A Weekend Long Overdue : The Rise and Fall of Comfort and Dignity

Anyone who has ever organized a trip will understand the pain and suffering of planning the trip and deploying the tightly packed yet immaculately designed schedule.
And those who have been on a trip with such a person will understand the pain and suffering of having such a person with you. When your travel itinerary can be read off a spreadsheet, run.
Run and don't stop.

Sometimes I consider myself lucky to have friends who know the exact length of Joseph Stalin's mustaches or details about the obscure region producing the purest sativa plants, but don't know the right way around a timetable.

Arriving in Goa has been a subject to which every Bollywood movie involving either of the two popular meanings of six-packs, has dedicated ten entire minutes to.
I remembered the sun glisten on the actor's gold rimmed sunglasses as he jumps out of his convertible Bimmer with flourish. His floral print shirt ripples in the generous gusts of wind as he lowers his shades to lech at scantily clad women.

As I stumbled from my bus onto the pavement at 4:30 am, with my preposterously blue sunglasses and even more preposterously blue floral print shirt tucked safely in my bag, the only scantily clad people I saw were those who I wished weren't so.
Talk about unrealistic standards set by films.

The flickering tube light that promptly annihilated my vision, took a few minutes to get used to. Between the pulses of darkness, I read "Ajit Tea Stall"

Life wasn't so bad after all.

My bones cracking in places I didn't know existed, I settled down on the teetering stools set on the road that Ajit's counter looked upon. Apparently, a certain fraction of the road was dedicated to suicidal tea drinkers.

The cold morning air whistled between the empty chai glasses carried to and from the shop's tables as the early bird customers who had gotten down before me, huddled into warm clumps of excited human beings, discussing their potential exploits in the state of sun and sand.

The humidity did little to cover the cold as I wrapped my hands around the steaming cup of tea that was handed to me. I blew a little, and my vision was obliterated a second time as my glasses fogged over. Taking a little sip, I looked around at my brothers-in-arms against the war on sanity.

Deshpande, the only one of us not drinking, in all senses, rested his hands on his knees as he watched us arrange our stools and pass the clinking glasses. Ashtekar, passed me my glass and moved on to enjoy the tea with it's best known "side-dish". Hrushi and Angad sat discussing the mathematical function relating gravitational force and tidal waves between sips.

Once the tea had cooled down enough only burn my tongue rather than incinerate it, I took a braver gulp. I felt the bodily anguish I had sustained for the past ten hours wash away as it ran down my throat, caressing everything it touched into a blissful submission.
Anyone who is over six feet tall will understand my plight when I say that I was sitting behind an elderly person on a bus with reclining seats. The ten hours of mummification my legs had endured ebbed away and my sleep-deprived eyes were put into a state of simultaneous alertness and ecstasy. My throat and tongue, dry after hours of water-less incarceration and shouting at the old man to pull his seat ahead, were finally blessed.

My cup was now half-empty.
I tried to recollect the badly ripped cinema going on in the bus, the incessant sneezing of the old lady sitting behind us, the drone of the bus interrupted by screeching halts and perilously dangerous cornering speeds, and the inevitable belch from the one who got the short end of the stick in seating arrangements.
But I only remembered the glistening lights of an unknown village, dimming down to submit to the sweet release of sleep, the friendly chatter of a group going out for the weekend, the wonderful mix of taste and spices in our biriyani that night, and the little cup of tea that held the promise of the times ahead.

I looked at the cup, now half-filled.

With every thirst of my body quenched, I turned my sight to the my friends, each of whom had varying degrees of physical and mental fatigue on their faces.
The next leg of our journey lay before us. A planned trip would have taken care of this weeks before hand, but the question marks etched on our faces told us that our organizational skills would have ensured no such thing.

I smiled to myself as I kept the glass on the counter and stretched myself before picking up my bag to join my friends in a heated discussion about server side scripting languages, heading to a location which none of us were sure the bus would arrive at.

It was going to be a great weekend.

A Corner of Indulgence in an Austere World

In the ceaseless metronome of life, stopping is the ultimate sin. And like any rhythm, it is cyclic. Get up, do your stuff, sleep. The stuff may be different for everyone, but the pleasure of variety ends there. You can't marvel at a schedule once you've seen it from a bird's eye view for what it is; a schedule.

Like a drummer is noticed only when he misses a beat, it is these moments which acknowledge the clockwork nature of life. But like a heart skipping a beat, you appreciate the fleeting nature of beauty through these moments. And finally, as the drummer gracefully dives into a new beat, these moments refresh you and you face the cyclic mundanity of routine with a new verve.

A 9-to-5 job is a perfect example of such inane structure, and mine is no exception. The moment I rest my backside on the soft yet constraining cushions of my chair, my eyes wander towards the clock, waiting for it to say half past noon.

Jeevdaani is a quaint little joint, tucked away in the bosoms of Bavdhan. It's not a place you would talk about at parties. But when something is a stones throw from your office, it is discovered, tested, and if it fits, inculcated. Prima facie, Jeevdaani doesn't have much to offer in terms of aesthetics, but an unqualified charm that is entirely its own.

As Satish holds up his hand in acknowledgement to our request for Jeevdaani's most 'takatak chai', we indulge in good old office banter. Here, even the crispest of shirts find wrinkles comfortable and the tightest of ties become loose. The backs aching after hours of maintaining the politically correct work position find respite in the creaking plastic chairs strewn on Jeevdaani's porch.

As the lunch boxes pop open, and the clatter of plates heralds the arrival of food even before the aroma, a plethora of topics are explored within that half-hour of paradise. The pungent plague of a baleful boss or the suffocation of a looming deadline pale into insignificance over each other's lunches.

As Bhima expertly balances more cups of tea on a saucer than it was originally meant for, the connoisseur's eyes light up and a wide smile glows on our faces as we reach forward, sparing him the trouble of actually placing them in front of us.

"Bhima sheth! Takatak zalay chaha!"

The tea fueled whoop carries over the regular hustle-bustle of Jeevdaani's patrons and despite having heard the phrase more times than they've cared to count, Bhima and Satish smile broadly as we bask in the golden glory of Jeevdaani's best.

The old steel vessel has served countless customers, and we are just one of that number, yet we feel special every time we have a cup. The slightly cracked chinaware into which it is poured is a sign that you have ordered the full one, as compared to the translucent cones of cutting chai. It is a symbol of honor that we show our respect to by actually holding on to the little handle, however precarious it may seem.

The first sip of that beautiful beverage after a hearty lunch and heartier laughter, makes the next half of the day seem bearable. The slightly sweet, yet staunchly traditional taste echoes with the ambiance of the environment and the souls of those who make it. The rims slowly turn golden as we enjoy every last drop of it, preparing ourselves for pending work and assignments, with a peace and serenity that only a cup of her finest can provide.

She really lives up to her name as a life-giver, Jeevdaani.