Midnight among the mountains.

It was midnight and the rocks were taking a break. They were wind-worn, moist with fog and tired of supporting the flora and fauna around them. Like that wasn't enough, men had peed on them through the day, rubber-soled shoes had trampled on their rocky surfaces (they got their revenge though, turning slippery at places) and the behinds of many a human had mooned them. Just as they breathed their relief at having been left alone, what should they hear but the srcunching of wheels on gravel in the distance.

Two mini-buses full of over-enthusiastic midnight trekkers had just arrived!

They were filing out of the bus, forming a circle and...wait a minute, what are they saying? "Dangerous Deepu, Smart Sreeni, Jolly Jason, Gullible George, Perfect Pallavi..." this wasn't making sense. And why were they moving their hands towards and away from their chest like that, was it some sort of self-stabbing exercise? And, OMG! What was that funny hip thing they were doing??

*-*-*-*-*

I refused to move my butt in the Juguju (my dance instructor's term for it is 'Rhonde', and elegantly so) and stayed put, watching the others in the circle: K shivering slightly - her wind cheater was brand new, smart, but highly lacking in providing protection from the cold; GK smoking on the side, his bulky backpack resting beside him; A with his camera; S laughing silently... and on the other half of the circle, all the techies trying to be cool trekkies. They wouldn't have been half as bad, if it wasn't for the fact that i heard two of them cracking Tiger Defense 101 jokes in the mini-bus - "What would you do if a tiger jumped over you? Catch its balls! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

We walked a kilometre on a road made of red soil to get on to the hill christened Kalwarbetta - one of the highest and steepest climbs in the Nandi range. At one point, it felt like the beginning of the Blairwitch Project - flashlights encountering void because they weren't powerful enough to penetrate the air to hit the hills on either side, fences made of dried, thorned bushes and sudden cave-ins of the road. To add to it, just before i left home my mother got weirdly emotional and asked me not to go because she had had a bad dream about me a few days ago.

The moment of ascent crept up slowly on us. It began innocently enough and i was thrilled to bits about actually doing it. By the first break, i couldn't catch up with my own breath, leave alone the rest of the fellow trekkers. The view behind was worth it though - much like the view key-jangling man in ET gets when he stands at the edge of the cliff/mountain. Two minutes later we were climbing again. I think it was at this point that i really began to lose it - my body began protesting, quietly admonishing me for not having gymmed that day so i could be prepared for the pain and shortness of breath. (K was humming songs all the way up. Kickboxing thrice a week must be much tougher.)

My vision blurred, my lungs gave up and i could only see darkness around me. (Duh.) A ray of light pierced the darkness and i heard the oracle speak, "Hey, are you okay? Do you want water? Sip it, don't gulp, you'll only get more tired." She was a vision of strength, stamina and motivation. Ashamed as i am to say it, i didn't let her leave my side through the rest of the trek. Her left hand pressing into the hollow of my back kept me moving throughout. In between, i lost my balance real bad and would have tumbled God-knows-how-many feet, but she was there to propel me forward. In short, i was a complete sissy.

Three-quarters of the way up, somebody shone the light on the oracle's face, and who should i see but Anita, a classmate from college! The rest of the trek was easy-breezy (!) because i had somebody to talk to. (P claims to know my year book by heart, that's how much catching up Anita had to do from me.)

After all the huffing and puffing, it was sort of an anti-climax when we reached the top of the hill because it came so abruptly. The once-erect fort of Tipu Sultan lay scattered in ruins, grass and lichen growing over the stones. It looked haunting and gorgeous. At least what we could see of it, because the fog was descending rapidly. We had three hours to kill before sunrise, and no tents or bonfire to keep us warm. Temperatures dropped so much that any minute Dementors would come flying at us out of the castle, wearing armours and crying "Tipu Sultan! Zindabad!". K sat huddled in seven layers of clothing (alright, five), P and GK constantly smoked, S was just standing and A for the better part of it was one among the circle of people who were playing games. I was walking around, giving K and P a hug (none for GK and S - the latter i didn't know too well, and the former was the 'mard ko sard nahi hota' types because he gave his jacket away to K), avoiding getting whammied by the wind and constantly thinking that i was possessed because i was seeing people where there weren't any.

Five 'o' clock came, and with it a strange vision of white floating cloth. As it approached us, we could just about make out the boy-man under the shawl asking us if we wanted water or biscuits. Five in the morning, in the middle of nowhere, selling water and biscuits? He was either a ghost or demented. The fog was still so thick that we could have happily cut ourselves big pieces of it and eaten it up. Which also meant that our chances of seeing the sunrise were next to none. Ouch, i thought, considering i was the one who'd told these guys about the 'full moon trek' and the 'magnificent sunrise' on Kalwarbetta. The guilt weighed me down along with the fog.

Six fifteen, and the sun still refused to make its presence known. Reluctantly, we started our descent. This time, i was exhausted but didn't give up. GK had said that the uphill climb would be terrible, but it would seem worth it when we started down. He was right - the world looked like something else from up there - virgin greens and browns, giant white fluffs moving in the sky casting shadows on the ground, water bodies sprinkled randomly... a part of Bangalore that was more hill station and less IT city.

Surprisingly, the downward journey seemed much, much longer than the climb. When i reached the base, i turned around and asked GK who was walking behind me, "F***, we climbed that much?" He went, "No." Pause. "We climbed much higher." Oh freak. Not bad at all.

In the mini-bus, our heads nodded off as our brains tried to shrug away the numbness. K was sleeping on my shoulder and my head was buried so deep in my chest that if the bus had jerked, it would have snapped and rolled over. I must have been snoring, because I felt somebody tap my shoulder - A, sitting next to me, half-asleep himself, did an imitation of brail and asked me to use his shoulder to sleep on.

Ten in the morning, i reached home, well-spent. Would i do a trek again? Yeah. Maybe. In a thousand years.

*-*-*-*-*

"*&!&#!@^$&^$&^)(!#%$%", cursed the rocks. Thank God the intruders were off, especially the fat-assed woman constantly panting and whimpering like a little child. Her name was just apt for her - Nitwit something. So thinking, the rocks and trees and earthworms relaxed a little, letting the early morning dew cool their temper. But the bliss was short-lived. Hordes of vehicles arrived, bringing with them some people, plenty of food and a bit of alcohol. Oh God! Would they do the hip-thing too??

Life is beautiful.

A papercup full of hot water mixing with tea leaves mixing with sugar cubes mixed with plenty of crisply fresh rain mixed with some Desert Rose. Heady, heady combination.

I wouldn't trade places with anybody else right now.

Reality bytes. (Dedicated to Kaykay.)

It was pouring last evening - like nature was dealing whiplashes to all of us on Earth because we deserved it. Every single auto we (K and i) asked wanted 150 bucks and more to take us to our destination. After much hunting, though (thank God, PK had a car and we just had to roll down the window) we found an autowallah willing to take us. I decided to not act like the aggressive woman i am and quietly got into the auto.

Two things struck me - one, that the driver had made no demands for any extra money while everybody else was trying to capitalise on the rain; two, he made a conscious effort to avoid puddles and not splash all three of us (him, K and me. Duh!) with dirty water. So imagine our surprise when, close to Cunningham Road, an impatient boor zips past in his car (a Maruti van too, not even a Swift or a Merc) and leaves in his wake three victims soaked in yucky water. K and i escaped with little damage, but the autowallah didn't. The right side of his uniform (and his face) was dripping. He cussed all the way - just because the boor had a car, didn't mean that he could do what he wanted; there was no cause for him to be inconsiderate and do what he did. In a way, what the autowallah said made sense. I felt sorry for him, riding in the cold rain with his uniform offering him next to no protection.

About a 100 yards away from my dropping K off, the auto broke down. Some clutch problem. So our man got out - bare feet - in the pouring rain, and got to work trying to fix the problem. I felt like a heel, sitting there cocooned while he ventured into water. There isn't much i could do, but that didn't stop me from feeling the way i did. 20 minutes later, he came back, gave me a smile, said that the clutch was broken and started the auto. I didn't pay too much attention to what he was saying because i was aghast at his state - it looked like he had just got out of a washing machine without the tumble dry feature!

As i sat there, feeling worse by the minute (no it wasn't my fault, but i felt terrible for the chap), i counted my blessings. Each and every one of them. It would be uncomfortable to live like that, and i'm grateful to God for having made me who i am, for giving me all that he did. It's like Kaykay used to say always: we sit and crib about little things like work, and how little money we're getting, life sucks and blah blah. And then when we look at people like the autowallah, their living conditions, the fact that they manage to smile through it all, and then we can't help but feel like the scum at the bottom of the pond. Makes us wonder who's the better off of the two. Us or them.

P.S: Yes, i do seem to be bestowed with the power to communicate fairly decently with auto drivers - that's provided i get to sit in their auto first. Struck up a conversation with him, found out he used to do welding work. Fell off from a buildign where he was working and hurt himself badly enough to discontinue the labour. Chose to ride an auto instead because, ironically, he thought it was less work, and his body can't take much strain. 30 years old, married with three children, was planning to give up riding and start a business of his own (I think starting a business without money in your pocket is a bad, bad idea, but i didn't tell him that). He didn't ask for an extra pie (sceptics would say that after the sob sorry, he wouldn't need to), and for just that i gave him a 100 rupee note. Better spent on decent drivers who don't ask for it than the goddarn leching, pompous pricks who do.

Senses.

No bellydancing on Wednesday. My instructor's dance company - Tarantismo - was putting up a theatrical dance show at Alliance Francaise. Yesterday was the first of a series of five shows, and i was there. (So were some of the Page 3 people, but they're not my concern.)

I hurried through my gymming like the world was on fire, and reached just in time to be shuffled into the hall. Five minutes of shifting seats from one row to another, and we were ready for 'Senses' - the name and theme of their performance. PK -who's going to be part of the troupe soon - was in charge of sound, lights and music. Her name was mentioned in the brochures being passed around - with a spello, of course. So her surname was actually printed Katari (In a sort of rustic hindi, it means knife). We couldn't stop laughing.

The show started with a brief narrative by A, with the rest of the troupe on stage. It's amazing how different people look with make-up and shimmering gold bodysuits on. Like the name of the show suggests, the dancers took us through the five senses - sight, touch, taste, smell and sound (not in order).

I found the concept extremely interesting. For 'Sight', the dancers performed blindfold. Perfect co-ordination, flawless dancing and formations - despite the temporary impairment of their vision, they didn't once falter or lose their place on stage. It was quite remarkable. 'Touch' was the longest piece - exploring same-sex love, broken relationships, the bond between a woman and her just-born, sexual abuse and man-woman happiness. 'Taste' could have explored plenty such situations and emotions as well but they stuck to food. 'Sound' was good fun - a melange of belly dancers (waistbands with coins and mini-cymbals in the hand), bharatnatyam (ghungroos), dandiya and a junior shivamani (!)

Smell was probably the most dramatic, and perhaps, horrifying. Of this, there's only one thing i remember feeling - a chill creep up my spine as A ended her narrative with "The aroma of lust, and the stench of a dead animal."

Entertaining evening, on the whole. I'm looking forward to more shows of this sort.

danah boyd.

I was sent this link today to browse through. I might sound unintelligent saying this, but being unintelligent is a choice i've made: she's brilliant. And not coldly so, if you know what i mean. Most people who are brilliant are estranged from the basest of feelings (Sex and hunger drives not included), but not her. I guess that what makes her breed of brilliance - the exceptionally high levels of emotional intelligence combined with what all of us refer to normally as IQ.

She has done so much, so much in her life so far - the list is quite endless. Makes me feel quite worthless. In one of her posts, she speaks of whether all of us have the opportunity to travel and learn but eliminate it because of our lack of interest, and perhaps she strove to avoid falling into the trap, hence she is what she is - well-travelled, an authority on virtual social networking, etc. I don't know about anybody else out there, but i felt like she was talking about me - i am one of those people she refers to. I could have travelled, i could have learnt. Rather than leverage my thinking capacity - which, i know without trying to sound pompous, is way above average - i decided to let it go. I could have been anything i wanted to be, i could have been as perfect as i wanted to be. But i decided not to.

Most people don't understand this about me, this desire for perfection. It has nothing to do with professional ambition, and everything to do with personal satisfaction, peace for my own soul. I don't intend to compete with anybody, i intend only to challenge myself. And keep challenging, till i know there's no more i can do. I want to be the person i can look up to and never find fault with. I don't know if that makes sense to anyone.

I've been a coward innumerable times and have given up just too easily on a number of things that i could have been great at, if i had just pushed myself. And reading danah boyd's blog just brought it all back with such incredible clarity and force that i'm feeling quite vulnerable right now. And there's nobody to blame for that but me.

Right now, i'm wishing that i could go back to doing all those things and carrying the same zest for life i had years ago. But i know that if i sit still for a while or find means of distracting myself, this feeling will pass. I'll be back to being the coward i am.

Losing my religion. Sort of.

I go for dance classes - jazz funk and bellydancing - that happen in the evenings on the terrace of a play school in Richmond Town. (Phew. Talk about endless sentences.) I met a little girl here whose Mommy was part of the Salsa class happening just before my bellydancing. I struck a conversation with little Tanishka to make her feel better about being left to fend for herself while her mother danced - school, friends, what she likes etc. A brief interlude of silence followed, where i didn't know what else to ask her. Out of the blue she goes, "You know, I'm a Hindu." Wha?! Assuming i'd heard wrong from her 4-year old mouth, i asked her to repeat it. And she did. "I'm a Hindu", she said.

I had asked her nothing at all about her faith. Naturally, no person would ask something of the sort from one so young. Yet, she thought it important enough to be part of a conversation she might have with anybody.

My first reaction was panic. I'm not sure she fully understood what she was saying, or the enormity of the statement she was making. It was scary that she was growing in an atmosphere where her religion was being drilled into her not just as words, but as behaviour and more importantly, as a foundation for her future beliefs and actions. Don't get me wrong, i'm not saying it's a bad thing. It's just that with the way things are going right now, i wouldn't be surprised if all this tutoring makes her something of an educated zealot.

This isn't just true of her, you know. I have my own cousins, all of them not more than 11 years of age. Already, when they meet their non-Muslim friends, they go chee when they see idols and all that. I'm stunned into silence, because it's such a wrong way to behave. Religion is something each of us has the independence to practice in our own way. Imposing one's beliefs on others is just so...uncouth, and such an exploitation.

And yet, is it any surprise that these things happen in our households, while the same occurs on a larger scale across the nation? Is it any surprise, when moral police from the religions fighting for domination in India hash and re-hash and ruin educational material, introducing conflict in content? Is it any surprise that each of us is religiously afraid of each other thanks to some bloody people somewhere who decided to start a fight and blow it out of proportion? I mean, think about this: for years, the Taj Mahal was admired for its beauty, and heralded by all and sundry as the one thing India and Indians should be culturally proud of. Suddenly, we have people who claim that the foundation was laid over an ancient temple. Innumerable texts and pamphlets were circulated, e-mails passed around. People had protests all over, and then they evolved into fights. The Raj Kumar protests are another example: the man died from natural causes, and Bangalore went berserk with grief. If it was possible, they would have stoned the Gods to death for taking away their beloved annavaru. Some places, buses were burnt and public property damaged. A boy was killed in some sort of stampede. His religious identity then started a semi-war between Hindus and Muslims.

It's like, people are waiting for an opportunity to bring out swords and fight in the name of God. And they're readying armies of the future by instilling thoughts in the heads of children as young as Tanishka.

It worries me no end. I hope i'm not around to see the last defining act of this degenerative process.

Garbage - Stupid Girl

One of my all-time favourites. (I vowed never to indulge in putting up videos and clips on my blog. Guess i have to chew on my own hard-boiled words now.)

Started out intensely disliking Garbage and their music, and then it just grew on me. I think it was the videos that freaked me out more than anything else.

Random thoughts that are not so random.

I met Y for lunch today. We got talking about things, like hair colour, when my maid entered into the conversation. And i told Y about how she was bringing up three children all on her own. She left her husband years ago because he was an alcoholic, beat her and gave her a lot of grief. Before the words quite escaped from my lips, Y said, "It's so funny that we are educated people, yet when it comes to marriage and domestic issues, we prefer to stay in it and sort it out."

It's true. I know of a couple - R and F - who've had problems ever since they tied the knot, but have stuck on for donkey's years despite domestic violence and what-not. And these are the same people who persuaded my previous maid to leave her husband when she came home at 1 in the morning with a bandaged head. She left him, and to this day the other couple do nothing more than applaud my maid's courage. Likewise my present maid too. They were proud of her for having taken the brave step of leaving hubby behind. Makes me wonder, who's really empowered?

Does all of this mean that educated people are cowards when it comes to opting out of dissatisfactory marriages? Does it mean that they've got much more to lose than my maid or somebody else who isn't so well-to-do? What stops them anyway, the fact that they have social circles who wag tongues freely to deliver whiplashes of hurt and misery? Or are they duty-bound to their families, the people who attended their glorious weddings and the people they are married to? For that matter, what made my maids leave their husbands? It couldn't have been easy for them, not with their social backgrounds where morality is held in highest regard and leading a 'pure' life is so much more important. (This, by the way, is fodder for another post. I believe that when people have nothing else to hold on to, they clutch on to their morality. It's subjective... and not open to debate.) Yet these women did it. And they survived. And today, they're happy. Happy. Did they do it because, like Y says, they had nothing more to lose? They had seen the worst in life, and there was nothing else that could happen?

Frankly, i don't know. Which is why it scares me plenty to think that if i get married, i will be joining millions of the educated class on the bandwagon. And predictably, i know where that will land me too.

Compliment. (Posted by Narcissa.)

"Bhishon Mishti."

Translated it means "very sweet", but i was fooled into believing it meant "God save the men."

Swoon swoon.

All sand, no ***.

So i went to The Beach last night. For the first time. Nice ambience - sand under your feet, a little artificial lagoon, seats made from coconut tree stubs, the works. U2, Sting and others strumming slow numbers, and i asked myself: What the heck am i doing out here with women?? I should be out with a man! I hate the DJ, he just kept on with those crooning voices.

Some would say i'm a bundle of contradictions, that i say i want a man and then i say no, i don't. Actually, i don't have a problem with men. Just with what they do when they are in my life - my focus is on them, i go out and see something nice and pick it up for them, i crib and cry that they don't call me, they don't love me any more blah blah blah. And i don't have a problem with commitment, just marriage - risky business, that.

My friend told me almost a year back that if i didn't find a guy by 24, i should begin to worry. Boy, i should be rolling on the floor right now, with spasm after spasm hitting me, panic stricken because of not finding a guy yet. But no, i choose to go out with friends when i can and then sit there and go all bleary-eyed as the women around me talk about "Oooooo my boyfriend" and "Mmmmm last night". Give me a break.

So now i fret endlessly every day wondering where the heck my man is. Alright, where the heck all the nice men are.

The day before i went out with my parents and saw one, one, in a crowd of thousands of men who looked yum. I've seen such a specimen of perfection - attitude-wise - only once before in my life, and that was nine years ago. Call it desperation if you want, but i couldn't stop looking at him despite sitting next to my mom and in front of my dad. When i mentioned this to my friend from office yesterday, specifying the time that had lapsed since i last saw someone like that, she had one remarkable thing to say:

"You know, there's only one place i've seen the most good-looking men."

All eyes and ears, i waited eagerly for her to continue.

"At the departure terminal in the airport."

Oh well, that explains it.

I think it's time to get my passport made.

Strengths and Weaknesses.

Okay, this is going to be fun.

I have a weakness for saris. It takes immense will power - and to some extent, being broke - to resist picking up a gorgeous number when i see one. A couple of weeks ago, i went out shopping with mommy dearest to Safina Plaza. It was a spur of the moment decision, and i went thinking i'm not going to spend blah blah. Mannn, there was a Kutch Exhibition and i couldn't keep my hands off the saris! I picked up two, came back home and showed my purchases off to my aunt who was visiting grandma then.

She looked at the saris, commented on how nice they were and dropped a killer line: So, when's the wedding?

Umm... "Yes, yes", she went on brushing aside my umms and aahhs, "You have only one year now. Then your market value will just plummet."

Ohmigod, she really, actually said that! My aunt, MY aunt! So educated, so well read, so sensible, so...Ohmigod. I was shocked, then offended, then indifferent.

For some reason i was just thinking about it again yesterday and it struck me as funny. Imagine, if i don't get married now, then i never will. Then i wondered, even if i do listen to her and say yes to the process of 'groom hunting', which man in his right senses would agree to tie himself down with me?

Just for kicks, though, i thought i'd list out things that could reflect my 'market value' in terms of who i am, and not how old i am. So here goes.

Strengths:
1. Loyalty (Woof woof!) - 'ex'es and my workplace are proof.
2. Adjusting - i'm sorry, but this doesn't apply to seating arrangements anywhere. My size doesn't allow for that kind of adjustment.
3. Good HR skills - bring on the maasi with a foul mouth or the Kasautiwali Kamalika
4. I can cook, and cook well (I think i should make this the top of the list)
5. Rare shopper (Hallelujah!)
6. Good housekeeping skills (That doesn't mean i keep cleaning up behind the man's mess)

Weaknesses:
1. Bald pates and french beards (well, i won't cheat but i am allowed to drool, aren't i?)
2. Cats
3. Extremely low levels of patience
4. I'm a wee bit too bold for people to handle
5. Need plenty of TLC

I guess that more or less summarises it.

The writer and the pen.

We are inseparable, you and i. Don't know when it happened, don't know how long it's going to last for, but for the present we are paired. So what if there are distances as long as the table between us, there's still a passion that keeps us together.

You reach out for me, lift me up...touch me, touch my soul...

Your nimble fingers guide me to empty spaces waiting to be filled, filled with words - deep, evocative, full of love and tenderness - filled with a testimony of the good times we've had, the intimacy translated into verses of immortality... With you, i can keep going on and on; with you, i can face the worst and still create something beautiful out of it...

The page is full. You stop. The immortality has come to an end. The cup of love is empty. The tenderness, abandoned.

You set me aside. Replace me with someone else. Someone with as much ink as i had before.

Signs.

Late last evening, i decided i would do this. Blog about the accident, and my reactions to it.

At 2 a.m on the 27th, i got a missed call from A and called her back. Hesitatingly - because she wasn't thrilled about waking me up that late (or early, depending on how you look at it) - she told me that R had met with an accident at around 10:30 p.m. Ro was with him, but he wasn't hurt. R had been severely injured and was in the hospital. The driver of the hit-and-run car had left him with a cracked pelvic bone and dislocated leg. He was bleeding profusely and he was in bad shape.

Torn between wanting to be there as a friend and not wanting to be there at the same time, i tried getting back to sleep after the news but couldn't. By 6:30 in the morning, i was halfway through deciding in favour of going - it was the right thing to do. So when A called me at around 8:00 in the morning, i told her i was planning to come but i wasn't too sure. She said that it would be a great help to be around (the fact that i'm in her bedroom, at the PC and typing out this blog works to the contrary), An might also need help with work. Okay, i agreed. I told my parents that i was leaving the same day. Surprisingly, they didn't put up a fight.

Then came the tough part - booking an air ticket. It was a Friday, and buses were out of the question. So were airplanes, but i decided it was better to save time and fly. Besides, i didn't want to risk second thoughts about going. The tension increased two-fold, and kept multiplying till i was able to secure a seat on board Air Deccan thanks to a cancellation. Money didn't even enter the picture, R was more important. So regardless of the fare, i booked it and reached the airport.

The flight was delayed by an hour. And the 'security check' line had more than a 100 people in it. Upon arriving at Hyd, i discovered that my check-in baggage had a certain essential part of its anatomy missing. I was extremely upset - it was my most compact travel bag that could manage to fit in clothes for four days. I asked myself this question as i was waiting for A to come and pick me up: What am i doing here? I wondered: the delay, the baggage, that continuing feeling of uncertainty...was all this a sign for something?

We went to the hospital directly from the airport. R didn't know i was coming. My entry was very filmi - like a long distance lover coming home to find the better half sprawled on a hospital bed in the throes of pain. I'm just being mean and unnecessarily brutal i guess, considering R and I are not 'seeing' each other or 'going around'. But i can't help it, that's how i felt.

Time flew by swiftly. I spent a restless, sleepless night because of lots of things. My imagination ran riot, and not in a nice way at all. (I don't care to elaborate on that.)

R's surgery happened yesterday. I spent all my waking hours at the hospital along with A, joining in on the banter: R, don't do this; R, stop cribbing; cracking puns around legs and hips and all that. At 1:30, he was wheeled into the OT. From then on A, Ro and I took shifts waiting for news of R.

A's cousing joined us. He was wearing a Google tee i noticed as we were waiting for the lift to come so we could go to the room and wait for the surgery to get over. On the back was written 'I'm feeling lucky'. Was that a sign too? Was R going to be alright?

The surgery lasted six and a half hours. When he was wheeled out, we were allowed to see him briefly before he was taken into ICCU. He was wrapped in a sparse bedsheet, eyes rolling and a low moan escaping through his furiously chattering teeth. As he was taken into ICCU, he let out agonising calls for "Anand, Anand." And we couldn't meet or pacify him because visitors weren't allowed inside.

I had my reality check then.

His accident had affected me more than i cared to show. I knew that if i spoke to anyone at that point, i would break down and cry. I kept my face lowered and my mouth shut tight. I don't know what the others felt about my reactions or if they even noticed at all, but i was beyond caring. His surgery was a success, and there was no chance in hell that i was going to break down in front of everyone.

I gave in to the after-effects of stress when RKK called me. My voice shook, then broke, then was interceded with sobs that i was trying to choke back.

Far in the distance, i saw the metro moving along, its reflection gaining speed across the surface of the lake. To my left from the seventh floor window, i saw traces of sparkling light splattered in the sky, remnants of a wedding firecracker gone cold. As i continued talking to RKK, i thought if this was a sign too. That time would move on, and everything would be alright. Perhaps there would even be cause for celebration soon.

'Kill Me' for the day.

Q:
What's a Coorgi with sexual fantasies called?
A:
Pornnanna.

The Mariana Trench of one's personality.

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. "
- William Shakespeare, As You Like It


The idea of things happening by 'chance' is an amazing concept. It can lead to things you would never have dreamt of.


Last week, as i was walking past him i happened to glance over my shoulder by chance. And i saw a blogger posting page open. Hmm, i thought. Next thing i knew, i was surreptitiously checking out the blog, the name of which i saw by chance on his PC.


I read it, and didn't really form an opinion. When i visited the blog again today, i rationalised the reason as one of finding out something more about him. (We met yesterday, by chance.)


I didn't find something more. No siree, i didn't. I just found plenty more.


A virtual open page that his life is. And an intimate, intimate affair (or should i say, friendship?) with a woman (or stranger?) stripped of the bed covers it must have been conceived in, laid out naked for the world to see. It seemed to have been an emotional phase in their lives - the only thing vulgar about it was my encroachment into their virtual private space (if there's anything of the sort), an Internet Voyeur. I'm ashamed of my act now, because i can see how deep the waters must have run on both sides. It was so... ambiguous, and yet the ambiguity was the very thing that tugged at the heartstrings.


I realised then that he is such a different man for eight (or more) hours every day, a mask covering his face.


There is so much more to him than what i, and perhaps a lot of others, see.


There is so much depth to his character that it scares me. I don't think i want to have anything to do with him.

'Kill Me's for all the days i haven't posted one.

Q: What do you call a woman with loosies?
A: Julaabo.

Q: If Oreos had medicinal value, what would they be called?
A: Cureos.

Q: What footwear do female plumbers wear?
A: Clogs.

Q: If Ozzy were a bird, what would he be?
A: Ozztrich.

Q: If a holy man is called 'Divine', what is a holy cow called?
A: Bovine.

Q: If Brad Pitt were perpetually hungry (for food), what would he be called?
A: Bottomless Pitt.

Greek Fish and Deja Vu.

I went to Spiga yesterday for dinner. I wasn't really sure what sort of ristorante it was, so i was pleasantly surprised at the cosy, laid-back atmosphere. Mood lighting, not too many tables, soft music, and to top it all, we got a table that was in a separate section, away from the crowd. Ideal setting for... depressing conversation. :-)

It so happened that RKK and i decided to go out for dinner, and after much research-cum-debate, we hit on this place. Now, he was sort of pining for a last look from his Lady Love (A typical balcony scene from Romeo & Juliet, if i may add. Except, she would be peeping out of a 4th floor window.), while i was longing for the company of a certain somebody who couldn't possibly have made it. I guess the mood just got carried along to the dinner table.

Then, when we reach the place, realise we only have cards and absolutely no money...it begins to happen.

Deja Vu...

Flashes from a past that's fled to the back of my mind, never to return...

A Naseeruddin Shah movie... a cobbled pathway leading to a restaurant on the first floor... passing a bed on display that i absolutely fell for... feeling light headed...apologising for not carrying enough money, so i had to be treated to dinner...

Just as soon as it came, it vanished. But not for long.

We got down to ordering food. I scanned the menu, decided on Greek Fish because it sounded appetising.

The service was quick, and we had just started on some conversation when the food arrived.

One look at the slivers of fish resting on a river of parmesan-mushroom sauce, with vegetables decorated around it..and we're back to where we had left off...

I had eaten the same thing... Greek Fish... I remember not finishing it because i remember feeling light-headed... and it wasn't just the aperitif i had ordered.

I remember the day because it felt like something was happening...maybe i was wrong. I wonder if i was the only one to feel that way?

To conclude: sometimes it's just very hard to get over things because they were beautiful experiences / phases of life and you want them to last. But when you realise you have no choice, you just have to let go. What remains of it are flashes of sweet-sour memories that strike you when you least expect them. A heady mix of Greek Fish and Deja Vu.

Bangalore - Ranchi - Bangalore.

G got married on March 7, 2007 and i went for her wedding to Ranchi. Travel took up most of our time, nonetheless the journey was enjoyable. I had carried a book with me - Broken Verses by Kamila Shamsie. I've read one other book of hers titled Salt and Saffron. But this book was... different, and not in a disappointing way. I finished it on my journey back to Bangalore, and it motivated me to write. After a long time. Here's what came of the effort:

"
March 9, 2007
Just after Guntakal
On our way back to B'lore from Gouri's wedding.

I'm fast coming to the conclusion that the world is just one giant exhibition. What else could explain the coexistence of a factory spewing smoke and a lush spread of rice fields less than 200 yards away from it? Or another industrial setup bellowing close to bare land on which endless carts of rich, golden hay provide shelter for the men who drive them?

This journey has been interesting, entertaining and in many ways, enlightening.

Godavari is vast, with bridges running over it. They serve a dual purpose, these bridges. Concrete above for highway traffic and rusty metal below for trains to fly over. Somewhere along its glistening water, a boat bobs into view. A man stands on it, feet resting on either side of the boat in preparation of hurling the net out to capture unsuspecting fish.

Thatched huts dot rice fields everywhere. Four stone pillars support a roof made of dried palm leaves. The entrance is about three feet high, and the overall effect is...well, it strikes me as being a romantic place to spend a night clear of clouds in. I've promised myself a night in one of these huts. Some day.

The sunflowers were magnificent. Like eager little birdies waiting for mommy bird to feed them, they turned to the sun for food. Their happiness at having full tummies was evident in their playfully swaying stems and flower heads.

Bano is one of the most beautiful stations i have had the good fortune to spend minutes at. There's no concrete, only the earth and shelter for people stopping over. Picket fence coloured white, in bold contrast to the sepia tones of the silk cotton tree. It was tall and full of flowers - huge, crimson and just so...sensual. No red-blooded woman could have resisted them. I picked one fallen from the tree to take home for my mom, and quickly jumped back into the train.

When seen through a canopy of the forest trees, or over the rocky hills, a sunset is a soft, rosy, yellow orb shining in the distant sky. You'd want to reach out and touch it, but wouldn't be disappointed if you couldn't because it seems to travel along with you and then, gradually vanish into thin air.

Static. It's been a sore point throughout the three and a half days i've spent on the train. I can't touch metal, or people for that matter, without having electricity sparking from my fingertips upwards.

We played antakshari on the train last night. Senior Citizens (excepting RKK, who we might as well count as one because he willingly went to the other side) vs. young blood. Kannada Carnatic and Hindustani classical vs. Bollywood songs. At 11:30 in the night. They almost beat us at it.

Prakash anna and Pratibha have been married a month now. It was totally cute to see them holding hands, kidding around, whispering sweet nothings over opposite berths and resting heads in each other's laps in turns. Makes me wish I could find enduring love too.

Uncle thought he could help me with that. He found a nice German boy on the train for me. Name's Andrew, and surprisingly, his accent's quite un-German. (not like i'm an expert at accents, but anyway.) He seems intelligent too. And boy, he's cute. Very cute, in a simple, earnest sort of way. (I think it's the beard and the eyes - a colour of brown that seems to absorb light and radiate it back as its own.)

There are more fields now. I think Andhra Pradesh is full of them. I don't think i'll want to see anything else for a long time. And i won't either, given that AP is such a bii..ig state. We've been in it for more than 12 hours now.

I'm in love with nature. It touches me like nothing else in the world. The joy it gives is unparalleled by any mortal happiness. I just may have established a love affair with it to last all my life. And i'm glad."

Let's leave this post unnamed. It is, after all, a post that talks about my bond with someone, a bond that was so ambiguous that it never really had a name. We never 'saw' each other, just did a lot of things together. At least, that's what i think. And then, a thread just snapped loose and the thing was lost forever.

I haven't been in touch with this someone for months now. Initially it hurt - it always does when you're enjoying something and it's abruptly pulled out from under your nose, so you can't have it any more. Now i'm used to it, simply because i don't think i need to put myself through the depression of being the one who leaves everything behind and keeps making an attempt to get things back to normal, only to get a kick in the guts. Now, i don't give a damn if i don't speak to this someone ever again.

But there's a catch. Sometimes, i miss those things. Over the weekend, i went to a Dastakari exhibition at CKP, and passed the Grand Ashoka. Automatically, my mind went back to an evening at Sutra, me so high and happy that i knew i was blabbering and didn't give a rat's ass. It was one of the best times i have ever had on an evening out. These thoughts were followed by a longing of sorts. A longing to go back to the way things were.

I never stop wondering why it turned out this way. Maybe it was something i did or projected. Or maybe the someone was just plain freaked out that i was getting... too involved maybe, or was just being a pain in the wrong place. I don't know. All i know is, sometimes i miss it all.

Happy New Year?

So the party's over, the alcohol's worked its way out of our system and the dance floor's empty. But exactly what were we celebrating? A year that held some 20-odd carcasses of children from Nithari in its bag of surprises? A year that unleashed a madman serial killer on Mumbai? Or the one that witnessed a woman being harassed and abused at a New Year Eve bash? A year that brought to light exactly how jaundiced Indian journalism has become?

I'm not much of a fan of politics, world affairs and everything else that falls into the category. My knowledge of the goings on in what we all hold in awe as 'the world' stops at Wired, Wikipedia and perhaps movies. Of course, when i have been forced to sit through it, i have watched news on channels like BBC, NDTV, CNBC and these days, Times Now. On the night of the 31st, though - or was it the 1st, i don't remember - as i watched the news in Hindi on NDTV, i was quite amazed by how low journalism had stooped to get those viewer ratings shoot beyond the stars.

To illustrate, the case of Nithari's missing children. 38 in all, and about 20 skeletons found. In packets, all sawed up. The accused, who has admitted to molesting and killing these children, is crying foul on the basis of a 'mental disorder'. What was even more apalling, the news channel narrated bits of conversation between the police and the accused, filled with the words 'rape' and 'sex'. The exact bulletin is beyond description in the way it was handled - almost as if the newsreader was gleeful about reading it out. Worse, the conversation kept being typed out on the screen.

Why did it have to happen that way? I mean, it was children we were talking about, for heaven's sake. It makes me angry enough to know just that, and hearing words like sex and rape doesn't add fuel to the fire, it disgusts me that those guys sitting in the studio are stripping those long-gone children of what little innocence they have left in their death. There were bigger issues here, like the class divide that probably prevented the police from investigating further into the situation, or the fact that they were to some extent at fault. Barkha Dutt was probably the first to even touch on these topics, but i don't think they got as much airtime as the whole conversation and constant news flashes of 'rape rape rape'. It makes me feel glad that i didn't get into journalism despite having dabbled in it for a while.

Then there was the episode of a girl being physically harassed at the new year party at Gateway of India. A Midday reporter was on location shooting photographs, unaware of what it was he was capturing - a girl with her boyfriend, suddenly surrounded by men who were feeling her up, pinching her and what not. It was probably the next hottest news after Nithari, on air across all news channels by the 1st or 2nd.

Once more, the photographs being showed in succession, again and again, as the barracudas moved in on her. Ask a question instead, did anything happen to the slimeballs, and the media draws a blank.

Interestingly, my grandmother had this response to the whole thing - why should the girl go out dressed like that, she's only inviting trouble; and why should she go out on new year in the first place? Points to be noted, she was amply covered and more so than most women in Mumbai apparently dress up when going out. Besides, should a woman/girl/teenager stop stepping out of home or going to parties just because there are sex-starved, lustful assholes of men lurking around every corner? How about fixing them for a change?

Half of January's passed us all now, and although these news snippets are not out of the media circuits, they've lost most of their steam. What replaces them - as i saw today as a banner headline, front page news, right on top of everything else in the paper - is something like 'Abhishek proposes, Ash says Yes!'.

So what is it that we are celebrating, again?