Sidin Vadukut's Blog, page 6

A toast to buttered toast

For many years the missus and I had completely abandoned the idea of butter toast. Of course we always had a toaster and bread and butter at home. But somehow we stopped enjoying the simplest way possible to combine those three things. We would toast the bread, apply butter and make a sandwich of some kind with eggs or ham or–on the weekends when we had the entire morning free–eggs and ham.

But then for some unexplainable reason–middle class culinary hubris perhaps–we simple stopped slathering butter on toast and then demolishing it in that state. I am sitting here and thinking why this happened.

Nope. No idea. I just don't know why. Maybe it was a flaky reason like over-dependance on cereal for breakfasts.

Ha ha. Sorry. I have a corn-y sense of humour.

And then one weekend three years ago someone invited us to Pune for a wedding jamboree at a place called the Corinthians.

Oh my god. The Corinthians. This is what their website has to say:

 

Who says that palaces and the royal life are a part of the past?

Surely not those whom we have had the pleasure of serving at The Corinthians, Pune.

Built to the lavish standards of a Morrocan fairy tale palace with elements of Egyptian influences, it offers you a grandiose setting for a variety of occasions.

Come tasteless people of India! We are eager to service your Plaster of Paris desires and 'loose bermuda commando swimming trunks' passions.

 

 

I made up that last line.

But to be fair to them while the resort does have all kinds of superfluous obelisks, sphinxes and Greco-Egyptian pillars all over the place, it was actually very well built. The rooms were nice and roomy. The swimming pool had water in it, and the grounds were quite huge. There were lawns and little benches everywhere and we spotted many young couples in a recent state of marriage staying there. As pharoah as I could make out, there was a lot of mummification happening.

The friend's wedding jamboree was to take place over two days. On the first night a whole group of us decadent party animals–Pastrami, me, the women in our lives and other assorted buddies–sat up all night playing cards, antakshari and other wild party games popular in the North. (In the south we prefer Mastermind South India, Pictionary-Famous Western Classical Music Composers Edition, and the delightful-to-the-point-of-criminal game 'Who said this in which book by Proust?')

Hunger, like France, usually strikes Pastrami suddenly, intensely and without warning. That night too it hit Pastrami just as he was taking a breath between the line 'Giri Giri Giri Giri Bijli Giri' and the line 'Oh Ispe Giri Uspe Giri Lo Girpadi'. He immediately called up room service and demanded a full run-down of all available delicacies. As it was well past midnight the only hot things available on the menu were buttered toast and masala tea.

Pastrami: "Do you have brown, whole-grain or multi-grain bread?"

Room Service fellow: "Ok. Thanks." Click.

Half an hour later someone brought us a pot of tea and one of those small wicker baskets lined with foil and stacked with 8 slices of thick toasted sliced white bread generously buttered. I mean serious generosity. If the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation decided to butter toast–and they should–this is how they would butter it. The chef had kept going with the fat till the toasted bread could absorb no more and the remaining fat just stayed on the surface. Yellow, soft and shiny. Before this I had only ever seen butter stay yellow on bread on Amul butter billboards.

This simply never happened in real life.

And the toast. Oh the toast. The toast was of the perfect temperature and consistency. It was not so hot that you could hardly ruminate–as you must–between the imminent delight of biting and the animal violence of chewing. It was not so cold that the butter was beginning to coagulate into grease. And the texture. Toasted stiff, but not so much that at each bite the corners of your mouth hurt from the crumbs. Yet the centre was tender, without getting soggy under the pressure of all that cholesterol.

There was no doubt in our minds that this was excellent bread, fresh Amul butter and sincere toasting.

The eight slices disappeared faster than you could say: "Hey! Where is that Adarsh scam file I kept here…"

Over the course of that night we ordered four more baskets of toast.

It revived, in the missus and me, a passion for the brilliance of buttered bread that has seldom subsided since.

My earliest memories of butter toast are the slightly counter-culture version my mom used to make in Abu Dhabi when I was a schoolboy. She used to place two slices of Modern Bakery or Arirang bread, buttered on all sides with salted Lurpak, between the plates of one of those electric sandwich makers. No filling except the generosity of her heart. What has always amazed me is the versatility of that end product.

Eat it fresh and the bread is hot and delicate and crunchy. I particularly liked the crusty end-bits where the heat and clamping sometimes fried the bread. To this day I cannot handle the fiends who throw away the crusts of toasted bread. Philistines.

I even loved mom's clamped butterwiches cold. Which is usually how I had it during the vacations when I woke up very late indeed. By then the bread would have become cold, and slightly soggy. But also the sweetness in the bread would shine through better at lower temprature. This late consumption also confuses the butter. What is this, the butter thinks to itself. It is warmer inside the mouth than outside? Confused, it slowly melts in your mouth, melding with the masticated bread into…

I have left the rest of that sentence intentionally blank.

Over the years since then bacon, ham, eggs, beans, waffles, muesli, puttu, kadala, prantha, enthusiastic mother-in-law, bedmi puri, appam and egg roast have stood between me and the simple pleasures of fatty bread. When you're staying in hotels, for instance, tanking up on toast somehow seems a waste of all the other scrambled, fried, poached and griddled delicacies. Especially if a breakfast buffet is involved.

Can anything not made by Apple compare to the experience of waking up in the morning and walking up to large 4-foot wide vat of scrambled synthetic eggs armed with a ladle, a large warm plate and no adult supervision? My first few hundred breakfast buffets on business trips were a haze of eggs and meat and the odd guilty yoghurt.

But now, with the passage of age and the slight dilution in sex appeal, I have corrected my youthful ways. I now appreciate the simple pleasures of a bowl of cereal, some milk and some slices of thick, rustic bread toasted sensitively.

I then pick each slice up by the corners. The finger tips immediately process the vital characteristics: crunch, give, heat. Butter must be applied generously, quickly and systematically. Amateurs start in the centre and then work towards the edges. Fools. The centre is usually most warm. So the by the time you are done with the edges the centre is wet and soggy. Fools.

Also never waste time repeatedly moving from slice to butter container. This is usually seen in the case of guilty, gym-going hipsters who start with too little butter hoping somehow that this will be sufficient. Fools. This is why they are still slightly fat and mostly unhappy. You can always remove excess butter from a slice of warm toast. But a slice of toast will never wait for your hesitant, cautious buttering. There is also the chance that you may be offered cold butter, or butter in tiny fiddly containers. Demand warm butter in case of the former, and open the container fully in case of the latter. Don't peel back the foil half-way and assume you can manoeuvre with your knife.

Scoop a generous helping of warm butter in one go, enough for the slice and then come. Then dab it strategically at one or two points towards one edge. Then work it across the whole slice in broad, confident strokes. Only in one direction please. Otherwise you will apply, remove, apply, remove, apply, remove like Pakistani life cricket ban. At the end take any excess butter and throw it away. Do not reuse. Especially don't think you can move quickly and butter another slice with this. That is the kind of reckless, wasteful adventurism that led to Pune Warriors.

Butter and eat one slice at a time. Make each bite count. Crunch, think, chew. Ruminate upon the simple things in life. More than anything else, let this remind you of that old adage: Good things happen to those who weight.

Enjoy your toast.

 

Be careful. He is a dangerous party.

Everything in this post is absolutely true.

This happened in the summer of 2004 when I was an intern in Mumbai, wrote blog posts, discovered DJ Suketu, and was still something of an up and coming star on the national junior body-building circuit.

Ok fine. Everything from this point onwards is absolutely true.

So in the summer of 2004 I was being subject to the most depressing summer internship in the history of summer internships. Yes. I was 'subject' to it. It was that bad.

My two-month long project was to go around Mumbai and Pune asking surgeons if they would consider using my employer's latest model hernia mesh. I had to wait outside their usually grubby office for hours at a time. And then emotionally blackmail them into filling in a 40-part questionnaire about this superb, high-tech new hernia mesh.

Which begs the question: What in god's name is a hernia mesh?

A hernia mesh is, I can reveal to your considerable delight, a piece of surgical gauze that is used to temporarily cover the aftermath of a hernia operation. My first week involved not only reading about various types of hernias and meshes, but also watching DVDs of operations, pre and post-op photos, and working with a surgery simulation machine at a training centre located on the back side of a hideous Mumbai local railway station.

Some of the stations on the Mumbai network have a back side that is nothing but an exit for the overpass. There is nothing else. No facade, no ticketing windows, nothing. Just metal sheets welded to each other, dust, heat and miserable people in a hurry. So imagine my joy. Whenever I wanted a break from my surgery training machine, I could look out of the window and see above mentioned visual delight.

After a month I had a terrible heat stroke and passed out in a taxi while coming back from an appointment. My project guide suggested I take a week off to recuperate, rehydrate and refrain from mailing him for mentorship. A week later he told me to basically abort the mission and spend the rest of the second month working on the final presentation.

One Friday afternoon, around lunch time I think, I took a taxi to make the short trip to a friend's friend's house somewhere near Babulnath. My health was somewhat better now. But it was not like I was back to daily early morning powerlifting again. That would take another few weeks.

I got out of the cab and paid the cabbie. Then I walked around one of those old building where all the stairs creak and rattle, the flats are huge and there is a general sense of decay when there really isn't. The sort of place where business families and their dogs in Mumbai have been living for generations. I went up two or three flights of stairs, waked up to his front door, and then…

And then realised that I'd left my mobile phone in the taxi cab. I immediately ran back down with the moderate velocity of one who is hopeless but wants to give up after a fight.

There was no sign of the taxi. The embarrassment and anger and frustration hit me like a brutal inguinal hernia.

I went back upstairs. For the next few hours my friend and his friends all consoled me and told me that they would all pitch in for a second phone of some kind.

And then my friend got a call. Come immediately, said a gruff voice in Marathi, to a police headquarters of some kind. He told us to ask for a certain police officer when we reached there. It was regarding my phone.

Unfortunately I do not remember the exact details any more. I remember it was a Crime Branch office of some kind. It was a huge compound with many labyrinthine office and pakka PSU style name boards and peons and all that. Two friends came with me. All three of us were terrified of the place. Finally we found this Inspector's office and asked his peon to let us in. He popped into the Inspector's office, came out and then told us to wait. Then, just before letting us in, he warned us: "Be careful. Don't anything unless he asks you. He is a dangerous party."

We went inside. He was on the phone and asked us to sit on a row of benches against the wall opposite his table. One of my friends, a veteran Mumbaikar who used to know all the DJs and bouncers at Insomnia at the Taj, told me to keep quiet. He would communicate if required. Meanwhile the Inspector spoke on the phone with a slow, ominous drawl.

"The memory card is not working," he told someone. "You are selling faulty memory cards to a police officer?" And then he hummed with satisfaction once or twice and then cut the phone.

By now tension hung in the room thick and cold like supermarket caramel custard. The three of us sat ramrod straight. Of course there was no need for this. He would just return my phone. It was not like there was anything incriminating on my phone. But not one of us had ever spent any time inside a Police facility ever before.

After a few moments of silence he asked whose phone it was. I told him it was mine. He asked me if I was Madrasi. I leapt from my chair, reached across his table and slapped him across the face, saying firmly: "BLOODY FOOL! WHAT DO YOU MEAN MADRASI? MALAYALI OK? DON"T STEREOTYPE!"

Ok not really. And thank god for that. I just nodded nervously.

He picked up the phone from inside a drawer and handed it to me. Be careful in future, he said. The taxi fellow was a friend of his. And so he returned the phone. I had been very lucky. Most things left in cabs are never found.

Also, he added, I should call my family in Kerala and tell them what happened. He had dialled 'Home' on my phone and left a message with my grandmother in bad english involving the words "Mumbai Police, Inspector, Problem". And then he had dialled my last called numbers one after the other. Till he got my friend.

We ran out of the office and I made the necessary clarifications at home. We joked about this for a few months after. And then completely forgot about it.

Till suddenly, earlier this week, I suddenly spotted the fellow in the news again.

Dey murder: ACP says allegations against him absurd

14 Jun 2011, 1858 hrs IST, AGENCIES

After his abrupt transfer, a senior police officer, who could be questioned in the killing of investigative journalist Jyotirmoy Dey, today said he had nothing to do with the murder and that allegations against him were "absurd".

Assistant Police Commissioner Anil Mahabole, in-charge of Azad Maidan division in south Mumbai who was shunted to Local Arms Control Room in suburban Naigaon yesterday (June 13), said he was being falsely implicated in the case.

"The allegations against me in the case (Dey's killing) are absurd and wrong. I have nothing to do with the case. I hope the investigating officials would be able to detect the case early and catch the culprits soon to clear the air," Assistant Police Commissioner Anil Mahabole told reporters at his residence in south Mumbai.

Creepy.

Small world.

Robin “Einstein” Varghese will be with you shortly… again.

Finally. After a delay of CWG proportions, I have just completed the first draft of Dork 2. It happened approximately 5 hours ago. For now I am calling it D2D1. The version you will see in ex-tree/Kindle/iPad/Xoom/modern-dance format will most probably be D2D3. Next the missus will scan the whole thing. Meanwhile I will clean out odds and ends like the author’s note, acknowledgements, and making character names and proper nouns consistent. The end result, D2D2, will then go to Penguin. Who will then send feedback. Which I will incorporate into D2D3. Which will go to press.

I know all this sounds terribly boring. But in reality it is spectacularly boring. But it must be done. Personally I am a believer in freestyle spelling. But many readers get very upset and send emails. Which I would like to avoid this time round. So more attention will be paid to grammar and niggling things like tense shifts. (D1 was full of horrendous tense shift things. Did you noticed it?)

D2 carries on a few months after D1 and takes place almost completely in London. This is not because I’ve been living here of late. It was always planned like that, with D3 happening back in India. But there is really very little London in it. (Unless lots of London will make you buy the book. In which case it is brimming with London.) But it was a pleasant coincidence to write of the same city you are typing in.

Our plan, ever since Penguin and I first discussed it in mid-2008, has been to tell Robin’s story in three books, with the ultimate aim being to make him CEO by Book 3. That plan is proceeding well. Otherwise significant changes have been made from my initial plan for the book. There was too much material in the CDs I found under the sink. So I had to cut and chop and shift things a bit. (Ahem.)

Anyway I won’t bore you with all those things right now. There is plenty of time for that. Also I need to leave some gossip for marketing no?

Instead let me share some data points that will, I hope, whet your appetite:

D2D1 is currently 62770 words long. That will increase by another 2000 words by the time D2D3 is finished.
That should translate to approximately 300 pages or so in print. But this is fully variable.
Most of the book was written using Scrivener on a desktop and a laptop.
A Dropbox account was used to sync the project between both machines.
The whole things took around 5 months to write. But most of the writing happened in the last two weeks.
Writing was usually done to background music by Earl Klugh, Fourplay, George Benson and this wonderful mix of Rainymood and The Fragrance of Dark Coffee. Anything with lyrics completely distracts me. So does anything that is too fast, too slow and too complicated. Smooth Jazz seems to be working of late.
During the writing process I read the following: A history of the Popes, a biography of Paul Dirac, The Eye of the Red Tsar and, as I got closer to the deadline, Michael Palin’s Around The World in 80 Days. Reading humour books keep me cheerful. But I am paranoid about being too influenced by what I am reading. Palin’s travel non-fiction is most satisfying without leaking into Robin’s head. Now I am reading Jo Nesbo’s Nemesis.
I write entirely in 14-point Georgia font. Have been doing so for 4 or 5 years now.
In order to help me focus I removed a bunch of apps from my computers, and stayed off updating Twitter for two weeks. Whenever I wanted a break I played Stick Cricket on the iPhone.
It will take at least 6 months from now till release date. Which means November-ish maybe? I hope so
I am thinking of doing something online as a bonus track, if you will, for the book.
The next project that is already beginning to ferment in the brain is a crime novel. (Yes, I know you are going to make Sreesanth-bowling jokes.) But no, seriously. A crime novel has been obsessing the mind for months. I have written just a little bit. Why not? You live only one life.
Otherwise life carries on as usual. Mint, Cricinfo, Twitter and now a little Facebook.
I intend to spend the next two weeks doing nothing but watch cricket, eat, cycle a little bit, read and blog/tweet/poke.

What else? Nothing much.

Enough about me. You tell me. What is up?

Robin "Einstein" Varghese will be with you shortly… again.

Finally. After a delay of CWG proportions, I have just completed the first draft of Dork 2. It happened approximately 5 hours ago. For now I am calling it D2D1. The version you will see in ex-tree/Kindle/iPad/Xoom/modern-dance format will most probably be D2D3. Next the missus will scan the whole thing. Meanwhile I will clean out odds and ends like the author's note, acknowledgements, and making character names and proper nouns consistent. The end result, D2D2, will then go to Penguin. Who will then send feedback. Which I will incorporate into D2D3. Which will go to press.

I know all this sounds terribly boring. But in reality it is spectacularly boring. But it must be done. Personally I am a believer in freestyle spelling. But many readers get very upset and send emails. Which I would like to avoid this time round. So more attention will be paid to grammar and niggling things like tense shifts. (D1 was full of horrendous tense shift things. Did you noticed it?)

D2 carries on a few months after D1 and takes place almost completely in London. This is not because I've been living here of late. It was always planned like that, with D3 happening back in India. But there is really very little London in it. (Unless lots of London will make you buy the book. In which case it is brimming with London.) But it was a pleasant coincidence to write of the same city you are typing in.

Our plan, ever since Penguin and I first discussed it in mid-2008, has been to tell Robin's story in three books, with the ultimate aim being to make him CEO by Book 3. That plan is proceeding well. Otherwise significant changes have been made from my initial plan for the book. There was too much material in the CDs I found under the sink. So I had to cut and chop and shift things a bit. (Ahem.)

Anyway I won't bore you with all those things right now. There is plenty of time for that. Also I need to leave some gossip for marketing no?

Instead let me share some data points that will, I hope, whet your appetite:

D2D1 is currently 62770 words long. That will increase by another 2000 words by the time D2D3 is finished.
That should translate to approximately 300 pages or so in print. But this is fully variable.
Most of the book was written using Scrivener on a desktop and a laptop.
A Dropbox account was used to sync the project between both machines.
The whole things took around 5 months to write. But most of the writing happened in the last two weeks.
Writing was usually done to background music by Earl Klugh, Fourplay, George Benson and this wonderful mix of Rainymood and The Fragrance of Dark Coffee. Anything with lyrics completely distracts me. So does anything that is too fast, too slow and too complicated. Smooth Jazz seems to be working of late.
During the writing process I read the following: A history of the Popes, a biography of Paul Dirac, The Eye of the Red Tsar and, as I got closer to the deadline, Michael Palin's Around The World in 80 Days. Reading humour books keep me cheerful. But I am paranoid about being too influenced by what I am reading. Palin's travel non-fiction is most satisfying without leaking into Robin's head. Now I am reading Jo Nesbo's Nemesis.
I write entirely in 14-point Georgia font. Have been doing so for 4 or 5 years now.
In order to help me focus I removed a bunch of apps from my computers, and stayed off updating Twitter for two weeks. Whenever I wanted a break I played Stick Cricket on the iPhone.
It will take at least 6 months from now till release date. Which means November-ish maybe? I hope so
I am thinking of doing something online as a bonus track, if you will, for the book.
The next project that is already beginning to ferment in the brain is a crime novel. (Yes, I know you are going to make Sreesanth-bowling jokes.) But no, seriously. A crime novel has been obsessing the mind for months. I have written just a little bit. Why not? You live only one life.
Otherwise life carries on as usual. Mint, Cricinfo, Twitter and now a little Facebook.
I intend to spend the next two weeks doing nothing but watch cricket, eat, cycle a little bit, read and blog/tweet/poke.

What else? Nothing much.

Enough about me. You tell me. What is up?

Self-realization

There are some downsides to locking yourself indoors on a tight writing regimen. You don't get enough sun, exercise or food groups. Also the endeavour comes with a certain amount of guilt if you're doing anything but write. Anything. Even taking bath. The self-inflicted guilt is mind-boggling.

But I also miss reading.

So then I did the math. Unless something drastic happens to medical science or to my income levels, I simply will not live long enough or have enough free time to read all the books, magazines and Wikipedia entries I want to in life. It is physically impossible.

This is a depressing thought no?

But of course I do not want to depress. So please go read this bizarre New Yorker Shouts and Murmurs piece.

Alternately, my woefully neglected Instapaper RSS feed is here.

What else?

Oh yes. There are positive developments on the Cubiclenama front. But I cannot confirm it right now.

Bye.

P.S. Apologies if these little posts are clogging up your RSS feed. Things will be likewise for a while. Feel free to temporarily bury feed at sea.

Why watching the IPL is more fun online

Whilst I slog away on Dork 2–final manuscript due on the 13th–why not enjoy the latest Cricinfo column?

It has lungis in it…

At first there was a lull in the conversation while malllusss mulled his words. On the face of it he could be asking why Malayalis wear lungis (sarongs). In which case there are entire books written on the topic. I don't want to go into details but benefits include:

1. Easily adjustable for size of wearer. You can gain or lose weight or height without overhauling you wardrobe.

2. Fold can be raised or lowered depending on height of rain water, quantity of beer, volume of music.

3. Sustainability: after many years of satisfactory use a lungi can be converted into a blanket for babies, a durable kitchen towel, a restraining device for capitalists, or a shirt for Shah Rukh Khan.

4. Ventilation.

I could go on and on.

Part 2 of the France travelogue shortly. Maybe tonight.

But the book takes priority, as you will no doubt understand.

Watch me

When I was a kid I absolutely loathed going out shopping with my parents. Not that we embarked on protracted shopping trips too frequently. But when we did… shudder. Supermarkets bore me, textile shops siphon the life force out of me and, worst of all, my Dad's proclivity for watch showrooms frustrated.

We'd be walking along some side road in Abu Dhabi hunting for 'sale' when suddenly Dad would disappear. We'd look around and see him mimicking walking, but not really moving at all, outside a Rivoli or Al Fardan or Al Futtaim gawking at an Omega or a Patek or a Kolber of some kind.

Over the years he did develop a small collection of watches with one or two expensive ones in them that he, I daresay, nurtured like children. After a while he infected a bunch of co-workers with the watch bug. And then every few months they'd all buy and sell watches to each other and feel quite posh.

I hated it.

But that kind of thing does leave residual tendencies.

And now I write about watches for the newspaper. And I bloody can't get enough of the thing.

I can't afford any of them. But, as you will see, just looking at them is a balm for the soul.

Hope you enjoy our second watch special (below) and the first in what will be a periodic series of MintWatch specials. This one is on the SIHH fair that happened in January. There should be at least two more this year.

Sometimes your parents make complete sense retrospectively.

Open publication – Free publishing – More sihh

We are speaking the English (F-4): Ahoy France!

Is there a thing that strikes more fear into the heart of a man than his missus telling him the following?

"Sweety, you decide fully what we are going to do this weekend…"

At this point–and many recently married/civil unioned/otherwise coupled young men don't know this–you stand at the edge of a precipice. On the one hand you can step gingerly backwards and somehow salvage the weekend and peace of mind. On the other hand you can actually take this comment at face value (you fool), assume the weekend is yours to manipulate as you wish, book two tickets for Tron Legacy 3D and expect your bitter half to play along enthusiastically.

Ignorantly blissful of reality you wake up on Saturday morning with a spring in your step, and Olivia Wilde in your head in three dimensions. (Let us not forget how excellent she is in just two.)

And then suddenly the missus, while reading a book or meticulously vacuuming the bath tub, says: "I am dying to watch any movie this week except that nonsense Tron: Legacy…"

Weekend plans? You wish.

Things go rapidly downhill from that point. You try to convince her with nostalgia, logic and Youtube trailers. She weighs the evidence fully and then decides, cruelly, to ditch plans for a Full English breakfast at the local illegal-immigrant-run cafe and makes poha instead.

Oh wait.

You think I am saying all this on the basis of personal experience? Ah ha ha ha.

Understandable misunderstanding.

No this is what happens to Pastrami on some weekends.

*Cough cough*

Anyway. Imagine my horror when around 5 weeks ago the missus called me up from her office and told me that I had to immediately make travel plans for the long Royal Wedding-Easter weekend in the last week of April.

I don't know if you noticed online or read in any of the papers, but recently the United Kingdom celebrated the wedding of Prince William, first son of Prince Charles. It was a huge deal.

The bride was a little too thin. Still, the catering was not bad. Good fried rice. Excellent Chicken 65. Payasam was too cold. But overall not bad for an upper middle class family with no income. (However Mercy-aunty told me that apparently they don't have budget for a honeymoon.)

Thanks to the proximity of Easter on the 24th of April to the wedding on the 29th, almost everyone in the UK planned to take the intervening days off and convert the whole thing into a 10-day holiday. Which sounds like a great idea. The problem with this is that people who live in this part of the world plan the socks off their holidays. They are like the Montek Singh Ahluwahlias of vacationing but with greater accuracy. They book flights and hotels and tours and museum tickets months in advance. And they do it so comprehensively that any delay in booking impact liquidity severely.

One minute hipmunk.com is showing a London – Barcelona flight for just £140 return per person on ShadyJet. Unfortunately due to a long-entrenched distrust of Indian ecommerce websites, and previous experience of booking flight tickets on the right day but the wrong year, I hesitate.  I double check before clicking on the buy button.

Disaster! Sad screechy Carnatic violin music!

That two minute delay is two minutes too long. When I click on the buy button again ShadyJet is fully booked and the only tickets left for Barcelona are first class fares on Air France.

If I wanted to spend that much money to be subject to incompetence I would have bought the Pune Warriors.

So you can begin to imagine the thoughts running through my brain when the missus empowered me to plan and execute the entire 10-day holiday program.

Where to go? What to do? How much to spend?

So that evening, after she came back from work and had finished vacuuming the TV, I asked her for suggestions of destinations and an estimation of budget.

Me: "Why don't we choose three places and then I can search for tickets and hotels and draw up comparisons…"

Missus: "Excellent. Which three places?"

Me: "I was hoping you would suggest something?"

Missus: "No no. You decide this munchkin…"

Me: "Oh ok. Then… off the top of my head spontaneously… I was thinking France with emphasis on Normandy, Germany with emphasis on Berlin, or Poland with emphasis on Auschwitz. A world war 2 theme… overall…"

Missus: "Very good. I also think that France, Holland and Spain are the best options."

Me: "It is as if you stole the very words from my mouth my little Verbal Charles Sobhraj."

Two hours later, after requisite budgetary discussions, we decided that a whirlwind tour of the Provencal region of France, starting with a short, skip and jump through Paris would be best. From Paris we would proceed, via train, to Avignon, Arles and then Aix-en-Provence before returning to Paris for the flight back to London.

Air France is not my favourite airline in the world, in much the same way that blunt force trauma is not my favourite feeling in the world. Yet the London-Paris-London tickets on AF were both well-priced and well-timed for our evenly paced but quite accurately timed trip. We would spend between two to three nights in each place, giving us just enough time to tick off the usual tourist haunts, and still have some time for lazy reading in French cafes overlooking French town squares.

Four days before we left for France, and thus the title of this post, I bought two sturdy backpacks for both of us. For her a 66-litre Mountain Life backpack in murky pink (favourite colour) with lumbar support, rain cover, external compartments on the top, bottom and sides, and adjustable shoulder straps. For me a 65-litre Mountain life backpack with orange trims (official Mint colour) but otherwise similar configuration as above.

The idea was to somehow carry 10 days worth of clothes and accessories in the two backpacks, and then carry reading material and laptop in a little day bag. We'd carry above mentioned day bag on board as cabin baggage in order to pilfer things from the plane such as trays, bowls, cutlery, toiletries and life jackets.

Comedy! I am kidding about the cutlery.

Over the next two weeks I hope, fingers crossed, to write you through those 10 wonderful days of traipsing around France, drinking beer, and eating cheese from plastic bags.

This fully illustrated story is full of history, romance, something called Panache, cold breakfasts, copious ethnic stereotyping, and Popes.

Hopefully you will enjoy these posts. Perhaps they may even inspire you to do a little travelling of your own. But, most of all, I hope they will convince you to never travel by Air France.

Till next time: Au ghevoir and take ze care yeah? Yeah ok ok.

Meanwhile this came in the mail today

Hmm.

***

Hi,

Now there is a new generation political party, which will help you if you-

are not getting passport , driving license, LPG connection in time.
are being harassed by officers for bribe..
find roads damaged or your locality littered with garbage.

In fact, you can get help for anythhing related to government services and these services are absolutely free.

Post your complaints with Jago Party and they will act upon your complaint and get your problems solved! As of date, they have helped thousands of citizens get their grievances resolved. Read success stories.

Jago Party has been floated by non-political citizens with the common aim to remove crime, corruption and reservation from India!

Their main policies are:

Reservation for none, job to all by free English education.
Hang corrupt & rapists. Judgment in 3 months.
24 hours electricity & comfortable train journey by privatization.
Each voter will get Rs. 800 per month, in lieu of subsidies.

Best regards,

Priya Gupta

Harish Bhat furthers the Sunscreen Agenda

This came in the email day before yesterday. Harish, as you can see, has mega-tons more experience than I do. And also runs a big company. So you should probably listen to him.

***

Further advice to the MBA Class of 2011

Dear Mr. Vadukut, and MBA students navigating placement season -

Your "Cubiclenama" of last week, containing advice for the graduating MBA class passing through the madness of placement season, made for inspiring reading. There is a strong case for making it compulsory reading at all business schools. I must clarify that I am from a very ancient MBA Class of 1987, but some of your sage advice is relevant to all MBA students and alumni, however young or bald they may be. I have indeed begun balding, but am yet to finally conclude whether this is on account of a quarter century spent in corporate cubicles, or a sign of true wisdom that comes from reading various pieces of excellent advice such as yours.

I agree with all the advice you have proferred to the new MBA batch, except your recommendation that they should forget Pink Floyd. This is simply because it is never possible to forget Pink Floyd, despite the fact that we first heard many of their songs in the midst of alcohol fuelled stupor or even worse. Hence, you are asking for the impossible. In any case I must point out that it is quite appropriate to sing their signature number "We don't need no education" when we finally leave the portals of business school, which is possibly the last educational portal most of us will ever pass through. Many of us will say a very loud Hallelujah to that.

Now, there is further sound advice I would like to share with the MBA class of 2011 as they step into placement season, which builds on what you have told them. To begin with, you must not merely answer questions from the august panel of interviewers. Many of us who are part of interview panels these days also like to be questioned, since we get questioned all the time in our offices anyway. A day without questions is like a dancefloor without music, or Elizabeth Taylor without a husband. So ask your interviewers a few simple questions, such as :

"Are you really happy at your job, Sir ? And what makes you so ecstatic at work, if I may ask ?"

"Do you have really beautiful women in your Organisation ? I mean, even rough approximations of Katrina or Angelina ? Do you encourage dates, Sir, either blind or visually vivid ones, with colleagues ? And a last question, Sir, given the high costs of dining out, do you fund these dates ?"

"What is the best and worst thing that has happened to habitual latecomers in your fine Organisation ?"

You can gradually progress to more complex and interesting questions, such as –

"Sir, can you tell me how you segment consumers in your industry ?" (rest assured, questions on consumer segmentation can never be answered correctly)

"Sir, how can smokers light up in your Company, without breaking the law ?" (from my years of experience, atleast one member of the interview panel will be a smoker, and hence likely to be an implicit breaker of the law. You will therefore never get a honest reply.)

"Sir, do you permit the wearing of bermudas in your office ?"

Now, this last question may appear unusual, but it is a very important investigation to make. Reliable dipstick research has shown that offices which permit Bermudas are generally happy-go-lucky places which you will enjoy forever. If they permit quick tots of Jamaican rum, a delightful liquid close enough in origin to Bermuda, they will be even better. But if an Organisation says No to a Bermuda or a Jamaica, be doubly cautious about accepting an offer from them, because you may end up in a stuffy office which has never ever heard of Dilbert or Vadukut. Sadly, such places exist.

You must also enquire from the interview panel whether the Company parties often, and if so where do they go to let their hair (or what is left of it, in some of our cases) down. If the initial response to this question is positive, go ahead and offer to organize a party that same evening in your dorm. Here is a valuable insight. Most interviewers crave to get back to their campus lives, and there is nothing like a rocking party to soften them up completely. You can play Pink Floyd, mix drinks liberally, and provide colourful bermudas to the interviewers as well. The Chairman of your Placement Committee should be kept away from these happy events, and use good masks all around since these days photographs and leaks appear liberally on the internet, even if Julian Assange is in some sort of custody.

Masks are good advice, actually. Use masks during the interview. Mask everything interesting or illegal you have done on campus. Mask your mathematics scores, if you can, or attribute the dismal performances to the flu you repeatedly suffered during exams. Falling ill is the most natural thing that can happen in business schools, and is sound preparation for your later life in an Organisation.

But let me cut to the only serious point I really want to make, which is the direct opposite of masks. Unmask your passion at the interview, and say what you really want from your career. Tell the interviewers what excites you, what you want to really do in your life. Speak spontaneously. Stand up and speak, if you wish. Loosen your tie, and roll up your sleeves, even if this is considered heresy. Nothing will show you in better light than speaking about what really moves you, and how. Show them that there is fire in your belly, and that it burns brightly. All good interview panels look for the spark within you, but you have to unmask it first.

Here's hoping you land a job of your dreams !

Harish Bhat

(Harish Bhat is Chief Operating Officer – Watches, Titan Industries Limited. These are strictly personal views, and are quite likely to be disowned by both his Organisation and Alma Mater.)