• Chugging up to Pune

    The might of Fascist Italy captured in Milano Centrale

    The last train journey I made was in October 2013 when I was travelling through Italy. My travelled from Milan to Venice on a “slow” train which was still faster than the Deccan Queen I was scheduled to travel on last Friday .
    I can never forget that grand Milano Centrale, which had a distinct WW2  feel to it and I was immediately reminded of those war movies I used to see as a child and kept thinking that any minute there would be a Kraut shouting “Achtung” making us all freeze in our tracks. How different it was from Mumbai’s CST which though equally grand and awe inspiring had a distinct scent of Eau de Toilet that is peculiar to Bombay. The trains too were vastly different. While the train to Venice was not the poshest of posh trains, it still was much cleaner and better than our famous DQ which seems to have become shabbier by the year. Truly it is now no longer the reigning queen but a fusty dowager who should be retired. I used to look forward to chuffing away to Poona on a Deccan Queen which was truly regal. Apart from the deliciously soft and gooey  scrambled egg on a thick toast oozing with butter, I enjoyed looking out of the windows as the fields rolled by, rushing out for a hot Batata wada at Karjat while the engine was added on and crunching into a chikki at Lonavala station. Alas! Gone are those days for not only does the train not need an additional engine, but darkened windows with smelly curtains flapping in your face greatly mar the experience of looking outside. Eating too is vastly different with surly waiters selling jaundiced omelets and teabags dipped in tepid water in thumbelina sized paper cups.
    But, despite these changes, I still feel train journeys are preferable to bus rides so I was looking forward to my Friday trip to  Pune. And I wasn’t disappointed because I had a very pleasant ride : I didn’t have to squash into my seat because I had no co-passenger digging his elbow into my stomach. Nor were there any children screaming, nor were there any boring business travelers “discussing” business in monotonous voices too loud to let you sleep. So I managed to catch up with most of my deprived sleep over the past month and reached Pune Station fresh and ready to seize the next day.

    Now or Never

    The next day or Saturday was the main reason for my trip to Pune – it was the day when finally this pilgrim was going to make a trip to Pandharpur to see the Temple of Vithoba or Vishnu on a Brick. This was a long pending trip – for almost twenty years. All those years ago, while filling up some forms one day, I realised that both my children were born on either end of Chaturmas, the four months when Vishnu is on holiday( starting on Ashadhi Ekadashi and ending on Kartiki Ekadashi). In Maharashtra these ekadashis are celebrated with fasting and feasting and devotees of Lord Vishnu finish their 15-20 day trek at the feet of the Lord at his Temple at Pandharpur. Somehow, almost illogically I thought there was some cosmic plan in their birth days and decided that their fates were inexorably linked with Vithoba and I wanted to go visit. Initially my mother and I had planned to follow the traditional pilgrim path – on foot. Those were the days of strong and young knees and boundless enthusiasm. They were also days when both of us were caught up in getting on with our daily lives and going  on a pilgrimage was as far removed as travelling to the moon. But suddenly last month my mother said that it was now or never and that we should make the trip before the summer set in.

    Divine Invitation

    There are many gods in Hinduism and hundreds of temples dedicated to them more and literally millions of devotees who throng to these places of worship. However, there is a strange belief that most of us hold that despite one’s intention and devotion,  one can only visit a temple when there is a divine invitation. I have heard of several instances where a person as had to cancel the visit at the last minute, sometimes as late as at the temple door despite elaborate arrangements made for the visit.  Thus when my mother told me to make this trip I felt that my moment had come.

    We set off at 6.30  my father, mother and I in a Mahindra Xylo driven by Abhijeet, the owner of a private taxi service based out of Pune. My father is a firm believer in non-ritualistic worship and can be best described as one who tolerates his wife’s religious beliefs. He was coming along just for a “jolly” as he termed it, mainly to meet up with a classmate whom he had seen last at  their graduation 58 years ago! “You folks go ahead and finish your darshan,” he told us “while I go and visit my friend.” I must say I had visions of my pilgrimage becoming a picnic but was surprised to find how God works in strange ways. Halfway through our journey when we were nearing Pandharpur far earlier than we had anticipated, my father called his friend only to find that he was out of town and perforce he’d have to enter the temple! So without his intention to visit the temple, he came and prayed before Vithoba.

    The Temple of Vishnu on a Brick

    Thanks to a beautiful (in most parts) new 6 lane highway , NH 65 , which takes you all the way to Solapur from Pune, we covered this distance of 250 Km in three hours! So shocked was my mother with this early arrival that she kept asking if we had really reached Pandharpur despite us crossing the calm blue river Chandrabhaga. Once we reached the town we were dropped off around 100 m away from the Western Gate of the temple and were told by the driver not to entertain any touts. I had my reservations but the driver turned out to be right. We made our way to the entrance of the temple and climbed up the first step or the Step of Namdev. Behind us were some ardent worshippers who insisted on displaying their devotion through loudly sung tuneless hymns and I would have pointed out the sign asking for silence but for the fact that the woman bellowing out those hymns was a huge, black woman with a fierce expression on her face.

    All temples these days have long snaky lines to manage the crowds that throng on special days and this temple was no exception. But since it was not a holy day, it moved fast enough and we were in front of the deity. Despite the over zealous attendant urging us to be “quick about it”, the priest allowed us more than a second before the idol and even allowed us to put our heads at its feet. As I bowed down I could feel Lord Vithoba smiling down at me. We had to then make our way to his consort’s temple further down the complex and my mother wondered why Gods and Goddesses have separate temples even though they have happy marriages. I joked that may be they couldn’t stand the snores of each other as is the case with many old married couples!

    This visit was by far one of the most peaceful and satisfying visits I’ve had in a long time. Rukmini looked equally happy to see us and a glance at the other goddesses Satyabhama and Radhika Devi convinced me that happy women are truly well endowed…

    Unfortunately the temple prohibits the use of mobile phones and cameras so I couldn’t take any pictures of the temple. But I did manage to capture this interesting facade of one of the numerous guest houses in this temple town. The people you see on the balcony are actually sculptures!

    Getting there

    It took us just about four hours to complete our pilgrimage – three to get there and one for the temple. If you want a complete guided tour it would possibly take longer but the good thing about this town is that there is nothing really worth buying so once one has finished the darshan, one can make a quick exit and return home.


  • The Story:
    Every story begins with a dot and Siddhartha Tagore is the
    first dot in “Prisoner, Jailor, Prime Minister”. We first make his acquaintance
    as the newly sworn Prime Minister of India, in the early hours of the last day
    of 2016 in a very private, almost clandestine ceremony at Rashtrapati Bhavan.
    Within minutes of his taking the oath of office, he is apprised of a situation
    where the “possibility of political disintegration would become a clear and
    present danger.” Siddhartha Tagore who is no pussyfooting politician
    immediately decides that there would be “no perpetrators or protectors for
    those who try to damage India” and authorizes the head of RAW to go for the
    Jehadi jugular.
    One would expect this then, to be another political
    thriller, a story of espionage and counter espionage, a fast paced adventure of
    how Siddhartha Tagore tamed the terrorist tiger stalking the nation but
    surprisingly, there is a change of tempo and we are taken back in time to
    Harvard in 1985, a time of innocence when the young Siddhartha Tagore, a
    brilliant young student from India  comes
    to Boston  to pursue an undergraduate
    degree in music, much to the dismay of his powerful politician father. Mozart
    Man as he is referred to in Harvard has an equal passion for Mozart, Tansen and
    political history – a lethal combination that makes him a liberal, secular hero
    mesmerizing all he meets during his journey from Harvard to 7 RCR. At this point we are
    introduced to three more dots in the story: Gregory Templar, his roommate at
    Harvard and the beautiful Jaykar sisters who are identical twins.
    Predictably, Siddhartha falls for Ruby , one of the twins and
    once their student days are over; they return to Mumbai where the
    Jaykar matriarch runs a successful perfume industry. But the course of true
    love never runs smooth and a strange turn of events makes Siddhartha return to
    New York, to immerse himself in music till he is discovered as a candidate
    with great potential, a worthy successor to the Lok Neta, a member of the
    ruling party. Once again, Siddhartha returns home and is thrust into politics,
    eventually rising to the position of Top Job. However, Rukmani Devi, a
    formidable opponent and an opposition ready to pull the rug from under his
    precariously balanced coalition government , with the nation facing a serious
    security threat and his own demons threatening him at every turn, Siddhartha Tagore faces an uphill task.

    The style:
    In a narrative that flows smoothly like champagne, there are some parts which I personally found disturbing but I liked the New Gen politician of this book – a member of the upwardly mobile urban intelligentsia, uninhibited conspicuous consumers – a deviation from the archetypical pseudo Gandhian Indian politician.
    Tabrik C, like his protagonist, effortlessly straddles the
    worlds of music,politics and high society ,recreating student life at Harvard, the uptight
    Malabar Hill society and the intrigues at Raisina Hill with ease. Though billed
    as a political thriller, it is more a love story with politics as a backdrop.
    The characters are intensely passionate about their love and their beliefs and
    live life on their terms. They are “superior” yet flawed and despite their excesses are strangely
    endearing.
    Towards the end, the dots become quite predictable but Tabrik manages
    to engage and sustain the reader’s interest with unexpected twists in the plot which he handles
    with sensitivity and understanding.
    The final verdict:
    Siddhartha Tagore, the suave, aristocratic musical genius
    who zips around town on his Harley is not a hero one can forget quickly. “Prisoner,
    Jailor, Prime Minister is definitely worth a read!

    This review is a part of the biggest Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

  • I think the Universe is trying to tell me a very important message : thou shalt not go for wedding receptions.

    How else could I explain the mishaps in the last three weddings I attended?
    When the weather turns cooler and the relatives from overseas come home for some sunshine, the people of Mumbai decide to get married i.e those who are not married and are in a relationship or in the process of finding a life partner……so come November and wedding bells begin to peal or rather the bands begins to bajao. It is a season that leaves me with mixed feelings – happy because I can meet my friends and relatives , feast on good food and wine and enjoy the good weather;  and sad because I invariably have to let out the seams of my blouses which get tighter with each wear or worse still get a new one made to match the sari I plan to wear. So I often land up at weddings literally stuffed into my blouse praying hard that the buttons wouldn’t pop at the most inappropriate moment.
    Well, the first wedding I attended this season was a Parsi wedding at the prestigious Jeejeebhoy Agiary at the southernmost tip of town. Since this was the first wedding I had blouse that was sufficiently comfortable and I was looking forward to stuffing myself with the  choicest Parsi fare since the reception was being catered by the legendary chef Ghodiwala. Unfortunately the reception line leading to the dais was quite long and I felt that with each guest being photographed with the bridal couple it would take longer than I’d bargained for so when a plate of tantalising chicken tikka was whisked under my nose, I greedily reached out and grabbed a piece. I was thoroughly enjoying the kebab when I remembered that I had to chew carefully and slowed down my chewing till I found myself just two people away from the dais and the kebab still nowhere close to becoming a bonus. So I did thinly thing I could think of doing which was swallow. Now that was an even bigger mistake than eating it in the first place because it just got stuck! I didn’t know what to do and just as I stepped on the stage I began to gag and had visions of regurgitating before the bridal party. Horror of horrors! What can be worse than throwing up in front of the bride. Somehow controlling the urge to purge, I quickly shook hands, muttered a hearty congratulations smiled into the camera and walked off the stage to look for a loo. The loos we strategically located farthest from where I was, so I slunk into a corner and discreetly dislodged the offending kebab. I was convinced anyone who saw me would think I was drunks nd hurriedly rushed to the bathroom to set things right. Needless to say,  I skipped the dinner and just had a few more kebabs before getting home.
    The next wedding was a Catholic wedding and I had to make sure that nothing untoward happened to me for fear of embarrassing my husband in front of his colleagues. Luckily my heels didn’t break, the sari didn’t rip and the acid did not reflux my gut. But I managed to spill some of the yummiest paneer makkhanwala all the way down the front of my sari and had to try and look nonchalant about it as we wished everyone goodbye.
    The last and most ignominous one occurred early this week at the posh Willingdon Club. The crowd was oh so sophisticated , where subtlety and inheritance were spoken in the same hushed tones as the conversation. This was one of those dos where food for thought was more important than food to eat. But I was not disheartened as the highlight of the Willingdon Club dining experience is its fabled chaat counter so after piling my plate with lasagne , I marched on to the chaat counter, beckoning me with its tantalising fare. With one eye on my plate and the other  on the badly disguid uneven ground, I put my hand forward only to find my legs buckling below  me. Within seconds I was on ground,sitting squarely on my butt, the sari a mess with all the food spilled on it and the plate held triumphantly aloft! I was so shocked that I actually laughed, amused by my fall and the thought that everyone who saw me would think I was truly drunk. But I wasn’t. I had hardly had a sip.
    As I hobbled home that night, I realised that may be wedding receptions are not for me especially when I go with the idea of stuffing my face.
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