Day Tripping to WonderLa

I spent the afternoon today with friends at an impromptu visit to WonderLa, a theme-park on the way from Bangalore to Mysore. And boy, it was a brain-shaker, in true sense of the word - it raced the pulse, rattled the bones and churned the stomach - all at once. We set foot inside the place around 1pm, so got to enjoy the rides without much waiting. Most of the rides were based on the priniciple of 360 swirls along with cylcical motion to add some twisted surprise elements. My favouritest ride was Insanity and Zero Gravity. Insanity, as the name suggests treats you like a crazy ball, throwing you in every possible direction, all in one series. So you have no idea where you are going to be hurled at next. And if that wasn't enough, these acrobatics are happening while you are suspended upside down. Yep, totally insane! Zero Gravity was cool although not a brain-shaker. There is a single column around which you are sitting. The seats go up and then it drops you straight down. You float in your seat for these few seconds, defying gravity, and then fall into place - plop! They build up the tempo of surprise slowly, with the one
but last being the longest fall. Though a great adrenalin rush, the second time is not all that much fun, since you know what to expect. Of all the rides, I think one called Mixer was the most lame. All I got from it was a good knock on my thighs as they kept bumping into the rod holding
us into place. Another activity which I immensely enjoyed was climbing up the rope ladder; wasn't really physically challenging, but felt like an achievement neverthless, over climbing the regular stone stairways. With all of this, and lots of refreshment breaks, we were through by 4.30pm. Of course, we did not do the water rides, since I am not too comfortable getting into a semi-cess pool even under scorching temperatures.

In comparison to Essel World, which used to be on my yearly summer calendar, WonderLa is a rather watered-down version. The rides are few and not very different from each other. No indoor games, like the drum at Essel World which throws you to the brim as it begins rotating or
even the hamster wheel. What about the Haunted House, Crazy Mirrors, Hedge Maze...the MISSING list is really long.

Wake-y Wake-y

My recent shift to South Bangalore was a tailing after my change in job, this time with a software company, as befits every North Indian immigrant to Bangalore. Ever since I came to B’lore whether I work for an IT-Company was a question frequently posed after I had painstakingly finished explaining to the person that I was not a student, hadn’t studied engineering or knew the first thing about software or programming. I guess it was karma; served me right for sneering at the adamant and isolable questioning of turmeric stain-faced ladies.
A neophyte in the area, I head for Kormangala to satisfy my ravenousness and purchasing compulsions. I embarked on one such expedition last weekend for a quick lunch. Owing to the long distances I am getting used to travelling of late, as soon as I sit into the auto, I bring out my earphones and ‘turn it up loud’ on my iPod in futile efforts to muffle the traffic noises. As I ruffled through my bag, I noticed my auto driver’s head fall freely downwards, and then back in place looking at the road. I thought I had hallucinated and waited with abated breath to catch his eye in the rearview mirror. It happened, again. And again. I could not take my eyes off the road anymore. Suddenly I was watching out for every vehicle in front of us and turned my head both ways when the auto came to a crossing junction. Alongside, I kept a watchful eye on the driver who kept nodding off with frequency, but was neither blurry eyed nor sleepy-looking.
I was stupid enough to be unable to question him if he was nodding off as I though he might have a condition where his head flopped around without his knowledge. And with my recent experiences of over-talkative drivers - Ride Home & Listening Sorts – I had no patience to listen to another long drawn story. So behind my dark glasses, I kept an unfaltering eye on the auto driver. I don’t think he was aware of my dedicated attention, as I noticed him leering at every woman we passed on the road, whether single or with a man. This further angered me.
I heaved a sigh of relief when I reached my destination – Dal Roti – and bad mood melted with their piping hot gulab jamuns.

Frequent Fliers

Last weekend I went to Mumbai. It was a melange of nostalgia, homesickness and missing parents and good food. It was high-pressure at work on Friday evening as I had to send a magazine for publication. I somehow managed to get that out of the door and asked the auto driver heading towards the runway to step on it. A stickler for being on time, I half-run inside the airport, throwing people off their feet like bowling pins as I hit them with my duffle bag. And the flight was delayed!
I sat fretting and cursing as the airplane arrived from Mumbai at the time scheduled for our take-off. Invariantly, the flight took off when we were supposed to have landed in Mumbai. We, meaning all the people waiting, were waiting, and cursing, and being rude to the airline staff. I was cranky since I had not eaten dinner, and a full-fledged meal at 1am did not hold appeal, as my eyes were heavy with sleep. The flight was full, but as I had requested for a good seat, I had been given the first row, mid-seat. The guy next to me was apologising to his sweetheart he was scheduled to meet for dinner. And soon we all fell asleep. But then there was a kid which refused to stop crying. And the parents thought the front row should have the privilege of his orchestrated cries which went on relentlessly for about 40 mins of the 90 minutes flight. I glugged a few bottles of water, and crushed them in frustation. My lens threatened to dry and stick inside my eyes, so I removed them for a blurry vision of the chaos reigning around me. Thankfully, I had no luggage, and merely walked out of the airport; located my misplaced parents and slept on the ride back home.
Last evening, on my return journey to Bangalore, the security at the gate did not allow personal time between mom and me, since Mr Rane and his battalion of political leaders were taking a flight. They even hoarded the orders when I decided to pick a cup of coffee from the CCD stall inside. The lot seemed to have been famished and ordered for one of everything on the menu. This does speak poorly of the in-flight food of Jet Airways...?!
I sat enjoying my Mocha cup and nearly exploded laughing when I saw one of the political leader's well-bred moustache. He had rolled up the edges tightly, and gel-led them to stand up, one inch off his face like two tapestry needles. I went past the security check for hand baggage and thought I saw a familiar face. I was shamelessly staring at the woman as I tried to place who she was, and she was returning the favour. The orange tilak on her forehead helped me place her as the whip-lasher of the K-phenomenon on Indian TV primetime - Ektaa Kapoor. The man standing ahead of me in the line for the bus was not-so-discreetly capturing her photo in his mobile phone to show his family/friends in Bangalore. A non-Bombay-ite was the immediate mental note which popped in my head, and I burst into another fit of giggles behind my hand.
As I got into the transit bus, I noticed a familiar face...again! I turned back, and realised it was not a celebrity this time. It was the guy who was seated next to me on the flight on Friday night. apologising to his 'sweets' for being late. For a second our eyes met, and I smiled. He smiled, and then turned away, embarassed (I think). What is with people being so uptight? I just smiled as a sign of familiarity!
Anyways, I got a seat in the second row aisle with that guy nowhere in close vicinity or sight. I put on my earplugs so my ears wouldn't pop and was blissful for the rest of the flight with muffled voices and engine purring someplace far away. The cab I had called for was also on time, and I enjoyed my journey home getting a blast of cold wind rushing through the rolled-down window.

Listening Sorts

Today I was in an awful mood after a friend unceremoniously ditched me after making me wait for 1 1/2 hour. I was so mad that a piece of paper would have set ablaze if it was placed in front of my face. I stomped out and caught an autorickshaw. Since it had poured just an hour ago, there was a bottleneck. I noticed that the meter was running faster than usual. I pointed this out to the driver, and finding a valid reason to scream at someone I continued accusing him of cheating, blah blah.
He simply pulled over, and raised his palm for silence and fiddled with the auto mechanism to rectify the problem. After demonstrating that the glitch had been rectified, the journey commenced again.
The driver started with small talk about B'lore being infested with people from everywhere. His rant began on similar note as my conversation two weeks ago. I showed little enthusiasm, since the mood was down, and the topic boring. So he brought up discussion of education, and how it was directly proportional to the price one can command in the market. I feebly agreed until he gave me the instance of a doctor who can demand Rs 5000 to inject you with medicine which costs no more than Rs 50. I argued that 'knowledge is power', but he seemed more comfortable with the Chinese way of ruling where rich or poor alike, man earns basis the sweat and labour he exudes, without use of his intellectual.
After I revealed to him that I was a Muslim, he being a righteous Muslim man, decided that I needed to be advised on the worldly ways. He told me that a woman should never look eye-to-eye when talking to another person, especially a man. The exception would be her parents or siblings. If he knew English, I would have screamed 'MCP!' The words resounded and died in the empty hollow of my head. I said nothing.
He told me that he was married for 4 years with 2 kids. And his wife and he shared mutual love and trust which helped them live together harmoniously. I was impressed by this claim, until he decided to elaborate further and tell me, "A man and a man are different. My wife cannot walk in front and lead. She must always walk behind me."
Hello! Whatever happened to gender equality? Since she is your partner, shouldn't she walk with you, if not in front of you? By now we had surpassed the bottlenecked traffic, and were zooming close to home. The point was not argued any further, and I hastily proceeded towards my apartment.
Like this was not enough, I was caught by my landlady who was concerned on my late arrival and early departure everyday. I explained to her about my new work place being 20 kms away. She empathised, and observed that the travel was too much of a hassle. I slipped in the idea that I may have to move out and go closer. As soon as she learnt of the area where my office was located, she cried foul. And began to describe graphically, much like Hindi-movie style on the scheming minds of thieves who would climb and hide in my bathroom!! I maintained a straight face as she elaborated on how I could get abducted while hailing an auto and dramatised the proceedings. It soon dawned upon me that she did not want to lose a tenant, and was trying to convince me to stay here (in a safe area), and buy a vehicle for travel, instead of conveniently shifting to a place close to office. I thanked her profusely for enlightening me with such knowledge, thus preventing me from encountering such goons, and said g'nite. She even promised to convince my mother about the terrible things which could happen to a poor lil girl living alone. Once out of ear shot, I laughed my way up home.
I really enjoy these characters I encounter everyday. It seems that I have a 'tell me all, I am all ears to your advise' kinda look. Is it just me?

Ride Home

Yesterday I was out for dinner and coffee late into the night. This made the thought of getting an auto a dreary thought, and one for ordering of a pickup cab a comforting one. I pushed aside the skepticism and stepped out, and there was a lone auto-driver. His vehicle was parked in the opposite direction of my destination, so I ignored him, and decided to cross the road to lookout for an auto which was headed towards my home. As is common with drivers, he came towards us and asked where we needed to be dropped. My friend asked him, and he quoted a double-meter fare. That was the amount I had mentally agreed to pay for the ride home, so I didn't have enthusiasm to bargain. My friend on the other hand (a newbie in B'lore I may add) thought double-meter was exorbitant, and the lawful 1 1/2 times was fair. Moreover, he thought the driver had a shady hue with his unkempt beard, monkey cap, over-sized jacket and muffler. But he looked OK to me. So I pushed his skepticism aside, gave a quick good-bye hug and jumped into the auto. As he started the engine, my friend located another auto and began arguing with him for the inflated fare quoted. I rolled my eyes in dismay, and plunked myself comfortably into the seat till my auto picked up momentum. The ride began.
[conversation took place in Hindi]
He first commented ,'Oh! The U-turn is pretty far off. I didn't realise'. I nodded and made some unintelligible sounds of agreement. Unsatisfied with my enthusiasm for conversation, he tried again, 'These roads in Bangalore are pretty bad.' B'lore roads are like English weather - a take-off point for conversation when nothing else comes to mind. I took the hint, 'Yeah, its the rains. They play havoc with the roads.' 'No, no! Its not the rains. The roads have not been filled properly and tightly. The heavy traffic loosens it easily,' he argued.
Silence.
'Where are you from?' he asked. This was an evasive question, and dangerous one to encourage when you are alone with a stranger in B'lore. I said, 'Bangalore.' He read the hesitation in my voice, and began to explain that he liked getting friendly with his passengers. I admitted, at his asking the second time, that I was from Bombay. He guffawed and said, 'I can tell you are not from here. You don't look like a local.' I took that as a graceful compliment and assured him, 'Yes, I am not a Kannadiga.'Then he asked me about my mother-tongue and religion. This time I lied, unsure if my admission of my religion would have him scolding me for being an uncultured girl gallivanting so recklessly.
He continued to philosophize about passengers and auto-drivers being transient companions and how it was a delight to meet different people and talk to them. And he apologised if I was getting bothered by his small-talk, since not everyone liked to yak away to drivers. I egged him to continue, 'In Bombay people are used to having such conversations with their cab drivers.'
This took off the conversation on a different plane. He began ranting, 'A girl would never be in an auto alone in the dead of the night.' This made my heart beat faster, as I began to wonder if he was a psychopath, who would kill me for crossing my womanly-boundaries, so stringent in Indian society. I was back to my walled grunts of acknowledgment. He continued, 'In past 10 years, things have drastically changed in Bangalore. This is b'caz of the IT industry and call centres where people work around the clock in different shifts.' Sounded like he was a rational person. He changed tracks and told me about a girl passenger who recently boarded his auto. 'She smoked two cigarettes in the span of 15 minutes! Whatever people say, it's not nice to see a woman smoke. It doesn't suit women'. In my head I screamed, 'MCP! MCP'[Male Chauvinistic Pig], but said 'Ya, sure.' 'She even offered me a drag. I don't smoke, but it would be in-shulting to admit that in front of a woman, so I took a drag,' he sheepishly admitted and grinned.
Since he was speaking flawless Hindi, not the Hyderabadi sorts, I asked him if he was a local or had migrated. He said that he was often asked this question, and people refuse to believe when he tells them he is a local. I told him that I was pretty impressed that he spoke such good Hindi, and he rattled off, 'I speak in the language and diction of my passengers so that they are at ease communicating.'
As we neared my rented apartment, personal questions came furiously from him about my family and whereabouts, where I lived in Mumbai, if we owned a house, my sibling. I stoically lied, with my thoughts tilting on ideas of kidnapping and ransom we see in so many movies. He continued saying things, but now I was in a mighty hurry to get behind my apartment door.
The urgency now was to have the nightmarish thoughts about this potential predator stop asap. I had opened my wallet and had the Rs 100-note ready. As soon as the auto came to a standstill, I hopped out, handed him the note, and said the habitual 'Thank you.' He replied, 'God bless you. Take care. Good night'.
I was touched.

Mubarak Din

This year Eid has been a completely different experience. Uptil 2007 I have spent every Ramazan Eid with my family - parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandma et al. The dinner party where 100's from the extended family meet up. The rituals is to gather Eid-i, play housie, comment on inches gained or lost, length of hair and styles accompanied with everyone's opinions. The crammed function hall, the late meal. Getting dressed, choosing the right accessories, new clothes, photo sessions.
And I had taken it all for granted. Cribbed about making such a big deal about visiting each one's home and nearly passing out by the time we head home late in the night. Stuffed as we would be with the Sev Khurma and platter of goodies offered at each house, I had never thought that there would come a year when I would not be a part of this hubbabullo.
As a token gesture I wore salwar-kameez to office. But it just wasn't the same. I am used to working on Eid, but having nothing to look forward to really made me lose my appetite. I sucked on sour grapes for lunch, then slunk to my desk and quietly shed tears. I bought new clothes, ate sweets, dressed up, demanded Eid-i from friends. But it isn't just the Eid without family. I have never felt so alone before.

pRuArZpOlReS Edge

The feeling to ostracize my limbs of excessive fuzz overcame me today afternoon. Being the lazy self, my colleague's words rang back in my head 'You have a parlour right down the road!' This is true. Infact, this place I pass-by everyday atleast 2 times, or more. A new addition to the monstrously growing economy of my area, this parlour had always seemed a lil wonky. To begin with, its name 'Purple Edge'; are they suggesting tran-sexuality?! Its at the corner of a small junction, but what were they thinking? The facet which is visible has large blown-up pictures of models, shamelessly picked up from shutter-stock or the like, without the bother of even photoshop-ping the watermark!
The only reason I decided to burn my precious fat through this walk up my lane was that my aforementioned colleague had been there for shaping her eyebrows, and it 'wasn't bad'. I have decided never to misjudge this phrase 'wasn't bad' every again.
The experience began with my eyebrows. The woman doing it lay me down on a comfortable half-risen bed, and started. My senses have never been alerted like this before. I could feel as each strand of hair from around my brow slowly tangled between the thread, and then picked out with a correspondingly slow motion, taking utmost care than I 'feel' the experience (read PAIN). After a 15 minute ordeal, the torture was over.
Or so I thought, since limbs are not as sensitive as the face. I did not realise waxing my arms would be equally ridiculous process of pain. The woman cam back in and dusted on generous amounts of powder. Then she carefully studied my arm (like I was a dead specimen under the microscope or something), and began applying wax. She quizzed for a second or so and then slapped the paper and vigorously began rubbing it into my skin with all her energy and pressure. I began to worry, thinking this to be a new method, where they put wax, stick the paper strips, and the wax peels off, maybe. But what she did was hold the edge of the paper with her fingers, pushed me further down into the bed with force, and pulled the darn thing, like she was pulling it to save her life! I was bemused the first time, but the stick-ons came with increasing pressure. I am fine with body massages, but they are definitely not OK when alternated with searing pangs of pain.
As soon as this 45-minute drama was ridiculous service was over, I found myself in face with the owner at the cash counter for comments, and parting smile with 'Hope the waxing was ok. See you soon'.
Hah! I scooted so fast homewards you wouldn't believe someone can leap with such agility.

Bangalore Blues? or Rules?

There has been a nagging voice inside my head. It reminds me ever so often that I have changed - become a mature person, sensible and rational (could this be b'caz I have someone much younger working under me?). Of course, people are still in doubt these qualities could come to nestle in me, but I can certainly see the shift.
And at this glorious occassion, I would like to thank... Bangalore city which has played a non-silent and major role. From the day I first came to city, all I have done is crib about Bangalore, and left no opportunity to weigh it down against B'bay. The inference each time 'this would never happen in B'bay', or 'you don't get such basic things in B'lore?' Of course, I could have returned back to B'bay (in fact, I did so for 6 months) and no one would bat an eyelid, or tag it as a rash decision.
I love B'bay, the humidity, open sea, gusts of salted spray, vada pav, local trains, BEST buses, clubbing, Page 3 parties, celebrity-spotting...
But I like B'lore too! This city embraced me when I came here without kith or kin; befriended me when I had no one to call a friend; smiled at me warmly when I was afraid of being felt up; it is now my comfort zone.
I feel like I am betraying B'bay, but I find no reason to even think of returning to B'bay, especially when looking at a place to live long-term. B'lore has a ridiculous 11.30pm deadline for pubs & restaurants, but I also finish work by 7pm (unlike 10.30pm in B'bay). The auto fares are higher, and the drivers blatant cheats, but I can choose to live a 2-minute stroll from office (unlike the humongous fare I shelled out to avoid the rush hour trains). I miss vada pav and Neera at the platform, but I can go home for freshly cooked lunch everyday...

Bed of Roses

Sunday evening is a good time for reflection as one looks forward to the mounting doom of Monday workload. I decided to cool my heels at Lalbagh, a popular tourist destination in the city. Located amidst the hustle of a congested city, this green abode looked welcoming and filled my heart with joy as I lunged out of the auto rickshaw. There were throngs of people to greet us, and accompany us into the breathing lung of B'lore, the other one being Cubbon Park.
My companion seemed to have more expertise on the park since she had been here twice before. Although it took her a wee bit to find the largest and oldest tree of the park, a humongous, umbrella of fresh green with roots carved up to 10 ft above ground!
Apparently, this tree flowers once a year, and boy its like dead meat. Yea, the fruit/flower of this beauty smells like rotting flesh! Maybe that's how it has grown to be so big and strong - spreading its roots and branches far and wide - and when the parents are not watching, gulp the little kids who climb and jump off its strong tentacles.
But what I feel really bad for is B'bay-ites who are going to lose gorgeous and rare palm trees at this time next year. Its like squeezing out the profits and leaving the hand that fed to die.
We ideal-led about the park and sauntered magnetically towards the water-body, a lake with a walk lined with gulmohur trees blooming in fiery orange. We spotted a duckling, quite an ugly one at that, which kept dipping its head and chasing invisible fish/worms. There was a school of murky looking fish, with an orangish fish which seemed like their leader; they were so close to one another that my first impression was that of an alligator or shark stealing up towards a juicy prey, only to change course and swim away somewhere else.
We walked towards a bridge over the lake where I had been promised a view of fat fishes swimming up to the surface to show off. As we neared, we saw knots of sleazy men throwing in rubbish in the water. On the other bank of the bridge was an enormous marshy water-body with pink lillies in full bloom. We stood on there, admiring the beautiful flowers and the gigantic leaves from between which they emerged. Someone spotted and pointed out a slim water snake which had slithered up a leaf, and was sunning itself. Promptly, a stick was thrown towards it. Missing mark the first time around, a stone seemed to ruffle the snake, who promptly slunk back into the gloomy waters. I was enormously pissed. To add insult to injury, the man standing next to us decided to spray his tobacco-reddened mouth-waste onto a lilly leaf. This started a chain reaction of everyone next in line who began spitting into the water. It seemed as if they were making a statement 'We approve of this lilly lake. Lets spit on it as a mark of our seal of agreement'.

Strangely enough, I did not spot a single rose flower blooming in the entire of Lalbagh , which had been so named after the beautiful red roses which it bred.

Reporting from the train to Mumbai - I

The gujjus on the train. Well, gave me a headache. One of them was a funny, sweet kinda person. Very helpful and full of energy. He was talking non-stop (now thts not new!) but was helpful to everyone. sharing his stuff, etc. wotever. seemed sweet. but thinner than a flattened bamboo pole. I swear.
There was a guy sharing the same seat with me. So, we both sat on our own side of the seat, and tried to sleep. I pretty well managed. But would get up every now and again. And soon realised no one was there on the other end of the seat. Looked around. This dude had put a towel on the floor and gone to sleep there! Which turned out great for me. So i put my pillow, grabbed my shawl and slept aaram se till about 7 am.
Aaage ki kahani...will be contd tomm :p