For a long time I’ve been afflicted with an extremely severe condition popularly known as writers block. Not that I consider myself to be writer in the truest sense. But if the shoe fits, albeit a tad stinky and strewn with holes, wear it.
The causes of this affliction, I tell myself, are one of the following – absence of a muse, hectic work, working out at the gym and competitive exams that I don’t bother studying for.
The non-existence of female inspiration is actually a prerequisite of being a tortured artist. So we can scratch that. As for work, well, if I have time for online poker so it can’t be that. The bulge on my biceps that only I seem to notice would obviously help me hold a pen better. We are left with the competitive exams. Who knew that not studying would be so stressful that it drains all of ones creative juices?
Anyways I’m making a brief return to the writing scene and unlike previous narcissistic pieces in which I talk about myself and my experiences with myself, this particular write up is for a very special friend.
This special friend is embarking on her very own version of the great American dream. And while I’m excited for her, it does leave me with the tough ask of having to say goodbye. Considering my inability to have a serious conversation about feelings and other such disconcerting topics I thought it best to go the written way.
R. S. and I were actually in the same queue for paying fees on admissions day before college began. The fact that it took us 3+ years to actually become friends is something that I rue till date but as the saying goes good things happen to those that wait. (Neither of us was really waiting but I can’t always find a saying that fits. I’m not that good a writer though R.S., I’m sure, is one of the very few who disagree.)
She seemed petrified at being there and wouldn’t say more than a few words. (Years later I found that this was not status quo) Not that I felt particularly chatty, being a kid from a small town suddenly finding himself in the big city. For the next 3 years in the same class it was mere exchange of polite smiles whenever we crossed paths. During that period I made a set of great friends and so did she. As of today, these 2 sets of friends have actually union-ed have become 1 set of great friends. (There’s a gold mine of wordplay here relating to the ‘intersection’ being R.S. and Venn diagrams but it’s late at night and my math skills aren’t what they used to be.)
I don’t exactly remember how and when we became ‘amigos’ but I’m pretty sure it was sometime between her typing out my programs in lab and R.A and I. telling her horribly untrue but yet extremely entertaining stories about each other to quench her insatiable thirst for gossip. R.S., herself, wasn’t too far away from controversy. Rumor has it that her ex-amour was a chocolate smuggler operating from Switzerland. This has yet not been proved untrue.
Anyways since I wouldn’t want anybody else to make the mistake of taking 3 years to befriend this awesome chick, I’m writing this “Users Guide to being pals with R.S. (for dummies)”
It’s very hard to find people who are nice to everybody. R.S. though is one of them; she has a kind word for everybody making it impossible for anyone to not like her. I’ve tried my best to teach her the more colorful parts of the English language but she’s a slow learner. Expletives don’t escape her mouth, actual *,$,#,@ do, just like in the books.
She’s wonderfully weird in a host of ways. Her bag weighs a ton, no wonder she doesn’t put on weight. All that exercise lugging around 15 kgs of laptop, tech books, novels and junk food puts to waste the cat-sized portions she has for lunch.
She’ll poke at your flab just to make sure whether the working out at the gym is actually working.
She’s a friend who keeps in touch when you are a million miles away. One of the only people I can talk to about the serious things in life. Her advice and understanding make her seem older than she actually is, which is 29. That’s her real age. Don’t let her tell you otherwise.
She carries herself with, so effortlessly, a cheerful disposition that makes it impossible for one to brood even when that’s all one wants to do. Believe me I’ve tried.
An IMer if I ever knew one. I'd worry if I didn't received a hey, yo or wassup for more than two days. The only person that I wouldn't mind taking a break from work to chat with.
Literally the most soft-spoken person I have ever met. The volume of her voice being as low as it is, the voice therapy joke never gets old. Though I never seen her not put her point across. Those who know R.S. will attest to it - when she speaks you listen.
The only person I'd always expect to get my jokes and she always laughs even when they aren't all that funny.
That’s not to say she isn't without her quirks. She isn't exactly lightning quick when it comes to making decisions. I'll bet on the way to the airport today she'll be saying "I don't know if I will be going to US for my MS. If not can we go to (insert dessert shop here) next weekend?"
The only girl I know who can quote lines from "Godfather".
Oh yeah and she's secretly a nerd who sends forwards relating to C programming. Please hold finger and thumb in the shape of an “L” on your forehead.
More courageous than I was when it came to tobogganing down the slope in snow world.
She gets high on sugar. I mean like really buzzed. I need scotch whiskey for that; she can manage it with lindt.
She’s the Heart and Soul of our group.
That’s all I can think of right now but there’s so much more I can’t put on paper. You’ll have to find out for yourselves.
I can't say we'll be great friends forever. I'm not the best at keeping touch. Perhaps she'll get busy in Texas. And maybe it'll be one of those friendships where the next time we'll talk is when she invites me for her wedding through e-mail. But sometimes in life you meet somebody just to realize how much better a person you can actually be. And that person for the last few years of my life has been R.S.
Here's hoping we haven't laughed the last of our laughter.
Good Bye and God Bless.
(Sorry if this piece is a little too emotional. A drop of Vodka fell into my Cranberry juice and I am so high!)
Friday, August 6, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Man Eating Tigers
(This writer doesn’t condone cruelty towards chickens, tigers or any other animal for that matter.
Humans? I’m not particular one way or the other)
I love Chickens. Not in an I-love-the-Rainforest way. More of a sautéed-in-coconut-curry kind of way. Or Fried way. Or Grilled way. Or Kebab-ed way.
And I’m not going to change. PETA may disapprove. Pamela Anderson may disapprove. She might even take her top off and beg me to stop. But I won’t budge an inch (not in the way she expects anyway).
Chicken-rights activists present a number of reasons why we shouldn’t eat chicken which include- it’s unhealthy (to humans and chickens both), it’s unethical (when did that stop anybody from doing anything) and that they have emotions and aspirations (score over most humans in that respect). Their primary claim though is that Chickens are intelligent creatures.
They quote scientific research, which says, “Chickens are able to understand that recently hidden objects still exist, a concept that small children are unable to master.” Though I couldn’t prove this. I tried performing Peek-a-Boos on some chickens at the local poultry shop. They got strangely upset, similar to when I do it to little kids.
Some chicken-rights activists even believe that a million chickens pecking at a million typewriters for a million years will eventually write the entire collection of ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’ books, which they will later rename to ‘Tofu tastes-just-like-Chicken Soup for the Soul”. They (activists, not chickens) demand that they (activists and chickens) be treated the way all intelligent beings ought to be treated, which apparently includes not eating them (chickens, not activists). Now, I’m not going to raise the ‘If Chickens Are so Smart, Why Aren’t They Eating Us?’ argument. Rather I have thought of a new one.
The question that I want to pose to chicken-rights activists is, “Do you want the Chickens to go extinct?”.
Think about it. 2 billion Chickens are born every year in India. The number is only increasing. Now consider another intelligent animal. An animal actually intelligent enough to attack or to run away if someone tries to eat it. Consider the Tiger. Only 1411 left.
Why?
Because we don’t eat Tiger. If we did, we’d be rearing them in great numbers in Tiger farms, making them spend their lives in stuffy cages, injecting them with growth inducing hormones and genetically modifying them to lay protein rich eggs because, lets face it, nobody wants to eat scrambled tiger cubs for breakfast. On television, instead of M.S. Dhoni asking your help to save the Tiger, you’d have Sanjay Dutt telling you to eat more Tiger. The latter,you will agree, is the easier of the asks.
Most importantly the Tigers wouldn’t be facing extinction.
Stop eating Chickens and they go the tiger way. They would fall victims to illegal barbequing by those of us unable to control ourselves. One drumstick would fetch thousands of dollars on the kebab black market. Their numbers would dwindle. Eventually the entire species would be classified as critically endangered. Project Chicken, launched by Sonia Gandhi, would ultimately fail. We would have to join a T-shirt campaign because that works much better than actually preventing poaching. The Chicken would displace the Peacock as the national bird of India. Our cricket team would be given the moniker – ‘The Indian Chickens’. Losing to the Australians would cause the Indian Tabloids to run the headline "Chickens culled by Kangaroos" or “Fowl Play by India” when our cricketers are caught sledging. Times Now would name their one hour special feature, discussing the economic tussle between India and China, as "The Chicken or the Manchurian?” . Do we really want all this?
I thought as much. So go ahead dig into your Chicken Burger. Tomorrow try ordering a Tiger Steak. Medium Rare.
(Like the blog? Forward it to your friends. Give them a real reason to question your sanity)
P.S. The Pamela Anderson pic is important to the general feel of the article. No really, it is
Humans? I’m not particular one way or the other)
I love Chickens. Not in an I-love-the-Rainforest way. More of a sautéed-in-coconut-curry kind of way. Or Fried way. Or Grilled way. Or Kebab-ed way.
And I’m not going to change. PETA may disapprove. Pamela Anderson may disapprove. She might even take her top off and beg me to stop. But I won’t budge an inch (not in the way she expects anyway).
Chicken-rights activists present a number of reasons why we shouldn’t eat chicken which include- it’s unhealthy (to humans and chickens both), it’s unethical (when did that stop anybody from doing anything) and that they have emotions and aspirations (score over most humans in that respect). Their primary claim though is that Chickens are intelligent creatures.
They quote scientific research, which says, “Chickens are able to understand that recently hidden objects still exist, a concept that small children are unable to master.” Though I couldn’t prove this. I tried performing Peek-a-Boos on some chickens at the local poultry shop. They got strangely upset, similar to when I do it to little kids.
Some chicken-rights activists even believe that a million chickens pecking at a million typewriters for a million years will eventually write the entire collection of ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’ books, which they will later rename to ‘Tofu tastes-just-like-Chicken Soup for the Soul”. They (activists, not chickens) demand that they (activists and chickens) be treated the way all intelligent beings ought to be treated, which apparently includes not eating them (chickens, not activists). Now, I’m not going to raise the ‘If Chickens Are so Smart, Why Aren’t They Eating Us?’ argument. Rather I have thought of a new one.
The question that I want to pose to chicken-rights activists is, “Do you want the Chickens to go extinct?”.
Think about it. 2 billion Chickens are born every year in India. The number is only increasing. Now consider another intelligent animal. An animal actually intelligent enough to attack or to run away if someone tries to eat it. Consider the Tiger. Only 1411 left.
Why?
Because we don’t eat Tiger. If we did, we’d be rearing them in great numbers in Tiger farms, making them spend their lives in stuffy cages, injecting them with growth inducing hormones and genetically modifying them to lay protein rich eggs because, lets face it, nobody wants to eat scrambled tiger cubs for breakfast. On television, instead of M.S. Dhoni asking your help to save the Tiger, you’d have Sanjay Dutt telling you to eat more Tiger. The latter,you will agree, is the easier of the asks.
Most importantly the Tigers wouldn’t be facing extinction.
Stop eating Chickens and they go the tiger way. They would fall victims to illegal barbequing by those of us unable to control ourselves. One drumstick would fetch thousands of dollars on the kebab black market. Their numbers would dwindle. Eventually the entire species would be classified as critically endangered. Project Chicken, launched by Sonia Gandhi, would ultimately fail. We would have to join a T-shirt campaign because that works much better than actually preventing poaching. The Chicken would displace the Peacock as the national bird of India. Our cricket team would be given the moniker – ‘The Indian Chickens’. Losing to the Australians would cause the Indian Tabloids to run the headline "Chickens culled by Kangaroos" or “Fowl Play by India” when our cricketers are caught sledging. Times Now would name their one hour special feature, discussing the economic tussle between India and China, as "The Chicken or the Manchurian?” . Do we really want all this?
I thought as much. So go ahead dig into your Chicken Burger. Tomorrow try ordering a Tiger Steak. Medium Rare.
(Like the blog? Forward it to your friends. Give them a real reason to question your sanity)
P.S. The Pamela Anderson pic is important to the general feel of the article. No really, it is
Monday, April 12, 2010
Mr Lonely
“Lonely I'm Mr. Lonely . . .”
This is what I find myself singing to nowadays. Before you click the X button on this page let me tell you it’s the Bobby Vinton version and not the Akon cover. Two reasons for this- 1) I can’t sing like a chipmunk 2) I’m lonely, which some people, who know about such things, would say is a direct consequence of point number one.
However instead of brooding on the matter (which I might add I am especially good at, so good that matters of brooding which take most people days to brood comprehensively, I finish in a couple of hours enabling me to pick up the next broodable matter on queue ahead of schedule) I have decided to document my thoughts on the same.
Before you assume that this article is in relation to my egg laying ability, regarding which I cannot comment having not given it an honest try, I shall get back to the matter at hand.
I know what you are thinking. At least I think I know what you are thinking. (I make no pretense of my rudimentary telepathic ability) You think I merely spend too much time by myself. You think I just have too much time to kill.
Your thinking would not be entirely incorrect. I have in fact so much time to kill that I don’t just kill it, rather stab it in a few places here and there, poison it lightly, hold its head underwater for a little while, just stopping short of actually killing it, so that I can get back to murdering it later when I get really bored.
But that’s not entirely it. Most people confuse loneliness with solitude but really the difference is I-pods and oranges. To make the distinction clearer lets go back to school days. Most of us remember that excruciatingly dull ballad “The Solitary Reaper” by William Wordsworth. As evident from all the singing in the Scottish highlands, the pretty girl is relatively content in her solitude whereas the onlooker (Mr. Lonely) is dealing with his loneliness by leering, quite voyeuristically, at the attractive reaper. Although it is possible that Mr. Lonely might be the owner of the local distillery and is inspecting the reaping of the grain for the next batch of Scotch Whisky but that might be reading a bit too much into it.
Solitude is what you have when you take an extended walk in the nearby park or take a long drive down the interstate highway. Loneliness is what you get when you sit by yourself in you room days on end staring into your laptop screen without human contact. Eventually you chance upon some sites with the tagline “We put the online in Lonliness (sic).” But lets not get into that.
The most frustrating part of living alone is the lack of conversation. You could try talking to yourself but you almost always know what the other you is going to say, very much like an old married couple i.e. an old married couple that can’t stand the sight of each other. The other you rolls your eyes before you even finish what you have to say and you end up wishing that you’d never taken yourself out for a coffee in the first place, twenty years ago.
Inevitably, in my case, it results in me giving myself the silent treatment.
People also say that you get to learn more about yourself by being alone. What I have to say to that is that if I wanted to learn more about myself I’d stalk my own facebook profile clicking on my hideous album photos and reading my annoying status updates. Nonetheless I do learn that being by myself for days together takes me through periods of being grumpy, sleepy, dopey, nietzsche-y, bitchy, itchy and scratchy (which is also, coincidentally, the intended original cast of “The Seven Dwarves”). All right, the last few may be attributed to poor hygiene but that’s what loneliness will do to you.
So how does one cope?
Clearly the most obvious solution is to find some company and some companionship but if I were any good at that I wouldn’t be searching for synonyms for loneliness on thesaurus.com, now would I?
So dropping that bright idea, we have to find means of living with it, which isn’t easy, somewhat like living with a roommate who finishes all the booze. You can’t explain to him the inconvenience it causes you because then he would explain the inconvenience it causes him buying all the booze every time. Nevertheless I maintain that such a roommate is better than no roommate.
Since being alone in a quiet room is not easy, I decide to take myself out to lunch followed by movie. The immense effort involved in this exercise is unfortunately not appreciated by the outside world especially waiters and multiplex ticket booth clerks. Proof of which is as follows:
(Excerpt taken from “The Life and Times of Me”)
‘One ticket please for the matinee show.’
‘Sorry sir. Couldn’t hear you. Did you say one ticket?’ asks the clerk, speaking into the mike system. I can’t figure out why, talking as we are with each other, at a distance of less than one meter separated by a layer of thin glass.
‘Yeah. Just one ticket,’ I mumble, barely audible in contrast, whilst smiling awkwardly at the teenager standing in the queue beside me. She looks at me disdainfully.
‘Confirming once again sir. You want one ticket for the matinee show. That’ll be 180 bucks for one ticket.’ he says this time louder incase the octogenarian grandmother at the other end of the floor didn’t catch it the first time.
I pray for his sake that the glass separating us is shatterproof. I search for a blunt object but the lack of a one anywhere close by forces me to slip him the cash and pocket the solitary ticket.
The movie doesn’t start for another hour so I set off to the nearby pizza restaurant for a quick bite. I order a large slice of pepperoni pizza and plop down on the nearest table to catch a few overs of the ongoing test match between India and South Africa.
‘Sir would you mind moving to that table over there.’
I look up to see a young waiter pointing towards a longish slab of wood attached at right angles to the corner of the room. Below it is a row of bar stools.
‘Why can’t I sit here?’ I ask.
‘These tables are meant for families or couples. Those are the specially reserved seats for our individual customers.’ he says.
I want to tell him that I can’t get a view of the T.V. from there and I hadn’t eaten facing the corner of a room since about 15 years ago when I raised significant questions regarding the edibility of my mothers spinach casserole. Instead I make a long face and trudge to the corner of the room, not unlike 15 years ago.
I finish my slice of pizza and enter the movie hall. Just as I think my day couldn’t get any worse, I remember that my thinking hasn’t done me any good in a long while and I should put a stop to it altogether.
My seat is placed conveniently between two young couples. As I’m about to sit myself down between two fair maidens, the male and female constituents of the two couples switch seats and I now have two burly men at my either side. This saddens me, for reasons other than what you think. What kind of society do we live in, where only because a man comes to watch a movie by himself, he is immediately judged to be a desperate freak? Might not be completely wrong in this case (spot-on rather) but that’s neither here nor there.
I’ve decided to take my chances indoors.
It goes fine until one day the TV starts acting up. I must say I’m not a fan of these set-top boxes. They result in a total of 2 remotes in your hand (3 if you include the DVD player). I press enough buttons at work.
This forces me to open up my work laptop. Not one to finish overdue work before extended time I close it the next minute.
I switch on my personal laptop- endearingly christened “Lappy”. (Another by-product of loneliness is the appearance of imaginary pets in the form of inanimate objects). Three choices confront me – Internet chatting, Social networking and Tweeting. Suddenly loneliness is not such a bad thing. I close Lappy, who looks at me with sad light emitting diode eyes. I turn away and play the next song on my I-pod.
“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?”
This is what I find myself singing to nowadays. Before you click the X button on this page let me tell you it’s the Bobby Vinton version and not the Akon cover. Two reasons for this- 1) I can’t sing like a chipmunk 2) I’m lonely, which some people, who know about such things, would say is a direct consequence of point number one.
However instead of brooding on the matter (which I might add I am especially good at, so good that matters of brooding which take most people days to brood comprehensively, I finish in a couple of hours enabling me to pick up the next broodable matter on queue ahead of schedule) I have decided to document my thoughts on the same.
Before you assume that this article is in relation to my egg laying ability, regarding which I cannot comment having not given it an honest try, I shall get back to the matter at hand.
I know what you are thinking. At least I think I know what you are thinking. (I make no pretense of my rudimentary telepathic ability) You think I merely spend too much time by myself. You think I just have too much time to kill.
Your thinking would not be entirely incorrect. I have in fact so much time to kill that I don’t just kill it, rather stab it in a few places here and there, poison it lightly, hold its head underwater for a little while, just stopping short of actually killing it, so that I can get back to murdering it later when I get really bored.
But that’s not entirely it. Most people confuse loneliness with solitude but really the difference is I-pods and oranges. To make the distinction clearer lets go back to school days. Most of us remember that excruciatingly dull ballad “The Solitary Reaper” by William Wordsworth. As evident from all the singing in the Scottish highlands, the pretty girl is relatively content in her solitude whereas the onlooker (Mr. Lonely) is dealing with his loneliness by leering, quite voyeuristically, at the attractive reaper. Although it is possible that Mr. Lonely might be the owner of the local distillery and is inspecting the reaping of the grain for the next batch of Scotch Whisky but that might be reading a bit too much into it.
Solitude is what you have when you take an extended walk in the nearby park or take a long drive down the interstate highway. Loneliness is what you get when you sit by yourself in you room days on end staring into your laptop screen without human contact. Eventually you chance upon some sites with the tagline “We put the online in Lonliness (sic).” But lets not get into that.
The most frustrating part of living alone is the lack of conversation. You could try talking to yourself but you almost always know what the other you is going to say, very much like an old married couple i.e. an old married couple that can’t stand the sight of each other. The other you rolls your eyes before you even finish what you have to say and you end up wishing that you’d never taken yourself out for a coffee in the first place, twenty years ago.
Inevitably, in my case, it results in me giving myself the silent treatment.
People also say that you get to learn more about yourself by being alone. What I have to say to that is that if I wanted to learn more about myself I’d stalk my own facebook profile clicking on my hideous album photos and reading my annoying status updates. Nonetheless I do learn that being by myself for days together takes me through periods of being grumpy, sleepy, dopey, nietzsche-y, bitchy, itchy and scratchy (which is also, coincidentally, the intended original cast of “The Seven Dwarves”). All right, the last few may be attributed to poor hygiene but that’s what loneliness will do to you.
So how does one cope?
Clearly the most obvious solution is to find some company and some companionship but if I were any good at that I wouldn’t be searching for synonyms for loneliness on thesaurus.com, now would I?
So dropping that bright idea, we have to find means of living with it, which isn’t easy, somewhat like living with a roommate who finishes all the booze. You can’t explain to him the inconvenience it causes you because then he would explain the inconvenience it causes him buying all the booze every time. Nevertheless I maintain that such a roommate is better than no roommate.
Since being alone in a quiet room is not easy, I decide to take myself out to lunch followed by movie. The immense effort involved in this exercise is unfortunately not appreciated by the outside world especially waiters and multiplex ticket booth clerks. Proof of which is as follows:
(Excerpt taken from “The Life and Times of Me”)
‘One ticket please for the matinee show.’
‘Sorry sir. Couldn’t hear you. Did you say one ticket?’ asks the clerk, speaking into the mike system. I can’t figure out why, talking as we are with each other, at a distance of less than one meter separated by a layer of thin glass.
‘Yeah. Just one ticket,’ I mumble, barely audible in contrast, whilst smiling awkwardly at the teenager standing in the queue beside me. She looks at me disdainfully.
‘Confirming once again sir. You want one ticket for the matinee show. That’ll be 180 bucks for one ticket.’ he says this time louder incase the octogenarian grandmother at the other end of the floor didn’t catch it the first time.
I pray for his sake that the glass separating us is shatterproof. I search for a blunt object but the lack of a one anywhere close by forces me to slip him the cash and pocket the solitary ticket.
The movie doesn’t start for another hour so I set off to the nearby pizza restaurant for a quick bite. I order a large slice of pepperoni pizza and plop down on the nearest table to catch a few overs of the ongoing test match between India and South Africa.
‘Sir would you mind moving to that table over there.’
I look up to see a young waiter pointing towards a longish slab of wood attached at right angles to the corner of the room. Below it is a row of bar stools.
‘Why can’t I sit here?’ I ask.
‘These tables are meant for families or couples. Those are the specially reserved seats for our individual customers.’ he says.
I want to tell him that I can’t get a view of the T.V. from there and I hadn’t eaten facing the corner of a room since about 15 years ago when I raised significant questions regarding the edibility of my mothers spinach casserole. Instead I make a long face and trudge to the corner of the room, not unlike 15 years ago.
I finish my slice of pizza and enter the movie hall. Just as I think my day couldn’t get any worse, I remember that my thinking hasn’t done me any good in a long while and I should put a stop to it altogether.
My seat is placed conveniently between two young couples. As I’m about to sit myself down between two fair maidens, the male and female constituents of the two couples switch seats and I now have two burly men at my either side. This saddens me, for reasons other than what you think. What kind of society do we live in, where only because a man comes to watch a movie by himself, he is immediately judged to be a desperate freak? Might not be completely wrong in this case (spot-on rather) but that’s neither here nor there.
I’ve decided to take my chances indoors.
It goes fine until one day the TV starts acting up. I must say I’m not a fan of these set-top boxes. They result in a total of 2 remotes in your hand (3 if you include the DVD player). I press enough buttons at work.
This forces me to open up my work laptop. Not one to finish overdue work before extended time I close it the next minute.
I switch on my personal laptop- endearingly christened “Lappy”. (Another by-product of loneliness is the appearance of imaginary pets in the form of inanimate objects). Three choices confront me – Internet chatting, Social networking and Tweeting. Suddenly loneliness is not such a bad thing. I close Lappy, who looks at me with sad light emitting diode eyes. I turn away and play the next song on my I-pod.
“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?”
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Is this IT?
This is the Pilot post in a series of articles detailing my experiences in the Information Technology Industry.
Until such a time as it is picked up for publishing by one of those career counseling supplements you see so often in newspapers, this and following posts on the same will be freely available for distribution.
Do you remember a time when computers used to fun? (I’m not talking about fun which vanishes once parental control software is activated. Naughty, naughty)
Well I do.
I remember dedicating hours, after school and on weekends, to save humanity by assassinating Adolf Hitler in Wolfenstein 3D. Of course it helped that I could imagine the Nazi supreme, who I was constantly trying to blow up, to be an equally evil madman- my geography sir. Only differences were that the latter didn’t sport a toothbrush moustache and got strangely upset when I tried to redefine the map of Europe.
I also remember trying to scrap up enough money to visit the local Internet parlor, where I’d sign in to yahoo messenger to chat up college chicks in America while pretending to be a rich 25-year-old industrialist from India. Before you judge me you have to realize, like I did unfortunately much later on, that they probably weren’t college chicks either – probably 15-year-old juvenile boys (like me) or 50-year-old closeted gay men. All in all, no harm done. No harm that I was legally accountable for anyway.
In the meantime I went through the motions during computer lab classes where they’d teach us state of the art programming languages like LOGO and BASIC. I could never get my head around the statement “c = c+1”. How was this mathematically possible? All those years spent skipping cartoons to learn addition and this is what they finally come up with? I refused to believe and wouldn’t use it just on principle. I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory in the following exams. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to be the next Bill Gates.
I should have known that this was a sign of things to come.
Later on in high school I opted for biology instead of computers. I figured that, since I’d rather learn about the reproductive system than find the sum of all odd integers starting from one to a specified non-negative number ‘N’, this was the right thing to do. Though it might shock you to hear this, I’m no expert on reproduction and even less so when it comes to drawing it. Through the next 2 years of high school I had to resort to bribery to get my sister to sketch my lab records for me. Med school was definitely out of the question. Paying her and tuition simultaneously was not something I could afford.
Through a series of unfortunate events, I found myself enrolled in the computer science program of a “prestigious” engineering college in Bangalore after graduating high school. Little did I know that Count Olaf (the CSE HOD) was lurking around the corner. But that’s a story for another day.
But why you ask. Why would a person, who believes Paint Brush is the best thing Microsoft ever came out with, want to become a programmer? Why would a person who thinks first of Xena - the Warrior Princess when anybody mentions Amazon.com want to spend the rest of his life in front of a PC? Why would a person, who grins like an idiot when somebody says ‘unzip it and use’, want to take up IT as a profession?
There are a number of reasons including complete ignorance concerning professional health hazards like carpal tunnel syndrome caused due to incessant typing, strained eyes caused due to focusing on a computer screen for prolonged periods of time, ear bleeding caused due to attending manager meetings etc.
But mainly there were 2 factors influencing my decision.
The first one was pressure, neither peer nor parental, but from all sorts of other sources. From the standard- aunts, uncles, professors to the peculiar- nosy neighbors, milkmaids, man who owned the lemon shop close to high school etc. Rich advice coming from people whose level of computer expertise ranged from having seen a computer once from far to having attempted to double-click a mouse (no mean feat where I come from).
The other was money. It was no secret that a degree in computer engineering meant a well-paying job waiting for you in one of the innumerous IT companies residing in Bangalore.
In my mind it looked like this – sitting on a smooth leather chair in a posh cabin on the 20th floor of a skyscraper overlooking the skyline of the city whilst my pretty personal secretary, nay my gorgeous “executive assistant”, takes notes for me. She may or may not be sitting on my lap. I couldn’t possibly get two smooth leather chairs for my cabin, joining as I was in an entry level position.
Cut forward 5 years and what it is actually- sitting on an uncomfortable nylon chair in a cramped cubicle shared with three middle-aged men on the 2nd floor of a building in a state of disrepair( the building not me, alright me too) with my line of vision ending at the entrance to the men’s restroom. The only sign of a woman is the office supplies manager who snarls at me when I knock on her door to ask for an envelope. Jokes on her, I take two while she isn’t looking.
But back in college, I did not know all that.
Through a mixture of luck, pluck and a personal penchant for unscrupulousness I manage to survive through 4 years of engineering all the while barely escaping the diabolical schemes of Count Olaf. On a side note, I gain entry into a multinational IT corporation.
That’s when all the non-fun began.
Like it? Share it. This blog runs on the principle of Open source.
Until such a time as it is picked up for publishing by one of those career counseling supplements you see so often in newspapers, this and following posts on the same will be freely available for distribution.
Do you remember a time when computers used to fun? (I’m not talking about fun which vanishes once parental control software is activated. Naughty, naughty)
Well I do.
I remember dedicating hours, after school and on weekends, to save humanity by assassinating Adolf Hitler in Wolfenstein 3D. Of course it helped that I could imagine the Nazi supreme, who I was constantly trying to blow up, to be an equally evil madman- my geography sir. Only differences were that the latter didn’t sport a toothbrush moustache and got strangely upset when I tried to redefine the map of Europe.
I also remember trying to scrap up enough money to visit the local Internet parlor, where I’d sign in to yahoo messenger to chat up college chicks in America while pretending to be a rich 25-year-old industrialist from India. Before you judge me you have to realize, like I did unfortunately much later on, that they probably weren’t college chicks either – probably 15-year-old juvenile boys (like me) or 50-year-old closeted gay men. All in all, no harm done. No harm that I was legally accountable for anyway.
In the meantime I went through the motions during computer lab classes where they’d teach us state of the art programming languages like LOGO and BASIC. I could never get my head around the statement “c = c+1”. How was this mathematically possible? All those years spent skipping cartoons to learn addition and this is what they finally come up with? I refused to believe and wouldn’t use it just on principle. I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory in the following exams. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to be the next Bill Gates.
I should have known that this was a sign of things to come.
Later on in high school I opted for biology instead of computers. I figured that, since I’d rather learn about the reproductive system than find the sum of all odd integers starting from one to a specified non-negative number ‘N’, this was the right thing to do. Though it might shock you to hear this, I’m no expert on reproduction and even less so when it comes to drawing it. Through the next 2 years of high school I had to resort to bribery to get my sister to sketch my lab records for me. Med school was definitely out of the question. Paying her and tuition simultaneously was not something I could afford.
Through a series of unfortunate events, I found myself enrolled in the computer science program of a “prestigious” engineering college in Bangalore after graduating high school. Little did I know that Count Olaf (the CSE HOD) was lurking around the corner. But that’s a story for another day.
But why you ask. Why would a person, who believes Paint Brush is the best thing Microsoft ever came out with, want to become a programmer? Why would a person who thinks first of Xena - the Warrior Princess when anybody mentions Amazon.com want to spend the rest of his life in front of a PC? Why would a person, who grins like an idiot when somebody says ‘unzip it and use’, want to take up IT as a profession?
There are a number of reasons including complete ignorance concerning professional health hazards like carpal tunnel syndrome caused due to incessant typing, strained eyes caused due to focusing on a computer screen for prolonged periods of time, ear bleeding caused due to attending manager meetings etc.
But mainly there were 2 factors influencing my decision.
The first one was pressure, neither peer nor parental, but from all sorts of other sources. From the standard- aunts, uncles, professors to the peculiar- nosy neighbors, milkmaids, man who owned the lemon shop close to high school etc. Rich advice coming from people whose level of computer expertise ranged from having seen a computer once from far to having attempted to double-click a mouse (no mean feat where I come from).
The other was money. It was no secret that a degree in computer engineering meant a well-paying job waiting for you in one of the innumerous IT companies residing in Bangalore.
In my mind it looked like this – sitting on a smooth leather chair in a posh cabin on the 20th floor of a skyscraper overlooking the skyline of the city whilst my pretty personal secretary, nay my gorgeous “executive assistant”, takes notes for me. She may or may not be sitting on my lap. I couldn’t possibly get two smooth leather chairs for my cabin, joining as I was in an entry level position.
Cut forward 5 years and what it is actually- sitting on an uncomfortable nylon chair in a cramped cubicle shared with three middle-aged men on the 2nd floor of a building in a state of disrepair( the building not me, alright me too) with my line of vision ending at the entrance to the men’s restroom. The only sign of a woman is the office supplies manager who snarls at me when I knock on her door to ask for an envelope. Jokes on her, I take two while she isn’t looking.
But back in college, I did not know all that.
Through a mixture of luck, pluck and a personal penchant for unscrupulousness I manage to survive through 4 years of engineering all the while barely escaping the diabolical schemes of Count Olaf. On a side note, I gain entry into a multinational IT corporation.
That’s when all the non-fun began.
Like it? Share it. This blog runs on the principle of Open source.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Tours n Travails - Rishikesh. Part 4 of 4
The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional. This is more true in this post than any other.
Remember. Say No to Sandwiches.
This is finally, the finale
We finally reach the end after two and a half enthralling hours. I didn’t fall of the raft even once and I begin considering a career in water adventure sports. I now deduce that the intense sunbeams had made me delusional. On the ride back to the office, we ask Avnesh what else there is to do in Rishikesh keeping in mind that we have only till late evening and that none of us are the worshipping types. He tells us about this run down ashram, across the river, called the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi ashram, the place where the Beatles had stayed when they came to India. The same place where many of the songs from “The White Album” had been composed. We had to go. Wild Ganges river dolphins (which is, by the by, India’s national aquatic animal and sadly an endangered species) couldn’t keep me away. The thought of standing in the same place where Paul McCartney had probably thought up “Blackbird” was too compelling. (Interesting piece of trivia is that he wrote the song, one early morning after a chirping bird outside the ashram had woken him up.)
But before we could get to that there was the trivial matter of lunch. After rowing for so long we were so hungry that we could, others figuratively and I quite literally, eat a cow. But a cow was not to be had. We were suggested Hotel Ishaan, restaurant and German bakery, renowned for its continental food and frequented by the white people. I was disappointed on not seeing any form of meat on the menu but after a quick conversation with my stomach I was convinced that this was not the time to be picky and so I settled for the lasagna followed by the chocolate pudding for dessert. Both were scrumptious and equally satisfying and would have been even more so had P.B’s and S.L’s spoon not fallen into my pudding, repeatedly so over and over again. Hotel Ishaan is most definitely gaining an entry into the, yet unpublished but widely awaited, “Rohan’s Guide to Eating Anywhere in India” under the “No Choice But Veg” section.
At about 5p.m. we leave to the find the now renamed (by me)- “Beatles ashram”. We learn that we have to cross Lakshmana-Jhula a hanging bridge built upon the spot where the mythical Lakshmana crossed the Ganges using jute ropes. He must have been a die-hard Beatles fan too. The bridge is only wide enough to let pedestrians and two-wheelers cross which means that on the other side, where life is bristling with its markets and temples, there’s not a single car to be seen which is again quite fascinating. (By now you will have noticed two things- 1) things I find fascinating are actually quite boring, 2) there’s no mystery behind me being single). The bridge is extremely congested but I don’t mind since we are less than an hour away from visiting a place entrenched in Beatles folklore. S.L has no clue as to whom I’m talking about and I take it upon myself to educate him.
“So this John guy lives in that ashram?”
“No S. No he doesn’t.”
“Then what’s the point?”
That was the end of that.
We pass by and evade cows, hippy tourists, homeless Babas but none make me slow down. That is until I hear “Would you like some ‘Sandwiches’ Sir?” I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve never had anybody address me as sir and ask me to buy Sandwiches. I turn around and see this extremely unkempt yet cheerful Baba covered with a layer of dirt acting as a second skin. His brown, braided hair and beard give him an almost Rastafarian look. I half expect him to break out into a Bob Marley number. He puts his hand out for a shake. Now I don’t normally go shaking homeless peoples hand, which is unfortunate for more reasons than one, but I want what he has to offer and so I shake reluctantly. I inquire discreetly about the Sandwiches; he tells me loudly that the stuff is good. I am forced to wait while he buys a cup of tea at the local cigarette and paan shop. The shopkeeper shouts at him for trying to sell Sandwiches so openly but he keeps smiling. I realize that he’s “full”. I don’t mind. If I were selling Ferraris I’d take a spin once in a while.
He takes us to his humble abode; which is nothing more than a tattered mat at the side of the road. The only sign of furniture is a worn down bag from which he extracts a plastic pouch and pours out a Sandwich. He extracts two seeds and hands it to me, telling me that the produce is fresh. I had unfortunately missed the Sandwich appreciation classes held in college and merely nod in agreement. He quotes an unreasonable price. And we begin haggling on the middle of the road, it being quite obvious to everyone who passes as to what we are up to. But nobody raises more than an eyebrow, the act not meriting lifting both. He eventually agrees for less than half of the originally quoted cost in addition to two filtered cigarettes. Dad would have been proud. Bargaining for fish at the local market is something I learnt from him. So that makes two things.
As we walk towards the Beatles ashram I notice that eating Sandwiches is the norm. There are rather a lot of holy homeless Babas sitting by the roadside munching away, as a pleasantly intoxicating sweet smell spreads into the general surroundings. No better way to achieve inner peace if you ask me.
As the sun is about to set we reach the gates of the ashram. We see a couple of tourists leaving the place and nonchalantly walk in. Unfortunately there’s a gatekeeper to this enchanted place. He doesn’t allow us passage, saying that it’s too late and hence too dangerous to walk up the hill and enter the ashram least we get eaten by tigers or leopards. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I’ll take my chances and besides I had a sandwich on me, which I could use on the leopard. But he obviously hadn’t seen “Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle”. Now, we were informed before hand that we might have to give this chap a few bucks. So I’m more than ready with a crisp note of the freshest fifty you’ve ever seen, but no, he seemed to have cultivated a sense of duty since the last tourist walked out. I plead, I bribe, and I cajole but to no avail. We are forced to leave without praying to the Beatles, which some might say actually defeats the whole purpose of coming to Rishikesh.
But it does actually give me another reason to visit again. Rafting, Sandwiches and the Beatles. I don’t really need anymore.
Oh and as for water. I get a feeling that it’s cleansed me of my all my sins too. Now I have to start all over again.
The End
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Remember. Say No to Sandwiches.
This is finally, the finale
We finally reach the end after two and a half enthralling hours. I didn’t fall of the raft even once and I begin considering a career in water adventure sports. I now deduce that the intense sunbeams had made me delusional. On the ride back to the office, we ask Avnesh what else there is to do in Rishikesh keeping in mind that we have only till late evening and that none of us are the worshipping types. He tells us about this run down ashram, across the river, called the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi ashram, the place where the Beatles had stayed when they came to India. The same place where many of the songs from “The White Album” had been composed. We had to go. Wild Ganges river dolphins (which is, by the by, India’s national aquatic animal and sadly an endangered species) couldn’t keep me away. The thought of standing in the same place where Paul McCartney had probably thought up “Blackbird” was too compelling. (Interesting piece of trivia is that he wrote the song, one early morning after a chirping bird outside the ashram had woken him up.)
But before we could get to that there was the trivial matter of lunch. After rowing for so long we were so hungry that we could, others figuratively and I quite literally, eat a cow. But a cow was not to be had. We were suggested Hotel Ishaan, restaurant and German bakery, renowned for its continental food and frequented by the white people. I was disappointed on not seeing any form of meat on the menu but after a quick conversation with my stomach I was convinced that this was not the time to be picky and so I settled for the lasagna followed by the chocolate pudding for dessert. Both were scrumptious and equally satisfying and would have been even more so had P.B’s and S.L’s spoon not fallen into my pudding, repeatedly so over and over again. Hotel Ishaan is most definitely gaining an entry into the, yet unpublished but widely awaited, “Rohan’s Guide to Eating Anywhere in India” under the “No Choice But Veg” section.
At about 5p.m. we leave to the find the now renamed (by me)- “Beatles ashram”. We learn that we have to cross Lakshmana-Jhula a hanging bridge built upon the spot where the mythical Lakshmana crossed the Ganges using jute ropes. He must have been a die-hard Beatles fan too. The bridge is only wide enough to let pedestrians and two-wheelers cross which means that on the other side, where life is bristling with its markets and temples, there’s not a single car to be seen which is again quite fascinating. (By now you will have noticed two things- 1) things I find fascinating are actually quite boring, 2) there’s no mystery behind me being single). The bridge is extremely congested but I don’t mind since we are less than an hour away from visiting a place entrenched in Beatles folklore. S.L has no clue as to whom I’m talking about and I take it upon myself to educate him.
“So this John guy lives in that ashram?”
“No S. No he doesn’t.”
“Then what’s the point?”
That was the end of that.
We pass by and evade cows, hippy tourists, homeless Babas but none make me slow down. That is until I hear “Would you like some ‘Sandwiches’ Sir?” I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve never had anybody address me as sir and ask me to buy Sandwiches. I turn around and see this extremely unkempt yet cheerful Baba covered with a layer of dirt acting as a second skin. His brown, braided hair and beard give him an almost Rastafarian look. I half expect him to break out into a Bob Marley number. He puts his hand out for a shake. Now I don’t normally go shaking homeless peoples hand, which is unfortunate for more reasons than one, but I want what he has to offer and so I shake reluctantly. I inquire discreetly about the Sandwiches; he tells me loudly that the stuff is good. I am forced to wait while he buys a cup of tea at the local cigarette and paan shop. The shopkeeper shouts at him for trying to sell Sandwiches so openly but he keeps smiling. I realize that he’s “full”. I don’t mind. If I were selling Ferraris I’d take a spin once in a while.
He takes us to his humble abode; which is nothing more than a tattered mat at the side of the road. The only sign of furniture is a worn down bag from which he extracts a plastic pouch and pours out a Sandwich. He extracts two seeds and hands it to me, telling me that the produce is fresh. I had unfortunately missed the Sandwich appreciation classes held in college and merely nod in agreement. He quotes an unreasonable price. And we begin haggling on the middle of the road, it being quite obvious to everyone who passes as to what we are up to. But nobody raises more than an eyebrow, the act not meriting lifting both. He eventually agrees for less than half of the originally quoted cost in addition to two filtered cigarettes. Dad would have been proud. Bargaining for fish at the local market is something I learnt from him. So that makes two things.
As we walk towards the Beatles ashram I notice that eating Sandwiches is the norm. There are rather a lot of holy homeless Babas sitting by the roadside munching away, as a pleasantly intoxicating sweet smell spreads into the general surroundings. No better way to achieve inner peace if you ask me.
As the sun is about to set we reach the gates of the ashram. We see a couple of tourists leaving the place and nonchalantly walk in. Unfortunately there’s a gatekeeper to this enchanted place. He doesn’t allow us passage, saying that it’s too late and hence too dangerous to walk up the hill and enter the ashram least we get eaten by tigers or leopards. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I’ll take my chances and besides I had a sandwich on me, which I could use on the leopard. But he obviously hadn’t seen “Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle”. Now, we were informed before hand that we might have to give this chap a few bucks. So I’m more than ready with a crisp note of the freshest fifty you’ve ever seen, but no, he seemed to have cultivated a sense of duty since the last tourist walked out. I plead, I bribe, and I cajole but to no avail. We are forced to leave without praying to the Beatles, which some might say actually defeats the whole purpose of coming to Rishikesh.
But it does actually give me another reason to visit again. Rafting, Sandwiches and the Beatles. I don’t really need anymore.
Oh and as for water. I get a feeling that it’s cleansed me of my all my sins too. Now I have to start all over again.
The End
If you enjoyed these posts, please follow this blog. That way you get immediate notification of my next post and you'll be able to appreciate better quality writing elsewhere.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Tours n Travails - Rishikesh. Part 3 of 4
The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional.
This is the threequel. If you are expecting this to be any where as good as LOTR:Return of the King or PoC:At World's End then leave. Think Godfather 3 better yet- Shrek 3.
We take our places on the raft as assigned by Jeevan – Sergei and S.L. at the front and P.B. and me at the middle with Jeevan acting as our rudder at the back. Sergei, who I learn produces a successful comedy television series in Russia, has a small camera shaped like a mini-torch which he attaches to his helmet. We tell him to save the battery until we come to the exciting parts of the ride but he is unable to comprehend our advanced linguistic abilities in the English language. We realize later that he attached the camera upside down, which resulted in the video being shot inverted. I wonder where he hid the vodka in the wet suit. We first practice a few rafting maneuvers – paddle forward, paddle back, holding the outside rope line for safety, falling into the raft from the rim- all to be performed without a moments hesitation at Jeevan’s command. Meanwhile Avnesh and Ant move ahead in their kayaks and conversing with them keeps us entertained. Ant happens to be a cricket fan and he brags about how the Kiwis had recently defeated the Pakistanis. If rafting was anywhere as tough as beating the Pakis in a game of cricket, then I had nothing to worry about.
As we paddle on, I realize how calm and beautiful it is, with the green mountains on one side and the beach, with its sparkling sand, on the other. The peacefulness of it all makes me want to reconsider my plans to retire in a beach-house in Goa, although the absence of liquor shops and non-veg food counts against the quaint pilgrimage town. Also Rishikesh seems to have as many foreign tourists as Goa, though they come to the world capital of Yoga to attain Moksha in contrast to what they want to accomplish in the sin-state of Goa. It’s settled then, Goa it is. Meanwhile, rafting seemed pretty easy in still water and I was starting to wonder what all the fuss was about.
We reach the first rapid – ‘Three Blind Mice’ and Jeevan starts giving out paddle orders so that we take the right line. The intensity of the river shakes the raft hard and the adrenaline begins to pump through the veins. I personally prefer my adrenaline to remain in its gland but I begin to understand what the adrenaline junkies harp on about as water splashes on my face and I am blinded for a second. As the rapid ends I feel exhilarated and can’t wait to reach the next one. Jeevan is less than impressed. Apparently in all the excitement we weren’t exactly heeding his commands. Just like school kids caught reading a dirty magazine, we promise not to repeat it.
During our course through the river we encounter other rafts, quite a few carrying pretty folk inside. However since I wasn’t wearing my glasses I could’ve been wrong. I begin to regret not bringing them along when I see people sun bathing on the riverbank. Not that I’m a voyeur, at least not a self admitting one, but when you gaze hazily from so far off you can’t tell whether it’s a he or she and that’s plain wrong. But then again my glasses are Carl-Zeiss so I wasn’t taking any chances. Beautiful foreign women in bikinis come and go but Carl-Zeiss anti-reflective photo-chromatic scratchproof glasses last 3-4 years if you treat it right.
Downstream the rapids get fiercer and more turbulent. At one point we are quite close to the mountain edge. I was afraid we’d be giving the phrase ‘on the rocks’ a whole new meaning but Jeevan pulls us through with his vast experience and bellowing. During another rapid, when I try to follow the “Forward hard! Forward hard!” command, my paddle doesn’t encounter any resistance, I look down and see that the wave has thrown us about ten feet in the air. Luckily for us and perhaps not so much for P.B, who seemed desperate to fall out of the boat, we remain in the raft. I would have been happy to oblige had he only asked.
In-between rapids, we jump into the cool water to beat the heat. My inability to swim makes me hold onto the side of the raft while the downstream force entangles my legs in strange positions. Avnesh notices my discomfort and tells me to hold on to the end of his kayak while he paddles on. We move this way for a while until he tells me to let go and swim to the raft. This reminds me of my father coaching me to ride a bicycle, as a kid. He lets go of the seat just about as I begin to hang of it. I panic and forget where the breaks are and crash into a stationary truck, but all in good fun. Needless to say that was the last thing I learnt from my dad, if you discount drinking. Getting back to the present, I make weird flapping motions with my hands in the general direction of the raft but the distance between us seems to be increasing which means- either I’ve just invented a way to swim in reverse or the velocity of the raft is greater than my so-called swim. Probably the latter. Avnesh realizes a lost cause when he sees one and uses his kayak to bring me back to he raft. Climbing back into the raft is another ordeal, partly due to Jeevans diminutive frame but mostly due to aloos in Noida. S.L takes a dip too and we consider it his bath in the sacred river. To bad he forgot his dettol soap in the jeep. Just to get the real sticky sins out.
While we paddle on to the end-point of our journey, Sergei teaches us a few words in Russian. We first learn the expletives as they are, most likely, the first words you will actually use in any language. For example I’m not all that well versed in Kannada but the profanities come in handy while conversing with an auto-rickshaw driver with a tweaked meter. I don’t know if they have rickshaw drivers in Moscow but why take any chances. Incase you, like me, have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge- “Dirac” is Russian for Idiot. Then we learn the numbers- adeen for one, dva for two. I ask him what is Russian for “beautiful woman” and the words themselves, quite honestly, are quite beautiful. I commit them to memory hoping to use them at least once in my lifetime. The dream is alive.
To be continued
This is the threequel. If you are expecting this to be any where as good as LOTR:Return of the King or PoC:At World's End then leave. Think Godfather 3 better yet- Shrek 3.
We take our places on the raft as assigned by Jeevan – Sergei and S.L. at the front and P.B. and me at the middle with Jeevan acting as our rudder at the back. Sergei, who I learn produces a successful comedy television series in Russia, has a small camera shaped like a mini-torch which he attaches to his helmet. We tell him to save the battery until we come to the exciting parts of the ride but he is unable to comprehend our advanced linguistic abilities in the English language. We realize later that he attached the camera upside down, which resulted in the video being shot inverted. I wonder where he hid the vodka in the wet suit. We first practice a few rafting maneuvers – paddle forward, paddle back, holding the outside rope line for safety, falling into the raft from the rim- all to be performed without a moments hesitation at Jeevan’s command. Meanwhile Avnesh and Ant move ahead in their kayaks and conversing with them keeps us entertained. Ant happens to be a cricket fan and he brags about how the Kiwis had recently defeated the Pakistanis. If rafting was anywhere as tough as beating the Pakis in a game of cricket, then I had nothing to worry about.
As we paddle on, I realize how calm and beautiful it is, with the green mountains on one side and the beach, with its sparkling sand, on the other. The peacefulness of it all makes me want to reconsider my plans to retire in a beach-house in Goa, although the absence of liquor shops and non-veg food counts against the quaint pilgrimage town. Also Rishikesh seems to have as many foreign tourists as Goa, though they come to the world capital of Yoga to attain Moksha in contrast to what they want to accomplish in the sin-state of Goa. It’s settled then, Goa it is. Meanwhile, rafting seemed pretty easy in still water and I was starting to wonder what all the fuss was about.
We reach the first rapid – ‘Three Blind Mice’ and Jeevan starts giving out paddle orders so that we take the right line. The intensity of the river shakes the raft hard and the adrenaline begins to pump through the veins. I personally prefer my adrenaline to remain in its gland but I begin to understand what the adrenaline junkies harp on about as water splashes on my face and I am blinded for a second. As the rapid ends I feel exhilarated and can’t wait to reach the next one. Jeevan is less than impressed. Apparently in all the excitement we weren’t exactly heeding his commands. Just like school kids caught reading a dirty magazine, we promise not to repeat it.
During our course through the river we encounter other rafts, quite a few carrying pretty folk inside. However since I wasn’t wearing my glasses I could’ve been wrong. I begin to regret not bringing them along when I see people sun bathing on the riverbank. Not that I’m a voyeur, at least not a self admitting one, but when you gaze hazily from so far off you can’t tell whether it’s a he or she and that’s plain wrong. But then again my glasses are Carl-Zeiss so I wasn’t taking any chances. Beautiful foreign women in bikinis come and go but Carl-Zeiss anti-reflective photo-chromatic scratchproof glasses last 3-4 years if you treat it right.
Downstream the rapids get fiercer and more turbulent. At one point we are quite close to the mountain edge. I was afraid we’d be giving the phrase ‘on the rocks’ a whole new meaning but Jeevan pulls us through with his vast experience and bellowing. During another rapid, when I try to follow the “Forward hard! Forward hard!” command, my paddle doesn’t encounter any resistance, I look down and see that the wave has thrown us about ten feet in the air. Luckily for us and perhaps not so much for P.B, who seemed desperate to fall out of the boat, we remain in the raft. I would have been happy to oblige had he only asked.
In-between rapids, we jump into the cool water to beat the heat. My inability to swim makes me hold onto the side of the raft while the downstream force entangles my legs in strange positions. Avnesh notices my discomfort and tells me to hold on to the end of his kayak while he paddles on. We move this way for a while until he tells me to let go and swim to the raft. This reminds me of my father coaching me to ride a bicycle, as a kid. He lets go of the seat just about as I begin to hang of it. I panic and forget where the breaks are and crash into a stationary truck, but all in good fun. Needless to say that was the last thing I learnt from my dad, if you discount drinking. Getting back to the present, I make weird flapping motions with my hands in the general direction of the raft but the distance between us seems to be increasing which means- either I’ve just invented a way to swim in reverse or the velocity of the raft is greater than my so-called swim. Probably the latter. Avnesh realizes a lost cause when he sees one and uses his kayak to bring me back to he raft. Climbing back into the raft is another ordeal, partly due to Jeevans diminutive frame but mostly due to aloos in Noida. S.L takes a dip too and we consider it his bath in the sacred river. To bad he forgot his dettol soap in the jeep. Just to get the real sticky sins out.
While we paddle on to the end-point of our journey, Sergei teaches us a few words in Russian. We first learn the expletives as they are, most likely, the first words you will actually use in any language. For example I’m not all that well versed in Kannada but the profanities come in handy while conversing with an auto-rickshaw driver with a tweaked meter. I don’t know if they have rickshaw drivers in Moscow but why take any chances. Incase you, like me, have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge- “Dirac” is Russian for Idiot. Then we learn the numbers- adeen for one, dva for two. I ask him what is Russian for “beautiful woman” and the words themselves, quite honestly, are quite beautiful. I commit them to memory hoping to use them at least once in my lifetime. The dream is alive.
To be continued
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Tours n Travails - Rishikesh. Part 2 of 4
The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional.
Red Chilli Adventures is a copyrighted trademark company. I have no money to be sued.
This is the second installment of a 4 part series. You have to read the previous one(s) to truly deprecate the ones following.
We manage to reach Rishikesh, without any bullet wounds, around about 7 a.m. After asking no less than 27 people, we reach the raft organizers head quarters. A quiet short muscular Nepali boy raises the shutters and invites us in. The first thing I notice about the office of Red Chilli Adventures is that it is extremely clean. That impresses me cause I consider cleanliness next to godliness and anybody who has entered my room will agree that I’m agnostic. The place also has numerous pictures on the wall of previous clients rafting or hiking. Surprisingly the office doubles up as an Internet café, which seemed odd but I soon realize that tourists regularly need to check their mails or print out their e-tickets. Invariably more than a handful would sign up for a rafting or hiking excursion (after seeing a picture and saying I could do that). Tremendous product strategy to say the least.
As it’s a little too early, none of our guides or co-rafters has shown up. We decide to walk around the town and S.L. remembers that he has to buy soap. I tell him that he’s taking the washing away sins part a little too literally but he insists. Five minutes later, dettol soap in hand, the three of us enter a local grub house named Tip Top restaurant to have breakfast. The look of the place did little to justify the name but I’ve eaten, in my college days, at veritable shit holes like Hotel Dreamland so there was hardly any reason to kick up a fuss. After ordering the most horrible channa puri I have ever eaten I continued my almost Marshall Eriksen-esque search for the ultimate Panner Paratha. Unfortunately this wasn’t it. Furthermore half way through my cup of tea I notice there’s a dead spider in it. I decide to extract it and continue with my beverage concluding that if the concoction hadn’t killed me yet it probably wasn’t going to do so anytime soon. Plus call me cheap but there’s no point wasting tea paid for by debatably hard work- involving pressing keys at regular intervals.
We make our way to the Red Chilli office once again, where the guides (unfortunately not the cookie selling variety) are waiting. We meet Avnesh – an extremely pleasant chap who has been involved in water sports for 14 years. He tells us that he has experience rafting in almost all rivers of India and also professionally in Colorado, Norway and down the Blue Nile in Ethiopia. I could counter by telling him that I’ve worked with computers in both Bangalore and Noida but I, for one, don’t like to brag. He introduces us to another guide- a tall New Zealander bloke. He speaks out his name; I can’t catch the kiwi accent but through the garble it sounds like ‘Ent’. I want to ask him if his parents are LOTR fans but before I can the owner Avinash helps me out by saying out “It’s Ant. We Indians pronounce it differently”. Right. If, by different, you mean correct. The third guide is the muscular Nepali boy- Jeevan who would actually turn out to be the captain of out raft, barking orders while we paddled for dear life.
We wait for our co-rafters - a couple to arrive and I choose to pass the time by leering at the fair skinned golden haired tourists while they browse the web. Now I prefer my women to be dusky and dark haired but like all brown men I can’t help but going “Ooo Shiny” once in a while. Thankfully, before the women get too uncomfortable, one half of the couple, a stout Russian imaginatively named Sergei, arrives. He informs us that his wife will not be joining us as she has hurt herself during their morning yoga experiments. A mental picture of a not very well-executed hazardous tantric sex maneuver comes to my mind but I don’t dwell on it. I am slightly disappointed, meeting a real live Russian women being a childhood dream of mine, at least the part of childhood with access to the Internet.
So the eight of us – 3 guides, 4 noobes and Avinash set off up the mountain, on the company Pajero, to reach the point from where we’d begin our expedition. The ride takes the better part of an hour as the road is under repairs. It was being maintained by the army, but somebody forgot to tell them that. As we travel we can see the clear Ganges flowing below. I learn Rishikesh is the place where the river exits the mountains and enters the northern plains and as a self-confessed geography nut that fascinates me. We pass by the rapids as we climb up and Avnesh tells us their names each time – ‘Jail no Bail’, ‘Rollercoaster’, ‘Double-Trouble’ etc. I am less than amused.
We eventually reach the starting point and help unload the kayaks, rafts and other gear from the top of the jeep. This was just the beginning of the hard work. I don’t like to complain but physical effort and I go about as well together as monogamy and Tiger Woods. Avnesh hands out skin-hugging wet suits which don’t exactly show off my figure and I’m almost glad Sergei’s wife didn’t make it. Almost. To add to that, the wet suits aren’t exactly made peeing friendly. And, before you start wondering, I’m not talking about in the water, rather land peeing. I haven’t done it in water since I grew up. About 3 months ago. Anyways I’ve done it in harsher conditions so I make do.
Avnesh then proceeds to let us know of the safety procedures- like what you would have to do if you fall of the raft and are close by or far off or under the raft or if the raft flips. They even make us sign one of those waiver forms, which say that they aren’t responsible for any unfortunate events that might occur. As you may have guessed, I was really eager to sign that. Though, truthfully, they seemed to know what they were talking about which was a relief. He also shows us how to hold a paddle- always in a T-grip else you risk chipping of your co-passengers teeth when the ride becomes a bit rough. This safety talk was getting more and more fun exactly like my team meetings at work where all one does is smile uncomfortably while the manager rants on. A helmet, a splash jacket and a life jacket complete our outfit and leave me feeling like an armored warrior all set to conquer the seven seas.
To be continued
Red Chilli Adventures is a copyrighted trademark company. I have no money to be sued.
This is the second installment of a 4 part series. You have to read the previous one(s) to truly deprecate the ones following.
We manage to reach Rishikesh, without any bullet wounds, around about 7 a.m. After asking no less than 27 people, we reach the raft organizers head quarters. A quiet short muscular Nepali boy raises the shutters and invites us in. The first thing I notice about the office of Red Chilli Adventures is that it is extremely clean. That impresses me cause I consider cleanliness next to godliness and anybody who has entered my room will agree that I’m agnostic. The place also has numerous pictures on the wall of previous clients rafting or hiking. Surprisingly the office doubles up as an Internet café, which seemed odd but I soon realize that tourists regularly need to check their mails or print out their e-tickets. Invariably more than a handful would sign up for a rafting or hiking excursion (after seeing a picture and saying I could do that). Tremendous product strategy to say the least.
As it’s a little too early, none of our guides or co-rafters has shown up. We decide to walk around the town and S.L. remembers that he has to buy soap. I tell him that he’s taking the washing away sins part a little too literally but he insists. Five minutes later, dettol soap in hand, the three of us enter a local grub house named Tip Top restaurant to have breakfast. The look of the place did little to justify the name but I’ve eaten, in my college days, at veritable shit holes like Hotel Dreamland so there was hardly any reason to kick up a fuss. After ordering the most horrible channa puri I have ever eaten I continued my almost Marshall Eriksen-esque search for the ultimate Panner Paratha. Unfortunately this wasn’t it. Furthermore half way through my cup of tea I notice there’s a dead spider in it. I decide to extract it and continue with my beverage concluding that if the concoction hadn’t killed me yet it probably wasn’t going to do so anytime soon. Plus call me cheap but there’s no point wasting tea paid for by debatably hard work- involving pressing keys at regular intervals.
We make our way to the Red Chilli office once again, where the guides (unfortunately not the cookie selling variety) are waiting. We meet Avnesh – an extremely pleasant chap who has been involved in water sports for 14 years. He tells us that he has experience rafting in almost all rivers of India and also professionally in Colorado, Norway and down the Blue Nile in Ethiopia. I could counter by telling him that I’ve worked with computers in both Bangalore and Noida but I, for one, don’t like to brag. He introduces us to another guide- a tall New Zealander bloke. He speaks out his name; I can’t catch the kiwi accent but through the garble it sounds like ‘Ent’. I want to ask him if his parents are LOTR fans but before I can the owner Avinash helps me out by saying out “It’s Ant. We Indians pronounce it differently”. Right. If, by different, you mean correct. The third guide is the muscular Nepali boy- Jeevan who would actually turn out to be the captain of out raft, barking orders while we paddled for dear life.
We wait for our co-rafters - a couple to arrive and I choose to pass the time by leering at the fair skinned golden haired tourists while they browse the web. Now I prefer my women to be dusky and dark haired but like all brown men I can’t help but going “Ooo Shiny” once in a while. Thankfully, before the women get too uncomfortable, one half of the couple, a stout Russian imaginatively named Sergei, arrives. He informs us that his wife will not be joining us as she has hurt herself during their morning yoga experiments. A mental picture of a not very well-executed hazardous tantric sex maneuver comes to my mind but I don’t dwell on it. I am slightly disappointed, meeting a real live Russian women being a childhood dream of mine, at least the part of childhood with access to the Internet.
So the eight of us – 3 guides, 4 noobes and Avinash set off up the mountain, on the company Pajero, to reach the point from where we’d begin our expedition. The ride takes the better part of an hour as the road is under repairs. It was being maintained by the army, but somebody forgot to tell them that. As we travel we can see the clear Ganges flowing below. I learn Rishikesh is the place where the river exits the mountains and enters the northern plains and as a self-confessed geography nut that fascinates me. We pass by the rapids as we climb up and Avnesh tells us their names each time – ‘Jail no Bail’, ‘Rollercoaster’, ‘Double-Trouble’ etc. I am less than amused.
We eventually reach the starting point and help unload the kayaks, rafts and other gear from the top of the jeep. This was just the beginning of the hard work. I don’t like to complain but physical effort and I go about as well together as monogamy and Tiger Woods. Avnesh hands out skin-hugging wet suits which don’t exactly show off my figure and I’m almost glad Sergei’s wife didn’t make it. Almost. To add to that, the wet suits aren’t exactly made peeing friendly. And, before you start wondering, I’m not talking about in the water, rather land peeing. I haven’t done it in water since I grew up. About 3 months ago. Anyways I’ve done it in harsher conditions so I make do.
Avnesh then proceeds to let us know of the safety procedures- like what you would have to do if you fall of the raft and are close by or far off or under the raft or if the raft flips. They even make us sign one of those waiver forms, which say that they aren’t responsible for any unfortunate events that might occur. As you may have guessed, I was really eager to sign that. Though, truthfully, they seemed to know what they were talking about which was a relief. He also shows us how to hold a paddle- always in a T-grip else you risk chipping of your co-passengers teeth when the ride becomes a bit rough. This safety talk was getting more and more fun exactly like my team meetings at work where all one does is smile uncomfortably while the manager rants on. A helmet, a splash jacket and a life jacket complete our outfit and leave me feeling like an armored warrior all set to conquer the seven seas.
To be continued
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tours n Travails - Rishikesh. Part 1 of 4
The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional.
P.S: I know not how to use a comma
I’ve never been a big fan of water. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the occasional bath or two. A Single Malt Whiskey with said liquid and a dash of soda is beyond description. The beach too is one of my favorite places but only the sandy part not the saline.
Nonetheless being surrounded by water, with land more than just a stones throw away is not my idea of a good time. Besides I throw like a girl, girls with pigtails and not 15” biceped more-testosterone-than-me javelin throwing she-men. Add to that the fact that I can only drink like a fish but not swim like one and you’ll know why I am a land-lover.
Hence when my friend P.B suggested that we take a trip to Rishikesh to white-water raft on the holy Ganges I was more than a little apprehensive. I did try to make up some excuse about work, which worked the first weekend, but then he postpones his flight so that we could do this trip the next. If he was so intent on drowning in the holy river, far be it from me to stop him. Besides I’ll try anything at least once and I’ll eat anything at least twice but that’s a story for another day.
So I book a cab and wait for Friday midnight for it to ferry me to my watery grave. Greek souls had to pay a single gold coin to boatman Charon to carry them across the River Styx to the underworld; I get a deal for 6 bucks a kilometer. In the meantime we talk to a few people who suggest that we should go to Haridwar since its on the way and it happens to be the time of the Mahakumbh, which takes place only once in 12 years. By suggested I mean- “Don’t cross any old Babas or they’ll put an eternal curse on you and your progeny.” I don’t give two nuts about my progeny but my health and general well being is important to me. That more or less meant we’d skip Haridwar.
We invite a colleague of ours, a Mr. S.L, another one of those misfortunate creatures taken from their original habitat of South India and forced to ride a unicycle in the cruel circus that is New Okhla Industrial Development Authority. S.L flatly refused to come initially but changed his mind when we he realized that he’d be able to take a bath in the Ganges thereby washing away his sins but more on that later.
Come Friday night and the cabbie arrives- a short, pot-bellied man with long hair slick with generous tablespoons of oil, or whatever it is they measure oil in. I, like most uppity middle class men with pretensions of class, don’t bother remembering his name but in keeping with my previous analogy we shall call him Charon. He tells me that he hasn’t been to Rishikesh but has prayed in Haridwar like all god-fearing scrupulous cab drivers in U.P. As per latest government census there are just 9 left. I have started a T-shirt campaign.
Rishikesh is only 30 kilometers away from Haridwar and besides Charon had come here as a five year old at a time when his mother used only a single teaspoon to wet his scalp. Hence we had nothing to worry.
I nestle in the back seat, jacket on, and window down and we move on the dark, not quite desert, highway (NH-58), cool wind in my hair but sadly no warm smell of Colitas rising up through the air. Other than the huge traffic jam which turned our journey from a five hour trip to a seven hour one it was a largely uneventful ride if you discount the Uttarkhand state police almost shooting at us and searching my bag for drugs, alcohol and/or ammunition.
You see, while I listened to Hootie and the Blowfish on my pod, Charon, in his infinite wisdom, chose to sneak past a police check-post. All the while the police are on the lookout for terrorists who might or might not be visiting the kumbh for a dip in the holy river. Needless to say we were chased and chastised, the cops being a touch disappointed I wasn’t carry anything juicy. Too bad they didn’t catch us on the return trip.
For the parts that I was awake I remember passing by IIT Roorkee. I don’t exactly understand, but have experienced firsthand, the fascination with IIT campuses that all engineers share, while at the same time not forgetting to belittle the specimens they house.
We also pass by Haridwar and other than the lights and razzle-dazzle; I notice a lot of signboards all of which have the picture of at least one holy man. They apparently have been enlightened with the knowledge of which constructor you should buy flats from. Besides real estate the signboard Babas were also of the opinion that the locally housed religion was under threat from all sorts of forces and it was up to the red-blooded youth to protect it. Even though my two co-passengers were asleep I doubt that they’d be inspired by the message, Rafting and Sin-washing being the only things on their respective minds.
To be continued
P.S: I know not how to use a comma
I’ve never been a big fan of water. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the occasional bath or two. A Single Malt Whiskey with said liquid and a dash of soda is beyond description. The beach too is one of my favorite places but only the sandy part not the saline.
Nonetheless being surrounded by water, with land more than just a stones throw away is not my idea of a good time. Besides I throw like a girl, girls with pigtails and not 15” biceped more-testosterone-than-me javelin throwing she-men. Add to that the fact that I can only drink like a fish but not swim like one and you’ll know why I am a land-lover.
Hence when my friend P.B suggested that we take a trip to Rishikesh to white-water raft on the holy Ganges I was more than a little apprehensive. I did try to make up some excuse about work, which worked the first weekend, but then he postpones his flight so that we could do this trip the next. If he was so intent on drowning in the holy river, far be it from me to stop him. Besides I’ll try anything at least once and I’ll eat anything at least twice but that’s a story for another day.
So I book a cab and wait for Friday midnight for it to ferry me to my watery grave. Greek souls had to pay a single gold coin to boatman Charon to carry them across the River Styx to the underworld; I get a deal for 6 bucks a kilometer. In the meantime we talk to a few people who suggest that we should go to Haridwar since its on the way and it happens to be the time of the Mahakumbh, which takes place only once in 12 years. By suggested I mean- “Don’t cross any old Babas or they’ll put an eternal curse on you and your progeny.” I don’t give two nuts about my progeny but my health and general well being is important to me. That more or less meant we’d skip Haridwar.
We invite a colleague of ours, a Mr. S.L, another one of those misfortunate creatures taken from their original habitat of South India and forced to ride a unicycle in the cruel circus that is New Okhla Industrial Development Authority. S.L flatly refused to come initially but changed his mind when we he realized that he’d be able to take a bath in the Ganges thereby washing away his sins but more on that later.
Come Friday night and the cabbie arrives- a short, pot-bellied man with long hair slick with generous tablespoons of oil, or whatever it is they measure oil in. I, like most uppity middle class men with pretensions of class, don’t bother remembering his name but in keeping with my previous analogy we shall call him Charon. He tells me that he hasn’t been to Rishikesh but has prayed in Haridwar like all god-fearing scrupulous cab drivers in U.P. As per latest government census there are just 9 left. I have started a T-shirt campaign.
Rishikesh is only 30 kilometers away from Haridwar and besides Charon had come here as a five year old at a time when his mother used only a single teaspoon to wet his scalp. Hence we had nothing to worry.
I nestle in the back seat, jacket on, and window down and we move on the dark, not quite desert, highway (NH-58), cool wind in my hair but sadly no warm smell of Colitas rising up through the air. Other than the huge traffic jam which turned our journey from a five hour trip to a seven hour one it was a largely uneventful ride if you discount the Uttarkhand state police almost shooting at us and searching my bag for drugs, alcohol and/or ammunition.
You see, while I listened to Hootie and the Blowfish on my pod, Charon, in his infinite wisdom, chose to sneak past a police check-post. All the while the police are on the lookout for terrorists who might or might not be visiting the kumbh for a dip in the holy river. Needless to say we were chased and chastised, the cops being a touch disappointed I wasn’t carry anything juicy. Too bad they didn’t catch us on the return trip.
For the parts that I was awake I remember passing by IIT Roorkee. I don’t exactly understand, but have experienced firsthand, the fascination with IIT campuses that all engineers share, while at the same time not forgetting to belittle the specimens they house.
We also pass by Haridwar and other than the lights and razzle-dazzle; I notice a lot of signboards all of which have the picture of at least one holy man. They apparently have been enlightened with the knowledge of which constructor you should buy flats from. Besides real estate the signboard Babas were also of the opinion that the locally housed religion was under threat from all sorts of forces and it was up to the red-blooded youth to protect it. Even though my two co-passengers were asleep I doubt that they’d be inspired by the message, Rafting and Sin-washing being the only things on their respective minds.
To be continued
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