Hit The Road, Jack!

Ladies and gentlemen, we are in crisis mode. Our Army Chief recently revealed that our entire military is obsolete, and could be taken down anytime by a bunch of Chinese kids with Beyblades. This is a matter of national security and must be examined thoroughly, which is why I dedicate this column to cribbing about how much I need a goddamn vacation.

That’s right. I’m part of the overworked, exhausted elite – the kind that get paid well enough for its services, but only if those services include handing over control of our entire lives to clients who demand everything except the sacrifice of our first-born sons. And that’s only because we have no time to get into a room and initiate the baby-creation process to begin with.

(The first instance of this can be seen in the Old Testament, wherein a client, who thought he was God, ordered Abraham to sacrifice his first-born son. The idea worked. That book went viral like crazy, and clients have been trying to replicate that success since.)

It doesn’t help that the professional world has completely changed from what it was a generation before mine. Things seemed to be simpler then. The concept of job satisfaction, much like Levis jeans or on-demand tentacle erotica, was unheard of. You got a job at Whatever The Hell Place Hired You Ltd., pretended to look busy from 9 to 5, and were then free to umm, sleep and… err… sleep more? (I’m sorry. I don’t know what socialist India did for fun. Those wild ‘Krishi Darshan’ marathons on TV, maybe?)

Cut to the present, where almost everyone I know is insanely ambitious. I’m talking about writers, comics, actors, designers, photographers, entrepreneurs, marketers, corporate hotshots and ladies of the night, all of whom have one thing in common – I hate them for inspiring me towards hard work. There is a stupid fire burning inside all of us, partly because of stress-induced acidity, that makes us want to go the extra mile because we’ve realised that there’s no room for mediocrity in Mumbai (unless you work at the BMC)

Mumbaikars, and Indians in general, lead shackled, vacation-less lives. A 2011 international study called ‘The Vacation Deprivation Study’ pegged Indians as the fifth-most vacation deprived people in the world. This may sound surprising given our tendency to celebrate every little event in the life of bazillions of revered figures – both real and religious – such as a birth anniversary, potty training anniversary, first pimple festival, coitus jayanti etc.

But according to the study, Indians actually forego about 20% of their holidays, for reasons such as guilt, or the more common, ‘My boss is a rabid dementor’. Vacations, much like the girl child, are still viewed as a luxury here. It makes sense, because for the longest time, a vacation meant an annual trip to the ‘native place’, aka ‘a place where your parents took you to meet the same people they bitched about the rest of the year’.

And call me stupid, but come April, it blows my mind that we no longer have summer holidays. No more three-month periods of doing nothing. If I could, I would enforce that rule in the adult world as well, leading to a worldwide vacation, as essential services ground to a halt and the global economy crumbled to a point where we were back to trading tiger testes for rice. (As far as I can tell, this is what investment bankers have planned for us anyway.)

But until then, I must make do with the occasional trip down to my happy place. No, not that, you perverts. I’m talking about the place that defines me, the one place I will tell my kids about, the place where everybody knows my name… my office.

(This is my latest HT column, dated 1st April 2012. Cross-posted from here.)

Bacchanalia in Bangkok: What could go wrong?

I recently went on a holiday to Thailand, a move which earned me many smirks, and advice along the lines of, ‘When in Thailand, act like a Delhiite’. I had no such intentions, partly because I’m not attracted to people whose genitals seem to exhibit Transformer-like properties. (Ladyboys just give new meaning to the term ‘Decepticon’)

But I can see why people would think that way. After all, I was in the sex capital of the world on an all-guy trip. However, our holiday was all about visiting various temples and monasteries in an attempt to better understand the Oriental offshoots of Hinduism.

Hah no, I’m kidding. Our trip involved strippers, shotguns and tigers. Kinda like ‘The Hangover’, but better because no one got married (as far as we can remember)

We began with Bangkok, a bustling city full of friendly and helpful people. So friendly that the minute we got out of the airport, our cabbie started advertising “boomboom”, an ancient Thai practise meant to ward off loneliness. Mind you, we hadn’t even had breakfast and there we were, being shown pull-out brochures featuring women next to Turkish baths and massage beds in various states of undress, desperately waiting to be pleasured by our huge… umm… wallets.

This was by far the weirdest cabbie conversation I’d ever had. Naturally, I had to find out more.

Me: “So, how long does this boomboom last?”

Cabbie: “Short boomboom, ah, three hours.”

Me: “Whoa. Then what’s the long version?”

Cabbie: (without batting an eyelid) “Morning to night.”

At this point, I’m thinking, “All day? That’s like a real relationship!” But that’s exactly the kind of place Bangkok is – a bizarre, brazen kingdom where deviation is normal and where a guy cannot walk ten steps without being offered some attractively-priced STDs.

The Bombay equivalent would be massage girls tapping your windows at traffic signals to offer you quickies. (If you were driving in Andheri, you could try out the entire Kama Sutra, sing songs and fall in love with said massage girl, then start a family and develop a mid-life crisis – all before crossing Saki Naka.)

Our first night out at Bangkok’s Patpong market began on quite an ordinary note – dinner, drinks and shying away from touts who were the Lalit Modi of massage marketing. But our second destination – the ‘strictly adult’ area called Nana – felt like part of a parallel universe. Because that can be the only explanation for the existence of ping-pong shows.

These involve a bunch of women on stage doing crazy things with their lady parts. And I don’t mean childbirth. Let’s just say that you don’t need hands to make ping-pong balls fly across the room. Other acts involved blowing out candles, smoking a cigarette and shooting darts – basically a freakish display of strength and skill by the Arnold Schwarzeneggers of the kegel world.

It was odd to see couples present at these shows. OK, I get it – everybody wants to watch the Mutant Vajayjay Circus, but taking your wife or girlfriend there is just setting impossibly high standards for her. It’s like her taking you to a club where male bodybuilders are using their you-know-what to do push-ups.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was just our first night in the country. There’s more to follow in the next edition, such the single man’s guide to Phuket, a detailed account of tiger butts and how to experience instant arousal using only a handgun. But it’s goodbye for now. Or as they say in Thailand, “boomboom”.

A Date with History

A cursory glance at this page will reveal a secret that until now,was known only to 913412723 people,4 cows and 3 space monkeys : I’m Lazy.Always have been.But I referred to the recent lull in my writing as a case of Writer’s Block.You know of Writer’s Block right?The big,looming structure off Bored Avenue,opposite the Yawn building?Anyways,I continued to be Lazy and blame it on Writer’s Block.And all the King’s men couldn’t get Lazy writing again.They even offered him hot sex in return but who wants to have sex with the King’s(or anyone’s) men?

Ok I should stop rambling and get somewhere with this.
The vacation gods have been good to me this time around.Blissful nights dissolved into mornings, which yielded to mellow evenings as I hibernated for 12 hours straight,sometime even more.The ‘days’ started post 7 p.m,with drives around the town and meeting up with old friends over beer and rock.I’d forgotten what daylight looked like.

Until of course,I set off on a trek to Raigad Fort with 16 college friends.The plan?
Quite simple really…a 3 hour drive to Raigad,followed by a short trek up to the fort,where we’d chill out for a while before heading back home.

And now the part that scares off lazy,i-make-sloths-look-like-hyperactive-baboons-on-speed kinda ppl:

Arrival time at Raigad: 3:30 a.m
Temperature: ganji-bermuda level if you’re from North India,but ball-numbing enough for us tropical Bombay types.

Vertical Displacement:3000 ft…in the metric system that translates into “Chutiye,bahut upar hai…let’s take the ropeway instead!”

And so it began,our fight against ourselves,against muscles that screamed out in agony,the journey that made every breath seem like a wonderful victory,as we trudged along a narrow path,our immediate neighbour to the left being the rocky abyss of the Sahyadris – the same abyss that served to consume traitors during the Maratha period.
As I ascended the slope, one step at a time,the full moon playing benovelent guide,a blanket of calm pervaded my senses, silencing the noise in my head save for one voice which urged firmly:

“Mind over matter,mind over matter,mind over matter…”

And that’s what it’s all about really-this game of Life.The power of the mind – the power to create,nurture,inspire,lead,seek and destroy.Each one of us is the centre of the universe and what we do with our power decides the manner in which the universe unfolds.

Random philosophy,a narrow path,the abyss of the Sahyadris still yawning wide open to my left,as if to swallow the moonlight that guides us – a state of blissful solitude, even as I was surrounded by friends.

“Mind over matter,mind over matter,mind over matter…”

We reached our destination at 5:30 a.m,our fatigue banished by the regal authority of Shivaji, a force not yet dead, moulded in stone and metal, still standing guard over the fort that served as his capital.The fort that the mighty Mughals could never capture during Shivaji’s lifetime.A behemoth set in stone,it commands respect and stands watch over miles of hilly terrain even today,for enemies that refuse to give up.

A bonfire and some photography later,we perched upon a stone wall and gazed eastward,waiting for the sunrise.The sunrise,after all,was the reason for the crazy timing we’d chosen.As we sat waiting, a friend who’d been exploring around,shouted that he’d discovered a hidden series of steps. Carved into the dark,curving walls of the fort entrance,they led to the watchtower,which offered a much better view.So of course,doing the exact opposite of what ‘normal’ people would do, five of us climbed to the top, a straight drop to the rocks below reminding us to refrain from the usual buffoonery.And yours truly,along with two of his friends,still ignored common sense and walked around the entire perimeter on a narrow ledge,citing reasons such as ‘finding the right camera angle’.Bullshit.We did it for the headrush.

This, of course , was just after the sunrise.Ah yes..the magical sunrise! The most spectacular one I’ve seen in all my life.A confluence of colours slowly breaking free from the darkness,shades of yellow at first, metamorphosing into red,orange and shades of pink,as if God himself had wielded a divine brush to create a portrait of Hope and Warmth.

They say a picture speaks a thousand words…so open your eyes and Listen!