Such are not made often.

Through the meandering journey of life, there are are many that we meet. Some are acquaintances. Others pass by. Yet others pass through. And you realise how true this quote about life being a stage and the many actors who jump in and out is..

And of course, some stay. And out of the some that stay, a few touch you. A few others make you laugh. A few others make you think. And of those that make you think, there's this handful that make you stretch and discover your horizons.

Well, this post is about one such man who did a bit of everything.

Who just stood tall by being himself. Who towered by discovering and getting people grow taller. Who continued standing for whats right, and instilling a sense of right and wrong in the people around him.

A man whose passion for industrial relations knew no bounds. A man for whom development of people was an inherent program which treated this English word spelt 'b-o-u-n-d-a-r-y' as unrecognisable code.

A man, who never lost the child in him. A man who has kept at lifelong learning. A man who took to blogging and tweeting rather late in life. But has gone the mile in these journeys.

A man who has touched many lives. Across many strata of society. In his own quiet way.

A man who is busy reinventing himself as i write this. Plotting a new career. And pushing his own limits 'to pursue things that he always wanted to'

Just as he retires, today, from the organisation that he served for 33 odd years. A man who celebrates his birthday today.

And as he moves into the sunrise of a new life, he carries with him the good wishes & sincere thank yous, of the many that walked the journey along with him.

And of course, carries with him, his own way of doing things !




And as one part of his moves on, the other remains. In the people that he walked with. Who he changed. Forever.

Here's wishing him a great birthday and a fabulous fulfilling time ahead.


His blog is here...

Such are not made often.

3 boys and many potholes

7.40 AM. Mumbai

Three boys. All seemingly of different age groups stare at me through the windshield. In between their animated chatter. Two of them in football costume.

The goods van in which they travel hits a pot hole. And another. In a short while my tyres hit the same potholes. I wince. And then let out a yelp as the spine feels the shock offered by the pothole.

I look ahead at the boys. They don't seem to bother. With all of steel flooring of a good vehicle for a seat, and a metal ledge as a support to hang legs...well.. can be pretty painful. Especially, given the size and strategic battlefield like location of these potholes.

I look at the boys ahead. They seem to be discussing something of importance. I cant fathom what. More importantly, i cant fathom how such potholes dont evoke a flicker of the eyelid!

They smile. They chatter. The one boy that sits on the ledge holds a string that hangs from the roof. Occasionally. Almost by reflex. That's the only sign that the goods carrier didn't have superior shock absorbers.

And as each pothole approaches, my heart skips a beat. Most for them. Part for me. The goods carrier hits the pothole. They don't flinch. And when it comes to my turn, it hurts.

Is it age? Is it youthful exuberance? Is it the joy of company? Is it passion ? Is it football ? Is it joy? Is it holiday season?. Hypotheses galore !

I wonder how it would be to preserve this spirit for a lifetime. To face life's potholes. And they go their way. In some time i stop. But seems that i have taken them along with me. That moment. The car. The joy of living in the moment.

I don't know if they made it as 'winners' or 'losers' in their football game. But they sure did make my day.

3 boys and many potholes

Its Finally Over !

Small huddles of people stand on the pavement. Peering into phone stores. Restaurants. Offices. Pubs. Et el. At the same time. At pre-appointed hours.

Peering into a restaurant having glass for walls, can be unsettling. Especially for those that eat inside! But they dont seem to care ! And the crowd outside only swells. A foreign eye can mistake this for anything. Including a food deprived nation that gratiates itself by looking at others eat.

The answer however, lies in the TV that's on. In a corner of the restaurant , phone store et al. No. Wrong again. The interest is not in the TV but on the cricket match that's on ! The Indian Premier League is on.

And animated conversation floats in the air. Will Chennai beat Kolkatta? Will Bangalore overrun Hyderabad? Will Mumbai win ? How can he sip beer in the middle of a match ? It is all rigged. Dont you thinks so...etc !

Answers and perspectives on this, will of course bring a paradigm shift to our lives and makes such a big difference to our daily living. But, this is cricket ! And as some cliched pundit astutely puts it...this is religion. OK?

A religion.

Where the same chap, is riled or feted for the same shot he played. Depending on whether the team won or lost.

Where funny coloured costumes, strange team names, wonderful astute commentary from the likes of a certain Ms.Bedi are centre stage

where an 4 year old acquaintance commented on a match, ' i haven't seen this kind of a match in my entire lifetime'. And yes. All of a four year life time.

Where the dance of the cheer leaders is only matched by the beer belly of a certain Mr. Mallya,

where 'square leg' has got nothing to do with anatomy or geometrical shapes. And 'third man' does not point to political machinations of cabinet formation.

Where the requirements of winning the cup ( with the history of the two tournaments thus far) are restricted to having an Australian captain pulled out from retirement and the team labeled 'underdog'!

where the sulk of a certain Mr. Khan is best matched by bringing of the blog world more fame

huh !

What a waste of time. Thankfully, its over. The finals. As they say. And this circus top will fold up. And there are talks of one more season coming your way soon. Thankfully its all coming to an end.

And those soap operas on TV can resume again. Tomorrow strange family issues that would resurface. Stuff that was talked about just before the opening ceremony... And from tomorrow onwards, when the boss asks how was last night, remember he is talking about the meeting and not the match.

Our lives return to 'normal' status from tomorrow. Thank God this is all getting over. What madness. Huh.

By the way, did you see how Mathew Hayden batted ! Phew it was worth the Orange cap with a strike rate of 144. And i guess the purple cap will stay with RP. Singh. And if Chennai with +0.94 run rate are any way a better team. And man this Manish Pandey has been a discovery...

Any idea if the dates for the next series has been decided ? Just asking..

Its Finally Over !

Point to Point Travel !

From a corner of the eye, the red looming bus with its booming sound and vrooming smoke , coming to a grinding halt was clearly visible.

Immediate clamour ensued. A small door opened. A smattering village got out. And another got in. They were all headed towards some place else. Out off Mumbai.And this was the scene. At a busy intersection on the highway that was to be taken to reach Pune.

The heat was real. And so were the crowds. Public transportation was not something to write home about. But it got people from point to point. That was public transport right ? Getting the public from point to point ?!




In a few moments, a Toyota Innova passed by. And stopped some distance away from the bus stop. A whole bunch of people rushed in and surrounded the Innova. Commotion ensued.

And in a small while a whole village launched themselves into the Innova. It took all of Japanese engineering & Indian ingenuity to take the village away rolling on the road. Off they went. One happy party.

Taxis that must have dropped off people in Mumbai and heading back to wherever they came from. And whatever money that the driver made was extra! For the return trip would have been paid for.



The rest of the crowd was restive. And then came a lorry. The driver slowed down. And yes. You guess it right. There was another village which rushed. Some haggling. Some loud gesturing.

And then, there were people jumping on to the lorry. And in some time, off they went. One happy party.


And all of the remaining were restive. Muttering and hurling abuses at the bus driver, the steaming sun. The stars. And their alignments. The neighbourhood astrologer. The Arab Sheik and George Bush.

And then, out of the smoke and noise, came a young man. On a horse. No kidding. No cart. No spare saddle. Nothing. Just him. His horse. And that red ornamentation. And number 76 written on his black T-shirt.




Astride on his high perch, he looked at the by standers who were awaiting the next red bus. The Innova. Or the lorry. A glint of a gleeful smile escaped his lips. A smile befitting Alexander the Great entering a conquered land appeared on his face. He pursed his lips and paused for a while.

And then sped away. As quickly as he had arrived. The hooves kicking up left over sand from the sides of a tar road. And as newly kicked up dust settled in the deepest recesses of gaping mouths, he was long gone.

And in that ten minutes people had moved on. The entire point was to move from point to point. And stay moving. Buses. Lorries. Cars. Whatever.

But, suddenly horses seemed to be a energy saving alternative to a Humvee !

Parking was a different problem though !

Point to Point Travel !

Parking Full !

One of the woes of driving in a big city like Mumbai is not necessarily in the driving. But in the parking. The good deeds that you did in the past three lives put together, determines the availability of a good parking spot today !

At least that's the hypotheses that i am getting myself to accept. For i have consistently found that good ones don't exist and the rest are taken. That's been the experience. Every single time that the the tyre has rolled to get somewhere, it has rolled an equal distance to find a place to stop. Much after reaching the place!

And after an hour of driving, the struggle to park can be downright trying. Praying for mercy from gleeful parking attendants and merciless co-drivers. ( Who can seem to know how to park a Merc in a space where you don't think a Maruti 1050 will fit ).

Just as you are all set to park, your eye spots some message written somewhere. Some messages of them are downright simple. 'No Parking' they scream. Others are more positive. "Parking Full" they say.

('Parking Full' means the same thing : 'tough-luck-go-around-find-another-place' )!

And then there are those that overdo it. Like this one.


Which says, 'No No Parking' ! Now, What does that one mean ?

For starters, Parking is a strict No-No is a meaning it can take !

And it could also mean 'No'; to 'No-Parking'. Double negative. Meaning you could park here. So go ahead. And try teaching double negative word play to the Mumbai parking lot attendant. May the forces be with you.

And then there are those that seem to symbolically convey this



Methinks a 'No Parking' board on a chair with no seat to park your back side....is a powerful symbolic message.

Huh. Thats one post full on parking full !

Parking Full !

Pointless Post.

Teaching English to school children was never my idea of an fantasy job. But you know, i like the language. And playing like a school bunking kid at play, for whom bunking is first nature, the mind slips into play.

Strange ideas and thoughts cross my mind. Especially when i drive. For instance there is this store called 'Krishna stores' that i pass by everyday.

My mind jumps about thinking about 'store' as a verb. What could Krishna store !?! Perhaps it is the name of the proprietor of the store. And perhaps nothing sells here. And all he does is store. And so on.

So much for the neighbourhood Krishna Stores !


This was clicked in Bangalore a few months back. ' Andhra Style Family Restaurant !' And immediately, the mind started its pointless mastication of those four words ! And in a few minutes, a chuckle escaped my lips. A solitary chuckle. For the meaning had mutated in my mind.

My mind only. ( The rest of them in the car were sane normal folks )

1. ANDHRA style family restaurant : The style (of whatever) is Andhra

2. Andhra STYLE family restaurant : Well, perhaps a restaurant that entertained only stylish families ! With Chiranjeevi style dialogue delivery and a swish swash back ground music on entry !

3. Andhra style FAMILY restaurant : The onus is on the family. So perhaps they would give you a ETV soap opera on the TV !

4. Andhra style family RESTAURANT : Where it may look like a shady bar, but it is firmly a restaurant.

And so on. And as the meaningless meandering mastication progressed, my brother nudged me to check if i knew what the store next door called CFC was all about.

CFC ! Chlorofluro Carbon...was the first thought before i read what was on the board. Ofcourse it was Chicago Fried Chicken ! If Kentucky arrived here first, can Chicago be far behind ?

The meaningless mutatory mastication in search of more meanings continued for some time.

And it usually raises its head when the mind is drained, the body tired and a pressing omni present to-do list asserts its omni prescence.

Like now.

Pointless Post.

Clean Sweep

Once upon a time, there lived a man. Who was very successful in navigation and commerce. But was deceitful and killed travelers and guests. And such else.

The great Gods in punishment made him roll a boulder up a hill. But the boulder would always roll down before he could reach the top of the hill. And he had to start all over again.

This chap called Sisyphus and Sisyphean tasks need no introduction. We live our work lives don't we ? Sisyphean...is this work of sweeping our streets. Here are pictures clicked at very different places.




The lady was in Mahabaleshwar. There she was. Poignant. Persistent. And attentive. To the last speck of garbage on road. She collected all of it and kept it in a small basket. And walked away. Ofcourse, she didnt bother about the dog that cames along and sniffed the basket. And whatever it did from there on.


Cut to scene 2:


Mumbai. Closer home.

The man sweeps mud and dust off the road. There is a whole lot which flies off and settles on other side of the road. And perhaps when he sweeps from that side, will fly and settle on this side. He gathers whatever he gathers and tosses it into a big container in the tractor behind him. A whole lot of dust drifts aimlessly. Settling wherever it can.

Cut.



Scene 3:

Madurai.

A man with a fluorescent jacket is at work. With a shoe on leg. Collecting a heap of mud to to create another heap. In some time, an ants version of Mt. Everest forms ! He moves on.

A bus passes by. The gust from the passing bus, reduces Mt.Everest to a hillock. He doesn't care. He is creating another Mt.Everest. Many more. Everyday.


Scene 4:

As i am typing this, there is a set of people on TV. Debating election results. And what it means for the country. Loud men & women they are. With some numbers and fancy graphs in the background. They make intelligent sounding points. They definitely seem to have sound.

I hear them talking of 'Clean sweep in Bihar' 'Clean sweep in ....' ! Occassionally, they are mumbling something about some 'fundamental change' that needs to be ushered in. That makes me wonder if they are replaying the last election's analysis.

But with that 'fundamental change' point : I am all excited. We need to bring in fundamental change.

Ofcourse, I am talking of sweeping here!

Clean Sweep

The Iron in town !!

Of the many businesses that you see on wheels, here is one that i don't get to see that very often in Mumbai ! Wearing pressed clothes is indeed a pressing requirement ! And how about a 'presser' on wheels !


In the southern districts we have this push cart iron. The chap who 'irons' , ushers his cart around and presses your clothes for a fee ! A common sight in Madurai ! Its not common in the big cities where electricity rules and 'powered' irons press !

So, theres this chap who comes home pushing his cart around. He carries with him a simple soul. And will charge your a rupee to press shirt. Perhaps two. And he has a cart which consists of a 'bed', a solid stone slab for keeping this solid brass iron and a slot for storing his coal !

And Yes. He uses coal !



Now that's some heavy duty metal ! It indeed is heavy ! The chamber that houses burning embers of coal sometimes look downright scary. With a feisty burning crimson ! And when he presses your shirt, with the might of this muscle, the crimson coal and the hardened metal, you can almost hear your shirt squirm !

Call me old fashioned. Call me backward. But, there is a certain charm in this cart. And in the iron. The iron that houses the crimson coal that can kill either with the heat or with the weight ! And of course, the lazy elegance of his pressing of clothes. A 'lazy nonchalant elegance' that would get David Gower some company.


It may be a common sight down there! And it indeed is something to experience. To just stand there and see your shirt pressed with a rather different energy !

A charm that resembles a old world locomotive that is gushing into a station ! Perhaps its to do with the coal. Perhaps its got to do with the heat. Perhaps it is do with the steady solid style.

Or just perhaps, its the nostalgia of the old times. Or of another place.

Where 'pressing' gets a languid tone.

The Iron in town !!

Common Mango !

Its the season for Mangoes ! And the lovely sweet Alphonso variety is doing the rounds. And of course, the one who can stop at just eating one, is inhuman, supernatural or plain stupid. It depends on which side you look at it from !!

Pooris and Aam Ras are the seasons favourite in many restaurants like this one

And as usual, whats in season is in season. Like here. And so, she makes a dish which is called 'Aam Ras'. 'Aam = Mango. Ras = Juice' she painstakingly explains. He tilts his head and tries to remember. This hindi word 'Aam' seems to be familiar.

This 'Aam Ras' puts him in a rush. He dips into the luxurious 'Mango pulp - mixed with milk - served chilled' (And so he thinks. And that's the closest this blog has ever got to a recipe). And says, 'Its addictive'. And means every intonation. Very much so.

And mangoes, this season seem to be everywhere. Or so it seems to him. Newspaper reports are much to the contrary. Some mangoes are pricey. Some cheap. But all, worth a little haranguing and a bargain.

And as he ploughs into one more scoop, there is a flash of recollection. With a flash of the Hindi education that's in progress, he asks her.. " 'Aam' also means 'common' right ? "

She arches her eyebrows. Sensing that the devils company is set to show some results. 'Aam Aadmi' as in the political campaign means "Common Man", right ?' She nods her head. Half in disinterest. Half in irritation.

And then, the words escape his lips. "Or is it possible, that they really want to call the commoner a proper 'Mango' ?!? " She face palms. 'Incorrigible'. She says. And asks him if he wants some more. The head nods vigorously. 'Upon one condition'. She says.

The second helping is had.

In total silence.

Common Mango !

The Market Dance

Not far from where we live is a market. Market... as in market. No. Not the stock market. And of course, me talking about the stock market, would be as neat as George Bush talking of Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq !

This market seamless merges with the main road ! There are no barricades etc. So, one wrong swerve of a steering wheel would mean a bus ploughs into this market. Standing at the beginning of this market, this is the picture of the traffic on the other side.



A walk down this road introduces you to innovations and ways of life where nothing is taken for granted. Where there is a elbow room created from nowhere, that would put the best magicians in the world to shame !

And the different variety of things that you can set your sights on can have the best supermarkets in the world scooting for cover. And of course, lets not talk prices.

For getting the best prices however, there is a little 'dance of an exchange' that's done with the seller.

Step 1: Ask for a price
Step 2 : Express surprise at whatever price quoted
Step 3 : Quote a fraction of what was quoted as buying price ( in confident tone )
Step 4 : ( Upon being refused ) walk away or make pretense of walking away
Step 5 : ( Upon being called back ) come back and start at step 2 !
( If not called back ) Go back and start confidently at Step 2.

Like many other things in life, the fine nuance this dance, is something that i sorely lack. Of when to start / stop. Expressing of genuine surprise etc occur like an aspiring untalented stage actor.

Many other times, i turn to the wife and express surprise at the price she closed the deal ! Inviting much dismay and irritation. And of course, a suggestion to walk around independently. To not understand that would mean an IQ quotient in the negative i think.

So. An aimless open mouth gaping at all the sights of the market results in a few pictures. And of course, this post.






Mountains of clothes. And every market day, there is a new sky scrapper that comes up. And disappears at the end of day. Again, at prices that would make you look for a atom bomb to drop on the branded stores just across the store ! ( 'DIESEL' says a T-Shirt. He sells it for Rs. 100/-. He looks at me, and says, 'Use and throw sir') !

Pic 6

And there are numerous other markets within this market. The exchange that's happening here (pic 6) is that of tea ! Where a 'vendor of toothbrushes & other oral equipment' picks up his morning tea from a 'vendor of Tea' ! The tea vendor moves about with his flask in hand. As the corporate types would call him, he is a Business to Business B2B marketer !



And so you get fruits, ropes, baskets all within the same stretch. All beautiful to look at. All wonderfully made. And all being shouted about. There is so much of din that you wonder if anyone is selling ear plugs ! And then realise that it is music to the ears of all those who are serious about purchase !



And then you spot a flute vendor. Flutes ? In this market ? You wonder. But he has walked on. Flutes ! You think. That's some music !








Its all happening here. Bangles. Trinkets. Hairbands. Food. Ties. Socks. Shoes. Belts. Handkerchiefs. Flutes. Toothbrushes. Caps. Washing powder. Groceries. Ropes. Fruits. Vegetables. Mosquito repellents. Nets. And sooooo on. And of course, tea.

And as the beads of sweat form on your forehead, you realise that there is just no limit to human enterprise. And that the lessons to learn are immense. And the first one the list of things to learn, is that dance !!


PS : This post was inspired by the Market Day meme at Strange Pilgram

The Market Dance

Transformation !

To the uninitiated, this photograph may pass to be a boy next door. Or perhaps a snap from some nondescript place. To me this seems like a boy pulled out from the the middle of mid summer day cricket match. Or out of a juvenile home. Or out of typical scenes from a movie. And so on. ! I mean, the 'next-door' ' next-door' type.

Wouldn't you agree ?

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And so, it must have taken a awesome effort, mindless grind, endless passion, untold determination and some sprinkling of luck to emerge as this man.



Personally, the music this man composes just blows a whole lot of people away. And if there are any left standing, the humility he exudes, takes care. Some people inspire by the way they are. He is one.

It must have taken all that awesome effort, mindless grind and endurance to get there ! And of that this man is testimony to. And sure he has found riches awaiting !

Whilst there are others who rake in the riches by making a story of the transformation ! Just putting photo one and two together, writing well, and putting it out as a magazine !!




And to see this wall poster advertisement for a Tamil magazine, right here in Mumbai made the missus nudge and my camera capture !

And her comment that about those that still believe that 'hope is a method' was of course not directed at me. Really.

She told me. Ok ?

Transformation !

Whats on the dish ?

'Do you have dish at home ?' is a question that has no bearing to whats usually in the kitchen. For the dishes that are more mainstream than the ones in the kitchen are the ones that adorn terraces and balconies ! The dishes provide entertainment !

Yes. Satellite receivers. Or whatever they are. Every respectable neighbourhood worthy of its air, has dishes that sprout. Forget affluent residential premises.

Village houses sport them. Slums sport them. It is mainstream ! Really.

Many years ago, we used to have skeleton like antenna in the terrace. And that used to get to the desultory colour TV programs like Krishi Darshan and Chitrahaar.

But the most prominent amongst them all was the English News. Watched promptly, every night at 9.00 PM. More for picking up the language than for understanding what was with the country !

The newer generation would perhaps not know the likes of Neethi Ravindran, Rini Simon, Preet.K.S. Bedi, Geetanjali Iyer, Tejeshwar Sigh, Bhaskar Bhattacharjee and Minu.... ( i am unable to recall all of them ) read the news. With impeccable pronunciation ( at least that's how it seemed to me back then) and neat rendering ! The signature tune of the 9 0 clock news seems still new in my mind !

The modern days, are different. You have smart technology, and 'news anchors' who for some reason have to have a laptop in front of them. (Sometimes i wonder if they play solitaire of some arbid game over there). What else do you do when you have breaking news like 'Billi Bolta hai' ( a cat is speaking ) is a scroll !! Sigh !


And with OB vans, and microphones passed on to people who seem keen to scale a quick height by making a Kanchenjunga from their backyard mud... there are bound to be some intensely comical scenes.

Like the young 'journalist' who thrusts the microphone just under the nose of the wife of a Sri Lankan cricketer. (A cricketer who has been injured in the terrorist attack in Pakistan). And posts the question, ' so were you praying for your husbands safety when you heard of the attack ?'

The lady was polite and answered in the affirmative. I mean, i could have said something like 'Not really. I was actually praying for the pizza to arrive on time' !

But of course, these are not Neethi Ravindran or Rini Simon. And todays language education happens through 160 characters. Of a text message.

So, todays news is about cats, dogs, politicians, suits, big screens, thumping voices and entertainment. And there is never ending repeat telecasts.

So there. Go on. Watch the news. While i think of Ms. Ravindran !

Whats on the dish ?

Stable story !

This is a real life story. Set, far away from Mumbai's Mahalakshmi Race course and the Mahabaleshwar mountains. Down in the deep plains is Madurai !

And there, there is this horse stable. A stable that adorns the display rack of a lonely house. Maintained immaculately by the lady of the house, and looked at longingly, from a distance by the man.

These are horses. Looking artistic to them. For the strange, inanimate objects that they are, they seem to carry life. They were mere objects on many retail shelves. But that was before they were picked up with care.

Over time, each one of them came to signify one member of the family.

There was one for the man of the house . Another for the lady. One each for the sons. Each signifying and standing for the real ! Each figure matched by the living's characteristics. And so they were reared at home. By the lady and man. Quite unknown to their sons.

And when the daughter-in-laws came into the household, horses were added to the stable. And when a young one arrived, a pony took its rightful place. And of course, there is more space.

And when the sons, the daughters-in-law and the grandson are busy running their own courses much away from Madurai, the lady of the house dusts this stable clean. With a dry cloth. And then with a wet cloth. Wet with a tinge of a lonely tear, sweat and toil of many years, to make the family run its course.

And so, this inanimate stable which takes a life of its own adorns this house. Inanimate it is, to the rest of the world. For the man and the lady, the horses themselves seem to leap to life. Every time they look at them. And even when they don't.

And so, this is the story of the stable. A stable that adorns the display rack of a lonely house. Maintained immaculately by the lady of the house, and looked at longingly, from a distance by the man.



This post concludes the series on 'Horses for Courses'

Stable story !

Horses for Courses - Part II

Part - I, had fantastic response. So, Staying with horses!

Speaking of horses, hill stations provide you with plenty. Albeit these are horses who humour tourists. The loud children, big men and women, all perhaps in search of some interim pleasure. "Can we go 'horse riding' " is not to be read as a question, but as an indication of an activity whose time has come !

The point really is these are horses who run the same dirt track every day. With an odd tourist in every shape and size. Done without complaints. And done without fuzz.

You can excuse the odd neighs and sundry gallop in the wrong direction. ( Somewhere they ought to be like us, right ?) All that is commonplace.

At Mahabaleshwar though, they have names to the horses.

Names like

Salman.
Bipasha.
Shaheed.
Kareena.
John Ibr.
Hrithik.
Munna Bhai.



And the chaps that sell rides, proclaim to the world, ' How about a ride on Salman ' ? Well. Hmm. Now, i love horses. But that marketing pitch didn't quite resonate well with me. A rose is a rose is a rose. Yes. That's true. And, in this case it was a horse.

But you know, when i did ride, two things made it uncomfortable. I am an occasional tourist and a rarer horse rider. Ofcourse, the butt didnt take the steady cantor pleasantly.

The other i guess was in my own mind. " Riding 'Salman' " wasn't exactly my idea of a holiday. And then, just as i was dismounting and ruing the lack of a clear and steady mind, 'Sir, would you want to try Bipasha' said a big gent with another white horse.

And Bipasha snorted. I guess in wholesome disapproval.

The next day, as i took a walk, Bipasha, Salman, Shaheed and the gang, were all being given their bath. Their name tag identities lying besides them. And not on them.

And suddenly, they seemed who they truly were. Simple beautiful living creatures.


I
I clicked many times. 'Pics of Salman, Shaheed, Bipasha et al having a bath by the river' would be a blog title that could cause such a spike in Internet traffic that the world could have to come to a halt.

The horses couldn't care less. Any more than a vigorous shake of a fresh white head ! And that was to swat a fly !

Horses for Courses - Part II

Horses For Courses

Vijay Mallya will be a happy man today. A passerby said. And i would have wondered who this blok is, who understand who or what will make Vijay Mallya happy. But not today. For we were at the Race course.

A couple of weeks back, we went to the Race Course. The Mahalakshmi Race Course in Mumbai. And no, not yet. I am not interested in that kind of jackpot. For it was curiosity and a persistent fitness conscious friend that took me there. Upon reaching there i was told that it was Derby day that day. And activities would commence in the evening !




We went early in the morning. As he sweated out, jogging and working out, i walked around. Looking at the majestic horses, their canter, gallops and neighs. And of course, the jockeys.

And of course, early morning, fitness conscious men and women. Running, jogging, walking, chatting and generally, adding a different dimension to the horse filled arena ! Here are some pictures.



I haven't stopped wondering the strange highs that men get. Out of seeing animals race each other. For i stood there, and watched many of those horses gallop by. The sheer majesticity was fulfilling. But quite obviously, the likes of Vijay Mallya don't share my sentiment. That is why they are where they are. And that is also why this blog goes on.



To top it up, there was Melba toast and Cardamon tea from the restaurant there ! The restaurant called 'Gallops' ! The members get to sit and talk about the horses in an aristocratic enclave. I am told that the fancy hats that members and their companions sport are a real attraction !

I touched my head and felt the balding plate. And went for the Melba toast & tea. Sitting in what seemed to be the backyard !



Hey who cares. The horses had the first right. All else were secondary here. I would like to imagine, 'Vijay Mallya included'. For some reason, "all animals are equal some are more equal " resonated differently.

The next morning, i read that Vijay Mallya went back a not so happy man. I wonder how his horse felt.

Horses For Courses