I love melodies, or rather - I prefer melodies. Though not even semi-fluent in Carnatic, I find it soothingly beautiful. There is something magical about being able to produce something beautiful out of laid rules. Music teaches discipline. The line that separates a rendition from cacophony is singing to the notes, or playing to the tunes - adhering to which a well written set of notes results in a wonderful string of tones. Every song has its voice. Voices lend feeling to the song.
There are many songs in which I lose myself, lose track of time, and lots of time, eventually. But, there is loads of peace, and happiness in it. Sometimes, a puddle of energy. Some songs have excellent lyrics, some are so awesome on the music front alone you don't care what the lyrics sound like. Some songs introduce you to voices that you never heard before, and you would want to hear nobody else. These are the songs you play over and over, but never get tired of.
One such song is Narumugaiye, from the Tamil movie Iruvar.
It is a Carnatic styled romantic song eased into the movie (in the movie). I am no good when it comes to Tamil literature, I can barely string words together while reading; and have a tough time interpreting the purest form of the language. But, even for someone half as literate it sounded so soulful. I read the lyrics to slow the song down, and it makes more sense. I decipher the lyrics and see the simplistic beauty in it.
The song basically describes two lovebirds wondering how they fell in love, and probably list out all the reasons why too. It is the rendition meted out there by the singers that plays the trick. And the back ground music, of course. You can easily be listening to this track and imagine yourself by the shores of a lake in the forest, meeting your loved one there. Not a lot can be left to imagination when the singers carve out the duo out there for you.
The shrills, the control, the pitch, the tone, the raga, the lyrics, they all combine to give a soothing effect. It is no grand song, it is not going to set a stage on fire. It is what you need to go to when you want to do some soul searching. A romantic weather, mild rainshowers, early morning wintry sunshine, late evening breeze etc go well with this in the background. In any case, Narumugaye makes you forget all that is around you.
The song was written by Vairamuthu and sung by Unnikrishnan and Bombay Jayashree, and soundtracks courtesy A.R. Rahman. That's a great combination in there already!
Listen to the song here.
Here is a webpage that has the lyrics and translation for the song, and the video (also beautiful).
The movie includes many more wonderful songs that takes us a few years back. Aayirathil Naan Oruvan, Hello Mister Edhirkatchi are two to name.
Do let me know of similar songs, in any language.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
The Punjab
I’m not a traveller by nature, but I am just privileged to
have lived in so many places in during my childhood, days in college and now in
my young career. This time, it was Punjab – to work in Rajpura (in District Patiala), to live in Zirakpur (bordering
Chandigarh).
In so many ways was this different, in so many ways it felt homely.
Either way, it was lovely. This was the first time I was posted full time at a
work-site. It meant I would not be going to an office to chat up a computer. It
meant I would have to spend days, nights, twilights, midnights, dawns, and
everything in-between as and when required – at the power plant that was just bringing
itself to life. It was what I signed up for, and I was so damn glad I was
there. I have had little tastes of this before, but this was now mine for the
taking.
The good thing about arriving in Punjab on December 30th
evening is two-fold. One, you already have a pretty good idea about the worst
winter chill and can find happiness in the fact that things will only get
better from here. You know, until the temperatures and your happiness both drop
a bit in January. Two, there is a NYE party waiting for you. You see, I have
this little knack for arriving at places just in time for a party (except that
one time I turned up in Mumbai and India lost the Test match). I was wearing my
thickest winter jacket, and carrying the heaviest travel bags to arrive at the
cute little railway station in Chandigarh. A taxi driver approached and asked
if I was working in the Army.
Winters are beautiful. You won’t hear “summers are beautiful”
in India. India is not England. You get baking hot sunshine free with candies
here. Winters are beautiful here. The long journey to work meant I would be
ogling at the mustard fields, with their blooming yellow flowers atop the green
plants partly curtailed by the fog. The density of the fog is directly
proportional to the length of time you let out a “WHOOOOOAAAAA!” when the bus
hits the highway and into the fog. As days went by, I conserved my energy spent
in WHOOOOAAAAAing and judicially used them in sleeping all the way to work.
Summers had long, long days. Night shifts were spent keeping
track of day-light. Nightfall occurred as late as 8.00 pm and the day dawned as
early as 4.15 am. There are tiny hills near our place, and watching the sun
rise from beyond them was a spectacle. Soon after, we get into our rooms and
make the air conditioner work like a slave. (The one in my room was a
protestor, it never really worked hard. Or worked at all.) The monsoon are
prettier, there are a few clouds to go with the hills.
 |
| Just after sunrise, capture from my balcony. |
The only two things prettier than the monsoon were the city
of Chandigarh, and the women of Punjab. Chandigarh means City Beautiful. It was planned to be beautiful, and that plan
worked out well. I should mention that it used to be a bit more green and
better maintained, but nevertheless, beautiful even now. There are many gardens
in and around the city. There are parks in every corner. There is a pretty
Sukhna Lake, where I go to watch ducks. If you don’t feed the ducks, they will
make you feel ashamed. Imagine 50 people watching you as 25 ducks
disappointedly walk away, quacking in disgust. On a scale of zero to Congress
losing the election, how embarrassed will you feel?
Women in Punjab, the
Punjab, are among the prettiest in the world. The noses larger than anywhere
else in India, bridged to varying degrees; and magical eyes that can kill if
they tried. Their hair long as a horse tail, tied in plait, all so similar to
the ones in TN – the two states are
similar on that front. I found this girl in Neeru Bajwa. (shut up, it is her. I know.) The girls in Chandigarh,
though, carry a pound of make-up on their face. And wear the darkest
lip-sticks. I still maintain, and have been vehemently opposed on this view,
that Barodian women are prettier – they don't need the make up to look
beautiful.
Jai Jai Garvi Gujarat!
Jai Jai Garvi Gujarat!
Where do all the pretty women and their handsome other
halves go to? Apart from the gardens and the lakes, there are a few malls. The Elante
Mall is grand, a magnet of shoppers. It rarely disappoints. It made me a
shopper, something that I never thought I had the capability for. I prefer to
visit the old, slightly traditional, Sector 17 (best said “Sector Sattara”) market more. It is a luxuriously
spacious area lined with shops, stores, restaurants, tuition classes, theatre,
book-stores and a large open area for all kinds of fun. It is where you see the
normal people, not sporting a fake accent to impress others, not here for a
movie at the Cineplex, not here for the food court. It is where the kids come with
their parents to kill some hours in the evening, under the tree, taking a bite
of ice-cream and chasing the soap bubble. It is calm, soothing, silently
humming normalcy. Normalcy, with all the branded stores, mind you. And Sec 17
market is excellently placed, too. The bus terminus is just across the road. And
beyond that is Sec 22, and 21 along which you can walk all day in circles and not
feel even a bit bored. I’ve spent some walks there, sometimes alone, and that
is one little thing I’d miss doing.
One BIG thing that I would miss would be, duh, Punjabi
cuisine. Paratha. Dal. Paneer. Dhaba. Tandoor. Butter. Butter. Butter. I
honestly thought I would be able to get rid of my paunch when I get posted at
site, the physical work ought to burn off the fat. But I didn’t factor in the
Punjab. And not for once was that stated as a complaint. Laced with Dhabas all along the highway from work
to home, it was a pleasant dilemma to decide on what to eat where when we
returned late from work. And by late, I mean 2.00 am, 3.00 am or even later. Dhabas
are open all night, more and more delicious as the night grows old. I loved
Punjab’s favourite vegetable –paneer. Be it paneer tikka or paneer butter
masala, or the hybrid paneer tikka butter masala, you don’t have to think twice
about ordering them. I’ve tasted nothing like them before, nothing since. I shamelessly
collected upto 25 menu cards of restaurants in my locality and kept most of
them happy. I did receive a reminder from one restaurant that my orders to them
had gone dried up.
 |
| This was slightly past midnight, a favourite routine of ours. |
Have you tried honey chilly cauliflower yet? No? Why?
I could write a book on this, but I realised I am not there
yet. I’ll keep it to a little blogpost. I will end this with a bit about the Punjabi
people. Kishore Biyani, the chief of Future India Group (Big Bazaar,
Pantaloons, Central etc.), wrote in his autobiography It Happened in India that
the Punjabis have very good spenders, extremely happy, but not particularly
loyal to a particular store. I tell you what, I found the Punjabis extremely
loyal. I learnt the Punjabi script on my own, by reading off bill boards and
matching them with the Hindi or English script above. This sprang up such a joy
among the Punjabis, the smiles on their faces was child like. It made me happy
that such trivial things could spread joys. They rarely take pressure on
themselves. “Koi gaal nai, ho jayega.”
(No problem, it’ll be done.) Once you connect with them, you are one of them. I’m
a Punjabi now, they will attest. They will greet you with Sat Sri Akal, and
feed you with a giant glass of chilled rose water or lassi and send you off with “Fir
milna, hame yaad rakhna.”
How can I ever
forget you?
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
The Beautiful Twilight
Clouds left the sky
Not before the earth was wet.
A dry place to sit
I found after some time.
The cool breeze signaled nightfall
The Sun behind sped its fall.
The birds returned to their nests
Letting me know when passing me by.
The Sun took with him his friends
The colours that lit the sky.
Blue, yellow and red
They followed the Sun's trail.
Across the sky rose the Moon
To give me company,
For I am afraid
Of the dark, spooky night.
Gorgeous she was
The Moon in the night sky.
She looked pretty when she smiled
Even without her star-studded jewels.
Half the sky retreated its colours
The other spread darkness.
Which was more beautiful
It is hard to tell.
But there I was
Wrapped between them both.
Oh, that was serene,
The beautiful moment of twilight.
The twilight.
Not before the earth was wet.
A dry place to sit
I found after some time.
The cool breeze signaled nightfall
The Sun behind sped its fall.
The birds returned to their nests
Letting me know when passing me by.
The Sun took with him his friends
The colours that lit the sky.
Blue, yellow and red
They followed the Sun's trail.
Across the sky rose the Moon
To give me company,
For I am afraid
Of the dark, spooky night.
Gorgeous she was
The Moon in the night sky.
She looked pretty when she smiled
Even without her star-studded jewels.
Half the sky retreated its colours
The other spread darkness.
Which was more beautiful
It is hard to tell.
But there I was
Wrapped between them both.
Oh, that was serene,
The beautiful moment of twilight.
The twilight.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
That Pretty Girl
(disclaimer: all characters mentioned are pieces of fiction. any resemblance to anybody is purely coincidental)
That pretty girl
The sun had just risen up, and was pacing up into the sky as the shadow of the trees by the turn of the street grew shorter. The bright yellow rays brought colour to everything else that lay on the street - the black tar, the grass by its side and the garbage that flew onto it overnight. The wintry dew couldn't wait to drop from the tip of a bent, spineless blade of grass.
I crossed the street and sat on the empty seat at the bus stop to wait for the bus going to the West. There are usually more people going the other way in the morning. While I sat alone here, a few people waited on the other side of the street. College, perhaps. Or, the IT professionals? It was hard to tell. They all look young.
In the East-most end of the shed, sat this girl clad in pink-and-green salwar. It was a narrow street, you could see people on the other side well. People would come and go every day, I wouldn't notice. But she, this girl looked so pretty.
She was engrossed in a book. Must've been a novel. The people around her didn't seem to bother her. She must've had long hair, they looked plaited. But a strand of hair danced by the side of her face. Sun rays hit her face through the strand of dangling hair, making the hair look golden brown and the face yellow. Her diamond ear-ring reflected other colours in the rainbow at my direction.
She would look up once in a while, while she turned pages. She would look to the West, anticipating her bus to show up, then turn her left wrist inwards, check the time, and go back to reading. Her hand looked thinner and longer than I would've imagined. No nail-polish. A continuous flow of light, wheatish brown colour, like the branches of a tree.
Her eyes were jet black. It was darker than the night that had just vanished. She had her eyelashes lined with kajal. It made her eyes stand out, intoxicating the onlooker. It seemed like her eyelashes were protecting us from the intoxicating eyes it shielded, but was itself beautiful enough to woo attention. Her nose had a bend on the bridge. The nose made her look cute. If she had been a baby, I would've pinched her nose. Her lips, unfazed by the winter, had no cracks, and always seemed to bring out a smile. Must've been the book, I thought. The slightly protruding chin completed her beautiful face.
She wasn't fat, nor was she thin. Her schoolmates wouldn't have made fun of her weight. Nor would any of them have hassled her for her figure. She looked like a girl next door, just that I would have had to live in Venus.
Her bus must've been approaching, she brought out her dupatta, also green in colour. And she tucked her book inside. Something was wrong, she was looking for something. Her eyes opened wide, and her little black eyeballs in the white socket looked like a photo-negative of the full moon in night sky. She found what she was looking for- the bookmark which she thought fell off her seat, was actually placed safely at the end of the book, something she must've forgotten while swimming in the story.
She zipped her bag close. And in one flurry of arm-swing, she draped herself with her dupatta, and got up from her seat. And as she got up and wore the bag over her shoulders, she looked across the street right into my eye, no eyelids blocking the sight this time. She turned to her right, and walked to the bus. Yes, her hair was plaited. Long, smooth, dropped straight down like the Nile. She then half turned her head, and looked again. Her eyes can freeze you. She smiled, she blushed, she shook her head twice, buckled her pace up and boarded the bus.
All I could do was watch the bus grunt down the street and turn right, arms still folded, eyelids yet to bat, air feeling lighter. She must be the most beautiful girl on earth.
That pretty girl
The sun had just risen up, and was pacing up into the sky as the shadow of the trees by the turn of the street grew shorter. The bright yellow rays brought colour to everything else that lay on the street - the black tar, the grass by its side and the garbage that flew onto it overnight. The wintry dew couldn't wait to drop from the tip of a bent, spineless blade of grass.
I crossed the street and sat on the empty seat at the bus stop to wait for the bus going to the West. There are usually more people going the other way in the morning. While I sat alone here, a few people waited on the other side of the street. College, perhaps. Or, the IT professionals? It was hard to tell. They all look young.
In the East-most end of the shed, sat this girl clad in pink-and-green salwar. It was a narrow street, you could see people on the other side well. People would come and go every day, I wouldn't notice. But she, this girl looked so pretty.
She was engrossed in a book. Must've been a novel. The people around her didn't seem to bother her. She must've had long hair, they looked plaited. But a strand of hair danced by the side of her face. Sun rays hit her face through the strand of dangling hair, making the hair look golden brown and the face yellow. Her diamond ear-ring reflected other colours in the rainbow at my direction.
She would look up once in a while, while she turned pages. She would look to the West, anticipating her bus to show up, then turn her left wrist inwards, check the time, and go back to reading. Her hand looked thinner and longer than I would've imagined. No nail-polish. A continuous flow of light, wheatish brown colour, like the branches of a tree.
Her eyes were jet black. It was darker than the night that had just vanished. She had her eyelashes lined with kajal. It made her eyes stand out, intoxicating the onlooker. It seemed like her eyelashes were protecting us from the intoxicating eyes it shielded, but was itself beautiful enough to woo attention. Her nose had a bend on the bridge. The nose made her look cute. If she had been a baby, I would've pinched her nose. Her lips, unfazed by the winter, had no cracks, and always seemed to bring out a smile. Must've been the book, I thought. The slightly protruding chin completed her beautiful face.
She wasn't fat, nor was she thin. Her schoolmates wouldn't have made fun of her weight. Nor would any of them have hassled her for her figure. She looked like a girl next door, just that I would have had to live in Venus.
Her bus must've been approaching, she brought out her dupatta, also green in colour. And she tucked her book inside. Something was wrong, she was looking for something. Her eyes opened wide, and her little black eyeballs in the white socket looked like a photo-negative of the full moon in night sky. She found what she was looking for- the bookmark which she thought fell off her seat, was actually placed safely at the end of the book, something she must've forgotten while swimming in the story.
She zipped her bag close. And in one flurry of arm-swing, she draped herself with her dupatta, and got up from her seat. And as she got up and wore the bag over her shoulders, she looked across the street right into my eye, no eyelids blocking the sight this time. She turned to her right, and walked to the bus. Yes, her hair was plaited. Long, smooth, dropped straight down like the Nile. She then half turned her head, and looked again. Her eyes can freeze you. She smiled, she blushed, she shook her head twice, buckled her pace up and boarded the bus.
All I could do was watch the bus grunt down the street and turn right, arms still folded, eyelids yet to bat, air feeling lighter. She must be the most beautiful girl on earth.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
A Barodian Year
A little over an year ago, on the last evening of August, I arrived in Baroda with a fever that I had picked up in the 32 hour long train ride from Madras. I didn't know if the autorickshaw driver over-charged me while dropping me to my guest house. I thought to myself this city too is like Madras (I was wrong), charging in multiples of Rs 50. Nevertheless, I checked into my room, and had a quick bath and completed my Avani Aavittam (the latest in the day I had ever performed it), had my dinner, and then slept off to wake up to the start of my career.
With the minimum levels of sanity restored by the morning of Ganesh Chaturti, I headed for my first day at work. The city has a pleasant calm. It must've rained before my arrival. Clouds were clustered. A drizzle or two now and then. Near-empty streets in the mornings. I spent my childhood in towns or little cities, and liked such cities without heavy traffic, and greenery to go along with it.
Right then. New place, nobody I know. Slowly got to make some friends at my guest house. I have gone through this before, but it was different the year before in Nagpur. Back then, it was a classroom of 60 people, and it was easier to know them all. Here, people from all walks of life are present, but they tread their own paths. A cross-road would start interactions. A dinner table at the canteen, or waiting for the bus stop or something like that.
I did find a good little bunch of people to dine on Sunday evenings when dinner wouldn't be served at my guest house. We would go around, rate South Indian food served in fake South Indian restaurants. There are a few exceptions of course, and those good restaurants know it. One of the best things about this city is the variety of cuisines that are on offer. There are those food chains you see in every city. That doesn't count. There are restaurants exclusively serving Punjabi, Rajasthani, Lucknowi, Kashmiri, Mughlai, Kannada, Kerala, Tamil, Bengali, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Mexican etc cuisines. And quite a lot of them are vegetarians! I know atleast three vegetarian pizzerias here!
Did I not mention Gujarati in that list? There are so many dishes in a Gujarati meal that if I just tasted all of them, my tummy would be full! And you can't help it - you will want more. The local delicacies of fafda-jalebi are quite mouth-watering too. Gujarati food tastes sweet. And they have Gujaratized other cuisines too. You will find sweet sambars, sweet "chilly corn gravy", sweet upma, sweet samosa etc. If I am presented with a glass of sweet lemon soda at the end of the meal, all will be forgiven.
It was hard being away from folks back home and people to talk to. I had evenings to spend without knowing what to do for most of it. It was then that I started reading books, and they kept me company in the evenings. I'm not a voracious reader, and I don't even have a method for reading books. If at a book store, I would waltz into the section titled "Sports", and look for a book that would be worth a read. I've since read a half a dozen books or so between live sports and trips to the cinemas.
Watching movies at the cinemas became the second how-to-kill-time hobby. It would take away a solid 3-4 hours off the weekend. I tried to start liking science-fiction during this development, but I think that is beyond me. I couldn't stand more of a toaster turning into a car and eating the man next to it only to turn into flames and become a pig. Or something like that. For a small city, Baroda has a lot of multiplexes. Must be careful not to venture into the one that shows all movies only in Hindi, so you don't have to watch The Three Musketeeers on a Sunday morning in Hindi. But then, these multiplexes are costlier than the ones in Chennai.
I also had a good year with one of the things I love a lot - cricket. Playing the game was limited. The company would organize tournaments, and it would be fun to play 3 or 4 games a day. A big ground near my guest house, The M.S.U. Pavilion would be a spectacle on weekends, almost every bit of land being used up for playing cricket. Kids and adults would play together, people in their formals would turn up for a game before they go for work on the Saturdays. It was fun.
I had a better year with cricket beyond the playing. I made some good friends in the city who follow the game. I went to the Motibaug cricket ground to watch a couple of days' play of Ranji Trophy games. There might not be many more scenic places to watch a game of cricket. It is also a pleasure to watch the local boys Irfan and Yusuf Pathan from close quarters. A lot of people like cricket here, and they take pride in the performance of their team.
I seemingly had a good year writing on the game too, and was invited to write at www.i3j3cricket.com. I also now have a new skill - transcribing audios - which I wouldn't have if I was not presented with the opportunity to do so at www.thecricketcouch.com. I'm very grateful to the two gentlemen there. Slowly over the year, my interaction with people connected to the sport grew, and I was able to use their inputs to build something special by April. Watching and following the game, although, took a hit. I couldn't any more sit and watch every single game that was on air, and accept that it is how life moves on.
Baroda welcomes people in and people become miscible with the culture of the city. There are people from many parts of the country here, this city is growing well on many fronts and that has attracted these people. It is a little India. Yet there is something distinctive that makes these people bond themselves as Barodians, and touch base as residents of this city, A Big Lil' City. The urban growth has not taken away the palatial beauty that is scattered across the city. The suits and ties by day turn into traditional clothes by night. Sandwiches at breakfast turn into samosas by evening. The most festive of all festivals was the anniversary of Shri Sayaji Rao Gaekwad, one of the most famous rulers of the land. That showed how much people hold on to the tag of being a Barodian.
The people here are quite friendly. The Gujarati they speak is easy to understand (not completely, though) if you know Hindi. The men love cars. And the women are the prettiest I've seen anywhere in the country, and they are the most beautiful during the Navaratri, dancing the Garba. How thousands of people dance in unison without practice is beyond my imagination. It is such a beautiful sight!
In a city that has a lot to love, there are a few negatives. Barodians have this habit of blocking every passage available in any place. People stop to talk at the doorways, they are in narrow aisles in shopping stores, they walk the other way on escalators, park cars in the middle of the road etc. Baroda has less traffic than any suburbs of metro-cities., but somehow the streets of the city morph themselves into a giant headache on Sunday nights when I feel like there are more cars than people on the road. The city has countable traffic police, maybe half a dozen working traffic signals, and no traffic rules. And this last rant may be personal, and only because my arrival was timed so. For an year, I thought it was illegal for it to rain at Baroda. Like everything that is illegal, there would only be scarce appearances seldom leaving clues- for every drizzle before you could get out and get wet, the clouds would have disappeared. It does rain well now, though. Happy for it.
But surely you can walk past the static Sunday night traffic, give the little boy blocking your way a tap on his head and walk past him and find ways to cheer yourself up on a non-rainy day. This city has far many things to keep you engaged. So just take a train to reach the rather neat railway station of Baroda, or catch the next flight to Baroda, at the end of which you will notice that it takes only 10 minutes to get out of the airport after the plane lands, or zoom in on one of the best National Highways, NH08, plying by Baroda. This city is as lovely as it is simple!
It's been a lovely year at Baroda. Looking forward to spend many more here, albeit work might make that discontinuous batches of stay.
With the minimum levels of sanity restored by the morning of Ganesh Chaturti, I headed for my first day at work. The city has a pleasant calm. It must've rained before my arrival. Clouds were clustered. A drizzle or two now and then. Near-empty streets in the mornings. I spent my childhood in towns or little cities, and liked such cities without heavy traffic, and greenery to go along with it.
Right then. New place, nobody I know. Slowly got to make some friends at my guest house. I have gone through this before, but it was different the year before in Nagpur. Back then, it was a classroom of 60 people, and it was easier to know them all. Here, people from all walks of life are present, but they tread their own paths. A cross-road would start interactions. A dinner table at the canteen, or waiting for the bus stop or something like that.
I did find a good little bunch of people to dine on Sunday evenings when dinner wouldn't be served at my guest house. We would go around, rate South Indian food served in fake South Indian restaurants. There are a few exceptions of course, and those good restaurants know it. One of the best things about this city is the variety of cuisines that are on offer. There are those food chains you see in every city. That doesn't count. There are restaurants exclusively serving Punjabi, Rajasthani, Lucknowi, Kashmiri, Mughlai, Kannada, Kerala, Tamil, Bengali, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Mexican etc cuisines. And quite a lot of them are vegetarians! I know atleast three vegetarian pizzerias here!
 |
| The best South Indian restaurant in Baroda- 22nd Parallel |
It was hard being away from folks back home and people to talk to. I had evenings to spend without knowing what to do for most of it. It was then that I started reading books, and they kept me company in the evenings. I'm not a voracious reader, and I don't even have a method for reading books. If at a book store, I would waltz into the section titled "Sports", and look for a book that would be worth a read. I've since read a half a dozen books or so between live sports and trips to the cinemas.
Watching movies at the cinemas became the second how-to-kill-time hobby. It would take away a solid 3-4 hours off the weekend. I tried to start liking science-fiction during this development, but I think that is beyond me. I couldn't stand more of a toaster turning into a car and eating the man next to it only to turn into flames and become a pig. Or something like that. For a small city, Baroda has a lot of multiplexes. Must be careful not to venture into the one that shows all movies only in Hindi, so you don't have to watch The Three Musketeeers on a Sunday morning in Hindi. But then, these multiplexes are costlier than the ones in Chennai.
I also had a good year with one of the things I love a lot - cricket. Playing the game was limited. The company would organize tournaments, and it would be fun to play 3 or 4 games a day. A big ground near my guest house, The M.S.U. Pavilion would be a spectacle on weekends, almost every bit of land being used up for playing cricket. Kids and adults would play together, people in their formals would turn up for a game before they go for work on the Saturdays. It was fun.
I had a better year with cricket beyond the playing. I made some good friends in the city who follow the game. I went to the Motibaug cricket ground to watch a couple of days' play of Ranji Trophy games. There might not be many more scenic places to watch a game of cricket. It is also a pleasure to watch the local boys Irfan and Yusuf Pathan from close quarters. A lot of people like cricket here, and they take pride in the performance of their team.
 |
| Motibaug Cricket Ground |
I seemingly had a good year writing on the game too, and was invited to write at www.i3j3cricket.com. I also now have a new skill - transcribing audios - which I wouldn't have if I was not presented with the opportunity to do so at www.thecricketcouch.com. I'm very grateful to the two gentlemen there. Slowly over the year, my interaction with people connected to the sport grew, and I was able to use their inputs to build something special by April. Watching and following the game, although, took a hit. I couldn't any more sit and watch every single game that was on air, and accept that it is how life moves on.
Baroda welcomes people in and people become miscible with the culture of the city. There are people from many parts of the country here, this city is growing well on many fronts and that has attracted these people. It is a little India. Yet there is something distinctive that makes these people bond themselves as Barodians, and touch base as residents of this city, A Big Lil' City. The urban growth has not taken away the palatial beauty that is scattered across the city. The suits and ties by day turn into traditional clothes by night. Sandwiches at breakfast turn into samosas by evening. The most festive of all festivals was the anniversary of Shri Sayaji Rao Gaekwad, one of the most famous rulers of the land. That showed how much people hold on to the tag of being a Barodian.
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| Baroda, by dusk. City lights above the canopy of trees. |
The people here are quite friendly. The Gujarati they speak is easy to understand (not completely, though) if you know Hindi. The men love cars. And the women are the prettiest I've seen anywhere in the country, and they are the most beautiful during the Navaratri, dancing the Garba. How thousands of people dance in unison without practice is beyond my imagination. It is such a beautiful sight!
In a city that has a lot to love, there are a few negatives. Barodians have this habit of blocking every passage available in any place. People stop to talk at the doorways, they are in narrow aisles in shopping stores, they walk the other way on escalators, park cars in the middle of the road etc. Baroda has less traffic than any suburbs of metro-cities., but somehow the streets of the city morph themselves into a giant headache on Sunday nights when I feel like there are more cars than people on the road. The city has countable traffic police, maybe half a dozen working traffic signals, and no traffic rules. And this last rant may be personal, and only because my arrival was timed so. For an year, I thought it was illegal for it to rain at Baroda. Like everything that is illegal, there would only be scarce appearances seldom leaving clues- for every drizzle before you could get out and get wet, the clouds would have disappeared. It does rain well now, though. Happy for it.
But surely you can walk past the static Sunday night traffic, give the little boy blocking your way a tap on his head and walk past him and find ways to cheer yourself up on a non-rainy day. This city has far many things to keep you engaged. So just take a train to reach the rather neat railway station of Baroda, or catch the next flight to Baroda, at the end of which you will notice that it takes only 10 minutes to get out of the airport after the plane lands, or zoom in on one of the best National Highways, NH08, plying by Baroda. This city is as lovely as it is simple!
It's been a lovely year at Baroda. Looking forward to spend many more here, albeit work might make that discontinuous batches of stay.
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