Fr. Robins 79th Birthday

For 79  Fr. Robin seemed as though he'd knocked off a few years and shed a few pounds. As I walked into his room after he spotted me in the reception area and we wished each other 'Happy Birthday' over a nice big bear hug I couldnt help notice he was in perfect shape and with more life in him than some people I know who are not even half his age! Putting to rest rumours of his death I'd recently heard from none other than my good friends father who refused to take my word for it that the good man was alive and kicking, Fr. Robin and I went on to knock back a few beers, grab a bite and catch up on whats been happening around us amidst all the calls and visitors who kept coming in.

3 beers or so later we dined on Yung Chow Fried Rice ordered up from our favourite Sai Palace and split a booty of Chocolate and Bar Cake between us for dessert. In the meanwhile, Khaitan the hired hand at Holy Family brought a rose for Fr. Robin as a birthday gift. One Gift that had Fr. ranting and raving was a Grammaphone record of his early music recording back in the 40s by a record company that had since shut shop. As the day passed, he had more visitiors bearing gifts and greetings and it was a pleasant evening that wound down rather nicely. Sandwiches, Croquets, Patties, Onion Soup and Coffee did the rounds while everyone chatted away merrily on the Terrace. Lala, short for Cinderella was one of the early visitiors as I was helping Fr. Gerard fix the gears on his bike for a solo ride to Gorai the next day, close on her heels were Sheena and Troy followed by the rest of the jolly Gang: Captain Tesclin minus the wife and kids, Sam the Sailor and his wife, Carlos and Evonne, Marie-Elena and Francois with their two kids, Nishtha, Carol and her daughter Kim, Kenneth and his kids Cibel and Angelo, Ryan and a trio of others I cannnot name because I knew them not so well.

Ryan gifted Fr. and me a couple of sleek steel knives, just the kind I wanted because it can be concealed in my boot and I left the party with a bottle of Rum so the day as it turned out was grand. There was no cutting of cake much to the dislike of Francois' li'l boy and his lament upped my desire for cake as well so I went home and sunk my new gift into another awesome gift baked specially for my Birthday by my dad!

Graveyard Shift

During the college years I often stayed on at camp for the entire month or season stretching to 3-4 batches of campers without real need to go back to Bombay except for some errand or if I was forced to go visit my folks back home by Fr. Robin because he feared his Chief Helper would get home sick. Kune was the kind of place that simply grew on you. The only Helper I know who got homesick the first day he stayed back on after his folks left was Dez, a boy from Andheri who colleged with me for 2 years but who had never seen me before he came up to camp although we hung out at the same places and even shared a few common friends. I kept out of college and out of trouble most of the time so I guess that gave me a cloak of invisibility among the wannabe cool dudes at St. Andrews. Learning the lay of the land, I was familiar with every nook and crany at Kune so could dissappear at will to take time off away from the crowds for a quiet nap by the edges of the Cliff, to glug a beer in communion with nature, or to watch the Sun set with my feet dangling over the 300 Ft drop like you would idly dangle your feet while sitting on a swing or park bench.

When I began working spending time at camp got difficult due to work schedules and other engagements, more often house hold chores and women held me back apart from the occasional social events that would sometimes conflict with Camp Dates. Still I'd try to lead the bunch of campers on the big treks to Eden or the Sausages, or when Fr. Robin was short of helpers so I'd run up the previous night or in case I managed to wrangle a few days off to spend at camp in between schedules. No more at luxury to take the Sinhagad express from VT or Dadar in the afternoon to reach Khandala in time for tea and games at camp I had to find a quicker and more random means of transport. By then the Old Bombay Pune Highway also sported the New Mumbai-Pune Expressway and that provided a constant flow of road traffic I could take advantage of. Apart from the Govt and Private buses were a slew of Private vehicles ferrying passengers up and down for prices far cheaper than and often quicker than the buses would. These vehicles weren't bound by "working hours" so even if you missed the last bus, you could put your self in the hands of chance and destiny to get you to your destination.

Soon that impromptu travel service became a staple for me and I'd set off for Khandala after dinner, drinks and whatever knowing I'd some how reach Camp before dawn. No highway robberies were reported then or even if they did take place -left no survivors to tell the tale. No waiting in queues, no tickets, no haranguing mobs on crowded stations... Just a busy intersection, a few touts, and then it was va va wroom in a Sumo, Pajero, Tavera, Qualis or the like packed tight like a sack of potatoes a motley crew of slumbering gents journeying through the night. Sometimes I draw a few raised eyebrows as concerns about safety were raised when I directed the driver to stop the car in what seemed like the middle of nowhere to descend into the dark recess off the Highway that led up to Kune. One cold dark night I crafted a makshift beacon out of the empty mineral water bottle and a stump of candle to shield the flame from the wind as I walked up to camp. Most nights were uneventful, sparse conversations with fellow passengers at the rest stops, awed by my lonesome travel and talk of adventure yonder morn I'm sure some must have even thought I was demented. I loved the eerie chill in the air and the electric buzz of the nighttime insects as I walked alone for about half an hour first down and then up a winding slope across a bridge and then chanelled by a mound of rocks on one side and wild shrubs and plants growing wild on a mud slope on the other before I finally rounded the bend up to the Kune entrance within view of the outpost lights to let my self in to a sleeping camp.

Encouraged by the frequency and ease at which I made these midnight jaunts to camp on a couple of occasions women who knew me well chose to accompany me, not so much for the love of me as for the love of camp. The woman I was into then wouldn't put herself in the way of such danger and was subject to tight deadlines so the worry of night time travel seldom arose. These women sure posed a few new problems though. I had to now give more thought about how and with who 'we' chose to journey with. I first had to trade off the 10-11 seater horse wagons for more roomy sedans and hatch backs that seated 4-5 people at the most...that also served to even the odds a bit just in case the going got rough. This done, the women added oomph to the ride and drew more attention from the passengers who'd try extra hard to make pleasant conversation. Luckily the women curled at my shoulder or travel slept fitfully through the ride and I'd deftly parry any probing questions into where we were headed so late in the night or the depth of the relationship I shared with them. One night our car almost ran out of fuel on account of a gas station strike and we were in the red on the outskirts of Panvel, The driver detoured through some unknown by lane off the Highway in search of fuel or else we'd be stranded in the middle of nowhere when the tank ran dry, after 2 failed attempts we came to a pump with downed shutters and lights out who agreed to supply fuel for the rest of the journey and we reached camp over 2 hours later than expected. On another instance we had to deal with a flat tyre and I cut myself on a worn out radial as I helped the cold numbed driver replace it with the stephanie in the boot.

Unscheduled stops and long waits to pick up anonymous passengers along the way always had me reaching for the knife I kept close at hand, and to palm the wooden tang of my Khukri or even the plastic handled  Elk Skinning Blade at moments like these brought both comfort and courage in equal measure. Theres truth in the saying: "A Survival knife is the knife that you have with you" A spine chilling experience was while browsing through the pictures I clicked on my Nikon S1 I noticed a strange light in the background, zooming in for a closer look the light pixiltated into a horizontal hazy face of a man with a forked beard and tell tale sign of a single horn on his head. Crazily enough I derived great pleasure in showing that picture to a few close friends just to get their reaction until I was forced to delete. No evidence of that picture remains.