Revised A- Version of the previous story Below

Tiger Tiger Chickening Nights
”There he goes. He’s hiding here, the bastard.” came the voice from nowhere on a summer’s full moon night in Manurewa. Followed by another: “Yes…Yes. I can see him. He’s here”. South Auckland was filled with angry shouts and screams just near my window. I woke up with a start and actually broke into cold sweat. I was sure it was me they were searching for. I could not move lest I was seen. I stayed paralysed for an eternity of fifteen minutes. I was sweating all this time. My pillow had gone damp.
I always fancied myself as a bit of a tiger and a brave-heart. Talking of brave-hearts I always maintained that Maoris have a big heart. In the summer of 2002, sometime in November just before I moved in with my ‘Pakeha’ girlfriend, I stayed at a Maori mate’s house. Wakena was returning me an old favor. Waky (as I called him) and me hadn’t always been friends. Sometimes I knew for a fact that if he wasn’t a Christian, he would have killed me.
We were working at the warehouse of The Warehouse (where everyone gets a red bargain) at Wiri. That day, as I was moving the bottles out of the dispatch trail, I suddenly saw a big Maori fella leaning over me. His face was totally tattooed. He looked at me with what I thought were kind eyes, for someone with tattoo for facial skin. He proclaimed, “He is coming.” I knew this was an abstract statement and didn’t bother to look around for ‘who’ is ‘he’. I just smiled at him and he said, “Isu is coming”. I knew Isu was Indian for Jesus and I said, “Oh, that’s nice”. After a cross-fire of banter we became friends.
The Clendon ward was surprised to see an Indian and a Maori as friends. “A lot of people are surprise to see a Maori walk with an Indian but you are in many ways like me…not easily intimidated.” Wakena said. I was ‘wow’ as I looked at the tattoo-faced seriousness. I just nodded in a cool-sort-of-a-cowboy-knows-his-way-across-the-sunset way. I was dreaming of other imaginary glories like taking a hat trick, making love to Irene etc. as I dozed off.
That day I decided to retire early since it was a Friday night and I had nothing to do after the spicy Pau Bhaji I had made for the family. Waky is the only guy in the entire world that can eat the spice I dish out.
It had been a tiresome week and I was still intrigued by how close the state houses were. From my window I could see the lesbian women’s ‘living in sodomy’ house. They were the butt of every church going Mormon’s joke in that clammed neighborhood. I could see three other houses. I was thinking of the compliment Wakena had paid me as we were walking home besides his bicycle, Yeah, yeah…the same brave heart one. I was slow-motioning the walk on tar road and relishing the moment; the sun was setting on the green hills as I was re-runnning the compliment.
I fell asleep and was soon dreaming. Ancient Mongolians were attacking the enemy on the green fields that stretched on and on. Then it happened.
At two I heard voices and screams. “There is the bastard”. “He’s hiding here.” “Catch him.” I gasped, did not dare to turn the lights of the ghetto house, since I slept in the nude. “Fuck... why did I ever come to stay here. They were after me!” I was scared shitless. I heard another set of footsteps in the house, running everywhere on the wooden house…through the green toilet that had floating toys in the bath tub around my room and towards Waky’s room. My room did not have a latch as I inched my way after a good twenty minutes, frantically ducking from the window line of vision.
I was searching for my faded wranglers in the dark. Under the small single bed..no. Besides my cotton sheet that kept me from itching in the night…no. Hung on the old oil heater. I was crouching tiger - gutless dragon. I found it. Was on the floor on my back wearing it. Luckily no one opened my door. After about fifteen minute of abject commotion, I stared out of my small, sneaky window (that opened only half an inch for oxygen). All the lights in the neighbourhood were ablaze. I decided to venture out into the lounge. My manhood was at stake. Remember, I was the guy who could not get intimidated.
I looked at the whanau. They were all untouched by this violent night, where punches and screams were thrown in for the added interest. Waky was trying to start someone’s car. I did not speak just looked around and ensured that I was safe.
I even boldly went up to Waky and said, “Hey! What happened?”
Waky shrugged off “Oh a fight in the neighborhood.”
I smiled at Kathy “That happens?”
“Oh! All the time.”
Now my curiosity took precedence over my fear that I hid rather well. Ok so what’s happening? I ventured nearer to the gate and saw lots of cars and Police lights and Waky driving the car a fair bit. I did not completely risk going out. What if someone says, “What’s this bloody Indian doing here?” And, suddenly everyone realizes his point and starts smashing me. But hey! I had proved that I was brave inside. So there! It was time to sleep.
I later put all the fragmented pieces of information together and realized that there was a party happening in the cream house besides the Lesbian Villa and someone got drunk and mistook someone else’s wife for his. Actually he just molested her. And hell broke loose. The culprit ran through the backyard into our house and ran through the door. Whew! That was a close shave. These New Zealanders didn’t they ever bolt their doors? I had generalized till I saw how meticulously Emma turned the alarm and bolted the every little window in the house.
My stay at Wakena’s house was fairly comfortable but I was awakened by Mormon readings of the Bible in tongues from the other room. I did enjoy chips dipped in white sauce. Waky loved my curry. However, one morning when I heard Waky and Kathy fighting over ‘how he’s not interested in touching her’. I realized that I was a mouse not a fgiery warrior. I decided it was time to pack.
I did not mind them occasionally turning my God’s picture frame face-side-down because they were sure it was the Devil. But, when husband and wife start fighting, it is time to leave. So I am not brave. But I’m alive and whatsmore everyone thinks I’m James Bond himself.

Exorcist in Dahanu

Dahanu is a sleepy little town that looks like a Pacific island, with its endless palms and coconut plantations, on the western coast just hundred kilometres above Mumbai on a map. The fresh Neera or coconut toddy, a sweet morning juice that can ferment into an intoxicating drink in the afternoon, is pure nectar.
The brown train on a winter morning, with visible specks of white dust in February sun promised that it would be a fun trip with my cousin and her husband living with the in-laws of the in-laws. It’s slightly complicated, so let’s just call them the others. The others live in a huge apartment in Dahanu.
The first three days were untainted heaven with long walks, nights under rural starry beaches, good vegetarian curries, lentils and pickles. My cousin’s husband, technically my brother-in-law (since in India, we call our first cousins cousin-brother or cousin-sister) is a hilarious comedian. We were staying at his sister’s house thus, the in-laws of the in-laws.
But on that fateful day, we were warned in instalments by the others. “They are coming”, said the stupid one. “We need the bhuwa (exorcist) as lots of bad things are happening in the house.”, said the mother. This was following a shouting match between father (in-law) and the stupid one.
We went for dinner that evening having forgotten the small snippets of talk that day. When we came back the lounge or the hall was filled with strangers. Everyone was drinking and the lights were on full blast inside the house.
“They are from London, they don’t believe all this”, said the father to the exorcist almost as a challenge. My cousin looked thrilled at being called a London-returned. Actually, none of us have been to London. I live in Auckland and my cousin has travelled to Dubai and Nairobi.
We quietly went to our green room with an ancient air-conditioner that worked like a breeze. Indian winters are warmer than Auckland summers. We must have nodded off, when suddenly we heard loud noises. Clangs. Singing. Clapping.
My cousin said, “Looks like they are dancing”. We ran to the door. Ghosts and possessions or divine haunting do happen in India. Divine haunting are more common in Navratri even in Mumbai. During the nine nights, it is said, that mother-deities come out to play garba. When mostly the women dance around a the goddesses and sometimes people get possessed as they are singing garbas.
But belief in possessions is uncommon among the learned folk, drawing an invisible line between the ‘educated fools’ and the God-fearing rural people.
Kneeling, we placed ourselves behind the door and opened it slightly. As a guest in India it would be unwise to jump out of the room and say “Hey! Let me watch!” Protocol had to be followed. That was part and parcel of being born in a country of arrange marriages, five thousand years of civilisation, extended families and the caste system. The caste system did not affect the metros, in a big way anymore.
Coming back to the action through a gap between the door and the wall, my cousin had already joined in and her husband eventually followed. My cousin is a staunch Jain and thus, does not eat non-veg and would never hurt a living thing and did not believe in ‘hocus pocus’.
Hocus Focus can be exciting to life especially if you on all fours with your cousin was bending over you and her upright husband economising the half inch gap between the door and wall.
My cousin said rhetorically, “Are they singing?”.
Suddenly, we saw someone come towards us. We immediately jumped to our nonchalant positions on bed, playing scrabble, reading, staring philosophically into the ceiling etc.
It was lady of the house, who extended a warm and insistent welcome. You can come out and join us.”
“No. We are fine but Suneal, if you want to go it’s alright”, came the approval that is so crucial in times like this. Then, one can run out. They eventually followed.
The group was animated and wearing colourful clothes as they were singing bhajans and garbas - hymns to evoke the goddess mother deity Ambe and Chamunda, essentially. We sat on the thick cotton-jute carpet on the floor.
The other daughter-in-law already looking possessed; swinging her head at a radius of three feet in a circular motion that allowed her leverage of three feet in height. Something like the earth’s rotation and revolution. Sitting next to a possessed individual is a an experience.
The red sindoor, not the small dot on the forhead but a long, blood-red liquid going from between the eyebrows all the way into the hair, was looking ominous. The woman was moving frantically and when prompted by the ordinary looking exorcist, who you would not have given a second glance in the fruit bazaar except for his bulging eyes. He was of medium built and had had a few pegs of whiskey before.
“Show your true self… WHO ARE YOU!” He said to the woman.
She, in turn, stuck her Maori-haka tongue out and looked like a replica of the picture of Mother Chamunda, with her eyes wide open and tongue almost touching her chin. She rotated and revolved at full burst for a good half an hour. Almost everyone instinctively started touching her feet out of reverence, awe and sheer respect for the goddess. Some did not.
Bowing to keep the peace and making sure the unknown does not suck you in is a wise option. The whole thing seemed slightly overdone and aggravated for the benefit of non-believing foreign returned-s. One could bow in submission or be hexed.
My cousin’s attitude of being someone - she is not, came out in full flavour. The wannabe tough, educated feminist ‘from hell’ and the greatest gift to any one who comes in contact with her.
The noise decibels were increasing as people were summoned to ask questions. They later told me that the answers were accurate.
Suddenly everyone got up. Actually, some of them got up as the exorcist led them out. We later learned that they had gone to the family factory and the women had found an article or a lemon that was burried by ‘evil eyed’ as a curse to the family.
The possessed woman found the article and then they destroyed and had gone to the crematorium, the Hindu ‘graveyard‘. Going to bury a lemon or an article that captured all the evil spirits, bad luck and possible family misfortunes, can be avoided. Was.
After an hour or so, the nice other lady was in our room talking about evil things and insisting that she didn’t want to get into these things as it went against her beliefs. She was religious and believed in Shiva.
The ardent father-in-law came in and asked her to get religiously possessed. “It is nothing, don‘t be scared”.
Once again, we found ourselves in the yellow lamp-lit hall with pictures of goddesses and a skull. She was asked to drink some whiskey. She insisted that she did not want to get possessed as the exorcist said, “My child don’t be afraid”.
Even as she was pleading not to get into a trance, suddenly, out of no will of hers, she began rotating. She kept insisting that she did not want to go through this. The roller coaster.
She was fine, educated and graceful one moment and convulsing the next. It was difficult not to believe. My cousin was her cool self. The lady in the meantime, went for gold and in her trance - rotated. Her voice changed. Soon, she was answering questions that onlookers posed. Wanted her spell to be broken would be anybody’s natural wish. My cousin asked a few questions as her non-believing confused, husband looked down at us from the sofa.
It was finally over leaving a huge impression. The exorcist had been in a lineage of exorcists and was an ardent worshipper of mother deities. He insisted that he did not accept money but some money had changed hands. The parents- in-laws were happy and proud of their daughters-in-laws.
The lady insisted that she was fresher than ever and did not remember a thing about her possessed state and it seemed she was telling the truth. Dahanu had left a mark and that evening was like Bengal where goddesses and spirits change people’s lives and the eastern state is believed to be a land of black magic.
The incident remained close to my heart till an opportune moment, when I actually digested my brush with the after life. There was definitely something there. And, even as I tried to send this story across before the d-time, the computer shut on me for no reason thrice and I had to rewrite the story over and over again and actually hand it in, one hour and eighteen minutes late.

Into the Heart of Gujarat with the wind on our faces

No matter what country, place or religion, there is a subtle yet strong bond of culture between the coastal areas of the world. The fishing folks around the planet have incomprehensible similarities. Assuming that the spice of the lives of the fishing folk could give us just the dimension and freedom we were looking for, Arun and me set out from Malad Manori on his Enfield packed with Bisleri bottles, black and white rolls and a lust for life which tripled when we saw those gals with 'legs' on the launch that took us across to Manori.
I had half the mind to follow the legs and get to know them better but I said hey- that could wait. We rode through greens and grasses and tumbled down forts and stopped to click schools, churches, horses and a rocky cliff I tried to get on. Gorai served us omelettes and tadgolas. We filled Lassi and petrol at Bhayandar when the smooth ride started on this side of the highway. Stopping for occasional piss, we bamboozled into a country road on our way to Dahanu. There was a low-lit moon and fireflies and smell of warm grass in the night as we stopped to snack at a village shop. The night was lit with stars and the rustle of grass whispered to us. It was too good to be real, it took us 2 hours to reach a real restaurant where Arun guzzled his Kingfisher, and I stuck to my egg masala, being a renegade vegetarian.
That night we bunked in a local lodge besides a Sai Baba temple on the Dahanu beach. Since the next day, we were planning to go to Bordi beach.
Next day early morning, we hit the misty road passing cool windmills, cow carts, more beaches, heavy breakfast and reached Umergaon - the gate way to Gujarat, Umergaon is a cute place with broken brick houses and old, old schools that go back 1901. We could not click the school since the principal was an asshole. We struggled back through a jetty in a trawler where we literally had to hold the 300-kg bike with prayers. We reached the other side of the Dahanu creek, the smell of fish inspired my friend, and we were off searching for fried fish, which came to us at Boisar.
I stuck to my patent egg masala and Arun guzzled his Kingfisher. The road back was hot and dusty with occasional Lassi and iced towels for gratitude

Arabian Nights

Nothing can give you greater pleasure than watching a seagull in mid-flight as it flaps its wings ever so gently, gracefully in the most romantic manner, just a few feet away from you. The Seagull goes on to glide over a clear, green, transparent ocean( and you see the fish inside) on a bright, hot afternoon. Cool. Freedom is accentuated by birds and envied by humans. 'As free as a bird' would make a handy cliché. Strangely, it reminds me of a peacock on a misty morning in Rajastan just a hand away dancing, leaping, flying.
Freedom and travel are highs, which elevate you beyond spirits or drugs. The Dubai creek has exactly stood where it is for centuries with small markets (souks) on either side, where the locals resided and sold spice, water, fruits to pilgrims who stop-gapped their way to Mecca, Saudi Arabia. The creek divides Dubai into Deira and Bur (the other side) Dubai. Deira is more cosmopolitan and Bur Dubai is India. Shit I just don't seem to lose my countrymen, no matter where I go.
Dubai is just another international city with well-constructed and very contemporary architecture, with parks in their proper places and between roads, with tasty Lebanese restaurants on the roads, pollution free, non stinking and noise resistant. The Police are handling the law and order without much corruption. Looks-wise, it's like Bangkok. I guess Bangkok got rich on Arabic money. Dubai is the least Islamic province in the Middle East. If you get pork and wine (which is haraaam in Islam) it's an absolute wonder. Pig is the ultimate sacrilege in the least of un-holiness. Yeah, Dubai is nice with its sprawling malls, ice-rings for skating, swimming pools, discos and those super discount during the colourful light and crackers Dubai Shopping Festival. But as soon as I think of going overboard, I remember the bloke in the customs in India, where corruption is an established pride. What a shame!
The Jumeira Beach is beautiful and rather baywatch-ian. The winter is just departing, leaving the mist for a hotter steamy and humid summer. As I walk on the creek side I see a few losers, sitting and staring at the sea. The losers sit and stare, while the winners travel in BMWs, cultivate artificial accents, go to discos and listen to music they don't understand, visit Russian whores, celebrate AIDS with their wife and family. Oh the jetsetters!
Sharjah is bigger than Dubai and Fujeira is a rugged mountain trail all the way to Sultanate of Oman with rich red sand desert in between. I'm told that the redness of the soil is a good predictor of oil content. Ajman is a free port so drinkers can buy duplicate wines. I'm yet to visit the Krishna Temple, the museum, the gold shouk, Heritage village, Sharjah and bits and parts here and there. I'm yet to say hi to the Filipino who stays bang opposite my house, the one with amazing legs.
The radio FM is strong here with a million Arabic channels, three English and two Hindi channels, which are actually better than the one back home. Which is not saying much anyway. Arabic is spoken in over a dozen and a half countries. Try Yemen, Oman, Saudia, Sudan, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Lebanon and some parts of Kerala. Global village is a fair with all the countries participating with life size tourist attractions of their country. Kuwaiti forts, Chinese houses, Red Indian wigwams, Charminar etc. It's massive. Dubai is nice.
I heard Bombay is trying to hold a Shopping Festival. That could pose a few minor problems. Where will the travellers stay? How will the beggars suck the life out of them? And more importantly, where will the Biharis and the UPites shit?

Kerala

Kerala is rightfully one of the 10 best destinations of the millennium. During the monsoon of 2000, we headed for Kerala on an impulse. Originally, the plan was to go to Himachal Pradesh, which is a dream come true for campers and hikers. But impulse is fun, like life on the edge in a mini version. We took the Konkan railway, which has nothing less than 200 misty waterfalls, endless coastlines and 100s of noisy tunnels. I suggest earmuffs for the journey. Interesting food! Sam, Sonali, Kashyap the hubby and little me reached Ernakulam at 4.00 in the morning and shacked in a nearby hotel. The dawn saw us at the coast of Cochin, gorging on idlis and malagapuddi. Ernakulum is a twin city of Cochin. Alleppey, of the Dil Se fame has exotic backwaters. We went in a small ferry paddling through the Venice of the East, through rope-makers, white birds, small bridges, rice fields, dead cats and curious people. I wonder if the curious people killed the cat. Villagers were staring at us, trying to decide on our species. Later, we had a 35-rupee local meal that consists of rice, sambar, rasam, aveeal, pysum, and tair on a long banana leaf, in a five star hotel at Ernakulum. They serve you hot water, which is absolutely great for your stomach. After the meal, we took a luxury boat around Cochin City. We saw the Dutch palace, some exotic fishing nets, some cute Jews at the synagogue etc. Man, our country has been invaded by every Ching, Dick and Scary! In the evening we went walking around the city and culminated it by watching the worst Nick Nolte movie 'Gone in sixty seconds'. I fell asleep in 60 seconds and was gone through the rest of the flick. Next day we took off to Thekkady, the wild, wild country, which is on the border of Tamil Nadu some 7 hours from Ernakulum by bus. We had food at Kumidy and went up to Thekkadi, which is an absolute animal country. You are not even allowed to walk around alone. The boat ride through the jungle on both sides had wild boars, tigers, elephants, sambars, deers, pelicans and some ants I'm sure. I felt like TinTin or one those guys at the National Geographic or Discovery. We had the option to sleep in a machang that is a watch tower in the middle of the forest. But mosquitoes literally give me sleepless nights. Sam, being more Canadian in his approach, went for elephant rides. As for me we have road jams in Mumbai because of some elephant every 18th day. A night and some exotic food at the Periyar lodge, later we went down by the bus through tea and rubber plantations to Kottayam, took a train and went back to Ernakulum, our first crush. Actually Kerala has seaside on one end and the hills on the other and the hills are generally alive with the sound of music. But wait a minute! What had I come to Kerala for? I wanted to sleep in a clean river and drink coconut milk. So quickly we took a second look at Ernakulum. St. Francis Church, Dutch palace and dipping in a local well (it was getting hot as hell). In the evening we headed to Malayatoor, where the Periyar river starts. We got down at Aluva went to Kaldi ate some Punjabi food. Went up to Malayatoor. Periyar is the widest, clearest, sexiest and longest river in Kerala. In the next 3 days we dipped in the river for 6 hours, stayed by a lake hotel, where we were the only residents for 2 nights, on the last nights some drinking party was held in the adjacent room. We climbed up a old church 8 kms up at 65 degrees to reach a 300 year old church of St. Thomas. St Thomas happens to be one of the apostles sent by Christ and reached Kerala in 0072 AD and thus Keralite Catholics are the original Syrian Catholics. The Mangoloreans and the Goans were converted by the British or the Portuguese like their East Indian brothers. The old church is called Ana-something -or-the-other which means "The church hit by a wild elephant". On a wall you can clearly see an impression of a wild elephant. We also visited the Adi Sankara Charya temple. ASC is the 13th incarnation of Shiv. The 12th was Hanuman. The 11th is Surya. This information was giving to us by Surya (not the sun god) but an educated guide, who is a retired bank officer, absolutely free-of-cost. ASC was born in the compound, the only son to a lady who was widowed when Adi was 4 years old. At 6 when he had decided to lead a life of an ascetic, he told Bramha the creator to come in the form of a crocodile and hold on to his leg in the Periyar to obtain the permission from his mother to renounce the world. Luckily this happened 1200 years ago and there are no crocs in the Periyar anymore. We also saw an elephant-training centre on the other side of the Periyar, (Periyavoor) where cute little elephants took their bath. Well Kerala isn't God's own country for nothing.

Rajashtan

Rajasthan, which literally means the land of kings, has a colourful history of warriors and princes, artisans and farmers, forts and palaces, of honour and love, of betrayal and conquest. No matter how many travel books you have seen with pictures of delicate miniature paintings of elephants, tigers, rajas, maharajas, queens, hunting parties, wedding receptions, colourful women dressed in a mad array of rainbows painted in the form of the most extravagant geometrical poetry; nothing quite prepares you for Rajasthan.
In the first instant, I felt a loss of what to absorb and what to ignore. If you take in the sprawling mountains and the cool winter morning misty breeze, you might miss the villagers carrying their water from miles of barren land. If you take in the houses with their curious shapes and mountains on one side, you might miss the forts and palaces on the hillocks. You could miss the marble quarry. You could miss the poetry of the dialect or the spice of their simple food. (I hate simple food). You could miss their smiles, which have remained intact through centuries of invasion, endless years of drought, extreme climate and hard times. Let us try to get a little more specific and go one place at a time.
Let us talk about Nathdwara, which means the door to the Lord. Nathdwara is in South Rajasthan. You could get there by train, bus, or a plane to the nearest city Udaipur. I took the train journey, landed at Falna, and took a jeep to Nathdwara after banging in a few cups of Tea and Coffee with some fried stuff that dietician's would give you a life sentence for. Early morning jeep rides are slightly chilly, especially in the northwestern part of the country. Nathdwara is famous for the temple of Srinathji, which was founded there in 1671. Srinathji is yet another form of Krishna and enjoys more than a fair following amongst the Vaishnavas. I personally am a believer. The first day at Nathdwara could pass in seven visits to the temple and seeing the various forms of the Lord. You could take a discount by taking the first prayer at 5.00 am and setting off to Udaipur, which takes an hour in the bus. Discounts are my speciality. Udaipur is probably the only green place in Rajasthan. It has its shares of zoos, gardens and palaces. However, since I had just a few hours, I walked to the City Palace, which has a museum. The museum is full of heavy artillery, rooms for the princesses, colourful rooms, balconies that face the city, brief history of the brave Rana Pratap, who took on the mighty Akbar, old chariots, mind blowing pictures of hunting parties on tree tops on hills shooting at a dozen or so tigers/panthers in a single painting. Udaipur has always brimmed with artisans who painted for the royal family. There are seven lakes in all in the city, which makes it 'the city of lakes'. Beautiful women have their afternoon bath in these lakes. The best way to see a city is on foot. I did exactly that, passing through shops and hawkers, drinking lemonades and keeping my curious eyes on cows and dogs, bicycles and video parlour showing 'Octopussy', which incidentally was made partly in Udaipur. Roger Moore is a nice guy and girls must have found him charming and all, but hey, he is no Sean Connery. Udaipur is beautiful, slightly full these days. A proper city resembles Delhi.

The plot thickens

The ICICI OneSource job has started sucking. Three sessions on demotivation and plus the frustrations of the trainer.