So, it was finally time to say goodbye to the land of musical gharanas. The last night at Landmark was spent in lazying around and watching the Xmas celebrations that the hotel had lined up for guests. I particularly liked the Santa guy, welcoming one and all at the reception. Thanks to Abhay, the CA friend, we got perfect advice. The Gwalior fog, I had presumed, would be worse in the wee hours (my favorite time for kicking off journeys) But it was Abhay who revealed that 4.00 am was in fact the best time to leave the city as the fog would be thickest during 6.00 to 8.00 am, by which time we would have crossed the city limits of Shivpuri.
So off we went, hopping into the car at sharp 4.00 (thankfully, the hotel was exceptionally quick about the check out formalities) Exactly as Abhay had predicted, we were at Shivpuri for our first tea break at 6.00. The next break was at Guna at 9.00. This one proved elaborate as the roadside stall was as good as a motel, thanks to some innovative space usage by the owner. The jalebi was divine and so were the samosas. Hotel Shiv Tirth is highly recommended for those who strive for cleanliness, to the extent they can find on Indian highways.
Continuing further on NH 3, we reached Biora by 11.00 am and stopped at the same motel that we had checked en route Gwalior, this time for some Dosas and sambar. Bad choice it turned out to be. The fermentation was at its peak and left a bad taste all throughout the journey. The same waiter greeted us with the same hospitality and was happy to note that we would be treading on the extended Biora - Bhopal route rather than the potholed Biora - Indore stretch. Bidding good bye, I was back at the wheel.
The Biora - Bhopal NH 12 through Narsinghgad was excellent, as smooth as Nasik - Dhule - Indore. We'll remain indebted to the Biora waiter for the tip and Abhay for the validation. We reached Bhopal by 3.00 pm.
At the first chouraha on arrival, it took considerable time to reach Maharana Pratap Nagar in the new city. Thanks to a smart traffic cop, we got the right advice in time. We drove in the parking lot of 'The Residency' at sharp 4.00 pm. The booking was telephonic but the reception recall was instant, something missing with many a Mumbai-Pune hotel. Watching the local TV channel was fun. A program called "Nadaniyaan" was especially amusing. We bought some Bhopal sweets and namkin from the local stores and called it a day. The room service was excellent and housekeeping prompt.
The next day, we were to leave at 4.00 sharp but the alarm failed to caution us. And it was not before 5.30 that we hit the road. The hotel staff had given elaborate instructions on the most optimal path to Indore. We had no trouble getting on the spacious NH 86 turned SH 18 through Sihor, Astha and Dewas. Beyond doubt, this is a model road for the country. We touched Indore NH 3 by 8.00 am and stopped at Rau (near Mhow) for roadside jalebi and kachori.
Resuming the now monotonous drive,we reached Dhule for lunch at 12.30 pm at Hotel Residency Park. It was here that I learnt Sachin Tendulkar had yet again missed his long awaited 100th ton. Recovering from the expected gloom with the help of an unprintable expletive, I got back to the car. I have passed several times through Dhule - Indore but the monotony of the journey is equally intense every single time, even with the new roads. Nasik arrived at 3.45 pm but the ever messy Nasik traffic consumed over an hour before we crossed Igatpuri. Some of India's worst drivers come from Nasik (as lethal as the Pune ones).
The final frontier through Bhiwandi-Kalyan-Thane was a seamless drive. We entered the premises of our housing society on Ghodbunder Road at 6.30 pm.
The tryst with M.P. was finally over in good time. Needless to say, memories will remain for life.
The End
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
A tryst with Madhya Pradesh - 3
The Gwalior morning was bright and sunny. The much acclaimed winter had surely set in but sans the cold chill that normally defines it. We left the hotel at 9.00 am after a sumptuous breakfast of fresh Idlis and sambar (just like any Mumbai Udupi). Post salutations at the adjacent Hanuman temple, we took a tam tam (the six seater rickshaw). I was unsure of the map, hence just mentioned Jiwaji Gang and Ratan Colony in the same breath. The driver declared "80 rupees" with a poker face - maybe the cold was responsible for the lack of expression.
After a brief merry-go-round through the bustling streets of the old city, he stopped at a place. "where in Jiwaji Ganj" was all he asked for. I don't know why but I stepped out at that very location. Destiny or destination, it turned out to be the exact point where the gate to Ratan Colony was positioned. But I didn't bother to read the signboard at the top of the high archway and walked further away. Luckily, we bothered to ask a shop keeper and he advised a reverse gear.
After entering the colony, (or kalony as they would say)I floated aimlessly in pursuit of the building that was my rented home years ago. I simply knew the landlord's name - there was hardly any other clue...but thanks to the old-style architecture, I stopped at one structure that was crowned with a spacious terrace. The parapet gave it away - Fond memories of me flying kites flooded my mind in a jiffy and I asked a passerby for the landlord's name. My hunch was right - this was it.
We spent over two hours chatting with the inhabitants with whom I share a slice of history, nostalgia writ all over the place. The landlady, now in her late sixties, seemed to remember every detail. I was overwhelmed by her hospitality and she hugged me out of genuine warmth. For a second, I saw my mom in her frame. That moment was worth all the time. I am not the one for senseless romanticism but that moment was real. Cent per cent real.
Abhay Deo, her son and my childhood chum, is now a practicing chartered accountant in Gwalior. He narrated quite a few interesting tales of his profession. One of them was about an accounting problem faced by the celebrated Gwalior Zoo.
It so happened that the zoo had donated two lion cubs to the New Zealand government. But the NZ government made an electronic transfer of a sizeable amount to the Gwalior Nagar Nigam in return. Since it was receipt of money all right and not a counter donation (as it didn't accompany a gift deed), the Nigam was unsure about its accounting - how to record it in the Nigam's books was the quandary. Abhay sought help from both his own ICAI institute as well as the one in England and Wales but to no avail. Finally, he advised the Nigam to consider the cubs as fixed assets (and not inventory) and show the funds as a capital receipt. Although he claimed this to be a rare case, there's a lot of literature available on tricky situations concerning live stock accounting worldwide but his moot point had a lot of merit. For a country with agricultural roots, Indian accountants have done little to enure commensurate accounting of livestock and food grains except for the blind adoption of international standards. He also expressed the grave need for worldwide discussion on such dark money matters like how to collect tax from tabooed professionals like prostitutes or the rampant sand and brick merchants (Reti providers)who earn handsome income in hard cash and coolly escape all taxation nets. Makes sense! Imagine a whore claiming depreciation on her body deemed as a fixed asset.
His experiences were amusing, enlightening too, but all the same, he didn't seem too keen on unfolding our shared past. I wanted to recount our childhood tales but his professional pride refused to leave the present. He seemed to have moved on for good.
After Ratan Colony, our final destination was the old haveli at Jiwaji Ganj. This was my maternal grandfather's residence for many years. Unfortunately, the place is now sold off and worse, completely demolished and converted into something else. But I remembered the lane from memory, as also the neighboring buildings and two unforgettable monuments - Gangaram ki dukan - the barber's shop and Babulal's home - the horse cart driver who dropped us to school everyday (unfortunately both are no more) I still remember Babulal and his mouthful of choicest Hindi abuses showered on passing vehicles and pedestrians, en route school and home.
With no one around to relive memories for old time's sake, we did the usual Gajak and Petha shopping. My mission was kind of over, yet an undefined ache remained. How time flies, what seemed paramount yesterday becomes insignificant today...priorities change over time, perspectives undergo a transformation, yet something remains that draws you to it, if not pulls you back. One can relish the past without dwelling in it, at least that's what I would like to believe.
Precisely why I planned a hurricane trip merely for two elusive landmarks in the whole city of Gwalior. Foolish it may have been, but I am very happy to be a fulfilled and fun filled fool.
To be concluded...
After a brief merry-go-round through the bustling streets of the old city, he stopped at a place. "where in Jiwaji Ganj" was all he asked for. I don't know why but I stepped out at that very location. Destiny or destination, it turned out to be the exact point where the gate to Ratan Colony was positioned. But I didn't bother to read the signboard at the top of the high archway and walked further away. Luckily, we bothered to ask a shop keeper and he advised a reverse gear.
After entering the colony, (or kalony as they would say)I floated aimlessly in pursuit of the building that was my rented home years ago. I simply knew the landlord's name - there was hardly any other clue...but thanks to the old-style architecture, I stopped at one structure that was crowned with a spacious terrace. The parapet gave it away - Fond memories of me flying kites flooded my mind in a jiffy and I asked a passerby for the landlord's name. My hunch was right - this was it.
We spent over two hours chatting with the inhabitants with whom I share a slice of history, nostalgia writ all over the place. The landlady, now in her late sixties, seemed to remember every detail. I was overwhelmed by her hospitality and she hugged me out of genuine warmth. For a second, I saw my mom in her frame. That moment was worth all the time. I am not the one for senseless romanticism but that moment was real. Cent per cent real.
Abhay Deo, her son and my childhood chum, is now a practicing chartered accountant in Gwalior. He narrated quite a few interesting tales of his profession. One of them was about an accounting problem faced by the celebrated Gwalior Zoo.
It so happened that the zoo had donated two lion cubs to the New Zealand government. But the NZ government made an electronic transfer of a sizeable amount to the Gwalior Nagar Nigam in return. Since it was receipt of money all right and not a counter donation (as it didn't accompany a gift deed), the Nigam was unsure about its accounting - how to record it in the Nigam's books was the quandary. Abhay sought help from both his own ICAI institute as well as the one in England and Wales but to no avail. Finally, he advised the Nigam to consider the cubs as fixed assets (and not inventory) and show the funds as a capital receipt. Although he claimed this to be a rare case, there's a lot of literature available on tricky situations concerning live stock accounting worldwide but his moot point had a lot of merit. For a country with agricultural roots, Indian accountants have done little to enure commensurate accounting of livestock and food grains except for the blind adoption of international standards. He also expressed the grave need for worldwide discussion on such dark money matters like how to collect tax from tabooed professionals like prostitutes or the rampant sand and brick merchants (Reti providers)who earn handsome income in hard cash and coolly escape all taxation nets. Makes sense! Imagine a whore claiming depreciation on her body deemed as a fixed asset.
His experiences were amusing, enlightening too, but all the same, he didn't seem too keen on unfolding our shared past. I wanted to recount our childhood tales but his professional pride refused to leave the present. He seemed to have moved on for good.
After Ratan Colony, our final destination was the old haveli at Jiwaji Ganj. This was my maternal grandfather's residence for many years. Unfortunately, the place is now sold off and worse, completely demolished and converted into something else. But I remembered the lane from memory, as also the neighboring buildings and two unforgettable monuments - Gangaram ki dukan - the barber's shop and Babulal's home - the horse cart driver who dropped us to school everyday (unfortunately both are no more) I still remember Babulal and his mouthful of choicest Hindi abuses showered on passing vehicles and pedestrians, en route school and home.
With no one around to relive memories for old time's sake, we did the usual Gajak and Petha shopping. My mission was kind of over, yet an undefined ache remained. How time flies, what seemed paramount yesterday becomes insignificant today...priorities change over time, perspectives undergo a transformation, yet something remains that draws you to it, if not pulls you back. One can relish the past without dwelling in it, at least that's what I would like to believe.
Precisely why I planned a hurricane trip merely for two elusive landmarks in the whole city of Gwalior. Foolish it may have been, but I am very happy to be a fulfilled and fun filled fool.
To be concluded...
Saturday, December 31, 2011
A tryst with Madhya Pradesh- 2
The route from Shajapur to Karanvas via Sarangpur was a 'karavas'. Actually, it was more about the brazen attitude of the drivers that was making life difficult. With patience, you could come to terms with the potholes, but not with the people treading on them. Panting and fuming, we reached the scenic town of Biora at the stroke of 12 noon.
There's a tourist motel right on NH3 - don't miss it if you travel to Biora. The food's great and the hospitality even better. The friendly receptionist-cum-waiter advised us to take the Biora-Bhopal route for the return journey. His tip was zillion times more valuable than the one we paid him, we found out on our way back.
After a delicious meal of Pav Bhaji and Chaas (The Bhaji was not the tomato-dominated stuff that we relish in Mumbai, it's a rich mix of fresh vegetables, yet looks red and tastes even better), we were ready to encounter the last leg that proved to be the longest one.
The roads are much better if you compare them with the Indore-Biora, hence the journey was not all that arduous, at least the Beenagunj-Guna stretch. But after Guna, the roads get narrower and the maze of trucks gets wider. Interestingly, throughout the Indore-Gwalior route, you are forewarned about approaching Ghat sections whenever the bend is minimal, they're hardly noticeable in fact. And in contrast, the couple of hair pin bends that really merit a caution come with no warning whatsoever.Wonder how do they define a 'ghat' in this part of the world.
Post Guna, you pass through the insignificant townships of Badarwas and Lukwasa. At Lukwasa, we had tea at a stall with an amusing title "Ziddi Pandit". The tea was excellent and I looked around to spot Mr.'Ziddi' but only a urchin seemed to run the show. We left the scene wondering who was 'Ziddi' and why was he so? (come to think of it, this could be a nice film title like 'Ziddi Pandit ziddi kyon hai?' akin to 'Albert Pinto ko gussa kyon aata hai')
After leaving Kolaras behind, we arrived at Shivpuri, the abode of Lord Shiva. This is an ancient place that finds mention in mythology as well as history. It also houses a promising 'tourist village' and a rich forest reserve. Years earlier when I was a small child, we had spent a night at a motel here, so I was told by my parents. Years later, when I looked around, I shuddered at the very thought of doing an encore. The town is excessively shabby, filthy really ...maybe the interiors could be better. But who knows? It was a tragic sight really, the place has such vintage value but what we saw around was only nuisance value.
It was getting dark now but thankfully the visibility was still fine. The Khankar-Mohana-Ghatigaon went on and on - it was 7.30 pm by the time we saw boards of Gwalior welcoming us. The approach road to the main city is so narrow that you would miss it if you don't ask for it.
Finally, we had arrived in the historic city. The city roads are awesome and although the drive to Hotel Landmark was confusing, thanks to the contrasting advice we got at different points, the whole effort was well worth it.
By the time, we reached our suite, it was 8.30 pm. Thankfully, the hotel service was excellent...just what one would expect after a long drive. The food was super, so was the beer, just that the waiter lacked the Mumbai finesse to open the bottle. I felt helpless, watching the rich Kingfisher froth spill all over the place - nothing short of a national waste. Vijay Mallaya would have been equally upset had he seen the mess.
Gwalior seems to have changed a lot over the years, for the better I would like to believe. The streets were full of life and the dazzle of commerce was exceptional - what with malls, multiplexes and shopping complexes all over the place. The area what they call City Centre is particularly eye-catching.
But I had come down with a purpose - to locate a place called Jiwaji Ganj and Ratan Colony in the old city where I had spent a few of my formative years. I looked forward to the next morning.
To be continued...
There's a tourist motel right on NH3 - don't miss it if you travel to Biora. The food's great and the hospitality even better. The friendly receptionist-cum-waiter advised us to take the Biora-Bhopal route for the return journey. His tip was zillion times more valuable than the one we paid him, we found out on our way back.
After a delicious meal of Pav Bhaji and Chaas (The Bhaji was not the tomato-dominated stuff that we relish in Mumbai, it's a rich mix of fresh vegetables, yet looks red and tastes even better), we were ready to encounter the last leg that proved to be the longest one.
The roads are much better if you compare them with the Indore-Biora, hence the journey was not all that arduous, at least the Beenagunj-Guna stretch. But after Guna, the roads get narrower and the maze of trucks gets wider. Interestingly, throughout the Indore-Gwalior route, you are forewarned about approaching Ghat sections whenever the bend is minimal, they're hardly noticeable in fact. And in contrast, the couple of hair pin bends that really merit a caution come with no warning whatsoever.Wonder how do they define a 'ghat' in this part of the world.
Post Guna, you pass through the insignificant townships of Badarwas and Lukwasa. At Lukwasa, we had tea at a stall with an amusing title "Ziddi Pandit". The tea was excellent and I looked around to spot Mr.'Ziddi' but only a urchin seemed to run the show. We left the scene wondering who was 'Ziddi' and why was he so? (come to think of it, this could be a nice film title like 'Ziddi Pandit ziddi kyon hai?' akin to 'Albert Pinto ko gussa kyon aata hai')
After leaving Kolaras behind, we arrived at Shivpuri, the abode of Lord Shiva. This is an ancient place that finds mention in mythology as well as history. It also houses a promising 'tourist village' and a rich forest reserve. Years earlier when I was a small child, we had spent a night at a motel here, so I was told by my parents. Years later, when I looked around, I shuddered at the very thought of doing an encore. The town is excessively shabby, filthy really ...maybe the interiors could be better. But who knows? It was a tragic sight really, the place has such vintage value but what we saw around was only nuisance value.
It was getting dark now but thankfully the visibility was still fine. The Khankar-Mohana-Ghatigaon went on and on - it was 7.30 pm by the time we saw boards of Gwalior welcoming us. The approach road to the main city is so narrow that you would miss it if you don't ask for it.
Finally, we had arrived in the historic city. The city roads are awesome and although the drive to Hotel Landmark was confusing, thanks to the contrasting advice we got at different points, the whole effort was well worth it.
By the time, we reached our suite, it was 8.30 pm. Thankfully, the hotel service was excellent...just what one would expect after a long drive. The food was super, so was the beer, just that the waiter lacked the Mumbai finesse to open the bottle. I felt helpless, watching the rich Kingfisher froth spill all over the place - nothing short of a national waste. Vijay Mallaya would have been equally upset had he seen the mess.
Gwalior seems to have changed a lot over the years, for the better I would like to believe. The streets were full of life and the dazzle of commerce was exceptional - what with malls, multiplexes and shopping complexes all over the place. The area what they call City Centre is particularly eye-catching.
But I had come down with a purpose - to locate a place called Jiwaji Ganj and Ratan Colony in the old city where I had spent a few of my formative years. I looked forward to the next morning.
To be continued...
Friday, December 30, 2011
A tryst with Madhya Pradesh
It was a trip planned long back but the execution had suffered the wrath of my work schedules, a tad more than it normally would have. The sole purpose of the expedition was to relive the fond memories of my growing years spent in Gwalior. So as soon as the trip was finalized, the mood turned nostalgic. As usual, we preferred to hit the road all the way through, although we were advised either to take the aerial route or tread on the one on tracks.
Friday 23rd, 2011
We (Me, wife and kiddo) left Thane at sharp 4.00 am in our humble Esteem. The drive till Igatpuri was the usual messy affair, thanks to the fog and the drunken truckers on the route. Thankfully, the roads are now smooth and wide and it was 6.30 am by the time we had tea at a roadside stall at the feet of the scenic Kasara ghat. And a pleasant surprise awaited us on the NH 3 ahead. We have been umpteen times on the Nasik-Dhule-Jalgaon-Nagpur belt but the road is now a transformation. For a couple of newly introduced tolls (80 bucks each), you are assured of a fantastic dream drive. Precisely why the monotony of Nasik-Pimpalgaon-Chandwad-Dhule doesn't bother you much now. We stopped en route on a empty stretch near Chandwad to catch some grub that we had carried with us. The road stalls here are filthy even by Mumbai standards, hence the precaution.
Dhule arrived by 10.30 am and here we went straight on the NH3 in the direction of Indore for the very first time. Earlier, we invariably turned right towards Dhule-Jalgaon-Nagpur and hence this route was a new experience. But the stretch proved even better than the earlier one as we raced ahead... leaving behind places like Songir, Dahiwad, Shirpur, Sangvi and Sendhva in quick time. After Sendhva, it takes relatively longer times to reach the approaching milestones. By the time we crossed Julwania-Thikri-Kalghat-Gujri-Mhow (The L &T Pithampur plant is merely 8 km from Mhow via Rau) and entered Indore, the time was 3.00 pm. And ironically, it was the drive to Hotel President in the heart of the city that consumed a full hour, thanks to the bumpy drive and grumpy inhabitants who didn't seem keen to help out. Indore has changed in many ways but the local arrogance and contempt for the outsiders is at its peak (especially when they notice a MH number plate). And the rules of traffic are special, it takes a while before you come to terms with them. It's quite simple in hindsight - whoever dares to block the way first,at the cost of risking a collision, gets to race ahead. The less adventurous have to make way.And for the pedestrians, the rules are even simpler. Just cross the road as if it was deserted, God will help you with the rest.
The shopkeepers essentially do a favour by selling their wares. The customer is a beggar in the guise of a buyer. Yes, there would be exceptions but my experience was ghastly for sure. I have suffered the wrath of South Indians in Chennai and Bangalore, I have seen the worst of Delhi and Noida hospitality (or the lack of it), I have also witnessed the hostility of the North East but nothing compared to what Indore (and Gwalior later) had to offer. There's a strange contempt on most of the faces here - you can't define it but you don't wish to describe it either. The best of malls are packed with the best of brands but are they waiting for the best of customers? I have my doubts.
The hotel staff was decent but the service level was pathetic. You had all the amenities you could think of but ask for an electric kettle and they will raise eyebrows. Room service is prompt but clearing used plates is not part of housekeeping. And yes, ordering Chinese food here could be suicidal here, please go for the normal North Indian stuff.
Saturday 24th, 2011
We left Indore promptly at 6.00 am and cruised on the NH3 via Dewas. It was from here that the dream road journey turned into a nightmare. The Dewas-Sia-Maksi route was scary - with giant pothoels threatening to attack you from the middle of nowhere - but it was still no indication of the big trouble that awaited us on the Shajapur-Sarangpur-Karanwas-Biora stretch.
We reluctantly had tea at a shabby tea stall adjoining the dusty railway crossing of Maksi. When filth greets you with open arms, the search for cleaner places and our cherished emphasis on hygiene, both lose their significance. The tea was bad, the cup half washed, few enthusiastic pigs were at our feet...yet we sipped to glory. By the time we crossed Shajapur, the roads vanished...What remained were potholed pathways calling for some inventive driving to find your way. If I was beginning to enjoy it, the cars and trucks from the opposite direction posed an even bigger threat.
To be continued...
Friday 23rd, 2011
We (Me, wife and kiddo) left Thane at sharp 4.00 am in our humble Esteem. The drive till Igatpuri was the usual messy affair, thanks to the fog and the drunken truckers on the route. Thankfully, the roads are now smooth and wide and it was 6.30 am by the time we had tea at a roadside stall at the feet of the scenic Kasara ghat. And a pleasant surprise awaited us on the NH 3 ahead. We have been umpteen times on the Nasik-Dhule-Jalgaon-Nagpur belt but the road is now a transformation. For a couple of newly introduced tolls (80 bucks each), you are assured of a fantastic dream drive. Precisely why the monotony of Nasik-Pimpalgaon-Chandwad-Dhule doesn't bother you much now. We stopped en route on a empty stretch near Chandwad to catch some grub that we had carried with us. The road stalls here are filthy even by Mumbai standards, hence the precaution.
Dhule arrived by 10.30 am and here we went straight on the NH3 in the direction of Indore for the very first time. Earlier, we invariably turned right towards Dhule-Jalgaon-Nagpur and hence this route was a new experience. But the stretch proved even better than the earlier one as we raced ahead... leaving behind places like Songir, Dahiwad, Shirpur, Sangvi and Sendhva in quick time. After Sendhva, it takes relatively longer times to reach the approaching milestones. By the time we crossed Julwania-Thikri-Kalghat-Gujri-Mhow (The L &T Pithampur plant is merely 8 km from Mhow via Rau) and entered Indore, the time was 3.00 pm. And ironically, it was the drive to Hotel President in the heart of the city that consumed a full hour, thanks to the bumpy drive and grumpy inhabitants who didn't seem keen to help out. Indore has changed in many ways but the local arrogance and contempt for the outsiders is at its peak (especially when they notice a MH number plate). And the rules of traffic are special, it takes a while before you come to terms with them. It's quite simple in hindsight - whoever dares to block the way first,at the cost of risking a collision, gets to race ahead. The less adventurous have to make way.And for the pedestrians, the rules are even simpler. Just cross the road as if it was deserted, God will help you with the rest.
The shopkeepers essentially do a favour by selling their wares. The customer is a beggar in the guise of a buyer. Yes, there would be exceptions but my experience was ghastly for sure. I have suffered the wrath of South Indians in Chennai and Bangalore, I have seen the worst of Delhi and Noida hospitality (or the lack of it), I have also witnessed the hostility of the North East but nothing compared to what Indore (and Gwalior later) had to offer. There's a strange contempt on most of the faces here - you can't define it but you don't wish to describe it either. The best of malls are packed with the best of brands but are they waiting for the best of customers? I have my doubts.
The hotel staff was decent but the service level was pathetic. You had all the amenities you could think of but ask for an electric kettle and they will raise eyebrows. Room service is prompt but clearing used plates is not part of housekeeping. And yes, ordering Chinese food here could be suicidal here, please go for the normal North Indian stuff.
Saturday 24th, 2011
We left Indore promptly at 6.00 am and cruised on the NH3 via Dewas. It was from here that the dream road journey turned into a nightmare. The Dewas-Sia-Maksi route was scary - with giant pothoels threatening to attack you from the middle of nowhere - but it was still no indication of the big trouble that awaited us on the Shajapur-Sarangpur-Karanwas-Biora stretch.
We reluctantly had tea at a shabby tea stall adjoining the dusty railway crossing of Maksi. When filth greets you with open arms, the search for cleaner places and our cherished emphasis on hygiene, both lose their significance. The tea was bad, the cup half washed, few enthusiastic pigs were at our feet...yet we sipped to glory. By the time we crossed Shajapur, the roads vanished...What remained were potholed pathways calling for some inventive driving to find your way. If I was beginning to enjoy it, the cars and trucks from the opposite direction posed an even bigger threat.
To be continued...
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Lakhu Risbud
Here’s a selective translation of P L Deshpande's LAKHU RISBUD. I have tried to retain the original flavour while taking liberties with some text. Lakhu is an immensly likeable imposter, the pathos of his story is as endearing as the humour. Needless to say, P L Deshpande can’t be reproduced.
Lakhu Risbud
From ‘Vyakti aani Valli’ (Individuals and Characters)
By P L Deshpande
Lakhu’s an intellectual, a deputy editor at that. Actually, he’s still not sure what the word ‘intellectual’ means but does that stop him from merrily rattling lines like ‘We the Intellectuals’ or ‘Our intellectual tribe’. After all, why should meanings come in the way of usage?
Lakhu’s intellectual gems regularly glitter in not one but three periodicals - the daily ‘Aaghadi’, monthly magazine ‘Jadbharat’ and the weekly ‘Lokranjan’ - by virtue of his payroll association with the ‘Kranti Karya’ group that runs all three for a noble cause: emancipation of Marathi literature. Lakhu’s employers duly file receipts for dearness allowance, just that they don’t pay him the allowance. Lakhu sincerely believes this sacrifice fuels his journalism of courage and conviction.
Lakhu cleared his MA in Marathi two years back. Actually, he wished to major in Economics. But thanks to his enduring struggle with the English language, a secret shared only with the tutor who checked his English essays at school, he was found grappling with the spelling of ‘Economics’ - whether it ended with a ‘s’ or ‘c’? He ended the quandary itself by ticking on Marathi in the enrolment form.
Surely, it was this seemingly academic choice that paved the way for Lakhu’s tryst with intellectualism. As if to signify the start of a momentous voyage, this was also the time his eyes were adorned with a pair of spectacles - the most coveted mark of the thinking species. Deep within, he was delighted with the specs but outwardly he cursed them for limiting his potent sports potential.
Lakhu has never played a single sport in his life. The closest he came to the playground was during an inter-collegiate tournament when he recorded the proceedings for two overs while the scorer went to the toilet for a leak. But since many of his college mates were avid sportsmen - Parab, Kadam, Darasha, Disilva and Tawde among others - Lakhu chose to become the sole expert among the spectators making succinct observations: open-ended remarks like ‘Kadam’s back-hand lacks power’, ‘Darasha has a clear left-hand advantage’ or ‘Miss Mohini must improve her service’
These sly but carefully packaged quips soon won him a loyal audience and his wobbly wisdom gradually crossed other frontiers - Literature, Politics, Arts, Music, Philosophy, Humanities...
His favourite pastime was to point out flaws in college plays: how some actor failed to ‘touch the soul’ or how the director misread the script. And these sermons, consecrated with a generous sprinkling of Shaw and Maugham, were invariably delivered over tea and cigarette puffs sponsored by some mesmerised (or victimised) listener impressed with Lakhu’s ‘critical faculty’.
Enthused with his success, Lakhu found immense value in another ploy. He now claimed to have read all those books he reckoned (not found) as ‘must reads’. Such was the effect on the audience that after a while Lakhu himself believed he had actually read the books.
The BA class introduced him to Kaikini, the bright guy with an Inter first class. Lakhu had just about begun his self-inflicted struggle with ‘Quintessence of Ibsenism’ in the library when Kaikini stepped in, to collect information on Ibsen for his article in the college magazine. They met and exchanged notes, and Lakhu munificently dissected Ibsen for the benefit of Kaikini, courtesy: first six pages of “Doll’s House”; first six lines of “Quintessence...” (Fresh in memory) and a critique by some Marathi author.
Lakhu was thoroughly enjoying his performance.
“Ibsen, I tell you, simply cuts across our social fabric like a sharp knife. I mean...just note the way his Nora slams the door behind her as she leaves....” (That was all he knew about ‘Doll’s House’ sifting through a Marathi translation which he ‘found’ nowhere near the unread original)
“...You know, the way Nora departs...I mean...it causes such psychological...I mean and all that... you know what I mean!”
Kaikini was simply floored by Lakhu’s authoritative insights on Ibsen and their friendship began with a vow to study Shaw and Ibsen in greater depth.
Lakhu was often seen at Kaikini’s place, a plush flat in Talmakki Wadi. Kaikini’s gorgeous sister Varada would greet him in her chaste English
“Please be seated Mr Rissboood”.
A baffled Lakhu would then feel thoroughly ashamed of his name. Varada’s mother spoke fine English as well. She wore colourful sarees and her diamond earrings danced so gracefully with her gestures. During such mystifying moments, of stealing awkward glance at the ravishing mother-daughter duo, he would resolve to improve his English like never before.
Soon, “Fowler’s Usage” and “King’s English” would be registered against his name in the library. He also took on Shakespeare’s Hamlet for the same purpose but was on the verge of giving up only after a few pages...
Fortunately for him, he got to know from Kaikini that Shaw had openly criticised Shakespeare on numerous occasions. Well, that was it! Now he took on Shakespeare in public with outrageous remarks like:
“Shakespeare is a hoax; he lacks Shaw’s social consciousness. If I wish, I can demolish his myth in just four articles (in Marathi of course)”
“I was utterly disappointed with each of Shakespeare’s 32 plays (or were they 34...or 36?) King Lear has some merit but I don’t agree with what Bradley has to say”
These borrowed revelations impressed Madhu Gupte the most. With his fully-clothed body weighing less than 100 pounds, Gupte had the right ‘figure’ for a communist, what if his intellectual abilities were seriously in doubt.
Lakhu taught literature to Gupte while the latter introduced him to Marx...and just at the right time. When Kaikini cleared his BA with a first-class-first, Lakhu took a drop as he now discovered that all his professors were ‘shallow’ and Kaikini was only a careerist joining the ranks of exploiters in this capitalistic society.
Lakhu was now an authority on just about everything - Sartre, O’Neil, Kafka, Richards, Nihilism, Defeatism, Existentialism, surrealism...he threw a bagful of contemptuous opinions on every occasion, with the mindless vigour of errant street urchins hurling stones at each passing train.
.....
It took thirty long years for Lakhu to realise the fact that his non-conformism hardly confirmed anything and more important, his cultural ascent had not been accompanied by any economic raise. And slowly but steadily, he yearned less for the day that would unfurl the utopian prospects of free thinking and more for the one which fetched him his meagre monthly salary.
Madhu Gupte won a seat at the Corporation. Kadam, the guy with the weak back-hand, was now a Deputy SP and also the proud husband of Neela Salvi, the girl Lakhu secretly craved for throughout college years. Darasha became a pilot, Kaikini was in London and to top it all, he sent Lakhu a cute, handcrafted invitation announcing his sister’s marriage to one Major Hattangadi... "Damn these careerist fools!"
Now Lakhu has donned a new role, that of a cynic. The moment he learns some friend has tied the knot, he mockingly quotes from Oscar Wilde. For this reason, he’s worshipped as a woman-hater in his circle. But little do his friends know that even forty-plus ladies of his chawl don’t escape the unabashed lust of his eyes.
He writes... and writes all the time, and his journalistic job helps him in his cause, providing the platform for making brazen remarks on the establishment and the revered.
Even today, he’s busy with a review of the movie Dadanche Jaanve (Dada’s sacred thread), to be skilfully accommodated between two advertisements. He’s angry, it’s past the 10th of the month and his pay packet is still not in his pocket.
He begins “Four fools come together...”
“Risbud”, his editor yells....
“There’s hardly any creation, the cinematography’s dull, uninspiring...” (As he writes this, he recalls the dazzling lights that focus on the heroine’s prominent peaks)
“Words are a filthy mess (again the mind shifts to her pelvic thrusts on the number “Paach, Sahaa, Saat, Aath, Nadi Tiri Padli Gaath” - Five, six, seven, eight...by the river was the date)
“Risbud, I say”, the editor blares again...
Lakhu looks up reluctantly “What?”
“Good news! You win a 30 rupee promotion. We are launching a giant crossword. Will you design it? Here...hold the pay for this month”
Lakhu was speechless.
“I mean you’re such a committed intellectual, you may find this work demeaning”
“Not at all. We’ll make first-class crosswords sir!” Lakhu replied in a flash.
“Great, this baby’s yours. I feel the first prize should be at least 15,000/- what say?”
“Sure sir! And I’ll make the crossword fit for the prize” (30 rupees promotion)
As soon as the editor turned his back, a beaming Lakhu picked up the review and tore it to pieces. He began afresh:
“A masterpiece etched on Maharashtra’s literary landscape, as significant and sacred as the Krishna-Koyna conflux, is director M Ganpatrao’s Dadanche Jaanve....”
That evening, Lakhu bought himself a pack of Capston for the first time in his life.
Lakhu Risbud
From ‘Vyakti aani Valli’ (Individuals and Characters)
By P L Deshpande
Lakhu’s an intellectual, a deputy editor at that. Actually, he’s still not sure what the word ‘intellectual’ means but does that stop him from merrily rattling lines like ‘We the Intellectuals’ or ‘Our intellectual tribe’. After all, why should meanings come in the way of usage?
Lakhu’s intellectual gems regularly glitter in not one but three periodicals - the daily ‘Aaghadi’, monthly magazine ‘Jadbharat’ and the weekly ‘Lokranjan’ - by virtue of his payroll association with the ‘Kranti Karya’ group that runs all three for a noble cause: emancipation of Marathi literature. Lakhu’s employers duly file receipts for dearness allowance, just that they don’t pay him the allowance. Lakhu sincerely believes this sacrifice fuels his journalism of courage and conviction.
Lakhu cleared his MA in Marathi two years back. Actually, he wished to major in Economics. But thanks to his enduring struggle with the English language, a secret shared only with the tutor who checked his English essays at school, he was found grappling with the spelling of ‘Economics’ - whether it ended with a ‘s’ or ‘c’? He ended the quandary itself by ticking on Marathi in the enrolment form.
Surely, it was this seemingly academic choice that paved the way for Lakhu’s tryst with intellectualism. As if to signify the start of a momentous voyage, this was also the time his eyes were adorned with a pair of spectacles - the most coveted mark of the thinking species. Deep within, he was delighted with the specs but outwardly he cursed them for limiting his potent sports potential.
Lakhu has never played a single sport in his life. The closest he came to the playground was during an inter-collegiate tournament when he recorded the proceedings for two overs while the scorer went to the toilet for a leak. But since many of his college mates were avid sportsmen - Parab, Kadam, Darasha, Disilva and Tawde among others - Lakhu chose to become the sole expert among the spectators making succinct observations: open-ended remarks like ‘Kadam’s back-hand lacks power’, ‘Darasha has a clear left-hand advantage’ or ‘Miss Mohini must improve her service’
These sly but carefully packaged quips soon won him a loyal audience and his wobbly wisdom gradually crossed other frontiers - Literature, Politics, Arts, Music, Philosophy, Humanities...
His favourite pastime was to point out flaws in college plays: how some actor failed to ‘touch the soul’ or how the director misread the script. And these sermons, consecrated with a generous sprinkling of Shaw and Maugham, were invariably delivered over tea and cigarette puffs sponsored by some mesmerised (or victimised) listener impressed with Lakhu’s ‘critical faculty’.
Enthused with his success, Lakhu found immense value in another ploy. He now claimed to have read all those books he reckoned (not found) as ‘must reads’. Such was the effect on the audience that after a while Lakhu himself believed he had actually read the books.
The BA class introduced him to Kaikini, the bright guy with an Inter first class. Lakhu had just about begun his self-inflicted struggle with ‘Quintessence of Ibsenism’ in the library when Kaikini stepped in, to collect information on Ibsen for his article in the college magazine. They met and exchanged notes, and Lakhu munificently dissected Ibsen for the benefit of Kaikini, courtesy: first six pages of “Doll’s House”; first six lines of “Quintessence...” (Fresh in memory) and a critique by some Marathi author.
Lakhu was thoroughly enjoying his performance.
“Ibsen, I tell you, simply cuts across our social fabric like a sharp knife. I mean...just note the way his Nora slams the door behind her as she leaves....” (That was all he knew about ‘Doll’s House’ sifting through a Marathi translation which he ‘found’ nowhere near the unread original)
“...You know, the way Nora departs...I mean...it causes such psychological...I mean and all that... you know what I mean!”
Kaikini was simply floored by Lakhu’s authoritative insights on Ibsen and their friendship began with a vow to study Shaw and Ibsen in greater depth.
Lakhu was often seen at Kaikini’s place, a plush flat in Talmakki Wadi. Kaikini’s gorgeous sister Varada would greet him in her chaste English
“Please be seated Mr Rissboood”.
A baffled Lakhu would then feel thoroughly ashamed of his name. Varada’s mother spoke fine English as well. She wore colourful sarees and her diamond earrings danced so gracefully with her gestures. During such mystifying moments, of stealing awkward glance at the ravishing mother-daughter duo, he would resolve to improve his English like never before.
Soon, “Fowler’s Usage” and “King’s English” would be registered against his name in the library. He also took on Shakespeare’s Hamlet for the same purpose but was on the verge of giving up only after a few pages...
Fortunately for him, he got to know from Kaikini that Shaw had openly criticised Shakespeare on numerous occasions. Well, that was it! Now he took on Shakespeare in public with outrageous remarks like:
“Shakespeare is a hoax; he lacks Shaw’s social consciousness. If I wish, I can demolish his myth in just four articles (in Marathi of course)”
“I was utterly disappointed with each of Shakespeare’s 32 plays (or were they 34...or 36?) King Lear has some merit but I don’t agree with what Bradley has to say”
These borrowed revelations impressed Madhu Gupte the most. With his fully-clothed body weighing less than 100 pounds, Gupte had the right ‘figure’ for a communist, what if his intellectual abilities were seriously in doubt.
Lakhu taught literature to Gupte while the latter introduced him to Marx...and just at the right time. When Kaikini cleared his BA with a first-class-first, Lakhu took a drop as he now discovered that all his professors were ‘shallow’ and Kaikini was only a careerist joining the ranks of exploiters in this capitalistic society.
Lakhu was now an authority on just about everything - Sartre, O’Neil, Kafka, Richards, Nihilism, Defeatism, Existentialism, surrealism...he threw a bagful of contemptuous opinions on every occasion, with the mindless vigour of errant street urchins hurling stones at each passing train.
.....
It took thirty long years for Lakhu to realise the fact that his non-conformism hardly confirmed anything and more important, his cultural ascent had not been accompanied by any economic raise. And slowly but steadily, he yearned less for the day that would unfurl the utopian prospects of free thinking and more for the one which fetched him his meagre monthly salary.
Madhu Gupte won a seat at the Corporation. Kadam, the guy with the weak back-hand, was now a Deputy SP and also the proud husband of Neela Salvi, the girl Lakhu secretly craved for throughout college years. Darasha became a pilot, Kaikini was in London and to top it all, he sent Lakhu a cute, handcrafted invitation announcing his sister’s marriage to one Major Hattangadi... "Damn these careerist fools!"
Now Lakhu has donned a new role, that of a cynic. The moment he learns some friend has tied the knot, he mockingly quotes from Oscar Wilde. For this reason, he’s worshipped as a woman-hater in his circle. But little do his friends know that even forty-plus ladies of his chawl don’t escape the unabashed lust of his eyes.
He writes... and writes all the time, and his journalistic job helps him in his cause, providing the platform for making brazen remarks on the establishment and the revered.
Even today, he’s busy with a review of the movie Dadanche Jaanve (Dada’s sacred thread), to be skilfully accommodated between two advertisements. He’s angry, it’s past the 10th of the month and his pay packet is still not in his pocket.
He begins “Four fools come together...”
“Risbud”, his editor yells....
“There’s hardly any creation, the cinematography’s dull, uninspiring...” (As he writes this, he recalls the dazzling lights that focus on the heroine’s prominent peaks)
“Words are a filthy mess (again the mind shifts to her pelvic thrusts on the number “Paach, Sahaa, Saat, Aath, Nadi Tiri Padli Gaath” - Five, six, seven, eight...by the river was the date)
“Risbud, I say”, the editor blares again...
Lakhu looks up reluctantly “What?”
“Good news! You win a 30 rupee promotion. We are launching a giant crossword. Will you design it? Here...hold the pay for this month”
Lakhu was speechless.
“I mean you’re such a committed intellectual, you may find this work demeaning”
“Not at all. We’ll make first-class crosswords sir!” Lakhu replied in a flash.
“Great, this baby’s yours. I feel the first prize should be at least 15,000/- what say?”
“Sure sir! And I’ll make the crossword fit for the prize” (30 rupees promotion)
As soon as the editor turned his back, a beaming Lakhu picked up the review and tore it to pieces. He began afresh:
“A masterpiece etched on Maharashtra’s literary landscape, as significant and sacred as the Krishna-Koyna conflux, is director M Ganpatrao’s Dadanche Jaanve....”
That evening, Lakhu bought himself a pack of Capston for the first time in his life.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Soulful Post, Soul-searching Dispatch
The Postmaster, one of the three stories from Satyajit Ray's delightful film "Teen Kanya", is based on Tagore's heart-wrenching story about a little orphaned girl called Ratan (Chandana Banerjee)
Nandalal (Anil Chaterjee) arrives in the sleepy village of Ulapur to replace the outgoing postmaster. Even as he takes charge, his mind is still in Calcutta..amidst his folks back home. Here, he finds his maid servant Ratan as his only companion - the sole visible perk of his insipid job.
As he orders her around on errands every day, an elusive bond develops between the two. While he takes it upon himself to teach her Bengali alphabets, she vows to mend her shabby appearance to win his approval. His empathy stems from sheer boredom and loneliness but her affinity is deep-rooted. To him, she's an engaging pastime to keep disturbing thoughts at bay but she's chasing myriad rainbows of hope and aspiration, enthused by the sparing attention that he's paid her. He's probably the only postmaster who's treated her like a human and his word is now her command by choice.
Thanks to Ratan's reassuring presence, Nandalal is just about beginning to feel at home in Ulapur. But one fateful day, he contracts Malaria. Ratan nurses him with the caring diligence of a mother to get him back on his feet. As the next milestone in her learning voyage, she's now ready to grasp compound letters. She's also travelled good distance in the relationship where she now misinterprets his company as her support system.
Nandalal clearly has other plans. He's recovered from the dreaded disease but the deadly delusions have left him well and truly shaken. Precisely why he resigns from his post as soon as his plea for transfer is rejected. Ratan wakes up from her innocent stupor with a thud when she sees the new postmaster taking guard. Busy handing over the baton to the new guy, Nandalal requests him to teach compound letters to Ratan. In doing so, he's also distanced himself from any compound expectations emanating from his bond with the child.
She undergoes mixed emotions of anger and dejection that Nandalal is clueless about, both knowingly and unknowingly. He realises the gravity of her feelings on his way back home. When he offers her money as a token of his 'appreciation', she looks elsewhere. In one single gesture, she has exposed his moral betrayal...More important, in one gesture, she has off-loaded all the emotional baggage of her hopeful times. With the detached poise of a karm-yogin, she now gets ready to tend to the new postmaster. As Nandalal proceeds on his way ahead, she's allowed him to bury his remorse in the debris of his departure.
Tagore's moving story is of such beauty that even a mechanical cinematic adaptation would have won accolades on its strength. But Ray is not the one to rest on easy laurels. He delivers Tagore's soulful post in a soul-searching dispatch.
Ray's deft touches make the screenplay as enduring as the original. Every object of every frame underlines the pathos - whether Nandalal's trunk full of household memories, his damp, dusty dwelling-cum-office, the stagnant waters of the adjacent pond, the naive, amused villagers or even the poor old madman (Nripati Chaterjee)... disowned by the world, nevertheless a faithful companion to Ratan.
In fact, the madman is one of the film's integral metaphors. In an earlier scene, when Nandalal is unnerved by his crazy gestures, it's little Ratan who rescues Nandalal from an horrifying panic attack. Her caution to the madman is as ironic as it's humourous. "Haven't you seen how strong my master is?" We recollect that she's parroting what the earlier postmaster had remarked when Nandalal was introduced to her.
In the last frame, the same insane guy is lying dishevelled in the middle of the path ...On one end is Nandalal on his way home, on the other is Ratan, with a bucketful of water for the new post master. At the centre is the so-called madman, mute witness of their parting ways.
Nandalal (Anil Chaterjee) arrives in the sleepy village of Ulapur to replace the outgoing postmaster. Even as he takes charge, his mind is still in Calcutta..amidst his folks back home. Here, he finds his maid servant Ratan as his only companion - the sole visible perk of his insipid job.
As he orders her around on errands every day, an elusive bond develops between the two. While he takes it upon himself to teach her Bengali alphabets, she vows to mend her shabby appearance to win his approval. His empathy stems from sheer boredom and loneliness but her affinity is deep-rooted. To him, she's an engaging pastime to keep disturbing thoughts at bay but she's chasing myriad rainbows of hope and aspiration, enthused by the sparing attention that he's paid her. He's probably the only postmaster who's treated her like a human and his word is now her command by choice.
Thanks to Ratan's reassuring presence, Nandalal is just about beginning to feel at home in Ulapur. But one fateful day, he contracts Malaria. Ratan nurses him with the caring diligence of a mother to get him back on his feet. As the next milestone in her learning voyage, she's now ready to grasp compound letters. She's also travelled good distance in the relationship where she now misinterprets his company as her support system.
Nandalal clearly has other plans. He's recovered from the dreaded disease but the deadly delusions have left him well and truly shaken. Precisely why he resigns from his post as soon as his plea for transfer is rejected. Ratan wakes up from her innocent stupor with a thud when she sees the new postmaster taking guard. Busy handing over the baton to the new guy, Nandalal requests him to teach compound letters to Ratan. In doing so, he's also distanced himself from any compound expectations emanating from his bond with the child.
She undergoes mixed emotions of anger and dejection that Nandalal is clueless about, both knowingly and unknowingly. He realises the gravity of her feelings on his way back home. When he offers her money as a token of his 'appreciation', she looks elsewhere. In one single gesture, she has exposed his moral betrayal...More important, in one gesture, she has off-loaded all the emotional baggage of her hopeful times. With the detached poise of a karm-yogin, she now gets ready to tend to the new postmaster. As Nandalal proceeds on his way ahead, she's allowed him to bury his remorse in the debris of his departure.
Tagore's moving story is of such beauty that even a mechanical cinematic adaptation would have won accolades on its strength. But Ray is not the one to rest on easy laurels. He delivers Tagore's soulful post in a soul-searching dispatch.
Ray's deft touches make the screenplay as enduring as the original. Every object of every frame underlines the pathos - whether Nandalal's trunk full of household memories, his damp, dusty dwelling-cum-office, the stagnant waters of the adjacent pond, the naive, amused villagers or even the poor old madman (Nripati Chaterjee)... disowned by the world, nevertheless a faithful companion to Ratan.
In fact, the madman is one of the film's integral metaphors. In an earlier scene, when Nandalal is unnerved by his crazy gestures, it's little Ratan who rescues Nandalal from an horrifying panic attack. Her caution to the madman is as ironic as it's humourous. "Haven't you seen how strong my master is?" We recollect that she's parroting what the earlier postmaster had remarked when Nandalal was introduced to her.
In the last frame, the same insane guy is lying dishevelled in the middle of the path ...On one end is Nandalal on his way home, on the other is Ratan, with a bucketful of water for the new post master. At the centre is the so-called madman, mute witness of their parting ways.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Ray of Hope
"Yes, I am in the phone book, and you can knock on my door. Everybody has access to me, anyone who wants to see me. In fact, the people who come to visit on Sunday mornings are often very ordinary folks. Not big stars or anything like that. Some are my old colleagues from advertising days. Others are those who simply feel friendly towards me as a result of the films of mine they have seen. In the end, I think it's rather stupid to raise a wall around oneself. This way of doing things — as we have done today — is much more interesting, rewarding, exciting."
- Satyajit Ray
(in conversation with the renowned film critic and author Bert Cardullo)
For most of our snobbish filmmakers and arrogant artistes, the audience is merely a small cog in a large wheel. Wish they learn to make creativity rewarding and exciting....wish they learn from a true master!
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