It's Just Another Year

Over the past few days I’ve had a number of people ask me about my plans for December 31st. The fact that I have no plans, have not made any attempts to make plans and nobody (well ... almost nobody) has asked me to be a part of their plans, would have bothered me until a couple of years ago. I would be going around feeling sorry for myself and feeling that I am unloved and unwanted.

Not today though. Completely ‘socialized’ out, I am in the alone zone. Reading, sleeping, catching up on television and movies, as much as I love being with people, I also love being with myself. Not having to make conversation, not having to listen to people around me, the silence as a change can be so refreshing and so golden.

It’s been an incredible year for me, mostly because I managed to travel a fair amount. To places that I hadn’t been to before. To places that I’ve previously lived in and continue to love. Re-establishing connections with people I’m related to and am friends with. It really was a good travel year covering beaches (Goa), deserts (Rajasthan), my favorite city (New York), mountains (Uttarakhand) and the city I was the most skeptical about and loved more than I could ever imagine, Varanasi. 

Somewhere along the year I became indifferent to the kind of food that is considered cool. Pretentious ingredients (edible flowers to name just one), imported ingredients (eat fresh, eat local), restaurants with more glitz and less taste, the words ‘foodie’ and ‘fine dining’ and a previously loved television show, left a sour taste in my mouth. 

The more I came across people obsessed with money, the less I loved it (and them). Don’t get me wrong - I like having the money I do because it allows me to live the life that I have. I hope in 2014 my finances allow me to do the things that I did in 2013. I have no aspirations of staying in star hotels and flying first class (I would love to fly first class - who wouldn’t? But at what cost?). Budget hotels, economy class and home stays are fantastic. 

I read this morning that Michael Schumacher at the age of 44 is fighting for his life from a skiing accident. With severe brain injuries, the man that supposedly has ‘everything’ may end up having nothing going forward, even if he does get to live. Our lives can change in the blink of an eye. We must make the most of what we have right now. 

What am I looking forward to in 2014? Pretty much what I am always looking forward to. Being healthy. Warmth from my family and friends. Peace. Lots of travel. Delicious comfort food. Hopefully it isn’t asking for too much.

I’m going to end my year just like I would end any other day. Because all I want to have tomorrow is what I have today. 

I hope all of you also get to have what you want in the new year. Happy 2014!

Dial-an-Escort

While I’m perfectly content with the life that I have, sometimes I get these brilliant ideas for a career that I could possibly enjoy. The most recent one being that of offering myself as an escort. Now before you start visualizing sexual favors for money, let me tell you that this escort service is of another kind. So let me start from the beginning. 

Most of you that have met me are aware that not only am I a pretty face, I am also intelligent, interesting, charming and crazy witty. A complete package and exactly the kind of person you’d like to have sitting across from you at a nice restaurant. The thing that could improve your average dining experience by leaps and bounds, would be some arm candy/a trophy friend, enticing conversation and loads of laughs. In other words - me. 

Are you so bored with your life that watching the grass grow seems like a fun activity? When was the last time you laughed so hard, you not only snorted but almost peed in your pants? Do you worry too much about what ‘other people might think’ resulting in never acting incredibly silly? I’m here to save the day and make you laugh so much that your jaws will hurt. And if you are the ‘peeing in your pants’ kind, I’ll even provide you with an adult diaper. 

Are you going through a difficult phase in your life? Does work suck more than usual? Is your married life so dull that you can’t even remember why you guys got together in the first place? Don’t despair - instead of an evening of fun and laughter, I also offer counseling services. Trust me, I can dish out that ‘feel good’ crap as well as the next loony psychiatrist. God knows I do enough of it already. A list of references can be furnished from across the world. 

On the other hand, if you’re simply looking for a mature and sophisticated man to have a nice meal with, I can be that guy too. Although this would be at a slightly higher cost. ‘Immature’ and ‘unsophisticated’ is what I do best. 

And finally, in the mood for some role playing? Get creative and let’s discuss.

Some rules:

The first rule of the escort service is that you do not talk about the escort service. What happens between the client and me stays between the client and me. You get the gist. 

Alcohol is important at these sessions. With each drink I have, I get funnier/smarter.     With each drink that you have, you will find me funnier and turn stupider. 

Chauffeur service, wining-dining expenses will be completely borne by the client. 

The amount I charge will be at my discretion. If you’re rich, you pay me loads of money. 

If you’re not rich, call me once you’ve saved a significant sum.

Examples of topics that will under no circumstances be discussed: Software/IT/anything related  to technology, Finance/Investments/Money Matters (except for the amount you owe me). For a full list, email me. 

No credit cards, no cheques - cash only. In advance. 

No refunds. 

I have the complete right of refusal with no obligation to offer a reason (body odor, lack of a sense of humor, payment in loose change are only some of the possible reasons).

Rules may be added/changed at my discretion.

So what are you waiting for? Is this not the answer to all your prayers? Call me now at 1-800-RATMAN for an evening so enticing, you will wish you could afford to have me all the time. 

Please feel free to share this post. Referrals earn a healthy 10 percent. 

A Killer Script

He was of below average stature, small-framed with long hair, an unkempt beard and introduced himself to the class as a Yoga teacher. The thing I remember about him most vividly is that he usually wore a black T-Shirt (not in this picture though) and was the only one with a Macbook Pro for taking notes, while the rest of us used old fashioned notepads. Other than that he made absolutely no impression on me - I’m not sure if we exchanged any words at all during the course of the week. Even if we did, they must have been inconsequential. 

It was an interesting mix of students. There was the young doodler with remarkable talent who I always shared a desk with and had long discussions about films. There was the writer for documentaries who I never got to know very well during class but became close friends with later. The playback singer for Tamil films who moved to New York and with whom I attended a Martin Scorsese workshop. The model-looking engineer/MBA graduate, unhappy with corporate life, happiest as a drummer. The engineering student, the home-maker, the IT professional etc.

Oh and let me not forget, the murderer. 

During the course of the next few years some of these students joined film school, began working in television, quit their corporate jobs to make independent films, joined a band, while others continued with their lives as usual. And then there was one who decided to murder his girlfriend and stuff her body into a freezer. Who would have thought that we had a future killer in our midst, learning the technicalities of script writing?

From the introduction you may have figured out that it was the Yoga teacher. An individual you would expect to associate with serenity, calmness, spiritualism turned out to be the one to strike his girlfriend with an iron rod, attempt to hack her into pieces, stuff her into a freezer and continue to live with the body in his home for 18 days along with his wife (yes there was also a wife in the same apartment!) after the deed was done. Either the guy was remarkably smart or his wife, despicably stupid. 

How does a fight between two individuals end up with one of them dead? I get the screaming, shouting, throwing stuff at each other, hitting, slapping, crying. But killing? On the anger-meter how angry does one have to get to be able to justify to himself during that split second that its okay to take a life? And then the seeming lack of remorse. The fact that he didn’t turn himself in to the authorities and hoped to go about his life as usual seems fairly mind blowing. 

‘The Following’ a television show about a cult of killers is not only squeamish and creepy, it is disturbing on so many levels. The cult seems to be made up of people you and I would meet in our daily lives. It’s a show I avoid watching last thing at night because it gives me nightmares. Such people must exist. You know what they say about truth being stranger than fiction.

And while crime shows are my favorite genre on television (not because I love to watch people die, but because I like to use my detective skills to solve the case!), I had never really thought that a nondescript man sitting at the desk in front of me would make headlines for all the wrong reasons. 

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? The next time you’re at a conference or a party, interacting with people you’ve never met before, be aware that there may be a murderer in your midst. Hopefully it isn’t you that’s the target.

And hopefully you're also not the perpetrator.

Memories of Another Rain

Staring at the rain falling in a consistent pattern, I was glad to be indoors. Not being one of those people who love to get wet, I find being outside in the rain quite annoying. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t had more than my share of getting soaked. Whether it was Calcutta or New York, I’ve been caught unawares in a downpour innumerable times, seeking shelter for a while and then finally giving up and walking to my destination, feet wet through my canvas shoes or sandals, my wavy hair turning flat and my glasses wishing they had tiny wiper blades.

I do like the part where I come across other walkers in a similar situation, exchanging a knowing smile which says ‘I guess we may as well enjoy it’. A momentary connection with a stranger that will be forgotten in a flash.

I love the rain so much when I’m simply a spectator, protected by a roof over my head. Looking at people running for shelter or picking up pace under their umbrellas. The folks on motorcycles and bikes coming to a sudden stop for cover. We’ve seen so much rain but it’s always miracle-like for me - the Heaven’s turning on their sprinklers, making the dry moister, the air cleaner and the green greener. Washing the dust off, it feels like laundry day. 

A short while ago I was watching two little girls who got off their school bus. It was drizzling but they refused to get under their mothers waiting umbrellas. Kept running around, giggling, completely deaf to their mom’s screaming at them. I was sitting by the window, not being able to contain my own laughter and wished later that I had taken a picture.   

A favorite childhood memory is associated with rain. Growing up, we knew everyone in our neighbourhood. Not just the people living on our street, but the one past the main road, the parallel streets as well as the perpendicular ones. 

I was probably all of 1o years old. It was another one of those Calcutta rainy, monsoon days when you feel like you’ll never see the sun again. Stores were shut and the streets were empty. The rain had been falling incessantly for the past few days and life had pretty much come to a standstill. People were starting to get stir-crazy when someone must have had the brilliant idea of having a very wet picnic. My older sisters and I were standing on our balcony, probably bored out of our minds as we had even lost power, when we saw a group of people coming towards us. It was mostly their friends and a few of mine. They were going around the neighborhood, having everyone come out of their homes and enjoy the rain. 

There must have been at least fifty ‘kids’ and the group kept getting larger as the word spread. We went to the local park which was full of puddles and played there for hours. I distinctly remember the laughter, the unending laughter. The peals of laughter each time the drizzle would turn into a heavy downpour. The constant smiles and giggles as we’d splash water on each other, knowing that we couldn’t possibly get any more wet. The jumping in the puddles, every single one of us soaked to the skin, our mother’s probably worrying about us getting sick and knowing that they could do absolutely nothing about it. 

There was no food but it was definitely a picnic. I don’t know if I can transport you there with my descriptions, but as I write this I can’t stop smiling. These memories were of a much simpler time. When it was people and not possessions that made us happy. When laughter came without a price. And when the monsoons were also a time to have a picnic.

The Dream

Last night I had the most vivid dream, uncanny details of which I woke up remembering. Before I would forget those details, I began making notes on my iPad that happened to be next to me. It was only 7 am, too early for me to get out of bed, so once I was done, I went back to sleep. And in a semi-wakeful state my dreams continued to be about being at a barber shop. 

Most of last night I dreamt that I was getting a haircut. It was the longest and most eventful haircut of my life even though it wasn’t actually real. I was at this large departmental store which had a section catering to hair services. I think it was the old Bombay Store on MG Road in Bangalore. Two of my sisters were with me - we had a bunch of bags so we must have shopped there for a while, either prior to my dream starting or in a portion that I don’t recollect. 

My barber or hairdresser was a light skinned, tall, attractive young woman dressed in a blue printed saree. She had shiny brown hair which she wore in a pony-tail. She looked like she could be a flight attendant for Indian Airlines. She was introduced to me by a man named Rohan although I think that he never actually mentioned her name. For the purposes of this piece I’m going to call her Gita. 

The salon was extremely expansive, customers spaced at an uncommonly large distance from each other. It was also meticulously clean, as if the hair being chopped was somehow being magically swept immediately. As I looked at myself in the enormous mirror in front of me, I saw that I had really straight jet-black hair instead of the hair that I actually have. 

As Gita began working on giving me a haircut, it seemed like she was cutting each hair on my head individually. She also started talking to me about her life. About how she used to live in London and it was her dream to be a hairdresser in Bangalore. Even in my dream I remember thinking that her ambition sounded really odd. She told me many more things about herself, much of which is fuzzy. Then her phone rang - she excused herself and walked away to take the call. A woman in a short red dress and bright red lipstick came up to me. 

“Is this your first time?” she asked sensuously. I remember she had beautiful hair that was so perfect, it almost looked like a wig. She also had a strange accent like she was from some far away place. 

I nodded my head in response.

She came up to me real close and whispered, “you should have gone with Rohan. He’s the best.”

Just then Gita returned and the lady in red disappeared. She seemed visibly upset.

“It was my mother,” she said. “I have to go to London next week”

She didn’t volunteer any further information and I didn’t ask. She went back to cutting one hair at a time. 

“Would you like to go outside for a while?” she asked all of a sudden. 

I agreed like it was the most normal thing to do. She turned my chair around, which apparently had wheels and started pushing me from the back, as if I were seated on a wheelchair. I waved out to my sisters who were waiting for me patiently in the lobby. They waved and went back to chatting with each other. 

The street was completely deserted with not a soul or any traffic in sight. On both sides there were these old-style street lights, the kind that I remember from my childhood years in Calcutta. Gita went back to talking about herself, the entire time not having asked a single question about my life. I noticed that the street was on an incline, as if I was in a hilly region. 

All of a sudden she let go of my chair and I started going down the incline, fairly rapidly. It wasn’t very steep but I kept gathering pace. I don’t remember if I was afraid. For what seemed like the longest time, I kept going down, completely alone and desolate, until the road came to an end and my chair stopped on its own. 

The next thing I knew, I was back in the salon. I had a really nice, new and interesting haircut and my face looked a lot younger. Standing behind me was now Rohan instead of Gita. I paid the lady in the red dress for my haircut and went out to the lobby. My sisters were no longer there. I began looking for them but they were nowhere to be found. At a far corner there was a woman reading a magazine. I began walking towards her. As I got closer, she looked up at me and smiled.

“Are you finally done with your haircut?” she asked.

It was my ex-wife. This time I remember being afraid. 

And that’s when I woke up in a cold sweat. 

There's Something about Varanasi - The Final Chapter - How much is enough?

Pascal and I met on the last of my 3 days in Varanasi. I was at Niyati Cafe drinking a cup of coffee when we struck up a conversation. Once he found out that I had a food blog and that I had written restaurant reviews for some magazines, he went from being ‘just friendly’ to ‘I love food - I want to be you’! 

“Do you know why I keep coming back to Varanasi?” he asked. Of course I didn’t since I had just met the guy! “It’s the lassi (smoothie Indian style) - they have the best lassi!”, he said salivating. I laughed out loud but also couldn’t help agreeing with him since Aparna and I had had the best lassi of our lives the previous day. Even better than all the ones I drank during my Punjab trip the previous year. Who would have thought?

Pascal was born in Switzerland 26 years ago, stands 6 foot 2 inches and weighs a scrawny 62 kg. Born in a reasonably wealthy family he decided that all he wants to do is to see the world. He works for organizations like Greenpeace for 4 months in the year and travels the rest of the time. India is in his itinerary every year. Travel is on a shoestring budget, staying/eating at the most basic hotels/restaurants or with friends, unreserved compartments of trains and non-luxury buses for commuting. 

“What makes you do this?” I asked. “You could have such a comfortable life back in Switzerland.”

“It’s boring”, he responded. “I love my country but everything is the same. I come here and every place I go to has something new to offer.” 

“But don’t you find it hard roughing it out like this? It couldn’t be very easy?” 

“It’s easy,” he replied. “If you’ve always had everything, you realize that money isn’t what’s important in life.”

That sounded profound to me, especially coming from a 26 year old. It reminded me of my favorite line in The Fight Club - The things you own end up owning you. 

When most people at his age would be working to climb the corporate ladder, spending their earnings on possessions, clubbing, partying, Pascal had figured out that he didn’t want any more than was absolutely necessary. 

“All my possessions are in these,” he said pointing to a small duffle bag and a backpack. “My parents force me to carry a cell phone.” He laughed as he showed it to me saying that he didn’t have a connection. “When I go to a place that has free wifi, I send them an email to let them know that I’m okay.”

I, on the other hand, while in Varanasi, had probably used my phone a hundred times sending text messages, making and receiving calls. 

“They must worry about you,” I said. “You should stay in regular touch with them.”

He told me that he had thought of becoming a sadhu for a couple of years, to experience their lifestyle, to not have any emotional ties. “I think I would make a good sadhu”, he laughed.

“There must be a reason that you are the way you are,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never lacked anything, I grew up in a normal home with parents that have always loved me.”

“When was the last time you sent them an email?” I asked. His smile told me that it had been a while.

“Let’s go to the Blue Lassi Shop,” he responded looking at his phone. “They have free wifi.”

                                                                **

The day I met Pascal, he was on his way to Rishikesh and decided to stop in Varanasi for a few hours. I got an email from him a few days later saying that he was in Vashisht in Himachal instead. “I still haven’t made it to Rishikesh,” he wrote. “I’ve been here since 7 days - it’s so beautiful here. I hope to meet you again soon.”

I hope to meet you again too, Pascal.

There's something about Varanasi - Part 3 - 'Of Boatmen and Massuers'

The sun rises over the Ganga

Mornings in Varanasi were pretty magical. On the first morning the Ghats were quiet and peaceful where one got to watch a spectacular sunrise over the Ganga, people going about their morning duties, a few bathers and mostly tourists. The second morning on the other hand was vastly different. Apparently hordes of sadhu’s (holy men) from the Maha kumbh mela at Allahabad had set up camp in Varanasi and I couldn’t be happier that they did. One has to be extremely lucky to have a radically different experience in the exact same spot on back to back days.

It may also have been an auspicious bathing day since there seemed like so many more people washing off their sins in the Ganges. At some places it was like an almost-nudist colony but nobody was batting an eyelid. Since I’ve never sinned, I didn’t feel the need to jump into the river and cleanse myself. 

Washing away their sins

My favorite Sadhu

And of course my life being what it is, there had to also be an amusing incident on the cards. Once the sun was up and we were done clicking, what seemed like a million pictures, we decided to sit on the steps and just relax for a while. A lean, elderly, scruffy old man came up to me and held out his hand. I did the polite thing and shook it, assuming that he was just being friendly. Except that he wouldn’t let go of my hand and began massaging it, slowly working his way up to my arm and shoulders. To the right of me I could see Aparna giggling and to the left of me there was this local sadhu looking guy with an amused expression on his face. The apparently eighty year old masseur, a little guy who made me look gigantic, certainly knew what he was doing and it felt pretty damn good. He convinced me to lie on my stomach right there on the steps while he worked on my back and legs. Meanwhile tourists kept stopping by and taking pictures. I tried to get them to pay me for the photos but they just laughed and moved on. I could see from Aparna’s pictures later why it would have looked so hilarious as he sat on my butt and worked on my back.

The 80 year old masseur

Funny memories are our favorite, aren’t they? Especially at the expense of others. 

We had been for a boat ride the first morning but Aparna was very unhappy with our boatman. “He’s supposed to tell us stories,” she kept saying. “That’s supposed to be the best part of going on a boat ride.” I never remember stories anyway so I couldn’t care less but I thought that pretending to agree with her was the right thing to do.

So since our first boat ride wasn’t satisfactory, Aparna checked with a friend who referred Tinku to us for the second morning. Tinku had stories coming out of everywhere, most of which I think he was making up. The funniest thing is that after about five minutes Aparna stopped listening. So much for her complaining the previous day. We couldn’t however get Tinku to shut up, so when he suggested that he could also sing bhajans or devotional songs, it seemed like a good way to keep him occupied, while we continued to take photos! On a side note, I really did enjoy listening to his bhajans and even joined him during the chorus.

On the second day we rented a cab to take us sightseeing. As soon as we left the ancient city and started driving past shopping malls, we knew that we had made a mistake. We wanted to go back right away. Our taxi driver was having a hard time figuring us out. “But you’ve paid me for 8 hours,” he said. "Don't you want to go to ..... (rattling off names of places)?". It didn’t matter that we had paid for the entire day or that there were all these places that he was suggesting we visit. All we wanted was to go back. While we did make it to Sarnath and pretended to be interested, it just wasn’t working for us. He was happy that we’d saved him time and fuel. We were happy to be where we were supposed to be.

“It feels so good to be back,” commented Aparna as we jostled our way through the narrow lanes, feeling like we were back home, even though we had only arrived the previous morning. 

I couldn’t agree more with her. It most certainly was a relief to be ‘home’. “Let’s celebrate our return with a samosa,” I said, as we walked towards this giant cauldron dishing out delectable treats. 

To be continued ....

There's something about Varanasi - Part 2 - 'Look out for the Poop'

It was already 1 pm and I hadn’t eaten anything since dinner, the previous night. But before I could think about feeding myself, I had to get done with my morning business and brush my teeth. So it was imperative that we get to the hotel as quickly as we could and not head to a saree store instead where Aparna wanted me to help pick a saree for her mother. “Our rooms aren’t ready yet,” she tried convincing me as I got grumpier by the second. 

The narrow lanes, with a
Japanese signboard?

As the shopping ordeal ended and we finally began making our way towards the hotel, Aparna, who had been around for a couple of hours and was now well-versed with the art of walking in the old city, kept asking me to keep my eyes on the road. “You’re going to step into poop”, she said. Maneuvering through the narrow lanes chock-a-bloc with humans, stray dogs, cows and the occasional cycle or motor cycle while watching out for cow poop, plus carrying on a conversation, was interesting to say the least. To give you a perspective, a motorcycle in these lanes could be a bigger bully than a Hummer on a side-street. Mostly lined with shops on both sides, a couple of times I had to jump into one of them to make way for traffic. Or a large cow! Could be a fun video game. 

Our hotel was much nicer than what I was expecting. And the best part was that it was right on the Ghat. What I was however, not expecting, was to be greeted with a garland of red roses as I started to walk inside. In fact I was so busy talking that I didn’t even notice someone waiting to pounce over me with it, until it actually happened. Aparna, of course was cracking up, saying “I couldn’t wait to see the expression on your face!”. 

On the left is the Dasaswamedh Ghat where the evening aarti takes place. To the right, the red steps lead to our hotel.

Our first day was completely packed. Got to mention here that thanks to Aparna’s brother-in-law,we were introduced to two wonderful gentlemen living in the city that were fantastic hosts. Whether it was shopping, getting a tour of the weavers looms, excellent seating for the evening prayers or recommendations on where we should eat, mostly Vijay and sometimes Vinay went out of their way to be helpful. 

Our lunch place, an interesting little restaurant called Niyati Cafe, though came as a recommendation from a French gentleman who we ran into. Little did I know at the time that Niyati would become my favorite hangout and the owner, Ravi Prakash, my best buddy!

Ravi Prakash, owner/chef of Niyati Cafe with Aparna

The 42 year old weaver

Besides being the oldest living city in the world, Varanasi is also famous for it’s hand woven fabric. Which sadly is a dying business. Cheap imitations and machine made textiles have forced most weavers to move to different professions and this dying trade is now confined to small, run-down looms, which in all probability will cease to exist in another decade or two. One of the weavers I talked to mentioned that he had been doing this for the past twenty years. “How old are you?” I asked him, a little surprised. If  I were to guess his age, I would have said ’30’. He was apparently 42. Have a look at his picture. Watching these men work at dingy workshops, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad.

My most and least favorite parts of the first day were both religion related. The evening aarti or prayers, a one-hour long, grandly decorated, brightly lit, tastefully choreographed and attended by thousands was magical. Even though I was continuously clicking pictures, I still felt that I was in a trance. There was a group of tourists from Brazil sitting around me. I, being my usual friendly self had exchanged smiles and several words with them. One of the women in a heavy accent said to me, “Isn’t this the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen?”. I nodded and smiled, thinking to myself that you don’t have to belong to any religion or even be religious to appreciate a beautiful prayer service. 

My least favorite part of the day was visiting the Kashi Vishvanath Temple. The less I speak about it, the better. In fact it’s best if I don’t speak about it at all. 

By the time we ended our day it was near midnight. I hadn’t showered. Hadn’t changed my clothes since the previous morning. I seemed to be fitting in very well with my surroundings. It had been a long and tiring day. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to sleep right away as my mind was still hyperactive from the constant stimulation. I went online and found out that the sun was expected to rise at 6 am. 

“I’ll see you in the lobby at 5:45 am”, I said to Aparna, checking the soles of my shoes for poop.

To be continued ....

There's something about Varanasi - Part 1 'Getting There'

Until about five years ago, I would turn up my nose at the thought of visiting Varanasi. Probably because all I’d heard about the city was that it was dirty and it stunk. I guess at the time I was more immature (it’s possible), more superficial and not willing to look beyond the grime. And then something in me changed. I wish I could tell you what it was that changed, but all of a sudden Varanasi became this fascinating city that I had to go see for myself.

My friend Aparna, who lives in Chicago and visits India every winter, was also very keen and so we decided to go there together. After two unsuccessful attempts of turning these plans into reality, we finally made it there last month. Of course it had to be the year of the Maha Kumbh Mela in nearby Allahabad, something that takes place once every 12 years and attracts millions of people.  Many of who include Varanasi into their itinerary. Which meant that getting train tickets and a desirable hotel wasn’t exactly easy, even though we began trying in the first week of January. 

My train was supposed to reach Varanasi just before 8 am on the 18th of February and Aparna’s around 9 am. Instead I was about 3 hours late so she got there before I did. After two attempts at shoddy auto-rickshaws that kept breaking down, the third one finally got me to this place called Godowlia Chowk, after which I would have to walk about 1/2 a kilometer to get to the spot where Aparna would be waiting for me. 

At this point I have to mention that my chatty auto-rickshaw driver, Golu Prajapati, not only drove me to my destination but was an excellent guide on the way.  He also told me all about his family, where they grew up, how many children he has etc. He gave me his number so I could call him for any local sight-seeing and to be dropped back to the train station on the 20th. In the less than 30 minute ride, I had gotten to know Golu as though he was an old friend. I feel like an idiot though for not having his picture.

As I got out of the rickshaw, all I could see was a sea of people. It could have been an intimidating site for the old me, but this more-mature me was completely relaxed. Golu instructed me to walk towards the right of the Chowk (crossing). With my luggage in hand, I began maneuvering into the crowd, reminding myself that this was so much easier than the time I was on 5th Avenue in New York City around Christmas, being pushed by crazy tourists who wanted to get a look at the store-windows. I got to the spot and called Aparna who said that she was there and was looking out for me. Suddenly she went, “I see you” as I heaved a sigh of relief, because for the life of me I had no idea where she was.

And then there she was a moment later, standing directly in front of me. We looked at each other and broke out into peals of laughter. We kept laughing until our sides hurt and when we finally stopped, we gave each other a hug. We were finally in this ancient city called Varanasi - our adventure was about to begin!

To be continued .....

The cliched India photo. Close to where I was supposed to meet Aparna.

An Extraordinary Man

At a very young age Kalyan decided that the schooling system didn’t work for him. “I didn’t like the idea of being interrupted from what I was learning at the end of a period and moving on to something else”, he says. Although he would leave home to go to school, he wouldn’t end up getting there. Eventually of course his parents found out. Both of them being in academia were distressed that their son wasn’t interested in studying. 

Which wasn’t really the case as Kalyan was a bright boy and curious to learn. Just not in the conventional way. The school’s retired principal, who his parents reached out to, recognized something unique in the boy and recommended home schooling and was even willing to take over his entire responsibility.

“We spent weeks just talking about stuff. Eventually it was I who suggested that he should start teaching me the curriculum”, he says laughingly. The next time Kalyan went to a classroom was when he joined Engineering college.

I met Kalyan for the first time last month and have met him only three times so far. In his mid-30’s now, this extraordinary man gave up his job with Hyundai, the day after his 30th birthday. Assuming that he was looking for bigger challenges at work, they immediately offered him a promotion, which he of course turned down. Because Kalyan was looking for challenges and a purpose that could not be provided to him by the corporate world. Or the world that he had been familiar with until now.

He packed himself a bag and began a journey from Kanyakumari to Kashmir, using the most basic means of commuting, living with friends, friends of friends and complete strangers, many times in the poorest of homes. Some of the most underprivileged people he came across also had the largest hearts.

“I’ve eaten all kinds of stuff including rats”, he says, making me think of Bear Grylls. “But there were times when, even though I was enormously hungry, I just couldn’t bring myself to eat some of the meals that were being consumed by really poor tribals”. We were having lunch while talking about this and when he described to me what it was that these people were living on, I began to lose my appetite.

Never a materialistic person, Kalyan got some life lessons along the way. The household head of one of those families once asked him why he needed a watch. “Your stomach will tell you when it’s time to eat and at night when you’re tired, it means that it’s time to go to bed”. It was as simple as that. Kalyan immediately took off his watch and discarded it.

Kalyan could quite easily write a book about his experiences from this travel he had undertaken, the hundreds of kilometers he had walked, the people he had come across, the happiness and the hardships he had experienced via others etc. In spite of, what must have been a very difficult trip, all I heard from Kalyan was how enriching the whole experience was.

I’m going to fast forward to today to talk about what he’s been up to lately. If you click on https://www.facebook.com/protovillage, the page will give you information about Kalyan’s project. For those of you that aren't on Facebook, here's what the 'About' section says.

ProtoVillage is a 1000 day project to develop a remote village cluster in Andhra Pradesh (India) into the prototype of an "Adequate" village cluster... a replicable model for integrated rural development! Join us, and let's make it happen. Together!

Mission

ProtoVillage is underway in Tekulodu Panchayat, a cluster of 3 villages in Chilamathur Mandal Anantapur District, Andhra Pradesh, India. 

The components of its mission are:

To bring about a sustainable state of adequacy in the given cluster of villages, by 2013 - socially, economically and environmentally viable - that sees the local community directly involved in its thinking and making

To rigorously document the development process into a robust framework that can be broadly replicated across the country

To create rural social leadership capacities to ensure rapid replication of the framework.

Company Overview

ProtoVillage is the initiative of InteGreater Foundation, India. We want to go beyond defining the poverty line or measuring the number of people that fall below it. We want to develop a "context agnostic" definition of the "desired state" of being, and help the populations get to that desired state and have sufficient access to factors that ensure dignity of life. We call this desired state "Adequacy", and it has 12 inter-linked, and interdependent dimensions: Food, Water, Shelter, Clothing, Energy, Income Generation, Education, Health Care, Public Domain, Connectivity, Social Equity and Eco-Conservation/Disaster Management.

The interplay of the 12 dimensions varies according to the specific constitution of the different clusters of villages. The recipes for adequacy will thus be different for different clusters even though the raw materials (the 12 dimensions) are still the same.

ProtoVillage is our endeavor to develop and implement a theoretical framework that is designed to be both broadly replicable and also capable of accounting for the uniqueness of local conditions.”

Until now I’ve only read about selfless people like Kalyan. People who actually live to make a positive difference in other people’s lives. In this age of materialism, bigger homes, bigger cars, how many of us are willing to live under less than what we think are basic conditions? Speaking for myself, I know that I could possibly do it for a few days before I begin missing my worldly comforts. What is it about some people that makes them so different in the best way possible from the rest of us? Why is 'me' not so much in their vocabulary? I envy Kalyan but am not strong enough to be like him. Why not?

When he was in engineering college, to add to his credentials for getting admission into a good MBA institute, Kalyan started an NGO. Their first project was a cataract camp in a village, where using the services of some ophthalmologists from Chennai, they would undertake mass surgeries for those who were blinded by the disease but were too poor to do anything about it. After a tough first day when there were supposed to have been approximately 200 volunteers, of which less than 10 showed up, Kalyan, who stayed back in the village, was looking up some of the patients, when one of the older women put her hand on his face and gave him her blessings.

"So many years have gone by, but I can never forget the look in her eyes and the kind of love I got from her in that moment", he says.

"You're a unique and inherently good individual and truly deserve all the love and blessings that come your way”, I responded a little enviously.