Dream-a-holic

The thing about day dreaming is that it gives you loads of ideas but little time to implement them. At the outset of the longest vacation of my life so far, I have been trying to come up with ways in which I could do this vacation some justice. Some have been as boring as an internship and others have been as whacky as working under a master chef. Listed below is everything in between, not necessarily in any particular order:

1. "I love flying. Where the hell is that flying academy located?" - Long time ago when I did not understand the perils of free fall and didn't have the fear of heights, I wanted to become a pilot. With five solid months before me, I woke up one day wondering if I could get a Private Pilot's License (PPL) during this period. You first clear a couple of examinations on air technicals and aviation meteorology and an interview to get the Student Pilot License (SPL) and after that it takes about 60 flying hours and a few more exams to get the PPL. The downside, apart from instant incineration in an air crash, is that I would have to get back to books and it costs a cool 6 to 7 lakhs. In view of my strained financial resources and an equally inadequate will, I decided to drop this idea.

2. "Plastic is choking this planet! We need to do something about it" - I read somewhere a long time ago, that a city of the size of Hyderabad generates a few thousand tonnes of solid waste EVERY DAY. Some back of the envelope calculations, using flimsy estimates and optimistic projections, suggested that this heap of rotting garbage was actually a gold mine. The plastic could be recycled to churn out a host of goods and the organic waste could be converted to manure. After a couple of days, weary of my virtual environmental activism, I gave up and decided to just try and avoid plastic bags.

3. "May Guevara lead the way" - Inspired by Che, I decided to make a road trip and came up with a plan to visit an awesome collection of towns, cities and villages in South India. The itinerary included Hampi, Shravanbelagola, Dandeli, Alibagh, Raigad, Thirunalveli, Kanchipuram, Madurai, Wayanad, Cochin, Allepey etc though not in that order. I decided to march forth even if there wasn't any company. But it was the heat outside. God damned 42 degrees of blistering heat. Never mind, some other time perhaps.

Apart from these, there were a host of other things that went on my "things to do" post-it and were struck down as unceremoniously - volunteer in Africa, campaign for a political party, fight for a dying lake etc etc. So meanwhile, I am gorging mangoes and enjoying every other delight that summer brings and hoping to death that these 5 months do not vanish like a broken dream.

Begum Bazaar

If there ever was hell, I am sure Begum Bazaar was its first prototype. Its a maddening labyrinth of streets lined with snugly fitting stores selling everything from plastic wares to dry fruits. Most of the goods overflow into the narrow streets leaving just enough space for people to trickle through. Now why would any person in his right mind ever come here? I was a victim of boredom and ignorance. It was a dull Saturday afternoon and blissfully unaware of what lay ahead, I gladly agreed to accompany my mom.

Its unlikely a new comer to Hyderabad will ever find his way there. Similar to those of El Dorado's, the directions to Begum Bazaar have never been documented, but are simply passed down through generations of hyderabadis. Its the kind of place you would rather accompany someone than give directions for. Autowallahs shudder at its very mention and despite much cajoling and coaxing (and a hefty premium over the fare) they rarely agree. Despite all this, I ventured into this place in a car and ended up angry enough to blow it to smithereens.

It all started with an innocuous traffic jam, the kind that most hyderabadis are accustomed to. Dust, fumes, scraping metal and loud horns intermingled with expletives referring your female folks. Anyway, just when I thought the worst part of the day was over, we entered Begum Bazaar. The 400 metre, 45 minute drive must've consumed a liter of fuel and sweat. We finally drove into a makeshift parking lot. It was basically a stretch of demolished shops with the rubble pushed back to create some space. Drenched in sweat despite the A/C I quivered at the thought of having to go back home again through the same traffic. I prayed fervently that the traffic may clear up when we returned.

Next up was the hunt for the shop which would offer the best bargain for what my mom wanted to buy - a huge plastic drum. The previous drum had lasted the whole of last decade and my mom was looking for a worthy successor. Ahead lay an array of shops with huge piles of plastic stools, drums and everything else one could possible manufacture with plastic. The streets were dotted with handcarts selling 'coolfi', 'famous ice cream', 'nimboo soda' and of course 'chaat'. They were swarmed by customers and garnished dishes materialized one after another at an astounding pace. Believe it or not, but streets of Begum Bazaar have the pedestrian equivalent of traffic jams. You could find yourself in a spot with the goods on one side and the traffic on another and people everywhere else. But nobody seemed to give it much thought and simply continued as if they just stepped out of a trance. You also had to duck now and then to avoid the aerial onslaught of huge cartons some people carried over their heads.

At the first sight of a prospect, my mom darted towards the shop and started inspecting it. The owner materialized and suddenly my mom's expression changed from one of interest to one of sheer indifference. Its a common tactic deployed to give the impression that one isn't terribly interested in the good just to ensure retention of bargaining power. The owner rapped the drum - as an acid test of its durability and quality - and started a narration extolling its virtues. At the end of the owner's narrative my mom wore a look of disapproval as if buying the drum in itself would be a favor. It was the final act. The owner, now almost sure of a lost customer, would quote his best price to salvage the sale. If his quote was good enough, the ordeal would end right away. Else, the search would start all over again.

Thankfully, the owner's quote was good enough and we were the proud owners of a brand new 125 liter plastic drum. I panted my way back to the car with an uncomfortable clasp on the huge drum. Perhaps out of sympathy, but people just gave way and my walk back to the car was way smoother except for the brief halts to catch my breath. My prayers were answered and there was much less traffic though the expletives were still around. Every morning the sight of the gleaming drum, my hard earned catch, leaves me with a beaming smile.