VT’s blog

Kundu Special is a Kolkata based travel company. It is also a train. It is one of those famous innovations that fulfill the Bong's compulsive touring needs.

I think no other community in India travels as much as the Bongs and the Gujjus do. You visit any tourist place and you find hordes of Bong and Gujju tourists.

Kundu Special reserves an entire train (or a few compartments) for groups of Bong tourists as they make their (mandatory) annual trips to various corners of the country. Btw, the Bong tourist is the most fascinating creature on Earth, but that is another post perhaps.

What connects them to their destination is the Train. Indian Railways, to be more precise. And it is perhaps the best way to explore the country. As trains chug through amazing landscapes they provide an excellent idea about topography and people. Travelling through the Western Ghats during the monsoon is an absolute visual treat.

Now, thinking of Indian Railways always starts a train of memories, distant and not so distant. I was lucky to have cool parents who allowed me to travel all alone since very early in life; I think early teens.

Like all young boys in their late teens and early twenties, I too was 'interested' to know about the co-passengers. I would go check the reservation chart. (In case I was traveling with reservation, that is). In those charts I would try to locate some female co-passenger. I think all young men do that. You know, if I had a seat number 10; I would check if there is a girl on seat 9 or 11 and that kind of stuff. Sadly, all my hopes would be shattered with amazing regularity.

Not even once, damn it, not even once did I get an opportunity to travel next to a hot babe. The only ones who became my co-passengers were 50 year old uncles who specialized in farting and snoring. And aunties who were only interested in feeding themselves and their obese 8 year old brats. Indian Railways taught me the difference between fantasy and reality.

I could never figure out how that 'female co-passenger' thing never happened to me. All my friends used to claim that they always got super hot babes as co-passengers. One bloke claimed that he even managed to do 'it' with a hot female co-passenger in the train! Obviously I was not willing to buy that crap and told him that it was possible that one could indulge in a bit of necking, kissie, pappi-jhappi and all, but no way 'going all the way'. He insisted he want all the way. Liar.

I mean, how can anyone do 'it' in a train, on the bloody Sleeper Class, upper berth!  Given the fact that we were students and obviously not travelling AC First Class Cabin and all that, it is tough. Or do they do it in the loo? Yuck, I have seen the toilets in Indian railways. They are not even neat enough to crap, forget sex. And I am not even a hygiene freak.

I am sure that bloke lied to me. On second thoughts, he may have said the truth too. I guess if one is kinky enough and horny enough; even a stinking railway toilet is a good place for sex!

Since I was a complete loser in the hot-co-passenger department, I leave it to the experts.

Talking of the real co-passengers. Well, imagine being stuck on a middle berth; the fat uncle on the top berth is passing loud obnoxious gases from both ends of the alimentary canal. The other uncle on the lower berth snores as if he has a couple of Bofors guns stuck up his nose. Aunties too are not far behind when it comes to gas releasing and snoring. I guess all this talk about feminine gentleness is a pile of bull-crap. Those experiences made me completely gender-neutral: advantage number two of traveling Indian Railways!

So, obviously one had to find better ways of entertaining oneself. In the younger days, sitting near the compartment door and smoking with a friend used to be a good way to get away from the fire cracker fest in the sleeping area.

A bit of experience with a bunch of friends also told me that railways Pantry Car boys are very good when it comes to booze supply. The Rajdhani Express ones are probably the best in that. You know, if one could strike a 'deal', they not only supplied rum in Coke bottles, but also the booze snacks. That 'arrangement' covered a lot of the agony of the middle berth.

Another problem is that I was never really well organized or planned or anything of that sort. Most journeys in the student days were planned in an instant, sans reservations. Like 'we leave tomorrow, early morning' kinds, decision taken at 11 PM.

Oh boy, I once traveled all way from godforsaken Asansol to Delhi sitting in a General Compartment! Sitting, did I say? Well, I had no other option. I got a seat so I had to sit. Or rather I was forced to sit. Soon after Asansol, came Dhanbad, the train had entered Bihar and half of Bihar had decided to travel in that same general bogie. Now I knew what 'well-packed' means. Any movement was impossible. People sat all over me. I thought they were about a million people and a few goats too. After 20-odd hours of sitting like that; at the end of the journey, well, I finally understood what a 'full bladder' actually means. Waterrr-relief! The soul rests in piss, er, peace after that. Absolute bliss! Another lesson for life!

But all is not bleak and horrid about train travels. In fact, Indian Railways is like a little India on wheels.

Some of the most interesting and beautiful moments were spent in trains. If you are traveling with a group of like-minded people, I guess nothing matches the joys of a train journey.

Somehow, I find the train a more enjoyable and less tiring way to travel. (No. That does not include the packed General Bogie). The Airplane journey is only about utility and time saving. There is no fun in a plane journey; planes are cold, impersonal, boring and tiring.

Irrespective of all the good, bad, ugly experiences; the train remains my favorite mode of transport.

I intend to start a series on a whole lot of folk tales that I have heard during my trips and stays across the Indian countryside- about seven States around the country where I have lived at various stages in my life so far. 

These are not the commonly known Panchatantra or Jataka tales. They probably might not even find a place among the local folk-tales of smart folks and jesters like Birbal, Tenalirama, Gonu Jha, Gopal Bhar etc. It's possible that some of you may have heard/read some of these stories. 

This is the first one in the series. This story was told to me by a 60 year old tau in a village in UP, on a chilly winter night, sitting around the village bonfire- over roasted potatoes, peas and fresh sugarcane juice.

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Once upon a time there lived two fibbers in a little village. The entire village was awestruck at their ability to tell lies with a poker face. They desperately wanted to establish themselves the biggest fibber in the village, but neither was willing to let go the honours.

So, they got into a bet, a simple condition "Let both of us tell blatant lies to each other. The listener will have to keep on telling the teller that 'it is possible'. The first one to say 'it is a lie' will lose and will pay a thousand Rupees to the winner."

Thus began the competition.

The first one started his fib, "My grandfather was a really great animal lover. He once owned a buffalo. The buffalo consumed over a hundred Kg of fodder a day, and catered to the milk requirements of all the neighbouring villages with a thousand buckets of milk it produced every day."

The second one said, "Yeah that sounds quite normal."

The first one continued, "One day, all of a sudden, the two horns of the buffalo started growing, they went on growing and never stopped. As a result, here was the buffalo with horns so long; no one could see where they ended."

"The left horn grew and reached Bombay, the right one reached Calcutta."

The second one said, "Perfectly reasonable."

The first one continued, "People in Bombay and Calcutta were surprised and failed to understand what the black thing was. They noticed it never moved, so they built roads over it. Some people even built houses on the buffalo's horns."

"Because of all this, the buffalo might have felt uncomfortable. One day, the buffalo moved. People who lived on the buffalo's horns were surprised. Before they could react, all Bombay people reached Madras, and all Calcutta people reached Delhi!"

The second one said, "It is a completely credible story, very reasonable. I don't think it is a lie at all.”

The first one gave up and asked the second one to tell his story.

The second one said, "My grandfather was a great man- a friend to friends and an enemy to enemies. Such men are rare now-a-days. He was your grandpa's good friend."

"He was really fond of animals and he owned several. Once he got a horse and he loved it so much that he used to spend his day on it. Now, since he used to spend his day on his beloved horse's back, the horse developed a wound on its back. The wound gradually grew into a bleeding ulcer."

"Once the great man visited someone in the neighboring village and parked the horse under a berry tree, removed its saddle and went inside the house. A berry fell from the tree on the horse's back and got stuck on its back. My grandpa came back, placed the saddle on the horse and rode back."

"As time passed the berry went through the normal process of rotting and the seed became fertile with all the feed that my grandpa provided to the horse, it caught root, the plant grew. My grandpa noticed that there was a berry sapling growing on his beloved horse's back. As time passed, the plant grew into a tree. A large berry tree, on a horse's back."

The first one said, "Quite possible."

The second one added more to the buff and carried on, "That's not all. The tree grew really big and it was loaded with ripe, sweet berries. The village kids were tempted and they waited for an occasion to taste the berries. One day, they got an opportunity when grandpa was not around. Those naughty village kids came and threw stones, brickbats, mud-chunks at the tree took away all the berries. When grandpa came back, he was shocked to see that the tree on his horse's back was loaded with pebbles, stones and earth; there was not even a single berry in sight. He got angry and went on an abusing spree."

"Soon afterward, a terrible thing happened to the village- that year there were no rains. So there were no crops."

"My grandpa had an entrepreneurial mind, he had an idea. He got on top of the tree on the horse's back and noticed that the tree top was flat and it resembled a field, thanks to all the pebbles and mud-chunks that the village kids had thrown. Grandpa got his oxen and the plough on top of the tree on the horse's back, and he ploughed the field on the tree."

The first one said "A horse, a tree on its back, the treetop on the horse's back totally covered with earth. That is a perfect place to grow some rice or wheat. It's a perfectly credible story. Not surprising at all!"

The second one continued, "My grandpa had a mobile-field, he never cared about irrigation. He would take his horse to a far-off village where they had plenty of rains and get his little field perfectly irrigated."

"By harvest time, no one in our village had any crop. My grandpa was the only man who had a bumper harvest. Sacks and sacks of wheat! We made merry while the entire village starved."

The first one said "Quite possible."

The second one said, "This is whole point. Your own family was starving at that time. Since my grandpa was your grandpa's real friend, he gave him 50 sacks of wheat. In those days the cost was a thousand bucks."

"Those were the good old days; those were men of honour. My grandpa never asked for money, but your grandpa was man enough to tell my grandpa that even if he is not able to replay his debts, his coming generations would repay it."

The first one was trapped! He did a mental calculation, a thousand bucks in the 1930's is worth how much today? He was smart enough to declare himself a loser and tell the first one, "You are a liar."

He lost only a thousand bucks, today's money. Fair deal. 

Wifey doesn't really share too many of my interests. That is fine with me as I too don't care much about many of her interests. She can't tell a Picasso from a Rembrandt; and I have no clue which year jumping jack Jeetendra's "Justice Chaudhary" was released. I take immense pride at my intellect and she feels it sucks. Jean-Paul Sartre doesn't seem to go too well with Sydney Sheldon.

But we do converge at certain crucial points.

The convergence happens when it comes to being confirmed chatterboxes who want to strike conversations with any and everybody; and travelling. It is the willingness to experiment with places, people and food, and it makes up for most of the lost ground. And of course, she is the only woman I know who can mimic Kanhaiya Lal to make me laugh.

This was one of those occasions when we visited our village, about 60 miles from Banaras, without the daughter (Travelling without your kids has its own pluses and minuses, which is a point for another post).

On the way back, the train from Banaras to Delhi was late and we landed up at the railway station a few hours in advance. That means, we had at least eight hours to kill in one of our favourite cities; the "eternal" city.

We shoved the luggage in the cloak-room and took the nearest cycle rickshaw and hit the famous bylanes of Banaras, followed by lunch washed down with beer and then our favourite Banarsi paan at a shop at Kotwalipura.

Dusk at the Banaras Ghats has its own charms. Sitting at the Dasaswamedh Ghat and watching devotees taking their holy dips and offering their prayers is something which can only be experienced. The entire experience feels better when you are slightly intoxicated.

Right next to us sat a pleasant looking foreigner, who was visibly high on Ganja (marijuana) and was suitably happy. Foreigners in Banaras are the ones who come and stay here for long periods; some of them come looking for Nirvana, some come looking for marijuana and some looking for both. The locals still call them Hippies (as far as I know, the Hippie cult was more of a 60s and 70s phenomenon).

The Banaras Ghats, a chatty couple still under the spell of beer and an overtly friendly Hippie, bit high on the weed - the perfect situation for some soul searching, intellectualising and philosophising.

He went on to introduce himself as a Spaniard who had been visiting India every year for the last 10 years. His normal stay would be 2 or 3 months at a stretch. For the rest of the months of the year, he would go back to his country and do some odd jobs as a commercial painter.

Then he asked us; "How do you look at places? As places, I guess." He went on; "I see places as people".

That sounded interesting. We were curious.

The Hippie said - "Do you know why I come back to this country all the time? I see places as people… and do you know what I see India as?"

"What?" me and wifey asked in unison.

He said - "I see India as a woman; a very demanding woman. I see her as a cranky, cribbing, nagging woman who can really get on to your nerves. But I love this woman. She is completely eccentric. She is capable of given me nightmares, at the same time she is capable of providing me joys that no other woman can provide. She is a woman who is capable of giving me the best sex ever ' which makes me ignore her nag. This is my Nirvana and this is my homage to the woman called India. She is annoyingly ugly and incredibly beautiful at the same time."

We nodded thoughtfully and looked back at the sun setting behind the Ghats.

A lot of my out of towner friends are completely lost when they visit Dilli. Here are some of the common comments I get to hear (talk of clichés!):

1. Delhi has no character
2. People here are so uncultured
3. The rape capital of India
4. Show off!
5. People here have no respect for women
6. Nuevo Riche
7. People here have no "depth".

I don't agree or disagree with them. Each of them is right.

I don't know how easy or difficult it is to make such sweeping generalizations about the capital of the most complex country in the world. Like, if I had a question.

Question: India is _________________ (fill-in-the-blank)

This is amazing, you fill in anything here, and that is true. There are NO wrong answers here. India is (beautiful, ugly, corrupt, dirty, spiritual, big, cultured, uncultured, democracy, anarchy, rich, poor, doomed, one country, not one country) ' whatever you write is TRUE and nothing is wrong.

However, here is my little survival guide for out of towners visiting Delhi for the first time:

1)      Do not trust the autowala or taxiwala - particularly the ones who hang around the railway stations and airport. Most such places have a pre-paid taxi booth, which is best bargain.

2)      Try not to look confused when you land here. Pretending to be a know-it-all helps.

3)      Haggle/bargain. One-third the quoted price is a good starting point. Try not to look too impressed with the things you want to buy. Just quote a price and walk off.. nine out of ten times the shopkeeper will call you and ask "kitna doge sir/madam".

4)      The deadliest place on the road is anywhere near a Blue-Line bus. The safest place on the road in inside the Blue-Line bus.

5)      Be very careful of all the young lads zipping around in big cars. They have no respect for human life.

6)      Street food in Delhi is better, tastier and more hygienic than most other cities in India.

7)      If you belong to the female variety - get used to being stared at. That is normal here. If they don't stare at you, assume you are really ugly.

      Women should avoid odd places at odd hours (doesn't that apply to all cities?).

9)      In case of a serious brawl or argument. Be the first to strike. (This technique is best avoided, but it work more often then not).

10)  Be very liberal with your abuses and gaalis. Do not censer anything.

11)  Most Delhites are not so well-connected or rich as they look.

12)  Go ahead and show off. Flash those Black Berries, display that cleavage. Just show off.

13)  Eat as if there is no tomorrow.

14)  Start speaking in English whenever you get into any argument with a stranger on the street. The best way impress someone here to speak in English. "I am educated" ' is a statement you will hear as soon as someone bangs his car against another one.

15)  All people driving around so fast are in no particular hurry to reach anywhere. They just love to show they are busy. They would probably stand and argue for hours in case of a road mishap.

16)  Do not hesitate to call for police assistance (100), many will disagree but Delhi Police is quite efficient when compared to other state police in India.

Possibly the friendliest Taxi drivers in the world live in Singapore. They LOVE talking. A lot.

The first one I met was friendlier than friendly. I thought that was an exceptional case that I ran into a chatterbox. Later I realized all of them are like that. Just get them going once and you can rest assured that you are entertained throughout the journey. They seem to know everything about everything.

Always trust a cabbie with smart one-liners and pearls of wisdom. As one of them says “Are you a banker?” I said “No”. “Well, Singapore has the largest Airport and  sea Port. Do you know why, because we have a lot of trade happening here. What the bankers call Trade and People call Smuggling la.” That is interesting, I ask him to explain further. He goes on “Look at it like this - Iraq cannot buy weapons from the US. Iraq cannot, Singapore can. So, we buy weapons from the US and sell them to Iraq. That is trade, and we are very good at it. La.” I get it, “Right La. You say bankers call it Trade and People call it Smuggling. Even your government claims it is place for big trade.” He replies “Yes sir, the Government is NOT People.” The ruling party is PAP, the Cabbies call it “Pay-An-Pay”.

Their friendliness goes many steps further than that. One of them was really depressed as he has not had an erection in the last three years! He went on to describe in great details how it had affected him and the kind of cures he has tried, including graphic descriptions of soap and mustard oil massages, in an attempt to get his most valuable asset back in action. “What is the use of all this money and everything if you are not able to have an erection la?” Right la. I agree completely. Unfortunately, I could not really provide him a solution to his problem - but I was a sympathetic listener and a party to his grief.

I enquire another cabbie about the "Hot" places in town. He rattles off a few names, mainly on Orchard Road. "Are you sure the girls there are good?" I ask. To which he simply replies "You take my phone number, in case you are not satisfied with the quality of girls there, you call me tomorrow and you can kick my butt la".

So much for honestly and simplicity and I am suitably impressed la.

The tourism brochure says "uniquely Singapore". Well, they are not entirely wrong. It is modern, techno savvy, neat, artificial.

The first thing that strikes you is the size of the structures, the Changi Airport, the Port; everything is mammoth sized. Even it's underground railway stations are huge by any standards. Definitely so, for a small city state.

There are few things to decipher. The language. To begin with, is surely "uniquely Singapore". They call it Singlish. Once you get the hang of it, it is fairly easy. Just add "la" to everything you say. "How are you la?" "Thanks la", "Let's go la".

Another funny thing is how they use Can and Cannot. Sample this ' "Beer bottle can, beer can cannot". Simply put, it means (the waiter says) ' "I have only beer bottles, no beer cans".

Another gem ' "Can also can, cannot also can". Well, it means; "if you can do it, do it. Else don't do it".

"Uniquely Singapore", isn't it?

(The picture is a painting by Write of Derby. A masterpiece, the play of light and shadow is marvellous!)

Like most boys, I have dreamt of being someone different at different points of time during my boyhood. I guess we all do that, before we all grow up to become completely stereotyped and unimaginative.

I have imagined myself being a painter (Picasso, Cezanne, Goya, Joseph Write of Derby, Canaletto, Eduard Munch, Bikash Bhattacharya and many more..), a film maker (Ray, Spielberg), an overall “intellectual” (now a days, I sort of dislike that expression because India seems to be too full of them and I have had my fill of the JNU/Jholawalas), a writer (Naipaul, Irving, GB Shaw Stone and many more) and - Bruce Lee. Surprisingly, I never aspired to be a cricketer or a film actor.

Today, I had a half day off (I love “working from home/hotel”) and I did some of that - went on an artistic/cultural journey. I believe all artistic journeys in London need to begin with the Hyde Park (don’t know the reason, “just for the heck of it”). Mood is everything, after all.

Went to an Italiano joint for a quick afternoon beer and pasta.

Then began the journey. The tube to Westminster, followed by a walk across the Thames to the Tate Gallery of Modern Art. This must me one of the best Modern Art galleries ever. I loved their Salvador Dali collection. They are currently displaying Kandinsky’s works. A Russian painter, who strove to develop a radically abstract language. He began as a country painter inspired by the countryside and folklores, later evolved are started reducing on the descriptive details and went on to develop a unique, vibrant style of his own.

Went to a couple of more places which were more classical and retro in nature.

The Venetian painter of the middle ages (Antonio de Canal, also called Canaletto) lived in London for some time, the area now called Beak Street. And then there is the incredible Write of Derby, whose of play of light and shadow is just about the best you could achieve anywhere.

Most of the streets in London are cluttered with history. Bang opposite the Liver Street Tube station, at Bishopgate, there is a building with the first floor saying "Sir Robert Peel". No one looks at it. Sir Peel was one of the Prime Ministers in the 18^th or the 19^th Century. He is credited to have initiated the Police Reforms. London Policemen are called "Bobbies" or "Peelers" ' the legacy begins there.

It is quite similar to what we have in Delhi. Ballimaran in Chandni Chowk is the place where Mirza Ghalib lived. No one tries to look beyond the STD/PCO/FAX.

Came back late and did not want to spoil the day by going to some phoney Indian (Bangladeshi) Restaurant around. So chose to go the an Adult Club called Venus at Farringdon. As for the dinner, Subway works perfectly well for me.

P.S. Coming back to the "Indian (Bangladeshi) Restaurant" ' I have nothing against them. It's only a matter of being able to do justice to the dish (keeping in mind the local palette). What amazes is that almost all their dishes, as per the menu are Tandoori, Panjabi, Mughlai.

Hydrabadi Biryani (Hyderabad) and Dansak (Parsi dish) are the most exotic items on their menu which do not fall in the above category.

I would not mind if they try to cater at least a few purely Bengali (probably Bagladeshi too) dishes which could do some justice to their fetish for sweet. It would be nice if they added one more section to their menu, and probably called it "Bengal Special" (if they do not want to mention Bangladesh).

Visited a few Desi areas in and around London. They call is Indian or Paki or Bangla places to live. May even call them “safe” full of “our types”. Ghettos. Ultimately, it is my ghetto and your ghetto. Still ghettos.

Went to a place called Ilford, Lahore must be something like this. I had never seen so many beards and burkas anywhere in India except Meerut or Aligarh. Went to place called Hounslow (even spent a night there). Visted a s pub called some “..Bhanagra..” which boasted if the choicest collection of the Red-Line “Staff chalane wala” crowd you could ever expect around any of the dingy Dilli or Noida thekas. They seemed very happy and full of themselves. Why not? They have ”arrived”. A slice of Karol bagh - ”Carrol Gardens“, if you like. South Hall is the ultimate Mecca of Desi ghettoism.

Al right, I know I am being way too sarcastic and judgemental about the entire thing. I can't be anything better after 4 drinks.

Still so much to know about this country. So much to explore.

One important lesson from a fellow Desi who seems to be more experienced. Never enter an “Indian Restaurant” if you do not see any Indians sitting inside. It is fake, and run by a Bangladeshi guy who specialises in making Daal Makhanai taste like Rasgulla. Point taken.

I don’t mind. Imitation is the best form of flattery.

People. They walk even when the traffic signal shows red. They smoke a lot ' and throw cigarette butts everywhere. They litter - big time. They drink as if there is no tomorrow. They smile a lot. Say "sorry" and "thank you" a lot more. Honest. Cosmopolitan. Cultured. Polite. Dangerous. Stiff upper lip. Snobbish. Multidimensional. Multiethnic. That's London. The London I have fallen in love with. The "World City". People.