How to get lost in your own city on a rainy evening
The short answer to that is - be geographically challenged, meteorologically uninformed and blindly trust the autowallah.
The long answer to that is below. If you manage to glean a few lessons from my misadventure, I guess, it would all be worth it.
I seem to have this tempestuous affair with book launches and writers - some delightful, some disastrous (not good for me, you would say) - but I have a feeling it’s kind of keyed into my karma. So, I am unerringly propelled into these, well, 'interesting' situations.
With advice from a well-meaning friend to rev up my social life, I decided on a book launch of Amitav Ghosh's new title Sea of Poppies at a bookstore in the city last Wednesday. The author would be reading and I was keen to hear him. I bravely set out to attend the event. Bravely, because its monsoons in Bangalore these days. And anyone who knows the city is familiar with its evening downpours and flash flooding.
Very unwisely, I decided to take my bike. I parked it mid-way and set out in an autorickshaw because I wasn’t sure of the route (what can I say, I am bad at directions) or the availability of parking space at the venue. All very nice, except that if one is weak in something, the world seems to conspire to exploit that very weakness. Of course, I missed the turn and the autowallah left me completely lost.
“But you’re supposed to know where this venue is, bhaiyya. Why are you an autowallah, otherwise?” I cried in consternation as I got off.
He fixed me with the most incredulous and irritated stare. “Why should I know each and every venue that a passenger wants to go to?”
That maddened me even further. “Then, why did you nod your head when I mentioned the venue before getting into your auto?”
Oh, we could have gone on & on, but I realized it was pointless arguing with an adamant autowallah inclined to altercation. I also realized I was way out of where I should have been. As if in agreement, the skies opened up right then and it poured. So, there I was, lost in my own city, drenched, cold, without hope of seeing a favorite writer since the event must have long wrapped up, and just goddamned pissed.
Somehow, I made my way back to my parked bike and realized (ah, more realizations) it had sunk in slush. Yup, right there in the parking lot. What followed was a struggle to heave it out, somewhat like trying to move a water buffalo from a murky pond in summer. The bike was not just stuck in mud but wedged tight between two other bikes. I needed help.
It never ceases to amaze me how studiously people ignore you exactly when you want them to pay attention. I mean, here is this woman, wet and mud-splattered, tugging at a bulky bike like her life depended on it - how much more in-your-face can it be? But people just passed by without a glance. They didn’t even make eye-contact lest I request them to help. For god’s sake folks, I am not going to be asking for the treasures of Tutankhamen’s tomb. All I would like is a pair of hands that’ll grab the tail end of the bike and pull.
Anyway, life teaches you and one learns. I got it out on my own – I guess I could give myself a pat on that one. Then I drove back home in the rain. In the inappropriate squeeze at the parking lot, bikey dear seemed to have had a wrong button pressed. Some unidentifiable indicator went into beep mode and wouldn’t shut up. So, I drove the streets with a continuous, high-pitched decibel, eliciting annoyed and are-you-crazy looks from other drivers at the traffic signal. By the time I reached home, my dress was ruined (the bloody color runs, what else!). I did not have an autographed book to compensate for all this pain. The evening was an undeniable disaster.
I am not one to stay down and out for long. So, I have promised myself that I’ll take another shot at revving up social life again over the weekend. This time I’ll check the forecast, skip the bike, interview the autowallah before boarding and wear colorless clothing. Yeah, that should keep me safe. I hope.
The long answer to that is below. If you manage to glean a few lessons from my misadventure, I guess, it would all be worth it.
I seem to have this tempestuous affair with book launches and writers - some delightful, some disastrous (not good for me, you would say) - but I have a feeling it’s kind of keyed into my karma. So, I am unerringly propelled into these, well, 'interesting' situations.
With advice from a well-meaning friend to rev up my social life, I decided on a book launch of Amitav Ghosh's new title Sea of Poppies at a bookstore in the city last Wednesday. The author would be reading and I was keen to hear him. I bravely set out to attend the event. Bravely, because its monsoons in Bangalore these days. And anyone who knows the city is familiar with its evening downpours and flash flooding.
Very unwisely, I decided to take my bike. I parked it mid-way and set out in an autorickshaw because I wasn’t sure of the route (what can I say, I am bad at directions) or the availability of parking space at the venue. All very nice, except that if one is weak in something, the world seems to conspire to exploit that very weakness. Of course, I missed the turn and the autowallah left me completely lost.
“But you’re supposed to know where this venue is, bhaiyya. Why are you an autowallah, otherwise?” I cried in consternation as I got off.
He fixed me with the most incredulous and irritated stare. “Why should I know each and every venue that a passenger wants to go to?”
That maddened me even further. “Then, why did you nod your head when I mentioned the venue before getting into your auto?”
Oh, we could have gone on & on, but I realized it was pointless arguing with an adamant autowallah inclined to altercation. I also realized I was way out of where I should have been. As if in agreement, the skies opened up right then and it poured. So, there I was, lost in my own city, drenched, cold, without hope of seeing a favorite writer since the event must have long wrapped up, and just goddamned pissed.
Somehow, I made my way back to my parked bike and realized (ah, more realizations) it had sunk in slush. Yup, right there in the parking lot. What followed was a struggle to heave it out, somewhat like trying to move a water buffalo from a murky pond in summer. The bike was not just stuck in mud but wedged tight between two other bikes. I needed help.
It never ceases to amaze me how studiously people ignore you exactly when you want them to pay attention. I mean, here is this woman, wet and mud-splattered, tugging at a bulky bike like her life depended on it - how much more in-your-face can it be? But people just passed by without a glance. They didn’t even make eye-contact lest I request them to help. For god’s sake folks, I am not going to be asking for the treasures of Tutankhamen’s tomb. All I would like is a pair of hands that’ll grab the tail end of the bike and pull.
Anyway, life teaches you and one learns. I got it out on my own – I guess I could give myself a pat on that one. Then I drove back home in the rain. In the inappropriate squeeze at the parking lot, bikey dear seemed to have had a wrong button pressed. Some unidentifiable indicator went into beep mode and wouldn’t shut up. So, I drove the streets with a continuous, high-pitched decibel, eliciting annoyed and are-you-crazy looks from other drivers at the traffic signal. By the time I reached home, my dress was ruined (the bloody color runs, what else!). I did not have an autographed book to compensate for all this pain. The evening was an undeniable disaster.
I am not one to stay down and out for long. So, I have promised myself that I’ll take another shot at revving up social life again over the weekend. This time I’ll check the forecast, skip the bike, interview the autowallah before boarding and wear colorless clothing. Yeah, that should keep me safe. I hope.
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