Gokhale always has been, and always will be, full of people who are, well, Gokhaleites. It is a term that escapes definition, and you only know what I'm talking about when you've met a Gokhaleite. For all outward appearances, they (Gokhaleites) are normal, easygoing, friendly, extroverted people. Look carefully and you'll notice the well hidden, yet omnipresent signs of complete, deranged and terrifying lunacy.
A shining example of this tribe is the remarkable Abhinav Kumar Rastogi, known to his fellow inmates by the sobriquet Chaman. Avid readers of these pages will recall that the undersigned had set off on a trip to Goa with Chaman about a couple of weeks back. This post is not about that trip, although that was the scheduled update. Nor is it about the football matches, which were catastrophic enough to make us pretend that they never happened. They didn't, by the way, so everybody, quit asking about them.
This is about a trip to Toni da Dhaba.
Toni da Dhaba is, well, a dhaba about 40 kilometers away from Pune on the Mumbai Pune Highway. It's a nice enough place, serving decent food, and slightly expensive booze, with a very whacky menu. Since the mess is closed on Saturday nights, six people set off for Toni da Dhaba on Saturday evening. Three of them didn't belong to the hostel, but what's your point?
Gautam Tamhane (a.k.a GT): Freak. Freakishly thin, freakishly funny, freakishly sarcastic, and all in all, well, an outstanding example of Gokhaleness. Some people maintain that the last quality resides in him a wee bit too much, especially at five in the morning, but well, you got to take the rough with the smooth.
Soumya Mahapatra: Sharp tongue. Friend. Buddy. Hair-raising sight when drunk. Hair-raising sight otherwise.
Vasundhara Sen: Refer above.
Bhavana Verma: Sweet girl. Friend. Buddy. Reluctant drinker (in our tribe, that's a foul, but we're working on it. The disease, we maintain, is curable)
Ashish Kulkarni: Tall, dark, and handsome.
Abhinav Kumar Rastogi (a.k.a Chaman): Read on.
MH-12-AT-422: Hero Honda Splendor No. 1. Owned by GT, and played an incidental role in the drama.
MH-12-BE-8015: Hero Honda Splendor No. 2. Owned by Shoan Joshi, whose patience has now been stretched beyond all appreciable limits. Driven by yours truly.
MH-12-G-4780: Yamaha RX-100. The lead actor.
The trip to Toni da Dhaba is sheer pleasure. One takes any road leading out of the University Circle, hooks up with NH-4, and motors along it up until and beyond the Expressway, beyond Talegaon, beyond Somatne, and just before Kamshet, on the right, lies Toni da Dhaba. It's a road that has been widened recently, is smooth, fast and all in all, a fun experience. Up until just before Toni da Dhaba, that is. Work is still going on for about a couple of kilometers out there, so the traffic piles onto one side of the road, and speeds are excruciatingly slow. Which, as it turns out, is a good thing.
In time honored Gokhale tradition, we set off for the place bang on time, exactly two hours behind schedule. The drive up to the place was uneventful, save for a loose nut on the Yamaha. The threading on the front mudguard had come loose, and the nut could not be fixed properly. So the front mudguard was a little unhinged, much like its rider, and well, since I'm brutally honest, much like its owner as well.
Oh yeah, as an aside, I must talk about the rumblers. About five kilometers or so before Toni da Dhaba, lies a thing that should be a source of revenue for the Tourism Department. There's a school just off the road, that is protected on its either side by the most fantastic speed-breakers ever. Ever. I exaggerate not. There's a wide bending curve leading up to the speed breakers, and then, in succession, there are about ten wide tall and handsome breakers on the road, about half a foot from each other. They shake the body and soul, rape the spinal cord, rob the rider off any lingering sleepiness, throw the pillion rider into the wilderness (that last statement doesn't apply to me. Boshu was behind me. They're seriously good speed breakers, but they ain't miracles), and generally announce their presence in a manner that stays with you for days to come.
So we reached Toni Da Dhaba, and had a good time during dinner, ably aided by the hilarious menu (they serve the Hakka Bakka Akha Bakra Biryani. I'm serious. And that's not the funniest bit. It's for 1400 bucks.) and the world's most talented burper. Oh boy, that man could burp. Really burp. I mean, to put things in perspective, Sumedh and Darshan wouldn't even make the cut when this champ started in with his tummy recitals. Yes, even Darshan.
I know he'll want me to put this up on record, and I suppose he's got a point. Just before we went in for dinner, Chaman said that the nut had come loose, really loose, and we should tie up the mudguard with some rope. I said (or maybe it was GT, you know my memory, now don't you?) that it could be done after dinner as well. There, posted for everybody to read, happy? Come to think of it, it was GT who said that we should do it after dinner. And of course, after dinner, we plain forgot.
It was about midnight by the time we set off for the return leg of the journey. GT, on the first bike drove ahead, I was in the middle, with Chaman bringing up the rear. About a couple of kilometers ahead, we got a call from Bhavna, saying that they'd fallen down.
So I go ahead, and yell out to GT that Chaman's down, and we turn back.
About a kilometer or so behind, there's a bit of a jam on the road, with Chaman standing beside the Yamaha, Bhavana sitting on the shoulder of the road, head in her hands, and concerned people standing all around. Just a tad scary, but there's this huge sigh of relief when you see that both are seemingly OK. Alive, man. We can take it from there.
Turns out the mudguard had come off, putting the bike into a skid. Chaman's got scratched, and pretty badly, on his knee and elbow, while Bhavna has got hurt, though not as badly, on her ankle. All on the left.
Now, with truck drivers all around, we figured, GT and I, that is, we couldn't leave Boshu and Soumya out there. I mean, yeah, Boshu and Soumya, sure, but still and all. Think about all those poor truck drivers. They wouldn't know what hit them.
So while Chaman and Bhavana waited, we went and dropped the girls at Toni da Dhaba. They were to find out if any cars were going back to Pune, and ask if Chaman and Bhavana could accompany them. And also pick up some first aid stuff from an adjoining store. We went back and picked up Chaman and Bhavana, and came back to the restaurant.
Turns out there was no car going back to Pune that night. Murphy, of course.
By the time we got back to the dhaba, Boshu and Soumya has gotten a pack of some antiseptic cream, along with some gauze.
Bhavna, ladies and gentlemen, is a freak when it comes to dressing wounds. Woe betide the poor soul who approaches her wounds armed with nothing more than some harmless cotton. Me, I'd recommend a Bazooka and a couple of large cannons. And valid life insurance policies. Two.
Chaman on the other hand. What a man. By the time the girls had finished dressing his wounds, it was clear that the damage was nothing very serious. The man, who'd up until that point of time been uncharacteristically quiet, got back to his chirpy old self with typical speed. First off, he suggested that, you know, now that everything is OK, and nobody's dead and all, well, seeing as we're all here, how about a bottle of beer? No? Well, OK, fine, I'll settle for a cigarette then.
The only solution that presented itself to us was to call up Malavika from the hostel, and ask her and GP to get their car to Toni da Dhaba, and get the two supposed victims back to the hostel. So Boshu calls them up and tells them that this accident has happened, and that they should come along. Gokhaleites. Of course they'd come.
Meanwhile, GT and I went back to the scene of the carnage to pick up the bike. The leg guard on the left was pretty much mangled, there was obviously no front mudguard, the left handle-grip was, well, there' no other word for it, screwed. The gear would work only if given a firm kick on either side. So we decided that it was pretty risky to drive it, and asked the guys at a nearby petrol pump if they'd consider keeping it. Those towering intellects refused, saying that the police would come and ask whose bike it was. (Objection to Insane Objection: Why would the police go around asking whose bike it was? Not only where the Yamaha was concerned. Do the police come to your place asking whose bike is parked down below? Not to my place they don't. Another Objection to Insane Objection: Tell them it's mine, you crazy ape. I'm giving you my address, my phone number, and my college address. What more do you need?)
So we decided that that it wasn't all that risky to drive it, and that's what I proceeded to do.
So we go back, and wait for the knights in the Daewoo Matiz. Who call up in about half an hour and say that they've reached the petrol pump, where they wanted to fill fuel. They've forgotten to get money, so they'll go back a distance of about ten kilometers, get money from an ATM, and then come back. Sigh.
They reach aforementioned petrol pump, where the attendant casually mentions that there was an ATM about a couple of buildings away. SIGH.
So we wait at the dhaba, which has emptied out by now (approximately 2 in the morning). We eat paan, caramel lollipop, and strawberry lollipop. I drop my strawberry lollipop. Chaman tries to take Soumya's strawberry lollipop and drops it on the gravel in the drive-in. He picks up the lollipop and proceeds to finish it. I say it so matter-of-factly because he did it so matter-of-factly. Meet him now and ask him about it. He'll still maintain that air of bemused puzzlement.
About half an hour later, we get a call from Josie, who is also in the car (oh, late in the day, but for what it's worth, some of you might not know who Malavika, Josie, GP, Sumedh, Darshan etc. are. Well, too bad, man.) saying that they're almost there. We tell them that since Toni da Dhaba is a little off the road, and since the lights are all turned off, we'll stand on the road, waiting for them. GT and I, that is.
So we go there, armed with nothing more than a packet of biscuits, and begin the vigil, munching contentedly on the packet. Five minutes into this watch, it suddenly hits me that the two of us must be scaring the holy s**t out of anybody driving our way. It's nearly three in the morning, its pitch dark and bitterly cold, and there are two guys standing out on the road, eating biscuits. Picture it, you're half sleepy, nice and warm in that heater equipped car of yours, thinking alternately of the wonderful dinner you had, and your bed at home, when suddenly you spot two guys on the road. Standing there with no aim in life. Looking closely at you and your car. Eating biscuits.
You see what I mean about we looking normal but being complete lunatics. Wodehouse thought he was writing fiction when he wrote novels with plots as outrageous as this. At Gokhale, we call 'em Saturday nights.
Then Murphy goes into overdrive. GP calls to say that they're stuck in a huge traffic jam, and that there's no way to go ahead. If we could drop Chaman and Bhavan at the pace where they're stuck, they just might be able to turn back.
Like we have a choice.
So we set off, GT and I, with those two behind us, and head into a traffic jam of monolithic proportions. Why it was there, we never could figure out. It just was. Long and messy and noisy and chaotic. On both sides of a road of which only one was complete. With these two behind us at three in the morning. Searching for a car that might be on either side of the road, possibly hidden behind trucks. You know, child's play.
Find the car we did, and put them in. Drove back and got those two. Reached Joshi hospital at four thirty, found that it was nothing major, went to Naani House and slept. At five in the morning, bravely fighting off a concentrated assault from GT, who insisted that we go get ourselves a bottle of booze. Just to round the night off, sort of.
You know, I studied like mad to get into DSE. For two years. Didn't come close. Complained like mad back then. He moves in mysterious ways, but he does perform his wonders, the guy up there. That much I'll give him.