Musings At The Traffic Signal

I see the distant traffic signal as I approach. The light has turned red with an assortment of vehicles around me and ahead of me – buses with drivers perched high up, rumbling forward, muscling their way through the mélange of vehicles, secure in the knowledge that all must give way to BEST, cocky autos scooting around almost touching the vehicle ahead and turning at the last moment, impertinent bikers casting challenging looks around as they force their way through tiny gaps between cars, unmindful of the scars left behind on paintwork. And finally there are the cars, a weary lot wending our way home or ferrying the memsahib and her daughters for shopping at one more brand before they call it a day.

Thankfully this signal has no right turn, so I can occupy the right lane without guilt. However the Mercedes ahead won’t give me enough room so that I can squeeze in and oblivious to my honking he persists in staying in the middle occupying two lanes, as he crawls along. Finally, a gap, and I shoot forward. As I draw level, I catch a glimpse of an ageing couple being chauffeured around – the lady on the rear seat and the elderly gentleman in front, next to a chauffer of similar vintage. No wonder the driver pays no attention to my dirty looks – the sahib and he probably go back a long way.

As I maneuver my way down Linking Road, avoiding potholes opened up by the recent rains, I wonder if it is only me who finds the paver-block covered roads a complete waste of time and money. Or, is it that the mandarins of the BMC are driven around by drivers adept at preventing the bumps and thuds of driving on Bombay’s roads from reaching their masters?

We’ve reached the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf junction where there is a constant stream of autos and cars trying to cross the road at an angle in the complete absence of any attempt at traffic regulation. Anarchy prevails, with the cars on the main road refusing to give even an inch, while the crossing vehicles are determined to prise open the stream of bumper to bumper cars. I’ve learned a few tricks too and by now am quite adept at tailgating the guy ahead refusing to surrender territory to auto or nano. For some reason, I'm reminded of The Charge Of The Light Brigade - "cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right . . . "

We push our way through to the next traffic crossing at the junction of Linking Road and SV Road, where there is invariably a long wait while the local businessmen proceed with their commercial transactions. I firmly believe that one should study the models of business being transacted at the crossing. The merchants and traders descend on the waiting vehicles in what seems to be a pecking order. First come the eunuchs - the bigger and fancier the vehicle, the greater their affectations and attentions, further it helps if the windows are down, while cars with young mothers and kids receive focused attention, autos are more or less ignored being populated by the plebians. My own car receives only a cursory glance, being occupied by four men with two usually asleep or in deep conversation with their better halves.

Next come the salesmen, selling everything from plaster of paris vases to children’s drawing books to toy kitchen utensils to tissue boxes and cell phone car chargers. They have obviously studied their market carefully and carried out segmentation and targeting in advance, as the vase seller will gauge his customer with a quick glance at the occupants of a car. All male cars and autos are ignored while cars occupied by ladies and young couples are focused on. Similarly, the sellers of children’s books and toy utensils work more on the occupants of autos and small cars. Business is transacted in the space of a 90 second window, which is what it usually takes for the light to turn green.

While the salesmen are peddling their wares, a third wave comes in the form of beggars. They have their fixed beats and I recognize them, having travelled the same way several times.

The merchandise on sale changes with the territory, along with the prices. Although I’m certain that the merchants have never heard of the four P’s of marketing or Porter’s model, they have it down to a T. The product changes with the place. At the crossing near Atria mall, there are none of the tacky toy utensils on sale, and the eunuchs too are confined to the suburbs, this being SoBo you see. And no ‘sheengdana’ sellers please, whatever would the neighborhood say. What you get here are smart glossy magazines like Hello, or, highbrow ones like Harvard Business Review for 700 bucks apiece.

At the Haji Ali crossing, it’s the flower vendors and book sellers hawking the latest pirated releases. Once past the Mahalaxmi Temple crossing at the foot of Peddar Road, the hawkers and vendors vanish, and I often wonder why, for I used to see magazine vendors at the Pizzeria Crossing on Marine Drive. Probably the high price of the territory makes business unviable. Even beggars have disappeared sans for a few at strategic locations like around the Taj and Trident.

The irony strikes me – the city has become so costly that one can’t even beg for a living!

Sundays In The City

Sundays In The City

Sundays mornings are when the city sleeps in with a fierce determination. It is only the health freaks, the elderly and the odd foreigner who venture out early mornings on our city’s seaside promenade. The vast majority prefer to celebrate the morning of their day off in the comfort of their beds or sofas clucking at the state of the economy or catching up with the travails of a teary daughter-in-law in an early morning TV serial. Sunday mornings are for leisurely reading Shobha De’s column in the paper and solving the crossword over a cup of tea.

Despite the reluctance to get out of bed, by twelve, some of the more popular malls are alive with weary young parents accompanied by hyperactive youngsters crowding the games arcades. Their fathers, who generally appear to be IT professionals discernible by their uniformly unshaven appearance, baggy Bermuda shorts, flip-flops and round necked T shirts unable to conceal their protruding bellies and sagging shoulders, try to make a show of spending time with the family, as they clumsily attempt to enjoy the video games and the pizzas with extra cheese that they can well avoid. The mothers however are content just to have the kids out of their hair while they spend hubby’s hard earned money in Mango and Zara. Occasionally the Dads escape into the security of their Blackberries animatedly discussing something with Pete or Prakash in Alabama. The kids however bring them back pretty soon.

The other group clearly discernible are those who have worked hard to get there by bus, train and taxi from Bhayander and beyond, and are easily spotted in their Sunday best as they shuffle slowly through the malls in groups of five or six. Apart from their own kids they usually have a relative’s or a neighbour’s children in tow as well. Their needs are simpler: they have come for the ambience and the airconditioned atmosphere, while their kids are content with free rides on various escalators and elevators. The parents examine each shop, carefully filing away the prices in their memories’ for later recall. Once the parents have recceed the mall completely and the kids have worked off their energy and worn the patience of attendants, the family congregates in the food court, preferably at the MacDonalds, if there is one, otherwise any modest eatery will do.

The roads are thus rendered free till well into the afternoon, while most people sleep off their afternoon chicken curry and rice washed down by a beer. The city shows the first signs of stirring on the roads around three-thirty or four in the afternoon, when Bombay begins to congregate at seaside locales across the city from Marine Drive to Girgaum Chowpatty to Dadar to Juhu Beach for its weekly dose of fresh air. Meanwhile, young shop assistants on their weekly outing can be seen exercising their mounts by racing up and down on flimsy, if rather smoky bikes.

The queue into the parking lot of High Street Phoenix also lengthens as cars stretch beyond Raghuvanshi Mills waiting for that ultimate Mumbaikar’s prize, a parking slot. Drivers slowly crawl towards the entrance, aggressively preventing any attempt by another car to jump the queue by edging in. By seven, the roads are crowded and people are already waiting their turn outside popular eateries like Cream Centre, Soam. By eight, the Nerul – Panvel – Mira Road crowd begins to wend its way back to VT and Churchgate to catch their trains home.

Meanwhile those privileged to have their cars, open the hatchbacks and turn on the music while enjoying their ice-creams and a drink on the sly in the evening sea breeze. The action continues till around ten at night, after which most sane people head home. The roads being relatively empty thereafter, the insane ones continue, racing each other on their bikes till mid night, after which the cops persuade them to desist.

Peace finally descends on the city, in preparation for another week of frenetic activity.

Pink For The Bedroom

Pink For The Bedroom

It was in ’62 while posted in a remote district of insurgency ridden  Nagaland that I decided to take the plunge. I had been doing the rounds of postings on various mountain tops and jungle locations that were de-rigeur for all junior infantry officers, and considered myself something of an expert on jungle warfare, having topped all professional courses, till one day over the third rum, my drinking partner, an elderly major advised me in rural punjabi, “Kaka, ki kar reyan. Aiddan rum peendan jayenga, ya vyah-shyah karaan da koi plan hai? [What are you doing young man? Are you planning to get married or just keep on drinking your life away?] Unknown to me, the usual correspondence and negotiations that precede most Indian marriages were well under way nearly three thousand Km away at home in Ambala. As was usually the case in those days, things were mostly firmed up without the groom’s knowledge and all I was required to do was to apply for leave to get married. Naturally, my company subedar, a dour Gurkha veteran of World War II, with the imposing name of Bam Bahadur Thapa, approved of it long before the CO knew about it.

In the early sixties, the outfit where I was posted, did not have regular government accommodation for its officers and men. In any case, living in a remote jungle, inside a fenced perimeter ringed with eight LMG posts and crisscrossed by roving patrols there were no such niceties. So when the Subedar asked me whether Memsa’ab would join me, I realized I hadn’t considered the aspect of where wife-to-be would stay. “If Memsa’ab is coming, let me know, I will do something”, was his cryptic reply. My query on what he would do, drew a laconic shrug in response and he instead began to discuss the forthcoming volleyball championship.

Having negotiated the three day train journey home, I put the question to the memsa’ab to be whether she would like to move to my remote jungle location or whether she would prefer to sit out the remainder of my field assignment in more civilized Ambala. Predictably, the future homemaker stamped a dainty foot and with a toss of her head decreed that she expected me to make full arrangements for her stay in far away Deephu. Further, the size, scale and quality of the future accommodation was required to be nearly as good as Daddy’s house in Srinagar. With some trepidation I wrote off a letter to Subedar Sahib, announcing the impending arrival of the Memsa’ab, hoping he would keep his word.

Several days later, when a newly minted husband and wife arrived at the unit location having traversed a tiring and difficult journey, they were met by the Subedar. I couldn’t stop staring at him for he had a gap where his tightly lipped mouth used to be and a strange expression resembling a smile, on his face. He was followed by a crowd of beaming, giggling Gurkhas led by Ganga Bahadur. A stern look from Thapa froze them into silence while he, in the manner of the proud father of the groom leading a marriage party, showed us to our future home. I was struck speechless, for before us stood a brand new cottage in the traditional Naga style, that I could have sworn hadn’t existed a month ago.

My better half was also silent, for I suspect that she had been expecting a cottage of the style commonly seen in Srinagar, with a sloping red roof, a fireplace and lace curtains in the windows instead of the green bamboo jungle dwelling in front of us. However I didn’t venture to find out.

On arrival of my letter, Subedar sa’ab had set his boys to work. I didn’t know that several members of my company, probably including the otherwise inscrutable battle hardened JCO, nursed secret architectural dreams and were only too glad to experiment while building a house for their Company Commander. Teams were sent into the forest to search for bamboo of varying dimensions. Sturdy bamboo trunks as thick as a man’s thigh were used as the main columns of the house. Smaller diameter trunks were used as the horizontal beams supporting the walls. The design was simple and functional. A small verandah led into a drawing cum dining room, a door from which led into the bedroom. Attached to the bedroom was a toilet and bathroom, complete with toilet seat. The toilet design would have done credit to many of our current ‘green buildings’. The seat was placed above a twenty or thirty foot deep bore hole. Similarly, the bath area consisted of a bamboo mesh placed above a six feet by six feet square pit into which drained the bath water through the gaps in the bamboo mesh. Thus there was no problem of drying the bathroom. As the soil consisted mainly of mud, water in the pit slowly drained through the soil, as a result of which the pits didn’t need clearing for a few years. Further, the moist heat of the jungle ensured that decomposition of organic matter took place rapidly.

The walls were made from a double layered tightly woven mesh of bamboo, so impenetrable that not even light could find its way through. The walls were secured to the columns and beams using finely scraped strings of bamboo or other local vines. Windows consisted of a gap in the walls enforced by a bamboo grille with a flap that could be let down to enclose it completely. The whole structure was covered by thatch so thick that even the unrelenting jungle torrents could not seep through. A passage from the drawing room led off to a pantry and kitchen store, while the kitchen was located at some distance from the main dwelling. The Memsa’ab was expected to confine herself to the house as the Subedar sa’ab took a dim view of young officers’ wives having unfettered access to the surroundings.

There was no electricity and running water of course, but every morning, the unit tanker delivered water from the Jamuna river, a lesser known north-eastern namesake of her more famous cousin, into a forty gallon drum placed strategically near the entrance. From there on, Ganga Bahadur took charge of it, distributing it to various buckets. Light was provided by a hurricane lantern spreading its benevolence no more than five feet. As the mistress of the manor believed in bright lights, a petromax was added, that gave plenty of light but also added to the considerable tropical heat. Subedar sa’ab had thought of everything, including cane sofas for the drawing room and a bamboo double bed. The only problem was paint, as there were only four colours in the unit – plenty of olive green, but lesser quantities of white, red and yellow. While the jawans had used olive green paint generously, when the Subedar sa’ab arrived for inspection to review the efforts of his boys, he growled, “You idiots have used green in the bedroom as well. Don’t you know, memsa’abs like pink?” So it was that white and red were mixed together to produce various shades of pink, till the old soldier grunted with satisfaction and decreed, “Use pink for the bedroom.”

The old soldier had made his plans with all the seriousness of a company attack on a hostile post. However there was one small area that was alien to him. Having been brought up since childhood on a palette of natural colours found in forests, he remembered the most exotic shades of pink seen on jungle flowers. On the other hand, the person he was trying so hard to please considered the English and Parisian shades found between the covers of ‘Woman and Home’, the only colours worthy of emulating.  Thus it was that we were struck speechless when we entered a bedroom in the most shocking shade of pink designed to knock your eyeballs from their sockets, covering the walls, the floor, the ceiling and even the bed. Thankfully, Memsa’ab held her counsel, and even managed to mumble some polite sounds while Subedar Thapa beamed like an indulgent father.

However I caught a sidelong look and it took all my training in evading Naga ambushes to avoid ‘a keel hauling’, in that wonderfully evocative phrase of sailors. Over the next few months we discreetly changed the colour of the bedroom to a more sedate white.

Passing The Lawn Test

Passing The Lawn Test

I watched helplessly as our irreverent Boxer, Bruno, having deposited a free gift on my carefully tended lawn, proceeded to dig it up in a shower of grass and clods of earth. Having completed his ablutions and ignoring my threats, he sauntered off, leaving me to clean up and repair the damage. As I went about the task it took me back fifty years to Deephu in Nagaland, where I was posted when I acquired my better half.

The fifties were a great period to be the nubile daughter of a senior officer and my new bride, living in Srinagar at that time, enjoyed every minute of the devoted attention lavished by an army of attendants, in awe of her father. It didn’t matter that the new husband was a junior officer way down the pecking order, who didn’t have a fraction of Daddy’s resources. A husband was expected to provide the same lifestyle that the young lady had grown up with. He was also expected to know her requirements in advance. What kind of an officer was he, if he didn’t?

It didn’t help that I was posted in Nagaland at that time. Dimapur then was far more remote than can be imagined today, fifty years later. My living quarters consisted of a modest bamboo cottage constructed by the deft hands and raw native intellect of my Gurkha jawans, but with the complete absence of modern amenities. There was neither running water nor electricity. Water for drinking, bathing, cooking and everything else was fetched every morning from a nearby mountain stream by the unit tanker and deposited in a forty gallon drum placed prominently near the entrance. I had of course, sung ample praises of our would be nest before we arrived there as a couple.

As the reality of the transition from Srinagar to Deephu began to sink in, a few days later the new memsa’ab demanded, “Where’s the lawn?”. It didn’t concern her that the ground in front of the cottage was hard as rock or that there was a shortage of water. After all, there was a beautiful lawn with flowers in front of Daddy’s home in Srinagar.

I put the query to my trusty minder, Ganga Bahadur, “Memsa’ab lai lawn chahicha (Memsa’ab wants a lawn)”. Ganga was the salt of the earth, a typical Gurkha completely devoted, but with a more than a little fondness for the local brew. Having been injured in a Naga ambush few years earlier, he found the regular unit duties difficult and was content to look after my few needs. “Hujoor, ma garchu”, he declared with the conviction of a man being assigned an important tactical task. To assist him, I assigned another man, younger by a few years, but with a tongue – twister of a name that I simplified to Younger Bahadur, which later evolved into Younga, rhyming with Ganga.

An area for the green patch was duly staked out and Ganga and Younga were despatched to look for suitable grass that could be planted there. However two days of search proved fruitless. Since I could discern the stirrings of discontent in the high command at this apparent inactivity, I rapidly pointed the two volunteer horticulturists in the direction of the forest to find suitable wild grass. This time they returned beaming like a couple of school kids.

Our elation was however short-lived as despite the best attempts at coaxing the grass by sharing our precious water, it refused to grow. The memsa’ab meanwhile observed the proceedings with a mixture of amusement and disdain. Faced with the prospect of the memsa’ab’s displeasure, Ganga and Younga worked their grey cells overtime, an activity they had a distinct aversion to. Finally Younga declared that he knew what the problem was. “We need to dig deeper holes” he analysed, so that the roots could get nourishment. The duo promptly set about digging deeper holes with energy, interspersed with profound discussions on life’s problems. Another bundle of grass from the forest was fetched and planted with all the confidence of one who knew he had licked the problem. For good measure the grass was planted in a criss-cross pattern known to encourage a thick growth. But the grass in the true tradition of the Nagas refused to give in so easily and elation soon turned to disappointment.

To keep up the morale of the troops, I stepped in. That’s what officers are for anyway. I advised them to get tufts of grass from the forest along with clumps of mud. “This will work sa’ab” they declared with the unshakeable faith of a Gurkha in his khukri. A few days of digging later, the tufts of grass were planted close to each other and carefully watered by two now determined Gurkhas. An auspicious time was chosen and the home commander, who was by now visibly restless, was invited to inspect the patch of green. “Not bad”, she declared, while three soldiers grinned at each other, with one already seeing visions of his evening tipple. “Now can we stretch a net across, so that we can have a game of badminton in the evenings?” the memsa’ab continued without a hint of hesitation. This was small stuff after the effort put in and was promptly executed.

When I got home the next day, tea was laid out on the lawn, a cake had been baked, the best embroidered tea-cosy and table cloth was on display, racquets were arranged and the stage set for our first badminton game. Memsa’ab was ready in her outfit, a la Madhubala style. Two minutes into the game disaster struck. A gap between the tufts of grass caught her foot and nearly twisted it bringing her down Madhubala and all. Flinging the racquet down, the newly planted lawn was declared an accident waiting to happen. Ganga and Younga the two seasoned soldiers, who saw their boss getting it, decided to make discretion the better part of valour and beat a tactical retreat into the forest.

The efficiency of the infantry, the honor of the battalion and the credibility of its adjutant, were now seriously in danger and additional help was summoned. Minor matters like counter-insurgency patrols were set aside for the time being, in order to focus on the more important matter of a lawn. A truce of sorts was arranged with the local Nagas, who clucked sympathetically at our dilemma. They too applied their vast intelligence of plants. Slowly a foolproof plan emerged.

The lawn was quickly dug up to remove the top layer and a mixture of cow dung, mud and grass was spread evenly over the rectangle. Watering was done almost with religious fervor. Finally, the first shoots of grass appeared and were welcomed as tenderly as new born babies. Slowly the grass began to spread and resemble a decent lawn. Once again with trepidation we invited the Memsa’ab to view our efforts. Three pairs of eyes watched her every expression. “Much better, very nice in fact” was her response as she gingerly walked over the lawn testing it for unlikely traps. Seemingly satisfied, as she walked back to the house as she called over her shoulder, “But there’s no hedge. We can’t have a lawn without a hedge, can we?”.

Something’s Not Right

So Sachin finally got his 100^th century. Well, wooo hooooo. Time to celebrate, uncork the bubbly, let the beer flow. After all we need something to celebrate, so what if we lost the match to Bangla Desh and a few others as well. Those Australians are unsporting anyway. During the England tour there were reasons why we lost. It happens, baba. Koi baat nahin. But see, our Sachin has got his century after waiting so long.

Like every other Indian, I too am pleased at Sachin’s feat. I am happy for him that he has reached where no man has gone before. But I cannot suppress the feeling of disappointment at the manner in which he has achieved this landmark. The outpouring of treacle and honey coated praise in the papers is sickeningly sweet much like the overpowering sweetness of the neighborhood halwai’s wares. What is it in our culture that sends us into ecstasy while heaping praise on a favored son or daughter.

Anyone who is someone is trying hard to jump on to the bandwagon of praise for Sachin, for that is what has been currently deemed to be socially and politically correct behavior.

I’m sorry, I seem to have missed the point completely, for I had assumed that the purpose of playing matches was to win. Somewhere buried in the pages of accolades for the master was an innocuous article that had the mundane title of  “Bangladesh Shock India”. Was the master’s achievement more important than the fact that we lost the match? Has our disastrous showing in Australia and England paled into insignificance? Have we as cricket fans degenerated to the level of alcoholics and druggies who must get their daily fix, irrespective of where it comes from and its consequences.

Sample some of the articles in leading dailies today. The TOI in a prominent article has tried to draw a parallel between Sachin and other athletes like Jesse Owens, Roger Bannister, Nadia Comaneci, Pele, Michael Phelps and Lance Armstrong. Seems a bit like comparing apples and oranges. Other than the great Pele, the rest were individual athletes. Breaking another record or winning one more medal was all that mattered and they achieved their greatness overcoming their own inner demons. If they won, they grabbed the roses, if they lost, well, it was back to practice. But Sachin was and is, above all a team player and the team’s win takes precedence over individual greatness.

This is what Ravi Shastri had to say, “Life can be normal now”. In that case can we now start winning some matches? He goes on to say about Sachin, “whenever you met him, you sensed the air heavy with the unsaid question”, alluding to the elusive century. Does it not matter that national prestige was left in tatters by the miserable show, first in England and later in Australia, to the extent that the leadership qualities of Indians were doubted.

Some say that he waited 22 years for this feat. No crap? Did he on the very first day he stepped out in Indian colors, decide that he was going to score 100 centuries? Excuse me media and people, that was you looking at him through blinkered and rose tinted glasses. As for Sachin, all he ever wanted to do was play cricket. And we, cricket’s crazy fans didn’t make it any easier for the man by egging him on to give us our prasad, so that we could have something to talk about while going to work, in the lift and particularly during stand-easy, that wonderfully illustrative naval term for a tea break.

During the 1999 World Cup in England, unfortunately his father passed away. He came home while the entire nation clucked sorrowfully at his misfortune. Nobody dared question that he missed the match against Zimbabwe, which we lost. Of course everyone remembers that next match against Kenya where he scored an unbeaten 140, while the entire tribe of cricket-nuts said so courageous of Sachin, kya aadmi hai. Never mind that it was against lowly Kenya.

Now may I remind you dear Bharatwasi, of one more occurrence at that time. May 1999 was when the Kargil war was at its peak. Leave for soldiers everywhere was curtailed. Those boys up there were also representing their country. They too wore India’s colors albeit of a different form. Surely there must have been some among them who suffered the same misfortunes at home and would have wanted to go home. Should they have been allowed to go home on leave? Certainly not, their team had to win, national prestige was at stake!

I believe Sachin must be relieved that the immense pressure on him is off and he can now get down to the business of making his team win. His difficulty in moving the 99^th to the 100^th century is a pointer towards his mortality. I think the best thing he said was, “I am not God, I am Sachin Tendulkar”. Well said, Sachin. That shows your greatness. Now would you please tell that crazed idiot, the Indian cricket fan, that any further centuries would be purely incidental and that you would be playing for the team’s victory.

Travelogue Circling Central India – Offroading In a Honda City Mumbai to Jhansi and back by road

First a few facts – Jhansi is in UP, close to the MP border, located about 1200 Km by road from Mumbai. A search of the net and the Map My India Road Atlas, showed the straightest road route to be as follows: NH3 from Mumbai – Nashik – Dhule – Indore – Dewas – Guna – Shivpuri – Jhansi.

Since it was convenient to stay overnight in Mhow, which is next door to Indore, I decided to divide the journey into two legs, Leg 1 Mumbai to Mhow and Leg 2 from Mhow to Jhansi with a corresponding plan for the return.

Travel Plan - My initial plan was to leave Mumbai on 23^rd Dec, overnight at Mhow, leave the next morning to reach Jhansi on 24^th evening, spend Christmas and two more days there, starting back on 28^th, reach Mhow, spend an extra day there and get back to Mumbai on 30^th. As it happened, a last minute office requirement threw my leave plans out of gear and after a quick rehashing of travel itineraries and bookings, I finalized on leaving on 25^th. This gave me only two days in Jhansi and an overnight halt at Mhow, since we wanted to be back on the 30^th.

Why Jhansi? The choice of Jhansi as a destination was decided by the fact that we had family there: Charu’s brother had been posted there a few months ago and, rather than move into a standard MES flat, had chosen an old colonial bungalow that he had painstakingly nursed back to a livable state. Besides at approximately 1200 km from Bom, it was feasible to drive till there, with a night stopover at Mhow, where we also had family.

Day One 25 Dec 11 – Leg 1 (Mumbai to Mhow - 590 Km)Departure time was initially fixed at 0600 hrs, but a party at the Club the previous night put paid to an early morning and we could only leave at 0745. Fortunately, being Sunday the roads were empty and our exit from the city was easy. I had topped up the car the day before and done the usual checks. Since the car had undergone her routine service a month ago, with oil/oil filter change among other things, those issues were taken care of.

Figure 1: First Pit-Stop

As there were four of us (wifey – Charu and the teenaged twins – Madhav and Kamakshee), I insisted that we travel as light as possible with each of us restricted to one small suitcase. The only one I could convince was Madhav, while the ladies of the family insisted on carrying larger bags and then some more. My fervent pleas that the car would be weighed down and the already low-slung City would sit still lower, were brushed aside as a few more bags containing gifts were added. There was clearly no point wasting breath on lost causes.

However, the image of removing the stepney in the event of a flat tyre, with all the bags piled up on the edge of the road, kept cropping up like a recurring nightmare. To his credit, Madhav did a great job of arranging all bags neatly.

Figure 2 Some bikes at our first pit-stop on the Mumbai - Nashik stretch

                       

Figure 3 - Entering Taj, Gateway, Nashik              Figure 4 - Taj Gateway, ready for Christmas

Fortunately the roads were free and we could do a steady 70 on most of the Eastern Express Highway. Leaving the Kalyan Toll gate, I moved up to 90 – 100. On the open highway I cruised at 110. The ghat section was clear, however trucks tended to block the entire road forcing smaller vehicles to weave in and out between heavy vehicles and overtake from the left.

Figure 5 - The stretch till Nashik was great with scenic views of the hills

I had planned a breakfast halt at the Taj Gateway at Nashik, but we could only make it for an early brunch by 1130. The hotel staff was preparing for the Christmas party and service was rather slow, holding us down till 1300. With flyover construction in progress in Nashik, transit through the city was rather slow. Besides there are no direction signs and I did manage to take a wrong turn. A good thumb rule is to take all the right forks to stay on NH3. Nashik may give the impression of a small town but in reality it has quite a spread, which is not evident while approaching from Mumbai, but can be seen when driving towards Dhule. The city more or less continues till Ozar where considerable traffic is added on account of the HAL factory and town ship on both sides of the road.

Reaching Dhule, at around 1600 hrs being150 km from Nashik, we stopped to top up. Incidentally, that was one of the last petrol pumps to accept payment by card.

Large vehicles continued to dominate most of the traffic with relatively few cars and other light vehicles. The road remained good but in several places with construction / widening / repair work in progress, the double lane highway would merge into a single lane, restricted to single file traffic where speed dropped to 60 - 65. At one place there was a line of trucks standing on both sides of the road. It was a major checking point and being a double carriage road with a divider, traffic was at a crawl. I was advised to take the middle lane after the divider ended as that had been kept clear for cars and light vehicles. At another major toll gate probably at Manpur (MP), traffic was held up for atleast 30 mins probably due to their staff changeover. The trucks made their displeasure known with an ear splitting cacophony of shrill air-horns.

Mhow is about 30 Km short of Indore, when coming from Mumbai. Infact the first indication of Mhow is a sign on one of the overhead sign-boards, saying Mhow 64 Km. Somewhere along the way, perhaps 25 km later, there is a turn-off to the right for Mhow. One can either take the turn-off which takes you through a somewhat deserted and forested stretch over a rather rough road where the first time visitor may wonder whether he is on the right road, or, continue along the highway till a prominent circle where one road leads to Indore, another to Dewas and a third to Mhow. However I chose the turn off from the highway. The Map My India Road Atlas, shows Mhow to be sitting right on NH3, which is not the case, possibly due to road re-alignment when building the dual-carriage highway.

Mhow is basically an Army town, with orderly streets, well preserved churches and heritage bungalows. The roads are neat and largely free of traffic as can be expected in a cantonment. The terrain is rolling, typical of the Malwa plateau. Days during summer can be hot but nights are cool. In December, the day weather was pleasant and the nights chilly. Mhow market is well known for its artists and you can have your portrait or a replica of one of the masters made. The market also has a number of tailors catering to the floating fauji population, who can make a suit for you in a jiffy at a reasonable cost. Try the mithai and kachoris from Bhanwari Lal’s sweets when in Mhow. I understand his namkeens and hot jalebis are a hit. Mhow’s smocking embroidery work is also popular among ladies.

We reached Charu’s uncle’s place in Signals Vihar by 2000hrs after a friendly chowkidar guided us to his house. Then it was a nice stiff whisky topped off by an excellent dinner and a hot bath.

Day Two: 26 Dec 11 (Mhow to Jhansi 530 Km)

The next morning, was a refresher to our city-wearied eyes, when all the colours of nature came alive with dawn. I suppose I had forgotten that only in cities like Mumbai does a 10 x 10 space qualify as a “Master Bedroom”, everywhere else it would be a store for odds and ends. We re-discovered colour, nature, serenity, fresh air and open space once again in Col Sharma’s beautiful home. The previous morning we had been negotiating our way through the cacophony of Dadar and Sion and this morning, the loudest sound was a platoon of cadets jogging past on their morning run. 

The City received a wash, courtesy the helpful mali. Breakfast was excellent ’mooli ka parathas’ and it was only around 1000 hrs that we could hit the road again. The only ominous note was a warning about bad roads beyond Dewas received the previous day from Charu’s cousin in Nashik, who had driven to Delhi a few months ago. He was quite emphatic that the road beyond Dewas was bad and completely unsuitable for our City. However as there seemed to be no alternative, we decided to press on.

Once again we’d forgotten how the rest of India lived. The trouble with Mumbai and living in the maximum city is that we make the mistake of assuming that because Mumbai produces more wealth than other cities and perhaps some states, we are the rightful inheritors of better infrastructure and all that is good in the public domain. Mumbaikars tend to confuse the ability to produce greater wealth with hard work, without realizing that the rest of India, while perhaps unable to produce as much wealth probably works harder, with far less creature comforts and is equally deserving of public conveniences. Every time a couple of potholes appear on Mumbai’s roads, the media goes to town with stories and “breaking news” of how bad things are. Actually if you want to know how bad roads can get, drive up to MP. The roads were unbelievable. After Dewas, the road deteriorated into an uneven surface covered with patches, forcing me to drop speed to 55 – 60. I wondered if this was the bad road, I was told about. How far from the truth I was, I would soon find out.

Then the potholes began, small ones at first, progressively getting larger and larger till they covered the entire road and could only be described as craters. The road appeared to have been gouged out in chunks at different places. In places, the potholes were as much as 6 inches deep, which meant that I had to take the City carefully around them to ensure that the bottom did not scrape. To cap it all, the road edges were rather steep as well, precluding any chance of  going off the road. Where it was not possible to maneuver around the holes, I had no option but to go through. It wasn’t only the City that had it tough. The bulk of the traffic consisting of trucks had an equally tough task. The only ones who seemed completely unaffected were the buses plying between villages. Perhaps they knew the roads better than others or they just didn’t care, probably both. I also noticed that there were almost no cars other than a few jeep taxis and a few private cars. Certainly, ours was clearly the only City for miles around. The countryside was also sparsely populated and there were stretches for a few kilometers when we didn’t see another vehicle.

Figure 7 - The roads tended to be in this state for much of the way

The route taken by us was thus: Mhow – Dewas – Maksi – Shajapur. Of the 64 km between Dewas and Shajapur, I reckoned nearly 58 km had been bad. I was worried for the City. The car had not been designed for off-roading and that was precisely what I was doing. I expressed my apprehensions as I didn’t know how far the bad roads would continue and I was conscious of the fact that a breakdown in that area would render us vulnerable. Besides we had to return the same way. Eventually, around 1500, I stopped at a wayside stall to consult some truck drivers on the condition of the road ahead. I had to take a decision whether to push further or to return. It had become clear to both Charu and me that driving on that road after dark was not wise as maneuvering around the potholes would be impossible. The local people advised me that after the next village, Sarangpur, the road was better (whatever that meant). Since we had about 2.5 hrs of daylight left, I decided to do the remaining 10 km to Sarangpur and see if things improved. Actually the road improved only about 10 km after Sarangpur, just short of Biaora, where we reached by 1600. We stopped at the MP Tourism’s Hotel Highway Treat, where Rahul, Charu’s brother, had advised us to stop for lunch.

Figure 8 At Hotel Highway Treat, Biaora

Lunch was reduced to a few sandwiches and pakoras before we continued towards Guna. Till Guna the road was narrow but otherwise had a good surface and I managed 70 wherever the trucks permitted. After Guna, I had to head towards Shivpuri. I had been told that Guna to Shivpuri was also good, however a few kilometers outside Guna, once again the road disintegrated into a series of potholes and craters. By then it was around 1930 and pitch dark. According to the map I ought to have hit the Golden Quadrilateral Highway NH 76 from Udaipur to Shivpuri and Jhansi, several km outside Shivpuri. But either we missed it in the darkness and dust raised by the predominantly truck traffic or there was a mistake in the map. The road climbed up into hills and progress was slow maneuvering around the ditches and craters that spread across the road. Once again, I had to stay clear of the road edges as the drop was fairly steep. I opted to follow a truck with another following behind since that lighted up the road sufficiently. Driving became a family operation with Charu guiding me on the potholes and Madhav contributing his bit by advising me on oncoming trucks and Kamakshee looking out for signboards. We reached Shivpuri around 2030 and I enquired the way to Jhansi and the highway. I was told that I had missed the turn to the highway some way back but that I could get on to it further up as well. Strangely enough, after Shivpuri the truck traffic seemed to have petered out.

The first 20 km or so was along what appeared to be a state highway, which was otherwise in good shape, but completely deserted and appeared to wind through a forest. Nevertheless we soon reached the main highway, but then the milestones disappeared and I wasn’t sure whether to turn left or right. Naturally there was no signboard. In my mind we ought to have turned right towards Jhansi, however just as we were about to start towards the right, I spotted two men walking along and decided to ask them. Good thing that I did, because they immediately told me that Jhansi was the other way. After a full day of bouncing along narrow roads, the wide, smooth, dual carriage highway was absolutely luxurious and having reconfirmed the direction from a signboard that appeared after a few kilometers I increased speed to 90 and covered the remaining distance to Jhansi in good time, reaching the Elite Junction of Jhansi by 2230, where Rahul met us in his Xylo and led us to his house. Distance covered was 529 km, of which around 100 km was over what must have once been National Highway 3.

Jhansi was much colder than Mhow and the whisky and hot water was most welcome. As planned, the children stayed with Rahul and Mona, while Charu and yours truly checked into the White Tiger Retreat where a warmed room awaited us. The room was truly luxurious, as large as most ‘spacious’ Bombay flats, with separate bathrooms for both of us. Aaah, the pleasures of seniority. Completely sinful!

The summary of roads was:

·      Mhow to Dewas – 50 km – good

·      Dewas to Maksi – 36 km – first 6 km good, rest pathetic

·      Maksi to Shajapur – 28 km – terrible

·      Shajapur to Sarangpur – 27 km – as bad as it gets

·      Sarangpur to Biaora – first 10 km bad, rest acceptable (no choice!)

·      Biaora to Guna – reasonably good

·      Guna to Shivpuri – first10 km and last 5 km good, rest bad

·      Shivpuri to Jhansi – 100 km, superb

Total Distance covered since Mhow: 529 Km

Average Fuel consumption: 16.7 Km/liter

Day Three 27 Dec 11 (At Jhansi)

As could be expected of any respectable and responsible senior officer, we slept on till 0800, when I called for bed tea. The TV entertained us with eighties movies songs for another hour till a call from Mona reminded us that we had two teenagers along and that it was time to head for breakfast. Sahib and Memsahib having retired to their respective bathrooms, we emerged refreshed and relaxed and a short walk took us to Rahul’s place. We also had our first clear look at the beautiful White Tiger Retreat, where we were staying.

Rahul’s place was typical of British colonial architecture, with sloping tiled roofs and an arched verandah, set in a couple of acres of plot. This type of bungalow can be seen in most old cantonments and old Railway colonies, particularly in the smaller towns. This particular house was virtually abandoned and to his credit, Rahul took a conscious decision to restore it and the surrounding land back to life. The main doors with mosquito meshing leading into the hall form a triangular shape, something I remembered seeing on Poona and Lonavala stations during my childhood. In deference to his wife Mona’s need for ease in keeping the floors clean, the old uneven stone floor was covered by modern tiles. Apart from that, the bungalow remained unaltered.  

The area around, was cleared of bushes and needless overgrowth and lawns were being planted on two sides, hedged by bougainvillea bushes and fruit trees towards the periphery. As the house had not been lived in for some years, the gate had been stolen and a piece of wire mesh was being used as  a makeshift gate to keep cows and goats out. Additionally, a locally available thorny bush was used to line the boundary fence to stop cattle and goats from making an uninvited entry.

As can be expected in any city outside SoBo, there was a daily power cut imposed at 0900 and we settled down to a candlelit breakfast. Not that we were complaining, seeing the spread that was laid out before us. The kids were least deterred by power cuts and instead set about exploring the substantial grounds and neighbourhood in the warmth of the morning sun, while the three of us, 

Mona, Charu and me preferred to soak in the sunshine with cups of coffee, while we allowed the breakfast to settle. While Charu fulfilled Mona’s long pending need for Bollywood and other forms of gossip, I busied myself in the delightful pursuit of watching grass grow in the winter morning sun. Around the time the sun reached its zenith, I shook myself out of my reverie and accompanied the boys on a tour of the cantt. And then it was time for lunch!

 

Figure 9- The boys dressed as though it was summer

Figure 10 - ... while the girls explored winter fashions

Figure 11 - Yours truly didn't take chances in dressing

Figure 12 - Charu loves the winter

After lunch, once again I checked on the length of the grass grown since the morning and then it was time to visit the city museum and the fort for the sound and light show. As can be expected, a major portion of the museum is devoted to the Rani of Jhansi and details of the great mutiny. While there are a number of weapons on display, there was no attempt at explaining the purpose of each. Similarly there were a number of colour sketches of soldiers in various uniforms and old photos, which had possibly been copied from the British Museum. The displays could have been better had they attempted to theme out the displays as had been done for the Rani’s artifacts. There were plenty of displays depicting scenes from her life but no actual pocessions – a sari, her sword or jewelry. Surely her descendants would have something that could be displayed to the world.

Similarly, the fort, though well preserved, could be vastly improved. Most hurtful of all was the graffiti scribbled by thoughtless visitors. Portions of the fort are also being used as toilets by visitors who think nothing of the rich history that this monument has witnessed. Our visit was made enjoyable by our young guide who took me down to the now disused main gate, perhaps the lowest part of the fort. His enthusiasm made the visit worthwhile. Walking down to the imposing wooden door studded with ancient rusting spikes, in the fading light of the day, with no one else but the guide and me was an entirely different experience. The fort has not only seen indescribable violence, but also the transformation of a young teenaged bride, into a mother, a widow and a young queen, determined to hold on to her kingdom at all costs. The sound and light show was wonderful and did justice to the poignancy of the story of what began as a carefree existence, that slowly transformed into a young life forced onto a public stage, sadly laced with violence, treachery and pain in the space of a few years that experienced more than what others see in three times that age. The desperation of a queen who had chosen to stand up to a mighty military power, and then helplessly watched her trusted aides and soldiers fall one by one, the loyalty and fearless sacrifice of Jhalkari Bai who rode to a certain death masquerading as the queen in order to confuse the British, so that her queen might escape and the desperate leap of faith from the ramparts by the Rani with her infant son, in order that she might rally her troops for one more battle, the bravery of the Pathan Dost Khan in braving enemy fire to bring the lifeless body of her Risaldar Gaus Mohammed to the safety of the fort for a proper burial, where he was joined by the chief gunner Khuda Baksh and former dancer turned gunner, Moti Bai in death, all came alive on the chilly wind swept stage in the courtyard of that historic castle.

The story of the Rani of Jhansi needs to be told and retold to all Indians.

Figure 13 Nothing like a log fire to get spirits up

Day Four 28 Dec 11 (At Jhansi)

            The second day at Jhansi began in a manner similar to the first – a lazy morning, followed by a gargantuan breakfast, followed by more watching the grass grow. The girls decided to visit the Cantt market, while I stirred myself sufficiently to drive the car down to the nearest pump to top up. Cantt markets, whether in Jhansi or Ambala are the same everywhere.

            I also did some feverish study of the Road Atlas, to try and find another route that would allow me to avoid the speed breaker roads that I had recently experienced. After studying various permutations and combinations, I settled on another route that would be slightly longer, but that which people vouched was better. That said, I was still skeptical, as the people vouching for the quality of the route was the Army, who I suspected probably wouldn’t make out the rough surface if they were sitting high above in a 7 ½ tonner. However I reasoned that roads connecting the state capital were likely to be better.

            The route finalized was thus:

o   Jhansi – Babina – Lalitpur – Sagar, via the Golden Quad Highway NH 26

o   Sagar – Bhopal via Rahatgarh, Begumganj, Gairatganj and Raisen on NH 86

o   Bhopal – Dewas -Indore – Mhow on NH 86

                        In my estimate the distance was 580 km, ie 50 km more.

            The afternoon was spent visiting an NGO, Taragram, engaged in making eco friendly products for house building, as well as other items like handmade paper. They were also operating a community FM radio station, Radio Bundelkhand for reaching out to villages in a radius of 10 km, so that their problems could be highlighted. After the NGO, we moved on to Orchha, to visit the only temple where Lord Ram is revered not as a god, but as a king and actually receives a salute from a policeman stationed there each time the temple doors open for the aarti. The river Betwa serenely flows nearby with a picturesque but disused palace near the river’s edge. The main palace and fort were of course beautiful. But I was horrified to find an MP tourism hotel operating inside the building of what was once the Jahangir Mahal. It was the typical insensitively created hotel with unintelligently created toilets and tacky décor in that world heritage site. The sound and light show was especially wonderful as the palace came alive as the story of the Bundela kings and Bundelkhand unfolded. Dinner was at the beautiful Amar Mahal fairly close to the river, a picturesque palace hotel, probably belonging to one of the erstwhile rulers. Once again, the hot whisky did much to drive away the cold.

Day Five 29 Dec 11 (Jhansi to Mhow)

This time I was determined to leave early and we left by 0700 on the route decided the day before. Once again, there was a difference between the map and reality, as I expected the NH 26 to leave from somewhere within or near Jhansi town, whereas I had to follow a smaller road till Babina Cantt about 30 km away and could join the highway only after that. The NH 26 was what every road should aspire to be and we cruised down the highway till Sagar 200 km away. Reaching Sagar at 0940, we stopped at a place for tea, before moving on. Our waiter in the resort advised us that the road till Rahatgarh was bad, but fine thereafter. (So what’s new?) The route took us through Sagar Cantt and the town, till we found our way to the Rahatgarh road. As in many other places, in MP, they didn’t believe in signboards and one had to ask ones way through the crowded city. Thereafter it was back to the by now familiar roads of MP. Quite obviously they don’t believe in good roads down there. The 40 km between Sagar and R’garh took me two hours. The good thing was that these roads were pretty well travelled with all types of vehicles plying and there were plenty of villages every few km.

For once the guy giving me the road advice seemed to know what he was on about since the road surface improved dramatically after R’garh. Short of Bhopal, after Raisen, the road once again became bad and we bounced along for the last 30 km. We reached the outskirts of Bhopal by1600 and took the bye-pass to avoid going through the city. The bye-pass marker does not say Indore but Jaipur, and it was a rickshaw driver who advised me to take that route as it later bifurcated into two, one going to Jaipur and the other to Indore. The bye-pass road was not very different from the by now familiar MP roads that we had thus far traversed so we felt at home. However, the Bhopal – Indore corridor, SH 18 (incorrectly marked on the map as NH 86) was what really impressed me. It was not only smooth, but well laid out and one could do 120 easily. I managed to make it to Dewas, just as it was getting dark. Thereafter I decided to slow down to a sedate 60, to avoid missing any turns. After a brief stopover in the Mhow cantt market, we reached Col Sharma’s place by 2100.

            Total distance run: 650 km. I had made the mistake of not wearing my sunglasses early enough and by the time we had dinner the hours of staring at the sunny tarmac were getting to me. I was exhausted after 13 hours of driving, many of them over rough roads.

Day Six 30 Dec 11 (Mhow to Mumbai)

Perhaps it was the fact that we were now on the home run and the quality of the road was assured, that led me not to push everyone to leave early. Eventually we left at 0920, topped up along the way and headed back on NH3. After the roads we had endured, the NH3 was bliss. We were on the outskirts of Nashik by 1500 and reached the Arty Centre by 1545, where we had a late lunch at the home of Gautam and Chanda Segan. Chanda is Charu’s cousin and we had visited them last in April when they had just moved into their house. By now, their lawn was looking fabulous and we would have loved to enjoy the warmth of the evening sun and their hospitality further, but by 1700 all of us bundled back into the City for the final stretch home, reaching NOFRA at 2100. Distance run 592 km.

Figure 14 - With Gautam and Chanda Segan at their beautiful home in Nashik

Total distance done in the trip: 2400 km