What's cooking?

If you're single, try like hell not to live an an apartment with married people around you.

Look at the state I'm in.

The lady next door has been cooking Mallu food since 12 o clock and I'm going nuts over here. The smells of the dishes keeps wafting over into my drawing room, through my kitchen window. I actually spent 10 minutes in my kitchen, savouring the many different smells drifting into my house.

A Half hour back, I smelt Kappa being cooked. Then there was the mashed onion and green chilly chutney. Now there's a distinct smell of 'Pappadum' being fried, overridden by the overpowering smell of my favourite 'Thiyal'.

And all this while I'm watching 'Red Beard' by Kurosawa. Sorry Akira, It's not that you aren't good. It's just that the neighbour's wife's cooking is better.

Suddenly, arranged marriage doesn't seem that bad an idea after all.

Crash into me - Dave Matthews Band

You've got your ball
You've got your chain
Tied to me tight
tie me up again
Who's got their claws
In you my friend
Into your heart I'll beat again

Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock
And sweet you roll
Lost for you I'm so lost for you
You come crash into me
And I come into you
I come into you
In a boys dream
In a boys dream

Touch your lips just so I know
In your eyes, love, it glows so
I'm bare boned and crazy for you
When you come crash
Into me, baby
And I come into you
In a boys dream
In a boys dream

If Ive gone overboard
Then I'm begging you
To forgive me
In my haste
When I'm holding you so girl
Close to me
Oh and you come crash
Into me, baby
And I come into you

Hike up your skirt a little more
And show the world to me
Hike up your skirt a little more
And show your world to me
In a boys dream.. in a boys dream

Oh I watch you there
Through the window
And I stare at you
You wear nothing but you
Wear it so well

Tied up and twisted
The way Id like to be
For you, for me,
come crash into me

Hit the road George

My lungs are screaming in delight. I've partly stubbed out my tobacco addiction and opted for a new and better one. One I used to indulge in when I was in school. Running.

After 2 years of complaining that Bangalore doesn't have a nice place to run, (Cubbon Park is too far away and dangerous cos I like to run in the evenings. The last time I tried, I was approached by 3 faggots and a eunuch) I slipped on my running shoes and hit the road.

I'm a dirt path kind of jogger so it takes me a little time to get used to the rather unyielding macadamized roads. So different from the Lodhi Garden track I used to run on in Delhi.

And since I don't have friends to run with here, I bought myself one. A Sony Ericsson 710i. The perfect companion I must say. Not only is it a phone, a walkman and an FM receiver, but once you fill in your details, like size and weight, the pedometer inside tells you how far you've run and how fast. It even tells you how many calories you've burnt.

A program inside also shows you a graph that plots your last 10 runs telling you how much better you're getting at it. The day before was 2.4km at Max speed 20kmph, average 7 kmph. Yesterday was 4.4km at max 27.9kmph and average 10kmph. (There's a part where there is a pack of dogs just waiting for me to make some sudden moves. So I have to walk that bit. Brings down my average. :)

My muscles were aching after the first run but now I'm aching to get on the road again. Seem to schedule my whole day around the run. My craving for that moment of clarity at the end of a run has replaced my craving for a cigarette. My 'runner's high' is definitely better than the first cigarette high.

I'm feeling more alive now than I ever did. :)

Quote

To me, there is nothing more revolting than the stench of mediocrity.

Huzoor is Kadar Bhi Na

I chanced upon a friend's profile on orkut after he had added a video on his page. It was from Shekhar Kapoor's 'Masoom', featuring the song 'Huzoor is Kadar Bhi Na'. The video triggered off memories in my head. Of a time when I can remember coming back from play and smelling pakoras and kababs in the kitchen, telling me that there was a party about to happen.

They usually were grown up parties with aunties wearing sarees, perched in a single line on a sofa. And uncles in suits nursing their drinks (almost always whisky) with napkins in their hands. With conversations which didn't contain obscenities. With plates of cold pakoras brought to my room, after it had done a half hour stint with the guests. With the customary parade in front of the guests to the tune of "Arrey. Kitna bada ho gaya hai! Main to pehchaan hi nahi pai" (He's grown so big. I can't even recognize him.

My father is an IPS officer, so all parties were sedate, somber occasions, unless batchmates were involved. In which case, the party would get livelier as the night progressed. There'll be leg pulling, back slapping and to the mock horror of the ladies present, revealing of secrets from their days in training.

I'd sit in my room, hearing the conversations and laughing at the jokes. There wasn't much to do in those days, besides watch Doordarshan. And I hated Chitraaar. By the end of the evening, the uncles would gather and sing songs. often number from when they were in college.

I used to love every minute of it.

The parties nowadays seem soul-less in comparison.

Trek that!

"Never has so much been owed to so many by one person for so long". My take on Churchill’s take on WW2.

Let me explain. I owe K, N and P a story. One I’ve been carrying in my head for a long time. I owe them this one tale. For I have nothing more substantial to offer.

I hate reducing people to mere letters. In just one post, a capital person becomes a capital letter.

And so I shall reduce them further to the names they were thrust upon by a circle of sleepy people waiting for the trek to start.

What trek? You ask. Let me begin from the beginning.

Do you know what sobriety can do to you?

Drunkenness can make you take off for distant lands with strange people you just met, making for great stories to tell over your next drink. But sobriety is a shade more unforgiving.

And so it was that four OH-less days found me testing the peripheries of my patience. Out of sheer boredom, I watched ‘Friends’, cleaned plates, folded counterpanes, rearranged books and fluffed pillows. And finally, after running out of things to do to keep the devil from setting up shop in my head, I opted for a “night-trek” out of the city.

What’s ironic is that an organized, one-day trek is something I wouldn’t even dream of going for, even if I was under the influence. And here I was, as sober as sober can get, looking forward to the damn thing.

A trek normally means that you carry the usual suspects. Water container, Petzl head lamp, cooking gear, tent (which one I take depends on the altitude), sleeping bag, change of underwear, toiletries etc. etc.

But this was a night trek. What do you carry on one of these? The mail from N asked me to carry a torch and warm clothes. My day-pack felt light with just these in it. You don’t feel like you’re off on a trek unless the straps on your backpack, bite into your shoulders. For once, the heavier the burden, the lighter you feel. And so I stuff it with dozens of mars bars, Bar-ones, two bottles of water and a windcheater. Slightly better.

RV is at Mallya Hospital. That is the first time that the extent of my folly first began to dawn on me. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was in the company of three extremely charming, intelligent women, I’d have bolted at the sight of the motley crew that was to be my group.

Now came the most difficult part of the trek. The ride to Kalwarbetta, in a bus full of geeks of the unbearable kind.

Who cares where they come from. Call centers, software companys, BPOs, they all breed the same sort. I’ve nothing personally against techies. I respect the fact that they can do something I realized I could never do. But they try so hard to be cool. Like, for instance, the conversation about the Grand Canyon that was ensuing between two such specimens on my right. It wasn’t even an earnest conversation. They were speaking too loud.

Here’s what they said, followed by what they meant to say.

What they said:

“Have you been to the Grand Canyon?”

“Yes! It’s so amazing no?”

“I know. The view took my breath away”

What they meant:

“Let’s tell them we’ve been to amreeka”

“Ok! Let’s talk about the Grand Canyon! That should impress them”

“Yeah Let’s”

That’s why I dislike techies. They try too hard.

I look out of the window and zone out. P next to me is silent. Reaching Yellahanka. I point out the aircrafts on the runway to P. I love watching aircrafts. Wanted to be a pilot for as long back as I can remember. I wanted to be the co-pilot of the ‘bhaiya’ who lived next door. Very close family friends. He’s just joined the Air Force and I’d promptly joined his fanclub. My sister, not wanting to be left out, wanted to be the air hostess. I’d tease her and tell her the airforce doesn’t have air hostesses. And she’d run around crying till someone’ll tell her they have. Spoilsports. Couldn’t I just share one passion with my hero. Instead of sharing it with my sister.

But we did. We used to model aircrafts out of balsa wood kits. I still do now. Makes me feel less of a jerk for letting myself be talked out of pursuing my passion. Gullible George. Think I’ll opt for that name. They’re asking me to add an adjective to my name beginning with my initial.

Wait! When did this happen? We’ve reached? Apparently. Cos I’m standing in a circle with the lot of them. I remember the names of my group. The rest I sieve out. Nitwit N, Klumsy K, Perfect P registers. I decide to play along. Gullible George it is.

I light up a cigarette. Have to rebel don’t I? Just have to be dickhead who lights up before a trek. But I needed it. I’ll need a bottle too if they want me to join them in the funny exercises they are doing. Over my dead body.

The trek begins. The night air feels good. I look up at the cloud crowned mountain I’ll be climbing. More likely, the mountain that’ll allow me to climb it. Heard that from Edmund Hillary. People asked him how he felt about conquering Mount Everest. He simply said that he didn’t conquer it. She let him climb her. So true.

The first stretch is good. It’s drizzling in spurts. I feel the familiar pull in my calves and rise in pulse. Looks like this is going to be an interesting climb after all. I begin to regulate my breathing. In through my nose, one step, out. Never breathe through your mouth while climbing. You lose heat and energy that way. Could be potentially dangerous if you’re trekking high-altitude.

P’s wheezing in front of me. I start to tell her that she should take smaller steps and not breathe through her mouth. But I’ll sound preachy. I hated it when people told me how to do stuff. She would resent it too. I’ll tell her when she’s tired. People are more receptive to advice then.

The gradient increases. I’m taking a lung full of air in every breath. Adrenalin’s pumping. I feel the need to charge up the slope, but opt to stick with P and N. My schooling in the hills have made climbing second nature. But now the smoking and abuse is beginning to tell.

At one point P tells me she can’t climb. I’m telling her to get to that knoll, then the rock up ahead, then the bush just 5 paces away. A climb is easier if you break it into small sections. She yells at me saying she can’t climb and she won’t. But she does anyway. I remember my first trek. Hated it till I got to the top. N’s being helped up by one of her classmates in college who happens to be one of the guides on the trek. What a place to meet. Should write a hindi movie on these lines.

And suddenly we’re there. ‘There’ is a small clearing near the summit, enveloped in a cloud. It’s cold. Colder than I thought Bangalore could ever get. Probably because of the wind that’s blowing and howling like a banshee. I walk around in a dream. There’s a small ruin of a part of an old fort, made of granite slabs. I’d get a slightly uneasy feeling as I walk towards it. Can’t put my finger on the feeling. I decide not to tell anyone about it. The rocks are the only surface they can sit on that’s not really wet and muddy. Wouldn’t want to freak them out.

N says she sees a ghost. I’m laughing at it. But the uneasiness is still there. K’s shivering with cold. I’m feeling sorry for her. I give her my windcheater. My sleeveless fleece jacket ‘s warm but my arms are cold. K’s still cold. Now she’s wrapped up in an assortment of clothes donated by the group. She’s bent over. She must really be suffering. Doesn’t seem the kind who’ll sham.

P and I smoke. Watching a bunch of nitwits trying to start a fire with 30kmph winds and a bunch of wet sticks. Fat chance. The rest of them decide to play a series of ridiculous games. It’s a picnic for them. I’m waiting for dawn. And there seems to be no sign of it. Watch says 6:00 but still no sign.

The geeks want to go. I’d rather stay and watch the sunrise. What’s the point of toiling all the way to the top if you don’t. But it wasn’t to be. 6:15 and the sun’s missed his appointment. We decide to descend.

Halfway down and the cloud clears. The sight nearly took my breath away. A congregation of bare hills being caressed by scattered sunbeams fighting their way through an army of clouds. Like spotlights on a stage, they move over the north face and then the south. Now this boulder has his 10 seconds of fame, now that tree. I can see the beams, like light from a giant disco-ball in the sky. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

Somehow the entire trip has managed to redeem itself at the end. The ledger book in my head has balanced itself.

I come back a better man.