Gaurav Parab's Blog, page 3

Walking Parables - 1. Looking for Madhuri Dixit & Thinking of My Dad

This Independence day, I decided to walk all the major roads of my hometown in a year. I call this as Walking Parables, and yes it is  clever wordplay. PARABle. You see it, don't you? My plan is to do 400 exclusive kms through Pune ( walking over the same road does not count) in the next year. Now I typically average 10 odd kms of walking every day, so this is honestly not ambitious but going to a new road requires time to set up and time is not my friend.  Enough context. It was an uneventful first few days. I started where I stay Bavdhan. My forays involved running away from a security guard who treated me with the suspicion I deserved, a dog barking at me with the suspicion I did not, and above all reliving  memories of my father and his favorite NDA Road.  I covered the Chandni Chowk to Pashan Circle route including some side roads that jut out of NDA road like a fish bone.I decided to avoid private housing societies and organizations even if they had tempting concrete to offer .
There is a reason I started with NDA Road. My father passed out of NDA four decades ago and one of his favorite NDA related stories was how the then Commandant made the entire academy cycle down to Rahul Cinema to watch Tora Tora Tora. 
He shared the story every time Tora Tora Tora played. Or there was a cycle in sight. Or someone mentioned Pearl Harbor. Or Pearls. Or Harbors. Or we were on NDA road (We stay on NDA road). 
I would ignore these stories for that is the role all sons are supposed to play. 
Now that I am older, I get it. I really do. As you age and restrictions around what you can experience increase like the rate of decline of your body, you jump at every opportunity to share memories. You want to say you have been there, done that especially to younger people. 
Memories, end of the day, correction - end of our lives - is all that we have. Memories made with people, when alone, about a song from the past, or the Octopus you never could get around to eating.




Note to self: Be ruthless with the plans people talk about. Be patient with the stories they share.
The NDA Road from Pashan circle to the turn towards HEMRL is one of the prettiest roads in Pune. If Scarlett Johansson was a road flirting with a garden she would be the necklace road to your left dotted by the small hills in the background. This tree lined road also used to be well maintained and was smooth till two years ago, but as we figured out how to get to Mars we forgot how to make a road. This is the missus and my usual route for walking Joko and also for the occasional jog. If you are lucky (or maybe it is the other way round) you will spot peacocks and peahens on the curve hugged by the giant trees. Weekends usually have marathons and organized runs along with an epidemic of middle aged men in disturbingly tight fitting lycra cycling to lose their paunch and regain the years. To your right there is a small football field usually appropriated by young adults playing cricket.


The road after the turn to the highway and HEMRL is  messy with shops after shops springing up like eggs left too long to boil right upto Chandni chowk. But the good people of Bavdhan and an active Corporator is fighting back and inspite of the chaos the wide footpath and road lined by the hill is beautiful. New installations include wide footpaths, an outdoor gym, sit outs, a toilet and a colorful wall painted by children and artists from the area. 
I imagined a young version of my Dad and his friends tearing down this slope on their cycles - hill to the right, acres of ground to the left - excited about the the movie they were about to see. If anyone has any photos from Chandni Chowk or the Bavdhan road from those days, do share.


All these years in Bavdhan, I have been told that Madhuri Dixit has a Bunglow here. I always thought this must be the one for it is so close to my house. So during my walks - this time i finally gathered the nerve to go up to the society gate and ask the security guard if Madhuri Dixit stay here. I had to break into a run after the look he gave me. Aren't there some truths that you never want to find out and live with whatever you believe in. A part of me never wants to definitively find out.
Tips and RecommendationsTry Peter's Momos in front of Tasty Tongues post 6 pm. Look for a huge unexplained crowd around a thela.  Best momos in the world. D Palace is another great place for value for money seafood and booze. Ideal to go with your cheapo friendsThere is a decently clean toilet near ICICI Bank and you will also spot a Maruti Suzuki Kishashi - the worst selling car from the legendary auto-manufacturer in India in this area. The side roads that lead to the housing societies are generally clean and well kept and while I could not cover them all, I will do so in the coming days.  Here are the stats so far:



#thatwriterfromindia #walkingparables #gauravparab #buymybooks.#randomhashtagasIdontknowhowtousehashtags

Walking Parables - My plan to walk each road of Pune, one road at a time.

During a recent trip to beautiful Frisco where every place has a story related to the annoying 1906 quake ( San Francisco - it is time to move on) my old tour guide shared an interesting project that his wife has been up to.

The man with shifty eyes, smelling overwhelmingly of a cheap aftershave whispered that she intends to walk each and every road of the city in her time left on earth.

Out came my well worn diary where I jot down book ideas ( * Serial Killer kills one person in every Pin Code ) and in it went.


I had completely forgotten about it until yesterday.


Now, I love walking and typically used to do upwards of 12 km or so every day - but work, monsoon, craft beer and other commitments have made it difficult to find time to walk - affecting my health , happiness and waistline. Which is a shame, cause I really really love walking. It helps to clear my head, stay in decent enough shape and is as inspiring for writing as alcohol, a country song, and that thing that rhyme with good 'deed'.


So,here is a plan.





Ok, not this type of plan. 
Here is a plan where I walk each and every road of my gorgeous hometown Pune which is also ranked as the most livable city in the country. ( Plug for Pune Municipal Corporation. Please fix the potholes in Bavdhan)
The road length of Pune is around 2000 km , but given my schedule and upcoming travels - I will only have the odd weekend - so the target is 400 unique kms till next Independence day. Walking over the same road does not count which means i will need drive to different corners of the city, park my car in a public parking ( Another plug for PMC. You guys rock) and then cover about 10 kms every week. The missus who has an even more insane schedule will join me when she can and hopefully friends in other parts of town will also do the same.



I will do this early mornings and late evenings - so there is another benefit as I can de -netflix some minutes from my day.
Will keep sharing updates with pictures, maps of roads covered, stats, completely made up trivia and PARABles (Am I clever or what) from the road along with listicles like Top Ten Areas where you can spot a pensioner wearing a Golf cap or a Nigerian on a Kinetic Honda. 
Super excited. What do you think. 
#thatwriterfromindia #walkingparables #gauravparab #buymybooks.#randomhashtagasIdontknowhowtousehashtags

Uttravahini

By Gaurav Parab
the snowthe peoplethe windeveryone and everything
are running awayfrom these mountainslike tears from a faceto a simpler place
to easier timesto caged birdsto fruitless treesand peaceful bees
on noisy roadsto predictable cloudsover straighter linesholding readable signs
Except UttravahiniFlowing back homeOh her nerveStraight giving way to curve
To the hillswaving to the windLike the otherReturning to an old lover
In a townFull of ghostsAnd a readable tome Back to her home

Bombay, now playing on Kappa TV

Written by your's truly, composed by K&UI and featured on Music Mojo, Kappa TV. 

BombayGaurav Parab
A situation that escaped awayTraces of open doors and danger A simmer of hope unfulfilled The girl smells like Bombay Her delightful body dying to be heldOne eye guilty and one accuses And the Ying Yang refuses To own the look gone astray The girl smells like Bombay The girl, she smells of Bombay.And the pride being mercifully feld Green fairies fighting demons for right of way Monsoon laden July and May

Cliff Richards Once Saved My Life

Gaurav Parab


The only time I have ever hit a woman was back in Solan that year when Harshad Mehta hit the stock market.
Over the years, I have made peace with the events of that day and worked at redeeming myself by repeatedly saying - Body shaming bad. Glass Ceiling Must Go. Girls, they wanna have fun. Even read a Femina cover to cover ten years ago. Total reformed feminist me goodself.And I have practiced singing Bachelor Boy for who knows I might one day run into a Nun who likes Cliff Richards.I digress. This is what happened. I have always been the smallest person in the pin code area - but I was really tiny in Class VI. Yes, so short that they used a Microscope to run an X ray on my left wrist when I first broke my hand. But that is another story.We had just moved to Solan and it was my first day in school. I walked in when the class was having the Class Monitor Elections.
‘What’s your name?’‘Gaurav Parab. I love Uncle Chips’‘What?‘Gaurav Parab’'New?''Yes'That was the extent of my stint in politics. That was my campaign promise. Gaurav Parab . New.The teacher wrote my name on the blackboard with four or five veterans of the class – all tall boys and girls – which you should note down for it is very important to this story of intrigue and political machinations.Voting started. And one by one the children named the person they wanted as class monitor.Gaurav Parab. Gaurav Parab. Gaurav…..you get the idea. I won by a landslide. I looked around the classroom to my people and gave them all a thumbs up. I was invincible. I would have won even if Amit Shah was on the ballot that day.I thanked them all. The teacher said this is the first time such a thing has happened. Now I had to make sure that no one made any noise till the next class ten minutes later.‘Sure. But I dont know anyone's name’'You will learn'The teacher left, like they often do after saying something generic of no value.The class exploded. I went near the blackboard and did my stuff. ‘Shut up. Don’t make noise you animals’‘Shut up shorty’ a woman called Bhawna said. I remember her. Oh I remember her.‘I am the class monitor. When I say shut up, you shut up’‘You are the shortest person in the pin code area. That’s why we made you the class monitor. You cannot control us.’And then we had an eloquent argument much beyond our years.‘Shorty? You are ugly’ I said.‘Shorty’‘Buffalo’‘Shorty’‘Buffalo’‘Shorty’‘Buffalo’‘Do you know any other animals’ she rolled her eyes.‘Ibex’ ( Thank God for Name /Place /Animal / Thing )‘Shorty’I had to put an end to this. That’s when I picked up the duster and threw it at Bhawna. I don’t know what gave it away, but as soon as the duster hit her head I knew it was a mistake. Maybe it was the blood, or the little bone peeking out of her forehead like Ramji peeking out of Hanuman Ji’s chest in Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayana.F***. I muttered. I was so scared that I said a word I did not even know then.To cut a long story…. the poor girl went to the Mother Nun – who had a reputation of resticate first, rest later. I was called, and when I did not go – two Commandos from the Vatican dragged me to her office.She looked at me, and then she looked at the Crucifix on the wall.‘Nails’ she shouted.‘Sorry. Let’s not do that. I can explain.’‘Your nails. They are long’I looked at my hand. She was right. ‘Oh that. I thought…’ I looked at the crucifix.‘Son, why did you try to murder that poor child? Is there anything you are good at?’ she screamed. "Tell me before I ask your father to come and take you away'‘Are you good for anything Son?’‘I can sing Bachelor Boy’Silence. I don’t know till this day why I said it.And then it was the turn of the Nun to explode. But in a nice, old lady laughing her dentures out sort of way.‘You can? How old are you’‘Eight. I think. ’‘Sing like your life depends on it.’And then I sang the only song I knew. A one trick pony. Cliff Hucking Richards.When I was done, she told me that anyone who can sing Cliff Richards like that deserves another chance.‘He does?’‘Don’t push it. Tomorrow you sing in front of the entire school. Dismissed’‘As in dismissed from here…or dismissed from…’‘Go. Just go son.’I bolted out of the office, pausing only outside the door where that poor girl with the bleeding head and a scar for life sat with a smirk on her face. She waved me good bye.‘Class monitor. Not anymore. Shorty. Good luck in your next school’I whistled a bit of Cliff Richards, a bit of Kumar Sanu and said sorry to the girl. I promised her that this will never happen again with any woman and you know what? I have kept that promise for I cant risk leaving my life to the chance that I will run into a Nun who likes Cliff Richards again.

The Boy I May Have Killed

At 9, I was a small kid with a big temper – an avoidable combination. We were living slightly outside Shimla, next to a forest full of real and made up dangers so I didn’t have many friends to play with. In fact, I only had the neighbor’s kid for company since I had shot my elder sister and stuffed her in the coal room.
Ok, I swear that I am not making up stuff. We did have a coal room in our house.
Anyways, this boy who used to stay nearby was taller and stronger. The only advantage I had was he was not particularly clever. So I was able to convince him to be a willing partner on all the scams I operated from our backyard including what I called ‘Throw the Big Rock at the Truck on The Highway Below’ which involved throwing the big rock at the truck on the highway below.
Then for no reason that day in ‘92 when Shimla had the most snowfall in the past fifty years - my friend had an awakening of the sort that I have not experienced till this day and said we should stop it before we caused an accident or killed someone.But that is the point, I said. But he was slow and uninspired.Remember that thing about me having a temper? So I pushed the slave to show my displeasure and a strange type of light appeared in my friend’s eyes. My THEN friend’s eyes.He realized that if he wanted, he could beat the sh*t out of me instead of talking with me.Trust me, you don’t want big guys to ever have that sort of light in their eyes.One thing led to another, and soon we were – well – soon he was thrashing me around while I was pinned to the ground. But I was into Self Defense tricks before it became a youtube channel so I lay back pretending to be out cold. Concerned, he got up and I whipped my right foot out and caught him in the shin sending him to the soft snow on the ground. I was up in a flash and over him and hitting him with my small fists going off like wet firecrackers and realizing that this was one big mistake.Note to readers: Never ever hit a big guy. On the shin or anywhere else. It only pisses them off more, and after the initial victory they are back and now they want to finish you off.So the boy threw me aside, and the gloves were off. I mean literally. He threw his gloves away into the snow. I don’t know why. It was cold and I think it was a dumb move.He started pounding me and I knew there was no point in pretending to be out again. As I lay on the ground, head tilted to the right - I saw the most beautiful sight I have ever seen to this day nearly 30 years later. And I have seen a lot of pretty sights.I have seen Jessica Alba in the flesh. I have seen Denzel Washington too, who is a beautiful man - but that day, the sight of our dog monster Stefan sitting patiently ten feet away and looking at us brawl still brings tears of joy.Stefan was waiting for instructions from me. He did not have to wait long.‘Kill’ I shouted. ‘Stefan kill him’.He did not move.‘Shoo Stefan’ I whispered.And then my my dog - my beautiful dog, as large as Muhammed Ali and as crazy as Chemical Ali, the son of Lucifer , one with dreams of being a man-eating tiger - went vertical like a Sea Harrier Jet and landed on top of the boy who had assaulted me without provocation.He growled, he bit, he went at him like an electric chainsaw that a small boy with a big temper has lost control of.That day onwards, I lost a dog and gained a brother. So what if my THEN friend’s brother lost a brother and gained well….he must have learned something from the whole experience.Perhaps a lesson about never to take on small kids with big tempers with an attack dog.I have only shared this memory because it always comes back to me every time I see these two pictures of me with Stefan Edberg and Stefan our dog from another life, or someone shares a picture of dead bodies on snow.I miss my childhood. It is so much better to be a small child than be a small man.My sister is fine, by the way. And truth be told, that friend is also doing ok inspite of that annoying limp.

Gaurav Parab is the author of Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora [Hachette] listed by the Times of India and Business Standard as one of 5 weekend reads , The Hindu calls it a 'Genre bender', The Statesman ‘An Almost Perfect Debut, Scoopwhoop lists it as a book that should be made into a movie. His second book on the shape of our childhood memories will be published late 2018 

Old Monk and a Clueless Son

Old Monk & A Clueless SonGaurav Parab



We can beat em all one saidA line from a book on the only bedThree of us lay, one sat on his bumTwo packs of Peanuts, a bottle of Rum

Friend number one cleared his throatThat girl I spoke about, wrote her a noteF**k! Only three glasses? There. There’s a cupAnd then someone brought out the Thumsup

I was saying, listen to what I have to sayTold her we’ll fly through blue skies or greyShut the f**k up you talking poetIf you write to a girl, never ever show it

Two of us picked up our guitarsAnd someone sang Chasing CarsThe sober one quoted freaking ArtistotleMe? I just got wise from that odd looking Bottle

Always wondered, I asked one friendDo we keep the tongue straight or does it bendIs it Tonk, or said like a ship sunkOld Freaking Monk, or Old Freaking Munk?

If I lived this bloody life my wayThe speaker got up and swayedSit down you worthless drunkAnd leave that bottle of Old munk

So it is munk, I raised my weary headThe O is clearly unsaidNot for us, the Bengali raised a handThe O for us can never be banned

The Punjabi didn’t care much for pronunciationThis is not Rum, this is national integrationHe looked around, all of us sprawled drunkThe Bengali repeated Monk, not Munk

The poet did not give in and gave us a stareAfter a glass, she will be standing thereSo we all sadly looked his wayWhy do writers show up and never pay?

My father was a fauji, I quickly saidDrank like a fish, yet never went to his headStill have the unfinished bottle I softly criedFrom the evening that my wise father died

Three glasses and a cup was raisedHands steady, eyes slightly glazedTo women, to music, to a selfless father & his clueless sonA toast to our younger days and old Mr. Mohan

https://www.gauravparab.com/  

Every Now and Then

Every Now and ThenGaurav Parab



Three tables awayThrowing glances my wayWith diamonds and two AudisSits a woman and three Saudis
All I have is this out of ink penShe still looks every now and thenI look like shit, so it couldn't be thatMaybe it is the angle where she sat?
Then I know, I fking nowI remind her of a boy who kissed real slowAnd made her heart beat real fastThey clearly tried, it clearly didn't last
Maybe it did but the world gave a fckLucky lovers ran out of luckLooks away, when I stare backReturns to color from black and white

Flightless Boomerang

Gaurav Parab
Objects in the mirror or somethingA saying or a song you would singThis whisky... anyways. AnywaysI was thinking today of our days
I played Nostradamus and you saidWhat exactly is it you dread ?How do you know we won't work ?Wipe that gleam in your eyes, and that dark smirk
We are just the same I saidWont last a day if we wedWhat about the nights you criedAnd I became a ghost who died
I don't know, I just don't knowWe will be fishes trapped in dead snowWe are meant to be, we will growHow do you know the end at the start of our show?
Let's waste time you sangI said something 'bout a flightless boomerangToday, I just thought I will let you knowThere was a muffled yes behind my no.

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