Days In The Life Of...

The Most Dangerous of All Lies

2012-01-23T14:08:00.002+05:30

I've been re-reading my copy of The Satanic Verses; not because of the whole hullabaloo that's erupted in India conveniently before the state elections. I'm a slow reader, I've spent over a month poring through these pages, well before Rushdie announced his intent to visit Jaipur. That being said, I don't want to write a discourse about censorship vs free speech.

The strange thing about this book is that it has a fantastic sense of imagery. Whatever you hear about the Satanic Verses in the public domain is always about the controversial chapters. The ones where he blasphemes like crazy. But there is so much more to this book. The first time I read it, I used to get these dreams with weird figures dancing all over. I remember I sat up in the middle of the night a couple of times , unable to understand what I just dreamed. This time has been relatively mellow. Amongst the parts that usually get left out of a public discourse, are these little gems I found as I started on Page 305 a few minutes ago-

"...her father Otto Cone, the art historian and biographer of Picabia, had spoken to her in her fourteenth and his final year of 'the most dangerous of all the lies we are fed in our lives', which was, in his opinion, the idea of continuum. 'Anybody ever tries to tell you how this most beautiful and most evil of planets is somehow homogeneous, composed only of reconcilable elements, that it all adds up, you get on the phone to the straitjacket tailor'..."

"...Ghosts, Nazis, saints, all alive at the same time; in one spot, blissful happiness, while down the road, the inferno. You can't ask for a wilder place..."

A book worth picking up, where legal; not just for the blasphemous parts.

The Sun is the same in a relative way...

2012-01-22T13:28:00.000+05:30

...but you're older.

Fare thee well, 2011. Like most other things last year, my regular New Year's Eve post didn't make it on time. The reason I pick those lines up from one of my favourite Pink Floyd songs is the fact that that song was central to my life last year, especially towards the end. In the beginning there was plenty of it, somewhere down the middle I was wasting a lot of it, and towards the end, I was scrambling to save as much of it as possible, just so I could spend those precious few minutes with the people I love. All said and done, it treated me well in 2011. It showed me sights, it made me hear voices and granted me a fair degree of professional success. The beauty about the passage of time, is that it never lets you stay satisfied with what it has brought you. It continues to flow, and you submit yourself to wanting more and more out of life. But without that, I guess there'd be no joy to watching time fly right by. There would be no challenge, and I wouldn't like a life without a challenge to keep it going. So I begin 2012 with a new set of challenges to face, a new list to scratch stuff out of, and quite surprisingly, no Kappal Antry quips (I was tempted to call them jokes).

I read this PhD Comic recently, according to which I'd be classified as a weirdo (by a long shot) for wishing my readers (the very few of them that might glance this way) a happy new year three weeks into it. But I'm well beyond the point of being classified that way, let alone by a webcomic. So, happy new year folks! Hope it's great for you and for me!

The story continues in 2012...

The Learning Curve

2011-11-20T02:52:00.001+05:30

I knew it had been a long time since I wandered in this direction as soon as I opened my blog page. Things have changed remarkably around here and I've been away far too long. It took me a while to find my way here, but all that matters is that the absence is over.

The absence had a very good reason- I was working hard so that people would accept the fact that I was fit enough to sign myself up to a life of scholarly poverty. Sounds almost paradoxical that you should need someone's permission to inflict punishment upon yourself; in fact as it turns out you need to inflict punishment upon yourself for a few months so that powers that be allow you to inflict punishment upon yourselves and people around you for years to come. In short, I was steeped in my preparation for Quals.

Anyone who has ever dabbled (successfully or otherwise) with this thing they call a PhD. knows what this monstrosity entails. The experiences are varied, but vivid and grotesque nonetheless. For a few months, I forgot about all else and struggled to pass. Ignore my diatribe about inflicting punishment, because the only reason you would ever put up with something like this, is because you love doing what you do. You would put up with many shortcomings of your beloved, just so you could be with them for longer (I did not just write that!). The good thing though, is that they are now over, and they went exceedingly well. The better thing is that they went exceedingly well for all of my friends who struggled with me through those torrid months. It's like life flipped a switch this last Tuesday. We all went from busy, strung up and almost neurotic to almost hippie-like within the span of a few hours. Worries were forgotten, and so was work. How long this Bohemian existence will last is anyone's guess.

This post started to form when I was struggling with a concept during the course of my preparation, and feeling rather stupid about it. My brain began to meander and began to think of how the story of anyone's education starts. My thoughts took me to over twenty years ago when someone was teaching me how to draw "standing" and "sleeping" lines. There was that time when I could barely write the alphabet of any language. People had to hold my hand to teach me how to write words, read and understand simple things that happened around me. Years passed and things I learned things that were far more complicated. It took a period of twenty years of constant training and learning to get stuck on the concept that I was battling with right now. That made me feel a lot better about myself. But more so, it made me marvel at the ability of the brain to evolve and learn things. We often forget how wondrous and ground-breaking that transformation is- probably because it's a slow process in the time-scale of everyday life. It is not a trivial matter that in a matter of two decades, we've all gone from not being able to convey a single thought in an intelligent way to being expert doctors, engineers, actors, bankers, chefs, lawyers, artists and the list goes on.

This post is as much a tribute to those unsung heroes in our lives. Those people who we've probably forgotten and left behind in the course of our adventures. These people rarely ever got credit for laying the foundation for you to learn everything else that you know. If it wasn't for their patience, you'd probably be a fraction of what you are right now.

Here's saluting everyone in my life who shaped me. The one who taught me how to write the alphabet, the one who taught me how to count, the science teacher in fifth grade, the math teacher in the tenth grade, and the people who followed them and left an indelible mark on my life, and are continuing to do so.

A Tale of Three Suburbs...And a Fourth One Really Far Away

2011-08-10T19:51:00.000+05:30

The tale of three suburbs has rather painful intermissions. They involve an upwelling of emotions that are better locked away and stored safely at the bottom of the ocean. They involve plenty of smoky eyes threatening to breach and then a lot cajoling oneself that something better lies in store for the future. After countless pep-talking soliloquies, one manages to put up a brave front, only to find it crumbling within seconds of hearing the voices of those who will not be there to see, or feel the comforting touch of, for a while to come. A while, that has in the past, proved itself to be fleeting; but at the present moment seems like eternity. “This too shall pass, and we’ll all return to the warm company of each other soon”, says the voice of reason. The voice of reason is right, but fails to strike a chord with every other nerve in the body that wants to bolt in the opposite direction. Some choices in life are difficult, and have to be made; for a future that is uncertain, but is conceivably better; for a future that may not exist, but holds a lot of promise. And such a choice has been made. Hum bhi chal diye.

Why do I call my story thus? The three suburbs are what my life revolves around, but it’s the fourth, halfway around the world that always manages to drag me away.

It'll Soon Shake Your Windows and Rattle Your Walls...

2010-12-31T18:19:00.002+05:30

It sure will. In just over four hours if you're reading this in the same time zone that I'm writing it in. This blog has now outlasted the use of the title "Curtains" for my new year's eve post. And even though the blog is on it's last legs (and for good reason), I've still managed to pop in for a few minutes to bid farewell to what has been one of the most eventful years of my life. I think this year deserves its twenty one gun salute for the change it has brought about in my life and the lives of many people around me.

It was a year full of struggles, and victories for all of us. Victories were always preceded by setbacks and doubts, but they came nonetheless. One of those victories has nearly managed to kill my blog, but save my blog I must, and save my blog I will; next year. It's a little hard for me to match last year, when it comes down to writing my targets for the next year on a little sheet of paper (something that I have been doing for 6 years). But the more I think about the coming year, the more I run into questions that need to be answered, hence populating my tiny sheet of paper.

As for what's going to happen to me in the next few hours- as one of my friends put it a couple of days back, the non-resident Indian is in demand this year round. To put it more accurately, the non-resident Indian is scrambling to spend as much time as he can with all the people who are dearest to him; at least the ones that are around, because his friend circle has seen a large scale westward migration this year.

So, I bid you a fond farewell, 2010 (fonder than you'll ever know). May you have made changes to my life that I will cherish for many new year's eve posts to come. A very happy new year to all of my readers as well. For those of you who think this is all consumerist humbug, I grudge you not; but I also hope you find time to celebrate the act of wiping your slate clean and starting over, be it today or some other glorious day. For all of my friends who're still being tortured by the Kappal Antry gang, my heart goes out to you. Someday we'll form an army and overthrow the evil empire.

Someday.

Déjà vu- Chapter 5- Then There Were Two (Nubra Valley)

2010-10-31T21:10:00.001+05:30

Travails of grad school have almost ensured the death of my blog, and with it, my travelogue; but every story, regardless of whether anyone reads it or not, deserves an ending. This story is etched in my memory like it was yesterday, and so I shall labour on till I bring it to its rightful conclusion. Bring it on grad school! Now read on...

I had a similarly named chapter in The Circle of Life, primarily because in every trip, something changes when the number reduces to two. I am yet to reach a level of understanding that allows me to articulate what this something is, but something changes. The morning of the 25th of June saw the departure of Manav and PP, leaving Mohsin and me as the final two survivors of this trip. Of course, Khalid would join later with his friend Balli, and double up that number yet again. Enough about numbers though, the thing about being just two travellers in Ladakh, is that one gets to meet a larger number of strangers in the shared cab rides. Mohsin and I were quite excited about the idea of visiting Nubra; I personally was very excited about crossing Khardung La, the highest motorable road in the world.

A rainy and gloomy morning welcomed the two of us, something that seemed rather out of sorts in Leh. We got ready and hurriedly headed to the crossroad near our hotel where the familiar face of Jigme stood with his familiar car. Two new faces, however, had also materialized. These two gentlemen, would be our co-travellers for the next 36 hours. One of them was Himanshu, a doctor from Chandigarh, and very little will be said about him in this post, and even less in a very flattering tone. The other gentleman, however, was a very interesting person to be travelling with. Enter, John Vass, the travelling septuagenarian. I only realized John's age a few hours later as we sat and discussed war (where he shared experiences as a kid in the second World War) in the heart of the Nubra valley. John had been travelling for the last five years, from country to country, spending all the money he had earned for the past forty-odd as a Company Secretary in England. On this leg, he had started in South-East Asia, moved up via Thailand and Myanmar, gone into Tibet and finally landed in Ladakh. His future travel plans were even more interesting. He was planning to go to Indonesia in three weeks and then finally land up on one of the islands of Vanuatu in the Pacific Ocean. John seemed to like the hermit way of life, constantly seeking to get away from civilization. Even on this trip, his plan was to stay on for a few days in Nubra and trek around. Those plans would be thwarted by a surprise obstacle, but I'll get to that later. For now, we were slowly motoring up the mountains to Leh's north, under a constant, sharp drizzle. As we climbed further up, towards South Pullu, the checkpoint on this side of Khardung La, the laws of nature had taken their course and the rain turned to snow.

(Above: Clockwise from top-left: A snowy drive to Khardung La, at the Khardung La zero-point, Jigme on a frozen floor, North Pullu)

It was snowing quite heavily as we drove right up to the zero-point at Khardung La. The floor of the local Army cafe had frozen over in places. Jigme, the frisky man that he is, proceeded to perform an impromptu moonwalk on the frozen areas of the floor as we bought some supplies. The toilets, the highest in the world, were outside, and by now filled with snow. Khardung La is at an altitude of 18,380 feet above sea level. This is the highest a car can go anywhere in the world. This road is also a key supply route for the army to get supplies to the soldiers posted at the Siachen glacier, which is the highest battlefield in the world. More soldiers die in Siachen because of the cold, than due to enemy firing. On moving further, we found that the road had narrowed considerably and we soon ran into a bottleneck, as two trucks tried to pass each other in the distance. Mohsin and I decided to take a walk while the traffic jam abated, and were pleasantly surprised at how well acclimatized we had become to high altitude. In the last four days, we had traversed the three highest motorable passes in the world. The traffic jam eased out soon, and so did the snow; so the sun was out by the time we reached North Pullu, the check-point on the other side of the pass. North Pullu also offered us a glimpse of the valley of the Nubra river in the distance. As we drove down from North Pullu, it was really hard to miss the Grand-Canyon-esque structures that the Nubra river was creating. Of course, it wasn't as grand as the natural landmark in the US, but one could think of this as a scale model of the same. The drive down was smooth and swift, and following a quick lunch where John was given a short tour of Indian food, we were at a fork. Right ahead were Diskit and Hunder, and to our right, across the bridge on the Nubra river, was the monastery at Sumur. Right next to the bridge, was also the conjunction of the Nubra and Shyok rivers. We took the right and drove to the Sumur monastery.

(Above: Left to right: "Grand Canyon-esque" structures, main prayer hall of Sumur monastery)

The Sumur monastery is located on the ancient silk route. In fact, the route at the base of the mountain is vaguely visible from the huge courtyard of the monastery. The drop in altitude was apparent; we didn't puff our way up the hill and we certainly weren't puffing as we marched into the main prayer hall at Sumur. Then followed a small guided tour of Mahayana Buddhism, courtesy Jigme. He explained to us, the meaning of the murals of the Buddha and the parables painted on the walls of the monastery. Not all of it made a lot of sense, which leads me to believe that Jigme didn't know a whole lot. Mohsin would concur on that line of thought. The visit to Sumur was short, given that there really wasn't much to see. We piled back into Jigme's car. The plan was to head to Hunder and spend the night there. We headed straight back for the fork and took the other turn. We headed straight down the flat road leading to Hunder, crossing a bunch of small waterfalls on the way. We also crossed the monastery at Diskit on the way, but that was something we had planned to visit the next morning. I was staring out of the window at this point, but one of my ears was recording a rather interesting conversation between Himanshu and Jigme. This is how that conversation went:

Himanshu: Can everyone become a Buddhist monk?

Jigme: Yes, everyone can. Even you can.

Himanshu: But if everyone becomes a monk, where will everyone stay?

Jigme: Err...

(5 minutes later)

Jigme: Look! That's the statue of Buddha Maitreya.

(Everyone looks towards a giant statue of Buddha Maitreya

Himanshu: Who is he? Isn't the Buddha someone else?

Jigme: We believe that this world order will be destroyed and a new world created. Buddha Maitreya will be the Buddha in the new world order.

Himanshu: But if the whole world is destroyed, that statue will also be destroyed!

Jigme: Err...

Needless to say, that conversation Mohsin and me entertained right until the point where we began to see the sand dunes at Hunder. We stopped the car and got out to look out over the valley floor, and we found that this was a really strange place. In the same field of view, we could see greenery, mountains, water, clouds and grey sand dunes. Hunder is an amazing combination of many different kinds of landscape. We drove into the village to look for a place to stay, and after looking at various places, we finally chose a homestay run by Sonam and his family. The family had Sonam, two children and the grandparents; supported by one Mr. Sharma, originally from Uttar Pradesh. Sonam's wife lives with their third child in Srinagar, where she is working as a teacher. The family, like most other families I had seen in Ladakh, lives close to the earth. They grow their own vegetables and fruits and have some animals for milk, meat and butter. This, aside from the day job that everyone has. The remoteness of this area would become apparent to us, as we incessantly tried to contact people, barely 300-500 kilometers away, without success most of the time. Having exchanged pleasantries with the family, we realized that the sun was beginning to set, and now would be a good time to hit the dunes in Hunder. An interesting feature of the dunes are the two-hump Bactrian camels. Originally thought to have been brought in from Central Asia, there's a fair number of them here (most of them domesticated) and are used to offer camel rides to interested tourists. Mohsin and I weren't really fond of animal rides, so we decided to explore the grey sands on foot, unintentionally ruining some photographs of an American photography group that had probably paid through its nose to get photographs of what it was convinced was "Real India". John headed off in a different direction, and group clown Himanshu decided to take the two-humped camel for a spin. The sand dunes themselves are rather interesting. If you were to look at the sand closely, you would find a very wide range of colours, which from a larger distance appears grey. The dunes are also pretty high, some going as high as 50-100 feet. There wasn't really much to do aside from sitting on the sand and reminiscing about the trip that was already behind us, now that it was just the two of us left. That being said, there was still over a week to go before we would go back home.

(Above: Clockwise from top-left: Everything in one place at Hunder, two-humped Bactrian camels, tea at Sonam's house, on top of the dunes)

By the time the sun had gone down, a happy and hungry bunch headed down to Sonam's, where a meal of garden fresh vegetables was being prepared for us. By now the two of us were getting used to the warm hospitality of the Ladakhi people. A big part of their hospitality is the butter tea, to have less than two cups of which at any time (and there are about 10 such times in the day) is considered rude. Ergo, a giant flask of butter tea was drained amongst the four of us (John refrained from "rancid" butter tea) as we sat there chatting about Ladakh, and life in remote areas. At this point, the moon began to rise from behind the mountains that bound Hunder. The clouds, the moon and the shadow of the trees that blocked parts of the moonlight, created a very scenic set-piece, one that I refused to not photograph. Himanshu would also join in the action, with his fancy D-SLR set on the automatic mode. Living close to the earth was quite an enriching experience. Fresh food has a different flavour altogether. We retired early that night; for one we were quite tired, and everything else aside, there was really nothing to do.

(Above: Left to right: Night at Hunder, with Sonam (white hat) and his family (gradma missing in action))

We woke up to a bright sunny morning (and you guessed it, more butter tea). Sonam's father was busy beating fresh butter to serve to with our morning bread. John materialized from his cabin after a while, and looked worried. An old sinus infection he had picked up in China had resurfaced, derailing his plans for a longer stay in Nubra. He decided to leave with us for Leh. A sumptuous breakfast, and a few bright and smiley photographs later, we were on the road again. Our first stop, was the monastery at Diskit, that we had crossed the previous day (also the scene of a great conversation between Jigme and Himanshu). Jigme gave us another quick lesson in Buddhism (which, again, I suspect was utterly erroneous) whilst we puffed up the steep steps of the Diskit Monastery. The whole area was undergoing renovation in preparation of the Dalai Lama's visit in July. From the main prayer room of the Diskit Gompa, we got a stunning panoramic view of the Nubra and Shyok Valley, with the statue of Buddha Maitreya in the foreground, followed by a vast expanse of flat land and then the towering mountains in the distance. Unfortunately, the upper levels of the statue were closed because of renovation, but we did manage to get close enough to it to admire the sheer size of this colourful creation. About half an hour later, we were driving on the road back to Leh, smack in the middle of the Enfield India Himalayan Odyssey. The Himalayan Odyssey is an annual Enfield motorcycle rally that usually tours Ladakh around June-July. This was a pretty dispersed set of over hundred bikes. At North Pullu, where we had to wait for a substantial period of time, so that the army convoy coming from the other side could pass, Mohsin and I engaged one of the participants of the rally, Harsha, in conversation about his journey so far, the intricacies of Tamil politics and other sundry things. Over a smoke, he told us about his struggle to get across Khardung La two days ago, where he'd nearly been frostbitten. Towards the end of that conversation, Harsha was joined by Inayan, his friend from the south whose biggest contribution to my life has been to teach me a word in my own mother-tongue that I wasn't aware of- I still educate people about toasting drinks with the word "Magilchi" ("happiness" in Tamil). Soon it was time for all of us to leave North Pullu and we bade farewell to Harsha and Inayan, two more eccentric additions to this story.

(Above: Clockwise from top-left: The view from Diskit, riders from the Himalayan Odyssey, just below the Khardung La zero-point, Leh and the Stok range)

We were slowly labouring our way up the steep roads leading to Khardung La, flanked on three sides by Enfield bikes and on the fourth by a steep and unpleasant drop into the Nubra valley. A blockage near the throat of the pass gave Mohsin and me some more time to walk around in the snow and admire the view. It was bright and sunny as we crossed Khardung La, as opposed to the previous day, when it had been snowing. In the bright, clear sky, we got a great view of the Stok range that forms the western wall that bounds Leh. The highest peak in the Stok range, the Stok Kangri was also clearly visible. Right after we crossed Khardung La, we were also finally able to get through to Khalid- well, not really, he seems to really love being at the market (more on that later). A quick half hour long descent followed and we wheeled right back on to the Upper Tukcha road where Ifti's assistant was waiting for us in the office of Snowfield Tours and Treks.

We parted ways at the Snowfield office. Mohsin and I would leave for Kargil the next morning, John headed his own way, and I would receive an email from him about three weeks later, telling me that he was on a remote island in Indonesia.This was also the last time we would see Jigme, who had been such a great friend to have around during our travel through Ladakh. Mohsin and I spent a relaxed evening, and made another trip to our favourite, "World Garden Cafe". The night came with its own sense of melancholy for me, a return of that sense of déjà vu, because I wasn't too happy about leaving Leh the last time around either. But there was more to look forward to. Khalid was waiting in Kargil and had plenty of places to take us to. For now though, this was the end of Leh; or at least that's what the plan was.

(Above: One last picture with Jigme and the white Qualis)

The Big Move

2010-09-08T10:51:00.000+05:30

"Vilayat"- I've been fascinated by that word ever since I read Salman Rushdie use it in his own special way. Literally translated, vilayat means "foreign land"; but I think it stands for a whole lot more. I think the word, on some level conveys the enchantment of the subcontinent with foreign lands and their apparent greener pastures, particularly the far flung lands to the west.

I want to take this small intermission from writing my travelogue, which I had determined to finish before I moved base, but the chaos of my last few days at home, combined with an extremely busy schedule filled with emotional goodbyes and also some laziness, made sure that I got absolutely no writing done. Checklist after checklist was made in preparation for my departure and until the day finally came, it was some abstract point of time in the future. For about three days after I began packing my bags, the pang of leaving home came and went from time to time. Of course, there is no stopping time, regardless of how much one wants to, and I found myself on a direct flight to Newark from New Delhi on the night of 2nd September. Another round of extremely emotional goodbyes followed and I prepared for what was going to be an inhumanly long haul of 14 hours followed by a dash through customs and then another haul of 6 hours. The babies on the flight thankfully kept quiet for most of the 14 hours, and only began to scream in unison a short time before we landed.

What followed was a hurried transit through Newark. Everything was new. The people weren't familiar, nor was the place. The body wasn't working according to the law of the land either. But a pretty boring (it has to be, when even your entertainment system is charged) six hour flight later, I found myself on the beautiful final approach to San Francisco. I was picked up by a very kind volunteer who drove me to my new house, and stuck with me when the key didn't open the doors it was supposed to open and had to be replaced! I had landed before any of my friends, and I spent a few miserable hours in a city where I knew no one- homesick, jet-lagged and dazed. The cars went in the other direction, the locks turned in reverse, the measurements were made in unfamiliar units and even the light switches worked the other way! But even in that condition, I didn't fail to notice how beautiful this place is; especially by sunset.

I have now spent nearly a week here. Things have progressively become better. My house is every bit a feel-good house, and it makes me very happy to walk into my living room every morning and see the bright sun shining into it. The weather has been beyond great. As of today, all of my friends have arrived. The last few days have been a process of discovery. My flatmate and I have walked about five kilometres (I remain loyal to the metric system for now) everyday. Each day we discover something new about the place, and become more confident of our bearings; so much so that we are able to guide our friends who came after us. I'm still a little disoriented about the direction of traffic, even more so about the light switches; hopefully that will go away soon.

This intermission is to note that posts on this blog from this point on, until further notice, will be coming to you from the confines of Stanford University, California. :)

Déjà vu- Chapter 4.2- Seeking 'Tsolitude' with a Vengeance (Pangong Tso, Tsomoriri and Tsokar)

2010-08-24T11:59:00.012+05:30

I was woken up by the same sun-in-the-face alarm clock the next morning, and I found Shao almost packed and ready to leave. We picked up her bags and headed to find a cab to take her to the airport, but the illness had taken a pretty heavy toll on her. She was finding it really hard to walk, let alone carry her luggage (another little reminder to take AMS seriously). We were supposed to leave for Nubra that day, and that wasn't until atleast ten in the morning, so I accompanied Shao to the airport and made sure she had entered safely. That done, I wound my way back to my hotel and waited for the others to rise and shine. It was around ten-thirty that I got a call from Ifti, our tour operator, who informed us that there had been a avalanche on the road Nubra. PP and I went over to his office, where we met Rohit, who was to accompany us on our journey to Nubra. We were asked to wait for about an hour until someone received a word about the condition of the road. About half an hour later, we were told that the road would not open the same day. Just last evening, Mohsin and I had been gloating about how the trip had gone off completely according to plan, and I had heard a voice in my head that told me I would regret gloating so much. We were in quite a fix because of this sudden change of plans. A waste of a day would mean that one of the two places that were left would have to be scratched out of the itinerary. We had some quick discussions after which we decided that we would move around the plan a little bit. We decided to leave for Tsomoriri the same day, and moved Nubra to the days that we had initially planned for Tsomoriri. Rohit (who had been in Leh for about three weeks because of an internship), who is quite the bird-watching enthusiast also decided to join us, despite the fact that he had been to the lake about a month ago. Ifti scrambled to arrange the fresh set of permits as we relaxed in our hotel rooms, and it was beyond noon by the time we left for Tsomoriri, which is a part of the Changthang plateau (which extends into Tibet and also houses Pangong) about 230 kilometres away from Leh.

We were quite excited as we piled into Jigme's car; we would get to stay next to the lake at night, and we'd still get to visit all the places we had planned to visit. Manav, of course, dozed off within minutes into the journey, and kept drifting in and out of sleep till our first lunch stop at the small village of Upshi on the banks of the Indus. We had a fantastic meal at Upshi; the food was great and we were being attended to by a very pretty waitress. The road from Leh bifurcates at Upshi- the left fork goes to Tsomoriri and eastern Ladakh, while the right fork heads southward towards Manali. Right after a very nice filling lunch, we found Manav rather jolly and active, contrary to his usual sleepiness on the road. This was something we had been noticing for quite a while. Ruchira had first pointed it out on our way to Leh from Srinagar, and the phenomenon was unmistakable. "Manav is like an infant on the road. He sleeps, wakes up, eats, plays around and sleeps off again as soon as the fuel has run out", Ruchira once said; and Manav was doing just that. We took the left cut from Upshi and headed towards Eastern Ladakh, with the Indus keeping us company. The road unlike the previous day, was flat and the drive was quick. The Indus, itself was changing moods and colours as we went along. On the way, Jigme pointed out some villages and bridges where some sequences of "Three Idiots" were shot. Soon, we were within touching distance of Chumathang. The Indus had gone from a raging green torrent to a calm, milky blue stream. The valley floor had suddenly opened up, so the river snaked its way past the rocks that littered its path. Here, we also saw a memorial erected for the Indian army. Many memorial headstones covered the mountainside, one for every battalion that fought in the 1962 war with China.

(Above: Clockwise from top-left: Chinese war memorial, multicoloured mountains, the Indus slows down near Chumathang, hot springs at Chumathang)

We stopped for tea at Chumathang, which is famous for its hot springs. The putrid smell of Sulphur filled the air, and water could be seen bubbling out of various gaps in the rocks. The sulphur salts were also doing funny things in the water, turning into a strange colour as they mixed with the river water. The stop at Chumathang was short, and about an hour later we arrived at a checkpoint near the village of Mahe. The road straight from Mahe goes to Nyoma and Hanle, near the Tibetan border, the road to the right goes to Sumdo and on to Tsomoriri. At Mahe, we were approached by three friendly locals, who were looking for a lift till the Sumdo. We gladly took them on board and the ten of us, including Jigme squeezed into the car and drove on. On the way, we learned about their way of life and how hard it was for them to travel everyday from Sumdo to Mahe, considering that ours was the only vehicle we had seen for about twenty kilometres. Sumdo itself is divided between Upper and Lower Sumdo, separated by about 3-4 kilometres. We dropped off one of our companions at Upper Sumdo and the other two at Lower Sumdo. It was quite a joy to meet the people of Lower Sumdo. There were many children in the mix, who were very excited to see all of us. Right here I re-emphasize the beauty of being on the road. You come across some of the most beautiful people, inside and out, and every such interaction leaves your life enriched in some way.

The road had been very pleasant thus far . We drove past Namsung La in a hurry, the pass neither being very high, nor very dramatic; unlike its siblings in the area. But a few kilometers past Namsung La, right in front of us, was one of the most stunning sights we had seen during the entire trip. A small lake called Thadsang Karu with its milky blue water lay right in front. It was quite a beautiful sight- the sun was about to take a nosedive behind the mountains on the right, there was a straight road leading into the blue, and right behind the blue was a white snow clad mountain. What's more, there weren't the usual hundred people contaminating the view. Aside from us, there were only three bikers near the lake who were fixing their bikes. We made a quick photo-stop and stood there for a few minutes admiring the scenery, before Jigme signalled that it was time to leave. The paved road ended at Thadsang Karu; the next twenty odd kilometers down to Tsomoriri would be on a muddy track, sometimes dissecting a huge flat plain, other times negotiating the side of a mountain. Along the way, many nomadic tents appeared, along with their flock of sheep. A little stream flowing down from the mountains had frozen over at several places.

(Above: Clockwise from top-left: The charming people of Upper Sumdo, approach to Thadsang Karu, Thadsang Karu, nomads and sheep)

Tsomoriri's appearance in this story was quite similar to that of Pangong, only more beautiful. About ten kilometres away, we saw the lake appear at the base of a mountain in the distance, and soon our car had bumped and banged its way to the banks of Tsomoriri. The lake itself is much smaller than Pangong, but I found it far more beautiful, perhaps because it was much less crowded. Its also a haven for migratory birds and other forms of wildlife, something that Rohit was rather excited about. We proved to be somewhat of a good luck charm for him, because within minutes of our arrival, he spotted what had eluded him the last time he was here- Black-necked cranes (a rare migratory bird I'm told). The scene was stunning- the sun had almost set, casting a beautiful pink-0range glow on the mountains, the moon had risen and the sky was clear. To top it all, all of this was being reflected in the clear water of the lake. We spent some time clicking some really good pictures, after which we moved on to the village of Korzok on the banks of the lake where we would be spending the night.

(Above: Clockwise from top: Tsomoriri, mountains and the moon reflected in the water, Tsomoriri by moonlight)

Remote areas of Ladakh have few staying options, and some of them can be rather expensive. At Korzok, one can either stay in one of the luxury tents, which will cost you a mini fortune, or at a small restaurant which has a community tent that has about thirty beds which costs you barely hundred rupees a night, but the loo would be a hole in the ground. The third option, which we found feasible, was the option of a "homestay". The villagers are given funds by the government to refurbish their houses and open them for tourists. The rooms are neat and clean and you get some semblance of a drainage system from your loo. Its ironic that water is scarce in Korzok. The lake is a saltwater lake and most of the fresh water freezes into ice which increases fuel cost if more water needs to be used. Manav, PP, Mohsin and I went out for a short walk at night and the lake presented to us, a new side of itself. This time the moon was up, and was casting a beautiful shimmering glow on the surface of the water. Upon return from the walk, we went to the restaurant and had a really welcome meal, along with some much needed rum. Jigme introduced us to the concept of having warm water before every meal to boost digestion. For some reason, Manav had lost his appetite, which is quite a rare occurrence. After a fulfilling meal, Jigme and four of us went back to our room at our homestay, whereas Rohit chose to stay at the restaurant. He hadn't carried many warm clothes, so we were rather concerned about finding him in a popsicle-d condition the morning after. Rohit and I had plans to wake up and photograph the sunrise. Everyone else also volunteered to come, but I knew how that was going to turn out.

The night was rather uncomfortable for the four of us. It's not easy spending your first night at high altitude. Korzok is at 15,000 feet and the lack of oxygen makes your head hurt a little bit, and also makes your body very restless. I tossed, tumbled and drifted in and out of sleep all night, with Manav snoring loudly in the background. I know it sounds stupid now, but when Manav (who suffers from asthma) suddenly stopped snoring at around 4 am, I really thought something had happened to him. As it turned out from our discussions next morning, everyone had thought something was wrong. The reader is not allowed to ask why none of us got out of bed to check. I guess in our sleep-induced stupor, it probably had something to do with the thought of hauling a hundred kilo body down from 15,000 feet. My alarm went off early in the morning, and much to my dismay, it was already beginning to get bright- the sun had come up earlier than estimated. I was relieved to find Manav still breathing, and wasn't surprised to find no one willing to watch the sunrise. I got myself ready quickly and went down to Rohit's tent where he was standing ready. He went off to fetch his batteries which were charging in Jigme's room, and never returned. I later found out that he took to long to find his batteries and the sun had already come up by then. In the absence of Rohit, I walked down to the lake by myself, just as the sun began to peer over the mountains that border the lake. It was a nice, peaceful walk I hadn't had in quite a while. A couple of horses that had come out to graze in the meadows near the lake kept me company. On the way back I also discovered some litter strewn around the lake, another disturbing sign of a beautiful place beginning to wither. By the time I returned, everyone was just about waking up. Jigme was bounding around, rejuvenated by what I'm sure would have been a great night's sleep. We got ready, splashing ice-cold water on our faces and brushing with water that made our gums go numb. The taps need to be shut off for most of the year because the water freezes and causes pipes to burst. We reunited with Rohit, and after a quick breakfast, I took a short walk to the Korzok Gompa, which supposedly houses one of the Buddha's teeth.

(Above: Clockwise from top left: Korzok by first light, sunrise on Tsomoriri, from Korzok Gompa,
a Himalayan Marmot)

We began our return journey fairly early, picking up Rohit along the way, who had headed off towards the lake after breakfast to meet some of his friends who had also come down to visit the lake. This morning happened to be a good one if you wanted to spot wildlife. Along the way, we found scores of Himalayan Marmots frolicking around in the sun. The Marmots here, I found, were much fatter than the ones I found near Pangong. We drove down to Upper Sumdo where we had dropped off our co-travellers the previous day and took a turn to the left, heading straight towards Tsokar. On the way we stopped often to spot birds such as Bar-headed geese, Brahmini ducks and some other birds whose names only bird-encyclopedia Rohit is capable of remembering. Jigme, of course, had his share of fun by first indulging himself in an off-road race. He somehow also decided that it was a good idea to burn a block of sulphur that he found in the sulphur fields near Upper Sumdo. He went on to smell the consequences of his actions, of course. Soon, we were on the approach to Tsokar, which resembles the approach to Thadsang Karu a fair bit.

(Above: left to right: Jigme gets frisky with sulphur, alone in the wilderness)

Tsokar is very different from the other lakes we had seen. In fact, its more of a salty wetland than a lake. We were the only six people around for miles. Two Tibetan wild-asses (the animal. Not Jigme and some friend of his) called the Kiang briefly halted their grazing as they ascertained whether we posed a threat to them. Most of us took a walk around the lake as Rohit tip-toed his way in the direction of Black-headed cranes. While we were leaving, we ended up spotting a very large flock of cranes having a gala time near the lake. Rohit brought our car to a screeching halt, got out excitedly, dove into the mud and got into all sorts of positions humanly possible in order to get the best photograph he could take. About half an hour of clicking later, we had a very satisfied Rohit in the car and we drove onwards, and intersected the road going from Manali to Leh just after Pang. I remembered the wide, flat plains from last time. They had been a huge relief after having been stuck overnight in a gorge (read about that life threatening experience here). Soon, we were winding our way up to Tanglang La, the world's second highest motorable pass at 17,582 feet. By now, our acclimatization had ensured that we didn't feel the effects of altitude. The drive down from Taglang La to Leh is quite fast. The road was being widened for a short stretch just after the pass, after which the drive was very smooth. We descended into the Indus valley, with its serrated mountain edges, which had acquired a very strange colour and headed straight for Upshi. At Upshi, we had our lunch, served by the same pretty waitress, after which Manav, with his batteries charged began to dance in the car. Somewhere, I think this is where Rohit must have questioned his decision to travel with us for the first time. After about an hour, we had crossed Karu, Thiksey and Shey and finally wheeled into Leh, which was perhaps recovering from a rainy afternoon.

(Clockwise from top-left: Tsokar, a black-necked crane, Rohit loves his birds, at Taglang La)

Manav and PP, having decided that neither of them would undertake a bus journey of about eighteen hours back to Srinagar, had changed their tickets to depart from Leh the next day. That night, we went off for a farewell dinner, the aftermath of which found me sleeping very early, whilst the others yapped most of the night away in the balcony of my city-view room. Mohsin moved into my room to replace Shao.

(Above: Proof: Left to right: Manav before meals/sleep, Manav after meals/sleep)

Today, there were four. Tomorrow, there would be two.

Déjà vu- Chapter 4.1- Seeking 'Tsolitude' with a Vengeance (Pangong Tso, Tsomoriri and Tsokar)

2010-08-22T19:19:00.013+05:30

Today, we would visit a place, without a visit to which, any trip to Ladakh is incomplete. Today, our group would also start declining in numbers, leaving only Mohsin and me by the time the next chapter made an appearance. The decline of numbers also brings in a motley crew of characters into our story, as promised long ago. But first, today, pandemonium would break loose before we left on our scenic sojourn.The trouble with the morning we left for Pangong, was that there were too many things happening- too many moving parts in our machine. The Pangong Tso is a saltwater lake at an altitude of 14,400 feet, about 135 kilometres away from Leh. The road's pretty bad, and tends to get flooded because of melting snow as the day progresses. Needless to say, one needs to leave fairly early. First, there was the part where we woke up a little late. Shao was still not a hundred percent fit, but her enthusiasm made up for what her body couldn't. Ruchira also needed to be dropped at the airport, so there was that time constraint as well. In the middle of all of this, one man called Siddharth Krishnamoorthy refused to be photographed beside a beautiful, azure lake with a four-day stubble and made a hurried attempt to remove any trace of beard or moustache from his face. In the process however, I (I shall now stop referring to myself in third person) somehow managed to slice my upper lip. Not cut, slice. Of course my lip gave my brain the customary half a second to send an "uh-oh" message to the rest of my body before it began to spout blood. The end result of the time wasted because of the sudden injury, was the Mohsin went off in another cab to drop Ruchira at the airport, and the four of us met Jigme about 40 minutes after the designated time, and then drove to the airport in the opposite direction to pick up Mohsin. It was about 8 am by the time we finally set off in the direction of Leh. There was Jigme, the five of us (with me with a tissue over my lip that remained as it is for about an hour), and the first of our interesting co-travellers- Gill. Gill, a dentist from "Ludhiana, Punjab", as he put it. Here's an interesting fact about Leh. Travelling by cars is very expensive. To minimize costs, one can approach one of the many small tour organizers, who put out a board asking for people to join your trip and divide the cost. Not only does this reduces costs, but also leads to meeting many interesting people. Gill's story was one of betrayal. He had apparently been abandoned by his friends in Srinagar, and had proceeded to Leh on his own. He now occupied the front passenger seat, and spoke little during our ride.

We first crossed Shey and Thikse as we exited Leh, where I gave Shao a quick introduction to the place (because she'd missed out on the local sightseeing). We soon went past our first check point at Karu, and began the slow climb to the world's third highest motorable pass- Chang La, at an altitude of 17,382 feet. The usual dozing-off disease struck one passenger after another, and most of the inhabitants of Jigme's white Qualis were sleeping when we reached Zingral- the army's check post about 20 kilometres before Chang La. The road from Zingral is narrow and steep. As we slowly chugged our way up to the pass, we were bounded on one side by the mountain, but to our left were the beautiful, stark colours of Ladakh- starting with green near the valley floor, then brown (as the dearth of water withered away any chances of finding greenery) until the snow began to appear and everything turned white, and finally the clear blue sky. We soon found ourselves in touching distance of Chang La, and two changes from the last time I went, were immediately apparent. First, there were telltale signs of the violent weather that had preceded us, because there was a lot more snow this time as compared to the last time I had crossed the pass. The second and more disturbing change was that there were at least fifteen cars parked at Chang La. Last time it was just our car and this other couple. There was this Bollywood movie called "Three Idiots" which released late last year, and used Pangong as a location for their last scene. This, combined with the increasing popularity of Ladakh as a tourist destination has made sure that there has been a massive increase in the influx of tourists going to Pangong. The realization of this fact had me alarmed, and a little angry to be very honest. There wasn't much time for that, though, because the lack of oxygen was catching up fast with some in the group. Shao had to go the army's medical tent and get medicines for altitude sickness. Manav also decided to partake, since he was also beginning to feel breathless. We took a few pictures, had the casualties take their medicines, and were on our way back down the mountain. The medicines knocked out both Manav and Shao as we drove through some very scenic stretches on our way to Pangong. Just before the lake finally began to peek at us from the base of the mountain, we also came across a small patch of land that had small dunes of grey sand- another one of Ladakh's quirks.

(Above: Clockwise from top-left: The colours of Ladakh, on the way to Chang-La, at Chang La, Pangong sneaks a peek through the mountains)

Pangong, like I said is a lake at 14,400 feet above sea level. Like all other lakes in the area, this one too seems to be a snow-fed remanent of a primordial ocean. Th reason I say this is that all of the lakes in the Ladakh area are saltwater lakes. Arrival at Pangong was bittersweet- of course the lake was beautiful, with its pristine, blue waters that would often change to blue-green as the sun played hide and seek with patchy clouds; but there was also this giant horde of tourists that had populated the place at the same time. Along with the increase in tourists influx, there was the customary feeding the few seagulls that populated the place (a really bad practice), some chips packets lying along the shores of the lake, and also children toppling over piles of stones that locals sometimes erect as memorials to the deceased. All of this made me really irate. The last time I was here, we had gone about seven kilometers further down the lake to a place called Spangmik, which requires an additional permit. At that time there were just seven people around the lake. This time there were more than twenty families.

(Above: The Pangong Tso)

(Above: Left to right: Seagulls at Pangong, a typical Buddhist memorial pile)

We clicked our pictures, sat by the lake and philosophised for a bit, before heading for lunch at the army-run restaurant. Lunch seemed to have put some words into Gill's mouth, as he discussed his preference for Ladakhis over Kashmiris; because he believed that Kashmiris "chhoti baat karte hain" (are narrow-minded). While this caused some irritation to Mohsin, Manav and I were smirking to ourselves, because of Gill, and also about a running gag that Manav was involved in, along the same lines. The drive back from Pangong was fairly uneventful. Most roads had been flooded by the melting ice in the afternoon, which made the going a little slow. But this also meant that we were able to spot a local resident- the Himalayan Marmot, an oversized rodent that populates this part of the world. Manav and Shao needed another dose of anti-AMS medicine, which meant that they slept most of the way back home.

(Above: Left to right: Chang La on the way back, Icicles hanging along the road)

The ride back seemed a lot faster, and we were back in our hotel rooms by about six in the evening. Shao wasn't feeling well, so the rest of us went out for a nice dinner at the "World Garden Cafe" where we ended up having most of our meals from that point on. I returned to the hotel to find Shao feeling rather ill, and since all of us had travelled almost three hundred kilometers, we too were very tired; and decided to call it a day without further delay.

*(To be continued)

Déjà vu- Chapter 3- Dial G for Gompa (In and around Leh)

2010-08-15T18:34:00.011+05:30

The word is still out on whether it's called "Gompa" or "Gonpa", considering I ended up visiting many of these over the next few days, and I happened to see sign-boards with both versions. Since I encountered the former a tad bit more than the latter, and also the fact that it doesn't matter how you write the Tibetan word for "monastery" in Roman script, I shall call it "Gompa" from this point on.

What had wheeled into Leh was a tired, sleepy and dusty lot. The enthusiasm on our faces, and the spring in our stride, however, seemed to belie the arduous two day journey we had just completed. I was basking in the strong sense of déjà vu, considering the fact that I was not only living in the same hotel (which was provided to us dirt cheap, by the way), but also the same room, with the same beautiful view. I was already beginning to feel like a little bit of a local, being slightly more familiar with the town than the rest of the gang (Ruchira will point out at this time that she has been to Leh as many times I have). The weather had been rather violent the week before our arrival, and had just cleared up; so we were in that enviable twilight zone where we got bright sunshine to take a look at the fresh snow that had just arrived on the scores of peaks near us. The feeling of familiarity only got stronger as we set out to roam around town, the night of our arrival. Shao was still feeling unwell, so she decided to stay back and take rest. Mohsin, Ruchira, Manav, PP and I wandered through the streets of Leh in two separate groups, and eventually ended up meeting each other near Fort Road, at Gesmo German Bakery and Restaurant. The whole "German Bakery" concept seemed rather exotic in the beginning, but we later realized the sheer number of them that lined the streets of Leh. Most, if not all, of the bakeries in Leh are very good. The city receives a huge influx of foreign tourists every year, so finding Western (or Eastern) cuisine is really not a problem in Leh. What followed was a nice, jolly meal where we ate off all the fatigue from the road journey. PP would have me point out that we also had a Yak cheese pizza at this meal (which was quite amazing). Having packed some food for Shao, we returned to our hotel, caught the last match of the day and retired for the night.

It was next morning that I also recalled one of the major problems with my room. The sun rises very early in Leh, and owing to the altitude, also beats down harder than most places. There is something that is often said about Leh- that it is one of the few places in the world where one can suffer from a sun-stroke and a frost-bite at the same time. So, I wasn't very pleasantly surprised when I found the sun peering through the window straight at my face at 6am next morning. The view from room (called the "city-view" room) did manage to wipe away a significant fraction of my angst. The trouble with waking up the earliest in a group of six people, is the long, boring wait for everyone else to wake up. This wait is made even more unpleasant, when the said group of people forces you to make repeated trips up and down several flights of stairs (in a low-oxygen environment) in order to wake them up. Each of those trips from the third floor (my room) down to the ground floor (Manav et. al.'s room) via the second floor (Mohsin et. al.'s room) left me gasping for breath for a short while. Eventually, as surely as the sun rises in the east, the rest of the group awoke, and finally got itself ready by about noon, by which time our intended start time had faded two hours into past tense. Shao was still not feeling well, and we all decided that it would be better for her to rest it out today, because we were going to visit Pangong the next day, and that wasn't something we would have liked her to miss.

(Above: Left to right: The view from my hotel room, the ornate gate to Leh)

We had arrived in Leh at a very opportune time. The two-day Hemis festival had started that very day, and we decided to visit Hemis at all costs. More on that later. For starters, we met our driver Jigme, who was to become the mainstay of our trip. Of course, the poor fellow had been made to wait for quite a while before we boarded his white Toyota Qualis. Little did we know that we would not dispense with him till the very end of our trip. Jigme led us out on the road towards Manali, where we first passed the ornate gate to Leh, and a few kilometers down the road, encountered Shey Palace. Right next to Shey Palace, we also found the "Pond of the Holy Fish", which was teeming with Catfish, supposedly holy, and not to be hunted or eaten. Once we ascended the slope up to the main entrance to Shey, we found the place completely empty, perhaps owing to the Hemis festival. Manav also realized that climbing acclivities wasn't really his thing. Inside the main prayer hall at Shey, we saw the giant 40-foot statue of the Buddha. Climbing down the same slope was a lot more enjoyable than scaling it the other way, and we headed to Thikse Gompa, where the climb was higher and steeper. Manav and Ruchira decided to sit out the climb, while PP, Mohsin and I headed up towards the main sanctum of Thikse. Thikse, at over six hundred years old, is one of the oldest monasteries in the region. Situated on top of a hillock, the main balcony provides a really beautiful panoramic view of the entire valley. On our way back from the shrine, we also noticed the Mani wall at Thikse. Mani walls are quite a common sight in regions where Buddhism is the primary religion. They are mainly prayer walls which contain smooth stones with prayers engraved on them. Also a common sight, are the colourful prayer flags which flutter from practically any feature that fast winds can access.

(Above: Left to right: Mani stone at Thikse, giant Buddha statue at Shey)

(Above: The view of from Thikse)

By the time our visit to Thikse ended, I was rather enthusiastic about reaching Hemis in time for the mask dance. Luckily for us, the mask dance had just begun when we landed at Hemis Gompa. Right outside the Gompa, there was the usual humdrum and festivities, complete with food and game stalls. We took our positions on the top-most courtyard of Hemis Gompa which gave us a bird's eye view of the mask dance unfolding in the main courtyard. Drums and gongs played in a rhythmic beat, as the mask clad dancers rose and fell with the sound of the drums. I didn't exactly understand a lot of what was going on, but it was interesting to watch. After the mask dance ended, we visited the Hemis museum. A short meal at one of the food-stalls outside the monastery gave us some much needed nutrition. The one thing that really struck me while visiting these places (as had done last time) was the striking use of colour. Colour is something that just stands out the moment you enter Ladakh. The land is bare and brown, the sky is stark and blue, and any greenery (usually right next to a stream) stands out in contrast. The prayer flags fluttering at every corner only add colour to the picture. The same is true of all the monasteries we visited. All the interior walls were covered with frescoes, usually depicting Buddhist gods, or parables from the scriptures. All frescoes were painted in bright and striking colours. On our way back from Hemis, Jigme took us for a little bit of off-roading. We later realized that this was one of the many manifestations of his rather adventurous spirit. We made a small detour to the Stok palace (right), which had shut down by the time we reached it. To be very honest, we were more interested in finding yet another "hole-in-the-ground" toilet that exploring the palace, which I recalled from last time, has little to offer if you're looking for something new.

(Above: Clockwise from top left: Mask dance at Hemis, a masked dancer, a monk beating the drum, statue of Guru Lhakhang at Hemis)

When we landed back at the hotel, we were glad to find Shao in a much better condition than the morning. I had promised Shao we'd go somewhere in the evening, and we decided to visit the Shanti Stupa. I was secretly amused at the amount of energy I could draw out of thin air (no pun intended) when I was travelling. Ruchira was to leave the next morning, so she and Mohsin wandered off in one direction and the rest of us got ourselves a cab and headed for Shanti Stupa, just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the Stok range. The Shanti Stupa was constructed by a Japanese organization on top of a small hill overlooking Leh. The structure itself is quite beautiful, with Buddhist art and statues of the Buddha in various forms; but it's a whole different thing when you visit it around sunset. The lights of Leh town are beginning to come to life, the snow on the mountains, with its pink colour borrowed from the setting sun, is beginning to fade from view. If you are lucky, like we were, the moon might rise early and lend a serene, white gleam to the snow right after sunset, just as the Stupa's own lights flicker to life. The four of us were the last people to leave the Shanti Stupa, just as it began to get very windy. We had our driver drop us off at Changspa, which houses a lot of Leh's hotels and restaurants and found ourselves a quaint little garden restaurant which had a small TV with the football match on it. Food cooks very slowly at high altitude, so every meal in Leh is a rather relaxed and elongated affair, just as this one was. We returned fairly late at night, shortly after which Mohsin and Ruchira returned from dinner.

(Above: Top to bottom: Shanti Stupa, Leh by last light from Shanti Stupa)

All in all, our first complete day at Leh had provided us with a nice buffer between a tiring journey and the pandemonium that was to follow the next morning. The next day we would visit, sans Ruchira, the Pangong Tso, without which anyone's first journey to Leh would be incomplete.

Déjà vu- On the Road- Srinagar-Leh

2010-08-07T20:47:00.012+05:30

When you're on a road trip, a huge part of your trip is the journey itself. The roads in Ladakh are long, the views are brilliant, and there are plenty of stories to tell. This is one of a few "On the Road" sections of my travelogue. They're named thus, because these are stories, not about place A or place B, but stories of how we got from place A to place B.

As Manav reminds me now, some of us were woken up the next morning by Firdous' love for Bappi Lahiri songs, "yaar beena chain kahaan re" (no peace without one's beloved), in particular. We had all thrown caution to the wind the previous night and slept rather late, so it wasn't much of surprise that it was about 11 am by the time we packed ourselves into Imran's green Sumo, when we had initially planned to leave by 8.30 at the very latest. We were leaving Shagun behind, which wasn't the most pleasant thing, but there was nothing that could be done about it. We bade farewell to Shagun, Roy and Firdous and headed out on to the road into town. There were additional delays as we stopped to buy supplies near Batmaloo. Imran began to play his music collection which, while it seemed rather refreshing when it started, began to go on the loop after about an hour on the road. Soon, we were on National Highway 1-D leading to Kargil and then onward to Leh. Taking the ride along with us for a short while as we drove through its picturesque valley, was the Jhelum river. The sun was out , the sky was blue, and so was the water, so it's needless to say that the drive was quite enjoyable. The fact that we had left late meant that we had to stop for lunch after about two hours on the road. This wasn't such a bad thing though, because we ended up having one of our simplest, yet best meals of the trip. At a small restaurant called "Jai Mata Di Vaishno Dhaba", we had a simple meal of Dal Chawal and the day's veggies, which was also a somewhat welcome change from all the meat-hogging we had been indulging ourselves lately. A few pictures with the Jhelum, and we were well on our way to Sonamarg, another meadow right under the Kolahoi glacier. We took turns to doze off as Imran's music blared on it's third loop of the day. We reached Sonamarg early in the afternoon, where we were advised to move on quickly, so as to avoid an army convoy that was to leave from a nearby army camp very soon. Sonamarg, with vast green meadows and a backdrop of towering mountains is a nice place to visit. Right next to it is Baltal, which is one of the two base camps for the yearly trek to the Amarnath cave at an altitude of about 4000 metres. The Amarnath Yatra hadn't started, so we found Sonamarg free of the usual clog that accompanies the Yatra. Baltal is also the last village before one begins the ascent to Zoji La, the pass that leads into Ladakh at an altitude of 3528 metres.

(Above: Clockwise from top left: The Jhelum and the mountains, at Sonamarg, a thousand feet above Baltal, the Zoji-La zero point)

This is where the road also began to take a turn for the worse. As we ascended slowly towards the pass, we began to deal with a road that was narrow and predominantly unpaved. We were also surrounded by trucks and other tourist vehicles, which made the climb a rather dusty and tiring task. Halfway up the mountain, we were stalled by army-men standing by the road. It turns out that they had received instructions to stop all traffic because the convoy that we had sought to avoid, had left its base. The up-side of the one hour delay we faced as a result of this interruption, was that we sat around on the mountainside that looked over the flat plains of Sonamarg and Baltal. I had crossed this place last time round around sunrise, and in the opposite direction. Looking down into the valley, I noticed the conspicuous absence of the scores of tents that had populated the place last time, owing to the Amarnath yatra. The situation was made a little awkward as Imran and an armyman got into a slight argument over the killing of the child a week ago, but thankfully that did not snowball into something very unpleasant. Finally, the convoy passed us and we found ourselves driving on a very dusty road, inhaling smoke from the scores of army trucks. Soon, we found ourselves driving next to walls of ice on one side, and the beautiful Kolahoi glacier on the other side. A seat change and a couple of stops later, we had crossed Zoji La, and had officially entered Ladakh. A bad road was the least of travellers' worries back in 1947. Zoji La had been a major flashpoint between the Indian army and raiders from Pakistan in the 1947 war, and re-capturing it was a major victory for the Indian army.

About 70 kilometers separate Zoji La and Dras. After crossing the zero-point at Zoji La, we began to descend steadily, and the road began to improve. I felt a surge of excitement as we wheeled into Dras. I had crossed Dras last time in the middle of the night. This time, I saw a board that had an arrow pointing to my left with the words "Tiger Hill" written on it. Sure enough, the moment I got down from the car for some tea, I turned my head and saw that majestic hill, not very far from the town. Tiger Hill was one of the Indian army's major re-captures in the Kargil conflict of 1999. Just eleven years ago, it would be suicidal to stand where I was standing right now. Tiger Hill overlooks the main road leading into Dras and anyone who has control of the top of the hill has the whole town in their direct line of sight. After tea, I spent about twenty minutes loitering around Dras and clicking pictures. Dras is also the second coldest permanently inhabited place in the world. Temperatures have been known to fall below minus 50 during winters. As we drove onward towards Kargil, now 56 kilometers away, we encountered the Dras war memorial, a poignant reminder of the lives lost just over a decade ago.

(Above: Left to right: Tiger hill, the rendezvous with Khalid; the mountains in the background in the right picture are under Pakistani control)

It was late in the evening as we snaked within three kilometers of the Line of Control, and accidentally spotted our friend Khalid waiting on the side of the road, looking rather forlorn. As it turns out, our various delays had caused Khalid to wait at that very spot for about three hours. A rather flustered Khalid pointed towards a nearby mountain range and told us, rather comically, that he'd been in the sights of the Pakistani border force for about three hours. We followed Khalid into Kargil town, where a traffic jam just before entering the town ensured that we reached as late as 9pm. We were housed at the local tourist bungalow where we bid farewell to Imran and that faithful Sumo which had been with us for a week now, and paid a visit to Khalid's house for dinner, giving us our first taste of Ladakhi hospitality. Khalid began to discuss life in a town that has been war-torn for several years a time. He also promised that next morning he would show me some of the artillery shells that had landed in his yard years ago. At this point Khalid made an offer that Mohsin and I would find hard to refuse. He asked us to give up the idea of the trek we had planned to take around Leh, and return to Kargil, after which we would take a camping trip to Zanskar.

Tired as we were, we retired early that night, only to wake up to a very sunny morning. We finally began to feel the characteristically sharp Ladakh sun. We went down to Khalid's house for what he called a "not-lavish" breakfast (which was enough to feed an army of elephants, really), after which he also showed me the shell that had landed on his house. Mohsin and I had decided to take up Khalid's offer, and we were going to return to Kargil soon, so I'll refrain from a detailed discussion on Kargil just yet. So it suffices to say that soon we had hired ourselves a brand new vehicle with a brand new driver and had left Kargil behind, and were headed towards Mulbekh, where we encountered two things- one, was a beautiful Chamba(rock-carving) of Buddha Maitreya(Right) (one of three in the region) alongside the cave dwellings of ancient monks dug into the mountainside, and two, was the concept of a "hole-in-the-ground toilet" (a concept that we found is very popular in this arid region). Before we knew it, we were snaking our way up the mountains towards Namika La, the first pass on the Kargil-Leh road at an altitude of 3700 metres. Surrounding us, for the first time in broad daylight, were the beautiful, barren mountains of the Ladakh region, quite in contrast with the greenery of the Kashmir valley.

(Above: Left to right: The shell in Khalid's house, a "not-lavish" breakfast)

At Namika La, some from our group had their first encounter with altitude discomfort, and by the time we had hit Fotu La, the highest point on the Srinagar-Leh road at 4128 metres, a whole bunch was either sleeping, or feeling dizzy and irritable, or had a mild headache. This is also the point in my story where I warn everyone of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), something Ruchira had had a tryst with, and Shao was about to have an unpleasant encounter with. Most of us feel that AMS is one of those illnesses only foreigners can catch, but the absence of adequate amounts of oxygen can play very dirty tricks with you. So whenever you go beyond 10,000 feet, whether by air or by road, please be prepared for AMS- drink lots of water, and carry a strip of paracetamol and some anti-nausea drugs. That being said, the mild-headache gang had some time to get out of the car and click some nice photographs. (Below: The view from Fotu La)

The nice thing about the Kargil-Leh stretch, is that one keeps encountering small towns in short intervals. After Fotu La, we first crossed the beautiful monastery of Lamayuru, and after about an hour's drive from there we finally crossed the Indus at Khaltse, where we stopped for a mandatory security check, and perhaps an even more essential lunch. The road from Kargil to Leh had been very pleasant the last time I had visited this region. However, in recent times, the Border Roads Organization has taken to widening the road, which has ground road quality to dust and pebbles for long stretches in between. So, it wasn't until we reached the village of Nimmoo (after having crossed Nurla and Saspol en route), that the road began to look up. Of course, once it looked up, it was like driving on an airport runway. At Nimmoo, we encountered a beautiful sight- the confluence of the green Indus river, with the muddy Zanskar river. We moved on, after a quick photo stop and carried on past Magnetic Hill, where our driver very kindly shut off the car's engine to make us experience the powerful magnetic force of the hill, which dragged the car uphill without any effort from the engines! The final thirty-odd kilometers from Nimmoo to Leh were quite a breeze, and soon we were on the final straightaway, at the end of which I could see that town that I loved so much. We drove alongside the Indus, and past the airport. Just after the airport, we met my friend Salim, who was waiting to take us to our hotel.

(Above: Clockwise from top left: Lamayuru Gompa, after Khaltse, the confluence at Nimmoo and the final approach into Leh)

The name of this series of posts struck me when we reached our hotel, because as it turns out, I wasn't just staying in the same hotel, I was also staying in the same room as the last time I visited Leh. It was encouraging to see that nothing had changed; the people were just as nice, the view from my room just as great. Salim informed me that the weather had been really violent the week before our arrival and had just cleared up, so we could expect to find snow pretty much everywhere we went; ice-ing on the cake, I say.

So there we were, after a journey that spanned two days, in the beautiful little town of Leh. All of us, with the exception of Shao, who wasn't feeling very well, went out to explore town, to take in the sights, sounds and flavours of Leh. It was a very satisfied lot that slept that night, following a beautiful, yet tiring road journey; a lot that was eager to bathe in the glory of Leh and its surroundings, beginning the next morning.

Déjà vu- Chapter 2- They'll come tumblin' down the mountains (Gulmarg and back)

2010-07-25T14:35:00.012+05:30

The evening of 16th June brought with itself a fair amount of joy and anticipation. Freezing while the rest of the country scorched itself dry was always going to be quite a treat. What would follow would be an overnight visit to the meadows of Gulmarg, about an hour and a half away from Srinagar. After lunch at home in Srinagar, what followed can only be described as a frantic rush, as all of us packed our bags with warm clothes, and our stomachs with more Kashmiri cuisine and quickly boarded, the now familiar green Tata Sumo.

The road to Gulmarg isn't particularly eventful. The lowest level is not very high, so the drive isn't very steep. The day was also a rather cloudy one, so there weren't too many views to be had. Under usual circumstances, this would've been a fairly boring 90 kilometers. We, however, had Shagun with us. After a slow and silent start, it almost seemed as if someone flipped a switch inside here head, and we were kept entertained with some rather animated singing, yelling and dancing, all within the confines of our vehicle. We arrived at Gulmarg towards late evening. It was already getting dark because of the cloud cover, something we hoped would abate the next day. I recalled that the view from Gulmarg was one that you wouldn't want ruined by clouds. Somewhere along the way to our cottage, Manav, overcome by a wave of what I can only call klutzi-ness (for the lack of a more suitable word), managed to drop a rather expensive ring of his into a puddle of rainwater. This one sounds like a no-brainer, but for about fifteen minutes on the evening of 16th June, you could find me, Manav and two helpful Kashmiri men with our hands inside a dirty puddle of freezing rainwater trying to find Manav's ring. The ring was found eventually, and we all settled into our cottage as it began to get dark and cold. Spain began its duel with Switzerland in the World Cup a few minutes later, a duel that would later end in a surprise defeat for Spain. By night, it had become quite cold, and while we retired to our cottage after a nice meal for a night of banter, one was worried for Siraj, our driver who slept in the car. That night we talked till late, recoiled in horror at the news of Spain's defeat, warmed ourselves with some rum, and went off to bed, me with a very welcome electric blanket under me.

The clouds seemed to have parted a little the next morning, as Pathik and I woke up early and decided to take a walk around Gulmarg. This is where I carry out a formal introduction. Gulmarg is essentially a meadow at the base of the Pir Panjal mountains. It is very popular with Indian tourists during summer, and is a popular skiing destination during the winter months. Not long ago, a two-level cable car system was opened, which transported tourists from the base of the mountain at 8000 feet, to the first level at 10,500 feet and onward to the highest level at 14,000 feet. This gondola lift ride is very popular with tourists who visit Gulmarg (the alternative being a three and a half hour mule ride), so we had to get our tickets done in advance. When PP and I returned from our walk, we found everyone up and about, including Siraj, who was now engaging with Mohsin in a candid conversation about family, Kashmir and independence. As I sat there listening to stories of some members of his family and some of his friends, either getting into trouble for stone-pelting or getting caught in the crossfire, I couldn't help but feel that there's no reason why anyone should live with this sense of hurt (the politics of it all, aside). After a rather prolonged conversation, which was taking place as people took turns to get ready, we headed out towards the gondola with our guide, Amin. Soon after, we found ourselves above 10,000 feet for the first time on the trip. It wasn't the most pleasant experience, because it began to pour as soon as we touched down. We ran for cover, inside a restaurant at level one, where we warmed ourselves with the fieriest plate of scrambled eggs we'd ever had. Fortunately for us, the rain abated soon and we were able to take the second leg of the gondola ride, right up to the second level at 14,000 feet. An icy blast of wind greeted us as we stepped out of the gondola, but as soon as we recovered from the cold shock, we saw the beautiful blanket of white that we'd been waiting to see for the longest time. After a quick hire of shoes and some jackets, we found Amin leading us up the mountain. To be precise, Amin was leading, and most of us were puffing our way up the mountain. For one, it proved to be amazingly difficult to get any kind of grip in the snow, given that we were wearing gum boots which were made of rubber and had no spikes. Also creating obstacles, were the extremely high levels of fitness which we had ensured before trying to run up the mountain. At the top of the mountain, however, we found some skiers waiting to take us to a place where we could supposedly view all of the Kashmir valley from. Gulmarg has a new concept called the "ski taxi". The concept is pretty simple. The skier skis to the destination, and you, the fare, stands on his skis wearing rubber boots with no spikes and hang on to his jacket for dear life. If you haven't figured out yet, it's a little bit of a recipe for disaster, as Manav realized. While most of us, at worst, slipped off the skis a few times, Manav took two rather hard tumbles off the skis and face-planted himself in the snow. While I'm sure it was quite a harrowing experience for him, for me, who was on the "ski-taxi" behind him, it was a sight to remember. Manav needed special care after that; I wonder how much all of this must have traumatized the skier. The Kashmir valley chose to not present itself to us that day, and stayed hidden behind a veil of clouds. After a slightly disappointing and very expensive trip to the view point, most of the group decided to take some rest, some feeling slightly heady, others feeling very cold.

(Above: Clockwise from top left: Gulmarg, all of us at the 2nd level, the mountains from level one, and Manav hanging on to dear life on the "ski-taxi")

Mohsin, Amin and I took a walk to a spot from where we were told the LoC would be visible. It was encouraging to see that neither Mohsin nor I were feeling any severe effects of altitude, considering that we had a trek planned for later. As we waited for about half an hour for the clouds to part, we engaged Amin in some political discourse. It became quite clear that he was an employee of the government and wouldn't dare say anything against it, even if he wanted to. The viewing odds, however, weren't stacked in our favour, and the clouds only parted for a short while to help us catch a glimpse of the view around. The three of us headed back down to the gondola stop where we were re-united with the rest of the gang. The clouds began to disperse quickly as we made our way down to the first level, and it became very clear that some time needed to be spent in clicking pictures at the first level. Shagun, Mohsin and Ruchira carried on to the base, and the remaining five of us stayed around at the first level for about half an hour more so that we could soak up some of the mountain sun and click a few pictures. Soon, it was time to bid farewell to Gulmarg. We went back down to our cottage, where Siraj was waiting for us to take us back to Srinagar.

It was Thursday afternoon as we drove into Srinagar, meeting Siraj's brother Imran along the way. Imran would be driving us to Kargil two days from now. Given that we had the evening to ourselves, a group I now call "Three and a half men" headed for Srinagar town, where PP wanted to buy a replacement for the jacket he'd mistakenly left home; a jacket that would save him from freezing as we travelled to Leh. On that little mini-tour of Srinagar, Manav would also find that one nerve of Mohsin's that he would pick for the next week. We reached back home fairly late in the night, owing to long traffic jams along the boulevard on the banks of the Dal lake. No one had the energy for conversation that night, and we all retired early, with the exception of those of us who saw the dying minutes of the day's last football game. Roy was to arrive for a three day trip to Srinagar the next day, and the group would swell to its maximum size.

The next morning was a relaxed one; tired from the previous day's road journey, most of us slept till late. Fridays are eventful days in Srinagar. People assemble together for Friday prayers, and community sentiment is at a fever pitch. It's not uncommon for protests and stone-throwing to break out right before or after the Friday prayers in various parts around the city; "Twenty20", as Siraj put it. Shaoli went along with Manav and PP on another shikara tour of the Dal lake, and returned rather excited at having driven past a procession that was beginning to form near the lake. Some other forces were at work in the background. Shagun had been called by a company for a job interview which might have had to attend a few days from then. This meant that there was a possibility that she would not accompany us to Leh. As Roy arrived, we began to wonder if the city that was on the edge would hold its nerve and not break into violence. This was especially important because some of us had planned to visit the Hazratbal shrine later that afternoon. The shrine is in the old city, which is a particularly volatile area, should any violence break out. Thankfully, though, the city was calm in the afternoon and five of us along with Firdous headed towards Hazratbal, while the rest headed out in a different direction. The two groups planned to reunite a couple of hours later on the Dal. I make it a point to visit Hazratbal every time I visit Srinagar. Hazratbal is a mosque by the Dal, in the old city, and houses a single strand of hair from Prophet Muhammad's beard. Visiting Hazratbal is always a very calming experience for me, so I have made it a point to visit it every one of the three times I have been in Srinagar. We arrived at Hazratbal just as the evening prayers were beginning. PP, Manav and I went in to the main prayer hall with Firdous, where many men stood in prayer, voicing their prayers in unison, led by the Imam. It was a very intense moment as we stood right there in the midst of such fervent prayer. After spending some time in the lawns of Hazratbal, all of us headed to our rendezvous point where Roy, Shagun and Mohsin were waiting for us with Ruchira's birthday cake. We had delayed celebrations for Ruchira's birthday until Roy's arrival, and I'm sure she would attest to the fact that this was perhaps one of the most scenic backdrops against which one could cut one's birthday cake. For the next one hour, we floated on the Dal in two shikaras and watched sun drown into the lake, leaving behind the marvellous hues of evening.

Above: Left to right: The Hazratbal shrine, a scenic sunset on the Dal)

After having experienced the sunset on the Dal, we headed to the plush Grand Palace hotel (now called The Lalit, but I refrain from doing so, owing to threats I have received) for a birthday dinner. We reached home rather late that night. In the meantime, it had been ascertained that Shagun would have to leave for the interview. This meant that we would be leaving behind Shagun and Roy when we left for Kargil next morning. We stayed up till very late that night, a decision that would cost us valuable time the next morning. No one really cared though, and who would? The next day, our road trip would truly begin, and along with it, the most scenic part of our trip!

Déjà vu- Chapter 1- In the beginning (Introduction to Srinagar)

2010-07-24T13:39:00.013+05:30

In the beginning, there was light; a little too much of it perhaps. It was mid-June in Delhi and the sun was relentless. It'd hide for a few hours, and just when hope was at its peak, the sun would pop out again and dry out any trace of moisture in the air. By the time the first pack of five arrived at the airport to board our flights to Srinagar, there was much anticipation for the trip ahead. This trip had begun to take flight right after I had come back from Ladakh in 2008 and showed Mohsin the photographs. Around April this year, we began to put rough plans in place. One by one, people began to add to the troupe that would be invading the mountains, come June. All plans had been made, all tickets had been booked and all the bags had been packed, when a child died in firing in Srinagar. This is one of the things one needs to be prepared for when travelling to Kashmir- a sudden change of plans. We had an emergency meeting on the eve of our departure, and decided to go anyway, considering Mohsin's house was in a very safe locality very close to the airport. Anchors away, it was.

On the morning of 15th of June, Mohsin, Shaoli, Shagun, Ruchira and I set out for Srinagar. I was on a flight that arrived an hour and a half before the rest, so as I crossed the cloud covered Pir-Panjal range and my plane began to circle into Srinagar airport, I knew I had plenty of time to kill. An initial scare did manage to throw me off a little bit. My backpack fell off the inclined conveyor belt at the airport, concealed from my view. For the next fifteen minutes, I anxiously waited for my luggage to appear on the belt. The belt stopped, everyone left, and I was left wondering whether I would have to spend the next twenty days with just the clothes on my back. Thankfully, a short search yielded my backpack lying adjacent to the belt, shaken but not stirred. I spent the rest of my time reading my copy of Crime and Punishment (that I haven't managed to finish in 6 months) and trying to block out an exceptionally loud contingent of three families, who were making an embarrassment of themselves, and whose kids were making my life miserable.
The hour passed by quite quickly and I was reunited with the rest of the group, after which we headed straight for Mohsin's beautiful house; a place I now call the Bhat Palace (right). At the Bhat Palace, we met the inimitable caretaker of the house, Firdous. He would go on to take a special liking for Manav later, and also try and convert me to Islam. The rest of the afternoon was spent in taking in the cool climes, stuffing ourselves full with Kashmiri food and getting used to the gunshot sounds, that thankfully were only the sound of the army practicing in the nearby shooting range. The sound of security, as Mohsin puts it. In the evening, we proceeded to do the basics- a shikara ride to the Char Chinaari (below), a small island in the middle of the Dal lake with four Chinaar trees on it (hence the name). The weather in the hills had been pretty turbulent off late, so the pakoras followed by the bhuna gosht were quite a delight when it began to pour.

That night, the eve of Ruchira's birthday, we sat in Mohsin's backyard, hearing the rain and freezing along with it, talking about life and sundry things. We did take the occasional break from talking to wish Ruchira a happy birthday, of course. The next morning was a pleasant one. The clouds had rained themselves out and the sun was shining, something we didn't think was particularly pleasant in Delhi at that time. Shagun, Shaoli and I, accompanied by Firdous decided to pay a short visit to the Mughal Garden called Nishat. Those of you who read The Circle of Life, might recall that I was rather disappointed with my last visit to Nishat. The fountains in the beautiful garden had turned into a swimming pool for pot-bellied and middle aged tourists. Fortunately, there seems to have been a crackdown on aquatic activity of this kind, in recent times. If nothing else, the cold weather ensured that no one felt obliged to take their clothes off a take a dip. The recent cold weather, however, also meant that the flowers were not in bloom. Nishat did afford us, however, a nice view of the Dal (below).

Shortly after our return back home, Manav and PP arrived. Manav was already bursting at the seams with joy (and it takes a lot for Manav to burst out of his rather wide seams) after finally having made it to Kashmir. There wasn't much time to waste, however, because right after lunch we were on the road to Gulmarg. Finding snow in June would be quite a treat!

Déjà vu- Preface

2010-07-19T16:41:00.004+05:30

Two years ago when I wrote The Circle of Life, I signed off wondering when I'll visit Ladakh next. As it turns out, it didn't take long for me turn on my heels and head to the mountains once again; this time with a larger group of Ladakh enthusiasts.

I recently returned from an eighteen-day-long trip of Jammu and Kashmir. This was my third, and thus far, my longest visit to J&K. Over these eighteen days, I covered by road, Kashmir, Ladakh and Zanskar. For the completely uninitiated, J&K is the northernmost state of India. It's disputed territory, and the ceasefire line called (Line of Control), runs right through the state and serves as a de-facto border of sorts, so there'll be many who will argue against that last statement I made. Let us, for the purpose of this discussion, consider that as a purely geographical, and not a political statement. The state is as riddled with mountain ranges and pristine lakes as it is with conflict and complex humanitarian situations. A land so beautiful is obviously coveted, ergo fought over. In these few days that I spent in the region, I experienced a heady mix of all of the above, leaving me with a taste in my mouth that would be hard to forget.

I've always loved road travel. I feel that the slower one travels, the more one learns about the land. I'd personally prefer to walk through these mountains if my body could take it. But a long road journey in the hills, aside from throwing up the meal you indiscriminately gorged on, also throw up a bunch of stories and interesting anecdotes you're left narrating for life. This story has a number of characters. The six main characters are myself, Mohsin, Ruchira, Shaoli (aka Shao), Manav and Pathik (aka PP). Prashant (aka Roy) and Shagun make a short appearance. Khalid and Hussain (aka Balli) light up the proceedings towards the end. Also thrown in are a motley crew of other characters such as Rohit the civil engineer-cum-amateur ornithologist, John the travelling septuagenarian and Jigme, who Mohsin correctly describes as the coolest guy in all of Ladakh (that expression really loses meaning sometimes in a place like that).

On to why this book is titled thus. This being my third trip to J&K overall, and my second trip to Ladakh, gave me in a lot of places, a deep sense of familiarity; almost like a dream I'd woken up from and fallen right back into. Many of the places that I visited, I recalled distinctly from my last trip there. It was nice to see that many of these places hadn't changed much from the last time I went there. Déjà vu literally means "already seen", but that I feel, is a far cry from what I felt when I revisited this beautiful land. Déjà vu for me, means return to a land that I felt welcomed in, again.

Over the next few posts, I will chronicle sights, sounds and stories from our long journey through Kashmir, Ladakh and Zanskar.

Let me begin where I left with The Circle of Life:

"A travelling fool is better than a sitting wise man"

The Inspiration Bubble

2010-05-29T21:38:00.000+05:30

I've owed this post to a dear friend of mine for a very long time. A year and a half, to be precise. And I'm really glad that I'm finally in a position that I can pay my dues. So, Nikhil Patel, I hope you're reading, because you're the only reason I'm putting this one up. It's not going to be as funny as you might have once wanted it, but it's going to be as honest.

First up, why I decided to title this post thus. I think every story that involves a long protracted struggle seems somewhat like a bubble full of inspiration. The more severe the struggle grows and the harder the times get, the more the bubble expands, getting filled up with more inspiration. Thereafter, if you win, the story goes on to inspire many people, regardless of whether you ever intended to do so. If you lose, the bubble bursts. I titled this post and left it without text at a time when I felt like my bubble would burst.

A year and a half ago, I began to apply for a second Masters degree in the US. Everything was in the right place, the grades, the extra-curriculars, the research work; the whole drill. And when the first rejection hit me in the face two months later, I found myself so startled that I stood in my bathroom opening and shutting the door for about half a minute trying think what was wrong with it. It was about two days after that that NP first said the wise words, "first rejection pe ek post toh banta hai par". Back then it was decided that when I do get a decent admit, I'll write a post, panning Princeton (which sent me that first rejection). That didn't happen last year. Not one to forget to collect his dues, NP has time and again reminded me of my obligation. Ironically, I got in everywhere I wanted to get into, but no one gave me any funding. Not one to forget dues owed to him, NP has periodically reminded me of my obligation. So I decided to stay back last year, get some research done in the meantime and give this whole thing another shot. And what a great year it was. I probably had more fun than the rest of my years put together in this one year that I spent at home. So when it came around to applying again, I was confident I wasn't going to land up in the same situation as last year. Even if I did, I would have no regrets. And sure enough, as if to test my reaction, I landed up in pretty much the same situation.

It started off well. By March-end I had three admission calls and a waitlist at MIT (which I thought was quite something by itself). By April-end though, I was staring at a blank wall. With no funding from anywhere, I had nowhere to go, and the waitlist was my only hope. A week later, arrived an email with those dreaded words "Thank you for your interest" sitting right on top. That was how my rejection letter from MIT started- probably the most the inspiration bubble had grown in a day's time and perhaps also the closest it got to bursting. Two days later, I got an interview call for a scholarship. Turns out that in the middle of all this I'd taken a shot in the dark. I'd applied for a scholarship whose eligibility criteria had apparently ruled me out. I'd still taken a shot, what with wanting to throw the kitchen sink this time. By the time this interview call came, I had already gone up and down the mood ladder about a zillion times. But I decided to hold off on being a wreck for a short while and two rounds of interviews later, I now find myself at the receiving end of a a full scholarship to study at Stanford! It all went right down the wire, but it's a very hard-fought victory at the end of the day. The bubble shall live.

Right now, it's all relief and gratitude. To my family and all of my friends who've been with me through all of it, to those who've missed classes and dragged themselves in the blazing heat to the nearest tavern in times of need, to those who have encouraged me on long walks where I had no idea where I was going; a very big thank you! The greatest happiness for me lies in the fact that when I come across someone who thinks their bubble will pop, I can look them in the eye and tell them to stay at it, because it's only gathering more inspiration for those who'll look for it later.

Bradley Cooper Goes Forth: The Justice Friends

2010-05-10T21:02:00.002+05:30

If you care to read past the incidental concurrence in the names of posts in the Bradley Cooper series with Blackadder seasons (find posts here:I, II, III), I'd like you to begin to ask yourself, if you've ever wondered how your favourite superheroes stay buff. Unless you're thinking of Pieman, the logical conclusion would be that your comic book hero also goes to a gym of his own. How do I know that? Because in my pursuit of dimension change, I have run into no less than five great superheroes at my gym. So if you dare cause me any trouble, I'll call one of these five Justice Friends into service:

1. The Bored-to-Death Sardarji Meditator (BDSM, for short): Laugh not, at BDSM. Through the transcendental powers that he has gained through constant meditation at the gym, he knows every time you secretly snigger at the obvious sexual connotation to his name. And he's not happy about it. So watch out when he comes to deliver that can of whoop ass (delivered gently, of course). So you might wonder how he gained his superpower. As it turns out, BDSM was once (or always) really bored in gym. He took forever to complete one set of exercises then traveled the ends of the gym for many kalpas to follow. Later, when he awoke to weight training, everyone around him knew that enlightenment had been attained. As he slowly, yet with great steadfastness lifted the five kilos, his eyes closed, his breath deepened and his face acquired the most peaceful expression men had ever seen. He then proceeded to repeat the process a few more times before he travelled the ends of the gym once more, to let all know of his enlightenment.

2. The Constipator: "Constipator" is a misnomer, really. For The Constipator does not use his evil eye to constipate people. When he comes into gym in his cool "Eminem Slim Shady" t-shirt, everyone stops what they're doing to watch him do what he does best. The Constipator proceeds to lift weights way beyond his limit. While doing so, his face acquires an expression that tells others of the exploding of his insides from the effort. His teeth clench, his eyes pop out and his body trembles. It is that expression that earned him that feared name. It is that expression which makes me repeat the same phrase to myself every time I see him- "Mat kar bhai, mar jayega" (succinctly translated in English to dude...stop, or you'll die). The Constipator has just one weakness- his arrogance. For if you're concerned about him busting his lower back while lifting enormous weights and suggest he wears a belt, he shrugs off your advice and continues to exercise his superpowers.

3. The Underwear-er: The Underwear-er has great observational skills. In fact, he perfected his superpower after years of observing scores of Indian men who think that boxers are a good excuse for shorts. So he turns up at gym in boxers, making a perfect display of his thighs. That is also the key to his superpower- the fact that you absolutely have to look away when he's exercising. If you can't look at him, you can't hurt him.

4. The Unsolicited Advisor: Re-incarnation is his game. This guy has avatars running amok all around the city. In lines at the bank, in the bus, at the post office, even at your neighbourhood store. The Unsolicited Advisor heart goes out to all those people that he feels are lifting weights too puny for them or those that he deems exercising incorrectly. He promptly comes over to you and repeats that great catchphrase he has used so often- "You need to prektiss more!" which he follows with "lift heavier weights! I have seen guys much lighter than me lift much heavier weights!". The greatest superpower that this guy has, is the ability to inspire. You stay around him long enough, and you'll become exactly like him.

5. Count Gruntula: He's great friends with Maria Sharapova. Perhaps they're even an ideal match, but for the looks department. She grunts at 110 decibels whether it's a smash from the base-line or a deft touch from the net, he grunts at the same volume whether he's lifting three kilos or fifty. You may not see Count Gruntula (where there is light), but rest assured he'll make his presence felt from that dark corner where he is grunting away to glory.

Just as I finish writing this, I shudder with fear. I realize that BDSM has figured that I'm posting this. They must be heading my way right now.

The doorbell just rang.

Ouch.

Monday Morning Activity

2010-04-11T19:50:00.000+05:30

One ought to be glad if one finds oneself with no work at hand on a Monday morning. That, is exactly the condition I am in right now. But this once, just this once, I find myself so bored out of my wits that I'm really wishing some work comes my way soon. In the interim, I have decided to crack my knuckles and subtract one from the population of my long-overdue drafts.

You know sometimes when you're sleeping and you can't shake of the "what if something is lurking in the other room" feeling, every little creak makes you get up and wonder what that was; that's when you know you've seen a good horror flick. That happens very rarely with me, almost never. I saw Paranormal Activity the other night, lights switched off and all (have you seen the words "spoiler alert" flashing yet?). I'd already threatened my sister with a royal beating if she woke me up to switch on the lights when she wanted to go and have a drink of water in the middle of the night. The aforementioned condition agreed upon, we started up on the 90 minute thriller. You know what? Not half bad a movie, this. I was a little disappointed when I noticed at the very beginning that this one was shot in first person like the Blair Witch Project, but the scenes shot in night-vision while the couple was sleeping, though not as creepy as Paris Hilton's movie, were quite something. A great horror movie is probably one that relies heavily on suggestion rather than gore. The beauty of a movie like that is that it recognizes your brain's amazing ability to play games with you. So throughout the movie, you don't really see a ghost. A good horror movie has a really well-written ending. I would have gladly rated this one as one of the best horror movies that I have seen, if I had seen one of the better versions. Apparently the movie has three different endings. The theatrical version is different from the original and the version that I saw. The ending in my case was rather anti-climactic, and took away much of the intensity of the pre-climax. But the movie is quite a great watch. That's reflected by the fact that it grossed over 192 million, after having been made on a budget of just 15,000 dollars. I definitely recommend this one for any horror movie fan. Go watch it.

Just as I write that, work has arrived. Happy Monday.

You Can't...

2010-04-07T23:37:00.003+05:30

...always get what you want.

But if you try sometimes, you might just find...

...you get what you need.

That Could Be Me

2010-04-04T12:19:00.001+05:30

This is one of those rare posts on my blog; the rarity of which keep the word "musings" out of my blog title (not saying that my blog title is terribly original, but the very thought of two words in particular as part of my blog title makes me cringe, "random" being the other). So yes, this time around, I choose to muse. This is also where I issue a formal spoiler alert for Up in the Air, which I saw last night.

I have to admit, I liked the movie. I can't quite call it a "feel-good" movie, because it doesn't exactly end on the happiest note. Rather, it ends on a hopeful note. Having said that, the movie carries you along quite beautifully, probably because of a very simple storyline. I won't go so far to say that it's one of the best movies of our time, but it is definitely one of those movies that get you thinking. So as I sat there and cruised through the movie, my thought process started wandering in a direction which may or may not have been the intention of the movie-maker.

At various points of time in my life, whilst having the odd conversation or two, with the odd friend or two, I have found myself discovering their struggle against their hardships. In some cases, they seem trivial; generated by their own needlessly complicated perception of the situation. In other cases, it really seemed like life had dealt them a really bad hand at the given time. During some of these conversations, I have been stuck in a complex rut of my own; which is when these conversations have had the deepest impact. Watching these people fighting out much harder battles than my own and eventually winning them, has been a constant source of hope. The awe and the hope notwithstanding, these conversations have quite often also filled me with dread and trepidation. When I hear these experiences, a strange realization hits me in the face like a ton of bricks. Things could be much worse than they are right now. A question stares me in the face- if I'm finding it hard to bear the situation now, do I have what it takes to fight it out when things become worse?

Last night, I watched sequences depicting people getting fired and reacting to it. I wasn't surprised when I later found out that the people in these scenes were people who had recently been fired because of the recession (found the fact here), given that the emotions seemed so genuine. As I watched those sequences exposing how vulnerable your life is, I found myself thinking, "At some point of time in my life, that could be me". And the same question plagued me again. If I woke up tomorrow with bills to pay and a family to feed with no conceivable way of doing it, would I have what it takes to fight? I was reminded of my own father just over a decade ago when things had hit rock bottom. I saw him at home when I came back from school, every single day for the three months that he was unemployed. Not once did I see his spirit falter. He picked himself up, dusted the dirt off and at the end of that struggle, found himself the best job he'd ever had. Can I do the same if I'm faced with the same?

What is the point I'm trying to make?

That the first thing I want to do with my life is to know that it's vulnerable and yet not be fazed by it. I want to get rid of the "that could be me" fear. That makes my backpack a lot lighter.

Today...

2010-04-01T23:18:00.006+05:30

...majority of Delhi's autorickshaws stayed off the road, because no one gave into their demand to raise meter rates, so that their "arre sir, meter se kaun jaata hai" excuse could fetch them more. On the plus side, the roads at 9am and 5pm were the emptiest that I have seen for a really long time. One smooth ride.

...I noticed an amusingly large number of cows and bulls squatting in the middle of the road blocking traffic. For all my dear non-Indian readers, I'd like you to know that it amuses us only when the number of the said cows crosses a certain threshold. Also noticeable, was the fact that they mostly appeared in pairs, or in even numbers (barring the one bull that was sauntering against traffic on the wrong side of the road) and refused to budge. So we did what we do best- let them be, and jugaado-ed our way around them. One suspects that many calves may see the light of day very soon.

...I decided to give up the inertia that has for long, prevented me from writing anything.

...is April Fool's Day.

The Rowdy Sabha

2010-03-09T18:12:00.002+05:30

There are times when blog posts become a medium to register protest; in my case, disgust. A bill was tabled in the Parliament yesterday that proposed that a third of the seats in the Parliament be reserved for women. The bill was tabled in the Rajya Sabha (the Upper House of the bicameral legislature). Members of the Rajya Sabha are not directly elected by the people of the country. On paper, the Rajya Sabha contains elite politicians, academics and people who have been very successful in their respective fields. That, however, was the last inference one would draw, looking at the incidents that unfolded yesterday. Whether or not you support the reservation of seats for women in the Parliament, you simply cannot ignore the unruly, urchin-like behaviour displayed by our top lawmakers yesterday. The sad thing is that no punishment was meted out to the culprits. Take a look at this video.

I don't remember snatching microphones, assaulting the speaker and tearing up the bill being legitimate methods of protesting in parliamentary debates. I just wanted to take this opportunity to express my extreme sense of shame at what happened and my extreme disgust at the fact that they all got away with it. May someone teach them to behave themselves.

Staffs, Strikes and Rolling Stones

2010-03-01T01:00:00.000+05:30

Ever heard a legendary Bob Dylan song called Like a Rolling Stone? Have you ever noted the distinct sound of the organ that outlines the song? Turns out that the guy who played that piece was then a nobody called Al Kooper who wasn't even an organ player. He sneaked in to the band when the recording director had gone out to receive a call, and was allowed to stay on because (in Al's words) "the director was a gracious man". The sound of that organ playing in the song is distinctive essentially because it lags the rest of the band. That was a natural consequence of the fact that Al Kooper had no idea what he was doing and only played the note by copying what the rest of the band did. That's one of the many great back-stories to a lot of legendary Dylan songs that I found in this rock-umentary called No Direction Home (which I was double-timing with Oye Lucky Lucky Oye earlier today). The feature primarily discussed the rise of Bob Dylan from a lanky youngster who sang at the March on Washington in 1963, to the legend that he is today. Also discussed, was the rise of this genre of music called "protest music".

The song was originally about 10 pages (about 51 verses) long. As I play the song in the background while writing this post, I find that it's still long enough for me to be able to type out a lot of this post by the time it finishes. I also reflect on a certain conversation I had had with M a few months ago, when with much angst, he shared with me the horror of having had to sit through some hip-hop video. Protest music was essentially a product of the political turmoil of the 1960s. The civil rights movement, the cold war and the raging Vietnam war provided enough material for someone who wanted to protest prevailing social conditions. I realize that that period produced many of the greatest musicians the world has ever known. That was a time where African-American music wasn't about drugs, hustling, bling and buttocks. So your ideal African-American musical hero would be a B.B. King or a Miles Davis making it big on that streak of rebellion, and not a worth-his-weight-in-gold-clad Snoop Dogg.

What is the conclusion that I'm trying to draw from this? That political turmoil provides great breeding ground for fantastic music. Or perhaps it used to. We may not have those "I have a dream" moments happening too often anymore, but there's still enough turmoil for everyone to churn out profound verse and yet, there seems to be a distinct absence of those voices of protest.

Either they've stopped talking, or we've stopped listening.

Cooper, Bradley III

2010-02-25T21:10:00.004+05:30

Let the record state at the very outset, that this is not the customary post that I make every time I have climbed up the bench-press ladder by a certain amount (which, for the record I have). This is also not a post in praise of my gym exploits, of which I assure you there are many (but modesty, quite like factual accuracy, is one of the tenets this blog swears by). This post is quite simply an obituary.

This post is in the memory of the self-esteems of certain men, all undergoing the CoM phase (if you don't get the reference, you don't read my blog enough; see the first post and the second post of the series). These brave men walk in to the gym for the first time, look around (with that look quite reminiscent of Rajnikanth's entry in many a movie), and nonchalantly head toward that death trap we call the cross-bar. The intent is to show the room who's boss. Imagine the shock when their arms realize that their bodies are too heavy, and they're left there trying with their lives to look like they're hanging on purpose and having fun doing it. All that looks good in Complan ads with pre-pubescent brats. When you're pot-bellied and thirty, you ought to know that your self-esteem just rolled over and died. May it rest in peace.

Not one to let my bretheren's mistakes go by without notice, I find room for one of my theories. This theory states that it is quite alright to underestimate yourself in certain situations; especially when you are a CoM-er and public humiliation is hot and ready to serve. Amen.

True story.

Return of the Closing Argument

2010-02-22T20:42:00.003+05:30

When I wrote a post last year, looking back at what I then thought was the last debating event in my life, I had no clue that another one was coming exactly a year later. Do I have a clue about what's coming next year? Perhaps not. But then again, a few epiphanies I had in the last four days made sure that there will be no more of this.

The 5th IIT Delhi Parliamentary Debate concluded with a win for Ramjas yesterday, and what a ride it was. Sleepless nights, missed meals, meals consisting of pizza on the go; it was the busiest I had been in a very long time. And while I knew that I was going to say exactly the opposite when it all ended, there were times in between when I really wanted it to end. There were also these times when my head told me I was too old for this. I wonder what Chauhan's head tells him then. There's always that sense of ennui once the frenzy dies after a whole week of madness; but it's good to return to life the way it was before one was forced to shift tracks, albeit temporarily. I think the strangest bit is when you meet people, you work with them and befriend them for the duration of the debate. Once the debate is over, especially in this case (with it being the last ever for me), you wonder if you will run into them again. I'm going to stop wondering in about a day when I've slept off the sleep deprivation and gone back to work.

All said and done, the whole affair went off rather well (even if grossly behind schedule). I haven't added anything to my debating experiences in the time-span between the the last two IIT PDs, but I've added enough in the last week or so to say again that it's been a great run; and more importantly, this is it. Not the kind of "it" I mentioned a year ago, this time it's a curtain call!

Fare-thee-well EDLC. I wish you the best!

Two Tens and Three Ones

2010-02-04T23:32:00.002+05:30

Yep. If you managed to somehow scrape through second grade math, you'd realize that the title makes twenty three. That's about as much I'm going to turn in about 10 minutes after this post goes up. And a good twenty two it has been. I'm evidently not the man who requires constant public attention, so I thought it best to express gratitude for the things in life and the year it has been in public. If you find me howling about my life in about 24 hours and 10 minutes from now, I give you (yes YOU) the right to hold me to ransom.

I notice an absence at this point of time. That of a certain sense of ennui that had plagued me when twenty two had dawned. Days were a little lonely then. Nothing going as per plan has now ensured that I have had that lovely extra year to spend with loved ones; those who have been with me for the longest time and also those that met me about twenty two days after I turned twenty two. I am as glad as glad can be for the twists of fate that formed the seemingly disastrous start of twenty two, and made welcoming twenty three such a pleasure. It was only because of these that I was able to meet one of you, and be with all of you for that extra year.

So what's up with this twenty three business, you ask. Well, for one, one feels wiser. Wiser not in terms of being able to give better gyan of the unsolicited kind (which let's face it, one was always good at); but wiser in terms knowing when one's being stupid. The sense of adventure that still makes you do that stupid thing despite having full knowledge of it doesn't start fading till you're 30 I guess. So that makes for an interesting next 7 years.

What else is up with this twenty three business, you inquire. Marriage, I say. Not mine (say grace, womenkind), but a whole lot of others around me. It's filling conversation-space everywhere. Let's hope that marriage hoo-haa takes it's own royal time getting around. Also, slowly but steadily, the new hot women on tv have gone from being five years older to same age to now being about two years younger. That's a development I will have my eyes on, for twenty four maybe.

All said and done, a great year gone, and hopefully a great year ahead. Here's to being good in life. I love you all and owe you big (you know who you are).

Happy 23, SK.

Centurial Proceedings

2010-01-28T21:40:00.000+05:30

I had a half written post lying around my drafts which I had intended to put up today, but that post will have to wait for a while to see the light of day. I did some simple addition and realized that what I'm putting up now is the 100th post on the blog. Every blogger, I believe, has the right to an occasional my-blog-is-so-awesome gloat. Anyone who is unfortunate or unemployed enough to read my blog should be prepared to bear this mind-numbing torture (if you're still reading it, you've probably become immune to it) about once every 100 posts. On the occasion of my 100th post, I also find it entirely appropriate to title this post with an invented word and blame it on artistic licence.

On to how awesome my blog is, then. I started off this blog along with a (now defunct) blog called Booze Diaries. Booze Diaries finds itself under ten feet of dust, not because blood alcohol levels have dipped. Quite the contrary, in fact. It owes its decline most, to a lack of memory about the previous night. On a more serious note, I have found it difficult to keep a thematic blog going. You can't risk yourself landing in the gutter every night just to keep a blog going, especially one that's probably read by about two people (one of whom is you yourself). This blog too, started off as "Travel Travails". In fact the first post on the blog was written under that banner. Soon enough I realized that unless I turn this blog into a day-to-day one, I'll find myself only writing about how answering nature's calls in places that I go for trips is so difficult. Soon after the switch to the current title I wrote "Perspective", which continues to remain one of my favourite posts. Therefore I believe we find ourselves in agreement, that the switch from "Travel Travails" to "Days in the Life Of..." was a move for the better.

It has taken nearly two years to reach the centurial (in your face, Firefox spell check!) mark. I feel happy when I say that the blog has now reached a decent level of regular readership, far away from the two-hits-a-day status. That obviously doesn't mean that I don't open my counter about fifteen times a day. Let's just blame that on the attention seeking nature of man. All said and done, writing is a fantastic creative outlet, and it feels good to know that people are reading stuff you write. That, especially when you know people are hardly listening when you talk (a lot of it that I'm told I do). As Manu once put it, "I find it admirable that you can treat your blog as a creative release. I'm a total sell-out. I write only so that I get all comments and the fan-mail!". Unfortunately, Manu has stopped selling out as often nowadays. I'm sure I'll continue to sell out and pretend like I'm getting creative release out of the blog for a while. There will be phases when inspiration (or inclination for that matter) to write will be hard to come by, but then there'll be days in the life of Siddharth Krishnamoorthy when he'll crack his fingers and get typing again (and then check his blog counter 20 times over the next three days), and come back to remind you why his blog is so awesome approximately once every 100 posts.

Here's thanking all my readers who keep me writing. May you continue to not have a life and find yourself getting tortured by my aimless rambling for a long time to come!

Perceptions and Contradictions

2010-01-23T12:35:00.006+05:30

Uncle SS left a few days ago. Uncle SS is also one with questionable secular credentials. Notice how calling someone un-secular is almost swearing now. I remember this episode of Boston Legal where someone sues Denny Crane because he tells them that they "don't sound black". Denny asks Allen whether saying someone sounds black is racist, to which Allan rather elegantly replies that it would be much more racist to say "someone sounds street or urban and mean they sound black". My point at the end of the day is that if you hate a section of people and typecast all of them under one bracket, and then expect others to agree with you, you'd better have a good explanation for it. I'm sure Uncle SS thinks of himself as a perfectly liberal and tolerant man. His well-to-do, affluent and highly educated sensibilities will find it too politically incorrect to realize his lack of tolerance. Living in denial about the same ensures a peaceful existence under one's skin.

Uncle SS has not lived in India for almost two decades now. I have met him on and off throughout that period and never have found myself informed or opinionated enough to actively engage in a debate with him. This time, however, things were different. If anything, the debate ended only because I realized there's no amount of logic that wins against one's emotional faculties. That's not a bad thing per se. But when the emotion is hate and exclusion, it's better to use mind over matter and suppress until one is thoroughly convinced of the truth of the matter. You see, Uncle SS is of the firm belief that everything is black and white. So much so that I might actually end up rechristening him Uncle Noir et Blanche. Everything he says, needs to be weighed on objectivity and needs to be enforced emotionlessly. There are cold, hard decisions to be made in life and emotions only drag you down. On a personal level, I might get myself to somehow agree with him- there are tough decisions to be made in life and sometimes you need to keep emotions out of these decisions. But when he extrapolates the same logic to tell me how India will never progress unless it stamps out the greys and starts seeing everything in black and white, I begin to flinch. We had a rather heated argument the other day on who to ascribe moral responsibility to, when a bribe exchanges hands. Uncle SS believes that as a citizen of the country (as a doctor, say), if I do my job correctly, I have no other moral responsibility to society. "It's a matter of free choice. No one forces you to take a bribe", he argues. I question Uncle SS' belief, saying that the person accepting the bribe may be in a dire financial condition and may not always be in a position to be able to make what Uncle SS might call a morally right decision when a carrot is dangled in front of him. Free choice is not telling a person that he's free to choose and then load the choice heavily in one direction. I'm not using this as an excuse to legitimize bribing and corruption. All I'm saying is that the moral responsibility cannot be passed on to one person in all cases without consideration. Probably never having been in such a situation himself, he cannot admit the existence of such a middle ground.

Uncle SS also returned rather traumatized from the Auto Expo. One of the things that traumatized him was this lady who was sweeping the floor at Pragati Maidan with a bamboo broom while there were Mercedes cars on display right behind her, complete with blondes and brunettes to add to the glamour. "The lady was stupid. What kind of an image of our country does this portray?", fumes Uncle SS. I smile feebly, simply because I realize that this is another argument that won't be won. It tells the world that there exist such contradictions in our country. Right here, a woman can continue sweeping in front of Mercedes cars worth millions, only to look up to be appalled by how skimpily clad the accompanying blondes and brunettes are. She knows she'll never be able to afford the car, but the sweeping of the floor atleast feeds her family, and that's all she's concerned about. It also tells the world that our country can survive (if not flourish) with contradictions like these. So I'd rather let them see it, rather than sweep it under the rug. After about two decades of being away and dealing with binary issues, has forgotten about the existence of the middle ground. One can't blame him; there are very few countries in the world that throw up as many contradictions in a single day as this one does. But to suppose that everything needs to be seen in black and white and the greys need to be stamped out is suicidal. The difference at the end of the day is that I find it quite amusing (beautiful, even) that we continue to function despite so many parameters to balance in every equation (something he might refer to as me having been sanitized to all of India's problems).

Let's face the fact- while that middle ground may create more factors to manage on a day to day basis, hence complicating problems and their solutions, that same middle ground is where people struggle every single day to make something out of their lives. The day you ignore that middle ground in this country, you begin to regress. The same regression which will be termed as true progress by Uncle SS and the like, simply because the white contains everyone who thinks like him, the greys cease to exist and the black (which has essential grown to swallow the grey), we simply turn a blind eye to and pretend it's not there. Democracy wins. Free choice prevails.

Aman Ki Asha

2010-01-21T16:15:00.007+05:30

I woke up this new year's day with the painful realization of a screaming headache that had probably been afflicting me for a a couple of hours now; only that I was lost in deep, alcohol-induced slumber so I couldn't feel it. As I stumbled across the hall in my friend's house (where last night's revelry had unfolded, and caused the said headache) and laid my eyes on the newspaper, I found the front page yelling, "Let's talk to Pakistan". This was a pleasant start to the new year. Having walked across the border at Wagah and therefore seen more than the pompous machismo most get to see at the change of guards ceremony, I had returned very happy with the treatment I had received in that country. The hospitality extended out to us, especially when people came to know that we were from the country next door was heart warming to say the least. The hospitality-givers didn't come from a restricted section of society. Shopkeepers, pedestrians, students, taxi drivers - a wide range of social and economic backgrounds were nothing but warm and generous. On new year's day then, one found oneself cheered up in throes of a dirty hangover. Even though I know where the whole Aman ki Asha hoohaa is headed, I know for a fact that there's no better feeling than getting an opportunity to tear through the iron curtain and realizing that the rather demonized common man at the other end is an average Joe like you. A lot of Indians will get to go to a lot of countries in the world, but still not get a chance to pay a visit to our neighbours. The tragedy of the situation is that there's so much distrust fuelled by emotional indoctrination that it takes a herculian effort on either side to even admit an opposing opinion. I remember the expressions on the faces of a lot of members of my extended family when I told them that I was going to Pakistan for a debate- sheer horror, an expression that they may have shown my corpse if I had committed suicide. Having gone and returned (in one piece, all organs intact), I'm glad about the fact that my words against the type-casting of a people hold more weight.

I read a post recently on another blog on how the move is superficial and can never succeed in improving our relations. The funny thing you'll discover, if you read the post is that the campaign affected our hangovers in separate ways. While I might dare to agree with him on the success of the campaign with respect to achieving its final objectives, I find myself in total disagreement with him as to the cause of that failure. Ironically this morning, the front page of TOI carried news of the exclusion of Pakistani players from the IPL and the reaction of the Pakistani politicians to it on the front page and about halfway into the newspaper, there was a full page spread on Aman ki Asha. On the front page, Nawaz Sharif called for a ban on Indian films in Pakistan and on the 12th, stories of collaboration between artists from two sides. With the IPL blunder, we've sent out a message that we did not want to send out. That dichotomy brings to light, the essential nature of the problem.

The sad truth very simply is the fact that no campaign for peace between the two countries can survive without political sanction, which is fundamentally fickle in nature. Both governments have this dying need to be politically correct (which one really can't blame them for) which involves striking a balance between wanting peace and at the same time reconciling with images of people dying in the streets. Having written the last line, I immediately begin to question whether the governments on either side are even concerned with striking that balance. Truth is, patriotism and nationalism sells better than tolerance.

Having said that, I believe it's better for me to not discuss Kashmir over a cup of tea with my Pakistani friend rather than treating him like an enemy. Aman ki Asha, with all the official sanction that it does not have, may not solve the problem, but is certainly better than not wishing for peace.

Curtains Redux

2009-12-31T09:52:00.005+05:30

It so transpires that this year has come to pass. When I wrote my New Year's Eve post last year, I was particularly incensed at the Kappal Antry procedures in most places which basically meant that I was sitting across the road from Cafe Morrison (where happened a 60s rock night, free entry, kappals only), sipping coffee with two of my fellow cronies as the clock struck twelve. This year, things are different. A friend who has never previously organized a party (and therefore) has consented to host a get-together tonight. What better way to start the new year than with a single-malt in hand and a devastating hangover later!

I had planned several things for the year that terminates today. Turns out that nothing went according to plan, and it was by far the best year I've had in the last five! So here's wishing all my readers who keep this blog from dying a pariah's death (that it might truly deserve on some days) a very happy new year. Plan a lot, dream more!

Hippie New Year.

Of Blue People and Metaphor Overdoses

2009-12-26T12:24:00.003+05:30

Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen Avatar, read no further.

Avatar had the promise of a great watch. It was the first movie I was going to watch in 3-D after Chhota Chetan for which I had gone as an eleven-year-old and thoroughly enjoyed. Looking back, I strongly recommend the movie for cinematic experience. That, despite the feeling of watching a patchwork collage of other movies, that you get from time to time in the two and half hours. Everyone gets plugged into the Avatar body (quite inexplicably, because the blue blokes know who it is inside the nine-foot behemoth) through a system that is very reminiscent of getting plugged into the Matrix. At other times in the movie, I was distinctly aware of the similarities with other movies like The Day After Tomorrow and on one occasion, even Kingdom of Heaven.

Then there's rich dose of metaphors that the movie churns out. We start with the whole humans teaching the Na'vis to communicate in English which is probably a straight take on the "Civilizing Mission" that most countries of the West undertook before colonizing countries around the world. Then there is a strong critique of American foreign policy, which is a horse that everyone loves to flog. Last of all there is also the "revenge of mother nature" metaphor when the animals come to the support of the people of Pandora and wipe out the attacking army. Another interesting thing emerges from the romantic angle between the two protagonists. The display of affection is distinctly human, even American. A friend suggests that it is important to maintain a sense of connection to the story unfolding on screen. While he might be right, I still find it interesting that one assumes that a hundred and fifty years in the future, people of a different colour on a different planet would express their love in ways characteristically human.

The movie's a good watch otherwise. The very fact that so many of us have written about it or plan to do so is a reflection of the fact that it makes for an interesting two and a half hours.

An Ode to Thee...Delhi

2009-12-21T11:47:00.000+05:30

It came as quite a surprise to me when an aunt of mine who had come from abroad to stay with us for a few days, suggested that we take her and her family to old Delhi for a visit. I was surprised because, for the longest time I have held (and continue to hold) her secular credentials under serious doubt. I wasn't sure I had heard the request correctly. Then again, my religious credentials are under serious doubt.

It started with a fairly innocuous suggestion- "let's go and see the light and sound show at the Red Fort". At this point, I am ashamed to admit that in my nearly 23 years of living, I have never been inside the Red Fort. I'm perfectly aware of the fact that a lot of my readers who hail from Delhi and are reading my shameful admission, are also identifying with it (let me not get started on the Lotus temple). Funny as it is, I have been inside the Red Fort's twin at Lahore, some half a thousand kilometers away. This, despite fairly frequent visits to the old city, or scores of drives past the Red Fort. There was a certain level of cautious excitement that was growing inside me as the hour approached. Caution, because the old city is a little bit of an acquired taste for most, especially for those who are used to the open, empty roads of vilayat. I, personally had hated it when I had gone for the first time years ago. Then I started to visit it quite frequently and soon enough I thoroughly enjoyed being part of the chaos; the best experience being that of walking out of the modern Chawri Bazaar Metro station into the cycle-rickshaw-jammed Hauz Qazi Chowk.

We reached the Red Fort just after sunset- a little too soon for the light and sound show, but a little too late to explore the interior. Then came the surprising suggestion- a walk through the by-lanes of Chandni Chowk to Jama Masjid. About half an hour later we had managed to snake our way through the narrow streets and were on our final approach to Jama Masjid. I looked around and realized that the younger fraction of my guests were beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. I, for one, have always enjoyed the streets around the gate to the mosque and was having a great time trying to avoid getting run over by cycle-rickshaws. We couldn't enter the mosque because we had arrived after sunset but as we stood on the mosque's steps, absorbing the heady mix of people, prayers, walking animals and those being served on plates, I could sense my sister having a change of heart. An "epiphany in life" is what we decided to call this sudden sense of love for old Delhi, that had managed to spring forth from her hatred for the same place. Other sections of our group may not have had the same change of heart.

We finally managed to make our way back to the Red Fort in time for the light and sound show. This is where I make a recommendation to all my friends who have walked the streets of Delhi and never managed to go inside the fort; go. The ambient lighting of the fixtures inside the fort were quite a sight. The light and sound show itself wasn't much to write home about. But as I sat there on the lawns in front of the Diwan-i-khaas bathed in the light shed by a full moon, I was having an epiphany in life of my own:

I love Delhi. I love the fact that this city is in itself such a poetic mix of contradictions. We're far from perfect. And even though I may never win an objective debate on whether this city is better than any other in the world, this is home, and home is where I will always belong. I may complain about it, I may get angry with it; I might even hate it sometimes but I will never be disillusioned with it.

Evil Google

2009-11-26T15:03:00.003+05:30

Google-Evil.

If you thought the worst disease was AIDS or Cancer, I'd probably grant you that to avoid a whack on the head. The next on that list though, is this disease called random reading. Google is the most potent carrier of this disease. You have the urge to random read, and all you need is to type some word that pops in your head into the search toolbar, and about five million links come flowing out to keep you busy for hours. You click on the first link, and you find something else interesting, and that topic has half a million links more.

Why is it so bad? Because you waste hours, days and weeks reading about everything aside from work. I have been infected with a nasty bout of the random reading disease. You know what else it does? Gets you to daydream about trips you want to take; makes your mind write cheques, you can't possibly cash. The following destinations have been added to my plans (by means of random-reading-induced daydreaming) :

Karakoram Pass
Karakoram Highway
Antarctica

How did I land up here? I randomly thought of the Siachen Glacier in the shower. Join the dots from there.

Now I'd better start looking for a suitable lottery to finance all of them because I sure am getting fired soon if I continue down this road. Then the only Karakoram I'll be visiting is the hostel in IIT Delhi.

Others win the lottery and buy property, I look to win the lottery to find novel ways of killing myself.

Days in the life of Siddharth Krishnamoorthy.

Scared To Death

2009-11-24T00:04:00.001+05:30

I had intended to write this post soon after I had seen the last episode of How I Met Your Mother (Season 3). Instead, I write this post bored; halfway through my session of (this is where I begin to term-drop) numerical stability analysis. In the episode, Ted and Barney meet with accidents and figure out what happens to you when you think you're going to die. Both of them report seeing only the most important people in their lives when faced with death.

I intend this post to be more than anything else, an interaction with my readers and co-bloggers with interesting experiences. After having narrated mine, I want you, the reader, to tell me if you have had an experience where you thought you were a goner (going to die, wham, kapoot and the like). I don't mean the "Oh my God, it's so hot I could die" moments, but those that really made you think that this was it. I want to know what these incidents were and what went through your head.

Now there's two ways we could do this. The first is to regard this post as a blogger tag. Those of my readers who write blogs of their own can perhaps put up a post in the same vein as this one and leave me a comment with their blog address. If that's too fancy for you (or you're not one for writing blogs), you could perhaps leave a long-ish comment with your story.

On to my stories then. I can distinctly recall three times in my life of twenty two odd years when I was of the opinion that this was the premature end. I divide these three incidents in two categories. The first category, is when the whole incident is a matter of a few seconds. The second, is when it is a more prolonged process of doubt and uncertainty and needless to say, more unpleasant than anything else. On with the first incident then.

The first incident took place one summer evening around south-central Delhi. My father, my sister and I had to cross the road right at the end of a flyover. There was no subway, so we had to risk crossing a fairly busy road at rush hour. At my father's insistence we began to cross the road, but soon found ourselves in a precarious position in the middle of the road where the traffic from the flyover merged with the rest of the road. We knew we had got ourselves into a tangle. No sooner than we had this realization, a truck decided to overtake a vehicle which would soon whiz past our backs. Do the math and you'll realize that as soon as the truck driver overtook the car from the right, he'd have noticed that he was heading right at us at full speed. The truck driver wasn't the only one who was enlightened thus. We saw the truck and realized there was nothing we could do. My father had already thrown his hands in the air, my sister had already let out half a scream and my brain had already got stunned into inaction by the time the truck flew past us, missing us quite literally by a couple of inches. All of this, in a matter of three seconds. Truth be told, that was too little time to even know what was happening, let alone have my life flash in front of me. After all was done, I knew I had drawn a blank and my only concern was to get across to safety.

The second incident took place when I was on a family trip, headed to Arunachal Pradesh. We had to cross a mountain pass at 14000 feet to get to Tawang. The weather had been fine all along, but as soon as we reached the pass, we got stranded in a blizzard that nearly blew a couple of cars off the cliff. The blizzard intensified and brought down so much snow that our car could no longer grip the road to carry out the final fifty metre climb to the zero point after which the rest of the journey would have been downhill. We were forced to turn back and make our way back down to the valley floor. Everything had turned white by now. There was no way one could make out where the road ended. On our way down, in an attempt to cross a stationary army truck, our car slipped and slid on the road and there we were, caught in a blizzard with a tyre buried in the snow on the side of the mountain. We surely couldn't spend the night at that altitude inside the car, and the tyre refused to budge. By now every one began to panic. My father and I tried to push and shove the car out of the ditch but the biting cold and the heavy car made it impossible to move it. Thankfully though, after about an hour's pushing and shoving, we managed to intercept an army vehicle that had come to recover the stationary army truck that had got us into all this trouble. Another half an hour of shoving by about ten of us finally got the car out of the hole and we headed back down, thankful for our lives.

About three months after the Arunachal incident had transpired, I found myself at Kangla Jal. Three friends and I were making our way from Manali to Leh on a bus that had snaked through treacherous roads all day long. We came to one of many grinding halts behind a long line of vehicles. There was a river crossing ahead and a bunch of cars had got trapped inside the water, preventing traffic flow from either side. What started off as a short halt, slowly turned into an hour, then two, and as nightfall began to approach, there was talk of spending the night in the bus. It was dangerous to spend the night inside a bus at 16000 feet. Some tried to cross the river on foot but realized that the current was too strong and returned. Then it began to rain, which further raised the water level, and flooded the river with sediment. The end result being that we were trapped inside a bus, having had no food for over 24 hours, no water to drink, little air to breathe and no way of informing anyone of the trouble we were in. We were careful to keep our windows slightly open so as to not choke ourselves, but that too had to be abandoned once it started raining in the middle of the night. My mouth had gone completely dry because of the lack of water and my head was throbbing because I felt like no matter how hard I inhaled, there wasn't enough air getting to my lungs. Throughout that night I constantly thought of what would happen if the road didn't clear up the next day as well. That, thankfully wasn't the case. The water level reduced sharply the next morning and we powered across the river and onward to Leh.

The last two incidents belong to the second category I mentioned above. The long hours of uncertainty were excruciating. None of those times though, did incidents of my life flash past my eyes. The only thing I was obsessed with was getting on the other side of the ordeal. Of course I wondered about things I'd do differently once I got out on the other side; deals I never really respected, come to think of it.

All said and done, being scared to death does leave you with a few stories to tell.

Do you have any?

To Do Before 30...

2009-11-13T15:37:00.005+05:30

I recently realized that I work best when I make fairly concrete To-do lists on paper. That somehow seems to crystallize my plans for the day or the week better than trying to keep things in my head. What it probably also does is that it makes me obsessively want to scratch of things off that list, hence rendering me surprisingly more efficient.

I spent all of this morning reading random wikipedia articles which made me realize that there's so much to see and such little time. So while my immediate To-do list read of items such as "Buy Drainex", "Call the electrician to fix the geyser" or even "Write instructional paper for Taylor-Couette experiment", I decided to put down on my blog a list of things to do before I'm thirty. I have just over seven years to complete it, and if I find enough reason to continue writing on this blog till I'm 30, I shall return on the 5th of February 2017 (my 30th birthday) and evaluate how much of it I have been able to accomplish. Most of these plans are travel related, so don't come at me with bamboo sticks for it not being charitable enough.

So here goes- things I wish to do before I'm 30 years old:

~~Go to Leh by road~~.
Visit Jerusalem. (Courtesy G's reminder)
Perform a Chadar Trek in Ladakh in winter.
Skydive (preferably start in North Island New Zealand and end up on South Island).
Bungee from the cable car platform near Queenstown.
Go to Lhasa either by Tibetan rail or by road from Nepal.
Do the "Circle Line Pub Crawl" in London and be able to walk in a straight line at the end of it.
Learn a foreign language (preferably Spanish, which I had made a start on years ago).
Pretend like I'm bald on purpose.

Notice how I don't have all the "get married, settle down" nonsense listed there. I'm hoping all that will take care of itself by then. Or else I'll furnish a new list on 5/2/17.

I see that I've already made a head-start, the outlook is good from where I see it!

Vertical Integration

2009-11-01T22:18:00.003+05:30

In one of my recent conversations with a friend, I came up with a theory. The theory has its origins in a dream I had the previous night.

The theory goes as follows :

Your brain thinks on different levels, and in your dreams it tries to integrate all these levels into the same plane.

These were the various levels:

I love Google and for long, have propounded that it can answer life's important questions.
At some subconscious level, I fear getting arrested.
I had met a friend (say M) that night and we had sat together and talked about how I had played poker quite well at a recent card party.

This was the "integrated" dream:

M and I go for a cards party. We leave for a short while in between and when we come back, the host has been shot dead by someone at the party. We get scared and run away and hide from the police. How do we find out that the police is hot on our tail?- We put our names into Google Image Search and the "Wanted" poster shows up as the first result.

Vertical integration- just a concept of economics, no more.

Feedback Loops

2009-10-26T22:21:00.003+05:30

22 years and 10 months into life, one has probably lived long enough to start noticing certain patterns emerging.

Ever noticed that there are several feedback loops running in life at various levels.Like when you're tense and wound up, you somehow cause your life to throw things at you that wind you up even more.

And that they don't cease to drop from the heavens or grow out of hell till you decide not be wound up anymore?

Baal vs Leviathan

2009-10-24T21:34:00.003+05:30

I am now two hours into a journey that thankfully has not lived up to its promise of being god-awful. After having seen a movie and a half on mute on my neighbour's laptop (one of which I recognized as Batman and Robin), and skimmed through a few pages of my copy of Ashis Nandy's 'Alternative Sciences', I feel that the time is nigh to discuss what the last post denied us. I promise to not let the distractions of a rail journey steal from this profound question I seek to answer.

The question, or rather my answer to it, is something that I have philosophized about at length. My father who is in town (otherwise posted out of station) provided a new way to look at it, albeit unwittingly.

Allow me to introduce the title then. As the Canaanite legend goes, Baal (the Canaanite storm god) created the world after he won his battle with the sea monster Leviathan, that threatened to reduce everything back to primordial chaos. Leviathan also finds a mention several times in the Torah and the Bible, and has often been used to depict or describe anything that seeks to bring disorder into God's order. In essence, Leviathan is most likely a metaphor for disorder, while Baal symbolizes the human ability to overcome chaos and lead a settled, 'orderly' life.

The reason why the myth of Baal and Leviathan really came about was probably the Canaanites' desire to establish a social order and a civilization under very harsh conditions (refer to Karen Armstrong's History of God for details). They lived in the desert and any fluctuation from clearly outlined, ordered and demarcated roles in civil society would probably lead to the destruction of the civilization, which would find itself crumbling into the chaos of the desert. In a certain sense, the slight order created would be gobbled up Leviathan. To that effect the Baal vs Leviathan battle was an everyday struggle for survival. Order wasn't just desirable, it was essential.

Now that we have arguably a well ordered society, built on fixed principles, we have on paper achieved that order that our ancestors strove for. Where we haven't achieved it, we strive to be as ordered as possible. But there is also an anti-Utopian chunk of our populace which appreciates deviation from set patterns. Therefore, on the one side we have this obsession with symmetry and whatever it entails and on the other, we tend to appreciate defects in it. Fusion music, for instance.

Before I go on to how my father added new perspective to this age-old paradox, allow me ot describe him (and then myself). My father is an early riser. He is disciplined, has a bath early in the morning, likes his things placed where they should be, and feels a certain joy when things are done in an orderly fashion. I on the other hand, am a fairly late riser and to say that I'm rather stochastic (perhaps even chaotic to a certain extent) in my method of conducting things would not be far from the truth. Safe to say that he's quite the Baal and I, albeit not to the civilization-destroying extent, am the living embodiment of Leviathan. Needless to say, here too Baal vs Leviathan is an everyday battle for survival. Beneath the everyday battle however, there is a strong ideological clash because I think that discipline in personal life is overrated. I don't deny that a basic, life-sustaining level of discipline is necessary. However, I feel that within the personal sphere, the stigma associated with 'being undisciplined' is far beyond what it should be. If the purpose of life is to be happy (which both my father and I are in agreement upon), then I feel that those of us who are anti-Utopian; or even dis-Utopian (call us 'Chomskians', broadly) are much better placed than our 'disciplined' counterparts.

Allow me to elucidate. The beauty of being disorderly is tautologically ingrained in the fact that one is no longer enamoured with the attainment of perfect order. Once this love for order and discipline is lost, we rarely get displeased by the prevalence of disorder. Contrast this with the disciplinarian's constant quest to have everything in a (if not 'its') stipulated place. The quest is not only constant, its also endless. And this brings me to my second argument. Being disorderly is what comes naturally to anyone. You didn't really know that books went into a shelf or that the plates went into a rack when you were born. You were taught those things as you grew up. As a Chomskian, you will not be displeased till someone tries to forcibly set you into crucibles of perfect order, but you can manage to ruin a disciplinarian's day simply by being yourself. If you don't believe me, next time try leaving the remote where it doesn't belong. In that sense, we're also better off at 'coping' with disorder (which is ever so natural). I put the word coping in quotes because disorder is something to cope with only for those who constantly seek to do away with it- the Baals.

Outside the personal sphere, I admit that it might be necessary to engage in a broadly defined social contract within a few well determined principles so that a bare minimum functioning order may be established. But this too, should not be taken to a limit that makes things water tight and uninterpretable.

My theory, in essence is that within your own skin, you decide how much of a Baal you want to be, without being driven by what you've been told. And don't tell my moral science teacher from the 5th grade.

Completed at 7:45 pm on 16th October 2009.

Creative Juices

2009-10-19T20:33:00.002+05:30

I write this post travelling on what, prima facie, shows great promise of being a rather harrowing train journey in a cramped chair car compartment. I'm travelling to Kota for a family Diwali get together. The one thought that reiterates itself every half hour or so is that the average age of the gathering is well above mine. Having been given one's constraints, one hopes to optimize within the barriers by infusing copious amounts of juvenility (if that's even a word) into the high-average-age gathering. Then again, if one has known my family at close quarters for as long as I have, then one knows that while we may be disparate vis-a-vis our physical ages, we have the amazing ability to achieve a condition of concurrence as far as our mental ages are concerned (given the right conditions).

Talking of constraints then. Allow me to describe the scene around me. I have, time and again, apprised and updated my readers of my dimensions. As the train chugs out of the station, you would find my mother, sister and aunt on the right side of the aisle. My father is in the seat right in front, making small talk with his two neighbours. Me, you will find in the middle seat with a gentleman on the left whose dimensions far exceed mine, even by the most generous of estimates. On the right hand boundary of this ill-fitted sandwich is a lady whose bag (comfortably placed right in front of the seat) far exceeds my dimensions, even by the most generous estimate. Needless to say, the bag whilst luxuriously seated, is rather brazenly making unlawful intrusions into my leg space. Many a men have for long dreamed of a damsel accompanying them on a journey to a distant land, (if not for anything, for the sheer passage of hours) and found themselves seated next to a middle-aged pot. One tends to lose faith in the mechanisms of justice in the universe when the dream does come true, and yet, comes in the form of a short straw that is rather un-damsel-ly. In the sheer absence of a good swear word, 'Cramped' I believe was the word I chose a few lines ago. Let's stick to it; more for the sake of decency rather than brevity.

At this point, I must also graciously acknowledge two deaths that have occurred recently. The first, is the death of the incessant chattering of two children(aged between four and eight) that filled up the airspace behind my seat. That, I daresay, is a more than welcome relief. That incessant, incoherent squeaking had far worn out its welcome. The squeaking, however, recently reincarnated itself into the voice of a gentleman sitting behind me who wishes to make his conversation head to everyone in the bogey. So much for my short-lived relief. The second death, which occurred as soon as the train rolled out, was of something you find aplenty in India- unsolicited advice. Advice on how to sit, where to sit, how to 'adjust', how to cheat the laws of gravity and place luggage in a way that would allow the adviser to fit in that extra piece of redundant luggage on the rack, at the expense of the advisee's space. This was something that half my family rather gladly partook in (thankfully not the 'adjust'-ing bit).

Some food has now begun to do the rounds. Now that all of us find ourselves occupied with our own pedantic occupations (most of us reading, one of us writing), I notice two things. Actually, three. First (what I noted while I wrote the last sentence), is the enormous mess the food is going to create. The second, is how my hand has got used to writing amid the forced horizontal oscillations that a train journey entails. My handwriting is back at its atrocious best, after having made a beyond-illegible beginning. Third, and most importantly, I realize that I had to intended to write about something entirely different when I began this post. That will now have to wait.

I also begin to worry about my return three days hence, when I travel in a non-AC seater without a food tray on which I can put pen to paper. The railways are such a delight to one's creative juices.

Completed at 1632 hrs on 16th October, 2009.
Punchline of the moment: "A sorry does not make a dead man alive." (Words of wisdom from the loudmouth on the phone)

Await for the next post to emerge from this four hour journey!

(The author, while typing this, had already performed the return journey. While he found a food tray, it was too dirty to put paper on. Not to mention the incessant screaming and crying of practically every infant in North-West India who had invaded his compartment. Of course, the disturbance created at the end by a band of eunuchs was quite the delight.)

Recently

2009-10-13T10:00:00.001+05:30

I'm not really your quintessential movie critic, or a even a movie reviewer for that matter. In fact the only movie review you'd find on my blog is that of Slumdog Millionaire, that too, not a very positive one. However, recently I have seen some fairly interesting movies, some for the first time and others for the second, third, or even the eighteenth time. Movies that I have been wanting to write about.

So, first up, there's that oh-so-good movie everyone who reads my blog would have (or should have) seen by now- Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds. I saw it about two weeks ago; first day second show, and have been wanting to write about it for several days. You know you've seen a good movie when it interests you enough to want to write about it, or for that matter carry out google or wiki searches on related issues. Needless to say, I quite loved the movie. An article I was reading in this Saturday's ToI Crest edition quite rightly calls the movie "a Jew's dream of World War II". For one, Brad Pitt has done quite a fabulous job as Lt. Aldo Raine, a southerner from Tennessee, who leads the band of Basterds. Every time I find myself mouthing that great dialogue from the movie, "You probably heard, we ain't in the prisoner takin' business...We in the Nazi killin' business. And cousin, business is a-boomin'.", I find myself thinking that Brad Pitt has been underrated as an actor. I've formerly been quite a fan of the character Rusty that he plays in the Ocean's series. My friend summarized the movie quite nicely at the end of it all- "Sab haraami hain!" (They're all bastards; or Basterds?). What was quite literally the icing on the cake was the fact that I actually won a free portion of double chocolate cake with ice cream at Ruby Tuesday because of my seat number in the hall. That, of course, was rather cruelly split amongst the four of us.

Up next, is a movie that I had seen long ago, and slept off in between because I found the first person cinematography quite hard to follow. A few years later when I saw The Blair Witch Project again (recently), I quite thoroughly enjoyed it. While the movie may not be very scary, it's precisely the first person cinematography that makes the movie an interesting watch. The climax itself is rather open ended, leaving you to decide for yourself whether the Blair Witch actually exists in the woods where the footage has actually been shot. Another interesting thing that the writers did, was to make the characters in the movie use their real-life names in the movie. So as the closing credits begin, you see as part of the cast, that the actors' names are actually the same in real life. That leaves you wondering whether the movie is really (as claimed at the start of the movie) what was left behind by the students who got lost in those woods. In the reading that I did to satisfy my curiosity about the legend of the Blair Witch, I found that the legend itself was a story promoted by the producers of the movie as a marketing strategy. All in all, I think it's quite a smart movie; one which is likely to draw very extreme reactions. I recommend a watch.

A week ago I also saw Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, the story of a game show host in the 60s and 70s who leads a double life as a CIA assassin, and how he mixes up his reel life with his real, and uses the game shows as a cover for his activities. I don't know if the movie was released in Indian cinemas, but I only managed to see it now. I hadn't seen the opening credits, but I could notice that the movie had Stephen Soderbergh stamped all over it. The classic slickness of Ocean's movies was unmistakably there. Sure enough, his name showed up amongst the Executive Producers (even though George Clooney is the director). The movie has quite an interesting climax, one that I don't wish to spoil for those who haven't seen it. Those who haven't, go watch.

The next one's not a movie, but a British comedy series called Blackadder. The series stars Rowan Atkinson as the inscrutable Edmund Blackadder. This incidentally, was his gig before the Mr. Bean series, for which he might be more famous in India. The concept of the show is rather brilliant. In each of the four seasons (apart from the many special episodes), Edmund Blackadder is a witness to a certain period in British history. It starts with him being an obtuse prince in the 16th century, then goes on to Elizabethan times where he nearly marries Queen Elizabeth I, and on to the time of the French Revolution and finally ending in the trenches of World War I. The interesting thing to note is that as the seasons progress, Blackadder becomes more and more intelligent, but keeps sliding down the social ladder. I wonder if the writers intended this as a critique of British society. He starts as a dumb prince, and finishes as an extremely shrewd Captain in the British army. Fans of the TV show 'House' will be pleasantly surprised to find Hugh Laurie playing the dolt George, who appears along with Blackadder in various capacities through the seasons. The comedy itself is characteristically British, witty and dry. Rowan Atkinson is very different from his roles on Mr. Bean. This one is strictly for those who enjoy their comedy with a lot of salt and very little gravy.

Last then, and certainly not the least, is my favourite movie of all time- Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron. I was extremely thrilled when I found a good VCD version of the movie. Having already seen the movie about fifteen times before I found the VCD, I have managed to go through it another three times. A fantastic satire on Indian society, and the brilliant Mahabharata scene that takes the movie to it's climax, it's a movie that will have you in splits till the very last scene when the strong message hits you in the face. This is one punch to the face you have to take.

Recently, I have been.

The Ig-Nobels

2009-10-09T18:48:00.003+05:30

So what do you do when you wake from your afternoon siesta to the scroll on the news channel reading "Manmohan Singh: I congratulate President Obama on his Nobel Prize"? You rub your eyes, resign to your Indian emotions (i.e say "hain?!") and wonder if there's a new category outside of deceased Alfred's will.

I then went on facebook, and I saw this status message- "Kanye West at Nobel ceremony: Mr. Obama, I'd let you speak, but Mayawati's the biggest jackass of all time". My friend at Columbia University tells me that there's a party on the streets, where there are free t-shirts on offer. Given that the Nobel has been reduced to this, our primary concern at this point of time is whether there is free food on offer as well.

Nonetheless, I was curious as to what reason on earth would the Nobel foundation would give for their choice. Being notorious for their rather arbitrary nomination process, such as the nomination of George. W. Bush last year, they had to come up with something good. Something better than "We wanted to give it to an American president and we couldn't give it to a man who said things like "They misunderestimated me" in public". The nice thing about the Nobel prizes is that they generate awareness. For a few years now, I have tried to keep myself informed about some of the Nobel prize winners (especially Physics) and their work. In this case, there wasn't really a need for that, since he's visible practically everywhere anyway.

However, I did go to the Nobel prize website to see how they reasoned it. These are the last 5 winners:

2008: Martti Ahtisaari for his important efforts, on several continents and over more than three decades, to resolve international conflicts.

2007: International Panel for Climate Change and Al Gore for their efforts to build up and disseminate greater knowledge about man-made climate change, and to lay the foundations for the measures that are needed to counteract such change.

2006: Muhammad Yunus and Grameen Bank for their efforts to create economic and social development from below.

2005: IAEA and Mohamed El Baradei for their efforts to prevent nuclear energy from being used for military purposes and to ensure that nuclear energy for peaceful purposes is used in the safest possible way.

2004: Wangari Mathai for her contribution to sustainable development, democracy and peace.

This is what this year's description says:

2009: Barack Obama for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.

Swedish for "rhetoric".

The health care plan might just go through now!

Bradley Cooper : Redux

2009-10-02T21:09:00.003+05:30

Given the enthusiastic response (which I hope is mostly adulation from the fairer-sexed-readers) that I got to my joining the gym (aka The Bradley Cooper Project), I feel obliged to share with my readers, a quarterly report of progress on that front. Not so much a quarterly report as a 'I just bench pressed 20 kilos' report.

A friend and a co-blogger/gymmer recently said to me,

"The gym I go to has three types of frequent visitors, the first category is yours, the one trying to gain weight with frequently lifting up their shirts or examining their thin arms to see any trace of a muscle sprouting, the second is mine, trying to lose weight and trying to find traces of the muscle between all the fat, and the third is full of bradley coopers and mike tysons. I pray that we reach the third category's former part soon."

The gym I go to also has the same three types of frequent visitors. In fact, I feel that there's a certain universal causality to this frequent gym visiting. I am probably still in category one, hence way past my testosterone-ego induced promise of 45 days. But I'd like to think I'm making steady progress to category three and this is why :

I bench pressed 20 kilos today.
I'm seen wildly flailing my legs, hanging from the cross bar very rarely these days. This is usually after I have suffered from laziness or allied illnesses for over a week. Other days, my arms have enough strength to haul me over. Several times.
I'm somewhere in between the seniors and juniors at the gym. There are a lot of people who've joined after me, hence in the position that I was in when I shared my first report, i.e. hanging from the cross-bar, flailing wildly. We shall term this the "Conservation of Momentum" phase.
Those in the CoM phase can also lift much smaller weights than I can. I don't pass up an opportunity to look down upon and scoff at these hapless CoM-ers. All in my head, of course; I can still get fairly badly beaten up if I express this sentiment (owing largely not to my physique, but to my non-violent stance in life).
Every now and then (like today), you would find a CoM-er (usually belonging to category one) stand in front of the mirror, make faces that he considers macho and aggressive (and others consider constipated, for the lack of a better word) and flex whatever trace of muscle he has built up after lifting his latest two kilos. The CoM-er I saw today did this after every set of exercises he struggled through. I'm quite glad I never made too much of myself in the CoM phase.
Owing to oscillations of health, my weight has stayed pretty much the same. The banana shakes I'm made to drink make very little difference. They taste nice on most days, except those when my mother, for the sake of longevity, brings in slightly raw bananas. Raw bananas with milk stay that way- no mixing occurs. Needless to say how that tastes.
I bench pressed 20 kilos today. Have I already said that? Yes? Well, you've missed the point of the post.

There are, however, certain worrying developments as well. For one, a lot of mirrors ensure that you can see the top of your head from certain angles. Let's just say we might have to rechristen this whole frequently-visiting-gym business as the "Vin Diesel Project". Enough said. There's only so much one can do at the hands of genetics.

That, then is the quarterly-20 kilo-bench-press report. I declare myself a work in progress. No one is allowed to criticize a work in progress.

Ladies, stay tuned.

Men, continue W.A.T.C.H O.U.T-ing.

Life in the Days Of...

2009-09-29T18:39:00.006+05:30

I think there's certain irony to my blog title. At some point of time, I had changed it from "Travel Travails" to the current title. Not once, however, have I found myself rambling about days in my life. I'm all for rambling, but in the normal course of events, none of it manages to make it to the blog in it's purest form. I usually manage to camouflage it under some garb. In the light of some recent events, each worth reporting, but not deserving of a post by itself, I thought I'd go and talk about some days in my life.

Today:

I woke up from my afternoon nap (a habit from childhood which refuses to desert me) feeling rather disoriented. The primary reason being that it had turned dark by the time I got up. That tells me winter is near. Which means that the weather is going to get better, the food is going to taste better, women will look prettier. Good times ahead! That's once the gods stop having that bachelor party in their basement (an old reference) and the haze subsides.

Yesterday:

I watched Ravana burn from my sixth floor balcony. The fireworks display went on for over an hour. No fire tenders or even extinguishers on standby, but then Ram in all his benevolence shall protect us from any burning embers that reach where they're assumed not to. Everyone around seemed to have fun, so did I. As I watched from the distance, I saw that the applause was relentless even as some of the fireworks detonated well before their designated altitude. It was after a long time that I'd seen the whole evil-burning process. I remember that as a kid, I would accompany my mother to the local park to watch the event and feel depressed. Depressed, not because I was a Satan worshipping kid of some sort, but because at the end of four days of visiting various Durga Puja congregations and filling up my stomach with whatever muck I could lay my hands on, Dussehra had a finality to it. It was like the morning after Diwali, or the day after your birthday. Then again, I think there are so many "it's all over" days in a given year that it's better we don't mope on them for longer than a few hours. This Durga Puja however was one from the years gone by. A little to early in the calendar I feel, but the pandals were where they should be and so was the muck. Good times.

Later in the evening, the newsflash about the Air India pilots' strike appeared on TV. Allow me to put a human face to this side of the story. My mother works for Air India. And it's quite a struggle working there these days. It's almost like being a daily wage employee. For one, an expression of honest opinion at this point of time could be trouble for any employee. But in all the mismanagement of years gone by and measures to control the damage that has been caused and is probably still being caused behind the scenes, there are employees with families who are hanging in the balance. Here's hoping that the crisis gets resolved soon.

Day Before Yesterday:

Some days usually overflow into the next, as far as storytelling goes. Typically, these are days that involve alcohol (hopefully the latter part of the day). Night before last, two friends and I had a little Tequila party. We then made the mistake of going out to dinner to a place right opposite our school. Not just that, we had four others joining us. Simple math would show that the table had an approximate drunk-sober ratio of about 44%. That grey area in between is dangerous. That just means that the remaining 56% will remember what you won't, and your perception of reality (as a headache rips your cranium into pieces the next morning) is what the aforementioned 56% tells you. My advice to all my readers is to ensure that you're as close to 0 or 100 % when you dine with company. All or nothing, black or white. Always a good policy in life. Anyway, should you ask me, I'd tell you that the night went off without incident. Next afternoon, I called up J to ask him if some damage control needed to be done. J belonged the 56% lot last night, and managed to convince me that there was an eve-teasing incident involving me the previous night where I apparently whistled at some girl and M had to do some damage control (which is why I wasn't languishing in the local lock-up). That's funny, because M (who has a penchant for drawing entertainment from my misery) was very slightly less drunk than I was and would need a miracle to prevent me from getting indicted. I killed myself over the incident for about half an hour (for eve-teasing is really not my thing, not even sub-consciously) whilst trying to call M, who was nursing his own little hangover. M confirmed that while this was a rather interesting proposition, he had no memory of it. On my next call to J, frantic swearing ensued and he finally admitted that he should have spoken to M to make the prank work. This is the first time I've been pranked in years, and alcohol is the reason.
Am I going to propound prohibition on my blog? No. But next time, do ensure that everyone else is drunk before you are. It earns you some bad karma, but you can take care of it in your next life.

Some days in my life are manufactured to add joy to some days in yours.

On Conformity

2009-09-15T11:08:00.002+05:30

Inspiration to write has been hard to come by lately. When lethargy wins the battle, perfectly sound writing ideas find themselves in the mental bin, rather than on the blog. This partially has to do with my reading habit which has shown a steady decline in the recent past. Last night, however, I attempted a sudden resuscitation, which I hope gets me back on track. Then again, let's be honest. One likes a creative release every now and then. Creative ramblings that comprise of more than just aimless rambling about food, phone calls, birth, aging, sickness and death: "life", to give it a concrete form (interesting statistic to track, the number of blogs with the word "life" in the title). On to my recently CPR-ed reading habit then.

I have, for the third time, started reading Grimus (Salman Rushdie's first novel). Rushdie, without the slightest doubt, is my favourite author. I can already see that last statement generating strong remarks, pro and con. That precisely I think, is the hallmark of a brilliant author. The absolute inability of a reader or a critic to abstain from a strong reaction is probably the best reward an author can get. That, of course, having made the assumption that there is some sort of a fine balance between the bouquets and brickbats; for the want of a blue eye. Grimus seems like a good book. The only reason I have had to abandon the book twice is because of a general loss of interest in reading at that point of time. Last night, as I slowly made my way through the book, I struck upon a few lines that got me thinking of a few conversations I have shared in the past with friends, colleagues and scholars alike on issues of conformity, absurdity and profundity. There is a certain joy in exchanging ideas with such a motley bunch of men and women. For one, I realize that practically every subject that leaves space for free thought suffers from the above issues. I decided to let the idea out before it fell prey to a sense of all-pervasive lethargy. Allow me then, to introduce the lines, as spoken by a self-proclaimed pedant called Virgil Jones:

"What I'm driving at", said Virgil Jones, "in my rather indirect fashion, is that the limitations we place upon the world are imposed by ourselves rather than the world. And should we meet things which do not conform to our structure of reality, we place them outside it. Ghosts. Unidentified Flying Objects. Visions. We suspect the sanity of those who claim to see or sense them. An interesting point: a man is sane only to the extent that he subscribes to a previously-agreed construction of reality."

An interesting point, really. I remember being very disgruntled last year with branches of Physics dealt with things I couldn't see around me. I spoke of my disgruntlement with a leading scholar in the field soon after. He quite beautifully pointed out that our senses of perception, our concepts of time, space and dimension are at best, many orders less than those on which nature operates. Therefore, it'd be quite unfair to dismiss theories that are not immediately "perceptible" because perception itself is limited first by our restricted understanding of our surroundings, and also our attachment to "previously agreed constructions of reality" as Jones puts it. The same sentence was also my answer to a friend trying to decipher on a sociological scale, the implications of Chaos theory. Rather amused at the emergence of long range order out of short range chaos, and the subsequent breakdown of order (in a conversation that spanned harmonic oscillators and societal order alike), we wondered if the disorder fails to exist; or whether we fail to see it because of a restricted perception which primarily accounts for the majority.

Then again, Virgil Jones brings up another interesting point in his pedantic rambling. Consider two extremes. In the first, what if everyone conformed to the previously agreed constructions of reality. The death of innovation, it is safe to say, would have preceeded its birth. In the second extreme, consider a case where innovation was driven by a deep-seated antagonism to the prevailing order. A deep desire to be different, by any means possible. In this case too, the system would wind down to a moribund state, not very different from the first case. Somewhere in the lack of right-ness or wrong-ness, in the glaring ambiguities in the prevailing order, lie the engines of creation. A vague belief in one's "insanity", rather than a desire to be "insane" is probably what fuels change.

"Go, go, go said the bird", Jones quotes T.S. Eliot, "Humankind cannot bear very much reality."

The Spoils of War

2009-09-03T22:43:00.003+05:30

NJ: So, so (nudge)...what's your scene?

SK: I don't know yet. Waiting and watching.

NJ: Aha.

SK: To the patient, go the spoils of war.

NJ: Hopefully.

SK: What?

NJ: You know, hopefully, the spoils of war.

"To the patient, go the spoils of war"*

* only hopefully if your initials are SK or NJ.

On Death

2009-08-12T21:13:00.002+05:30

There are songs that I often hear before I go to sleep. There is a fixed set that I must hear before I finally begin to drift off into the deeper recesses. A time soon comes when I realize that the song in my ear is beginning to blend and bleed into the random impulses that my sub-conscious brain throws up. When my sleep begins with such noisy delirium, the chaos of unintelligible thoughts slowly fading into blankness, I find myself to have slept the best. Death, in a certain sense. Except that, in this case, I have the benefit of hindsight that inspires faith in the fact that I'll wake up the next morning.

On death, then. I can instantly recall three songs from the set that I just described that, for one reason or another, almost make you feel like you'll never return from the chaos ridden oblivion. There is Like a Stone by Audioslave for starters, then there are Amsterdam by Coldplay, and My December by Linkin Park. Like a Stone is a song about an old man whose kin have passed on, and he waits for his release, recounting his life. Therefore, the obvious association with death. The other two songs have their own unique reasons why I associate them as I do.

Last night as I cycled through Amsterdam one last time, I began to 'develop new perspective' as I later put across to a friend of mine. I began to wonder (as may have many of my contemporaries and predecessors) what a person might feel moments before death. To which, I found myself realizing that a person who has lived a life without regret, and awakens to this fact moments before they die, might in fact be experiencing, rather ironically, the most liberating moment of their life.

If there might be a day, when morning doesn't arrive, prepare for your liberation everyday. You wouldn't want to miss what might be the most amazing moment of your life.

Chicken Soup for the Cold

2009-08-06T18:42:00.004+05:30

I have been spending a lot of time at home this last week, for reasons inescapable. Status quo is such that I'm unable to do much with 24 hours of free time I get everyday. There is the net, and then there is the idiot box. But when you've been home doing practically nothing for so long, there are many things that you tire of fairly easily. Then there are days like today, when one would find oneself in front of the telly, bored-ly flipping channels. Now, that sounds like every other day. What was different about today is that I chanced upon an old favourite movie of mine : Disco Dancer. Back in the day, when cable tv was an unnecessary luxury, India's government broadcaster Doordarshan took upon itself, the onus of entertaining large sections of the Indian population. As part of the entertainment section of its endeavour, it began to screen movies on Saturday afternoons (a holiday in most schools). Days when we were lucky, they would screen 'new' movies (released between 10 and 20 years from the screening date). Other days, well, you would have to squint at the Technicolor images flashing on your screen and strain your ears to hear the dialogues. Anyhow, it was amongst a series of these lucky days that sprouted in me, a love for Mithun Chakravarty movies as a kid (other favourites include classics such as Gunmaster G9). They were flashy, loud, and amazingly entertaining. As I grew up, this love got obscured by the pretentions that accompany the process of social growth and adaptation.

More about Disco Dancer then, sans pretentions. Jimmy, the protagonist, is left to rot on the streets by the villain. Jimmy somehow manages to grow up and become a "Disco Dancer". Who is a "Disco Dancer"? The answer is complex. A disco dancer must be an accomplished dancer (but obvious), a singer (aha), and (this is the funky bit) be able to play instruments like the guitar and saxophone simply by holding them and dancing with them. He is usually accompanied by four or five blokes who do pretty much what he does, but are too ugly to be classified as "Disco Dancers". Also on the lot, are a bunch of rather well fed ladies, who would be better advised than to wear the black boyshorts they wear in this movie. That said, the music is definitely (as is a lot Bappi Lahiri music) well ahead of its time.

Anyway, Jimmy then manages to rob the villain of all his money, pride and even his daughter with not much more than his sublime pelvic jerks. Infuriated, the villain and his sidekick (a very bald Bob Christo) hatch the plot of the century to kill Jimmy. The plan, in Bob Christo's words (remembering that he is a Hindi speaking British sidekick):

"Kal ki party mein Jimmy ko log electric guitar bajane ko bolega. Hum us electric guitar ke string mein 5000 volt ka electricity bhejega. Jab hamara dushman electric guitar ko haath lagayega, woh ud jayega. Pop!"

Do they manage to kill Jimmy? Or does fate have its own cruel plan up its sleeve?

The Bradley Cooper Project

2009-07-19T17:33:00.003+05:30

I come bearing good news. After a long, seemingly unending sabbatical from any sort of constructive activity, I am now gainfully employed. It's quite irrelevant what I'm now gainfully employed with, adding value is what one is concerned with at the present moment. Talking of adding value, you know you're not doing any of that when you get a back-ache the moment you get up; or when you can't lift beyond three kilos without breaking into a sweat.

Right then, in the spirit of adding value, I decided to join a gym. Anyone who has had the honour of meeting me personally would realize that I could use some extra weight. And this is exactly what I decided to explain to the gym owner. Unfortunately however, when I reached the gym, I found men whose biceps would be about the same girth as both my thighs put together lifting weights heavier than me. Ashamed at my condition (succinctly described as skinny, to say the least), I pretended like I never intended to go the gym and walked on by, whistling casually for added effect. To be honest, this pattern repeated itself a few times. About three weeks later, however, a friend of mine came over and I had him accompany me to the gym, where I finally got the chance to share my plight with the trainer.

I started the next Monday. As a testimony of fitness to myself, I decided to jog to the gym (barely 200 metres away) on the first day. I was puffing billy by the 101st metre, after which I decided to amble my way to the gym, whistling casually for added effect. After having reached, I was assigned my work-out for the day. I started off with a bang. The cycling was fun for the whole three minutes. The first set of pull-ups went by quite well and by the time the first set of push-ups ended, I was almost getting cocky. Soon after the second set however, my world began to spin. Realizing I was near collapse, I made a hand signal to the trainer which usually indicates "I'm dead." and staggered back home. It took three glasses of very sweet lemonade and a shower to get me to stand on my two feet. Of course, the unused muscles in my body cried for freedom from this painful life for the next few days. It was almost a week before I could even straighten out my arms completely.

Things are getting better, nonetheless. I can now bench-press the whole 2 kilos. As far as the pull-ups and chin-ups I use my brain to compensate for the brawn. You see, there is this little theory in physics called conservation of momentum. Stated in lay man's terms. If you're hanging of a cross bar in thin air, and you flay your legs wildly, kicking the air underneath, the rest of the body might have a shot at getting your chin over the bar to compensate for that gain in momentum.

This post has proceeded in reverse in a certain sense. That's because I will now explain the title. A dear friend went and saw "The Hangover" (great movie, I recommend it) and came back drooling over the aforementioned gentleman. In a fit of testosterone (slight excesses of which are known to flow through your body when you exercise : case in point, the Williams sisters), I claimed that I could chisel myself into his shape in the next 45 days.

To all the ladies reading this blog: be nice to the next man you see hanging from the cross-bar, wildly flailing his legs to get his chin up over the bar. He could be a good looking blog author who is also intelligent and takes great photographs, all that aside from having a body like Bradley Cooper's. Imagine the possibilities.

To all the men reading this blog: W.A.T.C.H O.U.T.

I'll go and bench press two and a half kilos now.

Memories Like Fingerprints...

2009-07-03T20:13:00.003+05:30

...are slowly fading. I borrow from Pearl Jam's "Elderly woman behind the counter in a small town" to start my post.

It has just begun to rain in Delhi. For someone who refused to share the same physical space as the Sun for almost a month, whilst contending with a general feeling of uselessness and ennui, I can't begin to describe how much of a relief the arrival of the monsoon is.

For the last few days, I have tried to avoid the news as much as possible. And I will give you no reason for it other than the fact that it scares me to death. Aside from all the regular bad news one seems to be getting these days, I tend to amplify it manifold by somehow finding a domino-toppling connection to my being able to fund my graduate study next year. What was particularly worrying in the last week of June especially, was the extreme power and water shortage that was plaguing more than half the country because of imminent failure of monsoon. Water levels at three of our major reservoirs were running dangerously low. The city of Pune would lose its water supply if it didn't rain in the next 48 hours. Then, almost miraculously, the monsoon revived and advanced. We had a narrow miss, and not many of us realized, especially those of us who stayed hidden behind our green curtains in rooms cooled by generator driven ACs.

As happy as I am that the monsoon has arrived, I also begin to muse on the nature of human memory. We might have a near normal monsoon, maybe a deficient one. Then there will come a winter, where the demand for power and water will be lower and it is quite likely a large number of us will not face a severe shortage. Somewhere in the course of this winter that intervenes between two summers, we tend to forget the mistakes we made in summers past. Each summer gets progressively worse, and each winter makes us forget the previous one. The whole process, as a result gives us this illusion of being very gradual. We adapt every summer, and are oblivious every winter. To make a rather gratuitous generalization, this sort of behaviour extends to a very large part of our lives. I had written after the Mumbai terror attacks that things tend to get time-averaged. In fact, most of the times we are on a crest, we forget the lessons learned we should have ideally retained from the last trough. As a result, the highs keep getting lower, and the lows keep getting deeper.

I find myself in a dilemma. I don't know whether to applaud the ability of human beings to shut their eyes and adapt, or to be incensed at the extreme sense of callousness which seems to drive that ability most of the time.

In Loving Memory

2009-06-25T13:40:00.002+05:30

I just received news that Dr. Anil Wilson, former principal of St. Stephen's College, Delhi passed away this morning. Even while suffering from cancer of the pancreas for the last year or so, he had offered his body for medical research as a live subject.

This post is in loving memory of a great educator and a man I deeply admired. May you rest in peace Dr. Wilson.

Click

2009-06-23T00:45:00.006+05:30

Champion wandered aimlessly, one dark street after another. Over time, his path would begin to resemble a circle, going over the same spot again and again and again. He had no expression on his face. This wasn't something unusual. There were days when he would catch himself staring blankly into nowhere. Sometimes he was thinking happy thoughts, those related to his glorious past; other times his blank stare would hide the day dreams that were swirling in his brain. Futile day dreams of a future as glorious as his past. Dreams that were so impossible to morph into reality, that it gave him a sort of perverse pleasure when he lost himself. Then there were days such as today, where he had no thoughts of his own. Music blared in his ears as he walked, hoping that some answers would come to him off their own volition.

Champion was not the name his parents had given him. Earlier in life, he had earned himself many laurels. Along with the laurels, came the friends; some genuine, others not. The friends gave him many names, some out of affection, some out of spite. Champion was the one that stood the test of time, quite fittingly. He was the monarch of all there was to survey back then. The years, however, had not been kind to him. The laurels left first, the fair weathered fraction of his friends followed. The rest, he somehow managed to push further and further away into oblivion, getting sucked into the worsening vacuum in his life, day after painful day. Every day brought with itself, more thoughts of the past, and more despair for the future. Despair often turns into a helpless, debilitating rage. In his case, however, all he had to shout at, were the walls he had painstakingly constructed day by day, brick by painful brick. One doubts whether even he knew why he had built that wall. One thought the wall was to keep people out, while another reckoned that it was to keep himself in.

On this particular day, he had sensed in himself, a growing rage. The fire wasn't warm enough to cause him to explode, consuming the emptiness around him with it, but was enough to slowly eat up his insides. For a change, he had no answers. He tried to shrug it off, but he couldn't. He tried to reason out the whys and the why nots, to no avail. Finally, in a bout of utter helplessness, he threw on his shoes, carried his music and walked off to wherever his feet would take him. Such was his state of blindness that he couldn't realise the cruel trick his own legs were playing on him, taking him round and round in circles. They were perhaps implying the underlying truth of his life; that there was no escape from it. Stay and fight. If you dare run, you'll return where you are some day.

The angry words blaring into his ear seemed strangely soothing. It was if they were a reflection, or rather a regurgitation of those cupfuls of anger he had swallowed every single day for the last few years. These words too, were screaming at nothing but his own ears, but somehow he felt that they were being echoed in his life. He imagined saying all of this to everyone who deserved it and had somehow escaped; sometimes guarding themselves behind propriety while plotting their escape, and other times behind that pariah called love.

Then, in a moment, something possessed him. Something, or someone in his life wanted him to have the answers tonight. Inexplicably, his hands began to click the button marked "Next" on his shuffle in a pattern that few would call controlled. What emerged was his answer:

"Listen now and let me speak..." (click)

"You're always saying that there's something wrong..." (click)

"Life it seems, will fade away..." (click)

"On a cobweb afternoon, in a room full of emptiness..." (click)

"I walk the streets without regret..." (click)

"Nothing seems to break me, no matter how far I fall..." (click)

"If this isn't what you see, it doesn't make you blind..." (click)

On a hot summer night, alone in a crowd, Champion froze. When he came to his senses, he found himself at home, the first rays of the sun streaking through the window. And almost as if to prove a point, in his ears blared,

"How could he know this new dawn's light would change his life forever..."

click.

The Large Hadron Rap

2009-06-21T23:51:00.005+05:30

As a student of physics, I know this post is going to attract a lot of visitors from my community. I mean the physics community, not the Tam Brahm one, although one has to concede that there is a massive overlap. However, if you're from neither of the above two communities, fear not. This is going to be as entertaining for you (albeit in a disparaging sort of way) as anyone else. If you're a bully who would pick on geeks in school, now is the time to skip the next paragraph, because at the end of this post, lies true joy for you.

I was browsing through Youtube (again, in the absence of any constructive work) when I ran into this particular video. For the uninitiated, there is a particle accelerator called the Large Hadron Collider at CERN, Switzerland. The LHC was in the news a few months back when it was inaugurated. It is the single largest collider in the world and billions of dollars of taxpayer money were spent on it. The experiment became an object of both scientific and social speculation and questions were raised on whether we really needed to spend so much to discover what is called the Higgs boson when more than half the world really cared more about getting matter into their stomachs for the next meal rather than what it was made of at the sub-nuclear level.

This post isn't entertaining yet. This is the fun bit. As geeks, I think we've hit a new low. This why you should've stayed if you weren't from the community. Check out the video. Comments encouraged.

Of Laddoos and Their Dynamics

2009-06-17T18:36:00.003+05:30

I have obsessed for a while now, over how not to sound vexed with life in this post. Truth be told, I'm not. I was on the phone with a friend this afternoon, and we hit upon what we call the "Laddoo Theory". We state the theory as follows: Life throws you laddoos when you've made up your mind to eat no more. Alternatively, when you want laddoos, they're either unavailable; or if the divine powers wish to entertain themselves, a laddoo lands in your mouth and is yanked away before you can bite into it.

The origins of this theory vary over a large number of areas of life. This complete generality is what makes the theory so brilliant. Allow me to demystify it with some examples. Their coincidence with my life or the lives of any of my friends is purely coincidental.

A friend called this afternoon. I've seen him struggle with his career for a while. For the past six months, he has studied hard for various entrance exams and interviews and rather inexplicably, managed to bomb all of them. Very recently, he gave up on this project of taking entrance exams (with one more insignificant one to go) and embark on a different route. As a result, he didn't do much more than walk in, take test, walk out. The result came in today. Qualified.

A friend called in yesterday. Every woman he could have dated (in essence, every laddoo he failed to catch, or every laddoo that failed to catch him) in the last six months seems to want to make amends suddenly. Why is he full already? You know why.

It was the month of February, and I got an admission call from Stanford University. I relished my laddoo for a whole 24 hours. That's when they decided to send me an email saying they wouldn't give me any money to go. I should refer to this one colloquially as a kela, but for the sake of simplicity, let me refer to only one edible item per post.

I wonder, however, if my theory is a reason to be depressed with life (especially in the light of the third example). And I figure, no. Perhaps life has a better sense of timing than us, or than we can ever hope to achieve. Maybe everyone has their reserve of laddoos, each arriving at its own stipulated time. Better still, maybe what we see as laddoos are really something we would be better off not ingesting. And they arrive, apparently out of turn, because decisions are better made without distractions.

Just some food for thought.

Apollo 13 - The Bhutan Chronicles Part II

2009-06-08T22:58:00.016+05:30

It's the morning of the 27th of May, and my family and I have just been informed that the road leading to Thimphu will be blocked for another three days at the very least. We have to be back in Guwahati by the 31st and things look bleak.

We sat in our hotels wondering what our options were. I must admit that at this point I felt hopeless. All I wanted to do was to head straight back home and sulk. It was then that an employee of the hotel we were staying at suggested that we try entering from Gelephu - an entry-exit point in Assam. The weather had cleared up and we decided that it was worth a shot. We wouldn't be able to cover all of Bhutan as per our original plan, but at least we could visit Thimphu and return. We drove for about four hours and then took a left turn into a narrow road just before Bongaigaon. All along the way we saw that the muddy waters of the Brahmaputra had breached the banks and caused flooding.

(Below: Flooded Brahmaputra, the Gelephu border gate)

On our way we had crossed the troubled district of Kokrajhar in Assam and now we were in the Chirang district. Both these district have a severe Bodo insurgency issue. The Bodo insurgents are fighting for a separate state of Bodoland. It was interesting that we passed a banner for a hotel and the address stated "Kokrajhar, Bodoland" instead of "Kokrajhar, Assam" which would have been more accurate on paper. I wonder whether it was fear psychosis or a genuine look of hostility that I noticed in people's faces as our car drove by. The 40 kilometer stretch in Bodo heartland is a patchy road and passes through some fairly underdeveloped areas. The road has significantly larger army cover and lesser traffic than the one leading to Phuentsholing. After about an hour and a half's drive, we found ourselves at the border check-post where we were made to alight and walk across the border. The sense of discontinuity that I had observed at the Phuentsholing border prevailed at this border as well. Our permits issued at Phuentsholing thankfully worked and we were spared of any more paper work.

Bhutan Travel Advisory #5: Don't try to enter from Gelephu first up. Route permits are not issued there. The only reason we were allowed to enter was because we already had permits and the other road was blocked.

A quick visit to the road transport office made sure we had our vehicle permit ready, and we could finally claim that the vacation had begun. By now it was almost 5 pm and nightfall was approaching. We began driving towards the town of Damphu, carefully traversing the hilly terrain. On our way we crossed three of the five immigration checkpoints.

Bhutan Travel Advisory #6: The Royal Government of Bhutan keeps strict checks on the number of tourists in the country. Along the road, there are a number of check points where all papers must presented. Keep the papers handy and a few photocopies ready at all times while traveling from city to city.

The Gelephu-Damphu road (whatever we could see of it till daylight vanished) is quite beautiful. The road is well surfaced and clean, with a large number of small waterfalls dotting the hill side. Along the way one finds a large number of Buddhist prayer flags (my love for which has been well documented) and stupas. Three hours of careful and precarious driving in the dark brought us to the small town of Damphu. All we could think of by now was to eat and retire for the night. Fortunately, we found a decent hotel where we could rest for the night. When Damphu greeted me early next morning, I found it to be very reminiscent of small towns in old Western movies. One could almost imagine two duellers walking down the main street, lined on both sides by small shops. Only that here you might run into a John Wangchuk rather than John Wayne.

(Clockwise from top left: Waterfall on the Gelephu-Damphu road, Stupa on the Gelephu-Damphu road, the raging Wang Chhu river, Damphu Town)

After having a light breakfast we started for Thimphu, about 180 kms away. About an hour after we started from Damphu, we began to straddle the Wang Chhu river, which was roaring with all the extra mud and water that the rain had caused it to carry. Two hours later we stopped at Wangdue-Phodrang for tea. The "Dzong" (fortress) at Wangdue is the dominant feature in the down. It sits at the head of the Swiss-Bhutanese arch bridge and the confluence of the Gay-Chhu and Nakay-Chhu rivers. The road forks out after Wangdue. The right turn would take us to Eastern Bhutan (a plan that we had dropped now) and the left took us to Thimphu. We crossed the Dochu La pass (alt. 3050 m) on the way to Thimphu. This is where I realized that India had a significantly larger number of issues than Bhutan to deal with. The Dochu La zero point is a standing war memorial for Bhutanese soldiers. There is a temple and a victory "Chorten" (memorial) at Dochu La in memory of soldiers who lost their lives fighting ULFA terrorists. It's quite a beautiful structure apart from the fact that it puts a few things in perspective for the Indian tourist. After Dochu La, we crossed our last immigration check point, where we were advised to take an additional permit at Thimphu to be able to return via Gelephu.

(Below left to right : The Wangdue-Phodrang Dzong, The Dochu La victory Chorten)

Before we knew it, we were approaching Thimphu, and our driver, who until now was driving was like Pocahontas on cocaine (a new standard of free spiritedness), began to have disciplined driving pangs as the city approached. This time however, I was armed with a map of the city and with a little help from a cop, I was able to direct him to Norzin Lam, the main street of the city. Thimphu is quite a lovely town. Apart from being endowed with beautiful surroundings, the city is also quite clean (as other Bhutanese towns) and is sprinkled with eateries. The food is delightfully tasty, not to mention cheap (a vegetarian meal for four at a very good restaurant costs approximately 600 Ngultrum, 1 Ngultrum = 1 Rupee and can be used interchangeably), and so is the liquor (imagine a 45 rupee pint of Carlsberg or a 120 rupee peg of Johnnie Walker Black Label) and a lot of hotels on Norzin Lam offer very nice rooms at very reasonable rates. Local cuisine is also quite a delight, albeit spicy, I especially recommend the Datsi (cheese) series. The beauty of course is only broken in bits and pieces by tiny hordes of very loud Indian tourists who quarrel with parking attendants over how much they must pay for parking in certain marked spot.

(Above: Clockwise from top left: Norzin Lam by night, Clocktower square, prayer wheel at Changangkha temple, the Thimphu stadium)

Bhutan Travel Advisory #7: The local currency, Ngultrum is at par with the Indian rupee and can be used interchangeably. However, denominations of 500 INR and 1000 INR are not accepted at most places in Thimphu. Make sure you either change them to 500 or 1000 Ngultrum or break them down into smaller denominations before coming to Thimphu.

I was later told upon return that it also has good night-clubs, which I was unable to sample because of obvious reasons. At this point we gave our driver a two day off and took the local transport for two reasons. One, because he had managed to pluck fever out of thin air, and two, because he was quite panicked about breaking the local traffic rules.

So, one might ask, where does my father decide to eat three thousand kilometers from home? But of course, he chose to find a place called "The Grand" which (much to his Tam Brahm delight) served dosas and idlis. My mother, called his bet and raised it further by order Papdi Chat. Soon enough, I had my head in my hands while they ordered a portion of gol gappas and rhapsodized over it. I shouldn't say that it tasted bad. I think it tasted great, but it beat the purpose of the 3000 kms in an instant. Following this, we walked around the main town for a while. We visited the little Swiss bakery serving "zam tarts" and then the clocktower square. As a standing rule in Bhutan, all buildings must have ornate wood art on the exterior, which means that all buildings look extremely ornate and regal on the outside. We were about to retire for the night when the dogs started barking. I remembered reading somewhere that one must carry earplugs when in Bhutan, because the dogs don't stop barking. Sure enough, they started barking and barked till the cows went out to graze. I(on the fifth floor of the building) learnt to make my peace with it and slept off.

We woke up next morning to take a local sightseeing tour. At breakfast (at where else but "The Grand", we were joined by a large (loud) Indian contingent of twenty, all whom seemed to concur with my father about the idlis and the dosas). To be very honest, there aren't too many local sights to see in Thimphu. It's more of the kind of town you'd relax in and visit other places from. We first had the matter of the so called exit permit to sort out.

Bhutan Travel Advisory #8: Try and exit from the same place that you entered/got a permit from. Even though we never needed the exit permit, we took one that said we could exit from Gelephu. In either case, should you decide to visit (very scenic) Eastern Bhutan and exit from Samdrup Jongkhar, you will require an additional permit from the immigration office in Thimphu.

After having sorted out the exit permit issue, we embarked on a two hour tour of the city (that's all it takes to cover all of it). We visited the Changangkha temple, and then the Takin reserve. A brief note about the Takin here. This is the national animal of Bhutan. It has the head of a goat and the body of a cow. I must admit that it's the ugliest national animal I have ever seen. At the Takin reserve we were informed that it is illegal to kill animals in Bhutan. All the meat to feed the largely non-vegetarian population is imported from India (so is the petrol, which is cheaper in Bhutan than anywhere in India). Apparently the people had had a field day with all the dead fish washing up after the flood. Following the Takin reserve, we visited the BBS tower from where we got a panoramic view of Thimphu. On our way down, we caught a distant glimpse of the Trashichhodzong, which serves as the Parliament and the seat of the Chief Abbot. Our last place of visit within the city was the Memorial Chorten and then the local trip ended, sooner than it had started.

(Above: Clockwise from top left : Thimphu from the BBS tower, the Trashichhodzong, Memorial Chorten, the Takin)

We had the rest of the afternoon and evening to spend by ourselves, in which we went about roaming around Norzin Lam and surrounding areas. On the shopping list were (the very smart) national costumes of Bhutan. However, they turned out to be rather expensive. At dinner (for once, not at "The Grand"), I sampled a local (very potent) cocktail called the Fiery Dragon. I recommend the drink. Have one, two at the most.

We were glad to find our driver in the mauve (not pink yet) of health the next morning as we headed back towards the border. A long drive along (a much more docile) Wang Chhu saw us arrive at the border post at Gelephu at around five in the evening. After we crossed into India, we were warned by the local guides to not stop anywhere along the way till we reached the main road lest we be kidnapped and become their headache. A nice touch to end one's vacation, one thought. We spent the night at Bongaigaon and were in Guwahati by early afternoon next day. We hadn't really seen Bhutan in all its glory. For one I was disappointed at having given Eastern Bhutan a miss, especially when I saw some of the postcards. But atleast we hadn't come back home looking sorry. Due credit to my parents for that. This is where I sign off and gloat at how beautifully the title fits the story (secretly happy that I didn't have to name it "Aila Re").

Bhutan Travel Advisory #9: Misinformation abounds. Refer to the right source always.

"Houston, this is Honesty. It's good be back."

Apollo 13 - The Bhutan Chronicles Part I

2009-06-08T20:06:00.020+05:30

On April 11, 1970 at 1313 hrs, NASA launched the Apollo 13 mission to the moon. While on its way to the moon, there was an explosion in one of the service module's oxygen tanks which blew out most of the spacecraft's systems. At this point, the mission changed. The mission was no longer to get the astronauts on the moon, but to bring them back alive. NASA succeeded at this new mission and achieved what has been called one of the greatest rescues ever. Some people also called this mission a "successful failure" because they were never able to land on the moon and yet, all the astronauts were back home, safe and sound, despite the overwhelming odds.

What the above story has to do with a recent family trip to Bhutan, is something that will evolve over the next few lines. When I was cycling through the possible titles I would give this post, I also considered naming it "Aila Re", and that would have been the title if we hadn't succeeded in surmounting the glitch thrown at us by a cyclone with the same name. On to my travelogue then...

On 24th May, my mother, my sister and I flew to Guwahati to join my father. As I always do, I had checked online, the weather forecast for Bhutan for the next week. The outlook didn't look good. "Heavy rain and thundershowers" is not what you want to stare at you from your computer screen just hours before you leave for a vacation (of which, one may contend, I have had a sumptuous number of in this year). We had grand plans of touring the country from west to east by road, Eastern Bhutan with its mountainous terrain being my primary area of interest. Nevertheless, I kept this disappointing bit of information to myself and prayed hard that some freak wind mind blow and the rain would drift to some other parched parts of the world.

We set out from Guwahati for the Jaigaon-Phuentsholing border in West Bengal (the only road-entry point into Bhutan) on the morning of the 25th. The weather seemed to behave itself and while it was cloudy, there was no water being showered at us from above. All that changed, however, as we crossed the Bongaigaon oil refinery around noon. The first drops appeared on our windshields, and it would be safe to say that my face lost about two-thirds of its colour which translated into another three faces losing two-thirds of their colour once I shared the information I had read two nights ago. It was about six in the evening when we reached Jaigaon, the Indian side of the Indo-Bhutan border. It was too late to complete the paper work, so we had no choice but to stay at the Indian side of the border for the night. I say "no choice" because the Indian side of the border is as chaotic a border town there is. The roads are filled potholes and lined with garbage on the side. There are no great hotels to stay at either. It's crowded and depressing, manic; almost(below).

It started to pour that night, like it had never poured before. I switched on the TV in my room at night, to find that a cyclone named "Aila" had hit the West Bengal coast, and it's tail was lashing, of all places, my place. My family and I have had a fair amount of bad luck when touring the north-east. We were greeted by landslides in Sikkim, nearly got killed (still alive, all four of us) in Arunachal last year, and now this.

The next morning, then, I woke up to a dull grey morning, and underwear-clad Bengali uncles and aunties chattering loudly in the wide hallway about a range of topics (the Communist Party mainly). Funnily enough, the harder I prayed for the rain to stop, the harder it rained. Nevertheless, we gathered the courage to get ready and cross over. I have crossed a few borders by road in my life (Pakistan and Nepal being the previous one). When you cross over by road, you expect to observe a certain degree of continuity across the border before the actual country materializes. This however, was not the case with the Phuentsholing border. The moment we crossed, the noise died away, the dirt vanished, the roads were broader, potholes fewer, the rain(however); still pouring down (below).

Drenched as my father and I were, we somehow made it to the immigration office on the other side of the border to obtain our route permit. This is where we were informed that the documents for my sister and our driver were insufficient and we would have to visit the Indian consulate for identification papers in order to enter. This leads me to my first travel advisory for Bhutan:

Bhutan Travel Advisory #1: While Indians don't require a visa for Bhutan, the only identification accepted are valid passports and voter ID cards. That includes your driver. Any other ID will land you at the consulate, looking for them to issue identification papers, which is grossly painful (decent euphimism).

My sister had her board exam admit card and my driver only had his driving licence. What followed was a very painful search for the Indian consulate at Phuentsholing. Most roads were one-way, and our driver was suddenly having epiphanies about how his driving licence was really farce, and was needless to say rather nervous about breaking any local driving laws. I don't blame him. Thirteen years of indisciplined driving on Indian roads needed to be unlearned. At the Indian consulate, we had a rendezvous with a man we would not classify in the "jovial" category. After giving our driver a dressing down for not possessing adequate identification, he insisted that my mother (being a government servant) produce a no-objection certificate from her office. This sent us into a tizzy and we hurriedly returned to the Indian side to obtain the remaining documents by fax. Rather (very rare) efficient handling from my mother's office ensured that we had the documents ready in about two hours and soon enough, we were issued our permits to stay and travel till Thimphu. The rain stopped and it finally seemed like everything was alright. It was too late to start for Thimphu, so we decided to spend a night at Phuentsholing. A separate permit was required for the vehicle and we took a short trip to the Inter State Bus Terminus (which looked nothing short of a palace from the outside (below)). Here we were informed that two days of incessant rain had caused massive landslides and road-blocks.

Bhutan Travel Advisory #2 : Carry atleast 5 passport size photographs. If you take a vehicle into Bhutan, make sure you carry drivers' licences the registration and insurance certificates.

Bhutan Travel Advisory #3: If you should stay over at the border, stay on the Bhutanese side. No permits are required to stay overnight. The place is cleaner, the hotels are much better and charge very nearly the same. Bhutan Standard Time runs half an hour ahead of Indian Standard Time.

Bhutan Travel Advisory #4: Always carry an umbrella or a raincoat. It rains out of nowhere and it comes down hard, even when cyclone Aila is not ruining your vacation.

The next morning, local news channels carried images of the river Wang Chhu breaching its barriers and washing away truckloads of land with it. We were informed by the road authorities that the road from Phuentsholing to Thimphu was blocked and would only be cleared in three days at the very least. This was our Apollo 13 moment.

A-gony

2009-05-21T16:56:00.003+05:30

My name is Siddharth Krishnamoorthy.

My name is NOT Siddhartha Krishnamoorthy.

And you wouldn't believe how much trouble I had to go through to hammer that into the standard IIT babu's brain.

When I had collected my provisional degree at St. Stephen's College two years ago, I had noticed that my name had been printed as the latter. I took it back for correction and all they did was to scratch off the vestigial letter with a black pen. It was perhaps my stupidity that I didn't ask for a signature where the scratch was. Little did I know that two years on, I'd be staring at the Deputy Registrar at IIT (secretly grinding my teeth to dust) asking me to get the name changed, the post-graduate section at IIT having slept on it for three whole semesters. I was quite lucky to have discovered that I had been unknowingly rechristened to my Bengali version in the final semester. Three marksheets read "Siddharth Krishnamoorthy" in black printer ink (grossly corrupted Tam(il) Brahm(in) in invisible ink); the fourth suddenly declares "Siddhartha Krishnamoorthy" in black, secretly underlining my Bong associations (the obvious corruption needs no underlining).

What followed was a wild ride all the way from IIT Delhi to St. Stephen's College (Google maps will show you how the wild ride proceeded. Quite a handy tool, that) to obtain my actual degree, which, if you have studied in Delhi University, you would know takes aeons to materialize and a few more to collect. Thankfully though everything worked out alright. I was able to collect my degree (which looks quite beautiful by the way, what with my correct name on it), rub the IIT babu's face into a photocopy of the same (the degree, not his face) and have my name corrected. A special mention for the services of the Delhi Metro, without which I would veritably have been a piece of (very lean) brown toast on the road. I'm only left asking three questions:

Why do they always wake up so late?
Why do we graduate in summer, hence creating a need for all the world's documentation in 45 degree heat?
Why did I not have enough fuel in my car to run the AC throughout and not enough cash in my pocket to refuel today?

So much for being proud of my long name for 22 years of my life!

Rajinikanth My Hero

2009-05-10T12:51:00.003+05:30

I'm not one for posting Youtube stuff on my blog, but every now and then, one lands up at something legendary. In a fit of boredom yesterday, I happened to run into a video of Manoj Kumar curing a heart attack with the anthem of the Azad Hind Fauj and nothing but. Another one of those old bollywood idiosyncrasies if you will. Then I set about hunting for random Rajinikanth videos. For the uninitiated, Rajinikanth is not just a Tamil actor. It was said very aptly in a forward I received recently, he's the last digit of pi; because everything ends with Rajinikanth. Sir Isaac Newton did not die a natural death. He suffered a heart attack after realising that the laws of physics don't hold in Rajinikanth movies.

Having given you that background, allow me to share two brilliant animated ads that I found while looking for wholesome family entertainment.

If you still aren't convinced that he's the be-all and end-all of everything, run for your life. Boss is coming for you.

The End. Dramatic or Otherwise

2009-04-29T18:23:00.004+05:30

I have been at IIT for two years now. And two years is what it takes the normal male adult (women not mentioned for the want of a sizeable (and noticeable) number) to complete a post-graduate course here. Of course, there are some in my casual acquaintance who've tried myriad tricks in the book and have successfully extended their stay by the odd semester or two. I am a normal male adult. Well atleast when it comes to this.

So, as the end approaches, the freakish drama queen streak that I have in me, starts looking for those elusive 'closure' moments, call them 'The Lasts' for the purpose of this post. Last meals, last hang-outs, last classes, maybe even final visits to restrooms (of which there are more male than female). So as this last week at IIT dawned, queen a la drama was on high alert to spot these moments. The week started with a submission deadline for my Master's thesis. To this end, I didn't sleep for three days, and on one of them was up from eleven the previous night to six thirty the next morning and typing without break, so I was the zombie version of Quasi Mo do by the end of it. It was submitted today. On time, somehow.

I have also, for the last year, 'savoured' mess lunch at a hostel called Satpura. I am a day scholar at IIT and I'm not even attached to Satpura. But ties of salt are stronger than ties of bureaucracy, or even legality. None of the kind gentelmen at the Satpura mess never questioned which hostel I belonged to. As for my bit, I always took my free lunches to be noble ways to reduce food wastage. So I was also interested in noting what my last lunch at Satpura would be, probably for hallowed parallels with Jesus. The Palak Paneer on Wednesdays had been a favourite. Lately, however because of classes eating into lunch, we had been forced to eat at canteens in and around campus. It then dawned on me today that last Wednesday was my last meal at Satpura.

After that realization I focussed my attention on the final class. The Haryana Jal Board had different designs. I woke up to dry taps and was forced to bunk my first class today. "Nevermind", one thought, "there's always the class in the evening, and one tomorrow evening." The day wound down and I found myself sitting in class with no one around. Turns out, at the last class (which I missed owing to my thesis), the course got finished and all further classes were cancelled. Last class then, was the one on Monday which I unconspicously dragged myself through.

Nonetheless, I have thoroughly enjoyed my stint at IIT, and I'm as surprised by that fact as anyone else is. There have been more days when I've hated it than those when I've loved it (mostly related to the EDLC ( English Debating and Literary Club for the uninitiated)in some vague way). But when I've enjoyed it, it has been enough to wipe off all the sour curd. Succinctly put in some rather corny, back of the envelope Hindi poetry.

IIT में fight मचाया,

Prof ने खूब भगाया ,

Department ने बहुत रुलाया,

EDLC ने लोगों से मिलवाया,

Satpura का नमक खाया,

बहुत मज़ा आया

The last visit to the lavatory is as yet unmarked. Queen Drama III is not happy with such an anti-climactic ending. Suggestions are invited.

The Three Birthday Cycle - A 55 word story

2009-04-12T20:16:00.003+05:30

"I just finished another three birthday cycle."

"What's a three birthday cycle?"

"It's when you meet someone and wish them a happy birthday in the first year, you plan an elaborate surprise in the second, and you've stopped talking to them by the time the third birthday arrives!"

"Hmm...Introduction, Intimacy, Cold Turkey."

"Pretty much."

Kranky and Jaundice

2009-04-05T21:12:00.005+05:30

Kranky and Jaundice were on the phone one day:

Kranky : My life’s a mess. My career’s nowhere. No girl ever goes out with me, even if she does, never twice. Life’s a bitch. A bad one with sharp teeth at that!

Jaundice : Dude I think I’ve turned Jain. I can’t eat anything but mildly salted boiled potatoes! Come to think of it maybe that’s why they are that way. They had major jaundice outbreak when the religion was founded and made it all a part of religion to cover it up.

The views expressed above are not the blog author's, but a near and dear one's. May his liver rest in peace.

Delirium

2009-04-02T20:04:00.005+05:30

He lay there in his room. Lights out. The only civilization around was the silent creaking of the ceiling fan. He remembered the last time he'd had this debilitating fever. He wondered whether he was himself; whether his thoughts were his own. They swung without control. His thoughts were like twigs on a raging river. Everytime his music player played Iris, he felt as if all the love in the world was in his life, and when it switched to Nothingman, he felt it all drain away. Now his thoughts transcended the music. He remembered every time he had dreamed big, and his wings had been clipped without warning. But atleast he had dreamed.

And his thoughts swung between the good and the bad, the alpha and the omega, between the conscious and the unconscious; as Comfortably Numb faded in the background, death came and he passed calmly into oblivion...only to be reborn again tomorrow.

Earth Hour

2009-03-30T01:49:00.002+05:30

I've been rather busy lately, but I still want to make a statement before it's too late and things fade from our rather stunted memory. Earth Hour was held across the world this Saturday between 8:30pm and 9:30pm local time. I felt the buzz in the air this year, a buzz I hadn't felt last year, or the year before that. To be very honest, I didn't know of it's existence till last year. This year, however was different. Governments around the world endorsed the event. Institutions and individuals alike pledged allegiance to the cause.

On my part, I decided that I too would play my role in publicizing the event. I made a few leaflets and pasted them around IIT, only to be pleasantly surprised that the official posters had beat me to most locations. I also distributed a few of them around my house, not without animated discussions with guards which involved the word "paryavaran". I daresay that word is a mouthful when it comes to using it in everyday conversation. All in all, by the time Earth Hour came around, I was happy that I had played my small role in spreading the word. The pleasant surprises kept coming all day long. Right from the morning newspaper which gave the event unprecedented coverage, appeals from the Government and then the news that IIT would officially observe Earth Hour.

Ironically enough, there was a freak, unpredictable thunderstorm exactly the same day that a billion people around the world acknowledged the global climate crisis. The freak shower was probably to underline the problem to those who didn't accept it. I remember remarking to a friend of mine, "This is God's way of telling us that he'd shut off even our essential lights if we dared to not shut off our non-essential ones!".

All in all, Earth Hour was a grand success this year and one can only hope we move from strength to strength in tackling this issue. For those of us who didn't observe Earth Hour, I wish they wake up. Soon.

Shadow on the Sun

2009-03-24T01:43:00.001+05:30

Shapes of every size,
Move behind my eyes,
Doors inside my head,
Bolted from within.

Every drop of flame,
Lights a candle in
Memory of the one,
Who lived inside my skin.

The Closing Argument

2009-03-23T14:55:00.004+05:30

The 4th IIT Delhi Parliamentary Debate (PD) ended (a success, I deem it to be) recently. As the event wound down to a close, and we handed out the awards to a group of gentleman who referred to themselves as "Baba Dal", I felt this deep (almost humorous) melancholy beginning to sink in. PD was my last debating activity in life. There would be no more arguing or judging arguments. Well, atleast with truckloads of money involved.

I started debating when I was in the tenth grade, some 8 years ago. My English teacher in school had coaxed me into it. Well, one never really needed coaxing to go to an all-girls school when one was growing up in an all-boys. I remember having won there, a hundred rupee note as my prize, and maybe some admiration from the ladies. From then on, there was no coaxing. Debating was all we were doing in school.

Then I entered college and found that people were practically making a living off their debating skills. Too intimidated to join the pool in my first year, I started in my second year. I have to admit I haven't won much, but debating's given me my share of stories to tell. I've met some great people, loathed many as well. It's taken me places, the most memorable being this one trip to Pakistan in my 3rd year of college.

It feels funny that I won't be debating anymore. But I also know that in due course of time I will let this feeling get time-averaged.

In the long run I know that the general order of the universe is intact. :)

Bummer - Part II

2009-03-17T19:47:00.007+05:30

Dhar and I woke up earliest next morning to catch a glimpse of what was a beautiful sunrise. It was very relaxing to be out in the peace and quiet of the desolate town early in the morning. Much to our surprise, Nayyar also managed to wake up early and join us in a short while. A few hours later we found ourselves on the road to Chhitkul, an hour’s drive away. When we arrived in Chhitkul, we found ourselves mesmerized with its beauty. Chhitkul is a tiny village where the road stops dead and one must walk to get any further. On one end is one of the Bhagirathi peaks, and Gangotri is a week’s summer trek across the mountains. The village has a population of only 610, and almost half the people had headed south for the winter. Suri told us that it was 600 when he visited three years ago. The people are beautiful and very jovial.

(Below : Chhitkul, Mamta and Bunty)

We faced a similar problem at Chhitkul. None of the guest houses were open. We somehow found ourselves a PWD rest house to stay in. The trouble was that there was no running water. Any water required had to be drawn from a tap that supplied melt water. This would have serious consequences on any willingness to maintain basic hygiene.

After having packed our luggage into the rest house, we embarked on a trek down to the Baspa River where we crossed a wooden bridge into snow fields. Nitin’s happiness, of course, knew no bounds. After about two hours of buffoonery in the snow, we found ourselves back at the rest house; sitting in the lawns and watching the sun go down as the cold began to reach places where it shouldn’t.

(Below : Icicles, A very happy Nitin, Sikder making a snow angel, and sunset at Chhitkul)

By night, the temperature had dropped to sub-zero and the alcohol was being pumped at an unprecedented rate. The fire outside helped in keeping us warm for a while, and then got overpowered by the cold. Sikder, however, had been having a little affair on the side with his bottle of Blender’s Pride. With half the bottle down, he seemed to have felt a certain bien etre that made him rather delusional. He decided to take walk outside in the freezing cold and none of us stopped him, reluctant to step outside. After what seemed like an hour we realized that our man of God hadn’t returned from his walk. Alarmed, I looked outside and I couldn’t spot him. By now we were quite worried for his safety and began looking around. Well, two of us did. The other three were too warm to get out. I too would have abandoned my search in the interest of warmth, if I hadn’t found him staring at the moonlight a short distance away. Sikder found his way back safely, and after a few senseless games of poker and the temperature dropping to about minus four, we wrapped ourselves in every conceivable piece of clothing we had and every blanket available and slept (Below).

(Above: Sunrise behind the Bhagirathi peak)

Dhar, Nayyar and I woke up again next morning to catch the sunrise. Answering the calls of early morning by itself was a challenge. When we brushed, the water stung the gums. When we washed, the water hurt every part of bare skin it touched. The puddles of water outside had frozen over. The sunrise, however, was pristine and beautiful. After having taken a few photographs, we got ourselves ready and left for Shimla, about nine hours away. We paid another visit to Cheel Baba on the way back, this time just because of Nayyar and Suri’s devotion to the wise man.

A slight digression about Pahaadi songs, that you would invariably find playing in your cab when you're in Himachal. Tapes for Pahaadi songs usually come with only one or two songs on them that fill up the tape completely. The songs typically last for a good half an hour each and then keep looping till the road journey ends. Also, all songs have a short, funny sounding (due respect to the dialect) refrain that tends to get annoyingly stuck to one's brain. The driver, of course, will not take very kindly to you making fun of his music. What he will also not take very kindly to, is if he stops with a screech when a cat crosses the road and is waiting for someone else to cross the cat's imaginary line, and you're sitting there in his car, laughing about it. What might really drive him up the wall, is when someone's car does cross the line, and Nayyar yells, "Haha! Chhakka marega, chalo peechha karo! Lets see kaun si khai mein girta hai!".

By five the next morning, however, after a twenty hour road journey, we found ourselves at the bus station in Delhi with memories of a great trip. We were greeted at the bus terminus by two gentlemen, one of whom refused to take photograph of the group, and the other who took the photograph so remarkably well, that it cut out three and a half of us from the photograph. Nonetheless, we were happy to be back after a great trip, safe and sound, and in full cognizance of that one fact I had yelled out to Dhar in the throes of those warm glasses of rum. We knew we'd had a great time. We knew we may probably never get to travel in this group again. But above all, we knew that:

“The general order of the universe is intact”

Bummer - Part I

2009-03-17T13:52:00.005+05:30

You know you've gone vacationing to a really cold place when you pack in only two sets of clothes for four days, and you still return with one of those two sets unused.

One Wednesday, Nitin, Arunav (Sikder), Aseem (Suri), Abhinav (Dhar(of Leh fame)), Ayush (Nayyar (whose name at home is a dark secret that does not leave the confines of the above group)), and myself set out for a four day trip. Most of us still had that tinge of Holi colours on us, given that just a few ours ago our faces were so coloured that our own progenitors couldn't recognize us. We gathered at the bus station where we were to board a bus to Shimla, Sarahan (in Himachal Pradesh) then being our final destination. As it usually happens with trips, you don't end up going to the place that you had initially planned, but we'll get to that later.

As our Volvo rocketed toward Shimla, breaking all land speed records (250kms to Chandigarh in 3 hours), we realised how futile it was to try and sleep on a road trip. Well, four of us did. Sikder and Dhar snoozed for 15 hours on a 6 hour bus ride. While they were asleep, we hatched theories on how Sikder was really "Sik-Dhar", Dhar's long lost brother and how our dear friend "Vamshi-Dhar" was their proud father. Jokes came, jokes went, we slept for barely half an hour and found ourselves in Shimla in the wee hours of morning. While alighting from the bus, I, being the macho man that I am, declared proudly that it was hardly cold, only to retract my words in half a minute and rush for the nearest available sweatshirt and some tea.

The beauty of most of the trips I take is that hardly anything is planned completely. We also wanted to visit Sangla and Chhitkul, which we had read about in our beloved copy of Lonely Planet (everyone must own one). After about half an hour of arguing over how to reach Sarahan, we decided to take a rickety bus ride to Rampur. As luck would have it, an hour later, we found ourselves, standing outside an overheated bus, waiting for a replacement in the middle of nowhere. The replacement did come eventually, and would change cause a significant change in plan. The replacement bus was smaller, and already had people sitting in it. Add all the passengers of our bus with all their luggage into it, and you have yourself a sardine tin. The hills work slightly differently from a city like Delhi. What do you do when you see a really crowded bus in Delhi? You let that one pass, sure that another would turn up in a few minutes. In the hills, there is just that one bus, so you get on to it even if you need to emulate Spiderman just to stay in the bus. By the time we reached Rampur, there were people standing on our luggage. And as we got off, it would be safe to say that the general consensus was to never take a bus again for the duration of this trip. (Below : Sunrise from the bus to Rampur)

After having seen rather disgusting goat liver sausages at some roadside food stalls, we decided to get ourselves some breakfast (not the goat liver sausages) before proceeding on to Sarahan, which was hardly a two hours' drive away.

Breakfast packed into our stomach, Nitin's lifelong desire for snow (if you remember the Dalhousie trip) kicked in. I have to admit that it served us well. It was quite hot in Rampur, and there were lynching threats issued against me because I'd proclaimed that the temperature could go as low as minus two and it felt like thirty at that point. We were also told that we wouldn't find snow in Sarahan. We were feeling recharged and we decided to attempt reaching Sangla that same day. It would involve an additional four to five hour drive, but it would give us a chance to visit Chhitkul (where snow was guaranteed), an hour's drive away.

Our driver to Sangla was well suited to our group. Ours was a group of what Nayyar calls 'Happy Campers' (and me). He gave my friends permission to smoke funny things, and sometimes cared to declare that he himself was wired on the stuff while driving us on some of the steepest and narrowest roads we had seen. It is here that I made the statement that gave this post and this trip it's name. "Dude you know what would be a real BUMMER? If the driver turned out to be an undercover cop!", said the wise SK. Nonetheless, we trusted him, and the divine plan. About 10 kms before Sangla, our driver stopped at a hermit's hut. This gentleman we have come to know as 'Cheel Baba'. 'Cheel' not as in Eagle. 'Cheel' as in an extension of the centre syllable in 'Chill' which is short for 'Chill with Chillum' (which was Cheel Baba's legendary dialogue). Three of us stayed away, while the other three (unnamed) and the driver found their way into the hermitage, and had the impossible task of finding their feet before they found their way out. An hour later, however, much to the surprise of all, we found ourselves driving into Sangla, safe and sound and in one piece. Two hands, two legs. All working.

(Below : On the way to Sangla, Cheel Baba's Lair)

At Sangla, we faced a peculiar problem. We had worked on the assumption that we would receive massive discounts in hotels owing to the fact that it was off-season and that were the only idiots out touring the most desolate areas of the country in winter.

However, because of the off-season, practically all the guest houses were shut. The houses in Sangla are forced to cut off their water supply in winter to avoid pipe bursts due to the freeze. Most of these guest houses hadn’t restored their supply yet and were not ready for service.
With great difficulty however, we were able to find a guesthouse with three rooms. All we had to do was to hunt down the owner at the local Nag festival. Sikder and Nitin decided to stay back while the rest of us went off to explore town and look for the owner.

Our short walk around town yielded few results. We couldn’t enter the Nag festival for the want of traditional Himachali headgear. However, we were able to catch a glimpse of the dazzling sunset behind the snow-clad mountains that surround Sangla. (Below)

It is on this walk that we hatched another plan. We would go to Chhitkul the next day, stay there overnight, and do a cannonball run down to Shimla the day after. Sarahan would not be visited on this trip. Poor Sarahan.

Upon returning I found that the owner hadn’t returned yet. It was beginning to get very cold and Sikder had already started one of his famous ten-minute power naps (Above). A short while later, however, the aforementioned gentleman did return and showed us into our rooms. At night we lit ourselves a nice fire, poured ourselves warm glasses of rum and relaxed after a day that had involved almost nineteen hours of travel. Suri began to tell his famous horror stories, which freaked out some of us (unnamed) so much that they couldn’t return to their rooms alone at night. The day did, however, wind down to a close with the temperature dropping to about 1 degree and all of us going to sleep in about four layers of clothing each.

Another One Rides The Bus

2009-03-07T21:22:00.001+05:30

There are things in life one does, neither for the first, nor for the last time, and yet somewhere you wish you could stop doing those things. Imagine then, our protagonist (call him SK in the interest of brevity) strolling out of the IIT campus at the end of a hard day's sleep to go back home. SK does not have any transport of his own that day, and therefore decides to rely on public transport. With barely twenty of the local currency in his pocket, he realises that comfort is something he can ill-afford. Therefore, SK decides to take the bus. It's not the first time he's been on a bus, sure as hell won't be the last, but he makes a few earth-shattering observations on this bus ride.

Let's call the bus route 764, because 786 would just be too Bollywood. (Beside the fact that there was nothing holy about this route). The bus route connects N to NP. NP is the official hub of the town. N is the Jat (a community known for it's "delicate" handling of matters) capital. Needless to say, the bus has gentlemen for driver and support staff. The bus was already overflowing with people by the time it reached the IIT bus stop. SK has spent three years in a place called DU which changed his conception of what they call an 'empty bus'. So he boards the bus. Luckily for him he gets a seat (albeit on the ladies side). This is the cue for the Gods to go out and have their share of fun with him.

Observation numero uno : Ladies, you're not the only ones who have to suffer getting felt up in a bus. Thankfully for SK though, he's not at the receiving end of such pleasant treatment, yet. SK, being one of a mathematical bent of mind, lets his mind run and comes up with a law of bus rides. "In, Delhi", he thinks to himself, "as time elapses in a bus ride, the percentage of one's body in contact with a solid surface decreases exponentially". Just as he is lauding himself on the profundity of this new law, a lady yanks him of his seat with a nonchalant "Haanji bhaiya ladis seat". Grumbling, he gets up and is suddenly made aware of the incredibly loud music.

Buses in Delhi don't exactly provide the traveller a very wide choice in music. The choice quite literally is between the colorful music of the 80's and early 90's, or Himesh. Smart as he is, SK decides to put on music through his earphones to circumvent this issue. This creates a new problem. Now, the loud music in the earphones and the loud music outside are mixing to create a new, morbidly unbearable form of music. As Chris Reshammiya starts singing "Show Me How to Suroor" into his ear, the bus halts at a stop where everyone seems to have one aim in life : get to NP. To accomodate this extra humanity into an already filled bus, the two conductors gently start pushing people into the middle of the bus, the one at the back tells people to go to the front, the one at the front tells people to go back. In the ruckus, SK realises that his only contacts with solid (inanimate) surfaces are his index finger (on the bar above), and his big toe (on the floor of the bus below). We won't talk about contact with animate solid surfaces.

The journey continues. And just as Eddie Sanu sings "I'm still mohabbat karta hun" and SK painfully shifts his weight from one toe to another, wondering when life(or the bus atleast) will spare him, the conductor behind yells in his special language, the only words his parents ever taught him, "Agge jaao agge, bus to khalli padi hai".

True Story.

The Twilight Man

2009-02-16T13:42:00.005+05:30

K. Beechka stared blankly into open space. He was confused as ever. As his head meandered through events in his short life, he looked for that one thread that linked all these events together. All events, including the day he chose to jump through that hole in the Sea of Khas.

Beechka had had a fairly fulfilling life. He grew up in a good family, and while the going was tough sometimes, things had never really unravelled for him. He studied in a good school, went to a great college, and made many friends and then lost some of them. He was, at the end of the day, the usual guy, who lived his usual life with all the hits and misses. All through his shortlived life, however, he felt this distinct sense of a mission he must complete. Much the same, he was rather disenchanted with something in life. Something that never crystallized enough to be completely visible to him, but was grainy enough to hurt his insides when his mind unknowingly strayed upon it.

He thought about the island of Tiid in the Sea of Khas. The island and its inhabitants were treated with an ambivalent eye by people who lived outside it. They called themselves The People of the Mainland. While they respected its inhabitants and turned to them when in doubt, their behaviour was hardly cordial when need found itself absent from proceedings. The people of Tiid, amused at first, then bewildered, and then hurt found solace in each other. The fact that it was difficult to access the island made it much easier for them to shun the outside world and behave in a manner (in the absence of external contact), peculiar to them. They developed their own codes of social conduct, governing bodies, even their own ideas of what they were. The few residents who had seen the Mainland before the separation began, ensured that everything in Tiid was in antagonism to the Mainland. To conform with the outside world was a heinous crime. To not conform with the inside world was even worse.

Every year, Tiid would conduct a scouting operation, where it would call residents of the Mainland, who found themselves at a loss with their world to migrate to Tiid. Of course, Tiid being an island, there wasn't enough space to accomodate everyone. Only those beyond a threshold level of disenchantment with their surroundings (barring those with political connections) were taken in; to live and to conform. Society within Tiid wasn't utopic, as it's founders had (day)dreamed it would be. The heirarchy was almost unbreakable. The cycle of exploitation, endless. All new entrants were subjected to heavy handed behaviour by their superiors, and they grew up to do the same to their inferiors. There were defections, thousands of them. Inhabitants who were disillusioned with isolation on the island, found their way back to the Mainland every year. The authorities in Tiid, tried to clamp down on this defection, but the stronger they clamped down, the harder it got. There were loyalists, of course, who would close their eyes to promises of a better life on the Mainland (on the compromise of conformation of course) and stay with their bretheren on the island.

Then Beechka arrived. He materialized out of nowhere. The story of that man with immense talent, that outsider who fell through the Sea of Khas spread like wildfire amongst the inhabitants of the island. The unknown usually invokes fear and respect. And this was the case with Beechka. He was showered with praise and respect, for no one knew who he was outside the island. Beechka absorbed all the respect with a hunger that knew no bounds. He had never received such adulation prior to the fateful day he fell through that hole in the sea. What Beechka realised soon after, was that this process was not irreversible. Unlike other inhabitants of the island, he could have a double life. One on the Mainland, another on the island.

One would be tempted to think that Beechka's life was now all peaches and cream. Best of both worlds, as one might put it. But Beechka wasn't happy. That something had still not crystallized.

The wildfire amongst the inhabitants of Tiid had died. Beechka himself had fallen into that twilight zone where he wasn't different enough to be considered unique, but was different enough to be cast aside. In the midst of all the angst eating up his insides, and the heat of Tiid eating up his outsides, Beechka was sent to the cooler climes of the city of B. Something inside Beechka told him that he was on the cusp of something. He was to be a part of an international congregation, where he would meet people from around the world, each representing a section of society that had been sidelined by the majority, and sought an alliance with islands such as Tiid. Over the two weeks, that he spent there, the storm inside Beechka grew more and more turbulent. Things always seemed like they were coming to a head, but they never did. And here he was, on the last day, looking over the city of B. and reflecting on his life, confused as ever.

And then, in that moment, he had an epiphany. All questions became answers, and all answers, questions. The face of every person he had met over the last two weeks flashed in front of his eyes. Then, every inhabitant of the island followed by every Mainland dweller made an appearance. He had suddenly found that missing link. Every person he had met in the last two weeks had only one thing on their mind. Everyone wanted to isolate themselves from the majority. This was precisely what had happened to Tiid when it began. Everyone had run in the opposite direction to begin with, and then as time wore on, everyone (except the miserable defectors) forgot about the existence of the Mainland. No one knew of the existence of a faster and easier life. Everyone was so happily ignorant in the mess of their own lives, that they never sought anything beyond it. Not seeking anything meant not losing anything. Work was life, and life was work. There existed no Mainland for them. Beechka, however, was not one of them. He had never been one of 'Them'. Whether growing up in the Mainland, or lost at Tiid, apathy was something he had never cultivated. 'Cultivated', he thought. Not 'succumbed to'. Because it was this lack of apathy that had landed him where he was. That 'something'. He had known both sides of the coin. And because of that, he could never get himself to conform at Tiid, and was never one of them. To the people of the Mainland, he was always the outsider who didn't belong.

Questions became answers, and answers became questions. It had started raining. He got up, and began his quest for that third land, that El Dorado where he would belong.

Was there such a land? Or was he the only one who belonged nowhere?

Doesn't Remind Me

2009-02-07T10:20:00.004+05:30

I mentioned to a friend last night that having your life hanging in a limbo with a lot of free time on your hand is a dangerous cocktail. If anything, it causes you to want to forget (if not write blog posts at a prolific rate) a few things. Memory has never been my friend. I have a very good memory and it hasn't served me well many times in the past. Random things fly, and random things stick, often indefinitely.

So, in the current spell of wanting to forget, I came across this song by Audioslave (surprise surprise) called Doesn't Remind Me. It flew, and it stuck. The song itself was written by Cornell as a depiction of a rough childhood and how just wanted to do things to forget those rough days.

The video for the song adds a new dimension to the song. It depicts a young child who loses his father in a war, and then just wants to do things that don't remind him of anything. So here's me, not reminding myself of anything.

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I walk the streets of Japan till I get lost