The Firefly in my Room.

So there I was, tired from the long hot day's work, back to the tiny 10x7 room I call my bedroom for half a year. The day was hotter because of the rising tempers everywhere. I tell you, one bad apple does rot the rest. Tempers, voices, hands, skyrocketing in every direction you look. It's fun. Really. Lots of fun. Watching red angry eyes and heavy tools in their arms, and that too over petty issues. Well, matters don't remain so petty when they happen to you, do they?

Having finished the day, I cleaned up. Every day after the shower I feel like I shed a layer of my skin, all greasy and mucky and sweaty, and I feel like I walked out of what felt like an hour long shower.

Dinners are light. Today they attempted to make an Indian version of Quesadilla, with chicken sausage stir-fried stuffing. A helping of juice to wash it down works wonders everytime. Conversation is always light at the Galley. Half of them are getting off workafter a long hard day. The other half grim at the thought of the day's work ahead.

I came back to my room, was very sleepy that particular night. Changed into something comfortable, turned down the lights, hit the bed, pulled on the quilt.

Going to bed always puts me into a pensive mode. My mind whirls into life and images and videos from my past flash by. An open door, & no one beyond it. A dark movie theatre, A watch I saw the other day on Flipkart. The F-22. NOS. The Monalisa. Mad. Appi. Rob. Yaush. Juu. Resha. Vibs. Sam.

And then suddenly I see, what looks like a Firefly inside my room. The chain of thoughts was brought to a screeching halt.

A firefly. In my room. Aboard a Drilling Rig. More than an hour's ride from Mumbai city. On a Chopper.
Blinking at me at a steady pace. I almost reached for the light when it lit again. Jonakee, as it is called in my mother-tongue. It just stood there. Still. And what followed, I can only hope to write in full here.

It felt like the temperature inside my skull plummeted by at least 10 degrees. And in slow motion Isha Deol started running towards me in her bare essentials towards me, bouncing everything (that is whatever there is to bounce) after a bath on a sea shore. Oh wait, that's the scene from Dhoom that I put on repeat the other day I was in the Recreation Room on the rig, all alone.

Mount Abu. The Bullet trip I made with my 'gang' of 40. We were on a night-trek. Unlike all camps in movies, ours unfortunately, did not have a guitarist. Nor a guitar. Only hoarse and detuned biker rumbling. Lots of fun. Fireflies we would see, we were promised. Sadly we saw none.

Monsoons will soon hit the Arabian Sea. Work becomes pretty challenging during those 3-4 months. Work never stops on a rig. Never. 24x7. Literally. What else do you expect the work would be like on a giant oil rig like ours that charges over 12 Million rupees a day as rent?

But monsoons remind me of pipping hot Chai and Aloo/Pyaaz Pakodey. Hey, they named that movie Kaminey. Maybe Shahid should feature in a movie named Pakodey - releasing this Monsoon.
And fireflies. Monsoons remind me of fireflies. I remember when I was a kid, and I was told that that glowing insect was called a firefly, I instantly knew where Fire came from. But biology ruined my life, seriously. A chemical that lights on the insect's ass? Sheesh!!

Temperatures kept plummeting inside my skull. I guess I was getting groggy. Another day's work ahead of me after I wake up. And then 25 more days. The hitch had just started. But there will be a lot of time to think about that. Lot more stories will take root on this Rig in that time. Now, it's sleep time.


Oh and did I forget to mention, what I thought was a firefly in my room, was only the smoke detector.!!

Till next then.
Ciao

The Darkest Hour.

          3rd day into this hitch. And the heat is on already. But my recent endeavors seem to have brought in a fresh change of perspective in the eyes of almost everyone who matter over here. And their new perspective, gives me one as well. And when I say this, I know that every individual goes through this phase in life. Some soon, some a little late. Luckily or not, for me, I think I hit home early.

You either love your job or you don't. And if you don't know..well you better sod off. Now! When I take a pause from the present vantage point, I realize that I have had the occasion and opportunity to work with some of the best in this field, and some of the worst, how-much-ever less experience I might have. I often look back and ponder on what I now know, and what I did not know then. There is grief in knowing, let me tell you that. And there is calamity within the cloud of mediocrity too. Although, there is joy in greatness, no matter how personally you have defined it. However, my personal greatness eludes me. The hour before dawn is usually the darkest..

But some say the Mexican drug cartel has a 400 mile long dark tunnel.!

Till Next then
Ciao!

3 Stories and Now.

Duty hasn't been very light lately this time. My shift hours have changed to 6pm-6am like last time. That gives me some respite from the scorching heat during the day, but the night has its own can of worms. Where the day has searing temperatures, the night has very high humidity. Occasionally a wind sweeps by, taking with it our blessings.

A few days back, I volunteered to go to the top of the Derrick, called the Crown. The Derrick is the steep triangular structure typical to a rig. Our crown, the top of the derrick, is approximately 200ft from the rig floor. The rig floor is a good 130ft above the Main deck of the rig. And the main deck looms a 100ft above the sea. So that makes the Crown roughly 400ft above mean sea level, almost as much as a 30-story building.

And that's when I came to know a very crucial thing about me. One that I was curious about since as long as I can remember. I don't have Acrophobia, the fear of heights.

My mother often told me stories of my naughty childhood. And there were so many stories, I tell you. In one such story, however, she says I always used to love eating, and showing off my food in style to all the neighbors at the same time. So whenever food was served, I used to ask Maa to mix all the food together, essentially rice and curries, and feed me with her own hands. I remember being fed by her even years after my sister was born (and she is good 6 years newer than me). Although I learnt to walk early, eat myself even earlier than the regular kids (as Maa says), I still preferred being fed by my mother. I think I still do.

So I was probably about 5 then, Maa used to serve food, mix them and I would run across the front door and the porch, to the gate of out independent house in Rajahmundry, Andhra. I would climb onto the pillars supporting the main gate and perch myself on one side, almost 7ft off ground. And Maa had to always come and feed me there during the day, and I would eat and chat with my neighbor Bobby and Vinitha in Telegu.

When I was around 13, around the time I was preparing for my Swimming Nationals, during one Summer break, a special Coach visited our Club. He was a National Champion and had represented the nation in the Commonwealth Games. By profession, a constable with the Local Police. I always reach the pool early, before anybody else, and when the cleaning was still on. This coach, Ravi, used to practice, dance rather, during this time. He was like a Dolphin. He taught me to cover the entire length of the pool, 75ft to be exact, Underwater. He said he liked my eagerness and interest in Swimming. But always advised me never to make it my profession. He believed hobbies are to be kept strictly separate from the professional life.

One of those days, he said he would teach me how to dive. I said I already knew how. He smiled, turned away from me, walked to the ladder, and climbed. We had 3 diving boards: Base Level, 15ft and 40ft. Ravi took the 15ft board and took his stance. Jumped. Took a reverse somersault and entered the waters in a clean, splash-less dive, straight into the depths. I jumped with joy and started running towards the ladder. Normally the top 2 diving boards were off-limits. But after I received Ravi’s signal I ran to dive. Ravi cried out, ‘Just jump today. I will teach you to dive later. And dive straight.’ I kept climbing. I crossed the 15ft board, Ravi shouted not to go higher. I was still climbing. I just had to jump that day. I might not have another chance, I thought then. At the top I took my stance and Ravi went silent. And watched. I jumped. Ravi later said I took four forward somersaults before hitting the water with a loud splash. I had a sore, red back for almost a week, but never missed a Swimming session.

My stint in Kota wasn’t a very happy one all the time. It taught me a lot of things. And most of all it taught me to see myself as I am, when I was alone. I used to fight with my parents, mostly my mother almost every other day. We lived in a 50story building (that we still live in). Whenever I had a fight I would go to the terrace of the building, sit on the ledge, my legs dangling on the outside. The spot had a nice view of the Opera Hospital Road, Talwandi Circle, Paani Tanki, Om Cineplex in the distance and a super busy road. My parents came to know about the spot when I had already left Kota for college.

After one such fight, at night around 2AM, I came up frustrated with my parents, and myself. I sat on my regular spot, with my feet dangling freely. In was very quiet that night. No dogs even. In the distance I saw four bright headlamps moving parallel to each other in a straight line and at a slow pace. When they came near I spotted four Karizmas, all black, four leather jacketed and black helmet riders. One of the riders looked up and I think he saw me. And they left sooner than they came in. By then I had forgotten about the fight and I left to sleep.

About 10 days later, after a similar fight, again at around 2AM I was in the same spot. I had come there many times in the last 10 days, but not this late. Tonight was colder than usual. I carried along a Shawl. There was a steady breeze. No dogs, again. That night I saw the four headlamps again. This time I had made up my mind to wave at them if anyone looked up. They came closer, I got ready to wave. But then they came to a halt. Parked the Karizmas parallel to each other, blocking the entire width of the road, on their side stands, headlamps still on. All four got down, took off their helmets. Long hair. They were all young women. All in their primes. Desirable and attractive. Supremely bold.

And they all were looking at me. One of shouted out, “Kaisa hai?” I stood up on the ledge, adjusted my shawl, my heart beating madly in its cage. I managed a smile. I hardly hope it was noticed. The road was well lit, but I don’t think I was. After what seemed like a long pause another slightly plump one cried out, “Alag hona asaan nahi Bachhe. Soch le, bohot mushkil hogi.” That was weird. I had no comeback. And all this time they all had their eyes fixated on me only. They did not even chat with each other.

The first one, this time said something I couldn’t hear distinctly. I still kept mum, pacing slowly on the ledge. I was still tongued-tied, like I always was in front of women. I was surprised I at least managed my gait. They got on their bikes, and one said, “Take Care Buddy”. I waved at them, finally. They waved back. One, on the extreme right, who hadn’t spoken this entire time, blew me a flying kiss. And then they vroomed away, never to be seen ever again. The halt lasted hardly in seconds, the night, however, had just begun.

On this Wednesday, I climbed the Crown, it was an exhausting climb up the steep ladder that was almost up. On reaching the top, I squatted on the grating below me and breathed heavily. It was early in the morning, around 7AM. Slightly cloudy, the sun pepping from behind the cloud in bright orange, a cool breeze and pitch silence. I looked down, through the grating, 200ft below, all those huge Roughnecks looked so tiny. The giant pulleys around me were rotating at breakneck speeds. Eerily silent, dangerously fast. And the deep blue waters all around, the magnanimous sea, the orange reflection of the Sun, a few rigs in the horizon, and me. That moment almost felt as if time had actually stopped. That moment did stay, for long.

Having finished all the inspections I went up for I got down after about an hour and took a halt at the Monkeyboard, which is halfway up to the Crown. A monkeyboard is where a Derrickman works. You have to see YouTube videos to get an idea of what he actually has to do. I tried my hand at it. It gets scary at times, thankfully for me not because of the height but the heavy machinery around. And then I knew another thing about me. The fear of heights is completely different and independent of the fear of falling from heights. And I do have the later.

4th week going on. Just a few more days left. We had a Flare here today. 'Flare'. Does ring a bell, doesn't it? But that's a story for another day. ;)

Till next then

Ciao.

King of Sweets - Gaajar ka Halwaa

Winters always bring in these wonderful produce all over the markets. The mind is always full of recipes and ideas. I love to cook. And this is the first time I am gonna blog about it. See how the response is.

GAAJAR KA HALWAA
Now...tiny piece of advice...here are 2 ways of making Gaajar ka Halwa
1. I have used more milk. So it won't have a very shiny glaze. But will taste better.

2. Use less milk, it will look better, but won't taste as good.

Step 1: Carrots grated. Added to boiling milk
1 kilo carrots. 2 litres Milk.
Step 2: Reduce the mixture to a slurry consistency. Requires constant stirring.
Step 3: Sugar
Step 4: Khoya. (I had homemade Khoya in semi-liquid form)
Sugars from all the sources will caramelize and enhance the reddish color of the Halwaa
The entire process takes approximately 3 hours
Once Sugar is added and the consistency thickens, the flame is lowered to min
This is probably the best time to taste and have the 'Just undercooked Gaajar ka Halwaa'
Some people prefer it this way...it's got the still in liquid-ish form milk. Gives it a bubbly, milky, light taste.

Step 5: Dry fruits. Lightly roasted. Roughly crushed. Cashews. Almonds. Walnuts. Raisins. Pistachios.
I am gonna help myself with a spoonful.

Just the correct proportions. Milky. Lightly sweet. I don't like a strong sweet taste, that overpowers the carrot and the milk
And now...let the rest of the milk condense till we have the rich reddish glaze

Halwaa is ready. Serve and Garnish.
If You have a blow torch, add sugar on top and caramelize.
Final stage...
King of Sweets - Gaajar Ka Halwaa is served

Till next then

Ciao.

Two friends

 

I once had two friends

They were the best I had

I shared everything with them

If only I knew they would not last

 

I woke up with their calls

I texted them in between work

I shared everything with all my heart

If only I knew they would not last

 

I flew over cities to meet with them

I ran over people to be with them

They had become my life’s new start

If only I knew they would not last

 

We grew up, we got mature

They got many new friends

& I got my life’s lure

Lunches were postponed

Dinners got cancelled

B’Days now forgotten

And not one of us took a name

 

We are no longer friends

They can’t stand my presence in their lives

We haven’t spoken in years

And haven’t even tried to jump over the fence

 

I miss them, to say the least

I wish I had more friends like these

The heart cries, coz now there is just a past

If only I knew they would not last

 

But now I have two new friends

And they are the best I can ever have

I share everything with them

 

And I really want them to last.

 

(For one ‘Masakali_’ and an ‘OyeHello’)

My Valedictorian Speech.

Following is the speech I had prepared to deliver at my Convocation on the 19th of Oct '13. Unfortunately NaMo, currently Guj-CM, was running short of time, and the ceremony had to be cut short, curtailing the 3 speeches, one each from SPM, SLS and SPT. Here is the one that would have been SPT's 'Last speech of Graduation'


Formal pleasantries.

Congratulations Graduates.

A week ago, I got a call from the Director of the School himself, asking if I would be interested in sharing my experience at PDPU during the Convocation. I was, frankly speaking, in a fix. The director wanted me, an average student of the batch, to share my experiences. So I did exactly what our Generation would do. What our YouTube generation would do. I saw a few YouTube videos. Steve Jobs, Randy Paush, Bono, Michael Dell, Ellen Degeneres, Bill Gates, Oprah Winfrey, Larry Page, and all this time, I kept wondering just one thing. These are big people, who have made it very big in their lives. I am no Gates, I am a normal guy.
Also, half of the above dropped out of college, so that train is long gone for me.

But seriously, what have I been asked to do here? I know today is supposed to be the day we celebrate our graduation from PDPU. However today, I would also like all of us to celebrate the people who made us into what we are today. The people. Our friends, our good friends, our not so good friends, our Professors, and our families.

These, ladies and gentlemen, are the people who shaped us. From the father who constantly pestered you for your expenses and cut short your pocket money, to the one who flew in, within a day’s notice, leaving behind all his work, because he was summoned by the Disciplinary committee for your misdeeds.

From the Professors, who threw you out of class because every day you attended his class just to look at the girl with those brown eyes and the beauty spot on her nape, sitting in the corner, to the one who gave you those extra 3 marks, without you even asking, just so that you could appear for the interview, next day.

And the friends, oh those idiots. Borrowing cash from you to buy a gift for your B’day. Keeping up all night before the end terms “to study”…and ending up discussing the SLS Chicks all night long.
Friendship became a completely new phenomenon in college. “Maggi and chai at 3 in the morning at Ashok’s Galla”, would take up a Hundred-page chapter in all our lives. And damn those, who cleared Transport Phenomena in the first attempt. The ones who did not, are a fraternity, till death do us apart, I swear to God.  
Bhui Sir’s Bread & BAAttar, TP Singh Sir’s know-it-all smirk (Forgive me, Prof.), Ashish Sarkar Sir’s football stories and imagining him with this same bushy beard, even in his youth, Nigam Sir’s searious yet inPHORmative one-to-one sessions, Karmakar Sir’s Aeyi Porag, these have stories behind them that deserve to be told to the entire world.
Flare, Soul Pepper, SPE, DisCo, Internships, B.Tech Thesis, Placements, all just flashed by.

So what have I earned in the 4 years at PDPU apart from a piece of paper that happens to be my Graduation Degree and will most probably feed me for the rest of my life, and maybe even make my parents proud in the entire society?
Well, I have earned the blessings of the Professor, who used to scold me every time he saw me, whether on the lawns, or by mistake in the class, and now when I go to see him, he greets me as if I was his long-lost son.
I have earned the trust of those few, who I can depend on with my life, who I can call up at 2 in the morning to fish me out of a sticky situation in the opposite end of the world, not even having talked to him for over a year.

And above all, I have earned a life. An attitude. A pride. One that I was alien to before I came to this place. One that has become my way of life, one that I am known by, in the big bad world out there, the very world I survive in just because of what I became here.

From 08BT01062, I became Abhimanyu Manna.

This...Pandit Deendayal Petroleum University, PDPU, is an amazing place. To me, it's Magical.

God Bless you all. God Bless PDPU.

Riding: An Art.

Life is a stage and we as actors are performers. The art of living life cannot be measured by a tablespoon and made a perfect dish with appropriate ingredients. Similarly, the beauty of a motorcycle journey is not dependent on the pre-decided route, the roadmaps or the destination. What one lives through during a road trip is the flavour that one just craves for. Of course, it’s easier said than done. Because the motorcycle journeys are meant for those who are willing to take the challenges bestowed on them by themselves.

All said and done, bikers have a hard core belief that they live, breathe & feel riding like no one else. And to a certain extent, it’s true. He who rides, lives life at a different tangent and senses individuality with each passing road trip.

Companions make life beautiful and so they make journeys and expeditions meaningful. For the solo rider – the companion is the Enfield, for the one who loves togetherness – the companion is a friend or a loved one. But choose anything – it will just return back multi folds with only one thing – sheer bliss!!

The purpose of traveling is unexplained. Some do it for leisure, some for pleasure and some for explorations. When I asked myself, I got a plain simple answer – its my inner calling and passion. I feel blessed that I form a relatively smaller part of the world that not just knows his passion but also has an opportunity to live it – live it to the fullest. And I am glad that I made that choice. After all each life is all about the choices that have been made  – isn’t it?

The road less travelled calls for the nomad who may or may not believe in motorcycle journeys, but certainly respects adventure with a pinch of serenity or vice versa. The destination is and will always be a part of the journey because what it brings with itself is a thought – there is much more to be seen, explored & experience. There is no school which teaches that or no expert rider who can pass it on to you – it will just come naturally once you kick start your Enfield and begin your journey towards the ‘Art of Riding’.

When you are on the oldest motorcycle brand in the world, you see too much of the globe to remain strapped to a single identity. That’s why each Bullet means something different to each rider. There are days when we feel that I am living in a dream – a dream that is so pure and sacred that it has added purity to our beings and created new horizons for me. Fresh air and open highways, green mountains and light blue sea, no speed limits and a soothing motorcycle ride – that’s what life is all about in this dream world. I humbly bow down to the World of Bulleteers, where they live to ride and ride to live !!!

Writing, for the fun of it.

Today, I want to write just for the sake of writing. I don’t need this to be read by anyone. I don’t need anyone to comment. Today, I want to write, just for the sake of writing.
Blogging these days has become a way of communicating with the unknown. Most of the times the blogger doesn’t even know the reader. And yet they do. No doubt that has a thrill of its own.
But by each day the meaning of blogs has metamorphosed, if I may say so. Blogs are becoming more reader-centred, rather than staying writer-centred. What about expressing yourself to yourself? Blogging is supposed to be for oneself, and not for the reader. That is what blogging is supposed to be. The writer doesn’t choose his reader. The reader chooses his writer.
So here I am. Expressing to myself. I, Abhimanyu Manna, am talking to myself and hence, have gone totally bonkers. It like making those stupid faces in front of the mirror, repeating, “In kutton ke saamne mat naachna Basantiii..!” in 100 different styles & voices. Yea, just like that.
It's liberating, really. I am not a lunatic. Expressing to yourself might not be as much fun as writing to an audience, but it gives you a reality check. It lets you know about you, as it is. Time passes as it should. Emotions flow as they should. It is good. Yea it is.
So here I am, talking to myself, getting an inch closer to reality and yet edging towards ‘Moh-maya’.
Till next then.
CIAO.

8 Minutes.

 

“If the sun were to explode, you wouldn’t even know about it for 8 minutes. Because that is how long it takes for light to travel to us. For 8 minutes, the world would still be bright. And it would feel warm.”

- Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

We live our mundane lives every day, oblivious of what is going to happen to us tomorrow. Every next second is a surprise. Or rather, what it is intended to be. By who? Let’s not get into that now. Later, maybe.

Today, all we have is ‘8 Minutes’. What if some day, it really happened. And all we had was 8 minutes. Haah! Sounds like those cheesy forwarded texts, saying, “What would you do? Forward to falana-dimka people to get interesting answers, but first answer me.”

Let’s call the day when it happens, The Worst Day. So what would you do? In those last 8 minutes? The worst day, would also mean that it most certainly would be the last day. And hence it would mean that the Worst day would make the list of things to do a lot longer. Would it not?

You all would have your own lists. I have mine. But keeping in mind that we would have just 8 minutes, I am in a fix. What would I most certainly do? And what would I skip? There would be so many things I would have wanted to do in life. But those 8 minutes are not the time to do them. How would I know without ever doing them before if I like them? And would it be wise to do them in those 8 minutes? Would those 8 minutes be enough for all of them? It most certainly would not. And even if it were, I would not want to do them. Primarily because that would be the first time I would be doing them. I want to do only good things in those 8 minutes.

Good things. All in 8 minutes. So where do we start? How about, “What makes most number of memories?” Touch? Audio Clips? Video clips? Pictures? Pictures.

Pictures. Photographs. Photographs, to capture a particular moment in time. Photographs, to re-live a previously captured moment in time. Photographs, to remember people by. Or a place. Photographs to make your nostrils pain and your eyes itch because you miss the person, or the moment. Photographs to remind you how much you love someone. Photographs to remind you of the glorious gone-by days. Photographs to live them, just once more.

So that seals it. My last 8 minutes, I would want to re-live the gone-by moments. Rewind and play through those moments in my mind. Like a movie. A movie with just photographs. Moments frozen and captured in time. Yes, that should do the trick.

The Last 8 minutes. Now I am prepared for it.

Bring it on.

Time..is it?

Ok, lets have a reality check here.

In 3 simple words, “I am Lost.”

I haven’t socialized for almost over 5 months. Haven’t given myself a treat, ok ok, a mega-treat for a really long time. It feels like I kissed a girl last in 1826 (that is not true). I haven’t had a Subway Melt in over a decade. And to add to all this mess, I haven’t written since…’Maybe Maybe’ that surfaced on June the 21st 2012.

I have these long durations often, when I do not write, and every time I try to come up with an excuse, but the truth is there isn’t any excuse other than simply put in a single word, ‘time’. Now you shall say, ‘Seriously Dude, Time? Time nahi hai tere paas? Are you kidding me?’ Well, the answer to that isn’t quite straight. ‘Yes, I am not as busy that I can’t find time to write. But writing sometimes, most of the times, requires, how do I put it, ‘limitless leisure’.

The time to listen to the breeze blow by. The time to watch the pigeons make out on the window sill. The time to just keep gazing at the fan overhead, and that too when it isn't even on. The time to count rice while eating. The time to walk backwards all throughout the house. The time to make 10 different poses before combing your hair after a shower. The time to do a mo-hawk every time you shampoo, make a duckface, sing like a pig and dance like Elvis. The time to go to the terrace of your building and count the number of aunties around your house who are in your ‘Das saal choti se lekar bees saal badi tak koi bhi chalegi’ category.

Ab utna time to nahi hai. Hota, to likhne ko, Insah Allah, bohot kuch hota. Par hai nahi. So we gotta find a different way to manage time, because, mano ya na mano, I, simply, cannot stop writing entirely. It like Bhui Sir’s ‘Bread and Butter’. I have to write.

So here it is, making a promise (Haah!). I will write, more often.

And in Ratan Tata’s words, “A Promise, is after all, a Promise.”

Till next then.

Peace out.

Ciao.