The story of my life

This is an attempt at listing chronologically, books that have left an indelible mark on my life. I trust you won’t judge them by their authors or content but appreciate the fact that they, in their own way, completed the void I felt in my life, or steered me onto another path.

King Lear – Age 2
Now I never read this book at that age, but my grandfather used to tell me the story, as a kid. I can’t remember much of him now and almost nothing of what he told me remains in my memory. But yet, I can’t help being moved every time I read the play, or watch it staged. And though there are others of the bard’s plays I love more, there still remains a special place for this one.

Russian Folk Tales ages 3-6
Bought at an Indo-Russian Cultural fair, this book wrapped me up in its covers every night with stories of Vasilisa the Wise, the witch Baba Yaga and the hut that stood on chicken legs. I always wondered why all the heroes in the stories were called by the same name – Ivan.

The Magic Carpet ( or something to that effect. I really can’t remember the name) age 6-8
This was a Russian story book about two boys who find a carpet in their grandmother’s house and take it to use in their tree-house. They realize soon that it flies and have a series of adventures involving a machine gunner’s nest in a clock tower or something. I can’t seem to remember the plot but the feeling of awe is still there. Led to years of staring out of class windows playing out my own fantasies with magic carpets and machine guns.

The Three Investigators - age 7 onwards
I’m so happy I never met the Hardy boys first. After all, Jupiter Jones kicked ass, together with Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews. Much to the dismay of my mother, I ran around drawing question marks on walls with chalks and walking about with my dad’s magnifying glass looking for clues.

Tales of mystery and Imagination –Edgar Allen Poe age 8
It was not the original I read, but the abridged version. The book actually had some of Poe’s best short stories. The chief among them being “The fall of the house of Usher”, “The cask of Amontillado”, “The tell-tale Heart” and the “Gold Bug”. I was in love with Poe and his love for the morbid. I remember making my own crest with the words “Nemo me impune. Lacessit” Let him who provokes me die. Or something to that effect.

The Illustrated Weekly: age 10
Sinmply because of its last page with it’s famous semi-nude actresses. I vividly remember Sonam in a wrap-around that really didn’t wrap much of her anatomy (and what an anatomy it was), and Lisa Ray. I think I really fell in love with her. I was in love with the Bombay Dyeing towel ads. By now I had become aware of the other sex and what to do with mine. ☺

The complete Sherlock Holmes Age 11
Man did I become a fan. I nearly cried when Sherlock disappeared, and then suddenly realized there was still half of the book more to go. Obviously, you can’t fill the rest of the book with Watson’s memoirs, so I took heart and plunged ahead. Needless to say “Moriarty would remain a bad word in my dictionary for years to come.

Men In Love – Nancy Friday age 12
Was this a godsend or what. I had by now been linking my low grades and any misfortune that befell me, to my activities in the bathroom. And though I couldn’t desist, I felt guilty about what I was doing. And then during a transfer between towns, this book turns up in a crate of my father’s books. I tasted sexual freedom for the first time. I mean if so many people were doing it, and a book had been published about it, and my dad owned one, it can’t be wrong can it?

Roots – Age 13
This was a recommendation by a teacher who read my essay about slavery and gave me an A+. Thank you Mrs. Dhawan. I owe you lots.

Papillon – Age 13
A chance read in someone else’s house, it made me want to see the world. I loved the part where he spends time with the pearl divers. Refused to read the sequel cos I believed nothing could top the original.

East of Aden – Age 14
My first taste of American literature, kind courtesy an aunt. I loved it though was constantly chided by my father for reading ‘American Crap’. His foray into American Literature ended at Art Buchwald. (If you can call that literature)

Jude the Obscure – Age 15
In response to my reading American authors, my father gave me a course of the classics. And since he is a Tomas Hardy fan, I was flooded with his works. The mayor of Casterbridge, Return of the Native, Tess and many more. I loved Jude more though. Made perfect reading on cold foggy night in the remote towns of Haryana.

Zen and the art of Motorcycle maintenance – Age 18
Man did this book give me a dose of wanderlust. I’d take any opportunity to travel anywhere. Though I would get a motorcycle only a year later, this book made me look at the journey more than the destination.

On the road – Jack Kerouac age 21
I was primed and ready for this book to come along. In it I found a soul as restless as me. I longed for the road and a bunch of mad friends to take me away from my soulless existence. This was also when I began to experiment with substances and realized dope just wasn’t my sort of thing and travel really was the high I seeked.

I could add a couple of more books that I consider monumental in my literary pursuit but the 20s are an age when you stop letting books steer the course of your life the way they did before. You become suspicious and judge the books you read. Often with the benchmark of your peers. You no longer let the written word carry you away on a magic carpet ride, or seek clues in rosebushes and flowerbeds. And so I desist to list out any more.

The Farmer song

I owe this song to Stephen Sen, an old friend from college. I never tired of hearing him sing it so seriously while we around him will be cracking up. He has been kind enough to send me the lyrics as best as he can remember and I managed to track down another version of the same sung by the Ozarks, and completed it. The song is sung in a waltzish kind of meter and the ... signifies a significant pause to let the person imagine the next word. Stephen Sen take a bow.


There was a young farmer who lived by the pool.
A handsome young farmer who played with his....
marbles in springtime with the lady next door.
You could tell by her movements that she was a ....
charming young lady who walked like a duck.
She said she had found out a new way to ....
educate her children to sew and to knit,
the handsome young farmer, he pulled at her...
horses and carriages to go for a hunt
While the charming young lady was washing her...
linen in buckets and laying them on the grass
And if you don’t like this story you can kiss my…
Daughter in the parlor she’s winding the clock
And tying gay ribbons all around her…
Pussy cat, pusst cat and same as before
If you don’t like my story I’ll tell it no more.

Tragic Comic

My first attempt at using the Comic Live application on my Mac.

Normal is boring

Everyone has a muse. It could be as simple as a movie that changed your life, or a song that sang your life with its words.

For me it was a wristband. And one that I consumed large amounts of aerated drinks to get. 7up to be precise.

Circa 1989, Venue: Ambala.

The object of my desire was a 'Fido Didi' wristband. Newly launched because 7up was newly launched too. It took me 7 sittings in 7 weeks (my pocketmoney was meager, I was in 9th standard after all) to save up the money to get myself a 'Fido Dido', self strapping wristband. And I had to wait 2 weeks to get it.

It was an unassuming little band of metal covered with plastic, that wrapped itself around your wrist (magical in the Rajiv Gandhi era of India), when you hit your wrist with it. And the thing that influenced me the most was the slogan that said (headline - for the rest of you who've been corrupted by advertising) "Normal is boring".

I took it as a mission statement. The rest of my life has been a quest to support that line on a wristband. And I thank it for what I become. (Or blame it, depending on which part of the fence you sit on).

After all, what chance has a Mallu boy, born in Rohtak to a Cop, brought up by Jats, who studied for most of his life in Haryana, (Excluding a few years in Lawrence, Sanawar) to make it to "St. Stephen's " in Delhi and finally in a dog-eat-dog world like advertising, to make it to where I am today.

Am I showing off?

Maybe I have a right to. Raise your hands, you who changed 12 schools, had no friends, was lonely enough to climb trees for entertainment, didn't have a 'He-Man' toy until college where he bought it so he could set his mind at rest, had too look up 'vela' and 'arbit' in dictionaries that didn't have it, just to speak the lingo, and had to pretend that his torn jeans were 'fashionable'. (Luckily they were)

I love Fido Dido. I still believe 'Normal is boring'. And I have 7up to thank for it.

Thought I hate the shitty thing.

Oh Shit!

Written below is a scrawled message on the door of one of the bogs at St. Stephen's. I just remembered it and thought I'd share it with you.

It depicts the constant struggle that a man faces everyday in his head. Very profound.


"Here I sit and contemplate,
whether to shit or masturbate"

Pussy!

I constantly surprise myself. And it's scary how much.

After a lifetime of professing that I hate cats, I've gone and got myself one. Walked into a pet shop yesterday and saw this adorable brown one up for adoption. And so I took it.

She's called 'Cinnamon'. Other names considered were 'Auburn', Hazel. But I felt Cinnamon had more, how shall I say it, spice. (Yes it was deliberate)

She was very quiet in the office and very worried in the car. But once I got her home, she transformed completely. She scooted around the house climbing up this chair, scaling that curtain, and when I settled down to watch some tv, she jumped right into my lap and started licking me. I got the distinct feeling that I had passed her test and had finally been adopted by her, instead of the other way around.

But I'm worried. I've been cheating on my species. How shall I face my Sophie? Will she accept her? Shall I have to give one up? Should I tell Sophie about her? After all, she's back home with Mom and Dad, while I whore around the countryside with this hussy. :)

Oh! the pains of pet polygamy.

Chanel Allure

One moment the sky is clear. The next, they descend on me. In hoards. Like Stukas from the sky.

They come out of the sun. Like any self-respecting fighter pilot would.

I lower my visor and prepare for the onslaught.

They come at me in a straight line. As if playing 'chicken'. And swerve at the last millisecond.

All except one.

Splat! And what was once a healthy dragonfly, becomes a late dragonfly. He's ceased to be. He's passed on. He's demised. He's no more. He's gone up to meet his maker. He's pushing up the daisies. He's deceased. He's a late dragonfly. He rests in peace. He's expired.

Like the milk in my fridge. Like the 'life' in my life.

Which explains why I'm on this 7 hour motorcycle journey to Chennai on this Diwali weekend.

I need to be. I need to know that I still am.

And so I took off on a Friday on Liz, my trusty 350cc, Enfield Thunderbird.

As usual I've taken hours to depart. I love traveling but keep feeling I might leave something behind. So I spend hours preparing for it.

Backpack, riding gloves, helmet, hip-pouch, riding jacket, CAT boots, cellphone, handsfree, medical kit etcetera etcetera. In a moment of lunacy, I decide to leave spares and puncture kit behind. Living on the edge. It'll only add to the experience.

I'm ready to go. Lock my house and climb on to Liz. Who is angry with me for neglecting her for over 6 weeks. And shows it by kicking back. Nearly missed my knee banging on the handlebar.

I caress her sweet-spot. The fuel tank. Just below the logo. And whisper sweet nothings into her rear-view mirrors.

Kick again. This time she catches. First gear, and Elvis has finally left the fucking building. About fucking time too.

Hosur traffic. But I don't care. I've a cigarette on my lips and a song in my head.

Chris Rea. Driving home for Christmas.

Outside Hosur I stop for a bite. French loaf from 'BreadZ' (Hate the Z but love the taste) and cheese spread. Heaven. Food always tastes good when it's more than just nourishment.

Crossing a town. Can smell Ittar and cordite from the crackers in spurts. Love it.

Start wondering why people like smells associated with their own religion, and despise those of other religions.

How can belief reign on your senses?

Dislike or like by association. Always a problem.

Something like the 'appam' i get in church, during the lent season. It's a pot luck thingy. Every woman in the congregation makes it and brings it to church so people can have it, along with black coffee, after mass.

Now don't get me wrong. I love appams. Just not ones made by bad cooks. Every housewife in a 20km radius, regardless of taste buds, makes them and adds them to the kitty. I'd love to have my mother's appams. But I get Mrs. Thomas's instead. It hasn't risen. It gums up in my mouth and has as much taste as a sponge. Besides, it doesn't contain cashews and dates. Like my mom's. I see Philip over there with the date studded one. I make like I don't like it.

"Don't waste it." my mom says "neercha aa" (It's holy).

Ok! I'll eat it. Just don't expect me to like it. I'll eat it cos it's blessed and because it's tradition. But do I have to like it because it is?

I mean, I believe in the lord. Do taste buds too? Is there a church for tastebuds? Imagine having to baptize every part of your body to align with your faith.

"I christen thee George Koshy's tongue. And you George Koshy's lips." And so and so forth.

It's a mystery.


My ex is my first clue. She loved 'Chanel Allure' until we had a fight one night. Ever since then, she hates it. Because it reminds her of 'that day'.


Can't you simply love a smell, a shade, a feel without your memory or conditioning influencing your choice?

Is it a sex thing or a religion thing? I believe it's a personal thing.

We're taught to not question things that are remotely connected to faith and beliefs. No matter how riduculous.

Like touching your books with your feet.

I used to get whacked for keeping my books on the floor and reading with my feet on it. "It's Vidya" (knowledge). I was told. "She'll curse you."

I'd desist from doing it if the books came free and the lessons just eased themselves into my brain without studying. Here I have to buy the confounded things with money, spend hours reading it and memorizing it. And am expected to worship it too? Fat chance.

I take care of my books now. Not because it's religion, but because i read them religiously. Because I want them to last.

Like the Conan Doyle, limited edition complete collection, with original illustrations. Like my RAF Navigation handbook from the 1940s. I love them cos they deserve it. Not cos I'm stuck with them for a year and will help me get into college.

Reaching the outskirts of Chennai. Cross the Kuwam river. It stinks to kingdom come. And my sister says Chennai is happening. With just 3 pubs and hot weather, I fail to see how.

But I'm happy. I've left the stench of advertising behind. Everything else is just Chanel Allure.

Zero balance

I'm teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. Not the fiscal kind but the mental one. For I have no more memories to fall back on. The kind that gets you through a hard day in the office. The kind that Wordsworth talks about in 'Tintern Abbey'.

I quote him here.

"These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet."

I'm talking of memories of the crisp sound of pine needles under your feet as you tread over them on a path in Naukuchiatal. Of a hot cup of tea and 'Phan' to warm your soul on a wet and cold ride to Manali. Of watching the sun set from a hill, just off Gokarna, with dragonflies to keep you company. Of taking a turn in Wayanad and stopping to silently watch a herd of elephants cross, not 50 meters away from you.

I'm tethered to an office now. And running dangerously low on memories.

Collected one today. A far cry from the ones harvested earlier.

It was one of standing under an awning on Infantry road at 7 in the evening, in the rains, smoking a fresh bowl of Borkum Riff, White.

Maybe it can't compare to my earlier ones. And maybe I'm clutching at straws here. But they are, after all, a drowning man's only hope.

Killer toys

Came across this article that celebrates the 10 most dangerous toys ever marketed. Those treasured playthings that drew blood, chewed digits, took out eyes and caused a spurt in child cosmetic surgery.

I'd love to have got my hands on the 'Jart'. Wait! I had something way more cool than that. A bayonet that was taken from a dead Chinese by my uncle during the Indo-China war. I used to play with it in the backyard. (Without my parents' knowledge, of course)

And then there was the tribal bow and arrow that Someone had brought back from Manipur. Managed to kill a squirrel with it. And the misfired .303 rounds I found at the shooting range. Or the used syringes from a neighbour's insulin shots. Come to think of it, most of my playthings promised death, or in the least, permanent disability or dismemberment.

Maybe that's why I grew up tough. Click on the link to read.

http://www.radarmagazine.com/features/2006/12/toys.php

Gas

I have Gas. Not what the Americans mean by the word, but what the other 90% of the world means by it. And yes, it's strong enough to clear the room with one whiff. No! it's not the intestinal kind.

I'm talking about the industrial kind. The kind that comes in a red coloured cylinder with the words INDANE stenciled across it. The kind that, thanks to the Indian government, you have to pay double the price to get one. Because I got it illegally.

Why? Because a legal cylinder has to be applied for. And it costs 1700 to apply for it. And you get a stove and regulator free along with it. Regardless of the fact that you already own one. So you have to pay 1700 no matter what. Whether you already bought a cooking range that cost you 20k. Whether you already have an empty cylinder and just want a filled one.

And the worst thing is, you're paying double the price for the 'black' cylinder and you even have to stand in line and wait your turn. Then get turned away and stand in line again and plead with the man. Get rejected again and then stand in line and offer more money. Then stand in line and... you get the picture. Basically do it over and over until the guy dismisses you with a wave and tells you to wait till he's free.

Which takes a couple of hours anyway. Finally he saunters over to you and demands double the price. 600 bucks. And you eagerly shovel it out to him.

He tells you to go home and wait for him at 1 in the afternoon and ask you to watch out for 4 long knocks and three short ones on your front door, or some other secret sign like that.

So you wait till 4. At which point your boss is livid, until you tell him you were waiting for the gas to be delivered. There is a pregnant pause over the telephone line. And then you hear him sigh too. "Ok! I understand." Do come in early tomorrow. The campaign is due by afternoon. And I'm sorry I'll have to deduct this day's salary."

But I don't care. I got gas, you see!

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.

North to South

An observation:

"The Ladies down South have more down South than up North. Whereas the ladies up North have more up North than down South"

Kallu shoppu!

Mallus have a predisposition towards alcohol. I can't tell what it is about the race that makes them make a beeline for the 'kallu shop', come 6 o clock. Combine that with the genetic predisposition towards humour and tragedy, and you have a heady cocktail that makes you want to laugh and cry.

Take for example, local arrack. Made with dates, battery acid, watered down poison and probably even a biological waste, this deadly dram packs a punch. Often enough to send you straight to your maker or at best, leave you blind.

But in the spirit of Mallu humour, the locals have given them names. Not lukewarm stuff like 'Narangi' (Orange), or Godfather like the country liquor you find up north. These are named with tongues firmly planted in the cheek. Here are a few examples, with the translation. Judge for yourself:

Madal Chari (Lean against the wall): You'll need a wall to prop you up after one drink
Manavati (Bride): You'll be shy and quiet after one drink
Poste Keri (Climb up the post): You'll feel like you've climbed up a lamp post after one drink
Pulla Nakki (Lick Grass) You'll be on the ground licking the grass after one drink
Jet Airways: It's difficult to get down after one drink

and the one that takes the cake

Yesh Christu (Jesus Christ): You'll only wake up after three days

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

My baby

That's my darling Sophie. Sophie with white socks on all four feet. Sophie with the perfect diamond on her back. Sophie of the 'wow wow wow' song. Sophie of the kidneybean dance(You have to own a Boxer to get that one). Sigh! I miss her so.