Memories Are Made Of These

Orchha, Khajurao and Karnavati 

Fagun Mansion is a middle class hotel. I arrive upon this conclusion thanks to the presence of a bucket and a mug in the bathroom. It's not something that you usually see at the kind of hotels that people like us are used to staying at. As we get ready to leave I wander around the hotel and notice two wall paintings – they are Hindu symbols and one reads Maanglik and the other reads Satimata. This brings back memories of Aishwarya Rai marrying a tree since she was supposedly Maanglik and of Roop Kanwar. I am disgusted but not surprised. 

The Goddess Of Wealth - All Locked Up 

We depart at 6.15 am and decide we shall go and see what all the fuss is about this Orchha place. Enroute to the fort we espy a good looking temple. The car is parked by the roadside and we walk up a little slope towards the temple. Not as soul is in sight and when we get there we find a board that says it's a Lakshmi temple. It's rather magnificent but there seems to be no real attempt to put it on a tourist map. The slight elevation helps us look down on Orchha and adjacent areas. 

All four of us are struck by how many ancient looking structures seem to dot our vision. There is a road from the Lakshmi temple which seems to lead down to central Orchha. One can hear loudspeaker announcements coming from down below. It's calm and peaceful with not a soul in sight. After pottering around a bit we head back to the car to drive to Orchha fort. Google girl guides us along and we arrive at our destination shortly. I espy a shop selling samosa and needless to say I go and grab a few. They are good – thankfully none of these shops have corrupted their samosas with raisins and cashews. It's just plain old aaloo inside. 

We walk towards the ancient looking structure and encounter the familiar: a hideous tin-shed encampent built inside, which serves as an office for policemen and government officials. Why?? I think to myself. As we enter the main structure it is huge and makes me feel insignificant. The way to the palace is through a foyer which also leads to the Ram temple. The temple is packed with devotees, street urchins, puja items sellers and food shops. The structure that houses the Ram temple seems like a modern one. Since we never go in we are unable to ascertain whether there is an older temple somewhere inside. We walk through the foyer and arrive at a little bridge which connects the temple to the fort – the river that forms a moat is dry and looks rather ugly. It's just 7 am when we finally enter the fort. This means we do not have to pay an admission fee since the office opens only later. 

We walk through the entrance archway and it's a sight to behold. The Gwalior fort seems like an outhouse compared to what seems to be unfolding here. There is a giant courtyard where presumably the light and sound show takes place – the presumption is based on lights and equipment lying around. On all sides of the courtyard are superb buildings that make even a lapsed history enthusiast like me go 'Ah!'. As we cross the foyer in front of us is the Jahangir Palace – it was a palace built to receive Emperor Jahangir when he came a visiting. I am fascinated by this detail. This would imply that the king of the region would have to know at least a couple of years in advance that Jahangir would come a visiting. This leads me to speculate with the others on how long the Mughal retinue would have taken from Agra to Orchha, what would be the size of the contingent and such other insignificant details. 

Baby Grand: Orchha Fort

We continue wandering about the fort. It's endless. There is the baroodkhana, the stables, shrines to religious men, smaller living quarters. A few days would not suffice to see this fort in its totality. Nari is awed by the spectacle. He is like, “Fuck man, Gwalior is nothing! I could spend days over here!” Shobha vows to come back with Parvati, “Paro would love this place.” Debu ensures that we don't get carried away and keeps us moving along. Exiting the fort makes one wonder why it's not better known, better maintained, more accessible? An entire European economy could run on tourism generated from the architectural magnificence of Orchha Fort alone. 

We head for the food stalls on the way out. Debu and I have some more samosas – I think I kult some jalebis as well. Shobha and Nari decide to have puri subzi at Tiwari Mishtan Bhandar or some such typical sounding North Indian name. Shobha being Shobha also goes chats with the owner and samples a couple of the mithais on the house – she does not however sample the badaam peda, which Nari points out seems to be the speciality of the place based on the display afforded to it. 

We leave Orchha but it comes along in the City and much of the conversation is around Orchha and how it could be so much more. It's 8.30 am and Debu is quick to remind us that we have to confirm a hotel in Panna. Noel has recommended Ken's River Lodge as a good option. Unfortunately we have not been able to get in touch with Ken's since the previous night. I am constantly chirping that we should not worry and we will find something. Debu is not willing to have to go on a wild goose chase late in the evening and pushes Shobha and Nari to keep at it. Finally it's Debu who gets through to Ken's and says the booking is done. 

The drive from Orchha to Khajurao is pleasant save for the nasty speed-bumps which Shobha seems to never spot till the last minute and this has Debu shaking his head and intoning, “Careful Shobha!” Shobha grits her teeth, Nari wishes the moment would pass and I cheerfully say that it's alright it's no big deal and in India these things are quite the norm. This will be a recurring theme for the ride. I am not quite sure now if we cross the Chambal ravines now or if we had crossed them the previous day. The ravines do look sinister and Debu muses what a hard life those dacoits must have led. Shobha draws upon her childhood memories and shares with us how twelve families from Bhilai decided to do a road trip across MP. As luck would have it the bus got delayed and they ended up hitting Chambal in the late evening. “My father was so tense till we had crossed the area,” she recalls with a laugh. 

We enter Khajurao around 11-12. We drive past a spanking new airport which seems completely deserted and reach the temple area. Now it's time to hit the temple. Ticket buyer Debu sets off to complete his task while Shobha tries and hunts for an Orange ice-dolly. The shopkeeper has everything but that. Unfortunately Shobha can be as stubborn as a mule and she refuses to buy any other ice-cream much to the disappointment of the shopkeeper. 

Accompanied by a guide we enter the temple – it's a spectacular temple complex, with numerous temples dotting the area. He begins by telling us that it was built by the Chandelas and lost for several hundred years before an Englishman discovered it. He points to a structure and tells us to take note of the architecture, “First dome is in temple style, second dome is Mughal style and third one is pagoda, Buddhist style.” This temple is a more recent addition. The sun is blazing and we want to get on with it but the guide has parroted his lines and won't let us move till he has said it all. Finally we move towards a temple. There are other tourists but not too many. We suppose that smarter tourists come at 7am and finish viewing before the sun gets too bright. 

The temple is pretty as the perfect insta pic – I wanted to write postcard but who remembers such archaic things. I am fascinated by the carvings of a short bald man who is at the top of every pillar and seems like he is holding up the temple. The guide tells me that is Keechak – I have still not googled since to do so would be unfair while still writing from memory. 

Buy One Get One Free!

We move on to the exterior of the temples where the famed Khajurao erotic sculptures are present. When I see them I am disappointed. Years of seeing close-up images in magazines have led me to falsely believe that they would be much larger than what they really are. That said they are carved in great detail and an ode to act of sex – as I write I wonder if it's more appropriate to say 'love making'. The guide gives us his much practiced spiel on how sex is a part of life and in a different era people were more tolerant and it should not be seen as mere tittilation but a celebration of life. Shobha and Debu are busy nodding while Nari and I wander away to inspect the sculptures on our own accord. There are all kinds of depictions. Twosomes, threesomes, oral sex, bestaility, same gender sex, young couples, middle aged couples, royal passions, 69 – and yet there is nothing here that inflames the desires. I suppose had I come in my twenties with a group of male friends we would have tittered and laughed at all the graphic scenery but in my late forties it's just art. 

Shobha, Debu and the guide catch up to us. He points to a woman with a scorpion on her ankles and tells us that the scorpion is a sign of lust in woman. He points out to other carvings with women bearing scorpions on various body parts. Suddenly all those sensual Hindi songs with women talking of being possessed by 'bicchhus' makes sense to me. He points out a threesome where two women and a man are having a go at it and says, “Yeh woh buy one get one free hai!” The expression Shobha's face is priceless as she growls, “Haan haan! Aage badhiye!” He explains bestiality saying that during wars men needed release and it was not unnatural to copulate with a horse. Soon enough it's rather repetitive save for small details that catch the eye every now and again. We enter the sanctum sanctorum and it's a dark and gloomy place. These temples are not living temples so there are no priests and milling crowds of devotees. 

We move out of the big temple towards a smaller one. On the way Shobha notices Dahlias and begins clicking pictures. She wants to send them to her parents who love Dahlias and would grow them back in the day. This leads to a small interlude between Shobha and me on how flower shows were such a big thing back in the day in both the army and colony towns like Bhilai. The sun is now blazing and we are all cooking in it. We move to the next temple and there were more erotic sculptures – I am getting bored now. It is interesting though to see an Indian guide speaking fluent Spanish as he shepherded a group of Spanish speaking tourists through the complex. There are also some magnificent bouganvilla bushes dotting the gardens. I click a pic of Debu and Shobha shouting at them, “Arrey get closer! Give a hug! You are in Khajurao!”

Lovey Dovey!

Shake It Baby Shake it 

Before I forget an aside: The guides make use of a strange but rather useful accessory as they show tourists around. The accessory is a tiny miror which they use to flash upon the higher up sculptures – some of them are 30-40 feet above – as they explain the significance of the sculptures. 

We decide that we have seen enough and thank the guide and set him on his way. We walk out of the temple complex quite pleased with ourselves but rather hot and tired. Not too tired though to sample the wares of the chaat shop which I had seen near where we parked the car. And so I eat – gol guppas, samosa chaat, paapdi chaat and alu tikki chaat. Shobha cannot resist the food even though she clearly thinks the place is rather dubious and so she and Debu join in. Nari wanders about looking for cigarettes and finds none. But he does find a guy selling chillums and buy two small 'choos'. Satiated we head for the car. Now i have a new bhoot upon my head – i want beer. Every few minutes as we drive to Ken's I muse aloud, “I hope they have beer there!” Don't judge me unfairly. It was hot, I had consumed a lot of spicy chaat and beer is just the thing now to make life worth living. 

Ken's is supposed to be by the river but given the river in Orchha we decided to believe it when we saw it. We enter Ken's a couple of hours later and it seems like a nice place. As soon as I see the manager my first question is if they had beer. He assures me they have beer and so I hound the waiter till I get my glass of beer. Debu and Shobha have a glass each as well. It is the perfect setting. The dining area is up amongst the trees and oversees the river – Karnavati is the original name which then became Ken's river. 

Ken Get Enough Of It :-)

We chat as we wait for the food to come. Shobha tells us that Debu and she are building a place in Wayanad and how I could be manager there. I tell her that I will hire Nari as assistant manager and he can do the heavy lifting. The thought of both of us getting any work done at all is enough for Shobha to withdraw her offer. Nari tells us of the best travel book that we have to read – Nari shall give the name of the book in the footnotes in his next piece – about an Englishman who was kicked out of Eton or Harrow and decided to backpack through Europe. The World War began and then the gentleman managed to kidnap a German general and bring him over and took over a tank using his umbrella. Nari is a treasure trove of the unusual and the most eclectic reader I know. I remember once upon visiting his house in Bangalore there were stacks and stacks of books not on bookshelves but on the floor climbing towards the ceiling. Most times when I visit people's houses even if one has not read the books on bookshelves one is familiar with author and titles. Here I was at a complete loss. 

Coming back to Ken's, lunch is served but given my chaat gorging I skip the meal. Nari is delighted to find that chaas is on the offer. Everybody though cribs that the food has too much turmeric. During the course of lunch Nari, Shobha and Debu tell me that we should thank Noel for his wonderful recommendation. I tell them that would only make his big head bigger and instead we should tell him it's terrible and that he should foot the bill. Lunch and beer done we head to our respective cottages. Nari decides to grab a nap without having to suffer my snores while I am delighted to find a kettle and tea bags and sat outside sipping tea. 

There are no loud sounds Just the twittering of birds and rustling of leaves. At about 5.30pm we embark upon the supposed river safari which is more of a serene ride in a rather still lake. Nari is very pleased – he has been dreaming of hanging by a water body and finally it has happened. The river/lake is absolutely placid and none too deep.Like good tourists we ask the boatman if crocodiles were to be found in the river. Like a good guide he says, “Yes. There were a couple sighted here just two days back.” Shobha and Debu begin pointing out the birds – kestrels, drongos, ibis and such others. Nari takes a keen interest in the subject. I am interested but not overtly so. The boatman takes us to a clump of rocks and parks the boat over there. Very thoughtfully he has brought tea and biscuits along. And so we have a delightful tea party on the rocks pottering about and just staring at the world around us. Shobha spots a kingfisher and then we all watch as the kingfisher flits hither thither. As the sun goes down Nari and I smoke a cigarette and then we headback to Ken's. Nari is mindful of being a litterbug and even pockets the cigarette butt to throw in a dustbin at the lodge. 

Nari and I are sitting outside our cottage all set to open the Lagauvlin, when Nari's phone rings and he answers. His face loses colour and he appears horrified as he says, “What do you mean I am defaming you? Why will you break my legs the next time you see me? Do I even know you?” The phone disconnected and Nari said, “Fuck bugger! Some choot is calling and saying all kinds of shit. I don't think I have written anything to offend anyone.” Nari works for TOI so its virtually impossible that he could have written anything that might offend in the least bit. I nod and say, “It's probably that bastard Noel.” Gullible Nari replies, “No it can't be him that's not his number.” I laugh and say, “Probably calling from someone else's phone.” The phone rang again and Nari says, “Who are you? Bastard Noel! What kind of shit is this 'break your legs'? You are bloody choot you know!” 

A visibly relieved Nari puts down the phone and exhales, “Bloody choot! I should have known it's a Sunday. Fucker must be drunk dialling!” By now I am cackling and remind him that the three of the want to thank Noel for Ken's. I call Noel and tell him what a chutiya place Ken's is and how the only whiskey is Officer's Choice and that Nari and Debu are pissed. The doctor being the doctor laughs and says, “Is it? I have never stayed there so how would I now.” Nari takes the phone and curses him some more. Now we are happy. Predictably Noel calls back in five minutes and says he can arrange for some guy to come and give us a bottle of Black Dog. I burst out laughing and tell him that it's we are just fucking with him. 

Broken legs and cheap whiskey behind us we sit down to consume some more of Debu's malt. Shobha and Debu join in and it is a merry evening as we bitch about Noel, bitch about each other and discuss Shobha and Debu's Wayanad house, books, movies and such other small pleasures of life. When we are done with drinking we go for dinner. It is a simple but excellent meal with no excessive use of turmeric. The manager of the property is an Oriya. He has worked at Bandhavgarh, Tadoba and Kanha before arriving at Panna. It is only during the monsoons when the park is shut that he goes back to Orissa. Shobha wants to know which of the parks he likes best. Debu checks on the route to Pench. We tell him that we would like omelette sandwiches for breakfast and some boiled eggs and fruit. He assures us that it will be ready by 6am. Just before we leave the dining area we climb up to the top most section of the dining area which affords a magnificent view of the river down below and the stars up above. We stare into the night before Debu says, "Chalo Shobha, we have to wake up early."

Looking back it was my favourite day of the whole trip – we saw the decaying grandness of Orchha, the magnificently maintained Khajurao and the serenity of Ken's lodge. There was that wonderful chaat and one of the best beers I have ever had. We had not got lost, not driven too much and it was clear now that we were a merry troop rather than four individuals stuck inside the 'mobile home' as Nari calls the road-trip car. 

Politics Inside The City

This is the first time I am writing a travelogue. The more I write the more I find linearity to be inadequate. There are so many conversations that start on one day and continue over the next few days. Capturing them on a daily basis makes it seem like a stop- sputter-stop affair when in reality it's just one long conversation. The lack of the dramatic also results in many conversations not being included at all. That would be sad since the road trip was as much about exploring places as it was about conversing and exchanging viewpoints on different subjects. 

Your Vote Matters

At the onset of the trip I am very kicked that we will be travelling through the heart of India three weeks before the general elections. Turns out Nari feels the same way. It has been one of my dreams to visit the Hindi heartland during an election. But as we roll through UP, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Maharashtra, Telangana and Andhra we draw a complete blank. Nowhere to be seen are the ugly billboards choc-a-bloc with politicians – the size of the image being a pointer to the pecking order – or buntings or rallies. This perplexes me and I raise the issue. Nari is intrigued too. Shobha insists that this is because campaigning has moved to social media. I am not convinced – to my mind the kind of villages and towns we are crossing would expect to see their political leaders at least once in five years. Furthermore it's a stretch to imagine that that conventional media has died so soon. We muse if there is a sense of fatigue this time around. Looking back I now realise that Debu did not offer any theories – and now I wish I had asked him more insistently. 

There is no real attempt to talk politics during the journey. It often just happens upon us as we go through a series of conversations on music, movies, campus, people, concerts, drinking – one thing leads to another and at some point in the day we do end up talking affairs of the state. 

All of us have a fair idea of each others political leanings. Nari and I detest right wing politics. Debu is a keen supporter of Modi but i don't think that he is a right winger. Shobha is ambiguous – five years back when I visited her in Singapore she strongly supported Modi. However, I suspect that the intervening years and her work with NGOs has made her less receptive to right wing politics. Where we all are in agreement is that Rahul Gandhi is a duffer. I profess to them that I even more scared of his sister, Priyanka Gandhi Vadhra than I am of Modi. She reminds me of Indira Gandhi – to my mind the worst prime minister we have had. I tell them that I can see her picking up and kissing that half-starved kid or dancing between the sticks and suddenly everyone goes gaga over her. I also declare that the one person I would really like to interview is Sonia Gandhi. I am curious as to why she came into politics. She could have let herself be revered as the great Indian widow rather than be reviled as a foreign bitch trying to rule India. 

We begin discussing the elections and wondering who will win. None of us is willing to bet on Modi returning to power. If not Modi we suppose it might well be Gadkari. I point out that in 2004 nobody thought that Sonia Gandhi could defeat a Vajpayee and yet it happened. Or maybe Sharad Pawar could end up finally achieve his lifelong ambition. We seem to be in agreement that maybe Pawar might have used politics to enrich himself more than any one else in Indian politics. We conclude that though corrupt he is efficient – it's amazing how we Indians have come to see this as a virtue. I am obliged to give a little journalistic gossip on how his daughter is allegedly a lush. 

The nice thing about these conversations is that there are no raised voices or heated debates. It's more like serious discussion mixed with merriment at the inanity of it all. Inanity brings us to Jayalalitha and I ask Nari if the eyeball and thumb stories are true. Nari rolls his eyes and says, “Fuck, bugger!” (Funny aside: just a week later a cabbie in Bombay tells me the same thumb and eyeball story this time though the politician involved is Bal Thackeray) Over the next few days we glean a fair degree of insight into Tamil Nadu politics from Nari. He is dismissive of Kamala Hassan and thinks that DMK should perform rather well. The AIADMK according to Nari have given up all hope and are just busy making as much money as they can. The DMK brings A Raja into the conversation. I am amazed that here is a man that everyone believes did take bagfuls of money as bribes and yet he was acquitted. “How the fuck could they not trace a single rupee to him?” I rant. Little do I know that in a few days the venerable Sukh Ram – another telecom minister on the take – will be back in the Congress. 

Nari tells us of the time when Rajnikanth was stuck n his car since traffic had been stopped to clear the way for Jayalalitha's motorcade. After 15 minutes a miffed Rajni got out and walked to the nearby cigarette shop and lit a cigarette. This resulted in the mother of all jams and the cops begged him to get into his car promising to let his car through. Debu tells us a story of how when Kamraj died strangers asked his father if they could stand on Debu's Mount Road house bacony and watch the procession, since it was a perfect viewing place. Vyjanthimala enters the conversation since she too contested for the Congress for a long while. I ask if she is dead only to be told that she is very much alive and kicking. 

Cities such as Gwalior, Satna, Guna all bring to mind politicians. It was in Gwalior that Madhavrao Scindia defeated Vajpayee in the sympathy wave post the Indira Gandhi assassination. Guna is the family bastion of the Scindias, Satna was Arjun Singh's constituency. I think to myself it is strange that I associate places with politics. 

Talk moves on to India's best prime minister and we all agree that Narasimha Rao and Vajpayee are probably the best we had and Indira Gandhi the worst. Looking back I am sad that I did not include Nehru. And so now post facto I shall give him my vote. Vajpayee we agree is truly under appreciated. The national highway we drive on is thanks to the ambitious golden quadrilateral he conceived. Disinvestment was done with nary a protest from public sector companies that were privatised. We try and figure out which constituency Narasimha Rao used to stand from in Maharashtra – Ramtek my friend Abhi tells me once I am back. All of us seem to know that he was a polyglot – in fact I think I first heard the word in conjunction with Narasimha Rao. 

NTR enters the conversation through some film talk and soon enough we are discussing his political career. It seems he dressed up in a sari for 40 days because some astrologer told him that would ensure he becomes chief minister. I burst out laughing – somehow for all the useless information I have collected over the years this nugget has escaped me. My own contribution is the salacious rumour of how NTR died bonking his wife – again on some astrologer's advice that a child will bring him good luck or whatever. I even remember his wife's name – Lakshmi Parvati. 

The names and gossip keep popping in and out of our conversations

Mayawati – she sleeps with youhg boys 

KCR – he is a drunk 

Jyotiraditya Scindia – he is allegedly sleeping with the same woman his father was sleeping with 

Amit Shah – a very scary dude who emanates thuggishness quite like the Yogi

Vilasrao Deshmukh – With his death the Congress lost their big fund raiser 

YSR – rumour has it that he was bumped off by a big corporation that has interests in oil and gas

LK Advani – at his age one won't let him cross the road alone and he still wants to run the country

I remark that it is interesting that the Indian public seems to get it's revenge by spreading biting rumours about the rich and the powerful. We discuss Indira Gandhi looking for the Rolex/key – for the Swiss bank account – when Sanjay Gandhi's helicopter crashed. 

Looking back our discussions on Indian politics are quite illuminating. The North-East never figures in any such conversation. Even large states like Orissa and Kerala are of no interest to us. The discussion is never about party ideologies but about personalities. And it always seems to come down to the lesser of the two evils. 

As we cross Telangana, Nari tells us that his nephew who is in the IPS has told him that cops are all yearning to be posted in Telangana. KCR it seems has told them that so long as they are reasonable with his elected representatives they can go hell for leather against other criminals and such. Substantial funds have been allocated for the same as is evidenced in the fancy police vehicles we see in the state. 

The only time it gets mildly excitable is when Shobha says something about how Sushma Swaraj should be credited for something and I react saying that wins in foreign policy are rarely achieved by one person. Debu says to me, “Bull you are such a cynic. You just jumped on Shobha's suggestion to dismiss Sushma Swaraj.” I deny accusations of cynicism and say that while Sushma Swaraj has no doubt been reasonably efficient I don't think such policy victories are attributable to one person. Looking back there is little doubt that I jumped on Shobha and yet that's just me being me. Talk of Sushma Swaraj leads to conversation about Bellary where she stood against Sonia Gandhi. We marvel how two women neither of who can speak Kannada decide to contest an election in Karnataka and gives speeches in Hindi to an audience which can barely understand what they are saying. We are all amused. Debu tells us of how Rahul Gandhi seems to speak five words in a sentence but his translator seems to speak fifty while translating the sentence. 

Somewhere along the way we end up discussing Brexit and wondering what the hell is happening in Britain. Debu and Nari have an earnest conversation on the subject and I listen in – I am still as ignorant as ever as to what on earth is happening there. Hate him or love him but one has to say that Trump cannot be ignored. He flits in and out of our conversation – once again Nari and Debu who follow American politics closely lead the conversation. There is a fairly informed discussion on various democratic contenders for 2020 and who might get the nod. I know a few names but that's about it. Nari who tracks American politics more closely than he does Indian politics is in full flow as he speaks with passion about a subject close to his heart. 

Our journey is peppered with such conversations some too trivial to record and many which i am sure have slipped my mind. The political circle is completed on the last day of our trip as we head to see the 'World's Largest Living Banyan Tree' when we finally see some election activity. We cross two rival groups – YSR Congress and TDP supporters on the way. The TDP group it seems has finished electioneering and everyone is eating packed lunch on the side of the road. One group is wearing blue and the other yellow. It's a rather droll affair which hardly results any conversation amongst us. 

Looking back I find that I am none too disappointed at not witnessing the grand spectacle that a General Election is supposed to be. As the election progresses in real time I am finding that I really do not care who wins or loses. Here's to the likes of Sadhvi Pragya and other such alleged thugs who might end up making the laws that govern us. 

Country Roads - Delhi, Agra, Gwalior and Orchha

We drive out of Delhi towards Agra. It's early in the morning and traffic is low. Google girl is guiding us and soon enough we are on the expressway to Agra. I like expressways they cut out the two banes of regular roads – potholes and pedestrians. As we move towards UP there are brick kilns dotting the landscape. It's been years since I have seen brick kilns. Every now and again we come across half finished apartment complexes – I just assume that they are projects that now lie in a state of suspended animation since there is no money to complete them. Schools are an industry here and English schools at that. Politicians can keep howling about mother tongues but clearly mothers are more determined to make sure their children learn English. The word 'Convent' here seems to imply 'English Medium School'. I crack up when I see a Saraswati Convent and am reasonably sure that soon we shall see a Mohammed Convent as well. Nari says that he has seen a Claret Convent somewhere in Karnataka and wondered if the namers have any idea of what the name means. Unsurprisingly a couple of Claret Convents pop up in UP as well. 

The drive is smooth save for the occasional moron who decides that it's perfectly fine to drive the wrong way on an expressway. Not only do some drive on the wrong side they even decide to do so in the fast lane. We curse some but for most part we just accept it as yet another Indian quirk and cruise along. By now I am keen to have samosas for breakfast. Our first pit stop is at an expressway foodmall. Shobha is the cynosure of all eyes here as she steps out in her shorts looking all sleek svelte in the land of behenjis. I go looking for samosas but there are none to be had. We smoke, eat the aaloo parathas that Sona has made and resume our drive. 

The markers and google girl indicate that Agra is fast approaching. I have never been to Agra save for passing through it on train journeys. The Taj has never really tickled my fancy and though everyone says it's a must do I can't seem to generate the necessary enthusiasm for it. In any case it's not part of our itinerary. My associations with Agra are from my childhood days – my mother made sure that every year pethas from Agra and dal-moth from Agra made its way to our house. These were the perks of being part of the Indian Army. The sugar syrup bursting into the mouth as one took a bite of the petha is an unforgettable childhood memory – not to mention really sticky hands.

I don't think anyone of our profile eats pethas anymore – too much sugar, too fattening and whatever else. Pethas are prominently advertised and they now seem to come in all kinds of flavours. I want to buy dal-moth but have no idea where you get it. 

The road narrows as we enter Agra. Shops line the road and vehicles parked haphazardly and pedestrians make the road even narrower slowing our progress. This turns out to be a blessing of sorts for we cross a rather good looking monument and as we go a few hundred metres past it decide that let's go visit it. We make a U-turn and park the car next to the monument. 

The board says it is the the tomb if Itmad-ud-daulah, who turns out to be the father of the Mughal empress Nur Jehan. There is a big board outside which says the monument is protected under the Indian Archaelogical Act of 1959 or some such. 'No construction within 200 metres of the monument' the board avers but the local populace has paid scant heed to such declarations. Debu is a little worried whether Shobha will be allowed entry given her shorts. Debu buys the tickets needed to enter the monument after displaying his Aadhaar card. 10 metres from the ticket window a guard once again demands to see identification – we try telling him that we just showed it at the ticket window but the guard is insistent. I once again curse about how this country makes tourism such a miserable experience. 

There are few tourists around and a rusty faded board tells us who Itmad-ud-daulah was and when the monument was built. The monument has held up well over the centuries and is pretty as a picture. We are pleased with our discovery. We wander about the monument and Debu points out how it is classic Mughal architecture – something about symmetry. The next twenty minutes are spent wandering around. Debu and Shobha declare that it is as pretty as the Taj – after the trip Shobha will forward me an article that says it was the inspiration to the Taj. 

We head out amazed that the damn thing is not better known or better promoted. I am now determined to find that elusive samosa and so we stop at a rather dubious looking sweet shop. No samosas to be had only kachoris. Greedy as ever I settle for the kachoris and declare them to be excellent. 

We drive through Agra and as we near the outer walls of the Agra fort I see a giant Shivaji statue with a Shiv Sena banner. It disgusts me. Great as Shivaji is, there is no reason to have his statue in Agra. Sure there could be a marker indicating the place he escaped from when captured by Aurangzeb but a giant statue seems foolish. I curse and swear about what idiots we are as we drive past. We get a glimpse of the Taj as we drive out. All I can think of is Mayawati trying to sell it and right wing fundamentalists claiming it should be broken and down and replaced with a Shiv temple – they claim a Shiv temple was broken down to build the Taj. 

We leave Agra behind and somehow instead of entering MP we are now in Rajasthan. It's evident that Holi just went by. Men women still have colours on their faces and clothes. The organic non-staining colours with which Holi is played by the elite world that I live in have not gained traction here. These are the colours of my childhood – which took days to disappear. The expressway is still under construction so there are good and not so good patches. There is no sign of any workers. I rant again – why are there no workers? No wonder it takes so long. Bloody corrupt politicians and contractors. I know I sound silly but it's one of those great mysteries that baffle me. India has a paucity of jobs, a surplus of labour and yet instead of people working round the clock to build the road there's not a soul to be seen. 

Gwalior looms and we follow google girl as she directs us to the fort. Nari has begun reading about the fort and gives us a quick crasher on all that's notable. The roads are really narrow now and none of us are convinced that this is the way to the fort. But the people on the road say we are and so we continue. Finally we reach a crowded chowk where it says Gurjari Mahal, museum or something like that. The fort is on a hill we are on flat land and cars can't enter Gurjari Mahal. We know one can drive right up to the fort – Ujjal-da has told us that. 

Confused we halt the car and wonder what to do. However, it soon transpires that the mistake we have made is a commonplace one – perhaps even one that visitors are encouraged to make. A band of young teens descends and offer their services to guide us to the fort. Debu negotiates with one of them and the teen jumps into the backseat and begins directing us. Pretty soon we seem to be backtracking along the way we came. The road gets real narrow and I am rather suspicious of the guide. Finally the road opens up and we are on the path to the fort. 

The boy hops off as soon as we enter the fort. There is a decent size crowd mulling around. We enter the fort and soon enough guides descend on us offering to tell us the history and explain the intricacies of the fort. And so for Rs 350 we have a guide. We walk through the Man Singh palace navigating through the selfie-clicking public as the guide rambles away. He points to some vents in the walls and tells us how air was pumped through them. “Air conditioning for the Raja,” he says. The palace reminds me of the 'Catacombs of Carthus' from the Dark Souls 3 game. I mention the same to Nari. Nari looks around says, “Fuck Bull! I can just imagine a boss jumping out of nowhere.” I look around and Nari is bang on. This is a dream spot for a boss fight. 

We continue our perambulation through the palace. Nari remarks people must have been really short – even I have to bend to get through the arched entrances. The guide shows us a large empty space and declares it to have been the bedroom of the king. There is a narrow elevated passage alongside the room. “See in the morning ladies with anklets would walk there and act as alarm clock to wake up the royals,” he intones. Now that's a smart clock if I ever saw one, I think to myself. He goes on about dancing mirrors, mirrors in their dresses and candles which would reflect on the aforesaid mirrors. Nari is amused and gives his wicked grin – Nari's wicked grin defies description and is to be experienced to be understood. And so the tour rambles on. 

Finally we are done with the palace and the guide tells us the rest of the fort is not worth it. Nari wants to see the oldest inscription of zero but the guide says it's a long way down and not worth it. It's hot and quite honestly the rest of the fort seems to look the same so we head out. There is a 'Gol Guppa/Paani Puri' stand close to the parking lot. Having missed out on samosas, I am determined to eat this stuff. It's my mission in life to eat and rank chaat, omelettes and samosas wherever I can find them. Shobha, Debu and Nari are part amused and part horrified. I begin to eat and it's good. As a variation they add raw onions to the aaloo mix they stuff inside the puri. Shobha tells me we shall know how good they are by evening given on the condition of my stomach. 

We head out towards the saas-bahu temple. The guide at the place had told us us that it's so named because the Vishnu temple was built by the mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law who worshipped Shiva had another temple built for Shiva. We look at the temple from the outside and decide to give it a pass and instead visit the Teli temple. Debu decides to stay in the car while Shobha, Nari and I head towards the edifice. It's a magnificent looking temple. Even better it's not a living temple so there is none of the nonsense of removing shoes, shady priests and milling devotees. I walk into the sanctum sanctorum and it's reeking of piss. I warn Shobha and Nari not to enter. Next stop is the gate of the Scindia School. Says Debu, “We have to go and see the school, Ujjal-da will be very upset if we don't.” Ujjal-da is an alumnus of the Scindia school. I am both amused and touched by this gesture. Amused because Ujjal-da would never know if we claimed we visited it and touched that there are still people who believe that a promise made is a promise to be kept. Debu mentions something about sunsets and the Scindia school. 

We leave the fort and now begins the hunt for a place to eat. Nari and Shobha are busy googling and checking 'top rated restaurants', 'best places to eat' and after a while we decide on Panchvati Gurav. The restaurant is located in a affluent part of Gwalior. The roads are broad, there are ATMs, Domino's, Cafe Coffee Days, shopping malls – it makes me think that our cities have lost character and all of them look alike, this could well be some part of Pune. Panchvati Gurav is a Rajasthani food joint. The food is decent and the service is passable. 

We hit the road again. Orchha – none of us know anything about it and Nari is tasked with finding some details. As we head out Nari tells us that he once tried writing a fantasy novel. He had all the characters sketched out, the plot developed till he realised he could not write action, so says Nari. However, instead of describing his failed attempt at writing action he begins describing a sex scene. The protagonists of Nari's abandoned novel are shapeshifting, gender shifting creatures. Every once in a blue moon they shift genders and become incredibly horny and make out publicly – the whole kingdom comes to watch and it's a giant big-ass orgy. Says Nari, “The writing was terrible. Now if I can't write a sex scene then how on earth will I write action?” Nari then reveals how he and I started writing a Mills and Boon together which we need to finish. “April 1^st, Nari,” I declare. Many such deadlines have come and gone but he is right we should complete it. 

It's late afternoon when we stop for a cup of tea at a dhaba. A man is busy spraying the mud with a hosepipe and as he passes the Honda City he gives it a quick shower as well. “These random acts of kindness in India never cease to amaze me,” I say. He never comes asking for money or even casts a look at us. He just moves on to the nearby truck and by the time we leave he has disappeared. We now head towards Orchha. Either we miss the turn or google lady misguides us in any case we end up on a very narrow road. The map-miss tells us to make a right. We look at the right turn and collectively say, “No chance that could be the way!” It's a sliver of tar which seemingly terminates in a dead end. However, the people thereabouts tell us map-miss is right. With trepidation we enter and just when it seems like we have run out of road there is a tiny left turn. We take it. And slowly we navigate through tiny paths with houses on either side. The evening sun is setting and driving in the dark is something we want to avoid. The merriment of the day is replaced by a tired tenseness. Finally the road opens up and with that so does the conversation. Shobha says she read favourable reviews of Fagun mansion and it is by the river. When we do arrive at Fagun mansion it is a new fangled construction trying to look like a Haveli from the days gone by. By now I have been eating people's heads saying I hope there is some beer. Forget beer, the damn place does not even have a cold drink or soda. “Soda laa denge saahib,” one of the many staff members assures me and then departs on a motorcycle. I am done waiting and decide to open the Amrut. I park myself on the grand metal peacock shaped chairs and wait for the rest to join in. 

We open the bakarwardi, Budhani wafers, banana chips and settle down with our drinks. The soda is a long time coming and by then we are done with the Amrut. Wise bull though has told Debu to bring a bottle of whiskey from duty free and so we break open a bottle of Lagavulin. Debu gives us a mini crasher on single malts and then we exchange booze stories. In his early days post campus Debu would buy a couple of bottles of Scotch for his father each time he went abroad. When his father's friends dropped in the father would serve up the scotch rather generously. Then one day his father discovered the price of of the booze at a restaurant. Aghast his father spent the rest of the evening trying to figure how much money he had spent on which friend. Shobha says how her father having no one to drink with now, occasionally pours out a whiskey and then expounds on its virtues to her mother – a teetotaller. Nari's whiskey story is one that I have heard before but it still makes me crack up. Back in the day when he worked in software, our man was stationed in a small town near Verona in Italy. Having consumed a bottle of Laphroiag, young Nari decided it was time for dinner. All the liquor could not dull his Tam-bram instincts and he decided to order Risotto to which he added strawberry/blueberry flavoured yogurt. “The next thing I knew I was puking all over,” grinned a sheepish Nari. For once I have no story to share or if I did then I cannot remember. Conversation flows easily till it it is time for dinner. 

Dinner turns out to be excellent. Simple North Indian food – dal, baingan bharta, and phulkas which come straight from the kitchen to the plate. Nothing beats a freshly made phulka – serve them five minutes later and it's not the same. Nari's food contribution to the trip – one he cannot partake – Dharwar pedas, are had for dessert. We retire agreeing to re-congregate at 6.15 am. I wait for Nari to go to sleep before I crash. He has cribbed about my rumbling snores which made it hard for him to crash at Ujja-da's. Finally with Nari asleep I smoke one last cigarette and retire for the night.

PS

Shobha I know you can't/won't write but surely you can post a photo feature with the pics Debu and you have - with captions. And as you would say, "Don't be lazy and post it right away! One jhaap you will get otherwise :-)"

Thank You For The Music

For old fogies like Nari and me – I include Nari without ever having discussed this with him – who have been brought up on a healthy dose of Americana, music is an integral part of a road trip. Grew up hearing too many great songs about being on the road and watching movies where the protagonist is driving through the great wide open as music flows out of the car. 

In accordance with my vision of a road trip I duly prepared a playlist of songs that all of us might know. One of the advantages of having been to an IIT or an IIM or BITS or an REC is that there is such a thing as campus music – music that anyone who did not live in a cave on campus would be reasonably familiar and could hum along. So I tried to do assemble a playlist on which all four of us would be familiar with most of the songs. Quite naturally, there were a few songs which were on the list that were there simply because I liked them like Marren Morris' 'My Church' – a great road song, which is in my top 10 songs these days. 

Here is the playlist with the rather unimaginative name called 'Trippin'

https://itunes.apple.com/in/playlist/trippin/pl.u-904ptXxlNgk

The first song was for Shobha – my music memory of her room in IIM Calcutta is of Al Stewart playing in the background. 'All that heaven will allow' was my favourite Springsteen song these days, was for Nari – a big Boss fan. 'Me and Bobby Mcgee' was an old campus favourite. 'When Push Comes to Shove' was to get Nari to say, “Oh fuck!” There had to be some Beatles and some Baez and some blues which meant Muddy and Mick singing Baby Please Don't had to be there. Had nothing on for Debu, though next time I promise an Amy Winehouse track, now that I know. As I type this I can see rather clearly that the music imperialist in me shone through and most of the songs on the playlist are there because I believed everyone should like them.

However like a good MBA my arse was covered and I had another playlist called Tavern – the playlist name is self explanatory if you were an MBA working in Bombay during the 90s – which had all the big campus singalongs: Cocaine, Roadhouse blues, Smoke On the Water, You Don't Know How It Feels, Sweet Child O Mine and if that's your kind of music you can fill in the rest of the names.
Playlist Tavern
https://itunes.apple.com/in/playlist/tavern/pl.f8cf06d6a0cb4ada96317a325d3e0d67

Ujjal-da had informed us rather apologetically that one could not stream music in the car since it was an old model. However he did give us a solution which involved a rather complicated setup whereby we could use an FM station to play off the phone. 

For the first leg of our journey from Delhi to Gwalior we never bothered with music. The ride was young and there was lots to catch up about be it Nari's parents, Neel's New York visit, Debu's carpentry, the road itself. On the drive from Gwalior to Orchha at some point we decided that we needed music. Debu seemed to know how the complicated system was meant to work and was instructing Shobha, who was riding shotgun, on how to get it going. The afternoon glare made it impossible for poor Shobha to see the dashboard and figure out how to tune the radio to the appropriate channel. After much fumbling and some minor growling by Debu on how it's a rather easy job, Shobha finally managed to get it going – unfortunately all we got was a a lot of hiss and very faint audio. We all agreed that this was horrible and we should turn it off. 

Now if one has driven the old Honda City, one knows that the turning the music system off is tricky business. You have to press unusually hard else the damn thing flips from radio to CD mode. Unfortunately for Shobha, the latter is what happened and even more unfortunately it seems Ujjal-da had left a CD in the CD player. 

Suddenly 'Ooh! You can move, You can dance, Having the time of your life” erupted at full volume. Nari and I froze in the rear seat, Shobha desperately jammed the buttons and Debu who was driving yelled, “Turn it off.” Shobha growled back, “I am trying!” But Abba continued to thunder away and managed to sneak in, 'See that the girl, watch that scene, she is the dancing queen.” By now I found my voice and said, “Just stop the car and we can turn it off.” By the time I finished speaking Debu reached out with his hand jammed the button and there was pin drop silence in the car. 

Debu was livid, Shobha was livid and Nari and I were trying our best to be invisible. I would love to conclude this is an orderly manner but honestly I am laughing too hard as I type I simply can't remember how the tense atmosphere dissipated. But that it dissipated in a few minutes, I am sure of. Soon enough Nari and I were cackling and declaring that every time we ever heard 'Dancing Queen' this is all we would think of. The bright spot in all of this is every good road trip needs an anthem and we had found ours. 

For the rest of the trip Nari and I played music on our phones. The sound was tinny and none too great but hey any music is better than no music. When Joan Baez came on singing 'You Ain't Goin Nowhere' Nari waxed eloquent on how 'Any Day Now' the album where Baez sings Dylan is so great and asked if I had 'Farewell Angelina'. I did not. Shobha and Debu had seen Baez perform live not once but twice! Then there was this time he played us a rather catchy Tamil song where the hero and heroine are naming vegetables and it's a metaphor for love or some such. This led to a discussion on Illayaraja, who Nari disliked for personal reasons. I played 'Norwegian Wood' which had Debu humming along. I played 'Relax' by Frankie Goes To Hollywood and Nari said he would play the next song and played 'Two Tribes' by the same band which happened to be the next song on my playlist as well. 

He asked if we had watched the video of 'Two Tribes' wherein Ronald Reagan bites off Konstantin Chernenko's ear. We both played a lot of the Boss. Shobha demanded Hindi music, I had none but surprise surprise – the chom hating, non-Hindi speaking Nari had all kinds of Hindi songs on his phone. And so we had 'Aap ke kamre, main koi rehta hai' from yaadon ki baraat playing. When connectivity permitted I managed to sneak in a couple of my favourites, “Uthe sabke kadam' from Baaton Baaton Main and 'Aaage bhi jaane na tu' from Waqt. Shobha demanded 'Ae meri Zohra zabeen' so it made the cut. There was a lot of 80's music that played out as well – Madonna, Laura Brannigan, Duran Duran, Hall and Oates, The Boss, Wham and such other. 

Then came a time when we played Ujjal-da's Abba CD in full as well. Much as I have come to dislike Abba over the years, I found myself knowing a fair chunk of the lyrics and singing along too boot. Hearing 'Mamma Mia' had me yelling on how RD Burman was as big a plagiariser as Bappi Lahiri and singing 'Mil gaya humko saathi' to prove my point. Nari kept waiting for Nina the pretty ballerina to make an appearance unfortunately it was not there on the CD. 

Madonna songs led to us discussing on what a great survivor she was and how her influence as music phenom was undeniable. It then had Debu telling us of a friend of Debu's who was an old mate of Guy Ritchie. It seems that for all of Madonna's reputation Guy Ritchie never got much from Madonna. Listening to the Grateful Dead and having Shobha say how her expectations were zero from the CSN concert in Singapore a few years back but they turned out to be outstanding. Nari played Chopin – the rest of us could not recognise the great master. But Chopin led to Debu telling us the story of a great Russian pianist, who by the time he was three years old was a child prodigy and is now always accompanied by his sister. 

An aside: The road trip reminded me that when I rank – yeah I rank everything, read 'Hi Fidelity' to know why men do that – the great narrators I have ever heard, I must remember to rank Debu right up there. His stories and his storytelling are almost always as quirky as they are detailed and unhurried. Nari's aunt from Delhi joined our conversation as Nari told us about how she would bring stacks of records every time she came from Delhi. We ribbed him about being a rich fucker who had record player while growing up. Debu's description of a coked up Amy Winehouse, who could barely sing but when she sang how she blew away the audience. Nari's endless trivia on everything from banned music videos to which version of a particular Springsteen song one should listen to. 

We tripped down music memory lane discussing the days when our only dream was to own a double deck. Owning a double deck meant that everyone around came to you to record their music. Of the legendary recording shop 'Blind Faith' in Calcutta that was run by a tailor in Calcutta – Nari had heard about in Pilani and I in Pune – which was shut by the time we got there. Of TDKs, Sonys and Maxells – I for one had almost forgotten about my desperately saving up money just so i could buy a blank TDK cassette. Nari and I discussed on how we had used clay pots to house speakers and how good that had sounded. Cursing when cassette players chewed up cassettes, desperate attempts to figure out the lyrics of songs the first time we listened to various artists. 

I for one enjoyed loudly singing my version of Dum Maro Dum which my aunts taught me when I was 10 and goes, “Dum Maro Dum, Tiger has come, take a little gum, and stick it on his bum'. Or my version of Last Christmas which had come about in a phase where me and some like minded teenaged boys spent a good chunk of time corrupting lyrics of popular songs. It went, 'Last Christmas I gave you my cock, the very next day you chewed it away, This year to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone toothless'. 

It certainly was not the kind of road trip musically I had imagined. I mean there was no raucous singing along and no hitting the rewind button on the same song five times. There were no blaring rock anthems played with the windows rolled down. Much of the music is not the kind I would come back home and listen to. And yet it was fun. It captured the diversity of musical choices and led to some really nice conversations. And to paraphrase Bogart: We'll always have Dancing Queen'

An Officer And A Gentleman

And so there I was sitting in Delhi's T-3, waiting for the rest of the band to appear. Nari was flying in from Bangalore and Debu and Shobha from Singapore. Me, I am a worried traveller and as I played 2048 – a game where you stack 2s and 4s together till you reach 2048 – I found myself speculating all of the following: am I in the right place to meet them, should I exit the airport and smoke, if I do so can i come back in again, should I stop playing the game since the phone battery was at 20% adn turned into the dreaded red zone. Every now and again some grey cells would shout out, “You are 50 years old! Why the fuck must you be so nervous? Even you can't fuck up meeting people in an airport.” Nonetheless I was relieved when I got a message from Nari saying that he had landed and more so when I saw Shobha and Debu walking towards me. “Bulbull Bagchi,” grinned Debu. I grinned back and said something I suppose. “Where's Nari?” asked Shobha. “Pillar 15, the bastard must be drunk. He was drinking at the Bangalore airport when I last texted him,” I replied. We walked towards pillar 15 and there was Nari, backpack on his shoulder, massive headphones adorning his shiny bald pate, eyes darting around trying to spot us and the nervous standing rocking motion that is so unique to him. I called out to the bastard and the moment he saw us the nervous darting looks gave way to an impish smile.

Debu went looking for a taxi, Shobha was left to watch over the bags as Nari and I slunk away to smoke. 

The trip was on. First stop was Dwarka to Debu's brother in law's house. Having known Debu and Shobha for well over 20 years, I knew that the brother-in-law had been a fighter pilot and had retired a few years back to Delhi. During the taxi ride Shobha decided to set the smoking rules and said, “No smoking in the car both of you and we are not stopping for cigarette breaks.” Nari and I grinned and Nari said, “Yes mother!” 

We rang the doorbell of and a dapper distinctly Bengali looking gentleman opened the door. There was Ujjal-da. To say that he was pleased to see Debu and Shobha would be shortselling the moment. He was delighted – make what you will of the difference between the words – but it's that difference that made me feel, “Ah! This is going to be chill and not one of those politely formal and stiff stayovers.” 

Introductions were made and luggage was put away in the appropriate rooms. Rarely does one see Shobha get bullied so I was delighted to hear Ujjal-da say, “Nothing doing Shobha, you are using this room and that is that!” 'This room' obviously meant Ujjal-da and his wife's bedroom. Most people might see it as a meaningless gesture – I mean it's not like Shobha and Debu were a pair of newlyweds. But try telling that to someone who has served in the forces where small courtesies still matter. 

The liquor was already out – a fine selection of whiskeys and some beer for me. We all relaxed and made ourself comfortable in the living room while Ujjal-da hovered around like a busy bee. One moment he was busy filling our glasses and the next he was off to the kitchen to instruct the cook. In between all his setup work he managed to inform us that the Mrs was in New York, visiting their son and enquire about Tanvi's, Debu and Shobha's daughter, backpacking trip. 

Finally the arrangements were to his satisfaction and he took a seat. Nari and I had been told that he was a staunch patriot and our sneering dispensation towards a muscular India might be at odds with his world-view. Upon hearing this Nari mumbled that then he had better watch his words. Once Debu, Shobha and Ujjal-da were done exchanging notes about the family quite naturally the conversation meandered towards current affairs. By then Ujjal-da's exuberance and warmth and a large snifter of Amrut whiskey had banished Nari's resolution. Sneakily he asked about the planes used in the recent air strike. And before you knew it Ujjal-da was now retired Air Commodore Ujjal Biswas. He explained to Nari the difference between Mig-21 and Mig-29, Jaguars and Mirages. Then he moved on to how exactly the recent strikes had been conducted – where the planes had taken off from, the formations, radar systems and of course Abhinandan. “The boy is a hero! Hats off to him,” said Air Commodore Biswas. He went on to explain the kind of courage it took for an individual to make that kind of decision especially going up against a competent Pakistani airforce. My interest in military matters is rather low and I listened inattentively for the most part. 

Somewhere along the way the officer once again transformed into a gentleman and had us huddling together for a selfie. Said Ujjal-da, “I have to send a picture to the wife.” A sleek phone mount was produced, adjusted carefully and a selfie taken and quickly sent. Soon enough the cook announced she was leaving. Before she reached the door Debu had nudged Shobha and said, “Shobha, Sona is leaving, we won't see her tomorrow.” Now that is quintessential Debu – keeping an eye on the small details in the middle of all the action. And so Shobha went off spoke to Sona and paid her a little bonus for making parathas for us to carry for breakfast. 

Here I must say, that I was not with Shobha and she may have just given Sona a hug or shook her hand. But if I am wrong then don't say, “Look at the bastard attributing all sorts of things randomly.” Instead blame Shobha for breaking years of convention on how this entire exchange should transpire. 

That we were all enjoying ourselves and completely relaxed was evident from the way the conversation could move from family matters, to fighter jets, to taking selfies, discussing Amrut and of course the impending road trip. At some point Ujjal-da went in and returned with an I-pad and began a discussion with Debu on the route. Showing his flyboy's eye for detail he pointed out possible points of confusion as we exited Delhi. He told us about how to get to the saas-bahu temple – the name had Nari's wikipedia antennae up immediately – inside the Gwalior fort, about Orchha and then Khajurao. His energy and enthusiasm was boundless. Nari's theory of mother Shobha was further vindicated when talk veered around to Ujjal-da's son and he said, “Ask Shobha, the boy is closer to her than anyone else in the family.” Shobha delivered one of her two patented responses when one serves up an embarrassing truth about her, “What rubbish!” and then of course she proceeded to correct poor Ujjal-da on which year the son had finished his engineering when he had been in London and so on. 

Dinner was served and so commenced my week of pigging. Over dinner Debu pulled Ujjal-da's leg by telling Nari and me that Ujjal-da had actually given Rs10,000 to the Aam Aadmi Party. Ujjal-da laughed and said that it was unfair to bring up such momentary lapses of reason. I could not help but thinking that it's a pity that Kejriwal mucked it up so bad. In him, many ordinary Indians saw hope of a cleaner, better merit oriented politician only to find that power corrupts everyone. Nari, the ever curious journalist ended up discussing newspapers with Ujjal-da and was intrigued to find that though Ujjal-da supported the Modi government and still preferred to read the Indian Express because Ujjal-da found them to be a more balanced paper. We also discovered the car that we were taking to Bangalore was Ujjal-da's old car, a Honda City automatic, which he had replaced with a newer model of the Honda City automatic. It reminded me of how after much research I had finally ended up replacing my own old City with a new City of the same colour. He expressed a little sadness and confessed that he still loved the old model better but one had to move on. 

Ujjal-da told Nari and me that he would join us for a post-dinner smoke – he rarely smoked. And as we stood outside he told us about why he chose to settle down in Delhi after retirement – familiarity, having spent many years while in the Indian Airforce in Delhi. On how the Mrs is still keen to move to Calcutta – she wants to go back to her roots but he is reluctant – he has no connection with the city. Though one sensed that he was slowly coming around to the idea. He told us of of how he was flying for Jet Airways after retirement but a couple of years back he had a hernia surgery and then was diagnosed with cancer and post surgery complications meant that he could no longer fly. How he could still possibly teach at an aviation school but had now decided that it was time to retire and pursue new hobbies – I think he said he is planing to learn a new language. In the world that I live and the friends that I have, we are always cribbing about lack of money, too much technology, having to lose weight and all kinds of inanities. Here was someone who seemed to be at peace with the cards that life had dished out. As he said, “I should be dead at least twice over,” referring to his fighter pilot days, “I am lucky to be even standing here talking to you guys. Can't complain!”

We chatted some more and retired for the day. But not before Ujja-da asked each of us what beverage we would like in the morning. Nari's Tam Bram roots came tumbling out as he said, “I usually drink filter coffee but any coffee is fine.” Replied the officer, “Yes, filter coffee shall be there.”

The next morning was a flurry of activity as we got ready to head out. Ujjal-da and Debu went down so Debu could take a handover of the car papers and a lowdown about the vehicle and dos and donts. Hugs, handshakes, thank yous and a final cigarette done with we got into the car. Ujjal-da proved he was more tech savvy than us when he asked Debu to enable the location sharing feature on Google Maps so he could track us. 

Now we were all set to commence the 'Wow! What a cool thing to do' road trip. 

I have no clue if Debu, Shobha and Nari feel the same but to me it was five people who made the road trip for we travelled with Ujjal-da – and fuck people who think it's corny sentimentality and a cliched take – in spirit. We spoke about him, learned more about his flying days from Debu, found out that Shobha and Debu were engaged his house in Pune, that his son was also an alumnus of IIMC, sent him two updates a day on our progress. In times to come when the four of us meet and reminisce, I am dead certain that every time we do so, a toast shall be raised for the Officer and the Gentleman.