A VagaBond Tale

Something terrible happened...

2015-01-07T12:28:00.000+05:30

on 26th December 2014, to be precise. I normally don’t write about personal tragedies here. It doesn’t help anyone to read somebody’s sob story especially a bloke you’ve hardly met or are ever likely to meet. But I’ll make an exception just once because this incident just devastated me physically, mentally and spiritually. I’m a nervous wreck now popping sleeping tablets to get over the insomnia brought on by this horrible incident.

Actually it’s all my fault. First I build up huge expectations for myself. When I wrote The Vagabond situation that was just to kill time and space and provide a platform for the next blog post, which was the 'real' launch. But what the hell! ‘TVS’ picked up 17 comments and was a runway success. So I was positive that my follow up number would take the blogging world by storm.

But the Passer a la casserole, a culinary delight ,my masterpeice which premiered on 26th December failed to register even a single comment. Not one comment. I knew something was very wrong soon after my conversation with M just after the post hit the web. M is the only reader of this blog who is brave enough to call me once in a while...

“Hey how’s it ? Absolutely mind blowing right? Do you think I’ll get a book contract? I reckon its right up there with Marco Vassi’s best”, I was getting more and more excited with every word...

Silence at the other end.

I thought that there might be a bad connection.

“Hullooo… did you hear…”

“I heard you all right”, the clear calm voice that doctors use when they are about to tell you that you have less than 24 hrs to live.

“Are you out of your f***ing mind? Releasing a so called erotica at Christmas time? Have you forgotten that 99 % of your readers are women? And 90% of them are Indian? Besides I think the story was disrespectful towards us and the plot was terrible"

I feel my hands start to sweat…

“What’s that got to do with anything? You want me to consult an astrologer before I publish a post? But hold on, do you really think that no one’s going to comment, that no one’s gonna like it?”

“Well I will comment just to save your blushing ass but this is not your forte , Mr. You should just stick to dark humor. And next time try writing this kind of stuff nearer to Feb 14^th or thereabouts”

I hated how M made more sense than me every time we had an argument.

“But M, this is just a teaser. In all these vagabonding years, I have put my filthy imagination to use writing over 100 such short slam bang stories. Has it all been in vain?”

All I heard was sarcastic laughter at the other end.

“Maybe I should have just written a Mills and Boons misadventure…”

“I doubt if you can pull off even that one… just stick to the funny bones dude”

M, a lady I’ve known for close to a decade and half doesn't mince words. What the hell was I going to do with the 100 odd idiotic erotic stories in my ‘hard’ drive?

The worst part was that even M wouldn’t believe that the story was 100 % fiction!

“Listen do you really think that I can bed a French chick? And I’m not a good cook by any stretch of the imagination”

“Listen Mr Playboy! I know what sort of 'adventures' you get up to. I’m sure all your readers think likewise at least regarding the bedding part of the story. You would have lost at least 99.9 % of your female admirers after this fiasco. You’ve come across as a hormone imbalanced humper who likes his paneer butter masala on the side. Bleeahh! Disgusting !!!!”

I was gently weeping now seeing that I was in throat deep shit. I disconnect and decide to call my agent who also happens to be M.

“Is there no way out of this?”

“What?!! Is it you again? Well, you can delete the post and just pretend the whole thing never happened. Maybe you’ll be forgiven one day”

“But wait I know that people are reading it, it’s just that nobody’s commented on it. Now come to think of it what will people comment anyway eh? “Oh that was a F***ing good read Vagabond, thank you!” Or “Oh that was really a ‘very hard’ story to read” or even “That’s difficult to swallow"

“Well I’ve decided to stick by it, no matter what! I put a lot of effort into it you know, at least a month of writing and editing. Even the title is a French expression which is a pun on”

“Is that so? It sure shows!” sniggered M cutting me off again.

So here I am dear women readers, one heartbroken writer, as Russell Peters would say in his Fake Indian accent “one hundred percent heartbroken”. So I implore you to comment on the erotica(attempted). This would be a more radical step you can take than the silly kiss of love campaign. Commenting here is what takes real guts, not cheek pecking in Marine Drive! So go for it gals, fire away. If sufficient numbers of you give a good thrashing I promise not to publish any more attempted erotica. Any comment is ok as long as it is provocative. I believe M has just set the golden standard with the first comment!

S & M

2015-01-02T17:03:00.000+05:30

This incident happened in my vagabonding days when I was in Auroville staying in a farm. We had to work in the farm for 2 hours every day in exchange of accommodation and breakfast. Sometimes other residents would join us for the mooring work.

During my stay, there were mostly guys on the farm and it was good. We could be ourselves, walk around almost naked in the bare minimum and dispense with politeness. So imagine the chaos when a hot blonde 'un turned up. She always used to wear a long red skirt with purple splotches, tucked high up, when she worked. It looked as if she was wearing a micro mini if anything at all. As far as I know none of the guys was complaining .

God must have spent a disproportionate amount of time on her legs .In case that didn't do the trick, she would often wear a black sleeveless top with a low neck. Ah with colleagues like that you don’t mind working the extra hour! She seemed mildly interested in me for some reason. This was the turning point in our relationship:-

Scene: The banana plantation where some major ‘weeding’ is going on... Blonde and me sitting side by side doing some serious weeding. Imagine the smell of earth, mud on your fingers, and sweat on the body...

Vagabond: "Did you see the play yesterday?"

Hot Blonde: "Naw, I missed it"

"I went with the guys. It was quite good"

She bends over, leans ever so closer, breasts too close and beautiful to miss. white limbs covered in red earth…

"There's a movie day after. If you like..."

I smiled, about to reply,

"awwwwwwooaaaa", She's on her feet screaming like an Amazon warrior

Skirt hikes up further, if that's possible, right hand brandishes a scissors.

"I know these bastards."

Her left hand plucks something out of the hidden recesses of her right thigh.

"Err,ahem, think they are called ticks"

“Fuckers”

She looks at the poor little 'fucker', never thought a woman's face could express cruelty so blatantly.

Scissors get to work on the legs of the mite, done with coldness and immense precision. Satiated bliss on face, too real to miss. CHOP ! CHOP! CHOP!.

"So?"

"Eh?"

"About day after tomorrow?"

"Ugh, ive got something coming up, maybe some other time. Excuse me; think I need to go get some fresh air.."

P.S: Friends, I’ve been blogging for more than a decade now and if you think my writing still stinks , check out my older posts and you will be grateful ! But to be fair there are some nice ones and here's one of my favourites. This is based on a real incident in Auroville, December 2009.

Passer a la casserole, a culinary delight

2014-12-26T20:21:00.000+05:30

Content advisory: strong language and sexual content, even if it’s mostly between the lines! You have to be 18+ to see this material.

London was where I made my first serious foray into cooking. Eating out in the city was an expensive proposition. So as with most bachelors from the sub continent, I had to bow before the might of the British pound and enter the kitchen. But it was truly love at first smell and sound for me. I loved the scent of spices, the steaming aroma of freshly cooked basmati rice, the crackling of mustard seeds and the sound of hissing oil when chillies and tomatoes were fried. Contrary to what I was told before leaving India, there was a mind boggling variety of vegetables and fruits in the supermarkets. So I experimented a lot, stepping out of the safety of the cook book and thoroughly enjoyed cooking. I would prepare a huge portion of sabji (vegetable cooked in gravy) and leave it in the fridge with a note for my house-mates asking them to taste and rate it. As the months passed, the ratings improved along with my confidence.

However, this was a time of great personal crisis for me. I was trying hard, very hard, to get laid. Imagine a 25 year old Indian guy fresh off the boat in one of the most cosmopolitan cities of the world exposed to endless number of beautiful women wherever he goes. Yet all he can do is dribble and watch. My friend Eric came to the rescue. A seasoned hand at all things feminine, the first thing he asked me to do was shave my moustache off.

“What? Are you out of your senses? This is equivalent to castration for a Malayali guy” I thundered. But no amount of thundering or pleading could move Eric.

Eric vowed to teach me the secrets of seduction only if I cleaned up my upper lip. He claimed guys in the West who wore a moustache were mostly part of the gay scene, convincing me that just getting rid of the stache was half the job done.

Maybe it was just a coincidence but as soon as I trashed the stache I began to score with the ladies. It was around this time that I met Audrey (pronounced Odd Ray!) at a house party. She had just landed in London from Paris for a 3 months’ work holiday vacation. We hit it off immediately and she confided that the reason behind the trip was that she had just broken up with her boy friend and wanted a change of scenery. Her French accent and bubbly extrovert nature was a huge turn on for me.

I woke up in heaven with a smirk plastered on my face after our first night together. What are the chances of a Mallu guy sleeping with a French chick who had pouting lips and sleepy ‘I’m ready for a fuck now’ eyes? Overflowing with gratitude, I decided to pamper her. So I made breakfast (not idly sambar !) and surprised her in bed. Her reaction caught me unawares. She was genuinely surprised and then started silently crying. Later, she told me that nobody had done that for her. How much it meant to her was revealed shortly when she smashed me in an intense love making session that lasted till late afternoon by which time we were both drained.

Nevertheless I got up and somehow managed to ‘cook a curry’, as the Brits would say. We ravenously ate. I was planning to sleep it off but Audrey had different plans for the rest of the day. I soon learned why the world regards the French as the greatest lovers on the planet.

The sex was always great but soon it became obvious to me that the quality was extra terrestrial on the days I cooked or surprised her in bed (with food you dirty perverts!). She would often come to watch me cook up a storm, much to the amusement of my housemates. Ha, I can still see her standing by the kitchen door wearing just her black over sized T shirt and little else. I never made conversation while I cooked but I would glance at her every now and then. Sometimes she would come and stand just beside me, not making contact yet touching me inside out. The rich smell of Indian spices mingled with the smell of her sweat and sex. Many times I have seriously contemplated fucking her there in the warm kitchen that smelled of India.Tandoori naan with Paneer Butter masala and Audrey on the side, I would fantasize.

Audrey was a man magnet. When we went out to pubs, clubs or even the park she would have guys eating out of her hands. They would stare at her , smile at her, and even sometimes flirt outrageously. Of course she was dazzlingly beautiful, but that was not uncommon in London. She had something else, the oomph factor, that made her irresistible. She was perfectly at ease handling her admirers and that’s what probably never made me jealous or possessive about her. Besides I knew what turned her on, good Indian food made with lots of love ! We cooked and made love with the same intensity. There was a playfulness to the whole affair so even if something got burned in the oven or in the bedroom we would laugh it off.

As the days passed she started imitating me and eating with her hands. She would be completely lost in it, licking her fingers dry but sometimes she would look up at me and smile seductively. I couldn't wait for dinner to be over...

We cooked, dined and fucked our way through the 3 months. Time had no meaning and it was over before it began.. She took me out on our last night to a very expensive restaurant on top of a skyscraper in the city from where you could see the entire London nights-cape. We ate our full and languished in the cushioned comfort of our chairs. The food was great but I missed seeing her eat with her hands relishing my food. The dinner felt flat that way and I was feeling down. She sensed my mood when she said “It’s low on spice” and winked.As we took the tube back to my place, she discussed her future plans in Paris, on continuing her education and getting together with family again.

It was our last night together and we hugged each other tight. I woke up at the break of dawn. Audrey was all curled up facing the huge bay windows enticing me with her bewitching bottom. Why was I not feeling sad that she was leaving? Years later I would realize that it was because of the intensity and fullness with which we lived our days that left no trace of regret or sadness as its residue. We were happy to let it all end there, not even to stay in touch.

Strange, I thought, yesterday was the only day when we were in bed and not had sex. I stretched and went for a run around the block. By the time I came back and showered, Audrey was up.

She came and kissed me long and full on the mouth.

‘Do you know what was unique about yesterday?’ she whispered almost french kissing my ears.

'What ?', I got hard just thinking about how our last faire des galipettes was going to be.

‘Yesterday was the only day that you didn't cook for me!’

The Vagabond situation

2014-12-03T08:04:00.000+05:30

"So what do you do?"

I travel full time...

"No, No what is your PROFESSION ? What do you do for a LIVING?"

Well all I do pretty much is travel ...

"Ok Ok who do you travel with ? A bunch of friends?"

No.

"Do you mean to say that you travel alone?" , eyeing me up as if I might be a potential rapist or axe murderer.

After digesting that information comes another beauty.

"But you CAN'T travel full time!", as if I've just defied the laws of gravity.

Oops, I forgot again, full time travel/enjoying life to the hilt/doing what you really want to do is against the Indian law !

This is a conversation I have every day when I travel in India. 3 times a day at the very least !!! Yes folks, like a bitter pill to be taken after every meal ! Travelling full time is considered by some in this country as worse than being a drunkard, philanderer, and adulterer all rolled into one. A thousand times worse! A good friend asked me the question recently, ‘Why bother? Is it really worth the sneers, criticisms and free advice that you have to hear on a daily basis?' Yes, my friend it is… and then some :)

I’m chilling out right now in a city Mark Twain once famously described as older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend and looks twice as old as all of them put together ! My temporary abode is a hostel frequented by the odd mix of backpackers, college kids, vagabonds ,etc. The critic Arthur Compton-Rickett defined vagabonds as men "with a vagrant strain in the blood, a natural inquisitiveness about the world beyond their doors."

In the hostel I've had conversations with the well educated, ‘well settled’ young Indians who are kind of a little bit in awe, in envy of the vagabond situation. This is something new for me, adulation from my own countrymen! For many of them, especially the affluent guys, it’s an attainable dream to travel for an extended period since they can afford it, yet the time factor plays spoilsport. I met quite a few students from Mumbai in the hostel who stopped short of waving aarti to me for doing what I do. At least some of them found the vagabond situation incredibly cool.

To walk away from the crowd...

So you have guys who despise you, who think that you should be put behind bars or at the very least be committed in a lunatic asylum. Then there are others who think that you are Mr. Cool living ‘the life’ with no responsibilities no deadlines, no work…

The truth lies somewhere in between. Travelling alone, living alone, sleeping alone, takes some getting used to for most people. You have to be your own best friend, love your company and be able to laugh at your own jokes since often there won’t be people around to laugh at them. I've always been an introvert and am OK with this. Yet there are days, I have to admit, that you feel the need for a little companionship just like the guy in the city sometimes wishes for solitude.

I’m not doing this as a rebellion, as a statement against the system or anything. It’s because I love nature, travelling to unseen places and meeting people (once in a while !). I learn from my travels just like you learn stuff at work (or at least you're supposed to !) and for me its fun! I try to be not too bothered when the shit hits the fan as it often does, when things don’t work out even remotely as you planned them.

With a companion on the way

I started travelling when I realized that my life was going to be short. Not just mine but yours as well. We will all be gone in a blip. Why work my ass off and save money I will never use ? Why to buy a house and pay mortgage for the rest of my life? Why live in a polluted city whne the mountains constantly beckon? Why ? Why ? Why ? I thought hard about these things, found the answers and hence I decided to hit the road, to do what I thought was important.

If you think that being in the corporate world and working your ass off is your thing and that you would do it even if you got paid zilch, I’d say go for it full steam ahead. That’s a good test. If money was no concern would you still be doing the thing you’re doing now ? If maintaining status and facing uncomfortable questions were no longer an issue would you still be doing the thing you’re doing now? Maybe if you really think about it,sweeping the road is your passion but you're afraid to do it because people may ridicule you. I thought about all these and more for quite some time before I decided to take the leap…

So as S and a lot of others have been asking what the hell do I do the whole day? It may surprise many of you that I get up quite early for yoga and a bit of meditation. I read for sometime then maybe head out for local explorations. So its not about sleeping late and just lying around in a hammock all day ok? Everything is done because I love doing it.

But I do chill! The wise call it laziness. I don’t feel the need to compulsively work just because 99% of homo sapiens believe so. I’m not living off my parent’s money or anything earned through the hawala route. It’s all been earned by the sweat of my brow (not literally of course!). Work is not just something you do for money. Well, if you look at things that way, getting your ass off bed in the morning is work. Cooking and cleaning is work. Meditation is work. The hardest work is to just sit still, be content in not doing anything, allowing the world to just be as it is…that way I'm a workaholic.

Mookkuthi

2014-11-27T19:00:00.000+05:30

She queries me on her diamond mookkuthi
Undoubtedly it's dazzlingly pretty
It's sure to have cost her lover a fortune
And she will not part with it so soon

Your mookkuthi is a shining star
I reply to the beauty without par
But even the brightest star fades as the sun ascends
Thy two adoring eyes, my dear, are much more magnificent.

(Mookkuthi is the Malayalam word for a nose stud.)

The story behind Mookkuthi

"I had a really nice time with you. Unforgettable".

I was on the phone to a woman I found irresistible. We had just spent a couple of hours together and I thought I was falling... fast... into that four letter word that often complicates our lives.

"Yes me too", she cooed, "It was a beautiful day. But the best part of it was the food we had in Pizza Hut. Usually they mess up the order or make the pizzas very crusty but this time it was perfect."

I felt let down so I said " Really , that was your best part ?"

" Actually ,now that I think of it, no.."

My pulse was racing and sweat beads of anticipation were crowning my forehead.

After a lengthy pause she confided : " If I'm really honest I have to say that the garlic bread was the best. So creamy, cheesy and crispy. Yummy,Yummy ! "

Well I am no relationship expert but that comment pretty much dashed any hopes I had of scoring with her. The sad truth was that while I was lost in her eyes among many other things, she was directing her attention solely on the garlic bread and pizzas.

This incident happened many years ago. As you would have guessed, nothing much came out of that lunch date except the birth of a poem, a raw uncut piece written on a high that only love can produce. It perfectly explains how I felt about the object of my affection then. I always had a thing for women wearing mookkuthis but on that particular day she was wearing a diamond one ! Yet even a diamond mookkuthi couldn't outshine the light and beauty of her eyes!

Do you think that I should have shown her this poem ? Would it have made a difference? Would you fall for a person who penned a poem for you even if it was not exactly Shakespearean in scope ? Has anybody written a poem for you ?

My previous attempt at a poem took the blogging world by storm receiving much critical acclaim. Let's see how this one fares... :-)

The French Connection

2014-11-20T04:00:00.000+05:30

"Are you from France?"

I wheeled around to face the questioner, a dark young pot bellied guy in a faded gerua T shirt and pants, trying hard to put me at ease with his paan coloured smile.

That had to be the best compliment I got in my life, being compared to the sexiest sub species in the human kingdom. For a moment let us not focus too much on the qualification of the commentator in making such a statement but just let the comment sink in. Ahhh ! I’ve been mistaken for being a Brazilian, Sri Lankan etc but that was ages ago in a far away city called London. But the fact that I've been complimented for my looks here in my own country by a fellow countryman , I realized I had finally arrived. Big time ! This had been the purpose of all my years of wandering, vagabonding and travelling. The grand finale ! The climax ! The setting was also scenic and intensely spiritual, right on the ghats in Benares by the inky black Ganga. I had to summon every ounce of my inner strength not to get misty eyed...

Sunrise @ Benares

Seeing my blissful knowing smile, Mr. Pot Belly assumed that I must indeed be French and began a conversation in French to which I responded gamely with smatterings of the language I picked up in college and later. He offered his services to buy me hasish, ecstasy,,ketamine and 10 other drugs I didn't even know existed. I slowly realized that Mr Pot Belly was hinting subtly that I looked less like a French sex God and more like a French drug addict.

After I stopped running for my life from Mr Pot Belly, I met an old gentleman who headed me in English and wanted to know which country I was from. Look guys, I was dressed in kurta and jeans just like any other self respecting Indian intellectual. The only difference was that I just had my bath. Was this some sort of scam where these guys lower your defences by softening you up comparing you to a gora and then try to sell you hasish and a boat ride? Having learnt early on in my travels never to underestimate the ingenuities my countrymen were capable of, I gave him the cold blank expression befitting a French drug addict.

A very short train journey

2014-11-14T16:24:00.000+05:30

'GE-1' misspelled the sms from IRCTC. So I walked into G-1 compartment and confidently parked my ass there. Another half an hour for the Garib Rath to Delhi to take off. I decided to go for a stroll. Just 10 minutes before departure I return to find a seductively smiling bhabhiji occupying my seat. She cooed that 69 was her number and that GE-1 was a different compartment altogether. Shell shocked by this revelation, I hauled my luggage out and started looking for GE-1. G-1 was just behind the engine so there was just one way to go. The train seemed never ending as I walked/ran the platform. G-9,G-10....G-14, G-15... Where was GE-1? Was it a part of the train at all or just a figment of Railway's imagination? A perfect case for Mr. Bond. Then the platform started to curve so I was not really sure whether there were any more bogies. Finally after a million miles, I see GE-1. Why shouldn't it be called G-20 since it came after G-19? Maybe the British had forbidden more than 19 bogeys from being named to a train and this was Indian Railway's ingenious way to circumvent the law.

An elderly hair dyed Auntyji immediately pounced on me seeing I had the coveted LB( Lower Berth). Since nodding my head and saying yes involved the least exertion, I did just that. Thankfully her berth was the middle one, just above mine, so I didn't have to climb to Mount Everest which was the height of the Upper Berth. The TTE (Train Ticket Examiner) came at the ungodly hour of 10:30pm to check tickets. I was really tired and was looking forward to a good night's rest.

The inside view of a Garib Rath coupe

The next thing I know my blanket is being pulled down and a torch is being shoved at my face. Thinking that either it's a hold up or rape attempt I go for the wallet hoping to pacify the attacker whatever his intentions, with money. I just wanted some sleep. But no this was the TTE asking Auntyji to get down at my stop. I tell him in a gruff voice that my name is Bond and I'm not Auntyji for Christ's sake ! He slithers away and I notice that Auntyji has already vacated my LB so I shift down. The time dear friends :1:30 am.

A couple of hours later the incident is repeated except that this time I don't use the Bond line but the choiciest Hindi expletives at Mr. A.K Singh the TTE villian. More like A.K 47 if you ask me and no where near fancy as Dr. NO. He slithers off again with no reaction and I lie awake the rest of the night anticipating the next intrusion. But all that happens to break the monotony of the rocking train is somebody yelling that their phone has been stolen in the wee hours of the morning.

Tunganath - A Himalayan trek Part 2

2014-11-07T07:56:00.000+05:30

The next morning we got up early to catch the 7:30 bus to Chopta. This is the only bus to Chopta for the entire day so if you miss this, you have to shell out 2 grand as taxi fare to reach Chopta. The bus stops right outside GMVN and you can actually see it climbing laboriously from the other side of the valley. Chopta is an assortment of shops and lodges that serve as the base for the trek to Tunganath, the highest Shiva temple in the world. The ride between Ukhimath and Chopta has to be one of the best rides in india. The road was freshly tarred and tall pine trees stood in majestic silence en route. It felt like one long journey through never ending forest. There is little traffic and if you can haul a cycle up there somehow, this ride is highly recommended.

On the way to Tungnath

Paved pathway

A sight for the Gods !

Tunganath at 12,000 feet is just 4 km from Chopta. You will be entertained with amazing vistas of the Himalayas en route on a clear day. It is the easiest temple access wise on the Panch Kedar circuit. Since we had munched on our quota of aloo parota at GMVN we just had tea at one of the numerous dhabas and headed out. After an exhilarating climb made more fun by running up ‘short cuts’ we reached Tunganath in quick time.

Tungnath Temple

The accommodation in Tunganath is mostly dormitory. The Kedarnath Badrinath Mandir samithi has nice rooms but they are usually ‘booked by a party from Delhi’ who always fail to show up. We were holed up in Hotel Soorya (in reality a shack!) , a double room with attached toilet, a luxury, for a princely sum of 500/-. As usual we were strongly persuaded to purchase thalis to please Tungnathji. The thalis contain assorted bizarre items to ‘please the lord’ and a priest chants mantras to make sure that your son/daughter/parents/neighbours are all ‘taken care of’. These offerings contains plastic as well which are dumped just outside the temple . Sad !

Waste outside the temple

We declined this opportunity to please the lord and instead tried to sit inside for sometime. Luckily for us it was a quiet period during the day and for a couple of hours we just sat there enjoying the silence. Where there are devotees in large numbers, there are Pandas or priests whose sole aim in life is the money in your wallet. I’ve heard that Tunganath had just one priest not so long ago but now to cope with increasing tourist footfall ,there are at least half a dozen. They are all very keen that you buy the‘thali meals’. A shame coz this is a place of meditation, contemplation and silence. The pandas yap away when they are not busy looting devotees so you need to be a good meditator to shut out the noise and focus on the divine vibes. Unfortunately this problem is not exclusive to Tungnath, it’s there in every big popular temple in the Himalayan region. If only these guys devoted some time to their personal sadhana they would see at what a special place they are privileged to stay at.

Sunset at Tungnath

R is certainly feeling the chill factor !

The evening aarti was simple and by six the sun had set in a blaze of glory. The chill was setting in and like all self respecting yogis we dived under the rajais (thick quilts). We had dinner later at night and washed our hands with ice. It felt that way, whenever contact with water was made.

Sunrise over Tungnath

The cold felt so bad that we continued with the rajai sadhana and opted to miss out on the morning trek to Chandrashila, a nearby peak, for viewing sunrise. We started our journey back to Chopta early as we had to catch the only bus to Mandal that would leave at 9. We visited the temple for a final darshan and meditation. I took an instant liking to a panda who had come running to the temple in the morning as soon as the doors were opened. My eyes filled up as I thanked God for showing me at least one sincere priest. All was not lost in this kali yug after all ! However when I went inside the temple I realized that Mr. Panda had rushed there because his devotees had already arrived with the thalis. He was all smiles screaming Sanskrit mumbo jumbo and invoking the God’s blessings. One could literally see Rupee signs in his eyes like they show in cartoons ! Later I saw Mr. Panda celebrating his latest conquest with a beedi in one of the adjoining dhabas.

For more pictures click here

Read the first part here

A Himalayan Trek - Part 1- Ukhimath

2014-10-31T00:34:00.000+05:30

This was my first foray into the Himalayas wielding a camera. I find that not having a camera slinging on your shoulders enhances the ability to enjoy the journey and also not look like a goddamn tourist. But as fate would have it, just before this trip I got a camera and I thought I might as well use it. Also I had a travelling companion for almost the entire duration of the trip, a break from travelling solo.

What is the tangible result of undertaking a challenging trek in the Himalayas ? What can you expect to show friends and family when you head back home ?

Here it is and it's definitely not a pretty sight !

Not a pic from the morgue but a foot selfie depicting 3 busted nails

I'm sure you're dying to know where I have been and what I've been up to after seeing this selfie. So let me begin the tale..

After a tearful parting (from her side) from the the Poha Maniac I left Rishikesh for Rudraparayag early morn on an empty jeep. An uneventful journey to Ukhimath from Rudraparayag barring a 5 minute spat over Rs.5/- between a passenger and the conductor. I jumped off the bus a couple of kilometres before reaching Ukhimath at the beautiful GMVN Guest House.

View from GMVN Ukhimath

R, who had already checked in early morning was chilling out with chawal, dal, roti discussing the intricacies of sthithaprajna with the Manager. Let me introduce R , my travel companion for the weeks ahead, a Tamil Iyer settled in Bangalore, a Type A personality who delves into disscussions on the Gita, Yoga and other unmentionables at the drop of a hat to anyone remotely interested. He's a genuine seeker, unlike yours truly , who meditates regularly and takes his sadhana quite seriously. But apart from all that , he's basically a nice guy.

Our hut for the night !

If you ever get to go anywhere near Ukhimath make sure you spend at least a night at the GMVN Guest House. You can sit on tha lawn and just gaze unendingly at the mountains. It's in a quiet area with breath taking views of the Himalayan peaks and walking distance of the famous Omkareshwar temple.

First kiss of the sun

Kedar mountain range visible from Ukhimath

It's to the Omkareshwar temple here that the murtis of Kedarnath and Madmaheshwar are brought every winter to be worshiped. The temple's undergoing renovation now but the inside compound retains an old world charm that transports you back in time.

When we visited the temple in the evening, there was already a family from Kerala inside the premises. A panda took them inside the math in the temple premises. We followed close behind. In the shrine room of the Devi, he proceeded to ask them for 'oil money'.

'Give me money for oil for worship of the Devi and I'll pour it in your names!'

I have noticed that remarkable funny things happen inside temples. History was repeated as the head of the family(HOF) was forced to dish out a sizable amount by his Devi fearing wife.

After pocketing the cash, the panda then told them to leave as it was time for arti in the main temple. As they were leaving, the incredulous HOF remarked to the panda that he had not asked for their names.

'Ah, Yes, I forgot! Tell me your names !'

Before they could finish telling their long South Indian tongue twisting names he rushed them out.

'But wait you didn't ask my name..', one of the group members spoke up bravely, 'It's Unnikrishnan'.

'Maalum hai Maalum hai, ab aap aarti mein jao' . They left us in the room with the bemused Devi.

The main priest of the temple is from Karnataka, a tradition from the times of Shankaracharya. He was the main reason R headed to the temple. R with his inexplicable talent for extracting useless info had found out that the priest had two daughters of marriageable age . But alas, he was unable to get their darshan. The temple's a quiet charming place with the unique presence of having a prowling guard who looks as old as the temple carrying an equally antique gun ...

The flute playing divine cowherd on the temple wall

Inside the temple compound

Old age charm

Dilapidated math building inside the temple

Main tower of Omkareshwar temple

Temple premises

GMVN garden. Just to balance the gross effect from the 1st pic ! ;)

To be continued...

Chocolate

2014-10-24T10:55:00.000+05:30

She feels shy she says,
When my gaze wanders into her syrupy sweet chocolate eyes,
I fantasize her darkness melting in my mouth today,
Only to hear her say,
"What?!! Just blink or look away,ok?"

Get lost !

2014-10-10T09:26:00.000+05:30

By the time you are reading this I hope to be lost in the Himalayas, lost in the beauty of the mountains and the forests, not in an ‘Into the Wild’ way. But right now as I’m typing these words, I’m lost in the ‘lungi dance’ as its blaring from a wedding reception from an adjacent ground! Not something you would associate with Rishikesh, right?

I once managed to lose myself in Munnar. This was years ago when I was just out of college. Amma (my mom, not Ms.Jayalalitha) had arranged for me to stay in the Government Forest Guest House. Don’t ask what I was doing in Munnar, a honeymooner’s paradise, alone. I’ve always been strange that way….The next day after arrival, I went for a walk to this obscure lake I heard about. It was ‘just’ 4kms away. Piece of cake I thought! There was not a soul on the road, I kid you not. There were houses of plantation workers on the way. Maybe because it was a Sunday there was hardly anyone even outside the houses.

Finally I reached my destination after much wandering about. It was heaven, a beautiful deserted lake and a small house by the side which was locked. I spent quite some time just sitting and enjoying the silence and the view. I believe I even dozed off for sometime. Important point to be noted here. I was not carrying any food or water. Insane you say? Absolutely! Maybe I didn’t take into account the Sunday factor or that there were very few shops on the way, all of which were closed.

I decided to explore some exciting scenery on the return leg of the journey and soon I was lost. I was in the middle of some jungle without a clue on how to get out, on the verge of collapse. I’m sure that was the day that I really prayed sincerely for the first time in my life. It was nothing short of a miracle that I managed to drag my sorry ass to a bungalow and begged the guard outside for some water. Finally after 8 hours of adventure I limped back to the Guest House. Hot tea was waiting which I gulped down and threw up within 5 minutes. I had cramps in my legs and I couldn’t move for a couple of days.

But it was a moment of enlightenment. I realized for the first time that I was hopeless with directions. It still holds true that I’m hopeless with all things spatial. I suck at reading maps. Even if I go to the same place 10 times in 10 days, I’ll still make wrong turns and get lost. Yes, a good handicap for a vagabond!

At present I’m trekking in the Himalayas for some weeks. I hope the Munnar experience is not repeated as there won’t be any fancy bungalows where I am headed.

Actually when I sat down to write, I wanted to write about something entirely different. Yes I’m a much disciplined writer that way, I do tend to get easily lost in the labyrinths of my mind. It also reflects on the number of posts I have managed in 10 years!

The Poha Maniac

2014-10-03T18:01:00.000+05:30

I just stepped out of a solo retreat, a silent one. I like to do these once in a while, sort of balances the energies and you feel centered and refreshed. A friend of mine was very gracious to let me have his apartment in Rishikesh for the purpose. So here I was all alone in a 2BHK 2 steps away from Ganga eagerly awaiting the days of yoga, meditation and enlightenment.. There was just one other apartment on the same floor and it was occupied by two women in their 20s, working for a 5 star hotel in town, my friend informed me.

So I got my provisions for 10 days including, rice, vegetables, oats, cereals and my favourite, poha ! I was looking forward to my cooking sessions as much as the retreat. On the first day early in the morning as I was stepping out of the flat for a walk by the river, I saw one of my neighbours coming up. Dressed stylishly in a salwar kameez she looked to be returning from her night shift in the hotel. This girl was a looker from top to bottom. Alas, being on silent mode, I couldn't greet her. Damn it!

That didn't matter too much coz she just walked past not even acknowledging my presence. Oh well the babe must be tired, I thought. We met again a couple of times with the same indifferent look from her. I think it was the third day of my retreat when I heard the bell ring as I was in the kitchen making poha. Now who could that be at 8 in the morning? You guessed right folks, it was the lady dressed to kill in a stunning salwar suit clinging to her freshly bathed body and water dripping from her hair. Without the help of pranayama my breathing stopped and I guess I was pretty close to Samadhi.

The first thing I did was to pinch myself. I mean us spiritual types get visions and all that so just wanted to make sure that this was the real thing. The femme fatale had a shy yet dazzling smile and she kept on looking expectantly behind me into the flat. Was she maybe looking for my friend I wondered? She introduced herself and that’s when it hit me. I’m in silence! Shit! Shit! Shit!

Should I just forget about this silent sadhana and just deal with the present ‘present’? In my mind I had already removed her clothes and we were in bed. But how the hell am I going to make love without making a sound? This God damn silence! Maybe it would be an amazing experience who knows? So there was this devil/angel war going on in my mind. My mind was in total turmoil. Should I open my Goddamn mouth or not , that was the question.. Believe me there was never any moral dilemma about whether to have sex or not ! And how's seduction possible without speech eh? So i had to break the silence , so my thoughts went.

Finally, the angel guy won. By a very narrow margin. I put my index finger to my mouth with a smile indicating that my lips were sealed. Maybe it was the expression on my face or the angle of the finger but the shocked look on her face told me that she thought I was asking her to kiss me. I reassured her. She relaxed considerably when she learned that I was in silence. I wrote my name down for her.

She closed her eyes tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. Her breasts literally rose a mile, I swear !

“V?”, she deep throated my name huskily, making me gulp down about a gallon of saliva. God, this was easier than I thought it was going to be… My mind conjured up naked bodies and acrobatic poses that would have put Vatsyayana to shame. There was only one bedroom with a double bed but the sheets were slightly …

“What is that amazing aroma coming from your kitchen?”

I was jerked out of my fantasy world by these words of Deep Throat.

For the first time I was glad I was in silence. She pushed past me engulfing me in her scent and entered the kitchen where the poha was on a low flame. She removed the lid from the kadai, inhaled again and took a little taste.

“Oh it’s divine” she purred once more. Her facial expressions made my mind race to the bedroom again. “I love poha” she deep throated again.

“More than moi?” I would have asked sarcastically if I had the power of speech. Now I understood her sudden appearance and interest in me. The aroma of my cooking would have reached her flat and caused her to jump out, wet hair, clothes and all. The slutty glutton !

The poha maniac returned the next day and in a few days time I didn’t even bother to lock the door. She would stay till lunch sometimes just sitting or chatting away. She confided that she was a bad cook and was much too tired after her night shift to do any cooking anyway. What exactly do you do on the night shift I wanted to ask but like I said before it was a good that I was in silent mode. I think she found the idea of a guy who would feed her, listen to her without a murmur not passing judgments or comments liberating. And all this without sex ! How much better could it get for her?!! As they say men give intimacy for sex and women give sex for intimacy. This went on for the whole retreat. I know guys, I was getting a pathetic trade off but I dare not do anything coz when she dug into that poha she had a maniac glint in her eyes that seemed to say “No man can come between me and my poha!“

Anon no more

2014-09-29T19:04:00.000+05:30

I was walking along the ghats in Rishikesh today enjoying the early morning wind, the sight of the river, the soaring eagles and what not. An acceptable number of people were walking, bathing, meditating, stretching, standing on their heads, etc doing what people are supposed to do in a holy town. Not too crowded or noisy to enjoy the magnificent Ganges and the green…

“Which river is this?” , I was shaken out of my reverie by this billion dollar question.

I just smiled. I knew what this was about. The questioner looked like a old village pradhan type but I was not easily fooled. I acted cool, nodded my head, smiled again and started looking for the hidden cameras. Of course this had to be one of those hidden camera programs where they take you for a ride… but at 6 in the morning ?! These guys must be very hard working types.

“Ganga he na?” he asked politely again.

I nodded still looking furiously for the cameras.

“The same river that flows through Vrindavan?”

Okayyyy….looks like this guy's on a trip !

I bet this dude would have gone to see Taj Mahal and would have asked somebody there :

"Yeh Red Fort he na?Jo Indira Gandhi ne banaya ?”

Anyway folks, the good news is that I didn't fall for this scam. But of lately, strange things like this are happening to me. People who have not been in touch for eons have got in touch. Old flames are burning again…

And my cover is blown.

A girl/woman whom I haven’t seen for 14 years tracked me down to this blog. I mean I know I am a prize catch and all that but still dedicating years of your life in hot pursuit of a guy …well well…

Of course I’m flattered. She used every trick in the book short of hiring private investigators or getting a red notice issued by the Interpol. I thought this blog was pretty fool proof you know. So Anon no more.

She was the first girl I met online who had the guts to meet me offline.Make no mistake about it, we are talking about an exceptionally brave girl. We used to chat in Yahoo messenger everyday and she knew I was a psychopath but still she was all for meeting me. Just to make things more interesting I suggested the place for our first rendezvous to be a Krishnamurti gathering. Looking back I’m amazed she agreed to come at all ! Nothing much happened after that… I mean she finally understood that I was a psychopath( a gone case as they would say) and just let me be… Anyway I’ll be seeing her in a couple of months for a 'reconnect'.

Hey,don’t get your filthy minds in spin mode guys… she’s married, a mom and blah blah. That makes it even more exciting I hear you say. Damn well right you are… ;)

Full moon on the Ganga

2013-10-25T05:02:00.000+05:30

The pictures I click while on travel usually don't make it to this blog because I usually don't carry a camera. They are mainly clicked in my mind's eye. But sometimes I get into a mood and shoot stuff. These snaps were clicked some years ago on a full moon night without a tripod. The beauty of Gangaji is almost impossible to capture on camera especially by an amateur like me but I think you get a feel of the magic of staying on her banks in a solitary place. Enjoy !!!

An enduring love affair

2013-10-11T04:03:00.000+05:30

The train journey was uneventful in the Jana Shatabdi. It was amusing to see many people travelling ticketless standing in the doorway on this fast train to Dehra Dun. In the South, it’s pretty hard to get into a Shatabdi unless you have a ticket. Here the TTC only asked for tickets from people who were in seats. The corridorwallas and stepwallas (people standing on the corridors and sitting on the steps of the train) were not even given a cursory glance.

As I make my way through the crowds of ochre coloured sadhus in Haridwar, I am at ease again. I’m back home again by the Ganges, in the foothills of the Himalayas. I remember my first encounter with Gangaji. In Trivandrum of all places! As a teenager, in a movie hall enjoying a Malayalam film, I was caught unawares by the opening scene and song of the movie. The protagonist walks in Calcutta (not Kolkatta then!) by the banks of the Ganga searching for a long lost friend and there’s a song about the river in the background. My hair stood on end and an incredible feeling coursed through my entire being. This strange reaction was all but forgotten in the intervening years until I finally had my first real life darshan of her. My eyes thrilled by her sight welled up with illogical tears and again that strange elation coursing through the body. It was definitely love at first sight.

I have since been her companion in the mountains and seen her various moods. She is never the same ever. Her moods change every day and all along her course she constantly surprises you with her infinite hues. I’ve plunged into her icy waters at 4 in winter mornings chilled to the bones taking the ritualistic 3 dips before scampering back out for dear life! I’ve swam in her welcome cool embrace in the scorching summer never wanting to leave her. It’s not that I’ve not been with other rivers. Many have been bigger, wider and more beautiful but there’s something about the Ganga that always draws me back. Not surprisingly I’m not her only lover.

.

Twice I had the audacity to raft on her waters. At the second outing, on the most dangerous rapid on the river, the boat did a mini flip and I was thrown overboard. The last thing I saw before going down was the look on the raft guide’s face: pure unadulterated panic! I was dunked under the water repeatedly by the huge screaming waves all around me. All I could see was water; all I could hear was water. I liked the way she played with me. When I went under, I held my breath, strangely thinking that there couldn’t be a better way to die than in her arms. I was OK with that. The raging waters took me way ahead of the raft. Later on her banks, dripping wet and recollecting the experience, I was surprised by my calmness. People usually drown in a rapid even with a life jacket because they drink too much water when the dunking happens. Not a single drop entered my mouth. A true miracle and relief all around especially the guide who looked like it was he who got the 2^nd life.

For 3 years she has been my constant companion. The first thing I hear on waking up is her gentle murmur or roar depending on the season. I sit by her at night gazing at the stars. Under the full moon her beauty transcends the mind. Sitting by her side gazing into her waters is meditation. I’ve swam, dipped, played and almost drowned in her. She’s beautiful when she flows gently over the rocks murmuring sweet nothings. She’s majestic like a queen when she tears through the land in her floods.

Ganga dazzling under the full moon

I was there right by her side when the floods came earlier this year. As with many other people, we were cool because Gangaji has never flooded in June. When the levels kept on rising, we hurried with shifting things. But again I felt no sense of panic but just immense wonder at how a shy demure little thing suddenly turned into an angry vengeful woman. The room I was staying in was flooded for a day. When she went back she left a present, around 5 feet of Himalayan mud in the room! How that was cleaned is another story.

Like some women Gangaji has a peculiar beauty when she’s in one of her angry moods. I remember standing on the ghats in deserted Rishikesh during the floods and watching her make huge waves after waves. It seemed that the sea had come down to the land of the rishis! Oh what a performance it was! She carried with her everything from chairs, beds gas cylinders to humungous trees that defy description. The sound of her roaring waters still rings in my ears. The way we are abusing her and the mountains, I think, that this show was just the curtain raiser.

The only evidence of her fury now is the enormous piles of sand and the scattered logs on either side of her banks. Uttarakhand is deserted, one scolding from the Mother and all the bhaktas seem to have taken to their heels. Rishikesh resembles the town I’ve read about in the old travel chronicles and what I’ve heard from the sadhus who have been here for ages. I like it this way, especially because I have to endure less competition for her attention. And she’s back to her inviting shy demure self again. My love affair with her continues…

Gangaji ki jai ho !

Another journey begins ...

2013-09-27T11:29:00.001+05:30

Swarnajayanti Express sounded very fancy but knowing Indian Railways as I did, there was no expectation of gold plated furnishings, cutlery et al. Of course being a magician and an acrobat helps in any train journey in the subcontinent. I didn’t want here to get started on the toilet first but it’s an integral part of long distance travel even though the actual time you might be spending there might be small, God willing. But let’s get the dirty part over with first. I don’t think the railway official who decided how long the chain has to be that ties the steel mug has ever travelled on a train or washed his ass for that matter. You have to be a magician to know how to use it. Being a yogi is also helpful if by your will power you can add several meters to the length of the contraption for it to be of any practical purpose. Previous experience of acrobatics and gymnastics is absolutely essential. It’s like passing motion in a washing machine in spin mode. But to give credit where it’s due, the toilets were cleaned twice during the 3 days trip.

I travelled III A.C, putting the reality that is the heat and dust of India at arm’s length. There’s always romance in a journey, the romance of the voyage into the unknown, the unseen and a million other things even if your journey is preplanned to the minutest detail. Anything is possible including meeting a beautiful witty stranger as depicted in ‘Before Sunset’. But as I survey the scene these days, all I see are people obsessed over their cell phones and laptops. How do you start a conversation? But then I would have to remind people what exactly a conversation is…

A family of three gave me company on this journey. The dad, mom and daughter all lost in their respective mobile world. I’m still fascinated by India speeding along outside a train window but it seems very few people are. They talked in monosyllables and occasionally glanced in my direction as well. There were so many kids in the compartment that we could have started preschool but they were surprisingly silent and well behaved.

The trip to Delhi from Thiruvananthapuram took 50 hours most of it spent in deep sushupti. There’s something deeply relaxing at being rocked to sleep in the AC compartment in a train. Quite a few fellow travelers spent a considerable time curled up under the blankets. Alluring as this is, it is always a good idea to step outside once in a while to smell the ‘fresh’ air outside. In India the possibilities are endless.

On the outskirts of Vijayawada, the train stopped on top of the bridge over the river Krishna. It was fascinating to look down from the door of the train into steps and then a sheer drop into the green waters swirling below. The gentle lapping of the water could be heard clearly , and one could see fishermen struggling with their catch on a boat not far away.

In Bina jn, I saw that somebody had come to see their family off. She was so arresting in her appearance that I had to click some pictures…

HOLY COW !!!

Before Sunset Part 2

2013-09-15T06:54:00.000+05:30

continued from the previous post...

It was past seven and the evening shadows announced the end to a perfect day. They were almost at the end of the walk when they unexpectedly came across an unmanned railway crossing. There was not a soul in sight.

‘You know I’ve always wanted to do this in England, be in a deserted place by the tracks just to watch trains speed by’, Krishna said as they were climbing a small wooden platform for a better view. They sat together watching trains speed by in opposing directions.

‘We’re like those trains ,innit, just meeting for today, one whole day in the exclusive company of another and then speeding away.’ , Krishna philosophized in his fake cockney accent which brought a half smile onto her lips.

He was starting to feel a vague sadness engulfing him knowing that their time was up.

“You’ve suddenly become an old man’, she laughed, pulling out some of the white stallion’s hair stuck in abundance in his black hair. Her hand lingered on and she was now stroking his hair, both of them looking straight at the parallel rails never destined to be one.

The sinking sun on the horizon painted the skies a mellow orange and bleeding ochre red, almost like the colours in a Kancheepuram saree. Krishna thought it funny to be thinking about sarees at this particular time watching a sunset with an English woman.

Krishna watched in amazement almost like a third person as his hands cupped her face. She mumbled something.

‘What’s that? , asked Krishna breaking out of his spell.

‘Vaneesha means blessed’, she murmured gazing shyly into his eyes.

‘I can see that you have that effect on me’.

It was almost dark when they finally reached the rail station. The intensity of the day had drained them and they let life take the lead to inevitability.

On the London underground they couldn’t bear to sit together or look at one another. Yet they couldn' refrain from stealing glances at each other. She was surprised that she could feel so much sorrow and pain for parting from a man she met just this morning. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes and found he was smiling to himself. These things didn’t affect men the same way, she thought.

Krishna felt tremendous gratitude and thankfulness for such a profound experience coming uninvited. His heart was already heavy with longing and sadness yet he was smiling. He heard her say again for the third time that she would send him the snaps. As the doors of the tube were shutting she turned around and mouthed something which he never heard. It could have been ‘I had a nice time’ or ‘I want to walk with you again’ or even ‘I love you’. He would never know.

It’s been many many years since the day Vaneesha walked with him just for a day but Krishna still checks the spam folder of his email hoping to see the promised mail. Why didn’t he ask for her email id or number? He went for many walks after that but he never saw her again. Why hadn’t she contacted him? Maybe it was due to her boyfriend whose hangover was the reason she came walking alone that day anyway. Maybe things were better and simpler this way. Occasionally, Krishna dreams of a woman travelling with him on the tube suddenly getting up to go but not before turning around and mouthing those unheard of words. He just winks at her and smiles.

Before Sunset

2013-09-09T13:11:00.000+05:30

The train sped along the blossoming English countryside and he began to nod off. The journey was an impulsive one. Krishna had been in the country now for almost 3 years and had recently taken a fancy for taking long walks in the countryside on weekends. Time Out magazine had come out with a book which listed walks with easy access from London. There was also a timetable for walks where people could just show up on a designated day, usually over the weekend. The detail provided was meticulous including the train timings from London. Usually he liked to walk with the group but today he thought it would be better off if he walked alone. So he took the later train in the day.

He got off at Wadhurst, the terminal point, fiddling with the book, trying to find the correct page.

‘Oh, are you doing the walk as well?’ He spun around to face a smiling young woman who also had the same book in her hand. So they set off together chatting like old friends. Because they were having such an animated discussion they soon got lost. But because of that they were rewarded by the sight of bluebells in full bloom on a field on the way. Vaneesha was good with directions and they were soon back on the path. She had bought the book just the day before and had missed the earlier train because she got up late. Krishna joked that fate had conspired to bring them together.

They exchanged their personal stories while at the same time enjoying spring unfolding all around. It had been a long time since Vaneesha ventured into the countryside. She was like an excited kid stopping ever so often to smell the flowers. At one stretch of the walk, they had to walk through webs made by caterpillars and it was amazing to see them spin webs just like spiders. At the end of that stretch through the woods, they were covered with webs and caterpillars.

‘Looks like Spiderman has zapped us’, he said. They picked the cobwebs off each other and laughed.

Krishna looked into her light brown hazel eyes. She had a prominent nose which somehow complimented her beauty. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing one of those walker’s trousers where you could detach the part just below the thighs to convert it into a shorts, which she did one hour into the walk. She had beautiful legs and exquisite skin. I’m walking with a Goddess, Krishna thought smiling to himself.

On some stretches he walked ahead of her, for there came a time when there was nothing left to be said, when there was no necessity to speak or for physical proximity. Once he turned to look behind him and she had stopped at the stables that he had just passed. She was patting a huge white stallion. He walked back towards them secretly wanting to do the same. He had never patted a horse before. She told him that she had grown up with horses in a farm and had her ways with them. Without asking, she took his hand and placed it on the stallion’s neck. His heart beating fast he marveled at the touch, the soft touch of her hand on one side and the smooth skin and underlying hardness of the stallion’s. She took pictures of him hugging the horse and nuzzling his head against the beast.

Summer was just around the corner and the day never seemed to end. All along the walk, she was competing with nature for his attention. But were they really different from each other? He marveled at the sheer physicality of this woman’s beauty, the sonorous voice, the carelessly swinging hips and the rise and fall of her breasts. On the way she shared her knowledge of plants naming almost all the flowers they saw. He was happy to be silent, listening to her, feeling love well up in his heart for her, the incredible beauty around them and the power that made all this happen.

To be Continued...

Making both ends meet

2013-08-30T06:15:00.000+05:30

I have never worked more than 4 hours a day for the last 10 years. There I have said it. Is there a greater sin than this in workaholic India Inc. where employees are afraid to take even their due leaves? A much greater transgression than that is the fact that I have been in full time unemployment for half the time during the past decade. Yes, unemployed and making the most of it to further my vagabond plans! There’s nothing more repulsive to a man to see a fellow being unemployed and enjoying it! Seriously, there is no redemption for me in this sacred land!

Of course being the irresponsible bastard that I am, I hardly give these issues a thought unless and until I’m back in ‘civilized’ society. It doesn’t get more civilized than in Kerala, God’s own country, populated by the Devil’s own people. Less than a week into my stay here I’ve been ripped apart wherever I go. And go I must! The younger sibling’s getting hitched and I have to tag along with the parents for the dreaded ‘invitation ‘ rounds, where close relatives and so called friends of the family are formally invited to the wedding, which often involves meeting people I have not set eyes in a million years ! A typical encounter unfolds thus:

(All conversations translated from malalyalam so loses a considerable amount of punch and meanness!)

Host uncle/aunty: Hey I haven’t seen you in years. Mone, (son) what are you doing these days?

Pan (with a touch of pride and arrogance): I’m in the Himalayas…

H (a bit bewildered but makes a smart comeback):Oh, kollam,(good! Good!) How wonderful! What WORK do you do there?

Pan(intuitively sensing danger): Err, I just chill around, a bit of social service, helping…

H: That’s marvelous, but what WORK do you do there ?

The father now steps in…

Father: Actually he’s a bit into meditation and all that kind of stuff.

Pan doesn’t fail to notice that Father cringes a bit while giving explanation, almost as if his son is involved in the gigolo profession.

H: (with narrowed eyes sizing up Pan): What kind of stuff are we talking about?

P: He He (artificial hollow laugh trying to lighten up the mood) you know Yoga, Pranayama, and…

H: But what about your career, your savings? Is this the way responsible people live?

P squirms uncomfortably in seat yet tries to look at H with compassion as befitting a wannabe Yogi from the Himalayas !

P: See Sir, the thing there’s something in life apart from money coz you see…

H: But mone, you’re ruining your life. You know my son Thankappan, who was in the same class as you is now a radiologist in Canada. He’s happily married and VERY well settled too.

Pan thinks fondly about his dear friend Thankappan and even more fondly about his gorgeous wife.

P: Uncle, I understand. The thing is…

H: And for God’s sake you are not even married. You look so thin. How can you be otherwise when you have none to cook for you?

H now gets real excited and turns the guns on the Father, who was carefully studying a stain on the floor throughout the conversation, as if it was the subject of his Phd thesis. H really goes after him for not reigning Pan in, and for letting Pan do what he likes. You would have thought that Pan was still in his teens.

Finally the massacre is over and Pan and Father troop out of the room with hung heads with absolutely no scope for redemption in this life atleast ! Host uncle has a smug look on his face which proclaims that he’s done his social dharma.

Emily Harper - Story in a Song

2013-08-23T04:00:00.000+05:30

From my days as a pimpled teen I have been a sucker for songs that tell a story. This song is an all time favourite. Enjoy !

Lyrics :-

Emily sat right next to me
Five days a week in the same bus seat
For a girl she was pretty cool
She wore an old ball cap, hated lace
Played a mean shortstop and second base
Never missed a day of Sunday school
And I never told a soul back then
That Emily Harper was my best friend

We carved our names on an old oak limb
On the bank of the creek where we used to swim
A farmer's son and a preacher's only daughter
We ran barefoot through the garden gate
All afternoon we'd laugh and play
'Til the sun went down on me
And Emily Harper

About the time I turned sixteen
I noticed Emily's eyes were green
And how they shined when I made her laugh
I liked it when her hair was down
I hated other guys around
I played it cool but I had it bad
Lord, her Daddy had a fit
When he caught me stealing my first kiss

We carved a heart on that old oak limb
On the bank of the creek where we used to swim
A farmer's son and a preacher's only daughter
We used to sneak off in my daddy's car
Sit on the hood and count the stars
'Til the sun came up on me
And Emily Harper

It all seems just like yesterday
We grew up but some things never change

We still hold hands by that old oak limb
On the bank of the creek where we used to swim
A farmer's son and a preacher's only daughter
She sure did make a lovely bride
We vowed to grow old side by side
'Til the sun goes down on me
And Emily Harper
Emily Harper
Me and Emily Harper

Independence Day Special

2013-08-16T07:00:00.000+05:30

15^th of August , as far as I can remember, has been a non event my entire life. The holiday aspect had been the only highlight during the student years. A terrible sense of disappointment ensues when the day falls on a Sunday. I have never even bothered to go to school/college on the day for the flag hoisting ceremony. So it was just a holiday like every other holiday, with nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the red letter days on the calendar. I wonder how many of us born post independence feel anything for those people who gave up their lives for a free India, even on Independence day.

But one year, not so long ago, was different for me. I was in a small village in the heart of Uttar Pradesh, working (for a change!) for an N.G.O. in a small school. Over the course of several months I got close to most of the kids. Due to a genetic anomaly, I seem to communicate better with the shorter version of human beings. Most of them seem to look at me with a mixture of awe and bewilderment, as to why a guy who could ‘enjoy’ life in the city would want to spend time in a god forsaken place. Most of the little ones have never been outside the village and the only information they have of the city is through the television.

Yet they definitely saw me as a hero. Not in the bollywood league but someone who cares to stick it out with them, share their food, homes, dreams and life. Anybody from the city who visits a village school and cares to stick around to help will definitely earn the admiration of the kids. Definitely much easier to impress kids from the villages than the city !

So here I was having a whale of a time and suddenly it’s Independence Day. All the kids are lined up in assembly waiting for the unfurling of the tri colour and the more important part, sweet distribution at the end of the ceremony. I was chatting up a newly joined not bad looking ‘Miss’ when the Principal comes and pulls me along with him.

Principal Sab whispers something in my ear.

‘What ?!! Are you insane? You can’t be serious!’, I say.

‘No, I’ve talked it with all the staff. It’s all fixed.’

Principal Sab doesn’t look like he’s kidding coz he’s dragging me to the flag post. I pinch myself to confirm that I am in the real world and not in a nightmare.

The thing is I have a very bad case of crowd phobia. I don’t see the flag pole, only 300 faces looking curiously in my direction. Then there is a bloody announcement of who is doing the dirty job. Princiapl Sab rubs it in real nice shouting over the microphone:

‘Do you know who this is ?’ pointing in my direction as if I am an exotic animal behind bars in a zoo cage. Funnily, I don’t feel much different from a caged animal.

A big roar from the kids. They are loving this Independence day surprise. Principal sab gives a short account of exactly what I am doing there for the school, just in case anyone has forgotten. By the time he’s finished I feel it would be a good idea if the earth opened up and swallowed me. My shirt is soaked in sweat and my heart is going around 300 beats/minute. The suddenness of it all took me completely unawares. I managed with great difficulty to convince the authorities that I was in no position to deliver an extempore speech. Then came the big moment!

I zombie walked to the podium. Principal Sab explained in detail how to pull the string to let the tri colour free. After two failed attempts, I was third time lucky. The kids were cheering as if India had won the World Cup. The relief I felt was indescribable !

But that Independence Day changed something inside. I felt a certain commitment and love for this country. Maybe it’s up to the privileged among us to help those in need, in whatever small way we can and not wait around for the Government to set things right. Even if it means having to be out of our comfort zones . A small sacrifice compared to what our countrymen did 60 odd years ago...

Snow in Kerala

2013-08-10T07:22:00.000+05:30

It’s raining cats and dogs in Kerala, or more colloquially it’s raining coconuts here! So much so that the temperature during the day time is around 24°C. Do you guys know what that means?

This is all I’ve been hearing during the past few days :

“It’s freezing boss”

“Tonight’s gonna be realllllll cold , 22°C !!!”

Sometimes I take them on :

“You think it might snow?”

They look worried.

“You know the way it’s going I wouldn’t be surprised if we have snow in December”, they reply.

I half expect to see people wrapped in sweaters and jackets when I step out with all this talk about the chill factor!

I vividly remember the time when I first went to London after having lived my entire life in the tropics. I was travelling alone and the jet was about to touch down in Heathrow Airport. The pilot’s smooth husky voice floated over us. Have you ever wondered how most pilots have a deep husky voice? I bet they get voice training as part of their course. Husky voice to most people, especially women, equates to a tall dark handsome stranger who can weather the craft(any craft!) through all storms. So I’m pretty sure that husky voice training is part of the pilot syllabus just to reassure people. Anyway our pilot was growling thus : “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to touch down in Heathrow Airport. It’s a sunny day outside and the temperature is a pleasant 16°C.”

I thought the guy was surely being sarcastic. How on earth can 16°C be pleasant? I think I had at least 5 layers of clothing when I came out of the airport and STILL I was shivering. People were looking at me as if I had landed from Mars or something. An acquaintance who had come to pick me up was full of sympathy and assured me that I would get used to it. Sure enough in six months time I was walking around in T shirts at 16°C. Yes, it was definitely pleasant! It really is incredible how quickly the body adapts to the environment.

Yet the funny thing is that if I stay in Kerala along enough I get the cold bug and soon start shivering at 25°C, even doing the unthinkable like having hot water baths because it is colddddd! But on the plus side this mallu body is cool in heat, no pun intended. I remember trekking in the Himalayas and my companions from the North of the country used to marvel that I never used to sweat walking long distances carrying heavy bags while they used to get drenched. They put it down to my fitness but I guess it’s the mallu body factor that comes into play. We are born into heat, live in heat and die in heat!

Back from the Dead

2013-08-05T13:52:00.002+05:30

What do you do when you forget the way to the place that you once called home? 24 hours back a strong urge overtook me to dive back into my blog. 1111 days ago I last posted here. Ok Ok the number is slightly exaggerated but only slightly. Does the blog still exist ? Do people still stop by? For the life of me I just couldn't remember the name of the blog or the web address ! No need to even ask if I remembered the username and password. After trying hard to squeeze my non existing brain I suddenly remembered a gorgeous blog friend's name. She used her real name for blogging and not a phony one like me, so I googled her name , got into her blog follower's list and found my name and blog. Yipppeeee!!! So surprisingly I didn't have to do anything illegal to find my own whereabouts in the net !

I had taken a similar break before from blogging and then as of now the majority of people who used to blog have died a cyber death. I wonder about these folks, people whose writing I admired , whose angst I shared, whose humour had me in splits. Wherever could they be now? And of course even I have died thrice on blogsphere but with the heavy unabated fan mail that I receive urging me to come back I had little option but to return .Ah the prize one has to pay for being great !

Except for the sporadic access to the net, I was in a different world altogether cut off from civilization. Even writing this seems somewhat strange as if I'm just learning to read and write again. Now don't get any ideas folks. I was not jailed although considering some of my activities in the preceding years it was always going to be a close call ! High in the Himalayas by the side of Gangaji I spent 3 blissful years truly forgetting that a world existed outside.

In all likelihood this will be another short innings in cyberspace necessiated by an itching to put my thoughts down to ~~paper~~ screen. But the road to the mountains always beckons me ...So make the most of it my dear fans... ;)

A tear jerker in Netwar

2010-07-21T17:30:00.000+05:30

Perched on half of my ass in a contorted yoga pose, that I have now an idea to patent, the speedy 90 minute ride to Badkot from Yamunotri was scenic but tortuous in every way. The bus took 31/2 hours for the same journey the previous day. Now though I was squashed in the back seat of a Mahindra jeep sharing the tiny seat with 3 others. There were guys riding on top as well with women and kids perched on the 'good' seats next to the driver ! Another jeep change at Badkot, whose driver was saying 'aaoo baitho' (come sit) even when there were guys sitting on the bonnet! After more change of vehicles and other small adventures, arrived in Netwar for my night halt. The land cruiser type vehicles operating as public transport in the area leave only when full, so your wait could be from 1 to 10 hours !

Netwar is a small village with shops lining a dirty road . My destination was the forest guest house. After getting lost and going to a couple of stranger's houses finally marched into the place only to be told there were no rooms. There was a hotel in Netwar though, they assured me as i imagined spending the night under the stars. The 'hotel' had 2 rooms and was closed the owner languidly informed me. He asked me to ask at the barber shop down the road. A small entrance at the side of the barber shop was the entrance to a one room one dorm 'hotel'. The room was what I would classify as 'bedfall'. Having seen my share of hotel rooms I have classified them based on their vagabond comforts. I'm sure one day a publisher will be interested in this pioneering work and agree to publish it . Anyway a bedfall room is one in which there is just enough space to step in the room and fall on the bed. Don't even think about taking a 3 step contemplative walk to think about the state of the world ! The teenage dude who showed me the room was desperately trying to impress me with his knowledge of the local treks and women. I liked to travel alone, I said . I live in an ashram too ! Not hard to convince him on the second point since I was dhotified (wearing a dhoti) and had a clean scalp. For some reason he was very interested in the floor of the room and kept spitting there in between imparting his words of wisdom.

To get him out of the room and to avoid flooding i asked him to show me the promised 'attached bathroom'. He stared hard in my direction as if I had uttered the unutterable and grunted 'Come' . I was led into a darkened hallway where I was sure there were masked men with sickles (don't ask me about the sickle part but that's what I thought at the time) waiting to slit my throat after they found out that I had only 200 bucks in my pocket ! Finally we reached a wooden structure jutting into the valley. Truth to be told the views were great over the mountains but that was because there was not much structure to cover the views. Very little flooring and even less plumbing ! The water pipe sang some tunes but no paani was forthcoming. 'Dont worry you will have water' he said to me in that reassuring and confident way that meant that I would be really lucky to see even a drop anytime soon. Later that night after a bucket shower accompanied by admiring the hills, the room was quiet except that there seemed to be a TB patient in the nearby dorm who coughed his way through the night. .

Next morning I wake up in high spirits planning to walk to Sankri, a village 12 km away. Netwar is the starting point for Govind National Park and you have to shell out a minimum 150 bucks for a 3 day permit. Gullible vagabond that I am the guard managed to sell me a 5 day permit. I reckoned i could use the extra days ! The helpful guard also wisely dissuaded me from walking to Sankri saying a jeep 'will come anytime soon'. Ha ! My romance with alu paratha continued but to add to the sizzle had the most amazingly lip smacking dahi(curd), fresh local stuff. I literally almost cried after having devoured 3 parathas and struggling to get to my feet again. Err, the lacrimal glands were activated by my intense gratitude to the Lord for such tasty food and not on account of my physical disability that followed my gluttony !

Yamunotri

2010-07-10T17:42:00.001+05:30

If your days have been full of longing to see my post , here's the reason why Ive only just hauled myself to a net cafe. Death ! Yes, mine if i had braved landslides and a raging river to trek to civilization for the sake of love of the letter. Ah that sounded good! Lets not look at the real reason, laziness, and carry on to the topic of the day.

Just before my head hit the brick hard pillow,the decision was made to go to Yamunotri.What's the fun in planning a trip meticulously 6 months before the journey and then God forbid, everything goes exactly according to plan ? How very boring and ordinary. But imagine turning up at the bus stand not really knowing if theres a bus at that time that will take you to your destination? Being warned of the huge crowds but still being thick headed and turning up at the bus stand with a light heart and baggage...

Yamunotri is one of the four sacred sites of Hinduism set up by Adi guru Shankaracharya ( a cool dude from Kerala) in the state of Uttarakhand. Visiting these sites and bathing in the rivers/hot springs supposedly absolve you of sins. All four sacred sites were once reached through hard treks through forests teeming with wildlife, where you never knew if you would return .They are still closed for 6 months of the year due to snow. So people took these pilgrimages towards the end of their lives when they had nothing better to do ! Now most people just park their asses on a car/bus seat and puke their way up. There are still many hardcore sadhus still trekking up, more dangerous now, because of the very real chance of getting run over rather than being a delicacy on a tiger's breakfast menu.

The bus advertised itself as an express service and they were true to their word by stopping whenever someone on the road stuck their hand out. What was supposed to be a 10 hour ordeal became a 13 hour hell. Hey that's the fun of unplanned journeys! Lunch, garam roti and sabzi, was awesome from a small dabba (roadside eatery). A loud young group from the Punjab plains tried to goad the driver into picking up speed but it fell on deaf years.We finally crawled into Janki Chatti, 5 kilometres from Yamunotri where the motorable road ends, well after nightfall. In true vagabond fashion, I just set out in search for a room and got one with a king sized bed overlooking the Yamuna for a measly 150/- I soon found out why. Though Yamuna was just a stone throw away there was no running water in the room. The night was a little chilly but great to go to sleep curled under the quilt to the sound of thundering waters outside.

image courtsey:wikipedia

From Janki Chatti it's a 5 km walk uphill to Yamunotri, the mythical source of the Yamuna river. The actual glacier from which the water spurts out is a further 10 km uphill. The best time of the day to walk up is early morning before the crowds gather. I had a quiet walk sharing my path with the occasional horse carrying the geriatric, obese and the plain lazy ! Also you can get carried on a bucket like contraption on the back of a poor bugger all the way to the top.There's also one where you sit royally in the middle and four folks haul you up. The temple at Yamunotri is not structurally old although Shankarachrya is supposed to have founded it. It has to be rebuilt every few years because of heavy snows during winter.

There are hot water springs where you can have a soak but not anywhere as atmospheric as the ones in Manali(Vasisht) and Gangnani (near Gangotri). There are usually around a 100 people crammed in the space of a bathtub. There are also pestering priests who want you to get all types of rituals done so they can have alu paratha for breakfast. But all said Yamunotri is the least commercial of the char dhams...

tbc