Bob

I once knew a man named Bob

Who kept going with a low paying job

He probably had no education

But his songs touched any generation.

 

I often stopped when happy and high

Leaving the pub when night was nigh

We’d chat, I’d ask for ‘Proud Mary’.

He never let me down, e’en for a penny nary.

 

He was a singer and lyricist

He gave his songs a little twist

This went on for quite a few years

Till the manager said, “Your retirement nears”.

 

“But surely I’ve done no wrong

Have my grey hairs grown too long?”

“No Bob, you’ve been really great

But this generation say you outta date.”

 

He tried other cafes and bars

“Gone are days of acoustic guitars.”

“You’re crazy. Songs with meaning?”

“The blues, hah! You must be dreaming.”

 

                        Illustration by the author

                     

So Bob lost his small apartment

His only two rooms of sentiment

Forced to sing near clubs on the streets,

He lived on change thrown at his feet.

 

But Bob never stopped to sing and play

His charged voice was heard from far away

He didn’t know which day was which

But still entertained all, the homeless and rich.

 

We left the pub last Saturday night

Spent money on too many a pint

We walked over towards Bob’s chair

Struggling with our jackets in the chilly air.

 

We neared where Bob sang round the clock

But didn’t hear his big voice around the block

A different soul was using his chair

“Bob?” He looked to the sky, “There.”

 

I could’ve done something for him I knew

But he’s in heaven getting his due.

My heart sank and I felt a shiver

Humming “Rolling, rolling, rolling on the river”.

Dark Nights And Fresh Starts

Two autorickshaws can take a lot of luggage. Without too much effort, around eight wisely packaged suitcases and bags were carefully loaded into them with room to spare. We were also spared the hassle of change and sulking taxi drivers, and instead found two friends in the men steering handlebars. In essence, they helped us move house, with Ma’s two ‘strollies’ and my six cases to the boarding point in Bangalore, before our onward journey to Kodaikanal.

Our steel rims arrived on time and we got loud help to move this small mountain of stuff, much to my delight and Ma’s relief. When the big wheels began turning and we settled into our cramped first row seats, I mistakenly figured our seats would be comfortable enough to accommodate my exhausted mother and my rather long limbs. I was wrong to some extent.

My nicotine angel came this time in the form of a glowing butt flicked from the driver’s seat. Key was to get to his side now. The opportunity came in Hosur, an hour away from old Bangalore, as the commercial wheels turn. We who frequently use buses on this south route know these things; I knew it earlier as a relief point. Whisky is risky, like an old friend says.

I jumped out of our driven with the enthusiasm of a gazelle at the Olympics and quickly tried ‘drinking’ the cigarette, but the man in charge cordially invited me to finish it in the driver-companion cabin. I accepted gratefully, and went back to my aisle seat upon completion. I promised to join him for one more at Krishnagiri, a business and mango town an hour down. My medication makes me drowsy so I couldn’t keep up that promise, and instead gated myself to the surrounds of my reclining seat, passing out before I could yawn. Good thing I did, because the movie was quite disturbing with bleeding camels and bikini clad women rolled into one disturbing blur. The volume was not as intrusive, so good sleep was thankfully the essence.

Bright lights shone all around suddenly and Salem predawned on us. Ma was still asleep, and I was rather tired too, but nicotine has outside effects as well. Stepping out of the bus was a bit of an exercise as it was for trade workers loading boxes. A pile of rather large concrete bricks were waiting for some form of transport too, glowing grey in the fluorescent light.

We moved again and stopped five minutes later at a tea and snacks shop, where a row of around eight pilgrims were seated for nourishment before their undoubtedly arduous walk ahead. A foreign couple alighted too and one of them got into a conversation with a constable on his rounds there. We were soon shooed off by the law, and I thought I might use this moving opportunity to have a chat with our driver.

Bright lights sped past on the other side on the highway, with a few on our side as well. The mood was quite sombre in the cabin with some loud spiritual music playing. How the adolescent cleaning boy slept was quite a mystery since there was a purposeful slapping sound from the glove box as well, that did no part to keep with the beat of the music.

Off beats aside, it turned out our large chauffeur was not quite the average talker. I tried getting him into a conversation about the gearbox without too much success, as his answers were rather blunt. It had a seven-speed box restricted to a top speed of 80km/h to slow down safely in the event of an emergency. Additionally, the bus obviously did not have ABS and also needed the torque to safely climb around fifty kilometres of a rather unforgiving ghat section that precedes our mountain destination. Add all that to an almost three-foot high load on top and suddenly the drive doesn’t look so appealing.

The priestly man at the wheel told me about his need for music to stay awake as he was the only driver allocated to the 450km journey. He kindly allowed me to interrupt his playlist with some guest musicians from my mobile phone. I chose some techno carefully, since the last thing one needs to do is play the wrong song here, lest conversations and concentrations become strained. It would be wrong not to add that the Nokia speaker did only occasionally struggle against those six cylinder boys firing with all plugs blazing.

With no blare but still glare, Ravi ‘Surya’ exchanged our personalities in brief. I told him I was an out-of-work ‘twelfth pass’ with far less pride as he told me he was from Mandya, Karnataka. The mood did lift, however, when after some cajoling, asked him if he followed cricket. Ravi smiled it off and boomed, “Carrom”! He warmly also added that Kabbadi was a much loved sport in the town. It was quite evident there was some deep sadness inside him, with his bipolar-like manner of speaking.

I had had three of my rollies now and sleep was hitting again, so I took his leave quietly and went back to the comfortable confines of my reclining seat, and was asleep without much further ado or don’ts. The journey was smooth and we didn’t wake till we reached the outskirts of our town. That lovely flying bus feeling that one gets when looking out of the windows on the right side was a gentle, sunlit alarm that only home can provide.

The tired wheels turned into its resting place for half a day before private transport became its calling again. The kid on the bus helped us with our belongings again, while the driver took a breather in his seat in the cabin. Drenched in the clean air and positivity of veedu[i], it was good being home after so long.

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[i] Tamil for ‘home’

Bitter’s Sweet Symphony

Visit a new country and more often than not will you end up sampling some of the local brews, either at a host’s home, during a night out, or even as a free accompaniment to your steak lunch. Being a beer glugger comes in handy since one is able to break the ice more easily with the locals; an exchange of friendly banter usually ensues over a pint of lager. This was true of the two years I spent in Australia for university, where people don’t really need a reason to get tipsy on the froth.

Of all the beer I sampled there, a personal favourite was Victoria Bitter, or ‘VB’. It was a no-brainer really, since it was the mainstay of liquor consumption of all the Australian friends I had in Brisbane. Yes, the misconception of Fosters being the biggest brand there is quite common; one hardly sees even tiny instances of the aggressive marketing campaign they exercised for India.

Although the name suggests a sour taste, Victoria Bitter actually has a more crisp and commercial flavour that obviously appeals to the majority of one of the biggest beer consuming countries in the world. VB has been around since the early 1900s, originally brewed by Thomas C. Moore of Melbourne, Victoria. The brewing process of the beer today is said to involve the most hops and barley of any Australian beer, supplied by the best producers of the country for a long time now.

Moore’s creation has seen some startling statistics of late, including being the only billion-dollar beer enterprise Down Under. ‘Vic’ has been the largest selling ale for over 20 years now: it moves off shelves twice as fast as any other full strength Aussie beer. So much so, that a carton of VB is sold every second! Victoria Bitter was also the first Australian company to sell beer in a can, after research showed that a can could cool far more quickly than a regular bottle. Interestingly, in bottle form, Vic is sold in brown bottles that are more resistant to damage from sunlight.

 Image source: www.seeklogo.com

VB is available in an assortment of packaging, beginning with 250ml short, stocky bottles known as ‘Grenades’ or ‘Throwdowns’. I’ve once watched a classmate chug down at least ten of these continuously at a student party. It was quite a sight indeed, though I won’t discuss the sounds of the experience.  ‘Stubbies’ and ‘tinnies’, the 375ml varieties of bottles and cans respectively, are probably the most commonly drunk size of VB. This renowned beer is also available in 750ml ‘long neck’ or ‘tallies’ versions and half-litre cans called ‘Lunch Greens’. Apparently just enough to quench the thirst of trade workers during their lunch break!

In addition to the full strength version of VB, which has an alcohol percentage of 4.6, the mid-strength VB Gold with an alcohol content of 3.5% has grown in popularity as a competitor to Queensland’s XXXX Gold, the national leader of middle-strength beer sales.

Victoria Bitter also plays a big role in supporting national sport, like the Rugby League and the Australian cricket team for its Tests, One Day International and Twenty-20 games. Between 2001 and 2006, this enterprise was the main sponsor of the Australian Tri-Series cricket tournament, that was renamed the VB Series during that period.

“VB – The Drinking Beer” is one of the marketing slogans that Victoria Bitter employs and by the looks of it, Aussies live and love that phrase. Judging by the 'mind grogging' capacities of pub patrons, the iconic green of the VB label will remain a much loved unonational colour for a good while to come.

Light Me Up, But Drive Slow

Tarmac tripping does often accompany festivals and lights. Amidst the excitement of taking off away from bossy bosses, the road safety chord may be more than just a tad out of key.

Praps there are few tunes we could try spinning while on our lethal tar and miniscule concrete combinations of twists and straights, and downs and ups, since getting there is the idea behind deciding to leave.

It’s that time of the year again when we cracker jackers find joy in light. While the most cherished moments for happy families are annual reunions of up to three generations albeit in vary degrees. Har.

Seatbelts, tyres, coolant, blah, we know. Global Positioning, yes, we might well soon know.

A few theme songs always lighten up the upholstered air, but remember mellow can also pretty gangnam.

Checking out of your four walls and into your four doors, a good brush and some strong, purring
Aiy-eau de Cologne to dust and bust sand and toe jam can be as helpful as a license to pass.

Prayers, thoughts, rain dances, and the like done, remember the joys of gradually stepping on it and easing into your holiday, not immediately setting neighbourhood speed records announcing your departure.

With traffic thinning and smiles defeating forgotten sundries and undies, you are truly on your way now, so do check that all locks are numbed as surely as the brats are not.

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Whether or not you’re saving your gas, or blowing in the con air, anything could dislodge water bottles and other such items numbered, dangerously close to the drive pedals. Far from worst case scenario – A slowing manoeuvre rolls a chilled cola bottle under the brake pedal without you noticing, and the next time you need the brakes they’re not going to stop for you.

Drink plenty of water.
 

Allow the Missus or the Mister to drive for the first couple of hours when experienced enough, if you had an all-nighter at vocation before vacation. Your gangling eighteen-year-old giraffe would have driven his buddies sometime as well, so getting egos involved in an emergency can deter practical mentalities.

Unless your downtime means dashing between metros, halting every two hours is a real way to soak in the earth and rest asphalted eyes. Breaks need to happen off the pitch too, so pull over safely with the hazards displaying your ton tin to passersby.

If your shave was too close, stop or your senses will blunt. And your mother-in-law might shoot.

Time for lunch, and whether it’s a gold spot or dingy dhaba, courtesy usually gets you the best service, food, loos, and local knowhow of scenic offshoot detours to impress yourself and the gang.

Pooches drink plenty of water too.

With dusk falling and the overplayed music getting redundant, it might be a good idea, Sirji, to ‘on the headlights’ and ‘off the John Mayer’. Johnny will still appreciate your flash.

Hopefully you’ve reached before dark, but like a friend once wisely advised, always keep an eye on the left shoulder, in case the guy approaching you insists on being more on with his lights than you can in defence. Blinded By The Lights, Bruce Boss did croon, nay?

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Road running is fun, and like shoes need polish, tyre pressure needs polished care too, lest they fail an emergency elk test, or canine ilk swerve. You could decrease the blow under a hot sun by a few bars. [PSI – Not IN them bars!] Must remember to add back a couple o’ pounds per square inch of rubber if you’re planning on raking in some moon miles as well, or them wheels will turn in tired circles.

Pass the water, please?

Thoughts of safety hacks in blogs and magazines with road conditions and thought applied will provide invaluable insight to the joy that can be motoring safety.

Now the Aria’s in a safe slot, and you must be the tired sort. So don’t worry too much about stinkers or there’ll be distress, not de-stress. Weary feet can be treated with soap and warm water while the Dearie can be treated with a goodnight kiss.

Building on similar notes, the song remains safe.

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