I can't remember tomorrow!

The stone is bleeding, tears deepen the wound
The laughter is vague like a forgotten dream
Fading footsteps murder the last god
Patient walls hear the death of the scream

A fourth finger burns inside a silver hoop
The holy witness closes melancholy eyes
Eternal etchings look stupid and human
Stranger than truth are but those sensual lies

The fallen angel smirks at the broken heart
As the masochist laughs and dwells in denial
The pain it looks he shall carry until death
And will die not with time, but the final burial

The darkened dream won’t rise from the ashes
As the tormentor lies oblivious to sorrow
Blame the fool, for his hopes are mirages
But alas, he just can’t remember tomorrow

Coorg - Just like that - The conclusion

the invisible wall as tall as the sky...

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The verandah, as mentioned earlier, was a dark dungeon with immense possibilities. To overcome the fear, we engaged ourselves in a variety of discussions. It varied from rain drops and umbrellas to live-in relationships and poetry. It is again interesting how alcohol can dissect a lot of otherwise meaningless phrases and incidents to insights your sober mind would never even consider. I had my share of revelations with Gulzar and Ijaazat. Here is a decent attempt to translate a couple of lines. “Both of us got wet under a single umbrella. I took home the dry moments. The wet ones however, lie with you. Give them back to me.“ My interpretation surprised me. Will yours surprise you? Give it a go.

An old man was our caretaker for the night. He spoke in Kannada while neither of us did. As a result, most of our requirements were conveyed to him in form of hand signals. The man would take our order, decipher it and then disappear around a corner into the dark. As we indulged in our conversations, he would emerge from the dark and peep from around the corner. The intentions were innocent. He would be just waiting for us to summon him. But darkness has its way of adding a pinch of horror even to angels. By the time we got to bed, every one of us was more or less convinced that the old man was a psychopath; and that he would sneak in on us at night and slit our throats.

As the night got older, my friends’ concerns were primarily towards the chicken, pork and rice. Our dinner was getting cold. Mine however, as you might have already guessed, were focused on the unfinished bottles of vodka and rum. These issues were promptly addressed by the time the food was halved. I gorged on the delicious meat and decided that the night was old enough. And even worse, my friends did not share the same passion as me when it came to sleeping late into the morning. As a result, I slept.

I woke up to a little conflict - to leave or not to leave. Doda was jobless and had no strings attached. He wanted to stay back. Shiva’s company could do without him for a day. He wanted to stay back. Pooja had a meeting. She wanted to leave. I had, strangely and quite surprisingly, something important to do. I wanted to leave. Shiva had the car and hence the bargaining power lay firmly in his favour. But then again, Pooja was a woman and more importantly, one who was likely to stick with Shiva for the rest of their lives. Shiva, who did not want to be deprived of ‘you know what’ for the rest of his life, was left with no choice. At around 10am, our car left Pompei.

The last time I had gone to the monastery in Kushalnagar, I sat like a dumb fool overwhelmed by the energy the golden statue radiated. This time around, it was no different. Though branded a non-believer, I worship the energy at all the religious shrines. There could be a million reasons behind this unique experience of peace. For one, it could be the absence of footwear; or it could the architecture; or whatever. These places always leave me feeling small. I sat and stared at Buddha for a long time, letting the icebergs of peace sink in. And I wasn’t even drunk.

The drive back was not an eventful one except for two things. One of them was the stop at the 24-hour coffee day on Mysore. The place has become some sort of a shrine for weekend wanderers. Thanks to the 'crime starts at 11pm' syndrome. We found a cozy corner; and if my memory isn’t lying, had a few sandwiches. I could not sit there for too long though. It was getting claustrophobic. It was suffocating. I struggled for some time and walked out to break free from the stranglehold of some painful memories.

The second, the more romantic of the two, was the race with the rain. Rain caught us by surprise as we stopped to click a few pictures of an unassuming lake. It lay there, serene and stagnant, unaware of the pleasant feeling it was giving us. The meteorologist, my alter ego, sensed the alarm. I urged Doda and Shiva to return. They paid no heed. I was comfortably seated in the car with the windows raised as both the wet unbelievers scampered in. We drove fast. And then it happened. The highway lay there, in front of us, stretching to the horizon. It looked as if rain had surrendered. It had stopped as if by a barricade – a giant wall touching the sky. It gives you a cheap thrill when you see nature humbled. I enjoyed the moment completely.

We drove on; and never stopped till we reached Kasturi Nagar. It was dark. And just like all the other good things…

Mr. Thomas

this is as much as I have of him...

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Thomas, the owner of our resort, is what you could call a modern-day Robinson Crusoe. He was a Goan by birth. He had come to Coorg for business. He had never left there since. He was married to a Coorgie lady, had a wonderful daughter, and is the most self sufficient man I have every met till date.

The same darkness that surrounded us and scared me, was his tiny world. A world that had everything his family desired, wanted and needed. He grew coffee, the best of it. Export quality as he calls it. As Indians, we would have preferred anything imported. But there is this fetish in me for the indigenous, and hence export quality was just fine. He literally gave us thesis material on coffee. He apparently used his own coffee, the best quality that was priced at around Rs. 2000 per kg, at his house. It was prepared by roasting and grinding a bean which did not have the traditional slit or the partition. Though he doesn’t live on coffee, he definitely lives with it.

He grows his own vegetables and he rears his own animals and birds. That includes cows, pigs, hens, and a ferocious looking dog. That is where the excellent Coorgie pork curry comes from. He sells the hens when they are past there prime, and same applies to all of his animals. He has a good supply of eggs, milk, vegetables and meat. And coffee too. His kitchen runs on biogas, courtesy of a device he has created himself. He is getting it patented soon it seems, for elaborate sales. He drives jeeps. He has two of them. And he belongs to the jeep club of India. A close friend of his owns a jeep dropped from a parachute during the war. He rides a, you guessed it, royal enfied – the authentic right-side gearshift one. The only times he steps of the house are when he has to dispose the garbage – a meager quantity when considering the appetite of the pigs – and to fill petrol. That will soon be eliminated as he is currently working on a biogas run engine for his beloved jeep.

Close to 10pm, he bid goodnight. He left us with steaming chicken, bitter pork and a truckload of aspirations – to one day lead his life.

Coorg – Just like that – Part 2

boulevard of mended dreams...

The first harbinger of the eventful journey ahead welcomed us in form of a construction barricade. The road was dug up so badly, we got the feeling that we’d reentered Bangalore. Well, it wasn’t so. After seeking directions from a surprisingly friendly cop, we continued.

Within less than a kilometer of traveling, the fifth passenger, hangover by name, woke up and was up to his antics. An elderly statesman at the office, a man who had fought and won many a battle with the consequences of excessive alcohol intake, had passed the mantra on to me during one of the sessions. Lemon juice with tender coconut water is supposedly the best way to murder a hangover. No harm in trying right? We pulled over at a roadside stall and downed two coconuts each with the refreshing citrus twist. We continued.

We were as much Coorgie as Sir Alex is an Arsenal fan. And it was strange that this fact dawned up on us only after crossing the Coorg border. “Where do we stay,” was the unanimous response to the awakening. The very resourceful Pooja dialed her manager, a frequent traveler, but more importantly, the guy with access to the internet. Two minutes later we had three contacts of guys providing home-stays. Home-stays are places that offer places to stay, with authentic local cuisine, cooked by the hosts themselves. After a couple of visits and examination of our wallets, we froze on Pompey Valley.

The good had lost its battle with evil by the time we reached our destination. The rusted gates eerily creaked as we pushed them open. We drove in with the car headlights providing the only illumination in the black boulevard. And then there was light. And then there were cottages too. It was beautiful. A very pretty lady welcomed us at the first cottage. We waited for a while before the owner, a gentleman named Thomas, joined us. After completing the formalities and conveying our needs – accompaniments for liquor and some awesome-sounding Coorgie dinner – we walked to our cottage.

We walked through dimly lit and sometimes, completely dark alleys. Our cottage, it seemed to us, was at the end of the world. And that apparently, was in Coorg. Though old, it was a neat and cozy peninsula surrounded by darkness, wilderness and enigma on three sides. It made the verandah a perfect setting for anybody with any dark affliction towards alcohol – cold and spooky. With rum, vodka, beakers of coke, sprite and scrambled eggs, we began a night that was to grow really old.

Darkness has a humbling effect on me. Despite holding the title an atheist, and at times agnostic, the absence of light invariably gives me a reality check. I despise the fear of the unknown with such vehemence when it comes to superstitions and religion – as how the sun was to our ancestors across the globe. But as the night falls, the fear of the unseen, which is far less respectful than the unknown, grips me where it matters. Our little veranda was surrounded by this very same darkness. It was a jungle out there. The noises of the wild along with the eeriness made a killer combo that would have made Hercules pee in his lion-skin loincloth. Anyways, Hercules is dead and gone, or perhaps fighting some multi-headed monster in an immortal cave in a Grecian head. That left me as the only one, prepared to pee in the modern version of the loincloth.

It took another 2 drinks for the fear of the unseen to vanish. It is amazing the kind of things alcohol can make you forget and the kind of things it can make you remember. And guess what, it even gives you a choice. It is this property of alcohol that makes me complacent. I might not have ventured into many junkie arenas (a little hash and a little grass is all that I have treaded on, by, with, in, and off), but the pleasure of remembering things you want to remember, and forgetting things you want to forget, is at its customisable best with alcohol. What possibly better rendition could any other intoxicant provide? Hence the complacency and therefore, the phrase – Alcohol is a man’s best friend. Fuck the dog!

The sins, fear of the dark and lust for alcohol, will have to wait for their respective and dedicated blog entries. That brings me back to the verandah at Pompei village.

p.s. Next up in the series, Mr. Thomas D’Souza of the Pompei Valley fame.

Coorg - just like that - Part 1

I left Carnival at midnight. I was high. I was happy. I was satiated. I had a heavy mind to distract. A lost religion to reclaim. A life to look ahead to. I had done all that.

Carnival is a small and inexpensive bar in the heart of a pub-infested brigade road. Since advertising guys are underpaid contrary to perception, it was a favourite resort to many a creative mind. It was a colleague’s bachelor party. We drank to his life after marriage – the joys and the sorrows; the compromises and the sacrifices; the so many don’ts and the occasional dos. It seemed extraordinary to me, how the beginning of something as happy could mark the end of so many other equally joyful events. But love is blind and hence all the costs associated are hidden.

As the rum and coke united in my veins, the future lay dazed in front of me. What now? Now, if you thought it was the philosopher in me talking, think again. My mind was in quest of the next source of alcohol to keep me running. It was a Friday night and it was only midnight. I needed more alcohol. After intense introspection, a good friend’s home beckoned. I answered the call.

I summoned a rickshaw to go to Kasturi Nagar. It was dark and I had serious doubts about the intentions of the rickshaw driver. For all I knew, he would have killed me. But I would not die in vain. I messaged the details of the driver to my boss. In case I was unable prevent death, the killer would never go unpunished. However, none of that was needed. I was in one piece as I rang the doorbell.

A friend from Mumbai had come down. A good friend. He was fondly called ‘Doda’ during the hostel days. When the fondness grew, ‘Doda’ was often followed by a rhyming obscenity. It had been a few years since I’d seen him. I was happier. I had an emergency stock of liquor in my bag. A neat mix of Old Monk, coke and water. Muah!

We started drinking. In 15 minutes, we lost interest in music. In another 15 minutes, we found the confinement of the walls suffocating. In yet another 15 minutes, everything Bangalore looked passé. Hence we packed and left for Mysore. It was 2.45 am.

As with all spontaneous journeys, we did not have a clue as to how to get to Mysore. We had a tourist map. And for a long part of our journey, that was about all we had. There weren’t many willing citizens on the streets at 3am in the morning to give us directions you know. And moreover, men do not ask for directions if they have the minutest of ideas about directions. I was one of them. In my drunken haze, I remember taking my fellow travelers in a complete different direction for about three kilometres before a call centre cab came to our rescue. U-turn.

One among the four, Shiva by name, was the only qualified driver for three reasons. One being that the rest of us was drunk to our oesophagus. The second, and a very prominent reason was that he owned the car. Well at this point, you can argue that the car was as much his as it was his wife’s. Well, there comes the third reason. Wives are women and women can’t drive.

Doda downed alcohol as if he had just been released from solitary confinement in Gujarat. For those who do not know, Gujarat is a dry state. And it also succeeds a lot of profane adjectives associated with the non-availability of alcohol – impotent for instance. The bottle was over as if it were a matter of pride to finish it in 30 minutes flat. Speaking of flat, Doda was down curled in front of a shop after his alcoholic adventures - exactly an hour after the vodka exodus. I carried on. But then again, I had the advantage of not having a liver.

We reached Mysore at about 6.30 in the morning. Guides and hotel boys closed in on us like zombies from one of those b-grade horror flicks. I still believe that if I hadn’t rolled the glasses up, they would have eaten me alive. But rolled them up, I did; and hence am intact. After warding off the scavengers, we managed to get a large room, a ‘penthousish’ arrangement on the terrace. Shiva, who I consider an antisocial, was up and away for his masala dosa while we fell unconscious onto our rectangular pieces of heaven.

The sun was shining in all its glory when sanity woke us up. Mysore has its share of history for travelers. Tipu’s palace was one of them. Despite my memories of visiting the palace since time immemorial, Doda’s doggedness drove the car towards the palace. Th drive to the palace however, lasted only as long as a green board that hung above. It read ‘Coorg’.

to be continued...