To (and fro) from the City Beautiful

If I ever changed my religion (though I wear my religion
very lightly and am pretty comfortable in my skin about
being a Hindu) I would convert to Sikhism and immediately
get down to learning how to tie a turban and growing
(and grooming) a beard.

And if I ever decided to swear citizenship or allegiance
or mentally get fixated and rooted to any state / province
in India (a remote possibility since I have grandiosely
believed myself to be equally belonging to the length
and breadth of ONE country called India) that state would
be Punjab.

For you see, I have immense respect (bordering the worshipful)
for the Sikh religion, creed, code of living and brotherhood
and just love most things Punjabi -- especially the food and
the Nishan Saheb marked "Panjabi Dhabas".

So, since I was to be in Delhi and was to wind up my trip
at the holiest city for Hinduism - Varanasi, I had tried
to pencil in a visit to Sikhism's holiest city, Amritsar
too.

But though my friends in Chandigarh did all they could,
to help with tickets etc. the Amritsar trip did not
happen. Largely because I did not want to arrive too
late in Varanasi (and also because I had my own
trepidations about traveling unreserved, weighed down
as I was with so much of gear).

But I did manage to get to Chandigarh, the city beautiful
for no reason but to meet some crazy, way out, madcap
(and absolutely solid and middle of the path) biker friends
whom I have surprisingly known and kept in touch with for
more than 7 years, (since that Ladakh trip).

Refreshingly enough, though we noted that most of us
were graying, the never-let-age-catch-up-with-your-biker-spirit
attitude was very much there, as was the genuine interest
and concern in each other. And though I spent barely a day
in Chandigarh and couldn't see anything much of the city
(or the sights around it)I did manage to "chill out with
the boys" over some draught and tuck into some awesome
Punjabi food for dinner (at Nagpal's Dhaba) and breakfast
the day after.

Fortunate indeed are they who live in (or have friends)
the city beautiful -- Chandigarh!

And oh yes, two more things. The train trip I took to
reach Chandigarh from Delhi must have been one of the
best "short" trips I have ever been on. You can say I am
being a bit too Pessoan with "descriptives" or just being
too romantic but I will still maintain that the grass,
wheat, sugarcane, parakeets, etc. look far greener
in Punjab. While the crows look far more gregarious
and the "Theka Desi Daaru" -- small, un-plastered,
one room affairs in the middle of endless acres of
fields worth of portraiture.

The second thing? Well, I discovered that it is possible
to get a bus (normal bus, non-Ac, non-Volvo) seat with
legroom. And also possible to write on a laptop while
bussing (though it was dusty most of the way -- and since
GT Road seems to be suffering road widening -- and
jarring). But most surprisingly, history was made
on that bus trip.

I slept.

Maybe it was the draught beer from the evening before.

Or it was the contentment of having met old friends.

Deccan Diary

30 hours for a bit over 1600 kms from more or less the middle of the
Gangetic plains (which in many ways, is still the heartland / cowbelt
of India), i.e. Varanasi to Hyderabad -- Deccan is a bit of a
creditable haul by train; even in these times of Shatabdis,
Rajdhanis and Durontos. Because the basic infrastructure, underlying
complexities, local issues, etc. on / through which the railways
ply just cannot be wished away or treated as a theoretical
technicality. As such, in retrospect, I am happy with the 33
hours that my train took to reach Hyderabad.

And heck, in the light of the fact that this train was "canceled"*
and then ran (more or less on time) is itself a creditable achievement.

And it compares very creditably with similar long hauls on a
Bullet, at an average of around 50 kmph.

This is not to say that everything is good with the Indian
Railways -- in many ways the Railways are still stuck in a
time warp dating back to the 80s and the 90s -- but more
(hopefully) on that in a later post.

For now, I will take this long haul that got me home --
with the family of 6 (and their 2 friends / attendants /
relatives who were coming over for breakfast, lunch and dinner
from wherever they had parked their butts) "adjusting" in 5
berths around me from Varanasi to Sewagram and the man and
woman who boarded the train at Mancherial along with their
two 3-5 year old girls (for the sake of whose sleep, I couldn't
do much sleeping) and the numerous other things that make
most of Indian Railways compartments seem as if they are
"packed like sardines" -- and give the Railways pass marks.

#++++++++#++++++++#

One good thing about that slow, long haul - the home run from
Kazipet (Warangal) onwards was how it reminded me -- nodding
off at a window or hanging out from a doorway of the compartment,
of a similar slow, long haul from Warangal, with a moon in the sky
(like yesterday night) in a convoy of Bullets with a fellow
rider who had met with an accident and broken his arm riding along
(in an Ambassador). I was sleep deprived on that Bullet ride and
it was the stunning beauty of the moonlint night that helped me
keep awake, mentally marking off the distance to Hyderabad
(Jangaon, Bhongir, Bibinagar) even as I set the pace at the
head of the group. I was sleep deprived yesterday night too,
and again it was the stunning beauty of the moonlit Deccan that
helped me stay awake and get down at Secunderabad Railway
Station (as opposed to waking up next morning in the
shunting yard).

#++++++++#++++++++#



From what I gather -- through interactions with K and my
mother, it has rained twice (and "showered" more or less
every other day) here in the 10 days I have been away. The
skies (I get to see a lot of them around my place) have been
breathtakingly blue and beautiful all since morning. And yes,
there are clouds, with silver and gold linings aplenty along
with the persistent promise of a cloudburst. In fact, it did
rain a bit too, more or less for five minutes, but that
tells me there's rain left in the skies still.



#++++++++#++++++++#






Among all the stuff I had lugged along with me, on long
walks on endless platforms and up and down the stairways
that lead to them was my 55-300 mm lens that I did not get
to use (or feel like using) even once on this trip.
As such, it was imperative that I do a bit of narrow
perspective shooting ASAP. This necessitated a stroll with
the camera and that led to a couple of nice captures of Brown
Pansies. And some Sunbirds. So my wild touch still survives,
after travels through a lot of civilization, or so it seems :-)

#++++++++#++++++++#

Speaking of Sunbirds, while I was away, the Yellow Trumpet
tree that flanks the boundary of the homestead and has served
as a world -- for food and drink, shelter (and in all probability
as a nesting place) for a bevy of Sunbirds has crashed and
broken its trunk. Or so I am told. In fact, it had slanted
onto the road even as I was here (and earlier too) and I had
spent the good part of an evening (with a couple of neighbours
helping and the little man watching) trying to straighten / belay
it. Later on, I had firmly managed to pull it into more or less of
a vertical position with a wire (and some help from willing shoulders)
and tied down the wire with some granite blocks. But it has gone
ahead and crashed...and there is a big, irreplaceable chasm
along my boundary wall (and in my being). I wonder what the Sunbirds
must have made of the disappearance of the tree. And I wonder how
long it will take for a Yellow Trumpet (or any other flowering tree
that attracts Sunbirds) to get equally heavy with flowers as this
one for whom all I can say is RIP...

#++++++++#++++++++#

The first thing I noticed on getting home yesterday was the fragrance
of Parijaatam (it had started flowering -- for the first time -- a
couple of days before I left for the train trip). Even before I
noticed that the Yellow Trumpet (and its world of yellow) was
missing.That happy fragrance lingers, even now :-)

#++++++++#++++++++#



And, oh yes, here's the final diary entry for today. Everything
does seem hunky dory in Squirreldom.



* There was a Rail Roko announced for 13-15 of October,
the Railways first canceled my train and then (as the
Rail Roko was deferred to 15-17 October) ran the train.

Delhi Diary

I am no wide-ranging traveler -- and no, I am not comparing
myself to an Ibn Batuta, a Periplaeus, a Marco Polo, a
Huein T'sang or even many of my motorcycling brethren who
have been to more "places" in this country (and world) than
me. In fact, when I say I am no wide-ranging traveler, I mean
to say that the average salesman of medical prescriptions,
software, etcetera must have been to more Indian (and oh yes,
foreign too) cities than me. It's not that I find it tough to
travel or am demanding when it comes to arrangements, etc. It's
just that most of my "chosen" traveling, as in the traveling that
comes from an urge to see the world, or is fueled by footlooseness,
has been on my motorcycle. And somehow, from the very beginning
of my days as a motorcycle tourer, the heavily laden, thumpingly
noticeable motorcycle has comes across more as an encumbrance
than a facilitator of traveling through the "city".

Which brings me to the time I had ridden from Karol Bagh to
Noida on the Bullet, with the Ladakh carriers (bulky Doodhwala
type of panniers meant to carry "survival gear" for man and
machine and other odds and ends up through the snow and slush
of Nallahs and mountain passes) freshy fixed to spend the night
at a friend's place. And how I had survived Delhi's chaotic
traffic and gaalibaazi (I did let loose a lot of gaalis too,
nobody seemed to mind much) and a couple of hits to the
Ladakh carriers in order to reach Noida.

If this wasn't enough of a thumbs down to the
motorcyclist-traveler in me, what happened two days after
totally swore me off from thinking of Delhi as a place to
go see, visit, feel, ride through and experience.

Oh well, nothing much happened. I was to set out for
Chandigarh (and Manali), so to say set out on the road
to Ladakh; but I started late (from Ghaziabad) and hence
was well and truly stuck in the traffic for well near 4 hours
in order to just get out of Delhi. Unless you have done this
yourself -- sleepless, hungover and on a (heavily laden) heavy
bike, cursing into your helmet, sweating into your jacket and
motorcycling shoes -- you can never really understand the pain
and the scarring of the psyche that it results in.

As such, my motorcycle has been parked more on beach sand and
highway verges and turf and the good earth, than it has been
in a "city".

Okay, I do exaggerate a bit, the traffic in Delhi is not the
only reason I have not ridden from Red Fort to Qutub Minar or
wherever else to wherever else, after all Hyderabad is at least
3 days of hard riding away. But then, first impressions are
first impressions and most of us don't change our impressions,
do we? We do lie a lot, but in my case I don't have to do that.
So there, as -- I have outlined in my ramble up above -- my
first impression of Delhi was "loud, pretentious, horrid traffic".

Or maybe I was exposed to the underbelly of the city, it's
road rage, it's concrete and claustrophobia and anyway never had
the luxury of spending time in it -- on my first visit or later --
to get a feel of its character.

But then, compared to seven years ago -- these are different
times, I am progressively realizing that there are times when
travel doesn't have to mean the Bullet, space that lets my mind
trip doesn't have to be an open sky and wide expanses -- the
impersonality of a hotel room is not that bad in terms of
spaciousness...

So who knows, maybe I will come again to Delhi, and -- like
this time -- again check into an obscure hotel in a not well
known road / street / bylane. And watch the throng of endless
Rickshaws (my hotel was on Sadar Road) and Tongas go by, unaware
or unconcerned by the note-taking of my writerly eyes.

And eat -- like this time -- deliciously fresh and totally
unpretentious food -- kulchas, bhaturas, paranthas,
samosas... -- from quaint roadside thelas and shacks and -- a
little more permanent -- hole-in-the-wall hotels.

And -- like this time -- travel in the Metro, again.

Thank you Delhi.

Post Script -- You know how it is, I grow old and forget things;
or there is so much to tell that even a long ramble like this
doesn't tell it properly or that since most of my writing on
this blog is more or less like a conversation with myself and
as such, there is a lot that has been said earlier, written
earlier, elsewhere...

Whatever.

I forgot to mention in the blogpost up above that one of the
warmest persons I have ever met in my life has been a
Delhite -- on the road to Chandigarh (on that historic ride
to Ladakh in 2005). I forgot to mention that this nice guy
(who incidentally was a Bulleteer who has been to Ladakh
numerous times) struck a conversation with me (on his own)
gave me a lot of tips on riding in Ladakh, nazar uttaroed me
(in a very bikerly way) for being crazy enough to set out
all alone at the end of the season and then also asked
me to look him up on the way back, saying he would like
to know how my ride was.

Surprisingly enough I remembered and called him up
when I was near Delhi (way back from Ladakh and
Chandigarh) and then this gent sent someone to
meet me and guide me to his factory and then
literally sat on my head until I agreed to stay
with him at his place.

Yes, you read that right, I rode through most of Delhi's
traffic to stay over at a perfect stranger's place. Blame
it on his large-heartedness and warmth. Or blame it on my
once-in-a-while-ability to be gregarious.

Either way, as you can see Delhi has been warm to me
for quite some time.

Thank you (again) Delhi.

Orange City and a train to Delhi

For as long as I remember Nagpur's shown the way to get to
Vizag from Orissa when a particular bridge would go down
(during the monsoons) near Rayagada. But then, the credit
for that goes more to my brother who stays at Nagpur
(again for almost as long as I can remember), as in his
presence there used to make the longer haul worth the effort.

Nagpur is also where I have brethren in the form of the
Wanderlust Motorcycling Club and though I haven't really
managed to bond with them collectively, Anukaran (their
founder member and moderator) is a fellow tripper in a number
of ways dealing with belief and faith and an old, old friend.
Not that I needed a reason to ride to Nagpur, but these two
and Rider Mania were why I had been here on the Bullet in 2007.

You can say I have developed a soft corner for Nagpur's
laidback character and even developed some kind of a
familiarity with its bucolic and easy-going nature. All this
of course in comparison with the chaotic and wannabee hi-tech
city nature of development (or at least the traffic) in the
Deccan. Nagpur also means excursions to Tadoba (where I have
been lucky enough to "experience the mystique of a forest"
twice) and Kanha (where I haven't been yet) and catching up
on various types of entrepreneurial planning with my brother
-- in bars where they serve salted groundnuts on the house and
every second middle aged patron seems to be having an
adulterous affair, all alone with a glass of his tipple...

And of course, Nagpur means oranges and all the delectable
namkeen eats -- of which I never tire and about with my brother
knows more than most people who work for Haldiram. And Shahji
cuisine -- primarily non-veg food cooked with extraaaaa spice
and supposedly hot enough to make a mule do cartwheels.

However, all this sampling of Namkeen, Oranges etc. stayed
behind me in the past; because this time my brother (and bhabhi)
were fasting on account of Navaratri. I did manage to eat two
big (and really filling) samosas (on the way to my brother's
place from the station) -- the traditional Nagpuri way, broken
into pieces and doused with generous helpings of kadhi and a
watery channa / choley gravy. And yes, not to forget, served
along with a very long and very hot, raw green chilly.

I did manage to meet Anukaran for a bit and we discussed
development, tripping, books and this and that over Coffee.
Need to catch up with him more often and try and trip more
in Nagpur itself :-)

My train to Delhi was to leave in the afternoon. And it did
(with me in it as a reserved passenger, thanks to my brother's
efforts). But the highlight of that day was the Sabu Daana Poha
that my bhabi made for breakfast. Absolutely otherworldy, with
a wealth of slivers of potatos (and a dash of onions) fried
golden brown and the Sabu Daana looking like pearls with a
rice-whiteness at their centre. I had two helpings. Or did
I have two and half of them. Oh bliss.

After my brother saw me off at the station and into what was
already a badly smelling compartment (the train comes from up
ahead, somewhere near Mumbai and must have baked to stinking
point in the Vidarbha heat) I read a bit of Pessoa and then
promptly got down to stealing a "sitting" nap. Which meant
this was the second time I was taking a post prandial nap --
without a very heavy lunch, mind it -- in two days. Must be
something to do with the to and fro clackety clack of the
trains...or must be something to with the aimlessness of my
mind's wanderings...but anyway, there you have, I promptly
fell asleep.

I must have slept a couple of hours -- in the "now on,
now off" fashion that is possible when the concerned sleep
is in the presence of the comings and goings of a large
, breathing and brushing by you...when the silence of a
train that has stopped woke me up. And I found myself in
the middle of probably more trees than there are in all of
Hyderabad.

Oh, well maybe I exaggerate, but I am sure I was somewhere
in the midst of what is Kanha National Park and not so
surprisingly enough there was no signal on the phone. With
nothing much on my mind and a now very stationary and now
chugging along at a snail's pace train inviting me to do
something photographic, I pulled out the camera and spent
the next half an hour or so going along with the flow of
my eye...till the train gathered pace and became more or
less too unstable (and fast) to do any shooting from. I
mean, I am a veteran of taking photos from moving trains --
in the bygone era of film cameras, in fact -- so it was
evident to me that the exercise would be wasteful even
in digital. So I desisted after shooting a couple of
sunflares.


Then, it was time to desist and pack up the camera and
start looking out for the wares of the mystical orient...
okay, okay... I mean look out for what seems worth the
effort that it take for a gallop -- to and fro from the
moving address called a Sleeper Class Compartment -- but
then I was kind of lethargic this time around. For one,
there was a packet packed for me -- by my bhabhi -- that
was supposed to be either lunch or dinner or whatever else
I wanted to eat it as. And on top of it I had got two
Samosas and a Batata Wada packed at Nagpur Railway Station
(I forgot to mention I also had another two Samosas here,
the traditional Nagpuri way...with Kadhi and Channa / Choley
curry). Which meant that unless I was intent on stocking up
like a hibernating bear it made sense to cut down on my intake.

Besides (like I doubt if I am a photographer because photography
doesn't obsess me) I doubt if I am foodie, if being a foodie
means putting food above everything else.

After all, there is only this much one can eat.

I am not saying I went on a fast just after I realized this
home truth. I do remember having something else in the train...
either a plate of Samosas or a plate of Batata Vadas...can't
remember, must be the constant snoozing that I was resorting to...
or the other type of writing that I was doing on the phone.

I do remember getting down to stretch my legs and "see what's
on offer" on the platform at Itarsi. And almost pinching myself
at the sight of a small "chaat bandi" -- with a steaming Tawa --
one corner of a regular refreshments centre of the type where
sometimes you will find people selling Idlis hard enough to
replace cricket balls and bread that's staler than most Bollywood
jhatkas.

Yes, a "chaat bandi" selling fresh, hot piping chat on a railway
platform. So for a minute I did think that maybe I am dreaming it
up...and missing the Durga Puja Pandals of Rourkela where I used
to gorge on Chaat, Gol Gapas and other delectables every year...but
then, I decided to lay aside that nostalgia trip for later; and waded
into the crowd around the steaming Tawa.
This wasn't exactly Chat on offer here. Maybe the patrons (around
the time I was there) are mostly from ex-Mumbai trains...so what
was steaming on the Tawa was "postered / signboarded" as "Paav
Bhaaji" and though the Paav was lilliputian and the "Bhaaji" but
the peas you get in normal Chat, I must say it was really tasty.
And at 10 Rs. for a plate, I wouldn't report these people to
the guardians of Paav Bhaaji purity either.

Then it was time to go back to the train and peform the required
contortions. To get into the topmost berth (the one assigned to me).
After I had finished my packed dinner and one of the Nagpuri Samosas.

What did I do with the rest, you may ask...

Lurched across half the swaying train (mentally kicking myself
for my greed) and found a dhoti-attired Sadhu sleeping in the
vestibule, his head ( with the hair in Jata) resting on a woolen
blanket. Patted him gently and when he came awake, reverentially
put the polythene in his hand.

I was still kicking myself mentally for my greed, but at least
it turned out in a good cause and I ended up feeding a man of God.

I do remember I was thinking of food while I was trying to sleep;
that led to some happy dreams of Kukkad and Lassi, or rather
mountains of Kukkads and waterfalls of Lassi.

Nothing called greed when it comes to dreaming, no?

Tripping on food -- on a train to Nagpur

I slept barely three hours or so and then (with K accompanying
me) caught an auto to the station, all set for the adventure
(and trepidation) of yet another "unreserved travel" train
journey. I know this may sound in keeping with my characteristic
"shall decide soon" and last minuted-ness, but till Sunday I
was caught up in a number of things that, though of not much
corporate or national or international importance, still
needed my attention.

And yes, I need to add that since most buses headed out of
Hyderabad are not running, almost all trains have been booked
solidly for the last 10 days or so.

The train I was to catch was A.P Express and it was scheduled
to depart from Secunderabad at 6.40 in the morning. Thanks to
K's worry about unreserved travel and horror stories of having
to face serpentine queues at the booking counter, we reached
the station pretty early -- and were pleasantly surprised to
find not much of chaos at the booking counter. It took just 10
mins to get a general ticket, all of Rs. 135 only.

The train was to arrive at (and leave) from Platform No. 10,
so having K along was a godsend as he helped lug my
gear / luggage (books, a camera, two lenses, a laptop and
other mandatories like clothes) being the nice guy he is.
Yes, oh yes, being afoot and having to lug gear is when I
miss my Bullet the most. But what to do, these aren't
exactly "unwristwatched" times, even for me...

The yawns arrived long before the train did, even as I was
checking out the spanking new platform, with its steel railings
and acreages of red and black granite. To digress a bit here,
I saw a wealth of the same red and black granite acreages
across most of the platforms all the way upto Nagpur. Looks
like some rich contractor has made a fortune thanks to the
inability of SCR to think of any locally available stone, or
to get out of their mindsets of considering only granite
"aesthetic". Whatever's wrong with Tandur / Betamcharla /
Normal Granite?

Oh I do agree Granite looks good, especially the red
one...but I am sure it must have costed quite a packet,
and that money would have made more impact if used for
something else.

Getting back to our narrative, I remember gently berating
K about the desertedness of the platform and broaching the
possibility of getting a berth pretty easily. To which his
response was a queer smile which kind of said -- wait and
watch. Sure enough the platform started filling up, by and
by and before it was 6.30 it looked more or less like PF
No. 1 does when (incidentally my favorite train) the Godavari
Express steams in, for a departure from Secunderabad. And when
the train pulled in (it starts at Hyderabad), I was greeted by
two completely full general compartments (and a look of horror
on K's face).

So I resolutely boarded the Sleeper Class compartment, found an
empty berth and plonked my butt on it, pushing the strolley below
the seat. And positioning the backpack safely besides me. In a bit,
the train left and I could see the same look of worry / horror
on K's face and in fact the lad even astonished me with an
"Om Namaha Shivaya", did not know if it was on account of my
intention to go to Varanasi or because he was stressed out with
worries on my behalf.

The first half an hour or so was spent by me in observing my
fellow passengers and it didn't take me long to figure out that
most were also "unreserved". Some clues that helped me Sherlock
this conclusion --
1.) No luggage
2.) Intent on climbing into an upper berth and grabbing
a snooze (some of these guys are in fact ticketless)
3.) An overall air of unconcern as opposed to a "this is
my berth, mind it" kind of just below the surface hostility
that's fairly evident in case of a passenger with a reservation.

Thereafter, I tried to snooze, but failed, as the early morning sun
was pretty much of "in your face" laddie presence and the
petulantly continuous presence of the draught from the windows
wasn't helping either (apart from cooling me, of course). Not
that I am that much of an expert when it comes to sleeping while
in motion, never did it on the Bullet, can barely manage it in a
train and hate the very idea while in a bus, if you must know. But
then, in that in-between territory -- pilloried by the glare of
the sun and the insistent clamour of the wind -- bordering
wakefulness and sleep two poems came and were promptly
jotted down on the phone.

And then, some 3 hours into the journey a nice gentleman
dressed in black, the TTE came. I explained properly and
politely (K had stressed on it) and the TTE invited me to
sit down, took my ticket from me and wrote me a reciept for
the Sleeper Class surcharge and (go ahead and rub your eyes)
berth charges. All of Rs. 135 again. And now I was S3, 53 a
passenger with a reservation hurtling at speed in a train run
by the great Indian Railways. How nice of this TTE to just get
over things with barely minimum fuss! And not even looking at me
askance or asking me to follow him or wait till he comes
back, etc. All normal tricks used by TTEs to check out how
desperate you are for a berth (and what they can wheedle out
from you, for the same).

BTW, auto fare to the station costed me Rs. 200, and the
train travel was costing me Rs. 270. That's a lot of food
for thought for our urban planners and the like, no?

Coming back to the train, leaving behind the chaos and the
utter political mis-management of the city -- What would you
have done to celebrate being allocated a berth in such trying
(in terms of increasing number of Indian travelers) times? I
hope you know that the Indian Railways doesn't serve Beer, BTW.
Also it was kinda early, even if you are from Goa or some
uninhabited island in the South Sea Pacific.

But I did find out that the catering guys served Bread
Omelets for the princely sum of Rs. 21. Two pieces of bread,
one pretty fluffy omelet and a small sachet of ketchup too.
So I put all that away without much ado. And then caught up
on snoozing (this time with the shutter down on the window).

Then it was time to travel to berth number 53 -- luckily in
my compartment only -- and secure (meaning more or less like
before) my luggage and assess all my fellow passengers again.
They come and go, gather a bottle here, a newspaper there,
basically in a more or less avuncular fashion but all the same
indicating that I am responsible for making them move, just when
they were about to digest their morning breakfast. Or maybe I
exaggerate and its just the touchiness of having too many
people all around.

But then, anyway, I snooze a bit more and then pull out
"Speaking of Siva" but before I can do any reading comes
along another hawker; this time with Batata Wadas /
Alu Bondas. A plateful is four of these round, slightly
bigger than an average onion size snack. And I get two
sachets of Cremica sauce / ketchup along with. So again,
without much ado, I put away all four of the wadas --
basically potato dumplings seasoned with green chillies,
garlic, onion and an assortment of spices, dipped in a
batter of besan and deep fried till golden yellow --
thinking fondly of what the little man would have said
when face to face with two sachets of sauce / ketchup.
Okay, let me explain -- the little man is a hogger of
sauce / ketchup / jam; it seems he uses the concerned
snack as an adult safe excuse to attack the sauce /
ketchup / jam on offer.

While I was busy noting down flavour and taste data being
broadcast by my tongue and being, by and by the train moved
from Alu Bonda land to Batata Wada land. Which in this case
meant that it moved through the shadows cast by a stand of
teak trees into the shadows cast by another stand. It was
my phone that told me; very smartly and schoool-masterishly
I must add, told me something to the effect of -- now you are
roaming, be careful with your data usage, etc.

Apart from being an aficionado of commonplace things like
Omelets and Alu Bondas, I am also a bit of Samosa hogger,
so I had an eagle eye all peeled and ready for this
triangular / conical snack of which I can never have enough.
But instead I was hectored and harangued by any number of hawkers
offering Egg and Chicken and Veg. Biryani. All of which --
with the hindsight of previous experience and the pedigree of
being a Hyderabadi -- I turned up my nose at. And instead got
around to window gazing and bird spotting of a type far removed
from what the average urban dweller does at malls. The sightings
were of the usual drongos, lapwings, bulbuls and one peafowl.
And (speaking of butterflies) a common rose. I mean these are
sightings I do remember. Maybe I should have jotted them down,
the way I used to jot down the name of platforms on
earlier (far, far earlier) train journeys. Or maybe I should
have managed to sleep more and managed to reserve a ticket
and managed to give K less reason for worry and concern.

The sun that had been in my face had by now climbed up into
the noonday position, and the weather in this part of the
country can be burning hot, even in late winter. For now,
there was a patch of hot sunlight slowly broiling my bare foot
(I was given a side berth and half sitting / half sprawled out)
and I had managed to run out of water.

But before the compartment's denizens were made to witness a
tandav inspired by thirst, the train reached Ballarshah. And
a number of bells started ringing in my head. Or maybe the
bells were ringing somewhere lower down, in my far from full
stomach.

The platform was sun-drenched and I spotted quite a lot of
butterflies too (many species are active around 12.00 -- 1.00)
but for once I had other things on my mind. Like, food. Also,
I wouldn't have risked being the object of suspicion of a train
load of passengers and the RPF, something bound to happen if I
was spotted with a long lens screwed onto the camera.

So, prudence and palate both dictated I hunt food and I did just
that. First off, my attention was directed at another encounter
with the humble dish called the Omelet. Again hawked with bread.
Two pieces of bread and a not so fluffy (got to be hurriedly made,
A.P Express aa rahi hai!) omelet, with a dash of chat masala
sprinkled on the omelet. All of Rs. 15 only. How was it, you may
ask? Scrumptious and as omeletely heavenly as any I have tasted.
Okay, I exaggerate -- it was cold, the bread was far from fresh;
but since I have had worse omelets priced twice as much as this
in the city, I will still give it high marks. Next, I found a
"drinking water" tap and after waiting a bit for a dude (who
incidentally was wearing a Tee that said "Sorry girls, I date
only models") who was washing his hair as if he were Rapunzel, asked
him to go to beauty parlour and filled up my water bottle. And then
emptied it into my vitals there. And filled it up again.

It was hot. Or else, it was the lack of the sleep. Or it was
that dude who was standing in some shade and giving me an eyeful
of his teenage ballsiness and insouciance. Whatever it be;
I -- the experienced traveler who knows of more platforms
than any software engineer -- stepped wrong, for the first of
two times. Or rather, I purposefully set forth for a cart heaped
with golden brown snacks, betting to myself with the certainty
of a 300mm lens bird photographer that they have to be Wadas for
sure. And, once at the cart, mentally patting myself on the back,
I ordered a plate of Wadas, for a measly sum of Rs. 15. Well,
they were anything but Wadas, even to me. I could have just turned
around and thrown them at the hawker and caused him serious
harm -- they were that tough, that hard -- as opposed "to the
crispy on top, soft inside" goodness of a Wada. But I did no
throwing and resorted to no violence apart from masticating
it all down (I hate wasting food, I am apalled at and by how
so many people equate being rich or being able to pay with
the superciliousness of throwing away food; are they aware
that people die hungry in the same city, state, country, world?)
and then found some shade right in front of my compartment. To
indulge in my favorite pastime -- as a veteran of Indian Railway
Platforms -- of watching passengers.

(Note to sharp-eyed readers who are keen on a career in
Sherlocking in food : this cart selling alleged Wadas was
the only one moving all along the hot sun scoured platform.
Elementary -- to conclude that the so claimed Wadas weren't
selling as hot cakes, eh? Also, the train that this cart was
serenading was a Kazipet bound train, meaning a "southwards"
bound train. Elementary again, no? That someone had tried his
hand at "cooking up" Wadas and was now trying to sell it to a
captive market which would soon be too far to complain. Eh?)

While I was torn in between deciding if I should give into the
temptation for some bananas or opt for a Slice, yet another hawker
approached. This time with a cartload of assorted nuts and
sweetmeats. Among which I could see roasted groundnuts (my
all time favorite) at Rs. 15 for a small packet, raisins and
cashewnuts at Rs. 25 a packet, pistachios (yes, I am not putting
you on) for Rs. 45, packets of dates (though they looked more
like a lump) for Rs. 25 each, some other coloured sugar candies
and packets of (what I found out on examination) of what could
have only been Mavudi Tandra (Mango Papad is the Hindi equivalent
if I am not wrong) again for Rs.25 (for a portion lesser than a
cigarette pack in size). I did a double and a triple and a
quadruple take. Believe me. I swear on Mavudi Tandra. I mean,
I have always been led to believe that Mavudi Tandra is not
made like any other papad (or bought like any other papad for
that matter). And that the best is sold only on the Vizianagaram
platform. So I put it back. I should have just walked away.
Instead I bought some groundnuts and a packet of dates. Ha!

(This incidentally was wrong step two, dear reader. As it
turned out, I did not even open the packs; nor did I take
photographs of them. Just let them gather heat all the way
to Nagpur and then lugged them to my brother's place. Call
me thrifty if you will, but Rs. 40 is a big amount to waste
while traveling in Sleeper Class, no?)

Oops.

So why did I not eat the afore-mentioned "snacks as colourful
as India"? One reason was that I went back into that ill-defined
territory; in between slumber and wakefulness thanks to the
torpor of the afternoon heat and my lack of sleep the earlier
night. The second is that I got full. I mean I ate something
else that made me feel happy, content and oh so full.

I ate a plate of Ballarshah Puris. A plate of rustic simplicity.
Six medium sized puris, a very, very tasty potato curry and two
dangerous looking green chillies stuffed into a transparent plastic
constitute a "plate" of this dish. In fact, the glint of the
transparent plastic in a gent's hand is what led me to realize /
remember that Ballarshah means these puris (oh yes, I have eaten
them earlier here on this very platform, but forgot all about it)!
So, I set out on an expedition to the almost the very end of the
platform and found a cart which surprisingly still hadn't run out
of this awesome plate of deliciousness. A princely sum of Rs. 15
changed hands and I ran back to my compartment exulting inside, as
if I had managed to get the tickets to a "first day, first show"
screening of one of Mr. Bachchan's legendary movies.

I did buy two more Batata Wadas in the train later on, but that
was more or less because of my anxiety about how long the train
will take to reach Nagpur (it just stopped in the middle of lots
of Plain Tigers -- and nowhere -- a bit before Hinganghat) and
meant to be a comfort snack, but if you really want to know,
the plate that really matters in this long rambling is the plate
of Ballarshah Puris. The rest were all side dishes.

Oh, two more things, tidbits rather. Somewhere after Ballarshah,
while turning around to help my foot escape from the magnifying
glass effect of a very afternoonish sun, I saw a hawker dressed
all in white, his face shaved to an millimetre of his skin and
wearing the dark glasses that the visually impaired do. He would
have been in his early forties, had a blind man's cane in his
hand and an assortment of guthka and other packets all over the
front of his chest and draped on his shoulders (or so it seemed
to me). He also had a massive black bag slung on one shoulder.
From which (on being asked for -- by one of my fellow passengers)
after 2-3 minutes of groping he produced a pack of playing cards.
If all this seemed incongruous and strange, what happened next
took the cake. The hawker was paid a sum of Rs. 20. And I could
see him spread the tips of his fingers all over the two currency
notes.

Did he have eyes in his fingertips?

Respect.

The second thing (incident)?

I saw a group of 4 middle aged gentlemen (they were headed
for someplace in MP) put away 6-8 plates of Ballarshah Puris.
They ate it all from the same newspaper, the way nomads and bikers
and other footloose people have done for as long as they remember.
Was nice to see, yes. Also, they folded the newspaper and did not
throw away the green chillies. After all, this is India and this
is Indian Railways; with a little bit of thrift, you can go a
long way.

No?