First Flight

For the last three years ash and I have been planning to go paragliding. Call it lack of time or fear of the unknown that kept us from taking the penultimate decision of packing our bags and simply heading out. It was definitely not the fear of the sport though, for there have been one too many an occasion where we have put our heads together and discussed the feeling of flying amongst the birds. During this period, whenever opportunity for a getaway presented itself, we just packed our bags and headed out to Goa. This year, however, when Diwali holidays drew near, Ash was more than determined to go to Kamshet for paragliding. Probably, the steadfastness in Ash’s attitude was more influenced by the fact that he was now engaged to be married and he wanted desperately to take the leap (from the mountain) before taking the final plunge (into marriage). Whatever the cause, the day arrived when we headed out to Kamshet for our P1 course (P1 is the 5 day training program where they teach one the basics of the glider, to control the glider and one gets 10 solo flights from top of a cliff… sounds exciting? Trust me, there’s more excitement to it than I could fairly describe.)

It was a Friday afternoon when we left from Mumbai and by the time we reached Kamshet market it was 6:30pm. We decided to take the last ST bus to Nirvana Flying Club that was scheduled for 8pm. The trip from Kamshet market to Nirvana Flying Club was fabulous with the bus plying on what seemed more like a toe path than a road and we, the highly fortunate ones seated on the last seat, were thrown from one end of the bus to the other during the entire 20-30 minute ride. Our adventure had begun. The bus was filled with locals and we asked the guys on the adjacent seat to inform us when our destination was within reach which they gladly did. When we stepped out of the bus, we were pleasantly surprised when all the people seated on the left side of the bus had their hands out guiding us in the direction to Nirvana. That’s when we termed the village ‘The Vodafone Village’ i.e. the village with people who were always ‘Happy to help’.

The moment we set foot inside the native place, for that’s what the bungalow and its villas are collectively called as and to add substance to it, the entire panorama is rustic and one simply cant help experiencing the immediate connect and oneness with nature what with pebbles strewn across the centre, bamboo shoots, dim lights and the soft house music teasing the ears. Nothing I could write will do justice to it and I will simply not attempt to do it any further. You must simply experience it to believe it. We met Sanjay, the owner and he directed his guys to set us up in our rooms and invited us to the terrace where all the visiting pilots and the budding pilots like us were gathered for a party. We freshened up, took our beers and joined them like a wind. It didn’t take us long to mingle with the other pilots and it was moments before we felt as if we’ve known all of them for years. We partied till 12 in the night and after some good chup-chup, read dinner, we hit the sack as we had to assemble early morning at 0530 hrs to head out for the site where we’d get our first lessons on handling the paraglider. Enthused as we were about our first day, we woke up at 0430 hrs to a cold early morning as we anticipated there’d be a mad rush among our room mates to make it to the shower. Ash and me took our turns at the shower and I was intrigued to my wits’ end when our room mates were still cozy in their beds even at 0500 hrs while we were all prepped and ready to go. ’twas only by 0515 hrs that there was rustling everywhere and everyone drycleaned and propped themselves in the hall by 0530. I had learnt my first lesson in paragliding i.e. when you party late into the night, grab as much sleep as you can; you always get you chance to shower when you come back tired and covered in grime later. The first two days, we were taught all about controlling the glider when you are on the ground (ground handling). What seems simple at first sight was a bit difficult but with continuous attempts all of us managed it right. The third day was more eventful when we were taken to a small hill and instructed to go halfway up and once our glider was laid out and safety checks were carried out, we had to inflate the glider and run down the hill like there was no tomorrow. Of course, we were continuously being instructed on the radios strapped on our persons by Sanjay, who ensured that the blunders committed by us amateurs were kept in check (Sanjay is one no nonsense dude and for him the safety of all the pilots is paramount; hats off to him). This was again a day where we got our first instance of flying as the glider lifted us fairly off the ground for some decent time and it made us all the more eager for our flights from top of the hill. I even twisted my ankle during one of these attempts but that didn’t deter me in my pursuit of flying. Sanjay ensured that I was absolutely fit before he allowed me to take my flight from the top. I got my first flight from the top (approximately 120 ft high hill) on my birthday and that made it an extra special flight to be cherished for a very long time. My eagerness to fly dispelled any feelings of anxiety and I was filled with a fervor to join others who had already experienced flying. When my turn arrived, Ravi gave me instructions to be followed, charted my flight course to the landing and I was ready for the launch. With my glider inflated I began my run downhill. I recollected a wise guy saying ‘Flying is all about aiming for the ground and missing it’. And before I could say ‘Kazaam’, I was lifted off the ground and I was saying hi to the birds. Sanjay’s voice cackled on the radio asking me how I was feeling and I guffawed back in delight, telling him how wonderful and top of the world I felt; I enjoyed the entire flight course till my feet found ground and even beyond. My first flight will remain etched in my memory forever and it will remain my best Birthday gift. Later on, we accompanied the Nirvana gang to Tower hill (approximately 900 ft high hill) where they usually go for long flights (the tandem flights are also conducted here). The Wind Gods were smiling and the sky was abundant with paragliders with wings of different hues that made a spectacular sight. It was eye candy to watch all the pilots soaring and performing some extraordinary stunts in the sky. Some of them were whizzing past the ridge at speeds I didn’t imagine a glider was capable of. Others who were at a distance were spiraling, performing wing-overs and a few were just out there to enjoy and have their time with the birds and the bees (this is meant to be taken at face value and has no relation to the phrase bearing the same). The trip to Tower Hill was captivating and the adrenaline rush that it induced is enough for me to look forward for P2 course where I’ll be taught to soar for hours at a stretch.

And if you are interested in trekking the skies, you can log on to www.flynirvana.com/ and get details. Trust me, you’ll have the time of your life. Thank you Sanjay, Astrid, Ravi, Sandeep, Bond, Vinay and everyone at Fly Nirvana for an exihilarating experience.

Dawning woes!

On drinks yesterday, me, Ivan and Ash got nostalgic about our school days, the good times ofcourse and an educational hazard…. Ummm, it actually doesn’t concern education at all but our school timings, after the fourth grade, inevitably got us to bear the brunt (here I speak for myself). All my happiness of progressing to the fifth grade, and finally getting to wear full length trousers for my school uniform instead of the awful chaddee (short pants) that we were forced to wear till the fourth grade vanished when I had to wake up to this music that found its way to my delicate ear drums and reverberated through my dreams till my dreams were smashed to smithereens. The music is a piece of classical composition and many have written rave reviews about the same and people still get nostalgic and reminisce about the time when they used to wake up to this piece playing on the radio even before the smell of the coffee could reach one’s nostrils. In fact, the music was so synonymous to the break of the Indian dawn that even the friendly neighborhood cock stopped bothering about looking to the east for sunrise and crew only when the music had impregnated the ether with its resonance. Even when I finally managed to convince my parents to not turn on the radio so early in the morn, the music crept through the atmosphere from one the many radios in the neighborhood. A naïve kid that I was (and I remember my school pals also agreed with me), I was of the firm opinion that a school going child should not be subjected to this brain numbing tune everyday when he is preparing for a new day at school and trying to work out ways of convincing his classmate Carol that he is the one for her. Yesterday, I found two new sympathizers in Ivan and Ash, when we discussed this music as a part of our school going lives. Ash strongly believes that it played an important part in his academic career, or the lack of it. Ivan remembers hurling brickbats at the neighboring milkman who never failed to turn on the radio beforehand. And I lost Carol to a good friend of mine (till that day) who woke up to MJ every morning on his tape recorder. And if you are still wondering why, click on the play button and needless to say, turn your speakers on.

No Honking on 7th April

Yeah! It’s an initiative taken by the traffic authorities to curb noise pollution in the city and I’ll do my bit by avoiding the yellow button on my bike. My friend Paul, a married man (my sympathies) expressed his opinion that the initiative to keep the noise in check should not be limited to traffic; the same to be extended to grumbling wives as well.

Veering back from the dangerous wives to our safer roads, I have already started to avoid honking and I only reach out for the horn when absolutely necessary. And to be honest, I’ve not yet drawn the line that will define ‘Absolutely Necessary’. The last two days since I’m observing controlled aggression on the roads, if it can be called so, I’ve come across many instances which, only days before, would have made me involuntarily reach out for the blaring horn... hmmm... I’m wondering if I could call it blaring ‘coz my bike actually lets out a meek beep for its horn and if put to a test, it can even be humbled by a bleating sheep. Two instances from the last two days should be enough to tell you how serious I am about avoiding the horn (or the beep), though I was never honk happy. The first was when I was headed home yesterday. It was around 11pm when there was less traffic on the roads and much less pedestrians and I was doing a casual 40kms on my bike when, without warning, a pedestrian decided to cross the road without as much as looking behind for oncoming traffic. Though, he was at a distance, just about enough for me to apply my brakes to avoid him, and which I did, I avoided using the horn and yelled ‘OYE!’ at him. That was enough to send him scurrying back to the footpath and the scared look on his face that my ‘OYE!’ triggered gave me immense glee. The second instance was early morning today on my way to the office. The traffic at Andheri station was bumper to bumper and I kept my bike on the left where I could negotiate it through narrow gaps left between the footpath and the other vehicles when I came across a girl walking gaily, not on the footpath but on the only part of the road from whence me and the other bikes could escape the traffic, thus obstructing our mobility. I gave a meek beep, to no avail. Much as I wanted to, I resisted the urge to keep my thumb on the horn. Instead I roared ‘OH AUNTY!’ and that remark seemed to draw her out of her thoughts, if she was thinking any. She scowled at me in a way that said she expected me to melt away instantly. However, I didn’t and thankfully, she gave way for me and the other bikes to pass. But, am I glad to have resisted the impulse to honk. As long as jaywalkers infest the streets, the desire to honk out loud is bound to surface.

Nevertheless, these instances would not deter me and I continue to play my own small part in the just cause to keep noise pollution in check, not just for that one day to come, but for all the days henceforth.

Hair today, gone tomorrow!

I enter. I look. I want to do the u-turn and scram like there’s no tomorrow. Beat it. Shoo. Thoughts implore me to make it for the door and out, but I stand my ground.

It’s been two years since I’ve been growing my hair and now my locks fall below my shoulder blades (why am I even thinking about blades here). Though I had sported long hair right from my college days, I’ve never grown it long enough to sport a pony tail. This is the first time that I’ve grown my hair this long and it’s an awesome feeling to let your hair down when there’s a breeze blowing or go headbanging when at a rock concert. Now, as I stand inside the salon, I wonder if I’d do the right thing to chop it off. The barber (or the hair stylist, whatever term each of us is familiar with) with his pair of scissors looks more to me like a barbarian wielding a sword. As I wait my turn, a part of me tells me that I’d do better to get the job done tomorrow. However, I was glued to the seat and when my turn came, I moved animatedly to the seat where there’d be some action. I couldn’t disguise the contempt in my voice when I told the barbarian to chop it off. Having told him how I wanted my hair cut, I gasped in horror as the first snips took away huge chunks of me, off me. I simply closed my eyes and relaxed (or at least tried to) even as my ears picked the frenzied hacking and slashing sounds taking place in the vicinity and transmitted them to my brain like some journalist reporting ‘Breaking News’ LIVE. Every time I opened my eyes, I could but feel remorse for the guinea pig reflected by the mirror. Now there was no looking back and when I actually tried, the barbarian rebuked me for behaving like a three year old. After what seemed like an eternity, his job done, I saw him appreciating his work of art like a gardener who had finished working on a hedge. Though I wanted to comment on the same, words failed me; the damage was long done. And somehow, I thought it wouldn’t matter to him. Never before did I think that my face resembled the moon for its shape and now when I looked in the mirror it looked mooner than the moon.

After the tryst with the barbarian, the first person (and not the only one) to express shock and disbelief at my appearance was the one I’d least expected to. My mom.