Now if the horseride was not enough where Renu was bouncing like a rubber ball on a hard wicket, wait till you hear this.
I should be studying but I am wtiting memoirs. I am hopeless.

Well after I met the EsSalaam Aleikum gang (Arabic language Club by Yahya: Not yasseer I had got his name wrong) and discussed the Arabic women’s legs. We are both in the danger of being shot. But Yahya has a big heart that he gives to the most cruel women as you do and loses romance out of life. Anyway the food was great and next day chooks and me decided to go to a hot springs pool south of auckland near Hamilton.
Incidently that’s where Gaurav and gang live. Now renu is a cook of high acclaim with her initial flirtations with garlic so powerful that Natalie my firstr crush who lived on top of the Ramavat family could have died of Ramavat Garlic syndrome. So high were they in use of garlic and onion that as a child gaurav ate onions like we eat apple. Slurp Crunch Yum.
But then hey Renu is a great cook in line with Neeta Mamee and my mom who is no longer a cook.
I told Chookee if she enjoyed the Arabic feast which was a delight (sorry to repeat myself) She would love Renu’s home cooking. Anyway, we went.
It was a sunny day and than started drizzling and then lightning and than downright stormy. Priya gold the famous daughter-in-law was seated on the couch and thinking of assignment. Capture this Kodak moment please. She looked as if she was eating cotton soaked in kerosene because the assignment date was due. It is a pain in the ass, these bloody assignments and i have around 40 to do in a journal but I am writing the adventures of renu.
The meal was sensational and Chooks (all 5.9 kissed all of them, on the cheeks) and the food that tasted like mung was bean seed and bloody sensational plus the dal that grandmaa specialised in.
The ginger was perfect and the fenugreek seed and Kokum. You may ask what the F is KOKUM?
Kokum is made from Ratamba (Garcinia indica), a fruit from the plum family. The pulp and peels of the Ratamba are separated. The peels are soaked or smeared in its juices and sun dried. This is repeated often till the skin shrivels up but retains the red/purple colour and the slightly astringent flavour. This is now kokum, which is used as a souring agent in cooking.
Yes so the dal was perfect and thus we decided to go for a drive around the country may be to a hot sulphur spa pool. However, I explained to Chookie the slight problem of Baby and Renu and a public spa and swimming costumes and Chooks understood since her father used to call her a slut if she put perfume and thus her Maori mentality caught up with Indian modesty. Lets call it Culture.
We went off to Raglan after setting out in the opposite direction for 60 Kms. And the countryside was filled with sheep on hills and the horses (yes, horses, the ones that you ride on) and than we went in the right direction thanks to Mukeshbhai, a gujju dairy owner setting us right.
Raglan in the Maori legend is a healing place and I know it for sure. We were racing against sunset and storm and the hilly ways were very much like Piha beach pathway (Kaho naa pyaar hai) where Ms patel danced in a skimpy and looked gorgeous. It was spectacular and chooks was careful since we had precious cargo: Baby nad Renu. It was a beautiful drive and luckily my duvet was there in the boot that they used. NZ is having bad weather and rumours of a coming Tsunami.
And thus, mom had called up to find out if i was OK. It was heartlessly cold and i decided to invite them outside in two of my jackets also in the boot. It was a Tornado-ish wind and both started running in the jacket and before we could reach the bridge, a small white monument that looked like something out of Saagar the movie in which Dimple showed her true self. These two wear shivering and thus tried running with the oversized jacket looking like small sheep and then finally we felt sorry.
We ran back to the car and bought some chips, cooked in Veg Oil not Beef Talo. I ensured that since Mcdonal had a huge backlash from the Jains of NYC. the jains in New York and the US are the second richest community after Jews.
There they were in raglan running on the slippery path and screaming and happy after $8 chips on their lap from the Chinese who looked half Maori but than due to NZ Sun Kiwi Chinese do look peculiarly brown.
Raglan is a healing place for Maoris and the black sand beach combined with Stella’s weed smoking that makes her kidnapped by Alieans. notice how aliens only kidnap the maddest human beings for anal inspection.
But the weather was suddenly clear and colder and the stars came out in a crisp night and Gaurav’s Veg Makhanwala was great as was the rotis who cooked. Now gaurav may not be a lot of things but good cook he is. I had once tried butter chicken in a Maori household that had cute daughters and forgot to put cream and butter and burned their mouths and noses.
Gaurav cooking was great and the heater stopped B & R from shivering. Chooks and the ramavats loved eachother and we drove back late leaving them shivering. But if rumours are to be believed they enjoyed the trip but i still cant get over them shivering and screaming and running like ants in a bugs life.

It is 2:37 in the morning of 4th October 2007. It’s somebody’s birthday but I don’t know…wait it’s Kim Red’s birthday. But never mind. Write(?) now I have more green tea in my veins that Lalit Ramavat has alcohol. I am intoxicated.

Who is Lalit Ramavat? Well, Lalit Ramavat is the guy who wooed Renu, my maternal aunty in the years of 1976 to 1979 in Anand Society by acting cute on a small bicycle. A Lilliputian bicycle and disturbing her when she gave Tinnu(a boy who puts coconut oil in his hair) tuitions. And then of course, they fell in love and produced Gaurav and baby (everyone calls her that). Anyway, Renu is not the fastest on her feet. I remember once she took part in a race in Anand Society (an apartment with
three wings…not red bull but three buildings A B and C). She ran this race and borrowed a pink floral Salwar Kameez from Kishori Sharif (her sister, mother to Sameer, wife to late Abdul Rehman Sharif who wrote the movie burning train). Now Renu fell during the race as she tried running and Renu being Renu laughed. But Kishori was pissed off and the dress had to be darned since it was a pink Salwar Kameez with flowers. Renu once tried swimming in the Andheri Recreation Club where She
closed her eyes and flapped and flapped and flapped wild as a dolphin. Shobha was watching over her. Shobha is the youngest sister and a tough nut to crack and a lady with immense self control. Shobha once jumped into the pool from a height of two stories and hurt her hands but did not even budge. She got married at 29ish and yet she was pure if you know what I mean. Now I don’t know any white girl or black girl or brown girl with that kind of self restraint. Anyway. Renu was flapping all
this time and when she opened her eyes…she was in the same place…ladies and gentlemen…not a mean feat this. Most people would have reached the opposite end and back.
But Renu was right next to Shobha in the pool when she took a deep breath, flapped like hell and after 5 minutes was in THE SAME SPOT. Something similar happened at Nainital where she was so proud of her cheeks turned red that she wanted to catch a helicopter to Bombay Walkeshwar where we lived and show off. And once said look how fast I can walk. And she flapped and flapped and did not reach far. That’s Renu. Who once called prostrate ‘prostitute’ by mistake and the doctors and my grandpa
And my mama (Unky Pandey) were embarrassed in a Dadar Hospital where Grandpa had an operation. She barged in all 4.10 inches of her and asked if the ‘prostitute’ was done. That’s Renu. Now she went riding. Her daughter in law Priya Gold wanted her to ride and I could not give her adequate warning though I am on a free phone away. Priya thought that she should show her mom-in-law a good time. She was all excited the night before but I was not. I actually forgot to warn her though I did remark
One cannot trust animals giving the Christopher Reeve example but did not ask her not to go. Priya was thinking if I ask her not to come she will be offended and Renu was thinking if I don’t go, Priya would feel bad. Both waited on ceremony as Indian women do. Both waiting for the other person to back them out. Anyway. The day arrived and the horse was a huge madafaka. Huge. Taller than Renu. She was given a yellow helmet and words of encouragement by the white instructor and you know how
Polite and sweet they are. Ladies and gentlemen, don’t go away. Now this horse was a moody bastard and in India the horse-Cooley runs besides you but here you are given instructions and Off… you go. it’s like being given a manual to car driving and sends off on a long drive. No horse Cooley ran besides her and the horse vibrated off the ground like a spring toy on an electronic motor. The helmet was jumping and Renu thought this was it. END OF THE STORY. But It did not stop there.
The horse went faster and Renu was sweating in 10 degrees cold atmosphere over a hill route that was perilously closed to the valley and than the horse! Then the horse got into a bad temper and started fighting and competing with the other horse. Renu was closed to crying but the horse kept going to the other horse and FINALLY after an hour or so it was finished. And Renu was scared white. You see!

The palace is Herne bay and does not have any bus routes. Now, I got an invitation from Yasseer, the Arabic teacher (its a club not a course) and the food was plenty and thus, I went. Chookie came with me. She’s not my girlfriend and we reached Herne bay. I thought of amy. I should not have but I did. Anyway it was a huge house that these people the hosts, cooks and servers did not own. But it was like a white Saudi Arabian house that belongs to an egyptian and his chinese wife from malaysia!
Noo…Singapore. We removed out shoes outside and saw galeechaas spread on the floor and we were home. My granpa had a thing for galeechaas or the carpets that looked like flying carpets from Arabian nights but did not fly. Now this red carpet was in Andheri and it came out during diwali and i am glad it did not fly or we would have hurt the crackers and the rockets and the fireworks that Jetli, a mad bastard send from the floor and laughed. he drank too much Chivas Regal.
Anyway so we went to this palace and had koftas (no not of sweet gourd or dudhee but they were made of mince) and lentil soup also known as dal. There were too french girls who had come and i was talking to chrisbarretto@gmail.com. His real name is Chris Barrett but that was taken. Too BAD. Anyway he confirmed my theory that people on vodafone have vodafone friends and people with telecom have telecom friends. Both Cell phone companies that allow free text to ONLY their company. It’s like Airtel
vs Orange or now it has become maroon or purple or lavender. Anyway the food was gorgeous. Humus and baba humous and dates (not dry but fresh) tasted like leechee and the yellow small fruit the skin of which stuck to my tongue. The doctor woman was great and chookie pointed out only in hamilton where we went next day for another feed that I should have spoken to her. She was beautiful. Yasseer introduced me as a mentor and master as he thought I was a great poet. i think the guy who wrote
humpty dumpty was better than me. I told Yasseer, whom I call yahweh (Jehova in christian) that Arabic women were the best women on earth and he confirmed that they had lovely legs. and i wonder how one can see the legs through burkha and yasseer confirmed times had changed and i was happy for arabia and told Yasseer that he would never have a chance in taliban since he did not offer namaz and he confirmed that the prophet said food came before prayers just like the POTOBA_VITHOBA theory of the
Marathas. We went to renu’s house next day but that was great. By the way, renu went horse riding.
The horse was larger than an elephant and her helmet moved as the horse jumped and the horse went to fight with another horse. Reminds you of that fat girl in Hum Kisise se Kam nahi…Kajal Kiran. that’s the name. But renu was petrified. I will send the details soon.

I just returned in the blistering, rain-filled streets of Auckland and now having lived in 22 different parts of the city, I can safely say I hate Auckland. I am sick of the rush rush and construction concrete flying out as I have possibly just completed my Graduate Diploma in English and Drama and come to tie a few loose ends before I move somewhere, anywhere outta here. I have been Auckland’s proudest supporter as Auckland has been mine but it’s time to move.
The South Island is a different country altogether and before I went there I was toying with the idea of going to Wellington or Hamilton and working fulltime. I love relief teaching but to teach full time a bunch of thankless teenagers is not my idea of job satisfaction.
We flew into a red evening via Christchurch from Queenstown and I was deeply satisfied at my seven day trip and I will sending you bits and pieces of the travel journal through the night as I am inside graduate centre having been dropped by my cousin Gaurav Ramavat, who has drove us around South Island. I had a falling out with this particular cousin since I did not hear from him for a long, long, long time. My hostel office is closed and I am doing my last journal at the all night place which
is filled with people doing their academic shit.
Thus I am about to embark on my writing journey.

We always called it proper Bombay and heard names like CP Tank, Hanging Gardens , Gowalia Tank and Capitol Cinema. My first memory of Proper Bombay since I came fro what was then the last suburb Borivali, was the million pigeons eating grams on the roof of Third Bhoiwada, that’s were Utkarsh my cousin lived. For a while we had a charpaee or those beds that were made of wooden brackets and coir rope. Very comfartable and highly portable. We were both nine and eleven and Utkarsh (officially Utkarshbhai) had to get up to get milk. I went with him on some days and on other days I did not. I spent a few holidays in 3rd Bhoiwada in Swami Narayan building and as we walked into the row on houses in a square on the second floor with an almost clean dump where we played cricket. Utkarsh grew up in the mala and often we would go to buy kalakhatta and sugarcane juice and were secretly allowed to eat Pau Bhaji that had onions and garlic and potatoes that the Jains did not eat. We promised to go to one place and ended up in another and that was our source of deception that Utkarsh cherished. We were given some money and his kind mother and intelligent father often suggested where we should go. I got my first scooter from them. Scooter being the small petrol free thing that you swayed one leg and gathered momentum.
Something like this it was an old green one that mom had to carry for me with a love and dedication only a single mother (dad was away at that time and came back and forth and coming and going) could.
Right next to Masee’s (maternal aunty mother to Utkarsh) house was a colourless house with a a young girl that had severe head aches and water retention in the head that eventually killed her. But that apart we sometimes slept on the mezzanine floor that was huge and danced on it’s wooden base and the grandparents would get upset. The grandfather read with a huge magnifying glass and we brought Bakor Patel books (something akin to Brer Rabbit) except in this case the lead was a goat. When Utkarsh left Proper Bombay we lost an interesting part of the childhood that went back to Mahavir nagar and kite flying on the terraces and discussing Natalie my first crush and what a crush she was.

You are right, I am reading Shantaram by Gregory ‘Australian chap with an NZ passport’ and have forgotten Mohan Iyer’s birthday and which reminds me of throwing buckets full of water on innocent (notice how passersby are always innocent) passersby from Binto’s house who died in a bomb blast that happened in the Share Bazaar in 1993 where Utkarsh worked as a sub-broker but Utkarsh is safe, at least on that accord.

There he goes. He’s hiding here, the bastard.” came the voice from nowhere on a summer’s full moon night in Manurewa. Followed by another: “Yes…Yes. I can see him. He’s here”. South Auckland was filled with angry shouts and screams just near my window. I woke up with a start and actually broke into cold sweat. I was sure it was me they were searching for. I could not move lest I was seen. I stayed paralysed for an eternity of fifteen minutes. I was sweating all this time. My pillow had gone damp.
I always fancied myself as a bit of a tiger and a brave-heart. Talking of brave-hearts I always maintained that Maoris have a big heart. In the summer of 2002, sometime in November just before I moved in with my ‘Pakeha’ girlfriend, I stayed at a Maori mate’s house. Wakena was returning me an old favor. Waky (as I called him) and me hadn’t always been friends. Sometimes I knew for a fact that if he wasn’t a Christian, he would have killed me.
We were working at the warehouse of The Warehouse (where everyone gets a red bargain) at Wiri. That day, as I was moving the bottles out of the dispatch trail, I suddenly saw a big Maori fella leaning over me. His face was totally tattooed. He looked at me with what I thought were kind eyes, for someone with tattoo for facial skin. He proclaimed, “He is coming.” I knew this was an abstract statement and didn’t bother to look around for ‘who’ is ‘he’. I just smiled at him and he said, “Isu is coming”. I knew Isu was Indian for Jesus and I said, “Oh, that’s nice”. After a cross-fire of banter we became friends.
The Clendon ward was surprised to see an Indian and a Maori as friends. “A lot of people are surprise to see a Maori walk with an Indian but you are in many ways like me…not easily intimidated.” Wakena said. I was ‘wow’ as I looked at the tattoo-faced seriousness. I just nodded in a cool-sort-of-a-cowboy-knows-his-way-across-the-sunset way. I was dreaming of other imaginary glories like taking a hat trick, making love to Irene etc. as I dozed off.
That day I decided to retire early since it was a Friday night and I had nothing to do after the spicy Pau Bhaji I had made for the family. Waky is the only guy in the entire world that can eat the spice I dish out.
It had been a tiresome week and I was still intrigued by how close the state houses were. From my window I could see the lesbian women’s ‘living in sodomy’ house. They were the butt of every church going Mormon’s joke in that clammed neighborhood. I could see three other houses. I was thinking of the compliment Wakena had paid me as we were walking home besides his bicycle, Yeah, yeah…the same brave heart one. I was slow-motioning the walk on tar road and relishing the moment; the sun was setting on the green hills as I was re-runnning the compliment.
I fell asleep and was soon dreaming. Ancient Mongolians were attacking the enemy on the green fields that stretched on and on. Then it happened.
At two I heard voices and screams. “There is the bastard”. “He’s hiding here.” “Catch him.” I gasped, did not dare to turn the lights of the ghetto house, since I slept in the nude. “Fuck… why did I ever come to stay here. They were after me!” I was scared shitless. I heard another set of footsteps in the house, running everywhere on the wooden house…through the green toilet that had floating toys in the bath tub around my room and towards Waky’s room. My room did not have a latch as I inched my way after a good twenty minutes, frantically ducking from the window line of vision.
I was searching for my faded wranglers in the dark. Under the small single bed..no. Besides my cotton sheet that kept me from itching in the night…no. Hung on the old oil heater. I was crouching tiger – gutless dragon. I found it. Was on the floor on my back wearing it. Luckily no one opened my door. After about fifteen minute of abject commotion, I stared out of my small, sneaky window (that opened only half an inch for oxygen). All the lights in the neighbourhood were ablaze. I decided to venture out into the lounge. My manhood was at stake. Remember, I was the guy who could not get intimidated.
I looked at the whanau. They were all untouched by this violent night, where punches and screams were thrown in for the added interest. Waky was trying to start someone’s car. I did not speak just looked around and ensured that I was safe.
I even boldly went up to Waky and said, “Hey! What happened?”
Waky shrugged off “Oh a fight in the neighborhood.”
I smiled at Kathy “That happens?”
“Oh! All the time.”
Now my curiosity took precedence over my fear that I hid rather well. Ok so what’s happening? I ventured nearer to the gate and saw lots of cars and Police lights and Waky driving the car a fair bit. I did not completely risk going out. What if someone says, “What’s this bloody Indian doing here?” And, suddenly everyone realizes his point and starts smashing me. But hey! I had proved that I was brave inside. So there! It was time to sleep.
I later put all the fragmented pieces of information together and realized that there was a party happening in the cream house besides the Lesbian Villa and someone got drunk and mistook someone else’s wife for his. Actually he just molested her. And hell broke loose. The culprit ran through the backyard into our house and ran through the door. Whew! That was a close shave. These New Zealanders didn’t they ever bolt their doors? I had generalized till I saw how meticulously Emma turned the alarm and bolted the every little window in the house.
My stay at Wakena’s house was fairly comfortable but I was awakened by Mormon readings of the Bible in tongues from the other room. I did enjoy chips dipped in white sauce. Waky loved my curry. However, one morning when I heard Waky and Kathy fighting over ‘how he’s not interested in touching her’. I realized that I was a mouse not a fgiery warrior. I decided it was time to pack.
I did not mind them occasionally turning my God’s picture frame face-side-down because they were sure it was the Devil. But, when husband and wife start fighting, it is time to leave. So I am not brave. But I’m alive and whatsmore everyone thinks I’m James Bond himself.

Dahanu is a sleepy little town that looks like a Pacific island, with its endless palms and coconut plantations, on the western coast just hundred kilometres above Mumbai on a map. The fresh Neera or coconut toddy, a sweet morning juice that can ferment into an intoxicating drink in the afternoon, is pure nectar.
The brown train on a winter morning, with visible specks of white dust in February sun promised that it would be a fun trip with my cousin and her husband living with the in-laws of the in-laws. It’s slightly complicated, so let’s just call them the others. The others live in a huge apartment in Dahanu.
The first three days were untainted heaven with long walks, nights under rural starry beaches, good vegetarian curries, lentils and pickles. My cousin’s husband, technically my brother-in-law (since in India, we call our first cousins cousin-brother or cousin-sister) is a hilarious comedian. We were staying at his sister’s house thus, the in-laws of the in-laws.
But on that fateful day, we were warned in instalments by the others. “They are coming”, said the stupid one. “We need the bhuwa (exorcist) as lots of bad things are happening in the house.”, said the mother. This was following a shouting match between father (in-law) and the stupid one.
We went for dinner that evening having forgotten the small snippets of talk that day. When we came back the lounge or the hall was filled with strangers. Everyone was drinking and the lights were on full blast inside the house.
“They are from London, they don’t believe all this”, said the father to the exorcist almost as a challenge. My cousin looked thrilled at being called a London-returned. Actually, none of us have been to London. I live in Auckland and my cousin has travelled to Dubai and Nairobi.
We quietly went to our green room with an ancient air-conditioner that worked like a breeze. Indian winters are warmer than Auckland summers. We must have nodded off, when suddenly we heard loud noises. Clangs. Singing. Clapping.
My cousin said, “Looks like they are dancing”. We ran to the door. Ghosts and possessions or divine haunting do happen in India. Divine haunting are more common in Navratri even in Mumbai. During the nine nights, it is said, that mother-deities come out to play garba. When mostly the women dance around a the goddesses and sometimes people get possessed as they are singing garbas.
But belief in possessions is uncommon among the learned folk, drawing an invisible line between the ‘educated fools’ and the God-fearing rural people.
Kneeling, we placed ourselves behind the door and opened it slightly. As a guest in India it would be unwise to jump out of the room and say “Hey! Let me watch!” Protocol had to be followed. That was part and parcel of being born in a country of arrange marriages, five thousand years of civilisation, extended families and the caste system. The caste system did not affect the metros, in a big way anymore.
Coming back to the action through a gap between the door and the wall, my cousin had already joined in and her husband eventually followed. My cousin is a staunch Jain and thus, does not eat non-veg and would never hurt a living thing and did not believe in ‘hocus pocus’.
Hocus Focus can be exciting to life especially if you on all fours with your cousin was bending over you and her upright husband economising the half inch gap between the door and wall.
My cousin said rhetorically, “Are they singing?”.
Suddenly, we saw someone come towards us. We immediately jumped to our nonchalant positions on bed, playing scrabble, reading, staring philosophically into the ceiling etc.
It was lady of the house, who extended a warm and insistent welcome. You can come out and join us.”
“No. We are fine but Suneal, if you want to go it’s alright”, came the approval that is so crucial in times like this. Then, one can run out. They eventually followed.
The group was animated and wearing colourful clothes as they were singing bhajans and garbas – hymns to evoke the goddess mother deity Ambe and Chamunda, essentially. We sat on the thick cotton-jute carpet on the floor.
The other daughter-in-law already looking possessed; swinging her head at a radius of three feet in a circular motion that allowed her leverage of three feet in height. Something like the earth’s rotation and revolution. Sitting next to a possessed individual is a an experience.
The red sindoor, not the small dot on the forhead but a long, blood-red liquid going from between the eyebrows all the way into the hair, was looking ominous. The woman was moving frantically and when prompted by the ordinary looking exorcist, who you would not have given a second glance in the fruit bazaar except for his bulging eyes. He was of medium built and had had a few pegs of whiskey before.
“Show your true self… WHO ARE YOU!” He said to the woman.
She, in turn, stuck her Maori-haka tongue out and looked like a replica of the picture of Mother Chamunda, with her eyes wide open and tongue almost touching her chin. She rotated and revolved at full burst for a good half an hour. Almost everyone instinctively started touching her feet out of reverence, awe and sheer respect for the goddess. Some did not.
Bowing to keep the peace and making sure the unknown does not suck you in is a wise option. The whole thing seemed slightly overdone and aggravated for the benefit of non-believing foreign returned-s. One could bow in submission or be hexed.
My cousin’s attitude of being someone – she is not, came out in full flavour. The wannabe tough, educated feminist ‘from hell’ and the greatest gift to any one who comes in contact with her.
The noise decibels were increasing as people were summoned to ask questions. They later told me that the answers were accurate.
Suddenly everyone got up. Actually, some of them got up as the exorcist led them out. We later learned that they had gone to the family factory and the women had found an article or a lemon that was burried by ‘evil eyed’ as a curse to the family.
The possessed woman found the article and then they destroyed and had gone to the crematorium, the Hindu ‘graveyard‘. Going to bury a lemon or an article that captured all the evil spirits, bad luck and possible family misfortunes, can be avoided. Was.
After an hour or so, the nice other lady was in our room talking about evil things and insisting that she didn’t want to get into these things as it went against her beliefs. She was religious and believed in Shiva.
The ardent father-in-law came in and asked her to get religiously possessed. “It is nothing, don‘t be scared”.
Once again, we found ourselves in the yellow lamp-lit hall with pictures of goddesses and a skull. She was asked to drink some whiskey. She insisted that she did not want to get possessed as the exorcist said, “My child don’t be afraid”.
Even as she was pleading not to get into a trance, suddenly, out of no will of hers, she began rotating. She kept insisting that she did not want to go through this. The roller coaster.
She was fine, educated and graceful one moment and convulsing the next. It was difficult not to believe. My cousin was her cool self. The lady in the meantime, went for gold and in her trance – rotated. Her voice changed. Soon, she was answering questions that onlookers posed. Wanted her spell to be broken would be anybody’s natural wish. My cousin asked a few questions as her non-believing confused, husband looked down at us from the sofa.
It was finally over leaving a huge impression. The exorcist had been in a lineage of exorcists and was an ardent worshipper of mother deities. He insisted that he did not accept money but some money had changed hands. The parents- in-laws were happy and proud of their daughters-in-laws.
The lady insisted that she was fresher than ever and did not remember a thing about her possessed state and it seemed she was telling the truth. Dahanu had left a mark and that evening was like Bengal where goddesses and spirits change people’s lives and the eastern state is believed to be a land of black magic.
The incident remained close to my heart till an opportune moment, when I actually digested my brush with the after life. There was definitely something there. And, even as I tried to send this story across before the d-time, the computer shut on me for no reason thrice and I had to rewrite the story over and over again and actually hand it in, one hour and eighteen minutes late.

I think fonts are wonderful. Have just made a small thinggy (melanies word) to keep something I have designed plus a little memento to my favourite country.

No matter what country, place or religion, there is a subtle yet strong bond of culture between the coastal areas of the world. The fishing folks around the planet have incomprehensible similarities. Assuming that the spice of the lives of the fishing folk could give us just the dimension and freedom we were looking for, Arun and me set out from Malad Manori on his Enfield packed with Bisleri bottles, black and white rolls and a lust for life which tripled when we saw those gals with ‘legs’ on the launch that took us across to Manori.
I had half the mind to follow the legs and get to know them better but I said hey- that could wait. We rode through greens and grasses and tumbled down forts and stopped to click schools, churches, horses and a rocky cliff I tried to get on. Gorai served us omelettes and tadgolas. We filled Lassi and petrol at Bhayandar when the smooth ride started on this side of the highway. Stopping for occasional piss, we bamboozled into a country road on our way to Dahanu. There was a low-lit moon and fireflies and smell of warm grass in the night as we stopped to snack at a village shop. The night was lit with stars and the rustle of grass whispered to us. It was too good to be real, it took us 2 hours to reach a real restaurant where Arun guzzled his Kingfisher, and I stuck to my egg masala, being a renegade vegetarian.
That night we bunked in a local lodge besides a Sai Baba temple on the Dahanu beach. Since the next day, we were planning to go to Bordi beach.
Next day early morning, we hit the misty road passing cool windmills, cow carts, more beaches, heavy breakfast and reached Umergaon – the gate way to Gujarat, Umergaon is a cute place with broken brick houses and old, old schools that go back 1901. We could not click the school since the principal was an asshole. We struggled back through a jetty in a trawler where we literally had to hold the 300-kg bike with prayers. We reached the other side of the Dahanu creek, the smell of fish inspired my friend, and we were off searching for fried fish, which came to us at Boisar.
I stuck to my patent egg masala and Arun guzzled his Kingfisher. The road back was hot and dusty with occasional Lassi and iced towels for gratitude

Nothing can give you greater pleasure than watching a seagull in mid-flight as it flaps its wings ever so gently, gracefully in the most romantic manner, just a few feet away from you. The Seagull goes on to glide over a clear, green, transparent ocean( and you see the fish inside) on a bright, hot afternoon. Cool. Freedom is accentuated by birds and envied by humans. ‘As free as a bird’ would make a handy cliché. Strangely, it reminds me of a peacock on a misty morning in Rajastan just a hand away dancing, leaping, flying.
Freedom and travel are highs, which elevate you beyond spirits or drugs. The Dubai creek has exactly stood where it is for centuries with small markets (souks) on either side, where the locals resided and sold spice, water, fruits to pilgrims who stop-gapped their way to Mecca, Saudi Arabia. The creek divides Dubai into Deira and Bur (the other side) Dubai. Deira is more cosmopolitan and Bur Dubai is India. Shit I just don’t seem to lose my countrymen, no matter where I go.
Dubai is just another international city with well-constructed and very contemporary architecture, with parks in their proper places and between roads, with tasty Lebanese restaurants on the roads, pollution free, non stinking and noise resistant. The Police are handling the law and order without much corruption. Looks-wise, it’s like Bangkok. I guess Bangkok got rich on Arabic money. Dubai is the least Islamic province in the Middle East. If you get pork and wine (which is haraaam in Islam) it’s an absolute wonder. Pig is the ultimate sacrilege in the least of un-holiness. Yeah, Dubai is nice with its sprawling malls, ice-rings for skating, swimming pools, discos and those super discount during the colourful light and crackers Dubai Shopping Festival. But as soon as I think of going overboard, I remember the bloke in the customs in India, where corruption is an established pride. What a shame!
The Jumeira Beach is beautiful and rather baywatch-ian. The winter is just departing, leaving the mist for a hotter steamy and humid summer. As I walk on the creek side I see a few losers, sitting and staring at the sea. The losers sit and stare, while the winners travel in BMWs, cultivate artificial accents, go to discos and listen to music they don’t understand, visit Russian whores, celebrate AIDS with their wife and family. Oh the jetsetters!
Sharjah is bigger than Dubai and Fujeira is a rugged mountain trail all the way to Sultanate of Oman with rich red sand desert in between. I’m told that the redness of the soil is a good predictor of oil content. Ajman is a free port so drinkers can buy duplicate wines. I’m yet to visit the Krishna Temple, the museum, the gold shouk, Heritage village, Sharjah and bits and parts here and there. I’m yet to say hi to the Filipino who stays bang opposite my house, the one with amazing legs.
The radio FM is strong here with a million Arabic channels, three English and two Hindi channels, which are actually better than the one back home. Which is not saying much anyway. Arabic is spoken in over a dozen and a half countries. Try Yemen, Oman, Saudia, Sudan, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Lebanon and some parts of Kerala. Global village is a fair with all the countries participating with life size tourist attractions of their country. Kuwaiti forts, Chinese houses, Red Indian wigwams, Charminar etc. It’s massive. Dubai is nice.
I heard Bombay is trying to hold a Shopping Festival. That could pose a few minor problems. Where will the travellers stay? How will the beggars suck the life out of them? And more importantly, where will the Biharis and the UPites shit?