The Day on which Nothing Happened

The screeching ring of the intercom woke us up from our deep slumber. It was reception lady calling to remind us that 9-30 AM was the official check out time. “What time is it now?” queried Chinmay who had been the quickest to reach the receiver (well, it was not a great feat to beat two lazy bums who were more than happy to continue to snuggle in their respective beds). The receptionist had been overly optimistic and had given the reminder call just 5 minutes prior to the scheduled check-out time. We somehow managed to pack-up everything, got ourselves in reasonably presentable attire and proudly handed over the keys just about 35 min late. The train which was going to take us onwards to Gokarna was to arrive at Kudal station at around midnight and so we had entire day to kill in the hamlet of Tarkarli, without a roof on our head. Dumping our luggage at the reception (the reception lady was kind enough to allow us to do so. May be the hallowed CB-effect played a part), we proceeded to the open-air restaurant to grab a rather late breakfast.

As we were chomping on Omlettes and Upamas, I began with my favourite pass-time – IIMA bashing. Chinmay responded eagerly with a ‘bring it on’ expression; like the one you would find on the face of a heavy-weight boxer matched up against a feather-weight opponent. To my surprise, the placecommer chipped-in with his fair share of cribs as well. After about half an hour of finding faults with our esteemed college, one which we were supposed to be extremely fortunate to be a part of, we mutually decided to digress onto more productive topics. We shared our knowledge on everything from music, to list of ‘home-runners’, to origin and progression of religions. The placecommer, who was fidgeting around all the time, intermittently kept narrating to us the enormous virtues of the great land of Sikkim; with which he so obviously was awe-struck. This inspired both, Chinmay and I, to go ahead with some of our own travelogues. All throughout we were treated to the melodious symphony of the sound of waves, which were gently bringing in the morning tide. The enriching and enlightening discussions temporarily caused me to change my idol from Warren Buffett to Socrates. We sat and talked for so long that, by lunch time the only occasion on which any of us had left our breakfast table, was when I walked away to answer nature’s call. Chinmay never once got up from his chair and would have made a felicitous specimen for a Fevicol advert.

Post lunch, we decided to embark on the long, arduous walk towards the beach, which was not more than a hundred feet away. By this time, the tide had begun receding, exposing the magnificent, light grey beach sand. Once on the beach, we gave our over-stressed jaws a break and spent most of the next 2-3 hours in complete silence. As Chinmay deserted us and ventured along on a lonely, romantic walk; the placecommer and I discovered a delightful and fun-filled hobby. We decided to walk-in with the tide, taking small steps forward; all the time ensuring that we just averted our feet being wetted by the incoming waves. In a matter of half an hour or so, we had managed to traverse a distance of a whole ten yards; reaching the conclusion that the speed of receding tide was about 20 yards/hour. As the afternoon sun shimmered through the predominantly overcast sky, the placecommer resorted to his narcissistic habit of clicking his own photographs. So I trudged along the pristine beach, occasionally crouching to pick up a couple of colourful seashells.

Soon it was time for me to leave for my native place of Walaval, a small village about 35kms from Tarkarli. As I waited at the entrance of the MTDC beach resort for some mode of transport to take me to Malwan, a fisherman’s van whizzed past and I wondered if I should have summoned it for a lift. As luck would have it, just minutes later I found a good Samaritan in the form of a jeep driver who offered to drop me to the Malwan bus stand, from where I boarded a state transport bus for Walaval. As I was feasting on some sumptuous fried fish in our traditional, family villa; Chinmay and the placecommer (this they later told me) were sipping on their caramel-flavoured army drink, looking into moonlight sky. Later that night, as this uneventful day drew to a close, we converged at Kudal station, wondering whether the next 2 days in Gokarna were going to turn out to be as wonderful as our stay in Tarkarli. And as I end this note, I am left wondering as to how I needed more than eight hundred words to jot down the litany of events that took place on the day on which nothing really happened.

We get knocked down, but we get up again

Back in August 2006, I made an audacious retort to a Liverpool fan friend of mine who kept mocking me with the 18-5 to 15-2 argument. As much as I didn’t believe in it myself, I dared to counter him by claiming that it would be 18-5 a piece in 3 years time. Guess what? What might have then seemed like a fool-hardy jibe from an over-zealous, arrogant United fan was a draw and 2 wins away from becoming a reality by May 2009.

The summer that followed was anything but depressing. We lost our best player to the sunshine of the Iberian Peninsula and were left licking our wounds in the bitter battle for an Argentinean with our formerly poor, recently turned wealthy, neighbours. The signings of a 24 year old Ecuadorian and a crocked Scouser did little to restore the damaged confidence and more importantly pride. However, no matter what happens over the next two months, the season has transpired into a truly memorable one already, for more reasons than one.

After losing players who combined to score almost a century of goals over the last 2 seasons, United as a team have still managed to hit the back of the net more number of times than at the same stages in each of those seasons. In a year, in which any hope of winning silverware rested on our hallowed defence, we have had to play large portions of it without the 3 sturdy pillars of that back five. Yet as we enter April, United are very much in the hunt for the two biggest prizes in English football. In spite of these remarkable achievements, what has been most heartening is the unprecedented support received by the campaign to win back the club from the American owners and free it from the gigantic debt thrust upon it by them.

Well, rising from the ashes of the Phoenix has always been the ethos of the club. It’s hardly ever been personified as much, as by our reactions to two of the most humbling defeats of this past decade – both 3-0 reverses away from home; against Chelsea in April 2006 and against Milan in April 2007. Sir Alex has always emphasized on bouncing back from losses rather than trying hard to avoid each one of them. I mean no offence to the 2004 Arsenal invincibles, but I am sure any football fan would prefer winning a hat-trick of league titles to going a season with a big nought in the losses column followed by 5 with bigger noughts in the trophies column. Rooney, Ronaldo and co were taught a harsh lesson by the ruthlessly efficient Chelsea juggernaut heading towards its 2nd title on that spring evening in London. I grudgingly accept that it was like watching boys against men. But the kids did grow up very fast to win the next three on the bounce. Same was the case in Milan on the most painful of the rainy European nights. The team responded by going 25 games unbeaten in continental competition, adding one more giant trophy and reaching another final. And as much as the defeat in Rome still hurts, there is one thing that following United over the past decade has taught me, that is “To B.E.L.I.E.V.E”

Manchester United never make it easy to support them. I am sure there are more cases of hyper-tension and chewed off nails in the borough of Trafford than anywhere in England. We don’t end seasons unbeaten nor do we win titles by garnering 95 points and conceding just 15 goals. Supporting United has always been a roller-coaster ride, full of brave, miraculous comebacks interspersed with heart-wrenching defeats but that adds to the fun of it all. And luckily for me and other fellow Mancs, unlike the ones in amusement parks, this roller-coaster more often than not finishes at the very top!

Is IPL a big price?

The debate whether the upcoming 2nd season of IPL should be held or not has dominated both the electronic and print media over the last few weeks. Law abiding, tax-paying citizens are disappointed that they are losing out on some very wholesome entertainment due to ‘dirty’ politicians (there’s such a negative connotation associated with the word these days that Oxford may soon include ‘use with care, some people find it offensive’ in its definition). Someone I was talking to recently raised the question, “Is India so incapable of keeping itself secure?” This reminded me of an incident that happened during my internship in Freiburg, Germany last summer.

I was having a discussion about crime rates in Mumbai and other Indian cities with a German friend and I happened to mention the contribution of the encounter specialists in the Mumbai police department towards wiping the city off dangerous criminals. He was astonished to hear this and also gave me a mini lecture on humanity, justice and the right of all human beings to a fair trial. All the while I listened silently but not for a lack of retort. A reply on the lines of “how could a man who had lived in a city where ‘cycle theft’ is the most common crime, ever comprehend the measures necessary to provide security in a country where businessmen getting murdered, women getting raped and cop and army convoys being ambushed were not that rare occurrences?” would have clearly exposed his narrow outlook in accessing the morality of the ‘killer cops’. But I couldn’t come to terms with honestly accepting these ghastly shortcomings of my country in front of a foreigner.

Many of those, advocating vociferously in favor of the IPL, suffer from the same predicament. For all of our economic and technological progress, we still are a country where bombs explode in a major city once every couple of years and whose neighbors derive more pleasure by causing her trouble than securing their own progress. Mind you, I would love it if we had the IPL, not so much because I am an ardent T20 fan but because it would be a matter of pride that we are able to carry on with our normal lives at a time when armed militia are flouting the most basic human rights just a few hundred kilometers from our borders. The point is our security forces are not confident enough to handle the load of the elections and such a big international sporting event together. And postponing or canceling it is a small price to pay in return for the assurance of fair violence-free elections.

Freedom of expression ?

People with the power to reach a wide audience abuse this power of theirs all too often. I have been wanting to write about it ever since I saw the ‘the need for revival of interest in PAF’ performance at the Performing Arts Festival in the institute about a year ago. The theme revolved around how the hitherto most important event of the institute cultural calendar was drawing lesser and lesser participation and showcased the lament of the PAF creators towards the lazy bums who have no passion towards it. As a matter of fact, the prevalence of computers in student rooms has resulted in dwindling attendances in most extra-curricular and social activities on campus. A couple of years back, there was a lengthy discussion in the Institute Sports Council regarding the glaring dearth of students using the plentiful sporting facilities on campus. Sadly, sports-lovers never got a chance to sing about their grievances owing to the lack of a medium. And the writers of the aforementioned PAF, who had that medium, never felt the need to address the larger issue.
Well, this isn’t all that surprising. We find the mass media, both print and electronic, using this power to much greater effect all the time. If one remembers, the Government boycotted the broadcast of all news channels for a brief period during the recent terrorist attacks in Mumbai when it was thought that the television footage was potentially aiding the assailants. I was left stunned when the usually excellent Arnab Goswami launched a scathing attack on the administration accusing them of intruding on fundamental Constitutional rights and hailing the media as saviors. On the contrary, the completely irresponsible live telecast of the detailed movement of the commandos should have brought remorseful apologies from the man.
Over the years the media has displayed their tremendous intolerance towards any criticism and ridicule quite a few times. A few years ago they were up in arms against the Shah Rukh Khan starrer ‘Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani’ which sarcastically showed the no-holds-bar battle between two power and money hungry media barons; the extensive bad press causing the movie to be a box-office disaster. I agree that although the movie had some refreshingly funny moments, overall it was quite a shoddy piece of cinema. But much worse has been dealt with much less severely by our self-righteous newsmen.

Last Day in Mensa

As I returned my Mensa card this afternoon after lunch, the gourmet inside me was reeling under a pungent sense of melancholy. I had just finished my last meal in the Flugplatz Mensa and it had dawned upon me that the next time I eat in a refectory, it would be the Hostel-4 mess in IIT Bombay.

I have tasted the entire gamut of animal flesh – from beef to turkey to fish and also feasted on a variety of vegetarian cuisines like spargel and südtiroler here. Although, I have never had a chance to visit the Rampartstraße Mensa adjoining the University’s main campus, I have heard rave reviews about the same in terms of both the quality and variety.

In stark contrast, to label the food in H-4 mess as pathetic would be a euphemism. It’s high time the IIT authorities wake up to the fact that along with good education, healthy food is also a vital component in the development of a student.

In spite of all this, students here often crib about the deplorable taste of the meals served in the Mensa. When will men start being happy with what they have? … I wonder!

The German Language

"Thank you for travelling with Deutsch Bahn" - the next time I travel by an ICE, I am going to pay careful attention to this announcement, especially the words 'Thank' and 'with'. Wondering why? At the DAAD Stammtisch this Mittwoch (that’s Wednesday in German), I met an American girl who was majoring in Linguistics and the topic for her Masters thesis was the German pronunciation of the English 'th'.

The love Europeans have towards weather-talk is well-documented but from my experience their favourite topic of conversation is 'languages and accents'. One of the first questions I am bombarded with after my revelation of my Indian origins is 'how many languages you people have and how many of them can you speak?’ So, I will take a leaf out of their book and write a blog on the German language.

The German syllable which has attracted my fascination is the 'tsch' which although not exactly same, is quite similar to the 'ch' in English('ch' as in 'chair' not as in 'choir'). You must have noticed it making an appearance in 'Deutsch'. Its usage is quite widespread as you can see in 'Tschüss' meaning 'bye' and 'Tschechischen Republik' which stands for the Czech Republic. Even after knowing this, I would revere you, if you manage to give me the correct German spelling of the Russian tennis player, Anna Chakvetadze. Another syllable which is interesting in relation to Deutsch is the 'j'. Now, you might be aware that like the Dutch, the Germans pronounce 'j' as 'y'; as is evident in the utterance of 'ja' meaning yes (I guess that is from where we have got the English slang 'ya') or 'Joachim'. But what I found weird was that the Germans resemble the Iberians in the way they pronounce the English 'je'. You will know what I mean in case you have heard how the name Javier of the Argentine midfielder Mascherano is pronounced. With this background, I guess they would spell 'Chechnya' as ‘Tschetschnija’.

Even so, German system of spelling isn't flawed like English. Just like in Indian languages, you pronounce as you spell and vice-versa. But all those I have interacted with seem to agree on one point; that German has the most difficult grammar and sentence construction among all European languages. Another notable feature of German is that all nouns, even common nouns, have their first letter capital.

Moving on to vocabulary, I have 3 favourites here. Anyone who has given GRE recently might recollect that 'apothecary' means a druggist. Well if you have ever visited Germany there is no way on earth you will ever forget that. 'Apotheke' is the German word for 'Chemist' and you find these 'Apotheke' shops all over the place. With infectious ailments almost absent here, I have often wondered how so many of them manage to sustain. Do you know the evolution of the word 'bus'? It is actually an abbreviation of 'omnibus' meaning for everyone since a bus is a means of transport for everyone. Now, although colloquial German does take the liberty of using the abridged version, formal announcements in trains and trams always say 'omnibusbahnof' while referring to a bus-top. The names of all weekdays in English end in ‘day’. The same is the case with Hindi and Marathi. But German has one anomaly. Although Monday in Montag and Tuesday is Dienstag (tag means day in German), as I already mentioned above Wednesday is Mittwoch meaning middle of the week. At least, that solves the dichotomy as to on which day does the week begin; Sonntag or Montag.

Apparently, there are more than 50 different dialects in Germany, some quite similar, some mutually unintelligible. The ‘standard’ Deutsch used in newspapers or businesses is ‘Hochdeutsch’. That is also the dialect you will learn if you enrol for a language course in the Max-Muller Bhavans in India. Although it is understood almost everywhere in Germany, it is practised in regular usage only by people from the Hannover-Hamburg region. Even the state of Baden-Württemberg has 2 different dialects – Badish, in use on the Western slopes of the Blackforest and Swabian, spoken along the Eastern slopes. According Thomas, a friend of mine, who hails from Stuttgart and has majored in American history, Swabian speaking people find it easiest to imitate the American-English accent. Another very strange German dialect is the Alemannic, which most Germans, used to other dialects, find difficult to comprehend.

In spite of so much diversity within, a German is quick to distinguish a foreigner on the basis of his accent, irrespective of his lexical and grammatical perfection. Not just that, they can even pin-point the nationality of the foreigner (if he is European of course) on hearing him utter a few sentences in German. And the same goes to a German, fluent in English, who has migrated to the UK. And here I thought only Indians discriminated on linguistic basis!

An hour by the road-side

I am sitting on a wooden bench thoughtfully placed under the foliage of a giant pine tree. Its a pleasant Saturday morning - almost noon now actually. I have just finished reading "Jeeves and the Song of Songs". In it Jeeves, Bertie Wooster's butler, once again displays his sagacity in hatching an ingenious plan to prevent Tuppy Glossop from drifting away from Bertie's cousin Angela. As with any of the readers of Wodehouse's tales, Jeeves is one of my favorite fictional characters.

Oh! I forgot to mention how I landed up on this bench. I am on my way to Todtnauberg in the Blackforest mountains - the birthplace of the "Schwarzwalder Kirschtonte" or the Blackforest cake. I had contemplated a shout at hitch-hiking initially but then resigned to an hour long wait for the next bus. So here I am with time to kill in this idyllic hamlet of Notscheri.

Having only had a glass of hot chocolate for breakfast (I avoid saying Bournvita for the fear of sounding juvenile), I am quite hungry by now and cant wait to devour on a medley of chocolate, cream, cherries and cake.

Meanwhile, a middle-aged couple, who seem to have returned from an errand into the woods, have joined me on the bench. After exchanging the usual pleasantaries (read gutentag meaning good day), they have expectedly gone quite silent. They have been exchanging words sporadically but hardly any sound has reached my ears although I am only a couple of feet away.

A dozen super-bikes have whizzed by just moments ago, disturbing the tranquility and quietude of the scene. I have encountered these gangs on each of my three weekend jaunts in the blackforest.

As I write, the couple has just walked away to the bus stop. Maybe it is time for the bus to arrive. Fortunately, I have yet to venture into "The Episode of Dog Mcintosh". The last few minutes have provided the most charming setting to submerge oneself into the delightful world of Mr.Wodehouse.