Bonky and Pongo's Day Out- I

>> Thursday, September 13, 2007

(This post is dedicated to Bonky, the person who has always inspired me to never follow my own decisions about dieting, but to go and stuff my face if I have the money, and, if possible, lend her some too.Hence, I openly proclaim that I will name my first child after you, regardless of its sex, if your husband murders you before it is born.)
It all started with the usual level of frustration with life for Bonky and me. Looking comprehensively at the fact that we were turning into amoebas, hated our graduating subject and had mistakenly arrived an hour early for our morning class on a warm, gentle Saturday morning, the next obvious step was walking dejectedly towards the college gates, wondering which stagnant waters would we end up being mosquitoes in. One of us opined (at this precise moment, I forget who, but it doesn't matter, both of us still think that) that we were total losers to be hanging around in the college for classes on a Saturday, when other people our age would be
a) sleeping
b) preparing for some date hours later
c) sleeping
d) getting rid of a hangover
e) sleeping
f) staring at the ceiling, blowing air bubbles and wondering what would be there for breakfast.

At this psychological hour, a tram crossed our path. We, pseudo economists and self proclaimed unicellular organisms when it comes to survival, think alike and think different. A tram with an unknown destination was accepted as our calling and we got up on the next one (we had missed our first inspiration while we were busy reading each other's minds).

This wasn't our first ride. We have had many such impromptu escapades from the humdrum menace of classes. Yet, the first foolish questions in a series of foolish questions happened to be, "where does this tram go" to a bemused conductor, possibly unused to absent minded, bespectacled, foolishly blinking young girls with as little clue of their destination as he himself. We got two tickets to the last stop, hoping against hope it would not be beyond traversed paths or recognizable tracts of civilizations. It was while we giggling away to glory at our daring, adventurous spirit (we are young girls who haven't been left alone beyond a fixed diameter around tuitions) that we suddenly found ourselves amidst a glory of British architecture and a bevy of business people amazed at the spectacle of two tripping teenagers staring goggle eyed at everything. The more erudite Bonky recognized the place as Dalhousie, the place which houses banks and churches with equal élan.

Traipsing around like little girls, an eye opened for food shops, it was not long before we saw a supposed minaret at a distance. Close inspection proved it to be the General Post Office. Following Rikki Tikki Tavi's motto, we went and found out all we could about it, which was not much. Though we did find a couple of cute guys we could stare happily at, our lack of post office etiquette rose a few eyebrows. Our girlish exuberance at the sight of the stamp corner and a computerized section was not well received and it was not long before we were looking somewhere else for luck and interest.

More aimless wanderings and a roving eye brought us to a building covered with beggars which proclaimed itself to be Metcalfe Hall on a disused pillar. Having heard the name in one of my rarer non-orkutting browsing of the internet, I dragged a bewildered Bonky to the bird defiled exterior, with its impressive rows of columns and wide staircases one could play hopscotch on (we did try to, as a matter of fact).

The interior was not very impressive at the beginning. A huge notice loomed proclaiming the legend that we needed to get permission of the security guards to look around, not that we saw any scope of doing anything illegal there, except, maybe, practice our cheerleading skills. Perceiving our hesitance, a man, posing as a security guard (oh, come on, why would Metcalfe Hall need security guards?), rushed us off upstairs, the ground floor being cordoned off for the birds, we presumed.
However, things started looking up with our ascent. Our journey was assisted by sweeping, wooden, carpeted stairs while the walls were adorned with pictures of Victoria Memorial in all its splendor (we suspect those pictures had been photo edited a bit, Victoria Memorial never looked like that ever since coloured photo films had been invented). Muffled footsteps accompanied us to a landing with three, yellow, paint-chipped doors.

Which door did we choose? Did the day bring forth further minor adventures? Were there any more philosophical musings? Did we discover a dead body sprawled across the middle of the Metcalfe Hall with an oriental knife sticking through its heart? Find out later in the sequel to Bonky and Pongo's Day Out.

(OK, fine, I am too lazy to complete this.)

11 scaly flippers:

WHAT'S IN A NAME ? 12:20 am, September 23, 2007  

Wonder if Bonky and Pongo would take a bend next time around and end up exploring the Town Hall, High Court and Raj Bhavan for us. :)

ad libber 2:28 pm, September 24, 2007  

ah, no such luck. we had to go bac k to college. but the story isn't over yet.

jhilik 3:34 pm, September 24, 2007  

amazing writing skills displayed by the master of words..that is the one and only pongo...and i feel priviledged to be addressed as the erudite bonky....wheres the rest of the story ??!!

ad libber 3:38 pm, September 24, 2007  

ah, bonky, the elusive blog commenter, finally!
it will soo be here, hold on to your goats, remember de - wall comes first :P

The Ancient Mariner 2:34 am, September 26, 2007  

as usual a great piece...wonder about this unicellular amoeba's talents...must be a hell of an amoeba...:-P

ad libber 11:00 am, September 26, 2007  

ah an amoeba may be talented, but it remains an amoeba

Kaushik Chatterji 2:00 pm, September 26, 2007  

From what I see on Wiki, Metcalfe Hall seems to be the perfect spot for scoring, and I don't mean goals, 'coz then they'd head to Maidan.

If by beyond recognizable tracts of civilization u mean Behala/Joka, I take offence on behalf of my mama.

Dalhousie's archaic - say BBD Bag, shona.

Nice stuff - got a good flow to it. Yeah do keep checking the preview after u post pics - Blogger's irritating to the hilt wrt photos.

But what's with young Cal girls and staring at the ceiling?!

And who's Bonky?

Kaushik Chatterji 2:06 pm, September 26, 2007  

Ah ignore the last part - i snooped and succeeded heh

ad libber 3:19 pm, September 26, 2007  

Dalhousie sounds good, it suits the place, I always had an idea BBD Bag was some sort of a park, and my beyond recognizable tracts of lands, I mean any place 5 kms away from my home and the whole of Salt Lake. Behala!! Ultadanga is aeons way from my home, being exactly a 15 min walk from there.

dreamy 4:05 pm, September 26, 2007  

Yes Maam, you've done what many people have failed to do.You've inspired me.I am gonna hop up a tram and go to Dalhousie [I want to say RIGHT NOW], tomorrow.

Yah, and that has happened to me.Hanging around in college at wee hours when people my age would probably be doing equivocally different things.
And one day, (yes there have been many days) I ended up in a cemetery.Maybe I should blog about that.

There you go, you've inspired me again!

and the answer to your question,
I ALWAYS feel like as if my life is a book.

ps:Can I blogroll you?

Angry Voices 4:18 pm, September 27, 2007  

Gee Hahn..

And more than the dusky Victorian angel (this from a Mother Teresa Sarani recollection), this post reminded me of class 7 when we were learning Rikki Tikki Tavi and Raja Bhoja.

And the further memory that we should have been sleeping then too.

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