Walk like an Egyptian: Mubarak and other dictators.

Perhaps Mubarak should have consulted Playboy's Hafner on how to continue running an empire and keep everybody happy as well. Now the end result is that Mubarak got booted out seemingly by the Egyptian people but perhaps by his own army of rogues. Reuter's news reported that Mubarak had a death wish. At eighty and beyond, minus the throne, this would be a legitimate wish. With billions stashed away, even death would be sweet, something  Mubarak denied his own people, most of whom suffered terribly throughout his 30 years of dictatorship. Not that dictatorships or suffering masses are unusual in that part of the world, the question for the latter being whether that is stoicism or apathy as usual. 

Obama forgot America's support of Mubarak and encouraged the Egyptians - who unaware of O's leanings, cursed America anyway and for good measure threw in some threats for Israel as well. The Saudi king perhaps livid with Obama's support had a few things to say to him. Perhaps the king saw a similar fate in the ugly demise of Mubarak. Then as quickly as his pristine white robes would allow, congratulated the Egyptian people on taking to the streets! Immediately after that he got his own army and religious police to crack down on any stirrings of protest in his kingdom. He's also planning to step up funds for more universities in America, print more hate and propaganda literature, build more houses of worship around the world especially in Pakistan which seems to be the pet breeding ground for practices in terrorism.

A little distance away, Iran's Ahmadinejad declares from the ramparts how wonderful it is to see the events in Egypt. Now Iran could send in its ships of rockets and bombs and other deadly stuff to support the Brotherhood and Hezbollah and of course push Israel in the Red Sea. Simultaneously, Ahmadinejad also gets Iran's dreaded police to speedily prepare to beat and kill its protestors just like a few months ago. The world which is ever ready for any action around the globe is left scratching its head as to who or what to call. It's business as usual in the middle east where talk from both sides of the mouth is routinely carried out. Not a good foundation for a free society. 

At any given time and in any land, women are more or less 50% of the population which means by taking them out, the world loses 50% of its efforts at progress and ingenuity. This simple concept is willfully ignored and abandoned in the name of religion. Women's rights and equality; freedom of thought, writing, and speech; focus on learning in the arts and sciences; spirit of innovation; love for life; personal responsibility, right to liberty and happiness - well these have been forgotten in the desert lands. And the ones who've dared to remember have ceremoniously disappeared. Nonetheless, awakenings however meager are good. As long as the process is not hijacked by radical thought, attempts for change are commendable. For the young and restless - it gives them something to do. After all, millions of them are impressionable, oppressed, fearful - just ripe for change from within. 

In a land of millions and growing, what are a few thousands protesting in the streets of Cairo? In the other places of the Middle East, thousands of other protestors too met up, screamed, and were quickly squashed by hundreds of thousands of various regimes' police force. The Egyptians escaped the wrath of the army because Mubarak was too old for them too. Perhaps he had lost some of the ruthlessness, the kind that armies like. The apparatus of capture and torture is well enconsed in these lands. Why would the concept of democracy suddenly take root in the Muslim lands? It will not happen simply because this is an alien concept not in tune with their political, religious, social systems. Whenever the people, women included, are ready ready for a genuine change and growth, the land will be ready as well. 

The Indian Consulate of Confusion.

One would think, baahar ki hawa (foreign soil and air) would help the Indian government get rid of its asinine ways. Not so. My husband has been trying to understand the visa application process for almost a week now. Every day I hear him say let me start afresh and every day I hear his frustrations loud and clear. It should be easy to get a visa to one's home land or so one would suppose. As this seems akin to a non-earthly task, I might as well set up a system of prayers solely geared for seeking help in getting a visa from the Indian Consulate. Perhaps a special god for visa could be identified. Maybe some bells and prashad would come in handy or better still the Gandhian fast could work once agin. It worked beautifully to free the country; surely one Consulate could collapse under its magic.

There are a million forms for de-coding one's identity before one can even dream of applying for a visa. Embedded in the land of confusion are various ideas and suggestions like if you are a person of Indian origin, use form A; if you are the third descendent of Indian origin, use form 505 (A); if you are of Indian origin and want to visit India numerable times within 15 years, use form 6006 (T); use form 6006 (TN) if you want to visit innumerable times and to contact RAW or IRS; if you are of Indian origin and reside in the US and want to visit India for pleasure, use form 15,001 (Z), use form 15,000 (ZN) for non-pleasure and contact the Indian Embassy directly; if you are of Indian origin and do not reside in the US, use form 420; if you want to visit India and have US citizenship, use form 521 for renouncing your Indian citizenship; if you have already filled form 3 and are an Indian of Indian origin, please submit birth certificates of father, grandfather, and great grandfather - complete with 'good name' and 'good name of village'; if you have dual citizenship of US and India, use form 420 (D) for renouncing US citizenship; use form 420 (D-420) for renouncing both Indian and US citizenship and do not seek a visa; if you want to permanently visit India, use form A (1); use any form to get out; do not use any form to contact the Consulate. 

While the sifting through the Indian visa process goes on, I get on the phone to ask friends how they did it. I feel a spirit of exhilaration but that is quickly quashed because the forms the friends had filled have all been changed. Rules have been changed, fees have been hiked, phones have been permanently disconnected and the on-line process has been morphed drastically to accommodate or rather confound the weak, weary, and feeble of heart. The web site doesn't warn that the entire application form (or forms) has to be filled out in one shot or may take up to a year to fill out. There is no concept of saving. Use it or lose it. As far as the Indian Consulate is concerned, their people are here on a vacation and to hell with the Indian visa seekers or seekers of any kind. They can go elsewhere maybe try the British Consulate or the Khazakstan one. From the way things are, I hear the refrain of the Indian Consulate 'baad main aana' (come back later) loud and clear, everywhere. 

My husband has given himself three months to figure out the mystery/confusion/manic temperament of the Indian Consulate. He also has to figure out the stringent army like times of operation of the Consulate's elevators between 1500 hours and 1600 hours, and mode of payment of fees with directions of no cash, no check, no credit cards accepted! I'm left floundering as to what exactly would be acceptable to the Consulate! To make matters simple, why doesn't the Indian Consulate just go ahead and inscribe in gold the motto  'abandon hope all ye who come here'. It certainly is the house of misery.

Facebook ka Kamaal.

Has anyone come up yet with a word for Facebook addiction? Well there are some legitimate ones for other web addictions but not specifically for Facebook. This definitely needs its own name. How about faddiction? But what exactly was Zuckerberg thinking when he came up with this idea with his other buddies in their college dormitory? Did he check with people outside Harvard if they were interested in getting in touch with others after having turned themselves into something like sleeper-cells? It's just like the Harvard crowd to think everyone must be looking in the direction they were looking in. Perhaps some of us were deliberately hiding in various closets and the back boards. Maybe we didn't want to come out. Maybe we were ensconced in our own little world and were happy with the world flitting by. Perhaps we were blissfully ignorant and oblivious to the state of others and how they were doing. Maybe just maybe some of us were not interested in sharing and comparing ourselves to others and inducing self-destruction.  Perhaps we believed that Destiny had it all figured out for us and what could a web site with a name like Facebook do to foil our plans for this life and and after-life. This is a classic case of Zee chose not to see. On the other hand, few of us who would've died pining for people we never contacted, FB saved us from this trajectory.

The 26 year old Zuckie baby is the CEO of this great upheaval which woke people around the world enough to be damned forever on his social networking site. Zuckie rests easy in the 35th place on the list of 400 richest people in the USA. Thanks to us suffering fools, Z's wealth has grown 245% to $6.9 billion. He is one of those young entrepreneurs who has breathed the free air of America and allowed that to lift them anywhere they have wanted to go. Along with him are some more lifted dudes responsible for this global phenomenon called Facebook. There are hardly any humans on this planet that have remained un-touched by this social light. Even the hate mongers have been affected by the FB experience despite their unnecessary hatred for the Jewish race on a pure ontological basis. My advise - create something, build stuff, invent tracks of beauty not blow up paths of progress. For such pitiful beings and as one belonging to this race,  Zuckerberg may have single handedly shown better ways of communication and inflecting change. Aren't you on FB - is the new age question. It is with shock and horror when one hears that so and so refused to be a part of the madness or he or she threw this marvelous life line away. You wonder why. Ah well, they're not with the times and like it or not leave them alone and they'll find their way home to Facebook.


On FB, I find people and people find me without looking. I am led by this invisible force to check out Facebook every day. I hear stories about people who live on FB, in fact they are so much at home that Facebook has become the party state. These are people completely committed to the network. Unfortunately even devotion of this kind doesn't tempt Zee to share any of his wealth with any of the FB addicts. And why should he, it's all his after all. I have tried to mark my days as 'FB off' ones but so far the attempts have remained sadly unsuccessful. The genie is out and we are compelled to find out who is doing what and saying what to whom and why. FB has given rise to passions of a kind not seen in a while. Everybody has something to say; most have things to display; there is art, poetry, photography, prose, sightings, sighings and ruminations, and it's all here free on Facebook. The entire human race is discussing politics, economics, global warming or cooling depending on one's political leanings, philosophies, memories, births, deaths, and what not. Revolutions are being planned while protestors are being squashed and Facebook coming under strict scrutiny. While North Koreans may not be aware of FB, the Pakistanis, Iranians and Chinese are definitely looking into throwing a whole bunch of FB friends into prisons and labor camps for at least 10 to 20 years or maybe even a lifetime, that is if the poor souls survive the no-food-no-water-no-air captivity. 


Forget the friends-since-school saga. It is now FB friends time. I have a few friends who are pure FB material. Others I considered friends have been hastily un-unfriended on FB by just a click of this beautiful feature called 'delete'. I am not the only one to experience this strange high from a mere click. I see the 'numbers' of friends running into thousands. How is this possible I ask myself and others. No one knows. I think there may be a semblance to the rat-race occurrence. Could this be a keeping-with-the-jones syndrome on FB as well? All kinds of groups have taken birth on FB. Some exist merely to force others out. Then there are others who take root to flush the ones trying to flush others out. There are groups against humanity and then groups anti-against humanity. Some seriously threatening ones are quickly removed by Zee and his company only to re-surface under different names and threats. The blue logo is everywhere and nowhere is everywhere. This is the largest extended family where everyone knows someone connected to everyone and nobody truly knows anyone. Even junk mail has given up trying to compete with the volume of Facebook replies and mails.  And so the zuckerberg tree continues to grow and bear fruit some sweet and some bitter. However in all fairness, judging by its growth, Facebook is fast on its way to transform itself from a tree to a celestial planet and beyond. It may have to do with its ever evolving and revolving nature. 

White Gloved People.

I am the newest addition to the white gloved family of Ritz Camera, America's premier place for images. This is also my foray into the profit world from the not for profit world - a world seen from the other side of the counter so to speak. Like any other business, this one too clearly grasps the twin concepts of profitability and accountability - something that governments show an extreme anathema for. In fact governments around the world collectively exhibit zero tolerance for any such thing. That said, it is often stated that clothes make a man or a woman. Well here at Ritz, the white glove phenomenon is very reassuring to all or so it seems. It somehow reminds me of the Queen and her white gloves. Metaphorically speaking we never take our gloves off. At most, they are to be hung delicately balanced in the back pocket. White gloves are every where. They are clean, cotton, ironed. I hate the idea of soiling them, but it is essential to the job of keeping things unblemished. No photograph can survive the onslaught of a finger print. While two white gloves on both hands are eerily queenly, the one glove phenomenon is quintessentially Michael Jackson. All we need is some thriller music and we are ready to roll into the moon walk, except for the carpeted floors which render this difficult. While smooth talk is encouraged, protocol prohibits even a stroll on smooth shiny floors. Barring the flooring requirements, the place is in perfect company of some real smooth talkers and walkers aka Andres who know how to go with the flow.

Contrary to self-help gurus, this is the place for transforming mere whims and fancies into real needs different from the 'neads' assessment program. This is also the venue for buyer's remorse to be buried forever, when the You and I take supreme importance. Company changes people and so I have turned from an obdurate personality to a tail of sorts, following people for all kinds of reasons, collecting pearls of wisdom from the veterans at the game. They have a disciple in me, furiously taking note of the art of closing, polishing the gift of the gab; even honing the art of backing away gracefully especially when the recognition kicks in that there will always remain some insurmountable issues that cannot be overcome. I even understand the different personalities of the kiosks, some of which respond to the finger tips while others to the click of the nails. Then there's Nikki the petite one who woks at such terrifying speeds that I get dizzy just looking at her. Unfortunately, the register still escapes me. My mind hears all kinds of sighings from impatient people and sees eyes and heads rolling. I imagine the register reacting to the scenario and flying at me with a vengeance known only to man. Mike the Manager, clearly exasperated with my shortcut methods of greetings, requests Riaz to do something or else. Riaz obliges and leaves clear red ink instructions for me on every phone which eventually help me emerge victorious from my garbled greetings. I now deliver phone greetings like a professional - with my eyes closed!

All shapes and sizes walk in. We smile and welcome them all, even people who are hungry for blood. There are some who are browsing for some solace; children who only want to lie on the glass counters, people who want cameras that are not there, others who get their high from getting a deal, comparing prices, and proving their point, people who desire all and capture nothing. As if to neutralize this, we have our very own Mark and nobody in their right mind dare mess with him. Nonetheless, most who walk in are some of the best of humanity and it does wonders for the soul. I tend to have a soft spot for the senior crowd because they look as bewildered as I do. They sympathize with me and I with them. Like them, I too could do with some of those digital photography courses at Ritz university. The Instructor is just how they should be made. He teaches stuff like I wish they had done in my own Film School. At times, professional basketball players have walked in seeking to capture their glory days on print. As much as I have been thrilled, I have to admit that mere mortals like me could do without such dwarfing experiences. I do however manage to get a signed photograph from Joe Ruklick of Philadelphia Warriors that incidentally also housed the great Wilt Chamberlain. The laboratory expert Dennis teaches me to count in 50s and warns me about an errant photograph that tries to prove its individuality every now and then. He understands those colors like nobody else does and just in case they misbehave, Dennis reserves the power to just turn them black and white. On the other hand, there is the pure joy of seeing colors tumble out in droves from the printers. There are also moments of dexterity when one makes red and blue boxes for packing photographs with memories neatly encapsulated and captured for eternity. This certainly is pure nostalgia for the good old days, which somehow renders beautiful all years down the ages.


Apparently, Ritz/ Wolf can bring you out from a depression by its imaging prowess. One does't have to visit therapists or shrinks. It's all free here from all sides of the counter. They only ask that you understand that it's all about the image(s). In the business world, the company showed how to rise from the dead by sheer tenacity and humility. They did all kinds of things to survive - bought other competitions, declared bankruptcy, went digital, introduced photography courses, hired people, fired people, initiated a new way of thought and generally went nuts about survival and growth. I think it's the perfect time for the organization to take upon itself the onerous task of restoring America's image as well, which has been somewhat damaged by some in the past couple of years. They are after all the image(s) people!


Speed is the order of the day, consequently more neurosis with saved time. Speed kills but not here. The alacrity of affairs puts one's brain to shame. But what is one to do with saved time? Now people have to think of other ingenious ways to while their time. Time in waiting was a big part of time management. So gone are the days of waiting for days on end for films to be developed, and for each negative to be turned into a positive. This is the one hour stunner, this is here, this is now; this is the moment, surely this is Zen. People feel it. I see it in the faces. The place reverberates with it. I am here for such few hours that it feels like a sojourn and so depending on the time, I vary my speed to move from one fragment to another. This is the place to bring torn, crumpled, shattered images to be restored to the pristine ones ingrained in one's brain. This is the world of magic where memories get imprinted on paper or glass to be mounted or laminated. It means everything when you reach home, settle down to open the red or blue box (proudly made in America and not China) with your hot cup of chocolate or tea or coffee and reminisce at leisure. You can finally remove your gloves and rest easy with the thought that you did just fine in life and that it has indeed been a good run.

I can't be fired...

I belong sporadically to the league of women which has been in existence for as long as men and women have been alive. It's called the league of stay-home-moms or housewives. We could have formed a regular workers' union, but that would have been been extremely detrimental to the fabric of society. As strikes and bandhs are a big part of being a union member which essentially is an arm-twisting of sorts, moms perhaps could have won on the wages deal but probably lost out on the human level. I cannot even begin to imagine the repercussions of regular strikes on a family structure. Even erratic ones would cause a pandemonium. I would have to say the reverberations would be felt in not one but many departments. Hunger and starvation would be acutely felt despite the presence of food, geography would be re-written as dirty laundry would form the newest ranges of mountains, the desert itself would settle down in the house, and fathers may never want to return home perhaps giving dead beat dads a run for their money. But these are merely the physicals. The emotional and psychological toll would be immense. On the other hand, this scary scenario may never occur, life would be bliss, and independence and survival would be two skills polished and honed to the hilt. 


Like regular workers' unions, we do not fight for our rights for fair pay because we do not get paid in cash or simply stated we do not bring home a pay check. In reality we should get paid like the kings' physicians in the gone by era when they were paid for all the times the king was healthy (and busy with shelling out orders for heads to be crushed or brought to his majesty's presence on silver plates). When the king fell sick - well that was the time for no-payment, because then it would be clear that the physician was no good and that his powers of pre-emption did not serve the desired purpose of keeping disease away from the king. Likewise we should be paid in hard cash as long as husbands are looking well-fed and not running around naked on the streets, children are healthy and happy (?) and not going around shooting people, the house is in working order and has not been blown up by confused but fatal family activities. I know of some mothers who have been rewarded for raising the best killers and terrorists. How about for some recompense for just raising normal sane healthy children and honoring reasonable and desirable husbands. 

In all honesty, I am relieved that I do not have the sword of getting fired hanging over my head. I just want to assure people that in the past and in the current years as well, I have felt - like the rest - the point (of the sword) graze me every now and then, but have usually gotten by - tucking the sword away somewhere safe. Let's just say we can't ever be fired because we hired ourselves and at most we can fire ourselves. For most of us, this has also been a time of rumination, discovering ourselves, and finding joy in what's closest to our hearts. Nonetheless, it's not as if moms and wives of the world are sitting cozy twiddling their thumbs. We have our work cut out but we do not have to answer any one or any bosses. Neither do we have deadlines. We do not have to be told things because we usually finish our work on time despite all the mindless groanings and moanings and the perpetual questions of what were you doing at home. Well for starters, we lay the foundation for mankind, so that husbands and children specifically would be ready to take on days and life itself. We see that they are nurtured, encouraged, and ready to go.  Their nourishment is ensured by serving them cooked and ready to eat meals in clean plates, while wearing unblemished and sometimes ironed clothes, and all this in a spic and span house. We fix little hearts, broken toys, and sometimes broken doors as well. As my friend Chhabi's irrepressible Calvin said things miraculously appear when moms look for them; so we provide repeated instructions to the family on how and where to find their things. We go crazy clearing after hurricanes that hit every room of the house with a sinister regularity known only to exist in the celestial world.

That brings me to the question of whether school and education for girls was really such a bright idea. I would have done the housework as well or as badly, with or without education, and with or without an additional job. Candidly speaking, my education did not make an iota of difference in my choosing family over career and other life altering decisions of the kind. Like all things, this too was a choice. The thought of course does not include women who made the wise decision of staying single without husbands, boyfriends, or children. But perhaps some validation of moms' work at home with kids and husbands is a little over due. Yes we've heard plenty about how this is the hardest job in the world and blah blah blah. It is actually not the hardest job. It is however one that requires a multitude of skills that have to be peppered with loads of patience and ingenuity; along with the ability to multi task. It also requires a head that can spin in all directions without losing focus. At most times, the condition of moms-at-home is really akin to the Dissociative Identity Disorder, where possessing  one personality does not work. We learn to speak in tongues, use mild cajoling, even use harsher measures of spoons and spatulas occasionally. We have our free time but our work also includes late hours which extend well into the night. It is however a job that has no recognition, no incentives, no immediate returns; plus it's a job with not too many thankyous thrown in. There are no medals awarded to a mother for a job well done either. With such few options of personal gain, I wonder why this well never runs dry. On the bright side of things, there is no company that dare think of firing this brood of mothers ever. Zig Ziglar said: when you do more than you're paid for, you'll eventually be paid more for what you do; and to that I say let's keep on truckin'.

The Chiropractor and I.

Lately I've been seeing a Korean Chiropractic Doctor for my back. All is well except for the fact that he and I speak two different kinds of English. Added to that is also a lisp which confounds my understanding even more. I speak a curry accent (no lisp), which is really a combination of Indian, American, and British accents. At any given time, instead of having one single conversation, we end up having two perfect conversations - he talking to himself and I talking to myself. He tells me to go to room three, I head off towards finding a room which is free and hoping to find a room which says 'free room, no payment necessary'. He catches me wandering around peeking in all rooms and guides me to Room #3. When the Chiropractor asks me questions or tells me to do something, I am either not listening or feigning understanding because my reactions are completely unrelated to the demands. He tells me to lie down on my stomach, and I slowly move to lie down on my back. I lie there peacefully with a little Buddha smile on my face till he shocks me with the question whether I would like the needles in my stomach instead of my back. I am horrified, start wailing long nooooooooooooos and slowly reverse my position. Somehow in that supine condition, my brain refuses to cooperate with any instructions or maybe I'm just naturally averse to instructions.

I lie on my stomach on a comfortable bench with my nose and face stuck in its groove, which is covered with paper that rustles with every breath I take. Somehow I cannot find a good place for my nose in that groove. I turn my face sideways to rest on one cheek and soon that ear is red and hot. Then I try the other cheek. After this I give up, because I have no more cheeks left to turn. The Chiropractor scolds me 'tham thown' (calm down) and vigorously rubs my back with alcohol and plants some needles in there. A few pricks of that nature could never make me scream. Then I feel a red warmth as well and maybe just for a moment I think I've achieved nirvana at last. 

The Chiropractor asks me if I know what he is doing. I say oh yes I am lying on my stomach. Thankfully he ignores me and says it's 'heath thethapy' (heat therapy) along with acupuncture needles. I ask how many needles and he says 10, and I say please put some more because I want to impress my macho husband who's scared stiff of needles. I'm surprised because the Chiropractor says you 'aath tho fhuneee' (you are so funny). Then when he tells me it's time for electric stimulation, I hand him a paper and pen to to write down the name of the procedure. Maybe the Chiropractor should demonstrate everything he wants me to do. This way, the last barriers of language can be safely done away with. Show me and I will never forget. Soon I hear the doctor say are you okay for the hundredth time and I'll be back. But actually he's gone to poke other patients with those needles.

Lying on the bench, with my face buried in paper - is usually a good time for me to recall my entire life and why and how I arrived here. I ask myself the same questions - why did I get married, why diid I have kids, why did I grow up, why didn't I just run away or why couldn't I find a Chiropractor who spoke like me. Every time I lie on the comfy bench, I convince myself that this will be the-arriving-at-answers-day. But it never happens. Maybe I should choose a different bench or different questions that have answers. Anyway my thoughts keep getting interrupted by the flap flap of sandals around me. The doctor insists on flapping and dragging his feet all over the office. I dare not object. After all a man armed with needles is a man to be feared. We usually complete the visit - with the Chiropractor and I having hearty conversations about politics. We discuss the ills of communism, and how some people still find it savory, the despicable Kim Jong Il (the dear leader of North Korea), the even more terrible Sr. Kim Sung (the dear departed leader), and the current Jong's sons (to-be dear leaders), who will some day inherit the country. The Chiropractor warns me that Kim Jong Il, his dad, his son - all too too too bad people. He then sends me off reminding me with 'no bend'. I hobble out imagining a life in the vertical position, stiff, unbendable, unable to sway with the wind or even retrieve my  fallen car keys. Sometimes I think not being able to bend down and pick up stuff may be a good thing. It's best to leave some some things just lying around or better to kick them gently in a place where they can't be found at all.

Chhaang Town Story ...

Chhaang Town is a fairly big Tibetan enclave on the far side of New Delhi or within Delhi, I can't say for sure because nothing is ever permanent in India. Anyway during the 80s this was a popular place to hang out for many, and specially the rebels, activists, and more specifically the Delhi University crowd of hopefuls and idealists, and of course the Tibetans, where they tried to build their own little Tibet and drown their loss of roots in the very potent Chhaang, a drink made from fermented rice. Tibetans have been living in India for decades and India is like home for them. They even managed to get some land, space, and freedom - which unfortunately the Chinese took but in turn spurred the Indians to give them some of what they had lost. The Indian government however didn't give them citizenship. I think, as a thank you, the Tibetans gave Chhaang to the Indian men but didn't disclose its potency.  So while the Tibetans knew how to down bales and bales of Chhaang without going crazy, the non-Tibetans like my husband and his good friends weren't quite aware of this paddy baby or tried not to show it.

The Bullet, of the Royal Enfield motorcycle family, being the preferred mode of transportation for most hot bloodied men in Delhi during the 80s and 90s, was extremely popular with the bad boys, specially for ferrying themselves to and fro from Chhaang Town. Sometimes the boys returned in one piece but at other times the bikes came back in many pieces. The latter incident was one more excuse to drink gallons of tea and other stuff at the mechanic's under the tree. Those were the days when India was free of all cops, and the atmosphere still reeked of the 60s. This is the story of one such incident when my husband Bapi, and his friend Sandy roared into Chhaang Town one morning. By the time afternoon came around, these two were thoroughly soaked in the Tibetan culture and even the natives of Chhaang Town showed concern. In the huts and colors of Chhaang Town it's easy to forget oneself and that Momos (dumplings) are usually eaten when Chhaang is consumed, specially in large quantities. 

Rebels without a cause - Bapi and Sandy.

As events would unfold, the two friends forgot to order momos and the Tibetans forgot to inform. After all, the two looked seasoned enough. It was getting close to the time of tottering out of Chhaang Town but only one could do so. Sandy had to be dragged to the bike. Many came to help and even Bapi-the-veteran needed some assistance in starting the bike but nonetheless joined heartily in the discussion of Chhaang and bikes and the deadly combination of the two. Sandy lay on the dirt in his la-la land as heated discussions flew around him and over him as to what was the best way to deposit him on the bike or whether he was in a position to be picked up at all or whether he should be moved to the huts till somebody sober came to fetch him the next day. Alcohol impairs the ability to walk but boosts the ego tremendously, something the Tibetans have been telling the world to get rid of altogether (the ego). Sandy was immune to the big ego and my husband could feel and taste only ego at that time. So, a string was got, Sandy was put in pillion, and the string used to tie Sandy loosely to Bapi who swaying a bit himself managed to hold Sandy with one hand and the bike with the other - and off the two buddies went riding into the sunset.

All was gentle swaying, occasional swerving, and purring. Sometimes Bapi would see Sandy, then at other times only his hand told him that Sandy was still there. Sandy could move in three directions - backwards, left, and right. At times he would hang backwards precariously defying gravity. At other times he would hang awkwardly to the left or right. But at all times, Sandy and Bapi managed to stay on the bike. There were some moments when even the hand of Bapi could not prevent the butt of Sandy from sliding off the seat. Nonetheless the three of them, Bapi, Sandy, and Ms Bullet kept going. There was no stopping these three. All was going well and the god of spirits was happy, when just half way home, they began to be pursued by a University bus. The bus was full of shrieking college girls. Oblivious to Bapi and Sandy who had been under scrutiny for a while, specially Bapi who was driving with one hand while holding an oscillating specimen with the other - the girls felt a compelling need to intervene. And when college girls get to that, all hell can break loose. Added to that was the passion of seeing such injustice, and boys behaving badly. The moment had to be seized, the downtrodden to be helped, and the helpless to be assisted - or their education would be meaningless in their eyes and the eyes of the world.

The bus driver was threatened, the bus stopped, and the infamous three barely managed to stay upright with all the noise and commotion that confronted them when they were rudely stopped. Sandy of course slid to the ground and lay there, while Bapi went into a state of shock. The girls came out screaming vile stuff at Bapi and the comatose Sandy. Bapi was told he was the most evil man to treat his friend so callously. How could he do it at the peril of the friend's life. The bus driver shrank or ran away, nobody knows. It was close to a blockade. Everybody wanted to help the girls. Most ignored Sandy. But really it was Sandy who had created all this fuss by his swaying and swinging and what not. Nobody saw that. Only if he had sat up straight like Bapi. Not one rickshaw but many rickshaws were stopped. Total confusion reigned. Which rickshaw would be best for loading Sandy into? The Bus driver had smoked his bidi so he was ready to go anywhere. Sandy smiled when he was hauled into the rick by the girls. Even in his inebriated state Bapi managed to stay in his shocked state. The procession started with Bapi and Ms Bullet in the lead, closely followed by the rickshaw with Sandy's hands and legs hanging on either side, and last but not in the least - by some very belligerent but triumphant looking girls in the bus. The best or the worst part of the story was that having 'chhaanged' their pockets completely, our two heroes had no money for the rickshaw and I had to foot the bill. I think those girls in the bus should have picked up the tab or taken Sandy with them in the bus.