Gaurav Parab's Blog, page 2

Why I Write and Other Questions

Gaurav Parab

The much insulted 'mundane existence' smothers deep questions that pop up in moments of longing alone or of heavy drinking with ghosts from our past and friends of the present.

Why do I do the things I do? What's my purpose here? Or who the f are we all ? (This one usually comes when staring at enormous scale - like an ocean approaching a beach, or stars on a clear summer's night)

Not entirely a bad thing,  I have realized over years of a demanding high pressure day job, self imposed deadline weary night writing, necessary and unnecessarily travel, occasional this and that and on and on I can go. One life to live, won the universal lottery, got to do as much as I can every moment has set my agenda. I know it is more or less the same for almost all readers of this blog. The pressure to be busy, to be seen trying, to be seen dying trying.

Less the time for such questions, the more focus you can put together on the task at hand. But the questions do come up, don't they.

What the hell am I doing with my life, being the headlining theme.

And as we struggle with this uninvited guest, which like a stick raking through dying embers of a bonfire finds sparks and unburnt wood, you feel hope about something new just around the corner , and yet you also feel momentarily frozen in your tracks - disappointed in all the wonderful things you have achieved so far and frustrated you could have done so more.

When these questions on existence overwhelm us, we long for ordinariness - a simple day in a pair of worn out pajamas, legs up, cold beer in one hand, reading something brilliant like Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora and not working on anything. A day, a moment when you are a child with no homework, a moment when you busy adult are not up to something.

How I long for such a day, a moment when there is no thought squatting in my mind.

I, and this has been my secret for years ... I... feel jealous of those who live through entire days, months, years simply putting one foot ahead of the other. The celebration of routine, day in and day out. The disdain for curiosity, and for exploration of anything out of the way.

While I devour books to unlock the secrets of a mind at peace, these chaps are just born with it. Here they come, on time to work, on time to leave, on time collecting kids from school, dropping old parents wherever old parents want to be dropped, watching one movie per fortnight, two days of box cricket per week, binge watching the coolest thing on Netflix, and an occasional drive to Lonavala - stripping to their baniyan going around the first traces of a paunch when a waterfall comes along.

What a sorted thought process, I tell myself whenever I come across someone like that. All ambition handicapped by disinterest.

God I wish I was that.

On the surface, such a person has no great gifts or interests outside of the work , but deep inside I suspect it is perhaps that person's greatest gift.

Not giving a F about anything unrelated to putting food on the table.

***

Why do I write

Because it is the only way I can mourn my dead. The only way I can laugh out from somewhere so deep inside and out of sight that it exists close to the only real part of my soul. The only way I see the glory of the Sun breaking through the darkness is when it does so from a piece of paper and not through my window. It does not serve me well with people and with life in the moment, but it makes me feel immortal.

The Gods have nothing on me. The Devil shivers. I sit down and I go about creating and destroying worlds in seconds when some of the most powerful men have tried and failed over thousands of years. It does not pay the bills, but it helps me buy back all the soul I have sold over the years.

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Gaurav Parab is the author of Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora [Hachette 2015] and The Sea and All Its Parts [Speaking Tiger, To be published 2020]

Death Does Not Always Take - Reflections from the day my father died

Gaurav Parab‘So how was your visit to Orlando? Stay here or…. visit?’ the old Morrocon cab driver spoke every word deliberately like he felt the need to get it right.

I caught him looking at me in the mirror, eyes steady till they met mine.

In the brief moment when I saw him at the start of the trip, as he helped me with my backpack - I noticed he wore brown spectacles and a patched up coat a size too big. As I entered, he switched off the cab radio. That had been the extent of our interaction before eye contact was made. The only sound so far had been the familiar rumble of heavy wheels going over American concrete and the static from the cab company dispatch radio. The car smelt of detergent and coffee, as clean as a hospital - and I could not help but feel guilty of violating it with the old clothes I had worn after getting rid of my suit.

‘How was your visit Sir’

I was looking out of the window when the question was raised, my eyes moist no matter how much handkerchief had been thrown at them, my mind jumbled, the rest of me smelling of after- shave to compensate for the perfume I had no time to find and put on.

Him speaking was not part of the script. The events of the past few minutes had created that type of strange situation when you feel like you are watching someone else’s life in action. A cliched out of body experience. Life had forced me to act how I was supposed to act. Correction. Death was responsible. I was grieving and also observing myself grieve.

Look out of the window. Don’t focus on any particular spot. Chin up, shoulders dropped. And then that slow sigh like it is the only way you can can hold back tears.

His question was clearly practiced. He had waited, like polite old men normally do these woke days till the inevitable clearing of the throat. The children and grandchildren have now taught the elders about subtlety, ‘no poking in the affairs of others' and respecting private space. And the old have understood that the world which is no longer theirs to run now frowns and makes memes of them behaving like kind people who care.

Did I send a signal - an invitation that it was ok to speak? Was it the slight shift in my posture? Or because I had closed my eyes and opened them again - dazed at the city which now repeatedly thanked me like cities do when tourists get closer to the airport.

My response options. Say something wise/ poetry/ sarcasm. I went with sarcasm.

‘My visit? ’ I said, sticking to the screenplay my mind typed out and demanded.

‘It could have been better’.

The tears came down. I looked out with the handkerchief, and realized it was already so wet that it left a trail on my face while clearing one.

‘I was just told that my father passed away back home’ I shrugged, now feeling guilty. Clearly, he knew something was wrong and was trying to help.

I looked out of the cab, and now the movement and the world seemed natural again. No voice told me that I am supposed to look out at some great distance. I just looked. A son grieving his dad, without thinking of how he looked while doing it.

I knew I would never visit Orlando again.

***I apologize for starting the year on this  note. Most readers of this blog are at the age when unfortunately they are losing friends and family faster than they are making friends and family. We have crossed the point, when it is near impossible to make new old friends. Some manage to take the loss in their stride, some struggle for a while, and a few are never themselves again. Everyone eventually heals, but no one does completely. Every time you hear time is the greatest healer, it is true but not quite.

I just want to share my experience of that cab driver and how it helped me deal with the first few days and subsequently the rest of my life. I also have my own selfish reasons for this post. Writing is catharsis for me regarding my Dad’s passing away. I am the most human version of myself when I write.

***The cab driver sighed and his eyes withdrew from the mirror and looked straight ahead. And I could not help but believe the closed confines of this pleasant smelling cab has seen more confessions than a confessional.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

***
The previous evening in Orlando, on what was his final morning (in India) I was looking out of my hotel room at the golf course. And I had made a promise to myself that soon I will book a slot for my Dad at such a fancy golf course. He had played at many courses in India, but none in the US. Golf was his great love and he saw, measured and lived life in the context of the sport. When we would be on the road and he would see large farms, he would say ‘Four golf courses can be built here’. No wonder the farmers are in trouble

Or when someone would buy an expensive thing, he would say - That should have been spent on a King Cobra ( A golf driver, not the freaking snake thank God.)

Book a day for Dad on a golf course. That’s the fastest I have ever broken a promise.

***‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘Will we reach the airport on time?’

‘Don’t worry son’

I let it pass.

***It must have been 3 or 4 in the morning in India. I just knew. I just knew before she said it. ‘Gaurav come home...Baba is not feeling….’ the hesitant voice. Then an Army friend of my father took the phone. ‘Gaurav there is no other way to say this. Your father has passed away and you need to come home’

Good old fauj. They have their way with words.

‘Ok’

I remember looking around at the event going in full flow. And then walking towards my colleague.

***‘Can I tell you something son’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Rich or poor, cab driver or passenger, the King of Morocco or whoever - everyone has to one day face the death of his father. It is as definite an event as having a father. Everyone’s father dies. If you have children, the best you can hope for is you do not outlive your child.’

That last bit about the child was a line straight out of my then unpublished book. I had written it without knowing what it meant.

He had my attention. Encouraged, he continued. ‘My father died too when I was away. I was here’, he waved his arms. ‘Driving someone to Disneyland with him back home. At least you get back home to meet him...to see him. Can you imagine? Disneyland… every time i have to go there on a ride...there is great sorrow behind my smile and I look at my phone with fear.’

I don’t know how, but I had found my voice.

I had to rush to my room, where a colleague helped me pack and said she will get the rest of my luggage with her so I can save time through security and customs. Another woke up people in India to get me tickets. They even offered to get tickets in place for my sister who is flying from New Jersey. All I did was splash a lot of aftershave...for the people on the flight. ’

‘Good son. You are now thinking of something else. You are showing gratitude to your company and to your colleagues. Sure this trip could have been better. Should have been better. But there is no outrunning death is it. It happens to everyone. To everyone’s father. You are not unique in this tragic experience’

I nodded. That was the key. As harsh as it sounds, the understanding that what I was going through was not unique was liberating.

‘....and there is the answer to how a man... should deal with something of this type. Think of others. Gratitude and concern.’ he said. ‘The death of a father is not unique, but the response to it can be unique if you worry about the others who were close to him’

We had reached the airport and I knew what I had to do.

***

Our obvious understanding of death is that it takes away so much from us. But as you look back days, months and years later - you know it also gives you a lot. Primary  is the realization that time with someone is not always kind and is always limited. The whole thing about the clock being round and the minute and hour hands resetting every time the earth goes around is flawed. Time is linear. It runs out. You need to forget a lot of unnecessary things and burn it across your mind.

Second, no point spending time in self pity when you lose someone. Like my cab driver said, there is nothing unique about a father dying. It is tragic, but it happens to everyone. In my case it was my Baba, but for others it could be someone else. Spend some time preparing those you will leave behind, and make sure they are financially and emotionally sorted. ( My father had left minute details on what to do with everything he had, where he had kept important documents along with a Will)

Pro Tip: On tragic occasions, helps to get busy looking after others that are affected by the loss. It sounds selfless and noble, but it is a selfish thing as it makes you too busy to grieve. Grief is a vulture, a very patient bird. It will hover over you for the rest of your life. There is plenty of time and many opportunities will present themselves over the years as you will miss someone so much that it physically hurts- but in the immediate aftermath - when you feel weak, helpless and like your heart has been pummeled by a King Cobra Driver - you plan and you execute all that you can to make life easier for those dear to the departed.

And finally, the last lesson in it was you got to live your life. This should not just be a freaking Instagram poster you read. It should be the driving force behind your life.

If you have not already done so, get busy doing things you love. Birth and death are lotteries. What happens in between is what you made of the winnings or bad fortune. My father, especially in the last couple of decades of his life started having a ball of a time till his last day here on this transit planet. He truly lived large. He was busy playing a game of golf, possibly around the time I was planning to make an international golf trip happen. He came home. Walked our dog Joko, ate Chicken nuggets and his favorite Kaju Katri and went out with a massive - a massive heart attack for he knew no other way. Go big or go home. Now that was not only a life to aspire to, but also not a bad way to go. I guess there is momentary pain, but for  someone like him who was always miserable when in hospital rooms and a pain for everyone else - it was a perfect ending to a life well lived.

***
Do yourself a favor. Speak to your cab driver whenever you can. Those chaps have it all figured out.

***#thatwriterfromindia #gauravparab
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Gaurav Parab is the author of Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora [2015] and The Sea and All Its Parts [To be published in 2020]

Let Us Be Friends Again - An Update and a bunch of Wishes

Dear Friend and Reader,

I have hardly blogged in 2019, the second book slotted for an early 2019 publication is delayed (due to no fault of mine) and there have been zero columns in newspapers and web-zines or whatever the hell you call web magazines / online editions of newspapers.

My descent into another old drunk who once could spit out a word or two appears to be complete.

I may not have many fans, but I have a few loyal readers and friends like you. You are right. Long blogs and pieces on our shared space here is now replaced by smart ass Facebook and Instagram posts. To some it is a welcome change ( Those awful poems. Thank god he is an old man now) to some it has been disappointing. ( He was not a bad writer you know)

Somehow, the 'need' to stay connected and relevant in the publishing industry through social media has eaten into the need to stay connected to my dearest friends like you. Our friendship through this blog is a privilege that I have not taken seriously enough and hope to correct in 2020 - starting with this blog which is an apology masquerading as an update.

The plan is to correct this alleged absence from writing and the factual one from this blog. The plan is to return to the selfish joy I would get on hearing from you. A weekly blog /video blog ( Since I am showing promise of graceful aging with references to Richard Gere, Harrison Ford) , a podcast, more email - I have a lot of ideas to explore.

Going forward I will honor our relationship.You will hear from me. You will be tempted to unsubscribe.

As we step into the next year, and decade - here is an update to where is the writing at? To the allegation of soul being domesticated and sold to instant facebook gratification over meaningful words.

Hey! This old man has been busy. The second book, and I am so proud of writing it will be published in mid 2020. I have thrown everything I had and then some more into it. Hopefully, it will reward the patience of those who wait for it. The third book is with an agency and is a light, comic crime read that will no doubt find a publisher this year. It will clearly be more popular than my other works and will finally make the suits happy. I honestly don't know what to make of it.

Then there is the exciting new journey. My other writing work now has a kick-ass super niche talent agency pitching it towards screen adaptation. The first book which has been getting steady inquiries for screen adaptation but no right fit now has some serious interest from the big boys and girls. A collaboration with the fantastic Rohit Gore for the web is complete and getting interest. We are already on to the next project. The fourth book will be finished in a month or so and I will continue working on it through the rest of the year. It will possibly be the last book I will write for a while, as the screen holds more promise and an opportunity to be a better creator of worlds.

My day job is as great as always with a supportive team and opportunities to meet the most intelligent folks at some of the most breathtaking places in the world. Personal life is good. The dog formally called Joko is now the horse called Joko. We have been supportive in his transition.

This is my update . What about you. Look forward to hearing from you again like in the past over email or social media. Wish you the very best in 2020 and hope the recent past when we have been apart has been kind to you.

Warm Regards
Gaurav Parab

#thatwriterfromindia #gauravparab

Game of Thrones Vs MeatLoaf

Love is Just a Bit

#thatwriterfromIndia #gauravparab #speakingtiger #indianfiction

The Season

How Vistara Won a Self Googling Writer Over

By Gaurav Parab
Here is a trade secret. Writers like me, claiming to be non-mainstream, non-literary festival type, ‘I do it for the love of writing’ sorts - Google themselves when things are not going well or when they are going well.
So, the other evening, after a long day designed in hell and hand crafted here on earth, I typed in my name and hit the magic button.
Google spat out reviews from three years ago when my first novel was a bit of a ‘thing’ in the national media for about thirty days. These are dark days, and I can do with good news. So I went through each review, whispering ‘You Da Man’ ‘Who does the Hindu like’ ‘You Da Man’ ‘Who does the Statesman love’ ‘You Da Man’ ‘What does the Times of India say?’ ‘You da man’ and so on till I came across a positive feature the Vistara Inflight magazine had run on my book.
Back then a friend who had come across that review on board Vistara, a full service Indian Airilne, and had excitedly messaged saying how proud it made him feel. It took an empty bank account then to stop me from hopping on to the next Vistara flight to any place to ‘flick’ a copy of the magazine.
When that result was thrown up I opened the file containing newspaper clippings from that time and realized I never got hold of that in-flight Magazine.  Knowing the chances of any airline, let alone one as sorted as Vistara, reviewing any of my books again are slim - I took a slow long breath and tweeted to the CSCO of Vistara ( @TheSanjivKapoor ) telling him how great the airline was and checked if he would mind sending a once famous for 30 days writer a copy of the one in-flight magazine he should have snuck into the carry on bag but never did.
While I had zero expectations, it was not entirely on a whim. I had been following Sanjiv (accidentally first thinking he was that chef) on twitter and seen him do a fantastic job engaging with customers. The guy sounds earnest enough and it does seem like no desi hipster with a beard who got ‘how the young speak’ is tweeting on his behalf.
Almost immediately Mr. Kapoor did his thing and asked who the cynic in me originally thought were bots to get back to me. Holy Yashwant Kanetkar Let Us C.  A certain Harshita got in touch and asked me for my address and promised she would check and get back.  Now I have had many Harshitas in the past promise that they would get back so expectations were still low.
That very evening, another individual messaged saying they were working on my request. Now, the second message from an organization’s twitter handle is where the ‘fake concern’  stands exposed for they typically ask about the whole thing once again and you get into episode recap mode ‘ ‘The story so far…I am a surprisingly good looking writer who was featured in your…’
None of that from the Vistara team (@airvistara). Just a simple message when I did not ask for an update. ‘We are trying to find that edition internally as well as at the publisher and it might take time’
The next day I got another message from Harshita who now I have come to learn gets back when she says she will get back.  It was a simple, ‘Gaurav. Please allow us some time to check and get back to you.’ So I allowed them some time.
A couple of days later, a Bhavna messaged saying neither the publisher nor their office has a copy of that particular edition and so I asked her to share my gratitude to everyone who took out time to service this unique request from a non-customer. And I went along with my life, googling myself every evening – looking back at the good times. 
You know this does not end, do you. You have seen the picture.
A week later I returned home to a courier from Maxposure (@MaxposureMedia) media (who I believe manage the content for Vistara. They had tracked down one copy and sent it over.
What brilliance. There is underpromise and overdeliver and then there is no promise but still deliver. Customer delight is a much abused phrase that should be shredded, burned and then buried for it is rarely achieved yet causes so much heartburn to employees who sometimes seek to achieve the unreasonable and impossible.
Customer respect is more important and realistic and a far more balanced approach for both internal and external stakeholders. But Vistara managed to do both.
Next time, I am definitely flying Vistara with a copy of the June 2015 magazine in my hand. So when I get the attention of my co-passenger I point at a younger me on that page and then the real me on the seat next to him /her.  That’s me. Yeah. No big deal. Today is your lucky day. Flying next to a celebrity from June 2015. Do google me when you land. --- Have a great year ahead everyone.
PS- Ignore the typos.

Walking Parables 3 - Sus Road, where life splits

There is a brilliant line in an otherwise average True Detective episode where someone tells a kid that life splits after certain events. There is a before and an after. To extend this profound thought, while major events like death, birth of a child, the start or end of a friendship do leave us with a before version and an afterwards - there are also multiple small events that may not completely change who we are but certainly shape us. The major events are the blows to a raw block of wood when you start a sculpture, while smaller events are deft tweaks and knocks using a small hammer that carve out our finer details.

For me, one such minor event was being stopped at Pashan circle around 10 pm by a few cops a dozen or so years ago. Riding pillion was the Missus and we had just started going out. We were coming back after watching if I remember correctly - Dhoni's first ODI series in Pakistan at a friend's place. Now, wink wink - I have been stopped by cops and the 'authorities' many times in younger & wilder days but always alone or with lukha friends. So this was new. And in that moment, I realized that it is no longer about taking care of myself - I am now also responsible for this person for possibly the rest of my life. I dealt with the cops and was on my way home but that moment I knew I was leaving behind a reckless part of me at that circle. 

Anyways, back to the work at hand. This week as part of my efforts to walk each and every major road of Pune, I covered the Sus Road area starting from the same Pashan circle including some side roads running perpendicular to NIV.Now, here is the thing about Sus road. It is pretty, has broad footpaths, the gardens, the open gyms, the typical Pune hill at its edges, and the broadest main road possibly anywhere in the city. It is a great example of good infrastructure at a naturally scenic area. But it also the greatest example of how disinterested we, the citizens of Pune, are towards respecting basic rules of civil society. Go to Sus Road anytime of the day and you will find vehicles parked haphazardly, coming down the wrong way, litter thrown around like mini art installations at one of those fancy museums and above all the highest concentration of illegal political billboards you will find outside of a bill board factory anywhere in the world.
It should perhaps be renamed to Happy Birthday Bhau Road. 



The world's smartest mammal surrounded by ... Sus Road is also home to NIV - National Institute of Virology - where all sample viruses are stored. So when the Zombie apocalypse breaks out, you know where Ground Zero will be at.   




View of the Mumbai - Bengaluru highway from the bridge towards Sus Village

Early morning exercise at the Open Gym




Do keep sending your thoughts about Walking Parables, and if you are new to this blog here are the previous editions:
Walking Parables - My plan to walk each road of Pune, one road at a time.
Walking Parables - 1. Looking for Madhuri Dixit & Thinking of My Dad
Walking Parables 2 - Looking for a 17 Year Old Me - FC Road

Walking Parables 2 - Looking for a 17 Year Old Me - FC Road

This week as part of my project to walk every major road of Pune, I covered FC and JM Road. The idea was to revisit my youth and carefree times when one thought wearing a Beret on a night out was a clever idea.

We ( the missus joined me this week) started with breakfast at Vaishali, an old Pune institution started in 1951 as the Madras Health Home. Walker Parab is glad to report that the food is as great as ever inspite of ongoing ownership issues.
Post breakfast we did a complete loop from Vaishali, towards Cafe Good Luck Chowk, JM road, right turn to Shimla Office, back on Ganeshkhind road  - Veer Chaphekar Chowk - FC Road - back at Vaishali for another Mysore Masala Dosa.

                               ***
Incidentally this was the same route I took with my grandfather and relatives on 15th August 1995. Let me explain.
We first stopped at Vaishali all those years ago but it was closed. ( Those days a business had to pay staff twice on public holidays). So we went to Pride Hotel on Ganeshkhind road where a Dosa festival was running. Along with Blue Diamond, The Pride was the fanciest place then in town but the fusion Dosas we ordered took forever to turn up so we left and finally went to Khyber on JM Road.

The Dosa at Pride cost 72 Rs ( a fortune then) and my relative left a Rs 50 tip at Khyber. How do I remember the details and the date?

It was the last time I had Chicken /mutton and also because I met Vinod Kambli at Khyber - a superstar of that time with his record breaking dash to the fastest 1000 test runs. He was just leaving after his meal so I rushed out to the parking, slipped in my shaking hand through the driver side window with a paper napkin and a ball pen just as he was starting his black Tata Sierra ( I dont remember the vehicle number).

Maybe it was me or maybe something else - for he was never the same again and played his last test a few months later at the shocking young age of 23 - retiring with the then highest Indian batting average of 54.





Back to the present. As we turned left from the old Archie's store - I noticed a young couple on a motorcycle. I glanced at the Missus a few feet away- a conspirator in million such rides over the years especially in our younger times - when all that our naive minds could think was how wonderful the world is now and how it will remain forever. A time when you are on a motorcyle but riding a Kesari Travel poster cliche- the journey is as much joy as the destination.

There is something about a motorcycle ride which a 4 wheel motor can never provide. Maybe it is that intimacy , the constant touch or maybe it is the opportunity to speak without looking at man or woman.  Once free of that need to sport the right expression, maybe we are better at sharing our thoughts, promises and love. Who knows?
.




There is an old urban legend about JM road that keeps being whispered amongst Punekars. The contractor who first made it made it so well that he never got a contract again.

Today's JM road -  right from the curve where it meets FC road till Sancheti hospital continues the legacy and has undergone a beautiful transformation with wide walking boulevards next to Sambhaji park , with cycling tracks, elegant installations, chess tables and spaces for food carts . Balgandharva, one of the city's iconic art centers now seamlessly blends with JM road giving the whole area a very hippy and artsy vibe. The PMC plans to replicate the same model in other major roads with FC road being next. Great job PMC to pull this off! You are much criticized for we Punekar's love criticism , but with limited budgets and unlimited expansion - you still manage to make this city the most livable in the country.





Ugly Truth & a Beautiful Idea for Pune: On the JM road stretch there were chips, pan and other plastic packets right next to the numerous garbage bins like the citizens were out to make some twisted point. Perhaps the municipality should raise a security + nuisance monitoring force of ex serviceman to monitor and heavily fine people who put up posters, dig the roads,  defile public installations, litter, spit, park illegally, or generally be stupid. 2 individuals working eight hour shifts with paramedic training for accidents & emergencies per km should be good for the 400 odd main kms of the city. A 1000 person force can make sure all your great work is maintained for around 10 to 15 crore annually.

We also went by Shimla office, the Google weather app of yesterday for Punekars to get a reading of the weather. At one time, this was the national HQ of IMD - validating in a way the beautiful weather the city is blessed with. From Shimla office to Chaphekar chowk is a busy footpath, the dirtiest  I encountered so far but you can see that at an attempt is being made by PMC to keep it clean- even if the hordes of travelers who catch a bus at the junction are not doing their bit. There is a super clean ladies toilet ( Read more ) on this stretch which I had seen parked in Shaniwarwada as well.

We met Dutta , a Police Belgian Malinois puppy at the Parade ground and he promised that he will grow up to be a big boi and take care of the city in a few months. Opposite the Police Parade ground you will find the SBI Shivajinagar branch and a memorial to the revolutionary Chaphekar brothers - who assassinated the British Plague commissioner apparently at this spot. ( I could be mistaken)


Overall, the loop is a pretty urban area early in the morning before the crowds and the traffic come to kill its character to make it just another crowded urban area.

Read about my walk in Bavdhan

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Announcing My Song Writing Project - The Yellow Taxi

This day was a long time coming.

I can't zero in on the date, but around 20 odd years ago when my Dad played a Neil Diamond Vinyl track on an ancient gramophone - I had a child's equivalent of a WTF is that brilliant thing? moment.

The words. The music. The story in every song.

I was hooked. But being a slow student, I could never get around to learning a musical instrument even if the songs bounced around my head 8 hours a day. ( Back then, we did not have 24 hour days)

This addiction was not a complete waste. Music and lyrics became the best teacher I ever had. Songs guided my actions - moved me to be better sometimes, and occasionally pushed me towards sin.

You know that thing about a miniature angel you over your left ear and a devil over your right?

I dont. I just had mini guitars and lyrics on either side of me egging me on.

To this day - I can't get anything useful done ( yeah yeah ) unless a song plays in my ears or in the background.

I repeat. This day was a long time coming.

Super pleased to share that I am working with the super talented Kaushik Shukla - a good friend, and an indie musician who has been featured on Kappa TV, SareGaMa and more importantly hundreds of smoky bars where heartbreak and Old Monk are served real slow.

This is going to be different from the sort of music you would typically find playing in our cities. He will sing songs which are but stories. And hopefully they will bring back some memories from simpler times where the only way to get around were those beautiful Yellow Taxis.

We are not kidding ourselves. We know only a few people will see this, might not take to this type of music and follow our journeys. We get it. Yellow taxis and old time music is dead and buried.

But we are open to be proven wrong.

Prove us wrong. Do share your love. feedback and like our page. It is the easiest way to stay in touch with this labor of love and track our originals as they are released while also listening to some covers by Kaushik of the songs that whisper in our ears. ---Love, Gaurav Parab

Begin by liking our Facebook page, sharing it and then giving feedback to our songs. 

https://www.facebook.com/yellowtaxiin...