Never Mind the Bullocks Read Online Free PDF Page B

hack of the worst variety, an opportunist about to contribute nothing but another (fuel-efficient) death machine to the people of India. What had until this moment been a harmless voyage of discovery in the only vehicle I could really afford had suddenly evolved into a brutal crusade of devastation and destruction. I was kicking myself. Nano Schmano. I should have constructed a biodegradable windsurf with wheels that was partially fuelled by recycled waste and the tears of children. Now that would have been a worthier pitch; virtuous even. I could have gotten Bono or Bob Geldof or Arundhati Roy on board. They could have helped me plant some trees in my wake to make up for the tarmac erosion for which I would inevitably be responsible.
    But the fact remained that I was the owner of a (nearly) new Tata Nano and only days away from embarking on a three-month drive around India. And all I needed was just a hint of encouragement.
    Now it was finally time to make a dent in the 10,000 km journey, I suddenly found my safe, burrowed, Queen of Sheba–like existence in Akhil’s apartment very appealing. It had been more than a week since I had arrived, and I hadn’t lifted a finger in the direction of self-sufficiency. There was Mohan who cooked,and his younger brother who cleaned, washed my clothes and returned them to me ironed and interleaved with pages from a month-old copy of the
Times of India
. There was Puran who still called every day to see if I needed his services, clearly sceptical of my assertions that I was now self-driven.
    And then there was the marvellous Akhil, who made intermittent appearances between meetings and business trips, only materializing for an early breakfast or late at night. I had awoken groggy and jetlagged on my second morning in Mumbai to an enthusiastic rapping on my bedroom door. I opened it to find my beaming friend dressed in British Airways pyjamas, suggesting I accompany him for a series of yoga stretches and pranayamic breathing exercises on his terrace. A platter of eggs and toast was then laid out before me, while Akhil munched away on a bowl of chilled sprouts, insisting that his was the breakfast of champions. The same evening he returned with a bottle of red wine, a local product he had just discovered and maintained was excellent. We had a glass to the amplified notes of a Mozart piano concerto that he blasted at top volume to demonstrate the power of his new surround-sound system that ran through the whole apartment, terrace and all. Mohan then brought each of us a cup of Horlicks, and Akhil retired to his desk for more work.
    When he wasn’t there, I padded around the marble floors of his apartment, inspecting his book collection under Mohan’s watchful eye. There was no doubting it: I was ensconced in the lap of luxury, living in an India that belonged to only a tiny minority, and the longer I stayed, the harder it would be for me to get out and see the rest. Large city apartments inhabited by upper- and middle-class citizens with a significant disposable income were the domain of only about 6% of the country’s population. Akhil’s place was a world away from the standard of living endured by the majority of India’s peoplewho continue to subsist below the poverty line, something I figured would become clear as soon as I worked up the bottle to leave and see what lay beyond the sugar-coated gates of Breach Candy.
    This cloistered time was conducive to reflection. If I stuck around for too long during the day, the empty flat would start to amplify my own feelings of solitude and disorientation at having come so far in such a short time. Under the steady gaze of a collection of Chopra novels, my thoughts began to stray from matters of the road to matters more interior. A bombshell attack of nostalgia for my previous stable couple-life in Mexico City would assail me from time to time and I would go out onto Akhil’s terrace to contemplate the muggy