Monkeys at Matheran

This is an attempt to post more often, without actually taking the pains to write something. The fine art is mastered by financial journalists, mere mortals like me can only try

Konkan

Since nobody reads the blog anyway, confirming the hypothesis that I can't write, thought might as well start posting pictures here, and test the hypothesis that I can't shoot either.

Water Buffaloes


Dhows in the Arabian


Old Synagogue

Pune

There was a time when Pune used to conjure up these images of a quiet town, something which although only a 3 hour drive from Bombay had a totally differnt soul. But along came technology and everything went in fast forward, the rickshaw wallahs who would speak in "Puneri Marathi", I am told only speak in JAVA and such other arcane languages. The waadas and peths have made way for the manicured lawns of infosys and intel. So basically, the place has turned into a big boring software factory.

It would then come as a pleasant surprise that the place is home to one of the best Biryanis served anywhere in the world. I had heard tales of the famed Biryani at Dorabjee's in camp half the way round the world. My hostess, however, convinced me that Dorabjee's had since turned itself into an upscale departmental store on MG road. Now this place, MG road that is, is the sort of place that may be best likened to a zoo, where people come to watch other people. And me wearing the khadi kurta and a khadi bag with my cameras and lenses managed to turn quite a few heads, probably for all the wrong reasons. My hostess, embarrassed by my atire decided to whisk me away from there to a quiet cave temple on JM road. 

The temple was a good escape from the hustle and bustle of the city. Pataleshwar as it is known is an eighth century rock cut temple built in the rashtrakula period. The construction seems to be incomplete, most likely due to lack of patronage and funding in the later years, a pattern one sees in such cave temples or stupas across India. I took the opportunity to appease the gods, and ask for good business, a good pnl number, and more so a good bonus number (the materialistic me). As we stepped out, I was brought back to reality by a moped which almost run me over.

Pune is Moped country, here the moped is the works van, its the police car, it's the butcher's truck, its even the family saloon, with seating for five. And you have to dress up to ride one, as a terrorist. Pictures of moped riders in pune can easily be used in lieu of those of Taliban regrouping to take over Kabul from the Americans (havent they already taken it for all the practical purposes?). And then, if you display such signs of cowardice as using a helmet or following the traffic rules, the word on street is that you'll be publicly shamed. Little wonder then that crossing the roads here is an art that few outside have mastered.

We capped off the day with a appetizer of a few roadside paani puris and an agreeable dinner at a famous paraatha place. In short a day well spent with a good friend.