It does feel slightly weird when you try to get into an auto at 6 in morning in a sufficiently cold November  dressed just in a black cotton tshirt and mini-white synthetic shorts when everyone else inside the auto including the driver has at least three pairs of clothing on – not to forget a wollen topi as well. You feel like that girl traveling alone in a city transport bus, trying her best to ignore the glances of dirty uncles. I took the auto because I was not sure I was fit enough to run 20k – which is the distance I would have needed to cover if I had to touch Lingraj Temple as I planned to do today (you will see for youself how bloody far away the temple is from my guest house as you shall scroll down the following snap-shots).

I did a quick jog from the guest house (green dots) – and took the auto (traced by red dots) which dropped me just before Master-canteen chowk (bottom black circle if you scroll down).

It felt good to be out of the auto – little girl had no more uncles to worry about. The shoes hit the road and I started my second round of running (traced path marked by blue dots in the following snap-shot), climbed up and down the railway overbridge (the portion where blue dots intersect with white railway tracks) – crossed Mausima Mandir standing erect at the foot of the bridge, continued running to reach the Bindu Sagar Lake and then ran further along it to finally reach the Lingaraj Temple (lies inside the area between the green dots – the green dots mark the walking-path that I traced before entering the temple).

To my bad luck, they don’t allow photography inside the Lingaraj temple. ( I wonder how wikipedia manages to show few). To my good luck, the whole area in Old Bhubaneswar around Bindu Sagar lake has several other temples, most of them look very similar to each other. So, I observed, admired and clicked some of them – some long shots and some close ones like say the one highlighting the tummy of a small Ganehsa figure engraved on one of the temple facades. There was a temple right in the midle of the lake too which had a different architecture altogether.

It was a serene feeling – stolling inside the Lingaraj Temple courtyard. The air smelled so much like the way it smells in Deogarh – home. Everyone should see this temple – very beautiful, very cute, very pure. The aura energized me enough to run all the way back to the guest-house with just one small break and some more photography at the Mausima Mandir. So how did you spend your Sunday?

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A friend’s friend’s boy-friend lost his life in Mumbai, thanks to the terrorist attacks. Another friend’s girl-friend escaped firing at railway station yesterday (moments after she took train from the station, firing took place). Thankfully, all friends in Mumbai are still safe – or so they declared when I called them up today to ask them about what part of their body they had already lost.

I cannot keep talking about Mumbai and all the terrible shit that has happened and is still happening after more than 40 hours. I will instead talk about the life of Shyam Babu who can be found anytime in the cute little garden that I happened to visit (yesterday for the first time and today morning for the second time).

Shyam Babu’s gray colour statue that stands over a small cuboid shaped platform in the centre of the garden has something about it. The statue looks almost like a real bald person, lunatic enough in his old age to first have his body painted gray and then climb up the platform and stand over it, only to have a great look at every other character in the garden, trying to hide his cute paunch in the process. And oh, the characters…

Majority are uncles and aunty, there’s just one – who walks around the garden in a sari carrying a sleepy and sad face, along with her grown up and obviously unmarried daughter who usually walks faster and remains ahead of her mother. The daughter, by the way, is the only girl who roams around in the garden. In spite of her attractive slim physique, she looks as dull and boring as her mother in the salwar-kurta that she wears, the colour of the dress very well matching her looks. Two young dudes sitting on their laps in the centre of the garden, right below the statue, forming an upside-down T (hands straight – vertically aligned and parallel to each other and the straight chest, palms pressed against the grass) keep swinging their folded legs up and down about the centre of their hips – looking from far away like two dragonflies trying to drill the earth with their heads, flapping their wings in joy. Then of course, which garden in India doesn’t have it’s share of Baba Ramdev disciples? These uncles sit on their laps, close to each other, and unlike the dragonflies, focus more on their elastic and bulging bellies and enjoy kneading the same by way of sucking in and blowing out the early morning cold air. It’s fun watching their tummy blow up and then deflate – reminds you of the ups and downs of life!

One uncle who prefers walking  and who sports a dense beard, keeps a scarf tied along his tummy, as he does his walking – probably in the hope that this cloth-wrapping would ensure a faster reduction of his stomach dia. And last but not the least there are those in the walking-lot who use the scarf for the right purpose. But then that makes you wonder – what are they doing on a cold November morning outside their rooms anyway, if they are not even ready to uncover their faces or ears or neck and let the morning air  hit them?

As our men (and aunty with her daughter) bring life to the cute little garden every morning, ShaymaBabu remains firm in his pose and platform, his paunch as evident as ever, truly enjoying the rotation, revolution and all such kinds of movements of the human bodies all around him. Shyam Babu’s statue  definitely has something about it.

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Millitants Terrorists Nariman-house NSG Strategy Assault Air-dropping Storm holed-up Taj Striking-range commando operation Mumbai-city security-forces firing fresh-firing Oberoi-hotel roof top control explosion hostages

Is this any less than a war? Or is this any less than Die Hard? I wish there were a Bruce Willis trapped somewhere inside the hotel – who would evetually kill the bad guys and save the hostages. I just wish that this mess ends.

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Started from my guest-house in Shahid Nagar (bottom-left) and ran till the Puri Canal (top-right – marked with ‘END’). During the return-run, I took breaks so that I could capture some early morning shots of the canal, the river south of it, Sapta Sati Mandir and couple of NH5 shots. I also found a cute small garden on the other side of the highway bang opposite my guest-house. Behind the garden there lies another newly built white temple that looks quite soothing. You can click here or on the map to see all the early morning pics, but the following three are my favourite vertical shots:

And before I end – like many of you, Iam too extremely sad for what’s happend and what’s happening in Mumbai right now. Fuck these terrorists. Fuck them all.

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She wore a cotton kurti that was green over her bosom and orange over her belly and waist. She also wore shades that belonged to a totally different era – she must have picked them up from her mom’s collection. She took off the shades almost as soon as she closed the door. Her face was unattractive but the same won’t be true for her eyes for the two black dots floating inside a white sea were no less beautiful and cute than a pair of gold-fish trapped in a water filled flask. She smelled of milk. The smell had been rather strong – making him wonder if she had just taken a milk-bath. She probably believed that rinsing her bare skin with something as white as milk would make her fairer.

Lost in her smell and her eyes, he noticed her lips only when they had come real close to his own. Before he could do a mental analysis of the exact shade of the lipstick that she had applied, their lips were locked. For the first few seconds, it felt just like eating Milkybar although it had been long since  the last time he actually tasted one.  He was used to chocolate. Nothing at the moment however, suggested that he was going to get anything else but a dip in pure white milk. Once the kurti and whatever else she was wearing below it, were gone, it was all white inside, adding in turn to the milkiness of the moment. The undergarments were not just white, but were certainly new as well. He already knew he wanted to call her gaay as his left hand started working over the breasts and as the shining white milk-smelling bra hung by the tip of the forefinger of his right hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore a white undie – probably never. As he let the piece of cloth drop off his finger, he knew he would ask for a white one the next time he would go to buy one.

Probably if she hadn’t insisted, he would have spent the entire night, smelling her breasts and playing with them. He wasn’t sure when that last piece of clothing had disappeared from her brown body. He wasn’t even sure about the separation of his own body with his dress. He was too lost. Probably it was one of those nights when his mind floated beyond sex. More than the desire to penetrate her, he wished he could paint her white from top to bottom. He really wished that. But it was mean of him to leave her unsatisfied. He cared for her. He probably loved her. And so they had sex – he still lost in the milky odour that radiated from her chest, his eyes closed – trying to see her as a white marble statue in the darkness of the shut eye-lids. The orgasm felt like a powerful bomb blast – throwing shattered particles of the white marble in all directions. Gradually, he fell asleep amidst the bits and pieces of the white stone, some around him and some over.

When he got up in the morning, he knew one thing for sure – drinking two liters of milk everyday was certainly not a solution to stop night-falls.

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