For instance, my wallet contains a ticket stub for the second day of an India-Australia test match held at the Chinnaswamy stadium in Bangalore, that I went to watch with Monkee three days before I took my GMAT.

It also contains a ticket for ‘The Bank Job’ starring Jason Statham, that I watched at a multiplex with a friend, Hannah, a list of books by Louisa May Alcott that my sister wanted me to buy her the next time I visited a bookstore (done) and a receipt for gelato ice cream from an Italian gelato shop in Indiranagar that I had visited with someone who helped define a ‘Delilah’ as the unit of separation between two people that liked each other.

Each of these items brings back many memories, that bring back other memories in turn, and the mind keeps playing hop-scotch on an infinitely long board, jumping from one series of events onto another until one’s present reality jolts it back to think of more immediate things, such as eating the delicious bowl of custard my Mum made, now that my visits back home have become a quarterly affair.

I’m currently working on a piece related to R K Narayan’s walks in Mysore (which I will link up here shamelessly in due time) and in order to refresh my memory and to provide me with inspiration, I looked up ‘The Writerly Life’, a selection of non-fiction pieces by RKN.

In the pages of the book, I found a Jet Airways boarding pass dated 6th February 2008, which was when I went to Madras to get my US B1 visa. This boarding pass triggered a slew of thoughts, mostly centered around what transpired that day.

I remember reaching the US visa consulate armed with my documents and nothing else, because I was told that cell phones and other electronic equipment weren’t allowed inside. No ipod, no wallet, just loose cash and documents. As I walked along the heavily fortified compound, I noticed a young chap staring away into the horizon, tears streaming down the corners of his eyes. He seemed to be in his early twenties and was clad in attire that made him look like a madrasa student. It was quite evident that his visa application was rejected (and sadly, it was also quite evident why) and he waited for a bit before he composed himself, wiped his tears and strode away.

The queue for the business visa was long, and for some reason, I remember the official talking to everyone present as if he were doing us a favour by letting us in. I noticed many other techies in line, many with their ID cards around their neck.

My visa interview, if I could call it that, took all of thirty seconds following which, I was asked to collect my passport later that evening. I left the compound, relieved to do so and spent the next four hours walking aimlessly along Mount Road. It was on this very day that I picked up my copy of Lonely Planet Israel from the Landmarks store in Nungambakkam.

I had visited the Spencer plaza Landmarks bookstore and was told to head to Nungambakkam instead. With lots of time to kill, I took that short walk and purchased the book for 1100 bucks. Spending so much on a travel book indicated to me an escalation of commitment which strengthened my resolve to visit the place one fine day in the future.

The other memory that boarding passes bring is that of the first ever time I was on a plane. I was three, and was traveling with my Mum and sister from Bangalore to Bombay. My sister was a few months old and for some reason, I thought that the tray tables were present for us to place the baby during the flight. The flight attendant, my Mum recalls, was quite amused at the idea, though she wouldn’t let me put it to action.

My maternal grampa was present at the arrivals lounge at the Santa Cruz airport to pick us up and I can distinctly remember him standing behind the glass door, as he waved at us with a huge smile on his face. In return, I remember being delighted to see him and being able to recognize him in that crowd.

It could have been a sequence at the start or the end of “Love, Actually”, for all I know.

A good memory, I was told, was a curse because I would never be able to forget the things I didn’t want to remember. I know I can’t remember everything. But it is these little things, boarding passes for instance, that help unearth memories that are otherwise relegated to a corner of my mind.

And for what it’s worth, I’m glad the memories remain.

In addition, I was asked to shift out of the house I used to live in for the first eight months of my stay in Gurgaon and the need to move out four days before I was to leave the darn place for over three weeks meant that my entire setup was in shambles.

I am a compulsive loner so far as my accommodation situation is concerned and despite having had the time of my life on my trip, I was dreading getting back home and opening the door to see a house not settled into, with dust and cobwebs all over the place.

The scene that I encountered was no different from what I’d imagined. An unclean floor is always a bitch and a dusty one with white tiles that my landlord placed despite all my protests just compounded my misery further.

The weekend was spent in reorganization of my entire setup and this week has been spent in honing my cooking skills once more. The washing machine, microwave oven and fridge have made my life beautiful and have rendered me fully independent for the most part.

The inconvenience of having to open the door to a maid who might have to be micromanaged has instead given way to a twice-in-a-week cleaning that I will have to stick to. The need to cook dinner for myself, instead of the cook in the previous place who used to give me tasty food on average has also increased the burden on my daily life, while also bringing about a stronger semblance of full and complete independence.

Some of my friends remarked that I was scarily domesticated and that I was almost married in terms of the routine that I follow.

I was unable to interpret it for my mind thought of it in two ways – Am I domesticated to a point where marriage or cohabitation with a partner would not bring about too many changes into my life style? Or was it that the life style changes that marriage brings about in people have already set in within me and therefore the very task of having to “settle down” has therefore been rendered null and void?

In any case, the complete independence and therefore complete responsibility that I last enjoyed in Bangalore before I went to B-school has now once again become the story of my life as I go about doing all that I need to do to get by. I am my own cook, cleaner, washer man and man Friday and the time saved by outsourcing these activities is offset by the convenience with which I am able to work on all these activities, thereby making me more disciplined overall. Or so I hope.

I am still to document my review of 2010, wherein the total distance traveled will feature prominently in my log. In addition, I also need to work extensively on my travelogue to document the fruition of my long cherished and long awaited trip to Israel.

I think travel is my writerly muse and my mojo has returned. Please look forward to a barrage of posts in the days ahead. It will not be too boring, on that you have my word.

Hari is too lazy and too busy at work and has therefore decided to let all and sundry blog on his behalf. His aptly named comforter that keeps him warm during the frigid wintry nights in the NCR might be writing in as well. Watch this space.

My story began one fine evening in March 2010, when a reasonably inebriated, slovenly Hari waltzed into the hypercity supermarket in Hyderabad, clad in a baggy t-shirt, shabby shorts and flip flops, looking for a suitcase to fill in all the baggage (pun unintended) he’d accumulated during his time at business school.

He’d come into B-school with a bunch of stuff and he was leaving with extra course packs and clothes that he’d brought back from his place in Mysore on regular visits he’d made there and he needed another suitcase to pack it all. It wasn’t ever going to be cold enough in Hyderabad, unlike the situation in Delhi now, for him to wear all his clothing on the flight.

I was sitting in the aisle containing travel accessories and because I was a blue coloured three-baby suitcase, Hari picked me as his first choice and took me straight to the check-out counter. His normally parsimonious behaviour seemed to have done a volte-face and he coughed up the necessary money to take me back home without batting an eyelid.

It is at this point that I must digress to tell you all about suitcase size classifications.

In the world of suitcase manufacturers, bags are categorized into the number of babies that can fit into a particular suitcase comfortably. They don’t tell you this because of the potential outrage it might cause among those who pretend not to have morbid thoughts for the sake of pure personal entertainment.

For instance, the largest bag you can carry as part of your hand luggage on domestic flights in India is a two-baby suitcase. Any three-baby suitcase and above, however, needs to be placed into the checked-in luggage section of the airplane. Of course, there are other variations too, which can accommodate part-babies, but they are non-standard sizes (like anti-fit jeans, perhaps) that are made purely for those who consider themselves too cool to carry suitcases that can fit babies perfectly.

So long story short, Hari transported me to Mysore after he graduated from B-school in the first week of April 2010 and subsequently took me to Gurgaon when he began his second innings at work. My other contemporary, the five-baby bag and I were then housed comfortably in Hari’s attic for a few months, since he relied on what he called his “trusty” backpack, to take him all around town.

Just as well. I was created for heavier, more important things.

In June 2010, Hari’s friend, Prashant was scheduled to travel to London and his suitcase wasn’t able to handle all his baggage. He swiftly called Hari who passed me onto him and that very evening, I was on a British Airways flight bound to Heathrow. I spent a week in London and the only time I was able to look around the place was when I was traveling from Heathrow to the hotel room and back.

Prashant however spent a lot of time at the duty free section, as was characteristically expected of him.

On his return, I found out that Hari needed a three-baby suitcase himself and he’d borrowed one from his friend in turn for when he had to go to Bangalore and Mysore. I was a bit sad that he wasn’t relying on me to carry his stuff around, but then again, not many suitcases can boast of leaving their owners to head to London.

That wasn’t the last of it though.

Hari never bothered picking me up from Prashant’s place and I hung out there in his attic until one day I was pulled out by Hari, only to be passed onto another friend of his who was headed to Chicago. This friend, Tarun, also had his bag give way at the eleventh hour and therefore, my services were enlisted for transporting his essentials to the US via Abu Dhabi and back on Etihad airlines.

I was there for three weeks and my first trans-Atlantic journey, stowed away in the luggage hold en route to Chicago was fun. I could sense that other bags around me were bigger and belonged to students who were moving to the States for their MS programs. Consequently, they contained tons of masalas, noodles, rice and other staple Indian food which the T&A authorities checked for at the port of entry.

Tarun seemed to know the place pretty well and he took good care of me, which is more than I can say about Hari’s abilities to do the same.

Tarun dropped me off at Hari’s place and I was then promptly whisked away on two successive weekends to South India. First, I was taken to Kumarakom where Hari was to attend a friend’s wedding at a backwater resort. Next, I traveled to Mysore once again for Deepavali at his house. Considering how much Hari traveled to Mysore from Gurgaon, I was quite surprised that he’d taken me there just this once.

However, the most quality time I spent with Hari was during his visit to Israel when I went with him to Tel Aviv via Amman. Since he was cheap enough to not splurge on a proper backpack and because he’d already booked all his accommodation in advance, he felt that he had no reason to wing it.

I was therefore dragged along the sidewalks in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Nazareth and Haifa on quite a few occasions. Hari’s supposedly impeccable inner compass and his strong sense of direction went for a toss as he got lost twice in Tel Aviv after reaching the central bus station and took me along as well.

At the Ben Gurion International airport, I was emptied and scrutinized for explosives, nuclear substances, drugs and other contraband substances because Hari seemed to fit the stereotype of someone who might be foolish enough to walk into Ben Gurion with aforesaid substances. Without much incident thereafter, I was transported back to New Delhi from where I am now telling you my story.

My wheels are now aching thanks to the extensive traveling I’ve indulged in last year and I guess I’m at a stage where I’ve provided my money’s worth to whoever had me in possession. But I’m also overwhelmed by all the places I had a chance to be transported to and I hope that there’s more places that I can get to go to in the days ahead.

Not anymore.

Having gotten around Gurgaon and Delhi has given me a sense of how strong the concept of conspicuous consumption is among the residents of this part of the country. Its not just the noveau riche that are guilty of ostentatious behaviour, it is also those that have been rolling in wealth for many years that seem to want to pwn the new kids on the block.

Neither party is to blame, for a show of wealth is in general considered a positive trait in most circles and with each new batch of billionaires (Rupee, not Zimbabwean Dollar) adding to this spiral, the number of grand weddings, ceremonies and flashy automobiles purchased is only going to increase with time.

In the midst of all this, how would a minimalist with a mere bicycle (albeit a good 21 speed bike) and a strong disinclination to own personal transport or have fixed assets tying him down cope? Not too great, but not too badly either, I admit.

An interesting article by Stephanie Rosenbloom in the New York Times speaks of how a couple began to divest themselves of all possessions until such time that they had few assets with them, leading to an overall increase in happiness.

Money is definitely the means to an end, but it seems as though there’s an increasing trend among people to spend money on experiences rather than on anything tangible.

Taking vacations, spending on important people rather than on important things, indulging oneself in a good meal or a short, spontaneous trip seem to make more sense and provide pleasure in greater magnitudes than mere purchases, for the value of the latter decreases with time while the former still stays fresh in one’s mind.

What is somewhat eerie is that I personally feel that I am already in that zone of shunning heavy purchases and instead opting for experiences. As times change, this sort of behaviour is widely being acknowledged as the ‘new’ normal.

Maybe there is more sense in chasing windmills than in chasing money.

In Bangalore, my weekend planning was initially governed by when I would leave the city to head to Mysore. When things settled in and I began discovering, exploring and understanding Bangalore, and eventually falling in love with the place (for the most part), my plans revolved around spending time in the pursuit of various things within the city, as I slowly trudged up the Maslovian pyramid.

That glorious run of nearly five years came to an end in 2009 when I had to move to Hyderabad to study and weekends there were mostly spent working on assignments or studying or doing something or the other that entailed being on campus for the most part, as a result of which, there was no real need to make any weekend plans or follow through on them had they been made in the first place.

Cut to the NCR where I have been at for the past three months now, and I find myself in completely different circumstances. I don’t have the comfortable proximity to Mysore that I had previously found myself in when I was in Bangalore. Nor do I have enough work yet (if work at the office is discounted from the equation) like I did either in Bangalore or Hyderabad to keep me completely preoccupied.

In such situations, weekend planning becomes vital to one’s attempts at keeping the ennui monster at bay. When travel to places outside of the NCR isn’t conducive due to constraints that narrow down to lack of time or money or enthusiasm or a mix of two or more of the these factors, checking out the sights, sounds and tastes that Delhi has to offer then becomes part of the weekend menu.

As part of my sojourns, here’s snippets of experiences I’ve had that I find worth documenting.

*

*

*

*

The interest generated towards places that are on my “must travel to” (and possibly live at for a few months) list have been because of similar reasons, as well as because of how good the portrayal of said places has been in travelogues and other associated forms of literature, how much media coverage that place has received and to a reasonable extent, due to the nice way in which most televised travel programs have showcased these places.

Recommendations from trusted friends whose travel sensibilities match mine have also played a huge part in choosing where to go, depending on how much time is available at hand.

I have visited quite a few places on a whim, but there has been a reasonable degree of background research that has gone in to knowing what to do when I get to a particular place so that I have my bearings correct. In that sense, I haven’t yet tread the paths that a true blue itinerant would’ve already sprinted on.

In recent times, I have had strong tendencies to want to join the travel literature bandwagon, after reaching near-saturation levels while covering the rock and allied genres music scene in my three year (and counting) stint at RSJ. I’ve not had opportunities yet, but what I have figured out is that traveling and writing (and pardon me for stating the obvious) are both integral parts of wanting to achieve that goal.

While scanning travel literature of all sizes including what I can see in popular travel magazines, to content on travel website to reading books (that are sometimes tomes in disguise) about intrepid travelers who have had a chance to eloquently express in words the entire gamut of their numerous experiences, I have noticed a strong tendency for most to romanticize a place to make it more appealing.

The opinions of travel writers about a place and their outlook towards their experiences are what shapes their prose and makes them wax eloquent about a few locations and diss the other ones completely. I have learnt that it makes immense sense to take what has been written with a minimal amount of skepticism because the grand majestic buildings described might not be the way you imagined them to be, the cozy restaurant situated in a small cobbled by-lane might be too cozy for comfort with flies running all around and so on.

Taking someone’s worded opinions as being sacrosanct and trying to re-live their travel experiences would result in massive disappointments, especially if the author in question is a major fan boy of the place he has visited, for reasons that you would not necessarily subscribe to.

What I have managed to learn from all this is that there are a few good reasons to visit a certain place and those reasons will remain constant. A subset of those reasons would comprise what I have mentioned at the beginning of this piece.

However, your outlook and what you expect out of your travel would strongly differ from mine, or that of the travel writers’ and if this distinction in individual tastes is accounted for, then the appreciation that you have for those who write about where they go to and what they do when they get there might increase beyond you merely appreciating what good wordsmiths they seem to be.

By itself, it wouldn’t make for a post, given my verbose nature of posting, and clumping a few of them together seemed to make more sense.

This series of posts comprises of things I thought of while enroute to Hyderabad and back within a span of two days. Uncharacteristically of me, I hadn’t carried a notepad to write things down, so I had to rely on the funda of associating ideas to get all of this in.

A weird sense of paranoia had set in, and that walk I took seemed to be among the longest I’d taken. I am sure that a few others walking there that day might’ve shared that same feeling that I felt, and I can only guess. However, I have travelled by BMTC buses on umpteen occasions thereafter and the thoughts of the serial blasts had been relegated to the back of my mind.

It was only the first time that a certain sense of tension was present.

Now, I’m headed to Majestic tomorrow to board a train that heads to Mangalore for a cousin’s wedding. I am waitlisted for both the onward and return journey, and I will receive confirmation about my travel shortly.

After what happened in Mumbai’s CST, I must admit that I am feeling a bit jittery about going there, and that I would be prone to being extremely paranoid and on my guard. I have a strong feeling that nothing will happen, but that strong feeling of being unaffected by events seems to have gone for a toss after what our country has gone through over the past year in particular.

I was initially puzzled at this, but I suddenly realized that everyone was now switching over to daylight saving time, and Pacific Standard Time (PST) had now become Pacific Daylight Saving Time (PDT). The entire nation had moved ahead by an hour, and I was inadvertently caught in the middle of it all, not having experienced this previously in 25 years of my existence.

The repercussions of this change were soon to follow. In my last two weeks there, I had to wake up an hour earlier, and given how late I used to sleep, it was quite a task. But there were enough and more relevant motivating factors that prompted me to do so, without much trouble.

However, when I got back home, it dawned upon me that I had lost an hour of my life forever. I did not see 01:00 to 01:59 in the wee hours of 9th March 2008 for no fault of mine. I want that hour of my life back.

The only way this can be accomplished is by being in some place that is already running on DST and then being present there when they switch back to their regular time. However, if, due to circumstances, I am unable to travel to any place and be present when the switch back takes place, I’d like it if someone were to sponsor my trip.

I did gain an extra day by crossing the International Date Line onward to the US, but lost it again when coming back home. This meant that I had two days of my life which had the date 9th February 2008, and no day which had the date 24th March 2008, but since the total number of days evens out, I am not complaining.

Maybe I can go ahead and start an NGO, inspired significantly by Aadisht, called – ‘I want my hour back‘, which will ensure that whoever has been a victim by losing time due to the DST switch over gets to be regain it during the switch back.

This problem would, I realize, be compounded further when the person has experienced N DST switch overs, and less switch backs, but those complications can be remedied on a case by case basis.

The theme song for this NGO, if anyone would bother to compose it, can be sung to the tune of ‘Life is a Lemon’ by Meatloaf. If anyone wants to implement this idea, go ahead, please, knock yourselves out.