music and miscellania

Shruti Kapoor's BOXING DAY TEST 2024

2025-01-01T16:56:00.004+10:30

Notes from BOXING DAY TEST, Australia v India, 2024

DAY-1:

1. We see people on the streets at 8:30 heading to the match that starts at 11. I am a little confused - we don't expect long queues to enter the stadium so why are people out so early.

2. There are free shuttle trams to the stadium. We see people meandering through the beautiful botanical gardens

3. There are banners - Boxing Day Test Summer Fest. Wow, they really take their cricket seriously - they have branded displays for just this test match!

4. The atmosphere outside is festive - drums, people on stilts, food, art and music stalls. We take a picture with the cricketers on stilts who also needle us about India losing.

5. No one has pushed me so far and I haven't yet stood in a queue!

6. We meander over to the Shane Warne statue. It looks really good, I miss him. It captures his spirit, not just his bowling action.

7. Hang on, where was the security check and the queue? Are we really inside a stadium in under 5 mins for a packed match

8. The MCG shop is buzzing, we get an India jersey for Milan but it's friction-free and I don't even know that I am about to be mind-blown even before the cricket starts...

9. We decide to use the washrooms before making our way to the seats. I enter the women's bathroom and I am overcome with emotion - the emotion is anger. There are almost 100 cubicles and they are clean. For everything that's wrong with india our reasoning is population + poverty. Cricket really doesn't have this excuse. It suddenly dawns on me that those 2 are excuses, not reasons. We are never going to get here.

10. We are in our seats, no one has hustled us or checked. And the view is spectacular. We are so close to the action. We settle in for some pre-action with the teams warming up.

DAY-3:

It's Day 3 of Boxing Day. India is trailing by 280 runs with 5 down. The last 30 mins of Day 2 went Australia's way. They have the upper hand and the Indian fans are here more with hope and emotion.

Milan and I have come here hoping we catch atleast a session of India batting and then pray for the rest.

The crowds are tense and intense. We don't get the tram because it's packed, brisk walk to the stadium and make it just as the first ball is being bowled.

It's Pant and Jadeja batting. On the first half hour, Pant gets out playing a cheeky shot. It's Nitish and Jadeja batting. We are hoping they will bat till lunch, and then ours hopes grow as NKR's assurance on the crease grows.

As an Australian fan you are seeing a 'boring' day of cricket. Not too many runs, not too many wickets. But as Indian fans we are glued to our seats with our hearts in our mouth. Movement bans are in place - don't get up to pee, don't change seats...

DAY-5:

We are here for Day 5. I didn't expect to be here. I had booked a walking tour but ofcourse the only walk we make today is back to the MCG. Game status: Australia 330 run lead and last pair batting.

Every cricket fan and their family is here today. Biggest turn out for our group and looks like the biggest turn out for Day5.

We drop our luggage at the station and head to the stadium. Surprisingly none of us need to be rushed, we are all up and about and ready well in time. Maybe just a sign of the excitement brewing beneath the surface. All possibilities are open for the game and we are looking at a full day of play.

Australia lose their last wicket in the 2nd over and everyone is charged up. India has to see our the first half of the day and then perhaps they will try to win the match. We lose Rohit and Kohli cheaply despite everyone's hopeful predictions of one or both of them coming good. At tea we are 3 down but it's clear that india isn't trying to win the match. It's beginning to get boring for Milan and at one point he says 'maybe if they all get out quickly it will be good. I just want to leave the stadium'.

There are multiple kids in the group today, the dullness of the game is interrupted by games of hand cricket, role playing and snacking. MCG didn't expect such a big turnout, we have together set the record for most live attendance at a test match in MCG. It is perhaps as much a sign of the growth of the Indian 'rich' class, as it is of the quality of cricket. Fan votes seem to align with the number of Indian supporters who have travelled for 12+ hours to be here.

Many plans have been cancelled, Snigdha and Murali have ditched the penguins, Ashish's family has ditched some kids' sightseeing plans.

Milan and I decide to walk to the top storey of the stand to get a change in view and some blood flowing after hours of sitting. We hear loud cheering as we make our way up, and Jadeja is out. We sit in the top tier for a while and as we are chasing each other down ramps, we hear loud noises again and another wicket has fallen - NKR this time.

By the time we are back in our seats, things seem pretty hopeless. Rain, clouds, poor light... We will take anything but a defeat. And then Australia takes a review. Jaiswal on strike, and they appeal for a catch. On field umpire doesn't give it and the evidence seems weak from the replays. Snicko doesn't seem to catch anything but it's given out.

Nitin has spent the last ten minutes getting Milan up to date on the game and Milan has been watching closely when the DRS happens and Jaiswal is given out. He gets the full import of this wicket and he is in rage and tears. For the next 15 mins he is out of control. We are all feeling the emotions and I am living them vicariously. We all want to cry and scream to express our hopelessness and sense of being cheated... But we intellectualize instead. We have to be 'grown up' about it. He doesn't. So he lets it roll - in tears and words and unintelligible screams.

Two more DRS from Australia later, the game is over. India has lost. Everyone's crying silently inside. Milan has calmed down by then but the sadness stays. We huddle together for a last group pic. An extremely heart broken Indian fan helps us take the pic. He was a stranger, but his emotions were ll too familiar.

We stumbled out of the stadium to hydrate our sorrows and ofcourse we never mention how sad we are. We only intellectualize. Milan has given tears to all our collective emotions, what more is left to do. We don't pause to soak it in, we argue over the squad for Sydney to distract ourselves. Milan, Nitin and I head to Sydney straight from there.

SHRUTI KAPOOR

I wish to experience…

2024-06-24T08:53:00.007+09:30

It is 5.30am on Saturday. My alarm goes off.

“Why wake up at 5.30am on a Saturday?”, I ask myself, half asleep. I know I must have set the alarm for a 5.30am wake-up. But I don’t quite know where I am, or what date it is. I had slept well, which is already a good omen.

I have been sleeping quite badly lately. It is good to know that I do not need to consult my recently acquired Garmin Vivoactive to know I had slept well.

For the last six weeks or so, since I had procured this watch, I felt that it had been trying to control my life. There were nights when I felt I had slept fitfully, and the watch would give me a “sleep score” of 30 on 100! There were nights when I would have slept incredibly badly, and the watch would give me a sleep score of 80/100!

Not this morning, though. I felt refreshed. I knew I had slept well. I didn’t need my “sleep score”.

It took me a full minute to realize why I had set the alarm for 5.30am on a Saturday morning.

I had to listen to Pakistan Global Radio (PGR).

******

Over the last few years, I have been active on an online singing social app called Smule.

I was recently in Hyderabad on a work trip and met up with Prashant DP – we refer to him as PDP. I was on my way, ‘back home’ and PDP, who lives in Chennai, was on a work trip to Hyderabad. PDP and I could meet only at the Hyderabad International Airport.

As we sipped beer at one of the bars in the Hyderabad airport forecourt, we talked about many things: Smule was one of the things we discussed. The very next day, PDP wrote beautifully about his singing demons/inhibitions. In this essay, he talks about his meeting with me and explains Smule in a much better way than I can:

“Smule is a platform that allows people to create music socially, where each user sings one part of a song and leaves the other part open for anyone else to join in and complete. The app gives you accompaniment in the background, like a karaoke machine would, and you are expected to belt it out.”

For me, Smule is an avenue – a platform – where I can lose myself every day for an hour or so. I thrust my underdeveloped and somewhat inadequate singing skills on a few unsuspecting souls who “follow” me on that app.

I sing. I like singing. I like the feeling of liberation and the discharge of energies. I want to sing songs that set me free. Somewhat naturally, I am drawn to Sufi music.

Over the years, I have sung a lot of Sufi music on Smule. A few years ago, perhaps after listening to me torture people with my Sufi kalaam-s, I got invited by a Smule ID/handle called “Pakistan Global Community (PGC)” to sing for them.

I now sing regularly for PGC. A few “invites” later, I get invited to, and become a part of the PGC online group on a chat platform called LINE, where we talk about music and more…. And we sing mostly Pakistani Ghazals, Pakistani Coke Studio songs, and Sufi music.

******

Pakistan Global Radio (PGR) was relaunched last month. PGR is an online radio platform that features songs sung on PGC by its (mostly) amateur singers. Once a month, for a few hours, the PGR plays a few songs sung on PGC by amateur singers who are invited to perform.

And this morning was the second episode of the re-launched PGR.

And that is why I had set the alarm for 5.30am.

I reach for my phone find the Zeno Radio app and start listening to the show.

I also know I must get changed into my lycra to start cycling, another Saturday ritual. But the start of cycling can wait this morning.

I must first listen to PGR.

As I tune in, the two radio hosts are winding up the previous segment.

The hosts speak in chaste Urdu. Their language is pure and rolls off their respective tongues with comfortable ease. They speak musically. Their words dance to an unhurried, languid cadence. They use some words in Urdu that I have not heard before. And yet, they speak like it is all an integral part of their day-to-day lexicon. I wish I had the leisurely, unhurried, and loquacious command over the colorful and expressive language they seem to possess. Their idiom is chaste, and their pronunciation (talafuzz) is simultaneously intense and precise as it is magically charming.

The male host, in dulcet tones then poses a “Who am I?” quiz to listeners.

“I was born in 1941 in Mirpur and started singing in 1962. In 1964 I had a super hit song called ‘Tange Wala Khair Mangda’…,” the male RJ continues in pleasing 'made for radio' tones. But I stop listening to the clues. I don’t need to. I am only half awake, but I know the answer to this “Who am I?”, is Masood Rana.

I drift in and out of sleep.

And then suddenly, the RJs announce a song by a young 9-year-old called Sampoorna.

The song starts off with a short passage on the santoor. The initial swar progressions on the santoor establish raag ragesri in my mind. Even that short burst sounds lovely, and I am drawn in. Then, I hear two nishad-s and rule out ragesri; it is more khamaj, the parent thaat from which ragesri is derived. Let’s call this ragesri-khamaj for now, shall we?

I am already hooked.

I listen intently. Young Sampoorna's voice is fresh and innocent. I am fully awake. Yesterday’s fog lifted almost immediately. The morning felt pure. There was something fresh and new about this voice. There was an innocence to this voice. It was like dew, and it hung in the air. Fresh. Inviting. Rejuvenating.

Nine-year-old Sampoorna sings Abida Parveen’s “nahin nigahein mein manzil”.

Abida Parveen is daunting even for an accomplished singer to attempt and here was a nine-year-old acing it. There are difficult modulations in the Sufi kalaam. But young Sampoorna handles each of these like a professional.

You cannot sing like this without utmost devotion to the craft. Clearly, Sampoorna is talented; but talent, while necessary, is not sufficient. Sampoorna has studied Abida Parveen’s music with devotion, fervor, dedication, and perseverance.

I was suddenly filled with positive energy. And then, the tears started flowing.

The lyrics hit me.

I have listened to a lot of Abida Parveen’s magic, but I had never heard this song before.

And I didn’t need to reach for a lyrics site to know that this was Faiz…

******

This happens to me all the time. I am so heavily invested in the melodic progressions and in the grammar of the music and rhythm, that I sometimes hardly notice the lyrics. The lyric is almost an adjunct, a supplement and an appendix for me in most songs. The lyrics are necessary for the song to form, exist, and come into shape. But the melodic progressions are what I hear most. The grammar of the music matters to me. The notes that make up the melody and the progressions are the scaffolds that hold it all together for me.

Apart from a predilection, a bias, or preference, the dominance and primacy that I place on the melody and tempo of a song allows me to connect with, for example, songs from Mali or Senegal. I can engage with the music of Africa or South America even though I do not understand the language.

A violin passage, a guitar riff, a catchy bass line, a complex drum roll, or a santoor passage – as in the case of “nahin nigahein mein” – are enough to hook me in.

Music engages both hemispheres of our brain. The human brain processes speech and cadence/tempo data using its left hemisphere and uses the right hemisphere for processing frequencies. There is therefore a coming together of the entire mind when we engage with music.

However, when I listen to music, it is almost as though I need the left hemisphere of my brain to only process cadence, tempo, and rhythm.

But then, when I hear Faiz’s words, I know immediately that there is a harmonious balance. I hear the words too.

It is nearly impossible to destroy Faiz’s poetry. Even with a somewhat ordinary and simple melody, Faiz’s words will always shine through.

So, when I hear Sampoorna, I feel inspired and enriched. I was listening to a young singer who had infused me with energy, excitement, and hope on a Saturday morning. I was listening to a young aspiring musician re-interpret an Abida Parveen creation. The presentation was considered, measured, thoughtful, erudite, and studious – even scholarly. Her rendition was also dutifully loyal to the legend’s voice. The song itself was a new one for me! I bookmarked it and promised myself that I would come back to it later in the day. And then there was Faiz.

Saturday could not have started better for me.

As I changed into my cycling gear, the PGR program was coming to an end. The hosts signed off and all of us on the PGC LINE group congratulated the hosts and the promoter. We bid our goodbyes as we prepared to either (like me) start the day, retire for the day, or just continue with our workday – we are drawn from all around the world.

The founder of PGC is a kind, gentle, and inclusive individual. I could not be happier for her and the success of her radio station and her platform that promotes good Pakistani music content. The two hosts of the PGR program are wonderful folk too; both are of Pakistani origin. They work hard to make sure that the many elements come together seamlessly. I congratulate them too.

Saturday has started well for me.

******

I want to cycle outdoors. But it is cold and drizzling mildly too. So, I decide to ride on my indoor bike Wahoo trainer! I chose a 50km ride in Belgium that looks interesting: tough and scenic. I haven’t done this ride before. So, I load it up on my trainer.

As I start cycling, I can only hear the strains of “nahin nigahein mein”.

Sampoorna and PGR have had a massive impact on me.

I listen to Sampoorna again.

And then I listen to Abida Parveen’s version of the song Abida Parveen’s version of the song.

Again.

And again.

And then again.

When I cycle indoors on my bike trainer, I normally listen to a concert of my favorite singer, Sanjay Subrahmanyan, or a podcast (and there are plenty of these in ‘cold storage’ for me to listen to) or a playlist of songs that I wish to learn.

Not today.

I must have listened to Abida Parveen’s “nahin nigahein mein” some 15 times. Repeatedly. If the melody didn’t hit me, the lyrics did.

I cry easily when I listen to music. And I cried this morning as I rode “in Belgium” for an hour and 45 mins, along with PGR, Sampoorna, Abida Parveen, and Faiz.

Some rides seem longer than they actually are. Today, my 50km felt like it finished even before it started, thanks to the PGR hosts, Sampoorna and Abida Parveen’s “nahin nigahein mein”.

******

I grew up with books. As a youngster, I would always be with a book in hand, reading. I loved words. I loved language. However, I never dared to write.

“What made it even harder, was that I loved music. I loved how songs played in my head. And they would play there all day long, in dolby digital fullness…”, wrote PDP in his blog, describing his relationship and his connection with music.

He wrote this blog post the day after we had met in Hyderabad.

PDP’s connection with music mirrors my engagement with writing. We are twins connected by a strange, banal, trite reluctance to connect with a skill that we both believe we do not possess. His engagement with music mirrors mine with writing.

I realize, with a chuckle that his words could easily be my own… describing my relationship with prose.

“What made it even harder, was that I loved reading. I loved how words played in my head. And they would stay there in my head all day long, in “Times Roman, Size 18” fullness.”

And yet, even when I tried to write, it would always seem woeful, pedestrian, simple, ordinary, and gloomy, bereft of anything other than mediocrity.

PDP and I talked about many things that evening before we parted ways at the Airport: Cricket. Politics. Activism. People. Music. Writing.

PDP is a polymath, a sage. He is a successful businessman and a loving family man. He is kind and generous. He can sing, and he sings very well. He plays the guitar. He is exceptionally witty. He is smart. He is incredibly well-read. But more importantly, has a perceptive, judicious, and sharp recall. It is merely not enough to read. What’s also needed is sharp recall. He has it all.

I encourage him to sing and show him the Smule app.

He encourages me to write and promises to send me articles.

We are two lame men; each of us is the other’s crutch.

“You know what? PDP and I should do a podcast together,” I think to myself!

After we part company, he digs out some of the stuff I have written in the past and reads it. He tells me he likes what I have written in the past and asks why I don’t write anymore. He sends some of my essays and short stories to a few others too and garners evidence and a coalition of support before encouraging me.

He does that by shouting at me!

“Why don’t you write more?” he yells in a WhatsApp text message soon after I return home.

I reply, “’Cos, I suck at it.”

He could have retorted, “You suck at singing too, but that has not stood in the way of your musical expression, has it?”

He doesn’t do that because he is also a kind soul and does not particularly like inserting sharp needles into forlorn, vulnerable, and gammy bananas!

Since then, PDP has been on my case every week. He sends me many articles on reinvigorating the writing habit.

I do not engage. I am scared to commit. I feel exposed and naked after I write. It is an unbearable, excruciating, and uncomfortable space to be in. I need a shell or armor to insulate me from harsh views immediately after I write and hit the ‘publish’ button on the blog.

Music is a different experience for me. I feel less exposed with my music, in the way I do about my writing. It isn’t as though I am good at singing. I am what I am. But I take myself less seriously in my music. I am not out to prove that I sing well. I am comfortable knowing that I can (and do) sing. I express. And that is perfectly fine for me. There is a magical blend of irreverence, pleasure, kindness, munificence, and optimism when I sing.

Not so with writing. Maybe I take it too seriously. Maybe there is a view that I need to be good at it because I used to read a lot when I was a young lad. This self-inflicted pressure is immense. It suffocates me. I feel utterly naked and exposed the moment I finish writing. And I detest what I wrote the moment I finish writing.

I explain all this to PDP, and he nods sagaciously. He wants me to work with him as I rediscover a love for the written word.

It has been nearly 10 years since I wrote anything. I promise him I will try.

I do. I just can't.

I push his persuasive arguments and his exhortations to a part of my mind that I do not wish to inspect. I procrastinate. Or maybe I want to forget his pleas.

I hope PDP has forgotten about it too.

Hah! Not PDP. He continues to appeal, counsel, implore, and encourage.

******

I am stretching after my cycle ride “in Belgium” and my WhatsApp pings.

It is PDP.

PDP: Dei. You wrote something?

Me: Sigh

PDP: Write something this weekend, da.

Me: I ‘picked up my pen’ five times. Truth. But nothing is happening.

PDP: May I suggest you write about exactly everything you thought of while you cycled today?

Me: I thought about Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Abida Parveen and this song ‘nahin nigahein mein’!

PDP: Lovely. Write.

And so, I wrote!

******

The understanding of the meaning of the lyrics of “nahin nigahein mein”, requires us to understand Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

We can look at the words in the kalaam in isolation and try and piece together a literal meaning, but that would ignore context. Words like farda (tomorrow), or baada (wine), or bevuzu (sans the ablutions before namaaz) have meaning in a literal sense. These are words that are included in “nahin nigahein mein”. I am no expert in Urdu, but I ask people unabashedly. And constantly. There are plenty of online resources too that assist a deeper understanding.

But context is also as important as the words themselves.

Faiz Ahmed Faiz was a progressive liberal. He was unafraid to speak his mind. He was an activist way before activism was an accepted and fashionable pursuit. He combined his revolutionary ideas with a deep sense of idealized romanticism. He often lived in exile in Lebanon, a long way away from his ‘home’ and his wife. His poems combined his beliefs for a better future for his nation and its people. He often combined that with (a) a sense of optimism, and (b) a deep love for his wife. Once you throw the frames of Sufiyana into all of this, it is easy to see how I connect with Faiz.

In “gulon me rang bhare”, Faiz requests that “the blooms be allowed to fill the land with color and asks that the first wafts of spring be allowed to flow, so the garden can get on with its daily transactions." Here, the “daily transactions” (‘kaarobaar’) could have many layered meanings. Let us not forget that Faiz was a committed Communist who had won the Lenin Peace Prize. He merely craved a just society where business could be transacted in its ‘gardens’ in a routine manner. He wanted the land to be watered and seeds to be sown so that a thousand flowers could bloom, unhindered. Faiz was one of the most celebrated writers of the Urdu language, having been nominated four times for the Nobel Prize for Literature! He was also imprisoned by Liaquat Ali Khan (Pakistan’s first Prime Minister) and it is in this context that the ghazal breathes new life.

And in “nahin nigahein mein” Faiz Ahmed Faiz writes:

Today, I just cannot see how we will meet someday,
But I shall always yearn for thee,
Let it still be my undying wish
I wish to experience the destiny of being with you.

In a later verse, he writes:

In this land of strangers, with no friends or confidants,
I must converse with my own and,
I wish to experience...

Positivity and optimism are alive, despite the gloom and captivity.

******

So, this is exactly what I thought of while I cycled, PDP.

As I cycled on Saturday, after having listened to PGR and after listening to Sampoorna reinterpret a Abida Parveen Sufiyana kalaam of Faiz, I promised myself that I would recommit to my goals once again:

I want to be filled with optimism and positive energy. Always.

I want to move away from environments where people constantly shout over each other; where people gaslight and cancel each other.

I wish to experience…

I wish to experience the joys of singing and learning.

I wish to experience a future where Sampoorna sings for her manasika guru.

I wish to experience the joys of writing, just as I experience the joys of music and be unfazed by criticism or judgments.

Un-Faiz’d even!

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Pangarchula: Appearances can be deceptive

2014-10-27T22:07:00.001+10:30

Some mountains, like Pangarchula, just beckon me: "Here I am. Just come on over," they seem to say. But what was surprising to me about Pangarchula was that it isn't a very tall mountain and looked mostly docile and non-threatening. It isn't a high mountain like Nanda Devi or Trishul or Donagiri that leave me with a mixture of awe and trepidation. It isn't like Changabang, a threatening mountain which, with its sharp and cold ridges, instilled a sense of fear in me. In that sense, Pangarchula did not issue a challenge. It just tempted me in an alluring and enticing manner.

The first time I saw Pangarchula was when I went on the Kuari Pass trek. We walked on a path that ran no more than 500 metres from the base of the mountain. And as our guide pointed out the peak to us, I wished we had included a Pangarchula peak climb as part of our trek itinerary. I was drawn then.

In October 2013, I saw Pangarchula again, this time from the top of Kala Khal. This viewing was from a fair distance away, and again, Pangarchula looked totally non-threatening and sedate. Once again, I had a yearning in me to climb the peak. I could not quite understand this.

It isn't even a tall peak. There are mixed reports on how tall Pangarchula actually is. Some record it at 4575m and some, like this one here, record it at 4900m. For the record, when we climbed Pangarchula peak, we recorded it at 4800m. Even then, 4800 metres is not much. On previous treks and expeditions, I have slept at heights greater than that for heaven's sake! So, I wasn't sure what Pangarchula's lure was.

But it certainly was there...

***

When my friend Ajit Bhaskar wrote to me earlier this year and asked if I would put together an itinerary and go on a Himalaya trek with him, Pangarchula was on my mind immediately even though I had already planned an expedition to the rather tough Kalindi Pass in June with another group. So I was initially a bit reluctant to go on another Himalayan pilgrimage this year. Nevertheless, the pull of Pangarchula meant that I rang Raju Martolia, the guide I normally go with on my Himalaya treks. I told him that I'd like to put together a group of mostly first-time trekkers for a 'simple trek' and asked if we could go to Pangarchula in October 2014. He answered, "Sir Pangarchula is not a trek, but an expedition. It might look easy, but it is actually quite tough especially if you want to do it in October when there isn't any snow. But since it is October, there is enough time to prepare. We can do it." He then advised me to include another trek prior to Pangarchula as a means of acclimatizing and preparing for the Pangarchula climb. After some research, I rang him back and asked if Roopkund-Pangarchula would go well together. He immediately agreed and said that it would work just fine. The Roopkund trek would take 6-7 days and would be perfect preparation (after a day's break in Joshimath) for the 3-4 day Pangarchula expedition. So the plan was set. As the itinerary and the dates were being finalized, I started pulling a group together.

By the end of February, we had a group. Ajit Bhaskar and I were soon joined by Chuck, Pun, Grond and Divya (nicknamed SoBoD on the trek) from Mumbai and Paddy, Arundati (referred to as Lam Lam -- long story), Sriram and Mahesh Krishnan from Melbourne.

We had seven months of lead-time for what was ahead and we needed to start preparing for the trek. We had enough time, although it seemed as though we spent much of that time chatting on the Whatsapp group we created for the trek. And as the departure date drew closer, it seemed as though we had spent much of the interim duration in toughening ourselves not against the rigours of the trek but against the unending onslaught of terrible jokes that would be cracked on the trek. But, looking on the bright side, I guess none of us gagged on the jokes we inflicted on each other on the trek. So perhaps the Whatsapp preparation was spot on!

Preparations commenced with a packing list, a requirements list, a shopping list, and a rigorous exercise routine. Our Whatsapp group was constantly abuzz with updates and questions but I was still quite worried. Most of the questions and discussions focussed on toilet arrangements, shower provisions and food menus than on aerobic conditioning, core strengthening and stretch routines!

My nervousness drove me to write a 12-page pre-trip document in which I tried to list down all the things we would need to know while on the trek. In it, I wrote about acute mountain sickness (AMS); how to recognize it, how to prevent it, how to deal with it. I wrote about sleep deprivation. I wrote about what we could look forward to on each day. I wrote about how people should take turns in moving to the front and the back of the group; the same set of people in the front and back can lead to a somewhat demotivated group. I guess I was a bit nervous about the trek and the group.

You see, I had put the group together. Everyone on this trek was known to me but several people on this didn't know each other at all. I was hopeful that the group would get together, build camaraderie quickly and even support each other on some of the tougher segments of the trek. The last thing we wanted on an already tricky trek-expedition was a fractured and non-functioning group.

The group had a nice age-distribution. We had one person in the mid-20s, four folk in the 30s, one in the 40s and three people in the 50s. The jury is still out on the exact age of Paddy, the tenth person in the group. While he maintained right through that he was no more than 48, conservative estimates and subsequent carbon dating experiments confirmed him at at least 65, if not more!

The group had a good fitness spread to it too. We had two people who were super-fit; they wre the enthu-cutlets of the group. Seven of us were constantly either drained by (or tired of or in awe of) the two enthu-cutlets. And then we had Paddy, who defied his age to demonstrate levels of fitness the rest of us could only dream of.

But the one facet in which we were all harmoniously together on was our ability to crack poor jokes. That was the binding force, Really. Well, that, and the mystery surrounding Paddy's age.

The group came together perfectly. It helped that Chuck ran a wonderful ice-breaking session the day we got together; the day we all met in Rishikesh. He set everyone what seemed like an extraordinarily difficult task: "Say a few words about yourself and a few sentences about what you dislike most about Mohan." However, some 10 hours later, we had to be dragged out of our chairs lest we missed the morning bus to Lohajang, from where our Roopkund trek would commence. If you feel a wave of sympathy coming my way, now is the time to say "awww". The following morning, when I texted my wife and said "The common factor in this group is me and they are all ganging up on me," she replied immediately, "I wish I was there too. I'd have joined in." Yes, you may say "awww" now at least.

By the end of the first day, there was much laughter, much mirth and much banter. I was feeling less nervous about the group dynamics and focussed my nervousness, instead, on the trek itself.

Despite a few irritations, mainly to the eye of Chuck, Pun and Mahesh, we completed the Roopkund leg of the trek reasonably successfully. I am not going to write much about that leg, because I am sure some of the others will do so. Ajit Bhaskar has already started a serialization of what looks like an epic novel on the trek; here are part-1 and part-2.

I will, instead, focus my attention on the Pangarchula expedition.

***

We had had a day's rest in Joshimath after the first leg of our trek, So we tended to our minor wounds and felt quite rested when we set off for Pangarchula.

The name Pangarchula itself spells danger. Panga means a "a bladed African tool like a machete" in Kiswahili. These days, in Hindi, the word 'panga' means to "get actively stuck into a messy issue when it could be avoided." And 'chula' is a hot earthen oven in which rotis are made. So essentially, we were "getting into a hot oven, which we could easily avoid"?

I certainly didn't want to avoid it though. After an unsuccessful attempt at Kalindi Pass earlier on in the year (expedition had to be abandoned due to bad weather), I was quite determined to complete a peak climb when I had the opportunity to do so.

We had already lost one member of our group. Grond decided to stay back at Joshimath, and wasn't interested in making it even to Pangarchula base camp. He had had enough and wanted to nurse his aching ankles and knees. I don't blame him at all. The Roopkund trek sucked out all his energies and he probably had nothing more to give.

Forest walk on the way to Pangarchula base camp

So the remaining nine of us trudged up to Pangarchula base camp on a really hot day.

We drove an hour from Joshimath to a place called Dhak and started our climb to base camp from there.

We started the climb at approx 1600m and walked constantly uphill all day. The first half of it was through exposed terrain. We had no shelter from the scorching sun that beat down on us mercilessly and almost the entire day was continually and steadily uphill.

We crossed several streams and several pretty villages too before we reached a thick forest which provided relief from the blistering afternoon sun. The rest of the walk was a bit more bearable because of this forest walk.

When we reached base camp, we had gained nearly 1600m that day and all of us were thoroughly exhausted.

View of Neelkant from Pangarchula Base Camp

The camp itself was quite pretty. We could see several beautiful mountains all around us (Hathi-Ghoda, Burmal, Neelkant, Donagiri, Changabang and Chaukhamba, to name a few). And the edge of the forest wasn't too far away from the camp. This was useful because we collected logs for a bonfire on both nights we spent at base camp.

The views of these mountains reminded me of what the famous explorer Eric Shipton once said, “A vision of such beauty is worth a world of striving.” We had worked really hard to get to the base camp and the sights we saw made that effort worthwhile. As a corollary, if visions of such beauty were easily available and accessible, perhaps we would not appreciate it and treasure it as much. All around us, all we could see was layer upon mysterious layer of snow-capped majesty. That vision itself was enough to drive away the aches and pains.

But all wasn't well with the group. While some of us walked around Pangarchula base camp, busily and chirpily preparing for our peak attempt the following morning, two members in our group were quiet, apprehensive and somewhat down in spirits. I wasn't sure what it was but did not have the energy to ask. I was perhaps too self-absorbed to immerse myself in it. I had my own set of problems to deal with.

And my problem was that I was becoming obsessed with 'peak bagging' Pangarchula; a feeling I have never had in any of the treks/climbs I have been on. I have only worried about doing the basic things right and have never been concerned with the outcome (climbing to the top). My principle has always been that if I did the basics right, the outcomes take care of themselves. But here, I was obsessed with thought of being on the Pangarchula peak. I worked on limiting and then, erasing that obsession.

We started our Pangarchula peak attempt at 5am the following morning. We were woken up at 4am and after a light breakfast and tea, we were off even before day break.

Our guide, Raju, had informed us in our post-dinner briefing the previous night that the ascent would be tough but quite doable. It would be tough mostly because of the boulders we had to walk on for much of the climb. And unlike the Roopkund trek, the path to the top wouldn't be clearly marked out -- a key difference between a trek and an expedition. But he assured us that he would take us along the most accessible and sensible path. He also said that we would reach the peak by 10am, after a continuous 5-hour climb.

What he didn't tell us was that this was only the second time he had attempted the Pangarchula peak when it wasn't covered in snow! He had underestimated how long it would take us... Underestimated it quite severely! At 10am, the group still had a climb of nearly 700m to get to the peak.

The Pangarchula ascent is basically entirely on moraine, which is basically the debris that is created by glacial melt. The size of the debris varies from silt to large (either well rounded or craggy) boulders of varying sizes. As glaciers melt and advance they create debris, either carved off the valley floor as the melt descends or that which gets scooped off the valley's walls. The debris may either be alongside the glacier or on top of it.

The Pangarchula debris was all on top of it and in the form of large, craggy, uneven boulders. Most of these boulders were steady, but some were loose and unstable. So leg strength and core stability become quite important as you trudge up.

The climb to Pangarchula peak

Ajit Bhaskar took a pic of the Pangarchula moraine up close as we commenced the second of four moraine segments. Now imagine this sort of a terrain (as seen in the pic) over an approx 800m gain; some of it covered in sleet or fresh snow. Then you get a sense of the difficulty. Oh! And we only had our trekking boots; no crampons and no ropes.

On my previous trek/expedition to Kalindi in June this year, we encountered moraine that was either silt or well-rounded loose boulders. In that expedition, we walked, climbed, slid, fell, crashed and stumbled across and on top of Gangotri, Chaturangi, Tapovan, Sweta glaciers.

That was tough too. But despite that experience under my belt, I felt that the moraine I encountered on Pangarchula was quite hard.

The Pangarchula moraine climb is divided into four somewhat distinct sections. The first is mostly all rock and, although seemingly unending, is somewhat easy to climb. Two members of our group -- Lam Lam and Sriram -- decided they had had enough at the end of that segment. They just sat down at a point and said they had no desire or ability to go any further. Nine of us had set out from camp along with three guides. Now, seven of us kept climbing and had three guides to help and assist us. I did feel a tinge of sadness that Lam Lam and Sriram stayed back, but up in the mountains, everyone knows their own limits and fends for themselves. They knew what worked best for them and decided that they had had enough. The fact that Sriram and Lam Lam had made it as far as they had already made them heroes. They'd gone further than many others would have.

Sometimes, at altitudes greater than 4000m, every step you take can represent an internal struggle. Headaches, cramps, fatigue, nausea, breathing difficulties and oxygen scarcity have a way of limiting resolve. It is quite likely that each one of us contemplated the ‘Really! Why am I doing this?’ question that day. I know I did. Often, you have the answers and when you don't, you just want to give up and collapse.

The second stretch of moraine on Pangarchula is an incredibly steep climb. You go up a steep face (without ropes) on mostly solid rocks and get to a reasonably flat stretch with clumps of grass cover. While the grass was better to walk on -- because it provided better foot holds -- it was also a bit slippery because of recent snow fall. Some of these rock surfaces were slippery too, because of sleet formation. So we had to be careful as we hauled ourselves up this slope.

This is segment in which I was beginning to lose my cool a little bit. Perhaps anxious on account of the time we were consuming on the approach -- we still had some 700m of climbing to do and the time was already 10am -- Raju, our guide, was charging ahead at the rate of knots. The fact that the incredibly fit Ajit Bhaskar was keeping pace with him meant that Raju pressed on at an even faster pace. They were feeding each other in a self-fulfilling loop that seemed to destroy the rest of the group. By then, there was no clearly marked out path. We had to make our own way to the top and had to navigate slippery, ragged boulders along the way. The group was getting separated quite a bit and the growing distance between the lead group and the rest wasn't doing anyone's morale any good. So I requested Ajit to slow things down and not match Raju step for step. We needed as many of us to stick together as possible if we had any chance of making it to the top. This worked a bit. The pace reduced, and we were less separated as a group.

Sadly, at the top of that second stretch, Chuck and Paddy decided that they had had enough and decided that they would stay back too. I looked back to see if I could encourage them to continue. I could be wrong and I don't remember clearly, but I believe I shouted a word or two of encouragement. But that didn't work. Firstly, we were too far ahead for any words to have had any meaningful impact. Second, I took one look at Paddy's sagging shoulders and I knew immediately that he was spent. One of our guides stayed back with them and took them back to where Lam Lam and Sriram were.

Now, five of us (Ajit, Mahesh, SoBoD, Pun and I) remained and started what I thought was the third moraine segment. We pressed on with two guides. At this point, Raju, Ajit, Mahesh, SoBoD, and I had moved ahead a fair bit; Pun and Kalam, the other guide were a bit further behind.

This was getting tougher by the minute. This segment was marked by thin ledges. The presence of recent snow and sleet on some of the rock ledges made it quite dangerous too. There was no relenting the climb though; the more we climbed, the more, it seemed, we had to climb. I kept looking back for Pun, but she seemed to have slipped further and further behind. After a while, we lost sight of her completely. But I was confident she would be ok because she was with Kalam, an excellent guide. It was only much later that I learned that she too had had enough and returned to join the others, along with Kalam. So essentially, it was down to the four of us and Raju. We had no choice. All of us now had to make it to the top.

I wish I'd walked with Pun. I may have dragged her along with me too. I can't say for sure but I just wish I'd stayed closer to her. Still, the fact that Pun and Chuck made it as far as they did made them champions in my eyes. They had to miss much of the Roopkund trek when Chuck contracted conjunctivitis. Pun caught the bug too. They hadn't still recovered from it. So the fact that they even attempted Pangarchula -- forget getting as far up as they did -- made them heroes already.

I was determined that I would not have a Stok Kangri redux happen to me. On that particular expedition, ten of us had set out with four guides. With 600m of climb to go to the peak, we were reduced to four climbers and Raju (the same situation I found myself in on this Pangarchula trek). With 250m to go to the Stok Kangri peak, two members from the group just collapsed with exhaustion. I immediately decided to abandon my own peak attempt and decided to head back with those two.

I wasn't going to allow that to happen to any of us on this day. So when Mahesh said at one point that he was exhausted and did not have the energy to continue, I pulled out all my energy tablets and stopped short of stuffing it all into his mouth! I was determined to see all of the remaining four of us at the peak and -- although Ajit and SoBoD certainly didn't need any help from me -- would have been happy to drag people to the top if necessary.

I was particularly keen to see Mahesh reach the top. He had conjunctivitis too... In both eyes! And instead of giving up, he braved the elements and tough terrain to attempt it. We had a true champion in our midst and if anyone had to reach the top, it was this guy!

The time was 12.15pm when we started the fourth moraine segment of the climb. This was incredibly steep and was filled with large boulders with a reasonable amount of snow cover. We were already behind by the best part of two hours and still had at least another hour to go to the peak. We also hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. I had exhausted all my supplies of energy gels, almonds, figs and energy tablets. I was running purely on adrenaline and from their faces, SoBoD and Mahesh looked spent too. Ajit, meanwhile, looked set to run a marathon and Raju continued to radiate energy and fitness! We needed one last determined push to the top. Miraculously, as if on cue, we started egging each other on in that last hour. We had no energy to shout out encouragement to each other (well, apart from Ajit that is, who was now looking set for a Gobi desert crossing, if needed -- and, given his penchant for cooking, I am not talking aloo gobi here). So Mahesh, SoBoD and I whispered encouragement to each other, counted steps and won small victories. We took it in 40-step segments and didn't look too far ahead or up. Every 40 steps, we would stop, gather breath and make the next set of 40 steps. Bit by bit, inch-by-inch, we clawed our way to the top. I just refused to look up at the peak. I knew it was nearing but was only willing to focus on the next 40 steps. Visibility was very poor as clouds had descended on the peak; we could barely see 5m ahead of us.

Selfie at Pangarchula peak...

At 13:15, nearly 3 hours later than planned, Raju had reached the top. Of course, he'd have reached the top much earlier had he been on his own. Two minutes after that, at 13:17, Ajit our 'mountain goat' had also reached the top. He too had been slowed down by the rest of us. His screeches echoed around us as we made the last few metres up to the top. I knew that there wasn't far to go now and afforded a look up to the peak. Ajit kept shouting words of encouragement. And at 13:20, Mahesh, SoBoD and I walked up to the Pangarchula peak and celebrated it with hugs and high-fives.

And as any self-respecting climber does, we also took a selfie or two (see above).

I stood a few metres short of the 'absolute' peak though. Many years ago, in response to a question I asked Raju about how many peaks he had conquered, he replied (in Hindi): "We garhwali folk never 'conquer' mountains. We just seek permission of the mountain Goddess to climb the mountain. If we allow ourselves to think we have conquered the mountain, our Goddess will knock you down to size on the way down. That's why we always place our feet and our banner/flag a few metres short of the absolute peak." I kept that in mind and stood a metre or two off the absolute peak -- an area that was roughly 2m wide and 5m in length.

After spending no more than 10 minutes at the peak, we commenced the rapid descent to base camp. We saw clouds gathering around us all the time and visibility was diminishing with every passing minute. We didn't want the climb down to be any more treacherous than it already was. While the climb had taken us nearly 8 hours, we were down in at base camp in less than half the time. The climb down was as dangerous as the climb up was difficult; we slipped many times on the ice and snow. Even the seemingly invincible Raju slipped a few times on the way down. But we didn't seem to mind the falls and scrapes too much since our return journey was fueled by a mixture of happiness, relief and a sense of achievement.

And on the way down, I quietly started making plans, as one does, for the next challenge...

-- Mohan (@mohank)

India in a champagne bottle

2014-05-24T15:39:00.000+09:30

This article was first published in DNA online on Friday 9 May 2014 a few days before the results of the Indian general elections were announced on Friday 16 May 2014...

Just a few more days remain before counting commences on May 16 for the 2014 Indian general elections. It has been, by most accounts, a divisive, personality-driven campaign that was mostly bereft of any convincing agenda. What agenda was there lasted a few days before divisiveness and personalities took centre-stage. And all of this came at the end of a decade of some progress, substantial growth and also a discontent that is now difficult to ignore. It has been a decade of lost opportunities, too, perhaps. I strongly believe it is time for a change; perhaps not a change of government as much as a change to the way we do things in India. This change is necessary so that we may realise the immense potential we have as a nation. A country that was poised to overtake all expectations of growth and development has stuttered and faltered like an unsure, immature and irresponsible adolescent on his first date.

One of our failures in the recent past has been a lack of vision at the very top: a vision that enables us to use the significant resources – that have been generated through impressive economic growth – to invest substantially in our rapidly declining social and physical infrastructure. And that is what development must be about. As Chapal Mehra writes in his piece in The Hindu ("What development? For whom?" The Hindu, May 6 2014), “Development in its simplest sense should be the ability of all Indians to realise their true potential without fear or obstacles. Development should address the lack of capabilities, knowledge, financial resources, and opportunity to step out of poverty and deprivation without fear. Development then is as much a process of providing services as of removing obstacles and giving freedom from all sorts of discrimination, exclusion, insufficient opportunities and fear of identity.”

Growth does not automatically guarantee human development. And that is the change we must seek, so we may invest our significant resources in eradicating fear and building human capital. Despite all the remarkable progress and the possibilities, India has, in the words of Amartya Sen, “fallen behind many countries, including Bangladesh, in terms of quality of life.” We haven’t understood – leave alone invested enough in – education, healthcare and infrastructure to the extent we ought to have.

At a time when we ought to have invested in a future, we instead had India in a champagne bottle.

Yes, I know the stunning figures we could quote as a counter to that view. We have the largest, functioning, pluralistic democracy in the world. We have the largest army, a proliferation of mobile phones and a news readership that is the envy of the free press in much of the world. Even though our growth rate has slipped, many nations around the world would be happy to have such a growth rate as a distant aspiration. We have a middle class that is growing with each passing year. This middle class has greater ambitions for a better tomorrow, an aspiration that makes it work harder and longer, earn more and spend more on everything our parents would never even dream of owning.

We consume news like there is no tomorrow. While newspaper readership is shrinking in much of the developed world, most newspapers in India are doing extremely well and circulation figures are up. The Times of India, Dainik Jagran, Dainik Bhaskar and Malayala Manorama are among the top 12 newspapers in the world by circulation, and probably the only four in that group with subscription growth rates that are on the increase. We consume and read news while we wait in queue for our turn to be served in road-side restaurants, while waiting for our hair to be cut. Our auto-drivers and juice vendors read newspapers. We consume our news in English, Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu and all the other languages. Many homes will have a subscription to more than one newspaper, some in different languages as well. We have more all-news TV channels than any other nation in the world.

Our relationship with telephony is charming and absorbing all at once. The journey has been quite stunning for a country that, some 25 years ago, used to ask ordinary middle-class consumers to stand in queue for over a year before a landline telephone connection could be established in their homes. The under-privileged had no hope of getting such connectivity. India effectively leapfrogged an entire generation of technology and went from no connectivity to mobile connectivity. It started with PCO booths that sprung up on almost every street corner, from which we could make local, STD and ISD phone calls. As a people, we got used to talking. Today, we have more mobile phone users in India than anywhere else on the planet. Phone sales are growing at an incredible rate of 15 million mobile phones a month. In other words, there are as many new mobile phones sold in India every month as there are people in The Netherlands. There are some 900 million mobile phone subscribers in India –almost three times the population of the US.

As a result of all of this, there is, today, a real democratisation of information. Everyone in India is connected and is able to consume, use and distribute information in what is an amazing transformation that has taken place in our lifetime.

The information revolution has been undeniable and something we must be proud of. Now hold this up against the backdrop of a government scandal that accelerated this growth, which was as contemptible in its magnitude as it was abominable in its brazenness. Think what might have been if we had achieved this revolution without the stigma of a despicable scam. Is this ‘transaction cost’ – a necessary euphemism for scams perhaps – the cost of progress? Is this the cross we must bear so that we may unravel the story of a modern India, a story of lost opportunities and high ‘transaction costs’? Or is it the story of a champagne bottle?

It is undeniable though that, because of this information revolution, everyone is potentially empowered, from the point of view of participation in the democratic process, from the point of view of participation in informed critical argument and also from the point of view of social and commercial connectivity. Yet, in spite of all of this, most of us get our information through secondary sources. We must lay the blame at the doorstep of under-investment in education.

***

India has always been a story of education and the pursuit of knowledge that enables and drives social betterment. And that story must not change in India’s narrative, for it is only through informed critical argument that we will be able to banish fear and unleash the potential that exists. Without that, the democratic dividend that we often flaunt is quite meaningless. Only 23% of our children are enrolled in tertiary education – Algeria is at 31%, Albania at 55%, Mongolia at 61%, Chile at 74%, and Slovenia at 86%, just by way of comparison.

We must improve access to and quality of education and also develop skills through vocational training programmes. We aren’t doing enough in these areas. We, instead, have an entire population in a champagne bottle.

Modern India’s story must be one of development. We cannot have the information revolution sit side by side with an undereducated rural mass and malnourished children. As Chapal Mehra says, “The most basic indices of human development for the most vulnerable — being healthy, well-nourished, literate, and having equal opportunity without fear — are dependent on strong local governments, unbiased law enforcement and clean and effective public systems which work without prejudice.”

Of all countries in the world, India has the maximum number of children suffering from malnutrition. We could attribute this to the lack of national wealth in pre-1990 India. India was poor and though it grated, the fact that malnourished children existed did not grate as much then as it does now. But since 1991, India has seen a 50% increase in GDP, and given this, our failure to address malnutrition is a travesty. Modern India must be more than concrete, connectivity, cinema, cuisine and cricket. We must address the champagne bottle.

***

I am convinced our progress depends substantially on knowledge creation and innovation, through science and technology, and through our ability to include traditional knowledge in our science and industrial innovation. My belief, also, is that we do this excellently in India. Examples exist of the way we have incorporated traditional, indigenous knowledge in fields such as botany in Ayurvedic medicine.

I am also convinced that India’s future prosperity as a nation will be driven by our ability to generate ideas that convert knowledge into impactful outcomes for public good and commercial success. Innovation is a critical driver not only for increased productivity and commercial success, but also for social causes and for achieving inclusive growth. We do this well, because we are, as a people creative in our approach to either coping with – or solving – the significant challenges facing society; jugaad is part of our everyday vocabulary. And it is through this that we are blessed with a native and innate creativity, one of the key ingredients to innovation. If only the ecosystem around us enabled us to tap into this potential – the story of the champagne bottle – we can achieve the kind of frugal innovation that we have achieved, through science and technology, in our space program.

In the science and technology space, we have been able to develop a space research program that is truly world class. We design satellites, build these and launch them masterfully not only for India but also for the rest of the world. And that is not merely because we are good at it, but because we can achieve impactful outcomes at a fraction of the cost that others require. When India recently launched the Mangalyaan space mission to Mars, what was remarkable – and this is a story that is well-known – was that the Indian Space Research Organisation (ISRO) achieved the launch at a total cost of US$75 million. In other words, India launched a space mission to Mars at a quarter of the money it took to make the Hollywood film ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’. A few days after India launched its Mars probe, NASA launched Maven, its own Mars mission at a total cost of nearly eight times the Mangalyaan mission. We know how to innovate frugally. We also know how to operate, succeed, deliver and thrive in spite of what Dr Ramesh Mashelkar calls “technology denial regimes”, which have assisted our innovations in several sectors including nuclear technology, supercomputing and perhaps even the pharma sector.

So clearly, if we put our mind to it and if we are guided by a national challenge and a goal, just as we have, in other fields, we can build, achieve and sustain a development program that is inclusive and equitable.

***

India is an idea sustained and nurtured by a pluralism that enables us to tolerate and celebrate differences. Indeed it is this difference that makes us who we are, and gives us the ability to co-exist and yet, thrive. It gives us the ability to be accepting of any contrary idea, because we just do not need to agree on anything at all; my idea is as good as yours, we can agree to disagree on just about anything. However, this compelling story of pluralism is woefully incomplete if we do not agree on the fundamental principles of equality and justice. We live in an unequal India of haves and have-nots where ‘giving’ had to be legislated through a CSR bill. We live in an India where women are not entirely safe. We live in an India where a prime ministerial candidate might get elected to power on the promise of ensuring all houses have a toilet (houses that, I might add, may have a colour TV and a mobile phone).

To everyone who says we have good growth story, I say it is not enough. Yes, we do have growth rate of at least 6%. But why is it not 13%? We have the potential to get there, a potential that is stymied by those that are entrusted with charting our progress.

Today’s India is, to me a champagne bottle. This is a well-worn metaphor, but one that is applicable to the India I embrace, a land of immense opportunity, pluralism and vibrancy. Provided, that is, the cork in the champagne bottle is released, thereby allowing the bubbles to thrive, breathe and contribute.

- Mohan (@mohank)

The author is a cricket tragic, a keen trekker and a mathematician. He tweets at @mohank, and blogs at i3j3cricket.com and mohankaus.blogspot.com.

Email etiquette: On responding to emails and meeting requests

2014-02-04T20:32:00.000+10:30

This article was first published in DNA online on Friday 31 January 2014.

When I moved back to India about four years ago, I often got worked up about the fact that not many people responded to an email or a meeting request appropriately. In Australia, where I lived and worked for much of my professional life, responses to email meeting requests were almost always immediate. It might be just a “Yep, you’re on, mate”, or even a “You’ve got to be kidding. No way I’m going to make it to a 7am meeting. Get stuffed”.

But I would get a response.

I wasn’t quite used to the silence and darkness in email communication I observed on a regular basis in India. I wasn’t quite used to following up an email communiqué with at least two or three more emails, in which the energy in the subject being discussed or the urgency of the meeting request progressively increased with every email.

I would get some responses, of course, which were lukewarm, at best. Some of the typical ones were “Aah yes. That time should be ok” or “Yes ok. That time could be ok”. I was never sure what these actually meant. Did the inclusion of the non-committal “would” or “could” mean the meeting was on, or not?

It took me a while to figure out that the presence of would/should/could in response to a meeting request often meant that the person was keeping his/her options open, either for a potential future cancellation, or on the possibility that they might secure better meeting prospects and bail out on me. This made life quite complex for a neurotically fixated, madly organised and fastidiously structured person like me.

Of course, this was more my problem than theirs. But that is also a significant problem and a striking dysfunctionality in the business (and in the non-professional) landscape here in India – far too many people worry only about their own issues and problems, and seldom put themselves in the shoes of the person they have an implicit obligation towards.

Soon, however, I got used to the lack of responses. I had to ensure each meeting request was sent to the recipient at least three or four times – a debilitating and sapping process of deliberate e-harassment that I detested – before I secured a response. I hated being the harasser, but I was left with no choice. Often, this meant meetings were fixed only at the last moment before an inter-city business trip commenced. And this often meant I had to live with concomitant sub-optimal travel logistics.

The cost of an airline ticket for such a trip, planned and executed at the very last minute, would be much higher than a trip that I had begun planning three weeks earlier. These last minute arrangements and changes meant that I would often crisscross the locations of my meetings in a highly inefficient manner. Essentially, the transaction costs became much higher than they needed to be; sometimes as much as 20% higher. I am reasonably confident that the transaction cost escalation applies to everyone else in industry as well. So imagine the time and cost savings that could accrue if all of us responded with alacrity to emails and meeting requests.

Of course, all of this applies as much to personal engagements as it does in the professional space. RSVPs on invites, for instance, are often seen as just a bunch of alphabets that very few people seem to care about. We seldom feel the need to put ourselves in the shoes of the people who depend on us.

But now I have become quite used to this e-silence. It still pains me and disgusts me, but I am now more accepting of this as a way of life. I also got used to this new way of harassing people for meetings within about four months of arriving in Mumbai. And then, about a month later, I was floored by a somewhat unique response to a request: “I think that in all probability that date-time is highly likely to be possibly ok!” Now, I can buy one option on a future cancellation, but there are at least four hedges in that particular form of extreme dithering!

This sort of behaviour is not restricted to meeting requests alone. Many emails tend to go into black holes. We don’t see the need to respond to all emails efficiently and systematically, and this can hurt us in the long run. Of course, we are all, no doubt, constantly deluged by an incessant tsunami of emails. However, we do have an obligation to respond to genuine emails or delegate that task to someone else, even if it is just a holding response. If not, perhaps it gives cause to reflect on our roles, our purpose and on whether we should be occupying the positions we do.

Responding to professional correspondence – and emails are a very important form of professional correspondence today – is a professional obligation for people in any position in any organisation. It is part of professional hygiene and basic business etiquette that everyone should have; be it CEOs, managers, government officers, clerks or security personnel. Often, an email is responded to simply because the recipient has been badgered by the sender. This is just horribly inefficient. And not responding to emails is not a sign that a person is busy or ultra-important, but actually that they are disorganised and unprofessional.

This is particularly so in the world of research and education, which I inhabit.

In an article in Current Science, Sharma, A., Malhotra, A. and Sharma, P. (Current Science, 2012, Vol 102, pages 9–10) make the case that Indian students seek internship and higher study opportunities overseas because their emails and other correspondence get responded to promptly and professionally. They conclude that this behaviour possibly hampers our collective progress in science.

In a long letter to Current Science (Current Science, Vol. 102, No. 10, 25 May 2012), Shubha Tole from the Tata Institute of Fundamental Research (TIFR), agrees with the points in the aforementioned article and argues that “students who receive replies to their queries feel encouraged about science, even if the reply is not positive.”

While our primary role as academics might be to do research or to teach – or in the case of a senior manager in a business enterprise, to run the company effectively – our role in today’s complex world is also to protect and enhance the brand of the organisations we work in. Part of that brand comes from how responsive we are to people who reach out to us.

Tole argues that one possible, albeit cynical reason for our reluctance to reply to emails probably stems from a fear of committing to anything in writing. She says, “If one replies to an e-mail, one can be held accountable for what one says – it is better to express misgivings or agreements verbally. So not replying to e-mails becomes but a symptom of a broader problem that makes our system operate in an unprofessional manner.” A simple response to that point is that if the person cannot do whatever the job requires them to do – that is, to be responsive and accountable – they do have a choice: they can vacate the position and hand over the responsibilities to someone who wants (and is able to do) just that.

Yet another behaviour that amuses me is that of executive or personal assistants. If they do not have the authority to organise their boss’ meetings, I think they become nothing more than gatekeepers. Their capabilities and role as a diary manager is somewhat wasted. Often, I get a “let me talk to the boss and get back to you” response to a meeting request that is gated through the EA. As a boss, if your EA does not know your priorities and does not have the delegation to accept meetings for you, I believe you are stuffed even before you start.

If an email is not a spam, we have to realise and accept that we have an obligation to respond to it, and that by not responding to it, (a) we send a direct message to the sender that they are not important to us and we have deliberately chosen to ignore them, or (b) we are utterly disorganised and unprofessional.

Now that smart phones and ubiquitous connectivity have pervaded all aspects of our professional lives, we make these choices every time we ignore an email or a meeting request.

In saying that, I do of course, realise that some emails (and meeting requests) will be more important than others. So, while a delayed response is acceptable, ignoring the communiqué is not. Even if it is a ‘holding response’ it is our obligation to do just that: Respond.

-- Mohan (@mohank)

The idea of a 'back home'

2014-02-04T20:12:00.001+10:30

This article was first published in DNA online on Thursday 23 January 2014.

It was the end of a long flight back to Mumbai from Melbourne last year. I was tired and itching to get back to the comfort of my own bed after having been on the road for the best part of the preceding month. The stewards were preparing for landing, and one of them who was going around collecting headsets smiled at me and remarked, “Nice to be back home, I’m sure.”

The question set me off-kilter. I didn’t know what or how to reply. I smiled sheepishly and waveringly, as though the steward had just asked me to explain the principles of general relativity.

I lived in Melbourne for 17 years before moving to Mumbai in 2009 for professional reasons. When the steward asked me that question, I wasn’t sure what “back home” meant anymore.

The irony is that in all my years in Melbourne, I would always refer to India as “back home”. I would talk almost longingly about the vibrancy, the anarchy, the energy and the chaos of life “back home”. I would weave in phrases about life “back home” in many normal conversations. So much so, that my Australian colleagues and friends would often ask if I intended to head “back home” to India some day in the future. “Back home” had become an integral part of my normal lexicon.

The clear empirical evidence there pointed to a reduction that, somehow, my memories, my senses and sensory experiences, directly or indirectly, considered that home wasn’t where I currently was.

And mine is probably not an isolated experience. It is possibly a diasporic phenomenon.

We move our locations (either across countries or within a country) for a variety of reasons of course, not least because of better – or different – career opportunities, better living standards, safety and (in some extreme cases) fear of persecution.

And when we move, along with our skills, capabilities, expertise and aspirations, we also take with us memories: memories of our childhood; of school or college; of cricket matches we may have played or watched; of football teams we may have supported; of our parents and the values they imparted; of arguments we may have had; of friendships, partnerships and relationships; of movies we watched; of pranks we may have pulled. And more. We also carry with us the values that make us who we are. Most of these are imprinted in us through the early stages of life, when we soak up everything that is around us from our parents, relatives, friends and role models.

In a beautifully written article, The West Indian Front Room: Reflections on a Diasporic Phenomenon, Michael McMillan writes,

“The front room was a contradictory space, where the efficacy of the display was sometimes more important than the authenticity of the objects, such as artificial flowers, plastic pineapple ice buckets, floral patterned carpet and wallpaper that never matched, and pictures of the scantily clad “Tina” next to The Last Supper. The dressing and maintenance of the front room reveals a form of “impression management,” as in the flexible presentation of self that brings up issues of “good grooming” among people of African descent. It was very much my mother’s room, and as a second-generation, black British person from an aspirant working-class family of Vincentian parentage, I have ambivalent memories of it. I must confess that growing up I was embarrassed about the front room’s aesthetics, as it seemed in “bad taste,” or had no taste at all; in other words, it was “kitsch”—a pejorative social code for working-class culture.”

And I could relate to that completely as I set up home in Melbourne. It was as if around me, I had objects that both validated and reinforced my own memories of “back home”. Moreover, I continually saw objects such as these in almost every home I visited, and these provided more reinforcement of these memories and values. It was hard to escape, or perhaps I did not want to escape them. I was comfortable with the notion of “back home”.

There were other significant behaviours and anchors too that played to the collective memory of “back home”. Though I was constantly striving to integrate – socially, culturally and politically – into the nation I had embraced as my current “home”, I was constantly and acutely aware of my origins; not only by my ‘front room’ but also by the clothes I wore, the way I spoke and the values I held.

Meanwhile, value systems were undergoing a quiet metamorphosis in India – if it is even possible to identify, leave alone quantify something as complex as an average set of values that characterise a society or system. But I held on to the values that I knew and cherished.

I would read the Sydney Morning Herald and The Hindu everyday. I attended and organised Indian classical music concerts, ate Indian food, attended Dandiya nights during Navratri, played cards during Diwali and got together with Indian friends regularly. And when we got together, we would speak in Tamil or Hindi or Telugu or Gujarati. I attended (and helped friends organise) Indian weddings and (sadly) cremations just the way these are conducted “back home”. I would regularly call family and friends “back home”. And I would occasionally send remittances “back home” and helped contribute to India being the country which receives most remittances from diaspora. Our homes became, in Michael McMillan’s words, a “museum of archived memories”. The objects in it become metaphors that constantly reminded us of our memories and values.

So, it was somewhat natural that for many like me, India was “back home” for much of the duration of our stay overseas. During holiday trips “back home” from Australia or the US or Great Britain, we may have despaired at (or criticised) the lack of progress or inadequate resources or lack of hygiene or inadequate facilities as we energetically shopped for more objects for our front rooms.

And then there are those, like me, who chose to return to India to work, after having lived and worked overseas for many years. We may have returned for a variety of reasons: professional, personal, or both. The longer we "returnees” lived overseas, the more difficult it is for us to reintegrate into the home of our origin. The readjustment is not only to a different pace of life but also to a community identity that is shaped by values very different to the ones locked away in our collective memories.

My reintegration was certainly very difficult. But, as I write here, my wife and I wanted to undergo the “returnee” experience mainly for ourselves. It was a decision that was self-imposed, selfish and self-focused. We returned because we wanted to, unlike Sumedh Mungee, whose article inspired my blog post linked above.

As a returnee, I needed to quickly re-emerge from the value time-warp I was in and readjust to a society and a culture that had changed quite dramatically. This was exceedingly difficult for me considering I – like many other returnees – had gained and absorbed an Australian identity even without actually realising it.

I was acutely aware of the common perception that returnees come with an attitude baggage that includes a seemingly never ending series of patronising attitudes. As a returnee, I did feel a sense of cultural alienation but was acutely aware that I did not want to be a passenger, an observer or, even worse, a tourist. This was “back home”, for heaven’s sake!

Without my noticing it however, over the last four years that I have lived in India, I must have realised that “back home” wasn’t really India anymore. Indeed, without my realising it, I hadn’t used the term “home” as often as I had, while I lived in Melbourne. The concept of “back home” itself had become quite alien to me. Certainly India did not resonate anymore as “back home”.

I realised this because the steward’s question completely shook me. After what seemed like an eternity, I answered awkwardly, “No, actually. I’m travelling from home to the city I currently work in.”

I was initially shocked at my own answer. But on reflection, I started to come to terms with that immediate and seemingly knee-jerk assertion.

It isn’t as though I have suddenly developed a sense of dislike for India. It is not as if I have given up on the concept of India or my love for the country. It is not as if I had discovered a new sense of detachment from India and her people. I love my life here in India as much as I did earlier, in my memories of India as a young lad. It is just that, to me, the “back home” question speaks more of the images that get associated with the roots of who and what I am today. For me, home is less about the place where my family resides or one strongly associated with my memories as a child. Nor is it just about the soil of the place I was born in.

Today, home is more about the place I am happiest, where I am most at ease, where I am least awkward, where my friends live, where I can run in peace, where I can laugh at or crack a silly joke without being judged, where I feel the air I breathe travel through my body, where I feel an unstoppable and relentless surge of energy inside me, where I sense and witness a clarity of thought, where I see maximal alignment of my own values with the values of the community I am a part of, where I want to (and feel that I can) contribute and make an impact to the society around me, where I can be who I want to be...

In that sense, home to me had become the place where my mind, body, intellect and soul are in sync with the earth, the environment, the community and the contexts around me. It had become the place where I fashioned for myself a sense of my own, unique identity. I had unwittingly allowed for the possibility that my home might even change with time and that, a few years from now, I might refer to New York or Toronto, say, as “back home”.

It is said that it is only when we step out of our existential comfort zones that we can see with clarity all that is important to us. This is particularly relevant in our world today where it is said that, for a variety of reasons – political, social and economic – over 250 million people live in a country other than the country of their birth, and over 700 million people migrate to a different “home” within their own country (read here).

My stint in India has allowed me to see more clearly that this concept of “back home” is mildly irrelevant in today’s world and that I had used it many a time without thinking about it clearly enough.

As the steward moved away from me, headset in hand, I drew her attention again and said, “No scratch that. I am travelling from what is currently “back home” to the place I currently work. Of course, this could all change next year.”

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Mumbai Marathon: People's support makes runners feel like heroes

2014-01-23T23:14:00.001+10:30

This article was first published in DNA online on Monday 20 January 2014.

Mumbai Marathon 2014 runners on the Worli Sea Link on January 19. - Swapnil Sakhare/DNA

After having run a few marathons and half marathons around the world, I am quite convinced the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon (SCMM) is one of the best events for the amateur runner.

The SCMM is an annual event, usually held on the third Sunday in January. And it is the one day in the year when I actually applaud Mumbai’s otherwise stifling, suffocating crowds. On all other days, the throng can be intense, consuming and stressful. Everyone pushes and prods you, and appears to just want to get ahead of everyone else.

However, every Mumbai Marathon I run – yesterday was my fourth – I look forward to running in the city even more, because the same crowds that jostle you every day, line the streets to cheer and encourage you to complete. For one day, the people of Mumbai make the runners feel like heroes.

People, men and women, young and old, stand in a chain of humanity along the pavements from the end of the Worli Sea Link all the way to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST station). They applaud and yell encouragement which, I am convinced, sends enough adrenaline rushing through the runners to spur them on for at least the next two kilometres of their run. The feeling that rushes through you as you hear the support is like a drug.

Unlike last year, I had trained well for my run on Sunday, January 19, 2014. In a weak moment in January last year, I had decided that I would run twelve half marathons in the following year; this was my 12th for the year, so I was well prepared.

The main cry from the sidelines until last year, “Run Mumbai Run”, was replaced this year by “Bhaag Milkha Bhaag”. Even the announcers exhorted the participating Milkhas to run harder and faster to the finish line. Many spectators even yelled “Ganpati Bappa Moriya”. The chants of “keep running, there’s not far to go” provided a constant tonic to my exhausted feet; they not only add to the atmosphere, but also relieve the pain of running. Though, I did wonder if “fire on the mountain, run, run, run!” was an entirely appropriate chant!

The entire course was littered with advertisements for products and services. Many runners wore T-Shirts advertising the company they worked for or the charity they were running for, others had tags with the same information pinned to their T-shirts. But the most wonderful message I saw was by a young lad. Except for two words patterned on the back of his head, he had tonsured the rest. His message simply read “donate blood”. I hugged him as I ran past and resolved to book myself in for a blood donation this week.

I spotted a wizened, wispy-grey-haired old gentleman seated in a plastic chair by the side of the road near Jaslok Hospital, the toughest segment of an otherwise easy course. He was probably about 80 years old and, as he applauded enthusiastically and continually, his family members handed out biscuits, lollies, orange peels and water to runners. A metre away, another family had set up a relief-station. They sprayed the weary calves and hamstrings of runners who wanted relief from pain. When I ran past, there were at least 15 discarded relief spray cans around them. Another family had set up an ice-pack station and applied ice cubes wrapped in plastic sachets to the calves of distressed runners.

I was also constantly inspired by the runners around me. Somewhere close to the finish line, I saw a visually impaired young boy being led on his run by a helper. The sheer joy writ on the face of the boy made me simultaneously cheer and tear up.

The banner holders, chanters, helpers and runners make the SCMM a truly amazing and wonderful run.

The Mumbai Marathon is wonderfully organised, but there are a few things the runners and organisers need to look into.

Many runners just dropped their water bottles – or worse, their orange peels and lollies – on the road at their feet immediately after taking a few sips or finishing their drink or biting into their orange peel. This is just poor etiquette, in my view. First, you shouldn’t litter. Second, dropping juice, water and peels will make the road slippery, and the water bottles will act as needless obstacles for the runners, especially the elite runners who run at top speeds. It is best if the litter and half (or completely) empty bottles are dropped into bins or flung to one side of the road.

The SCMM has plenty of water stations, which is certainly a huge positive. The last thing you want as a distance runner is to worry about the non-availability of water. In the Mumbai Marathon, you can be confident you will never be too far from a water station while running. However, it should not be too hard to mark each water station clearly with a banner that makes it easily recognisable from at least 100m away. A blue dot that sticks out on a standee (say) 3m high will mark the station quite clearly and distinctly. Depending on which side of the road the banner is, runners who need the water can line up on that side of the road as they approach the station. The last thing you want is runners cutting across your path from one side of the road to the other the moment they realise they may be about to cross a water station.

Also, as an increasing number of people run the SCMM each year, the finishing area gets more and more chaotic. This year, apart from the fact that mobile reception was incredibly poor (though marginally better than last year), the distribution of medals and refreshment packs for runners took too long. I waited nearly half an hour to collect my race completion medal and, frankly, I had half a mind to just give up and go home. It would be great to see better organisation and crowd dispersion management controls at the finish line.

Like last year, this year too, I ran for a worthy cause: Vidya. They do some committed and wonderful work, and provide access to education to the underprivileged. My aim was to raise at least ₹1 lakh for them, and though I have more than achieved that aim (thank you to everyone who contributed), I am sure Vidya wouldn’t mind receiving more for the work they do.

But, for me, the Mumbai Marathon is about the people of Mumbai who line up the pavements from Worli to CST. These men, women and children have no reason to be out early on a cool January Sunday morning to enthusiastically encourage runners. But they are there, and I have never seen such heartfelt participation anywhere as I have in Mumbai. This, in my view, is what makes the SCMM one of the very best races in the world.

-- Mohan (@mohank)

The mountains are calling and I must go...

2014-01-02T23:20:00.002+10:30

This article was first published in DNA Online on 30 December 2013.

In 1873, John Muir, the famous Scots-born American explorer, botanist, naturalist and author, wrote a letter to his sister, Sarah Muir Galloway, just after returning from his longest and hardest trip to the mountains. He had been away for five weeks, exploring the mountains and glaciers around the Yosemite Valley, and talks about his next trip to Kings River and Lake Tahoe.

He signs off in a display of deep yearning: “The mountains are calling and I must go...”

Mountains had everything Muir wanted: solace, wildernesses, challenges and the ability to understand nature. Even today, they mean different things to different people. For some, they represent the ability to escape from the mundane, for others they are a pilgrimage.

Mountains, to me, represent immense beauty, resilience and strength. For a few days a year, they also allow me to exist in an environment where I am not a slave to time. Time is instead a great expanse in which I can walk, talk, climb, read, sleep, cook, gather wood for a fire, sing or listen to music. My sense of time undergoes a significant alteration when I am in the mountains. A day’s trek of eight hours may often seem like an eternity. On other days, I may have walked for 10 hours straight but felt as if I’ve been walking for barely two. The Himalayas are an escape from my time-bound and transactional life, and I embrace this escape every year.

On my first trip to the Garhwal Himalayas, I struggled a bit and thought it might be my last trek. But I underestimated the lure of the mountains. Ruskin Bond writes in his poem Living with Mountains in A Bond with the Mountains: “Once you have lived with mountains, under the benedictory pines and deodars, near stars and a brighter moon... You will return, you will come back to touch the trees and grass, and climb once more the windswept mountain pass.”

Why: The motivations

There are times on every expedition when I ask myself, “Why am I doing this? Why am I here?” On my recent trek to Changabang through the Bagini Glacier, there was a particularly steep climb up to Kala Khal, the last pass we crossed on our 12-day trip. As I trudged up this tough mountain, I asked myself that same question.

It is easy to glibly repeat what George Mallory said after climbing the Everest, “Because it is there”. But this answer somehow misses the point, for Antarctica is also ‘there’, and I don’t feel the overwhelming compulsion to visit annually. The Himalayas, on the other hand, draw me every year.

On a trek, especially at altitudes above 4000m, every day can be a struggle. Many times, my friends and I are exhausted and somewhat irritable. On most days above 4000m, we suffer headaches (and sometimes, nausea too) from the high altitudes and oxygen scarcity. Some climbers and trekkers have to take Diamox, a pill to combat acute mountain sickness (AMS). I have not had to use it yet, but I am acutely sleep deprived at heights over 3500m. On most trek nights, I am on a two-hour sleep cycle, with an hour in between to toss and turn, listen to music and somehow will myself to sleep again. (I carry a solar charger to recharge my iPod and our camera batteries.) There is no water to wash or shower with on a regular basis. A bowl of hot water is all you get every morning.

Here are a few specific

Details of the trek we undertook

Yet, the lure of the Himalayas is immense. The views, the pure air, the quiet, the solitude, the ability to introspect, and the ability to exist in a different sense of time and space have made a trek to the Himalayas an annual necessity. I experience a heightened sense of accomplishment and freedom in the mountains. On most treks, even as we complete one climb, we are already planning the next, one which is invariably higher and more difficult.

While on a climb, as I contemplate that ‘why’ question, I am essentially addressing an internal conflict: where my irrational fears war with my intellect; where awareness of my capability and weaknesses clashes with misplaced overconfidence; where my ego confronts my conscience, which tells me climbing is not about conquering. It is here that I learn most about myself.

You can train for a climb, acquire all the physical strength you need, but in the mountains, mere physical strength isn’t enough. Sometimes, just the intellectual strength, drive, passion and motivation isn’t enough either. It’s all about striking a harmonious balance. I cannot be arrogant or self-obsessed enough to think that the climb is just about broadening my understanding of myself. And it is certainly not about conquering peaks.

My friend and Garhwal mountain guide Raju said to me many years ago, “We Garhwali folk do not conquer mountains. To us, the mountain is a Goddess. We take her permission to use her for our own benefit.” He added unpretentiously, “I have never ever conquered any mountain.”

Now, Raju is someone who radiates fitness and good health and, in over 30 years of trekking and climbing, has climbed many difficult peaks in the Himalayas. He went on to explain that this was why Garhwali guides would never place a flag at the peak of the mountains they climb. A flag at the peak would suggest that the expedition had ‘conquered’ the mountain. “We always place the flag a few metres short of the peak. If we think we have conquered the mountain, our Goddess has a way of teaching us unpleasant lessons on the way back.”

This message resonated with my own sense of respect for the mountains, although I could never have articulated my thoughts as beautifully as Raju did. I feel each step on the mountain is an act of devotion and submission. I suspect that this, more than anything else, enables me to endure much more than what my modest physical abilities would otherwise allow me.

And here is a post on

Changabang, the elusive mountain

The American Alpine Association answers the ‘why’ question quite simply:

“It takes us to places of incredible beauty, and it challenges us to find untapped reserves of strength and resourcefulness. It’s also just plain fun, if you don’t mind putting out a little effort. For some of us it will be our life’s work; for others it’s a deliberate detour on the way to bigger things. But it’s a passion that comes naturally to all of us.”

How: The preparation

You have to train to climb mountains and the training is not easy, especially if you want to attempt heights greater than 4000m (about 13,200ft). You have to train physically as well as mentally. You also have to learn to appreciate the risks and dangers, and how to mitigate them.

Tough pre-trek training always pays off when you are in a particularly difficult position on a climb. You need to know that you have successfully tackled it before and can do so again. You train so that in testing situations in the mountains, your rational intellect can immediately co-exist with the mind, which perceives dangers. That is when the preparation, the daily conditioning, the acclimatization, the experience and the risk awareness come together harmoniously. Fear is replaced by a fabulous sense of calm focus, abundant lucidity and drive.

My training has been severely compromised – in terms of intensity – in Mumbai, where it is very difficult to find either open spaces or training playgrounds (essentially, easily accessible trekking tracks). I alternate between interval training on a treadmill and stair climbs for 3-4 months prior to a trek. On some weekends I also undertake treks to nearby hills around Mumbai.

This preparation is crucial. You just cannot attempt a serious trek without the preparation. You have to feel the pain. You have to sweat, run out of breath, feel like you’re about to collapse.

When I begin training before a trek, I try to climb up 25 flights of stairs, starting at four repetitions, and doing as many as 10 repetitions as I get accustomed to the routine. The more you train, the faster, quicker and easier it gets. Often, boredom kicks in. But you just persist because you just have to. On some days, I run up and down 6 flights of stairs to weave in interval training into my stair climb too.

Earlier, when I trained early in the mornings, the cleaners, the newspaper boy or milkman – the only other people I see using the stairs at 5am – would look at me, all covered in sweat, and wonder why I was doing this. I’d often feel silly, smile sheepishly and keep plugging away. I do it because I know that if I hadn’t put in the preparation or if I hadn’t practiced pressure breathing (or forced hyperventilation) I wouldn’t have – couldn’t have – completed the treks and climbs I have undertaken. So every day during my preparation, I will myself to do better or climb more than the previous day’s stair climb.

If the preparation is wrong, I believe almost everything is compromised and we end up with a thoroughly sub-optimal outcome. I’m a big believer in a sharp focus on daily hygiene factors and if this is accomplished, the outcomes just take care of themselves.

By the end of my preparation for the recent Changabang trek, I had worked myself into doing eight repetitions of 25 floors reasonably easily – sometimes with weights around my ankles or with a backpack filled with weights. The idea is to simulate the conditions and stresses induced in the mountains. Of course, it is impossible to simulate the cold, thin air. Mumbai does have a high-altitude training centre called Pilates Altitude, started by John Gloster, a former fitness coach of the Indian cricket team, and his partner. Though I haven’t used it yet, I have heard it is a wonderful resource. So far, though, the stairs have worked just fine for me.

I believe preparation and hard work are key to most things in life. This is doubly true when it comes to the mountains, where almost everything is difficult. The weather is the only facet of a climb not in our control. In the months preceding a climb, you need to prepare such that the weather is the only variable and all other aspects are completely under our control.

What: The lessons

The main lesson the mountains have taught me is of the importance of preparation, commitment and balance on a trek.

Mountain climbs have taught me to not be overconfident. In spite of that, on the recent Changabang trek, an overconfident stride on a boulder resulted in a slip. The resulting cartilage damage to my wrist that has still not healed completely some 12 weeks after the conclusion of that trek.

What worries me more, though, is the lack of confidence that constantly arises in the mountains. Doubts plague you constantly: Will I be able to tackle this ridge? Are the boulders too loose? What if I fall down this crevasse? Is it too steep? Will the scree or loose sand send me crashing down the slope? What if I stop breathing? Why is my heart beating so crazily? Why is the pain in my heel not going away? Why can’t I sleep?

In the silence of the mountain, you can sometimes hear your doubts as they replay in your mind. You cannot let them get you down. You have to learn to convince yourself that your training and your preparation will get you through; that you have done all the hard work; that the only unknown is the weather.

You have to respect the surroundings and constantly strive for a balance between overconfidence and lack of confidence. The latter produces excuses and what is referred to as ‘anticipatory regret’. It is necessary to make more and more of the unknowns known through focus and hard work during preparation. This learning can be carried across to your professional life too, in the workplace and the projects, groups or teams that you lead.

The mountains force you to introspect, and banish your demons and irrational fears. Over time, as we battle through our days in tough and sometimes unpleasant city lives, the mirror that we need to hold to take a deep look at ourselves loses its shine. We are often unable to see who we transform into. In the mountains, when you encounter a particularly tricky ridge or a glacier crossing or a climb, when you are out there on your own, completely vulnerable, you have no choice but to dig deep within and find who you are and what you are made of.

Sir Edmund Hillary got it right. He said, “It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.”

These treks have also taught me the values of commitment and persistence, and instilled in me a willingness to work hard. I might hate the laboriousness of daily preparation, but I must do it for two reasons. First, I do it for my own satisfaction. There is nothing worse than a trek you are badly prepared for. It turns into a dreadful experience very quickly. I prepare well because the journey must be enjoyable, and without the preparation, the mountains expose you completely.

I also put in the hard-yards, for otherwise I would drag down the entire team that treks with me. There is a larger sense of purpose to the battery of training. It is as much about you as it is about the rest of the team, to whom you have a responsibility. The preparation makes the journey pleasant and enjoyable – not only for me, but for everyone else. And that is a significant lesson from the treks I have undertaken. We do not exist as islands; the work we do impacts others too. If we do not prepare well for the work we need to do, it not only affects our work (or enjoyment) but others’ too. Commitment and persistence are vitally important.

As Nik Wallenda, adventure seeker and tightrope walker, said of preparation: “Being on a tightrope is living, rest is waiting.”

At one point on the recent trek, I slipped, fell and injured myself slightly. We were at a high altitude, so I was totally winded by the fall. Our guide was a bit ahead of me. He rushed back, looked at me and held out his hand. He indicated that he could hold me, assist me and, if needed, drag me up the rest of the way up the peak. Perhaps I saw a lack of belief in his face; perhaps my ego kicked in. I built resolve. I told myself I could do it, I would do it. I instinctively trusted my preparation – and myself. I thanked the guide and said I wanted to complete the climb unassisted. I did. A bit of confidence and self-belief – and occasionally a bit of pride and ego too – does not go awry. Of course, as long you strike a balance.

I realise this may sound clichéd, but on treks and climbs, it really is about the journey and not the destination. The previous year, for a variety of reasons, I could not reach the peak of the Stok Kangri mountain. I decided to abandon the climb some 300m short of the peak. I have absolutely no regrets over that decision. I had thoroughly enjoyed the climb until that point. On every trek, I need to enjoy the journey, and especially the preparation. If I do that, the destination (or the outcome) takes care of itself.

But the most important lesson is that the Himalayas can elevate the soul even when it tears you up from the inside, emotionally, physically, psychologically, physiologically and mentally.

Just go. And if you do, like John Muir, you too will say, “The mountains are calling and I must go...”

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Bagini Glacier and Changabang: Trek Details

2014-01-02T23:02:00.000+10:30

In October 2013 I trekked to Bagini Glacier, Changabang base, Kala Khal and Kanari Khal.

I wrote a few blogposts about it:

Here, I provide basic details of the trek we undertook.

We traveled to Joshimath by car from Haridwar after reaching Haridwar by train from Delhi. From Joshimath, our Changabang trek commenced.

On the first day (day-1) we trekked from Joshimath to Gorson, via Auli and returned to Joshimath. This was just to get used to the high altitudes and was part of our acclimatization. I would recommend a day like this prior to commencing any arduous trek.

On the second day of our trek (the first day of our Changabang trek) we set off quite early, by car, from Joshimath to Jumma village. From there, our actual journey began. The trek from Jumma Village to Bagini Base Camp and Changabang Base Camp takes you through the villages of Ruing (at 2800m, the first night) and Donagiri (3700m, second night) and follows the steep, crystal clear, cold and spectacular Dhauli Ganga River for much of the trek.

To reach Ruing (day-2), you trek through woods of tall oak trees, a pleasant trek despite the occasional narrowness of the track. It is a reasonably easy despite a few narrow ledges and a few steep climbs. The path is quite well marked out.

The trek towards Donagiri Village from Ruing (day-3) is through the really picturesque and wonderful Chancha valley which is filled with crustal-clear streams and tall trees although, by the time you reach Donagiri village, the tall trees have already disappeared. This too is an enjoyable trek. Although the overall gain during the day is nearly 1000m, almost every steep climb is followed by a comfortable, level walk for a bit which provides a natural recovery. At the start, we thought that this would be the toughest day of trekking because of the overall gain in elevation, but it proved to be one of the most enjoyable and was a somewhat easy day of trekking for the whole group.

Our camp was some 2 kilometres away from the Donagiri village. It was quite late by the time we got to the Donagiri village. So we weren't able to admire the natural beauty around us. But we woke up to the spectacular sight of snow-capped mountains all around us. We could see Haathi-Ghoda, Dronagiri, Hardeval, Monal and many other peaks from our camp

View of Haathi-Ghoda mountains from Dronagiri camp [Photo Credit: Prasshanth]

Beyond the Dronagiri camp, after a short walk on a lovely meadow (from which you get spectacular views of the Dronagiri and Hathi-Ghoda mountains), the walk is almost entirely along the Bagini River and atop boulders. This is also a relatively easy day but can be quite fatigue-inducing because of the relentlessness of the traversal atop boulders.

The trek from Donagiri village to the Bagini Base Camp (day-4) is almost entirely along a relentless and extremely wide moraine meadow. It is pretty in some parts, but mostly quite tiring as the moraine rolls on for ever. Walking atop boulders is not a pleasant experience and you need to do it unremittingly and seemingly interminably.

The climb from Bagini Base camp to the foothills of the Changabang mountain (day-5) was the most spectacular trek/climb I have ever undertaken. From the Bagini Base camp, we walked along a snow-ridge for what seemed like an eternity until Changabang suddenly revealed itself. The sight itself is worth the hardship of the trek. Some people cross a glacier to reach the Changabang Advanced Base Camp, but we decided to return. You could either return to the Bagini Base Camp and spend an additional night there or continue on towards Toli. We carried on to Toli Camp which is a further 3-hour (mostly downhill) trek from Bagini Base Camp. A lovely, clear and cold stream runs alongside the Toli camp, where had our first decent wash of the trek.

After the first day of our trek, we had no access to mobile phone signals. There were no text messages, no email notices, and no phone calls. We walked, talked, introspected, laughed and argued. At nights, those of us who could, sang a bit although when oxygen is in short supply, I sing worse than I normally do. On a few nights -- particularly at lower altitudes where we could find an adequate supply of branches -- we stood by a fire and warmed ourselves up. There is nothing much to do other than talk, think, introspect, sing songs, play cards or read.

The next day (day-6), we walked up to Kanari Khal (Kanari Pass) and down to Raj Kharak. Before I set out on this trek I had miscalculated the degree of difficulty involved on this day in particular and on this trek, in general. I thought it would be less arduous than the Stok Kangri trek I had undertaken earlier. The last three days of this trek made this one a much tougher trek although we were at lower altitudes. We gained only 400m (from 3800m to 4200m) on our trek to Kanari Khal, but the climb was incredibly steep and quite difficult in parts. From the pass we descended to the Raj Kharak meadows to camp there. We encountered a network of lovely streams and had the enviable luxury of a second wash in two days. It was quite useful for we were about to embark on a tough climb to Kala Khal the next day.

Again, the climb to Kala Khal (day-7) was only a gain of 500m from the base of Raj Kharak to the pass. But this was a hard climb in which some parts were extremely slippery, and others were physically and mentally exhausting. We could not climb this mountain face directly; we had to criss-cross our way to the top. It was hard work. At one point in time I slipped. Our main guide, another Mohan, came rushing to me and asked if I needed assistance. But I wanted to do it on my own and so, I politely refused. He immediately realised and asked if my ego would be hurt if I accepted his help. I agreed. To me, I had done the preparation. I could do this on my own without being dragged or supported to the top.

So we criss-crossed our way slowly. Or, as one of our guides said constantly, "First you need to go on the zig and then you need to turn and go on the zag." For much of this climb my left ear (on the zig) or right ear (on the zag) was no more than two feet away from the face of the mountain. I had to hold on to the tall grass that grew on the mountain face for support. I slipped a few times, but the grass supported me and held me back as I made my way up. Slowly. These tall grass are wonderfully strong and even though I tried hard, I could not remove even a single blade of grass.

Eventually, we got to the lovely Kala Khal at 4500m. The pass was as beautiful as we were told it would be. We could survey everything around us for several hundred kilometres. We saw the range of mountains that marked the India-China border (near the Nithi village). We could also see army camps at Mallari and Bhojgiri down below us and that is where we were headed for our last camp.

We had a bit of drama at our camp in Bhojgiri. After being interrupted by army jawans early in the night, we had a good night's rest. We then proceeded to Mallari (day-8) where our trek ended. We traveled by car back to Joshimath.

This is a trek that I would highly recommend. We traveled with the Grand Himalayan Adventures company, a group that I would recommend very highly.

--Mohan (@mohank)

Trek to the elusive Changabang

2014-01-02T22:41:00.002+10:30

This article was first published in DNA Online on 14 December 2013.

In October 2013 we decided we would try and attempt the Bagini Glacier trek to the foothills of the Changabang mountain.

For the last three years, in what has become an annual pilgrimage, a few friends and I have headed to the Himalayas to explore, and challenge ourselves while traversing the wilderness.

Some of us want to escape to a remoteness where, for a fortnight, we aren’t troubled by the buzz of our internet-connected mobile phones that herald yet another email or deadline. For others, it is an opportunity to see the spectacular beauty of the mountains. For me, it is both.

In 2011, we trekked to the Kuari pass in the Garhwal Himalayas in Uttarakhand. On this trek, you can see almost nothing until you reach the pass itself. Then, once you are at the pass, it is as if the mountains have pulled open a screen that hid the actors of a play from view. I remember being taken aback by the splendour of the vista. We could see several peaks, including Hathi Ghoda Parbat, Mukut Parbat, Mana and Rishi Pahad, and the most imposing of all, Dronagiri.

View from Kuari Pass [Photo credit: Paddy Padmanabhan]

Though the missus and my friends constantly remind me, it is in the rough country amidst towering mountains that I am really reminded of my own insignificance. The brilliant views and the tall mountains heighten my own sense of irrelevance in the overall scheme of things. The proud and daunting peaks in this white theatre continually narrate a contrasting story of beauty, fragility, strength and continuance. Every time I see this theatre, I realize that this magnificence must be preserved and I resolve to care more for our fragile ecosystem.

The peaks of the Garhwal Himalayas always seem to carry secrets and hope. Hope that despite the devastation and destruction we see every day, and the erosion of natural resources, these mountains will stand strong and constant. The confluence of the elements is wonderfully played out here. The rising sun paints the snow-capped peaks with a golden glow. Despite the low temperatures and the unbelievable crispness in the air, the sun warms the meadows (or “bugyals”) and valleys through which we When night falls, it is quick and it becomes incredibly cold.

The Kuari Pass trek proceeds along the beautifully laid out Curzon trail, through remote, charming Himalayan villages. It was autumn, so the trees dotting the paths were clothed in lovely shades of orange, brown and red. Occasionally the stunning snow-capped white or the imposing brown of a mountain peak was visible against the clear blue canvas of the sky. We saw the majestic Nanda Devi (7817m) and Trishul (7120m).

View of Nanda Devi [Photo Credit: Paddy Padmanabhan]

This annual pilgrimage gives me the opportunity to challenge myself. I run, but running does not come naturally to me. I’ve had to work hard at it, and at everything I do. The mountains remind me to continue. It is as if they tell me, “If you need to get to the top and if you want to, you and only you must do the hard work. You are responsible. Don’t look for excuses. Don’t constantly look to others to lend you a helping hand. You need to do the hard work. Yes, you.” I remind myself of this constantly, but there is no place this message seeps better in than in the mountains when I am on my own, totally exposed and vulnerable.

Our trek in Ladakh in 2012 was completely different to to our experience on the Kuari Pass trek. The mountainous Ladakh desert presents different landscapes and challenges. Dehydration, the lack of tall trees to protect us from the harsh environment, the cruel winds that slap your face with dust, and altitude sickness meant that only a few of us made it to the top of the Stok Kangri mountain, at about 6200m.

This year, in October, we returned to the Uttarakhand Himalayas. I love these mountains, though I wish Joshimath – from where most treks commence – was as much a trekker’s paradise as Leh is for treks in Ladakh. Joshimath is an unremarkable town, with very little to offer by way of interest. It is neither charming nor peaceful. It is hustle and bustle, car fumes and horns. It is perfect if all you want to do is to use the town as a reminder of why you must escape to the hills as quickly as possible.

On our first day, we planned to escape from Joshimath by driving to Kedarnath and back. This was so that we could prepare and acclimatise ourselves for the high altitudes we would face later on the trek. But the road to Badrinath and Kedarnath had not reopened after the June floods. We decided, instead, to set out from Joshimath, trek past Auli to Gorson and return. We climbed through lush oak forest and bugyals, mostly in gentle rain, hoping ardently to catch a glimpse of Nanda Devi. This peak has a sharpness and yet provides a watchful eye and a welcoming embrace to anyone who wants to walk and marvel at the fabulous biodiversity around it. But due to the mist that enveloped us for much of the day, we were unable to see it.

Here are specific details of the trek we undertook

Several people told us it would be unsafe and unwise to travel to the Garhwal Himalayas after the June 2013 floods that badly affected these areas. But I strongly feel it is at times like these that people in affected areas need us to support the work they do for a living. At times like these, we need to give them that assurance, and work together through the havoc nature wrought on them.

Our main trek was to Bagini base Camp, and from there to Changabang advanced base camp. The Changabang peak was our main destination. The trek is almost entirely along an extremely wide moraine meadow. It is pretty in some parts, but mostly quite tiring as the moraine rolls on for an eternity. Walking atop boulders is not a pleasant experience, especially when you have to do it for hours. Beyond the Dronagiri camp, which you reach on the second day of the trek, the walk is almost entirely along the Bagini River.

View of the Haathi Ghoda mountains [Photo Credit: Prasshanth]

At Dronagiri camp, the big mountains begin surrounding you completely. We had reached the camp the previous evening after trekking in poor light. Clouds surrounded the camp and we were unable to see what was around. So, the view the next morning stunned us. Several peaks, including Hathi-Ghoda, Trishuli, Monal, Har Deval, Dronagiri, were lit up by the rays of the morning sun bouncing off their snow-capped tops.

There are also a few river crossings along the way. The river is not more than knee-deep, but flows quickly and is not easy to cross. Remarkably, my toes which were almost numb with pain at that point, stopped hurting after I stepped into the river, and as the ice-cold waters enveloped my feet.

We had walked the whole day, but the moraine wouldn’t end. We trekked past what was called the “Bengali base camp”, which seemed a good place to stop. Our tired legs, and even more tired minds, screamed for respite. But our guide pressed on, and we walked in a daze.

View of Dronagiri as we walked along the endless
moraine along Bagini River

By the time we reached Bagini camp, at about 4400m, four people from our group decided they’d had enough of the trek to Changabang. They fell ill while trekking from Dronagiri to Bagini base camp. They suffered from a mix of nausea, continuous headache and fatigue.

Headaches in these mountain treks can attack you suddenly and without warning. It is as if a few thousand hammers pound away inside your head and it can be quite unpleasant.

The four of them wanted to head down to Toli camp the next morning. Two of us, though, wanted to walk up to the Changabang advanced base camp. We decided we would do continue on, and return to join the others at Toli camp.

The climb from Bagini base camp to the foothills of the Changabang Mountain is the most rewarding trek I have undertaken. Soft, fresh snow covered much of the path that took us up a long ridge. Our guide said we would catch the first glimpse of the peak at the top of the ridge. But no matter how much we walked, it remained far away. So much so that I started to believe it was a mystery that didn’t exist. I called it the “reclusive mountain” because, though we had heard so much about it, it just wouldn’t reveal itself. There was a mystery surrounding its very existence. The more we trudged up the ridge, the farther it seemed to get away from us. It tested us, our resolve and our determination.

Then, after an eternity, Changabang suddenly emerged.

Changabang [Photo credit: Prasshanth]

We’ve all heard trekkers and climbers describe mountains as the most beautiful or awe inspiring thing they’ve seen.

The moment Changabang revealed itself, it took my breath away. I could completely relate to what WH Murray wrote about it in his 1950 book Scottish Himalayan Expedition that I had read prior to this trek:

“The nearest of the great peaks, Rishi Kot, turned to us an edge like a cutlass but black as gun-metal, whereas Changabang, its neighbour, by day the most like a vast eye-tooth fang, both in shape and colour — for its rock was a milk-white granite — Changabang in the moonlight shone tenderly as though veiled in bridal lace; at ten miles’ distance seemingly as fragile as an icicle; a product of earth and sky rare and fantastic, and of liveliness unparalleled, so that unawares one's pulse leapt and the heart gave thanks — that this mountain should be as it is.”

I’d wanted to see what Murray saw, and I did. I stood transfixed, never having seen anything more inspiring, more threatening, more rousing and more protective. Not many people have scaled Changabang, and neither did we. But I thanked the mountain for having given me the opportunity to see such a beautiful sight. We walked closer to it for another hour until it felt like we could almost touch it. But after one last forlorn look at it, we turned back towards Toli.

An account of why I trek regularly

The mountains are calling and I must go

Moments like these are what draw me to the Himalayas every year. I need reminding that my purpose is bigger than my job, my savings, deadlines, my home and retirement plans. I also need to be reminded of my own fallibility. I believe it is important to feel insignificant and humble, and there is no better place for this than in the Himalayas.

The thing about the mountains is that it is hard to give up and go home. There is no home to go back to. You can’t get angry, pick up your bat and ball, and trudge away angrily or despondently. You are there on your own, with your thoughts and resilience. You have to dig deep, build resolve and continue, and this is where preparation is important.

We continued our trek and, a few days later, reached Kala Khal, at 4500m. The pass was as beautiful as we’d heard it would be. We could see everything around for miles. We saw the range of mountains that marks the India-China border (near Nithi village), and army camps at Mallari and Bhojgiri down below, where we headed for our last camp.

This trek was as much a test of endurance as it was a feast to the eyes. As always, I learned a lot about myself. And catching sight of Changabang was my favourite moment of this trek.

Changabang taught me a very important lesson. In an increasingly competitive world dominated by sellers and marketers, the one who shouts the loudest and longest wins. There is a constant need to trumpet your achievements more than the others. Changabang taught me the wastefulness of it all: it didn't need to blow its trumpet, puff its chest and constantly announce itself to the world amidst a cacophony of drums. Its mere presence, its existence, was enough to mark its impressive history. It would continue to stand there: shyly and away from view, yet strong and defiant.

-- Mohan

Snow and music in December: The Chennai music season

2013-12-01T21:31:00.000+10:30

This article was first published in DNA Online on 29 November 2013.

I haven't seen or heard of anything quite like this anywhere else in the world. I am talking of snow in Chennai in December. The inhabitants of this southern metropolis are known to be intolerant to cold weather. So, when wintry December approaches and the "mercury dips" inconsiderately to a "bitterly cold" 28 degrees Celsius, mufflers and ear muffs -- known as kullas and monkey caps, respectively -- are whipped out of wardrobes in the average Chennai household. The moment the mercury dives to an "unbearable" 25 degrees Celsius and there's a mild hint of mist in the air, shawls (called pothis) are whisked out of suitcases carefully hidden up in the lofts. People start talking in hushed tones about an impending blizzard.

Almost every year, on the 1st of December, The Hindu (the newspaper) announces the imminent blizzard with a picture of a few people huddled around a fire with monkey caps,kullas and pothis. The accompanying story makes frequent references to the El Niño effect and warns Chennai residents to brace themselves for yet another biting cold year. This invariably makes me turn to the weather pages to look at the day's temperature: a clement 25 degrees Celsius!

The same day, the newspaper also heralds the commencement of the annual Chennai music season, commonly known as just 'the season'. This too is something I've never seen or heard of anywhere else in the world. It is a month-long celebration of Carnatic music – the classical music of South India - and dance, mostly Bharatnatyam, one of the south's classical dance forms. Several other Indian cities have music festivals too – notably, Pune – where the best musicians are appreciated by a scholarly and erudite audience with a refined sense of appreciation of the fine arts. But there is something different about the Chennai season: not just its scale, but also its grandeur and joie de vivre. It is a commemoration of culture, custom, convention, cuisine, creativity and colour.

You see, it is as important for a Chennai Carnatic music enthusiast to see and hear as it is to be seen and heard. What you wear to a concert is as important as who you hear. What you watch is as important as how often you are seen. You must wear the most ostentatious clothes and the loudest jewellery, arrive late to concerts and be noticed. And of course, you must sit for as much of the concert as possible, shake your head in appreciation, and wave your hands to keep beat.

At least 30 music organisations (or sabhas) are involved in organising a season. Each sabha typically holds four or five concerts a day; two ticketed evening concerts by seasoned and renowned performers, and three or four free concerts in the afternoons featuring promising young artists who are still learning. This adds up to a staggering 2000 events (or more) in a month, quite unparalleled in terms of scale.

Also, just organising a music and dance festival at an appropriate venue is not enough. Each sabha also needs to have a makeshift canteen adjoining the concert hall, offering a variety of snacks for patrons to enjoy in between (or even during) concerts. The best sabhasprovide a giddy combination of the best performers, a great audience and excellent food.

Truth be told, most venues are dreadfully poor in terms of performer and audience comfort. I have had many a shirt or trouser torn as a result of them getting caught in a nail that was poorly hammered into cane or wooden bucket seats. Many venues have as many mosquitoes as they have audience members.

Despite this, every year, the stimulating combination of community and culture draws aficionados from all over the world to Chennai. I hear a mix of accents – including West Coast USA, East Coast USA, Cockney, ochre Australian, and Kiwi. It is clear that the "biting cold" (read pleasant) weather, the opportunity to listen to good -- mostly free of cost -- music, the food, and the opportunity to combine all of these with family visits makes the December season a must-attend for the Indian Diaspora.

I am off to the season this year too. This will be my 16th attendance in the last 25 years. There was a time when I used to hop -- somewhat indiscriminately, perhaps -- from venue to venue, listening to as much music as I could. There were a few years in the late 1990s and early 2000s when I'd score a century of concerts each season, although unlike batsmen in cricket, I would gleefully rush through the nervous nineties. I remember the thrill of concert hopping, of rushing from venue to venue, ascertaining what the raga (or composition) of the season was.

In the early days, I'd stare vacantly and somewhat anxiously as people around me yelled "sabaash" in a spontaneous exclamation of appreciation. Most of them continuously waved their hands to a complex beat. I'd wonder why I was masochistically subjecting myself to such mental abuse. I didn't need to be recognised as someone who appreciated the fine arts. As a non-foodie, I didn't particularly need the food on offer either. Yet it was an annual ritual too important and too close to me to let go.

I soon realised I didn't really need to understand the music to intersperse a "sabaash" at appropriate points in the proceedings. I learned to copy the hand flaps of others. Soon, I too became recognised as an aficionado. This became an extremely easy gig.

It used to irk me that most concerts had no entry fee. It is common to see the phrase “All are welcome” at the bottom of the pamphlet that announces a sabha's schedule. The inability to charge the audience for many concerts means that the sabhas have to depend on sponsorships from companies or patrons to make their contribution to the season.

In the end, though, this enables a democratisation of what is essentially an elite art form. It makes Carnatic music more available to those who may otherwise not stumble into a concert hall. The distractions -- the food, the glitz, the concerts -- become the attraction. And through this, the season offers a feast for everyone, an excellent collation of music for learners, aspirant performers, music aficionados, connoisseurs, random "sabaash" utterers, and the person who just wants to soak in the atmosphere in an air conditioned hall. Oh yes! Many concert halls are air-conditioned despite the impending snow that is supposed to wipe out Chennai in one fell swoop every year.

People will talk to you too. In canteens, as you bite into your vada, someone will walk up to you and say, "Fantabulous concert it is, no?", and a conversation will commence. Everyone has an opinion on everything: the food, the biting cold, the sarees and the music. Knowledge of either of these elements is not a pre-requisite. Indeed, it is often a hindrance.

Most conversations on music must make reference to the "glorious past" or "past masters", and of how "yengshters orr not paying heed to the glorious traditions", although everyone is looking for Carnatic music to be placed in "safe hands". The search for the next Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer or Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar or Madurai Mani Iyer or Palakkad Mani Iyer is constantly on.

No article on the Chennai season is complete without a mention of the music reviews in The Hindu. There is much mirth to be had in their blandness and similitude. One cliché-ridden review blends cogently into another. Often you wonder if you and the reviewer even attended the same concert. Words and phrases like “sublime”, “divine” and “mellifluous rendition” work their way into almost every review, and after reading one, you are left scratching your head, none the wiser for having read it. Here is an excellent sample: “The raga essay was exemplary in delineation, built step by step beautifying the phrases in the raga’s progress". And, "She evolved the raga with fine moves, with nuances here and there". These sentences say absolutely nothing and yet, are such fun to read because you are left trying to decipher what the critic is actually trying to say –which, in case you are wondering, is again nothing!

Yet, reading reviews of concerts in The Hindu is as much a part of the season as the music. If the editor banned the use of terms like “raga phrase”, “delineation”, “nuance”, “essay”, “eschew”, “blissful”, and “mellifluous”, the reviewers won't know what to write in their 500-word pieces. The supremely talented Krish Ashok has written a hilarious post on these reviews, so it would be pointless to repeat much of what he has already said, and so eloquently too.

A notable feature of the season is that almost all concerts start and end on time. I was once at the venerated Music Academy where the curtains were drawn midway through an artiste's performance because she had overshot her time by three minutes. At first I thought that was extremely harsh. But on reflection, the artistes are informed in advance of the time constraints and that these need to be respected. The artiste in question hurriedly completed her concert and ran out of the venue, with the secretary of the sabha in tow.

So, Chennai plays host to a most unique event every December. No, not snow, but the music season. If you have not visited and attended the season, please do. Eat idlis, dosas and vadas in the many canteens. Talk to people you may never ever meet again. Or just sit at concerts and let random strangers talk to you; they will. Wear your best clothes and get them torn by a vile chair nail. Agonise over that only to realise that that was easier to tolerate than the mosquitoes. And enjoy the music. Soon, you will amaze yourself with your hand flips and your yells of "sabaash". And after that you will be back the following year, and the next and the next, because the magic of the season is indescribable.

--Mohan (@mohank)

My jogging tracks

2013-11-29T15:55:00.000+10:30

I can't jog without my ears plugged. Indeed, when I started jogging some 15 or so years ago, I started jogging songs rather than time. I jogged one song, then two, then three and so on. When I wanted to attempt my first half marathon, I told myself that I needed to jog at least 25 songs, each of 5 minutes duration on average. I didn't run distances, just songs. Soon that wasn't enough. I had to run 50 songs because I wanted to run a marathon.

Since music is as much a part of my running as my shoes are, I started developing playlists. I need music in my ears when I run.

The only real constraint I have is that my tracks have to be between 80-90 beats per minute (bpm). The beats assist my running cadence. I place the lower bpm tracks at the start and progressively the tempo in the playlists increase. This works just fine because my stride shortens as the run progresses.

Not all songs that I like to include in the playlist fall neatly into the 80-90bpm range. So I use software to either reduce or increase the tempo of these songs.

I have 4 playlists and depending on my mood for the day, I will pick one or the other and on some days, I may even choose to play songs from all four playlists in a random manner.

The playlists are:

Bollywood (Hindi) running tracks
Pop/rock playlist
Carnatic music running playlist
Tamil (mainly Ilayaraja) tracks

The playlists are provided below.

Carnatic playlist

karpagambikai nee allavo, behag (tempo increased 25% -- Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
lavanya rama (Hyderabad Brothers)
matim dehi, kalyani (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
chalamelara, marga hindolam (Sanjay Subrahmanyan, Live in Melbourne)
mahalakshmi, sankarabharanam (T. N. Seshagopalan)
evvare ramaiyya, gangeyabhushani (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
palaya sada, nalinakanti (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
ee vasuda, sahana (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
nenarunchara, simhavahini (Hyderabad Brothers)
etula brotuva, chakravakam (Alathur Brothers)
nijagadasa (tempo reduced 20%), sindhubhairavi (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
ra ra rajeeva lochana (M. L. Vasanthakumari)
ninnadanela, kannada (Hyderabad Brothers)
rama ninuvina, sankarabharanam (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
unnadiye gati, bahudari (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
smarane sukhamu, janaranjani (Ramnad Krishnan)
amba kamakshi, bhairavi (Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer)
brochevarevare, sri ranjani (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)
pranatharthihara, melaragamalika (Sanjay Subrahmanyan)

This playlist lasts nearly 3 and a half hours and is the one that changes most. This is how the playlist looks at the moment though.

Pop/Rock Playlist

Hymn to Her -- speed up 10% (The Pretenders)
Under The Bridge (Red Hot Chilli Peppers)
Tears In Heaven (Eric Clapton)
I Want to Know What Love Is (Foreigner)
Brothers In Arms (Dire Straits)
Mad About You (Sting)
You're the Voice (John Farnham)
Come Together / Dear Prudence / Cry Baby (The Beatles)
Take the Long Way Home (Supertramp)
When We Dance (Sting: Fields of Gold)
Kashmir (Led Zeppelin)
A Great Day For Freedom (Pink Floyd)
She's Always a Woman (Billy Joel)
Last Chance (John Mellencamp)
Come Away With Me (Norah Jones)
In the City (The Eagles)
Sunrise (Norah Jones)
Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt (Elton John)
Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic (The Police)
Romeo And Juliet (Dire Straits)
Holding Back the Years (Simply Red)
I am… I Said (Neil Diamond)
All the Girls Love Alice (Elton John)
I Can't Tell You Why (The Eagles)
Going to California (Led Zeppelin)
Love is the Seventh Wave (Sting: Fields of Gold)
Give A Little Bit (Supertramp)
Brass in Pocket (The Pretenders)
Spirits in the Material World (The Police)
Pink (Aerosmith)
Black Dog (Led Zeppelin)
In Your Eyes (Peter Gabriel)
She's Got The Look (Roxette)
Nikita (Elton John)

This playlist lasts nearly 2 and a half hours.

Tamil (Ilayaraja) Playlist:

nee pathi naan paathi
priyasaki
pazhamuthir (tempo reduced 10pc)
talaiyai kuniyum (tempo reduced 10pc)
aadipattam
povomaa oorholam
iru vizhiyin (tempo reduced 8pc)
nee oru kaadal (tempo reduced 10pc)
keladi kanmani (tempo reduced 5pc)
anjali anjali
irandum ondrodu (tempo reduced 10pc)
silence(tempo up 5pc)
siriya paravai
chittaan chittaan
mana maalaiyum (tempo reduced 11pc)
oru pooncholai (tempo up 9pc)
varadhu vandha (tempo reduced 7pc)
vaa vaa anbe (tempo reduced 20pc)
ninnukori (tempo reduced 15pc)
kaathu udha
kaadalin (tempo increased 42pc)
senbagame (tempo reduced 12pc)
chinna kuyil
chinnamani (tempo increased 7pc)
un paarvaiyil
kaalai nera (tempo reduced 6pc)
ilaya nila
mannil entha (tempo increased 10pc)
kadhal (tempo reduced 10pc)
per vachalum (tempo increased 8pc)
keeravni (tempo reduced 12pc)
poo maalai (tempo reduced 12pc)
inraikku yen (tempo reduced 8pc)
thalattum
maarugo maarugo
oh sukumari (tempo reduced by 18%) (Harris Jayaraj)

The last song in this play list is not an Ilayaraja song of course. It was included just for fun and for no other particular reason.

This playlist lasts nearly 2 and a half hours.

Bollywood/Hindi Playlist

ek ladki ko dekha (1942 A Love Story)
hud dabangg dabangg (Dabangg)
pankhon ko (Salim-Sulaiman)
kyon (All The Best - Pritam)
ali maula (tempo increased 22% -- Kurbaan)
tumhi dekho naa (Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna)
iktara (Wake Up Sid)
aaj kal zindagi (tempo increased 18% -- Wake Up Sid)
hum tum (Hum Tum)
shukran allah (Kurbaan)
taare zameen par (tempo increased 14% -- Taare Zameen Par)
noor-un-ala-noor (Meenaxi - A Tale of 3 Cities)
maa (tempo increased 11% -- Taare Zameen Par)
kal ho naa ho (Kal Ho Naa Ho)
tere bina (tempo increased 15% -- Guru)
khwaja mere khwaja (tempo increased 48% -- Jodhaa Akbar)
kuch to log kahenge (Amar Prem)
ali ali (tempo reduced 10% -- Deewaar, 2004)
teri ore (Singh Is Kinng)
namak (Omkara)
sajdaa (tempo reduced 5% -- My Name is Khan)
bin tere (tempo increased 20% -- I Hate Luv Stories)
thoda thoda pyar (Love Aaj Kal
rahiman ishq ka jhaga re (Well Done Abba)
alvida (Life In A Metro)
phir dekhiye (Rock On)
chinnamma chilakkamma (tempo increased 8% -- Meenaxi - A Tale of 3 Cities)
aye udi udi udi (Saathiya)
saathiya (Saathiya)
kahin door jab din (Anand)
chingari koi bhadke (Amar Prem)
bheegi si bhaagi si (Raajneeti)
ibn-e-batuta (Ishqiya)
yeh rishta (Meenaxi - A Tale of 3 Cities)
tum jo aaye zindagi mein (Once Upon a Time in Mumbai)
andhanga lena (Godavari - telugu)
saamne aati ho (Dus)
rahi re (Luck By Chance)
khabar nahi (tempo reduced 10pc -- Dostana)

This playlist lasts nearly 2 and a half hours.

If you have any tracks that I could add to this, please send me an email or leave a comment.

-- Mohan (@mohank)

You are lucky to be alive...

2013-10-08T16:52:00.001+10:30

"You should thank us that you are here talking to me today." he said with a smile that spread across his handsome face. Then, as quickly as the smile painted his face, the warmth was replaced with a steely coldness as he added, with a sense of brutal finality, "In fact, you are lucky to be alive today."

There was a sense of army-like candour about what he said. But that was to be expected, for we were at an army camp. I sat directly across this smart young Sikh Major, camp commander of the army camp. The camp itself was set in a beautiful valley in the Himalayas, some 30 kilometres away from the India-China border.

The army camp was beautifully organised, like most army barracks normally are. And as the handsome Sikh Major, took off his expensive-looking Rayban sun glasses, he looked like he had walked into the sets of "Saving Private Ryan", Despite the idyllic setting and the presence of the handsome Sikh, the Hollywood set analogy was spoilt by our presence. My friends and I were scraggly, dishevelled and unkempt after eight days of trekking in the Himalayas.

As I looked at Tom Hanks in a turban, I thought to myself, 'Yes. We were lucky to be alive after a particularly tough climb to Kala Khal (pass) the previous day.' But that wasn't what Tom Hanks was alluding to. The previous night. our camp site was under siege.

Our group had trekked from a place called Raj Kharak (approx height 3700m) to Kala Khal (at approx height 4500m). It was a brutally tough climb in which we needed all our energies, strength, skill and wits about us. Our calf muscles were screaming for mercy and relief as we stood at the pass with a sense of relief and achievement. Perhaps some of us felt that we were lucky to be alive! And as we stood and surveyed the impressive and imposing landscape around us, my eyes fixed on a neat arrangement of sheds in one of the meadows in the valley immediately below the pass.

Our guide informed us that we were quite close to the India-China border and that the sheds we could see in the distance were part of an army camp. This camp itself was part of a series of army barracks that stretched from where we were to Nithi, which is on the India-China border.

But that piece of information that our guide had just provided was quickly forgotten because we soon commenced the gruelling climb down to our camp for the night. This was to be at Bhujani, some 2 kilometres away from and at a clearing which was about 200m higher than the army camp. We focused on the climb down to camp, and for some of us this was tougher than the climb up to the pass.

By the time we got to our camp site, we were all physically wrecked. This had been the toughest day of trekking for each of us in our group. But this weary feeling was mixed with a sense of relief and achievement. For all of us in our group, this had been the toughest climb we had undertaken and we had all made it successfully. Yes, we did have many aches and bruises. But then, to a bunch of amateur trekkers/climbers, these are mere badges of honour!

We tended to our aches, pains and bruises, had an early dinner, and repaired to out tents by 8pm that night. I talked to my tent-mate for about half an hour before dozing off. I think my friend may have been in the middle of a sentence, but I was too physically smashed to bother about nuances of politeness. I was asleep. Sound asleep. The quiet and serene environment was the perfect balm that soothed my burning calf muscles, the painful blisters on my feet and my bloodied toes.

That calm serenity would be shattered exactly 2 hours later. I was jolted out of my deep sleep by a cacophony of loud shouting and banging that ripped through the peaceful night. I heard lots of male voices scream a series of instructions in a mixture of Hindi and English; and the instructions were not polite. I was scared; very frightened. I feared the worst. I thought we were being attacked by dacoits.

Soon, someone unzipped the two layers of our tent and I heard a man bark, "bahar aajao, turant bahar niklo," (come out immediately). I was fully awake and completely scared as I sat up, clutching my sleeping bag. My fear was compounded when I stared right into the nozzle of a nasty looking rifle. I couldn't see the face at the end of the rifle because light from a torch blinded me. I withdrew my hands very very slowly from inside the warm comfort of my sleeping bag. I did not want the rifle guy to think I was pulling out a weapon of my own, for that would render my aches and pains quite meaningless! I put my hands up in the air and said "hum log mumbai se hai," (we are from mumbai) as I emerged head-first from inside the tent.

It was only then that I saw that the rifle guy was in army fatigues. These guys weren't dacoits. We weren't being ambushed. That comforted me somewhat, although I was still quite afraid. Around me I saw that my co-trekkers were also out of their tents. All of us wore expressions that spoke of a mix of bewilderment, fear and strange relief.

The army camp below had seen our night torches and camp fire, decided we were, potentially, infiltrators, spies or terrorists and had dispatched some soldiers to case us out. I didn't count but there seemed to be some 10-15 soldiers, all armed with rifles that glistened menacingly in the night light. All of them were incredibly young and it soon became quite apparent that they were as filled with nervous energy and adrenaline as we were, with fear. And when young men with fully loaded guns are in that state of excited, adrenaline-fuelled alertness they normally shoot first and talk later.

They asked us questions about where we were from, where we travelled to and why we were camping where we were. We carefully explained our trek route and got them to realise that we weren't spies.

They asked if we had sought permission to trek. Our tour guide whipped out the permission certificate which he had procured from the Forestries Ministry in Joshimath prior to our trek. In a clear case of the right hand not bothering much about what the left hand needed to know, the Forestry Ministry did not bother informing the Army post.

After a half hour of heated argument and conversation, the army guys departed. I was too excited to sleep. I tossed and turned and nursed my aching muscles. I was also quite angry.

Several questions raided my head continuously:

We had set up camp at 2.30pm that afternoon. Why did it take the army until 10.30pm to check us out?

If we were indeed terrorists or infiltrators, would we really announce ourselves through fluorescent yellow tents, torch lights and a camp fire?

What is the role of the Forest Department in all of this?

Questions. Questions. More questions.

My friends and I posed these and other similar questions as we talked about the previous night's incident. Our tour guide was extremely unhappy too.

We posed these and other questions to Tom Hanks. He said that, as far as he was concerned, we could be just about any group. We could be friendly civilian tourists or, just as likely, be spies. He had no information of any civilian movement that night. He said he had a job to do and that was to protect the land. He said that with brutal frankness and cold professionalism, and added, "And given the context of where we are, any suspicious movements are nothing but unwanted threats that have to be eliminated immediately."

My anger was replaced with respect. The questions I had could wait for another day. We all shook hands with Tom Hanks.

We were indeed lucky to be alive!

--Mohan (@mohank)

ps: I will try and write a separate post on the trek at a later date.

pps: For a collection of pictures I took during the trek, check out my Instagram feed (handle is @mohankaus).

Mumbai Police: A note of appreciation

2013-05-29T16:03:00.000+09:30

For more than two and a half years now, I have been 'cyber-stalked' by a person who will, for obvious reasons, be nameless in this piece. Through this period, when the e-stalking continued somewhat unremittingly, I was the recipient of some 15-20 emails a day on average. These emails contained taunts, abuse, insults and objectionable material. These were directed at me initially. I did not know this person at all and all of this attention was totally unsolicited and unprovoked. Many of these emails left me totally dismayed and completely numb. Soon, the abuse extended to include my wife and a few close friends of mine too. Soon, every tweet of mine would be analyzed over several abusive emails. Some of the emails contained needlessly explicit material too. I blocked the sender and filtered their emails out, but they would change their email id and continue to send these totally depressing emails. Despite two warnings, the torrent of offense continued unabated.

In this period, I would often think of complaining to the authorities, but then I was always overwhelmed by a sense of lassitude. I did not act.

Many of us will have, I am sure, thought of paying a visit to the police to file a harassment case against a persistent online pest. We may have, at times, lacked the courage, the strength, the time and the motivation to go through with a complaint. In addition, we tend to believe myths that circulate about the police, especially in India, and fear the arduousness of the process. Either that or we may give up because we may have formed a view that the police are generally not effective anyway.

Yes, it is hard to go through with the process of lodging the complaint with all the accompanying paper work and the filing of that report.

But, do it. Do not believe the myths. Just file that complaint.

Some four weeks ago, after issuing a final warning to this e-stalker, I snapped out of my lethargy, mainly due to the advice of friends of mine who couldn't believe that I would tolerate the extent of insults and abuse I was coping with. I sleep-walked out of my indolence and reluctantly submitted a written complaint to the Cyber CrimeInvestigation Cell of Mumbai Police. Reluctantly, because of the perception I had formed that such processes are incredibly messy and often pointless.

A written complaint is not easy to construct. Mine was 60 pages long -- a three-page cover letter and annotated print outs of a sample of the emails I had received (there were too many emails -- on average 15 emails per day over a 3 year period -- to print them all out). I provided them with as much information as I could. Emails contain headers that enable them to track the perpetrator. I did not receive SMS's, but if people who read this have received many unwanted and unsolicited SMS's or Whatsapp messages from the same person, collate these in a report and include the time and content of these too.

I compiled my report and my cover letter and lodged it with the Cyber Cell. I expected that nothing would happen.

I was so wrong.

I followed up with them a week after I lodged my complaint. The inspector said "Leave it with us, we will take care of this and get back to you," something I haven't heard from any other person in that position. The voice was reassuring and the message was undeniably kind and calming. A week later, he called to say that they had made progress and that the case was being handled by an expert in his office. He gave me the name and number of this person and asked me to feel free to contact them. A few days later, the cyber cell had identified the cyber stalker, established the veracity of my report and warned the person to cease their unprovoked activities. That warning was enough to get the stalker off my back.

I wanted to share this for two reasons.

First, if you are being cyber harassed, do not sit on your hands for as long as I did. When someone uses technology, such as email, chat or SMS, to target a victim -- either known to them or unknown -- by sending them a stream of unsolicited material with an intent to harass, threaten, humiliate or intimidate, this is cyber-stalking. And it is wrong. It is very much like “physical” stalking and it is mostly anonymous and almost always unprovoked and/or unsolicited. Cyber stalkers often believe that their anonymity and perceived lack of traceability gives them the comfort and the safety of 'technological distance' from the victim. But they, like a physical stalker, intrude on the victim's digital footprint, which is as important these days as our physical space. All of us have a right to our peace of mind and our personal space. The point is this. The stalker often has no appreciation of the impact that their taunts and abuse have on the person whose privacy they routinely assault. They just do it to feed their own obsessions or fantasies. On the other hand, the abused seldom take action because of the perceived laboriousness or ineffectiveness of the complaints process.

Lesson-1: Do not wait for as long as I did. Complain immediately.

Second, I want to applaud the cyber crime investigation cell of the Mumbai Police. If ever you need any help do not hesitate to call them or write to them. Their complaints process is not really arduous if you truly value your space, peace and sanity. These guys are warm, friendly, understanding and extremely approachable. They are also quick to help and, going by my experience, they appear to resolve matters.

Lesson-2: Your complaint often gets looked into promptly and professionally.

The cyber crime investigation cell of the Mumbai Police is, in my experience, a very thorough and professional unit. We are quick to criticize the police but must also provide appreciation of the good work they do.

For me, this was an excellent example of quick, efficient work by the Mumbai Police.

Bravo guys.

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Hope and industry: An evening in Dadar...

2013-04-10T19:31:00.001+09:30

The young well-built lad swung his bat ferociously making an unmistakable connect with the swinging white ball, which traveled up in the air some 15 meters and crashed into a window pane of a third floor apartment. Miraculously, the glass did not shatter. Instead, the ball bounced off the window pane and floated down to the ground sluggishly where 3 able bodied fielders vied with each other to catch it. They laughed and screamed, jostled and pushed each other for a vantage position. It was as though they were making space for themselves in a crowded Mumbai local train by digging into the ribs of the person next to them. All of them had their hands cupped to receive the ball, as though they were about to receive offerings at a temple. All of them wanted to be the catcher that had dismissed the burly batsman. The ball, though, had other ideas. It popped out of their collective hands and landed on the ground making a tinnish sound; the sound a table tennis ball would make.

The batsman received a reprieve.

This was a match that took place under lights on Tulsi Pipe Road in Dadar, Mumbai in a paved courtyard, about 15m wide and 30m in length. This floodlit cricket ‘ground’ was enclosed on one side by a tin industrial shed and on two sides by tall apartment blocks. The cricketers played with a special, light ball which ensured that windows would not get broken. The lighter ball swung much more than a normal cricket ball would.

The batsmen played with immense skill and strength and thrilled the large, wild audience that watched and cheered as they played. The boys, all from nearby dwellings, cried, shouted, laughed and thumped each other on their backs as they sweated their way through this sticky Sunday evening. We stood there for a while, appreciated and applauded the fun as well as the skill that was on display.

To me, this was the Mumbai I had known and loved as a young boy who had spent many of his summer holidays here. A Mumbai of people from Dadar, Byculla and Matunga, the Mumbaikars who make the place what it is; the sort of people that do not venture much into the Bandra and Worli sea-face locations of Bombay that is inhabited by Bombayites. The Mumbai I knew and liked contains stories from Byculla, Matunga and Dadar and does not include fancy lights, nightclubs, fashion shows, bling and Bollywood. The Mumbai I feel, smell and appreciate is a hub of dizzy activity where people get by, survive and maybe – just maybe – get ahead.

It is this Mumbai that I wanted to feel and experience when I went to Dadar a few weeks ago with my wife and a few friends. We had no particular objective or destination in mind. We just wanted to walk, smell and feel the Mumbai we all loved. We started our exploration at 6pm on a Sunday afternoon from Tulsi Pipe Road at the cricket ‘ground’, walked up to Shivaji Park and back.

We crossed a permanent makeshift – yes take that paradox and cope with it as I do, everyday – market under a flyover on Tulsi Pipe Road. A police van stood by the side of this dimly lit market to ensure that the improvised temporary stalls were appropriately lasting. There was a surreal sense to the irony and I could only smile as I walked through this under-the-flyover market. Smile I did until something harshly corrosive in the air made me simultaneously rub my eyes and clutch my throat. The acid in the air may have been released by the constant trampling of vegetable leaves (probably radish), marigold stems and green chilies. The air was pungent, yet the vendors shouted out loudly, announced their wares and advertised their prices. The pungent air did not trouble them at all. Each hawker sold the freshest produce at least price. Around them, people walked busily and briskly towards an unknown destination.

There, an old man slept peacefully in a bed made up of two slabs of stone, his head rested on one stone and his feet on the other; his torso, suspended in between. He slept, completely oblivious to the strong, sharp air and the frenzied chaos around him. He didn’t even move as a motor bike honked its way through this crowded market, missing him by just a few feet. ‘How did this bike even get there, leave alone maneuver through it,’ I thought.

We exited from this hyperactive and busy market and spilled into the main Dadar market to see a sea of humanity in front of us. From where I stood – a slightly elevated part of the road – all I could see was a sea of heads. 'Surely the people were stationary while the ground moved underneath them,' I thought. How else could we get through this human mass? We did, occasionally receiving a nudge in the ribs. Mumbaikars are adept at moving in small spaces; they dodge and weave lithely through even the tiniest of gaps.

Sometimes I would exchange a glance and a nod with other people, but mostly everyone was focused on their individual destinations. I could not ascertain if people were happy, content, sad, tired, busy or dejected. It appeared as though all of them had a job that had to be accomplished and what I felt was intense industry in whatever people were doing.

This sense of industriousness included Ram Chand, a vegetable vendor, who smoothened his mustache proudly as he announced his produce and shouted out the price of his merchandise. He said to one of his prospective buyers that he would not entertain any bargaining and twirled his mustache flamboyantly as he said so.

We walked up through the markets and walked around Shivaji Park and saw people – many people – walking, laughing, talking and relaxing.

Out in the maidan itself, we saw kids play cricket and soccer in fading light. All these kids had proper cricket kits and played with cricket balls that thudded against well oiled bats. A few of the netted cricket pitches were floodlit as young bowlers charged in – in whites – to bowl to well-protected young batsmen. “Get behind the ball. It is all about technique,” a coach shouted in Hindi at the recognized nursery of Mumbai’s cricket. That was exactly what the lads were already doing at the Tulsi Pipe Road ground against a lighter ball that swung maniacally and unpredictably in the air.

It was close to 10pm when we returned to where we had parked our car after dinner at Prakash Hotel. The market was still a hive of activity. The police van still stood there. The men inside it cast a protective eye on all the temporary stalls. The acid hung around in the still air; it would perhaps stay in the air until the trampled and crushed leaves could be gathered and taken away. Vendors still shouted their prices. Ram Chand continued to twirl his ostentatious mustache The cricket match continued in the paved courtyard on Tulsi Pipe Road.

The sleeping old man was gone though. In his place were two young girls, one each on the two stones that had propped up the old man. They were probably ten years old. In poor dim light, as their parents sold vegetables or food nearby, they read from an English text book. Their heads bobbed up and down as they tried to learn their lessons, probably for their school exams the following day. I stood there, mesmerized, as they recited their lesson. I could not make out what it was they were memorizing. Perhaps it was a poem. Perhaps it was a story, an essay. I did not want to pry, so my friends and I smiled in appreciation and turned away slowly. I do not know why, but I was filled with hope...

The cricket players on Tulsi Pipe Road shouted one last time. It wasn’t clear who won. But everyone was happy and amidst much back slapping and mirth, the flood lights were turned off. Elsewhere, in an apartment, another light came on in this city of industry: home to several million hopes.

--Mohan (@mohank)

If only we cared...

2013-04-06T22:29:00.001+10:30

I stood unsteady on the balcony of our 18th floor apartment and held the rails tight because of the mild vertigo I suffer from. My wife was baking an inventive dessert our guests that evening wouldn’t be able to pronounce. Having given up desserts just over four weeks ago, the thought of a violent clash of the cherries, chocolate and coffee was enough to drive me into paroxysms of desire. I desperately needed something between me and this dessert preparation.

The balcony looks out west into a vast green expanse – somewhat of a luxury in Mumbai – and down onto a man made lake created when developers emptied a quarry that existed there. All around me, I could see a glimpse of life in the other apartments. The foul, pungent stench of stagnant water, heat, acrid dust, open drains, sweat and shit -- human and animal -- was strong enough to overpower any smell, including the beautifully mutinous fragrance coming from within the house. The outside smells formed a perfect antidote to my craving, and was a ready example of the paradox that life in Mumbai represents.

Like the dust and smoke, there was nowhere for the smells to go. They hung around uninvited, creating a haze: a confused cohort awaiting instructions from an unknown someone. In less than two minutes, I was also sweating profusely and my t-shirt clung to me. The haze reminded me of the pub I used to frequent in South Kensington in London in the days when customers could still smoke in pubs; and it seemed everyone smoked. The dense pall would represent a smoke-mixture: from the open fireplace, cigarettes, cigars and pipes. It would lift to eye level, hang around my face and sting it repeatedly.

If I looked around, all the balconies like mine offered to me the stories they contained, encouraging the casual voyeur in me, fueling my understanding of life and people around me.

The smell of cigarette smoke made me turn in the direction it wafted from. I looked to see a young couple smoking on their balcony. The young man wore dark-rimmed, thick glasses that rested uncomfortably on a very large, bulbous nose. The woman puffed on her cigarette lazily and appeared to relish her experience while the man appeared to be hurried. Soon the reason became obvious as the man lit another cigarette even though the present one was still only two-thirds complete. 'Isn't there enough in the air we breathe to additionally introduce tar into our lungs especially on a sweltering day like today,' I thought. I would have asked the same question of myself if I had been the one smoking. And when the couple were done, they turned inwards and without even looking back, casually flicked the stubs outward; the cigarette ends spiraled pitifully to the road below.

Elsewhere, a woman watered plants. Pointlessly. Wastefully. She must have just had a shower, for a thin towel covered her hair. Did she have curly hair? Straight? I did not know and the towel wouldn't let me in on those secrets. ‘Did she know the plants would retain as much water as a sieve in this afternoon heat?’ I wanted to ask.

There I could see a pot-bellied man in his vest. He stretched lazily. Perhaps he had just had his lunch. He had in his hands a small packet. His gold ring glimmered as the sun’s rays bounced off it. He tore open the packet and emptied its contents into his palm, briskly slapped his palms to his face and hurled its contents into his mouth. He then flung the empty packet out his balcony and rubbed his palms, satiated. The piece of plastic sailed lifelessly and rested on the pavement below. The man returned to the comfort of his air-conditioned living room, perhaps happy that it was still neat, well-accessorized and completely devoid of plastic wrappers.

Somewhere else, a maid hung out the washing with quiet care, picking up a piece of clothing from a clothes basket, untangling it, shaking it vigorously to straighten it, and finally straining to reach the clothes line. Sweat poured from her face. Occasionally, she would catch her back as she strained it. It was clear she had a sore back. Just as clear as the fact that these clothes were hung on a balcony that faced the road, for the world see. Yellowed, crinkled, sometimes bright white fabric stories forced into the vision of those who happened to look up. I was sure they had another option to this balcony and wondered why they didn't use it. This relentless sun would surely reach an inward-facing balcony too? The maid, though, was too focused on her immediate task to worry about and look at anything else other than the clothes basket below and the clothes line above.

As my arms got wetter with my sweat, I watch everyone disappear indoors, gradually. The heat my body gave out must have smelt of blood because a mosquito landed on my arm and I idly wonder how it got to the 18th floor. I admire its resilience and strength; instead of swatting it, as a reward, I offer the mosquito use of my hand for a full minute before blowing its drunken, swollen body away. The lack of wind may have helped its flight up 18 floors. Or perhaps the mosquito had arrived in one of the three lifts in our building, two of which may not be used by "workers and maids."

By now, I find myself begging for some air to cool the sweat off. One part of me is also playing a game, to see how long I can hold out in this quiet heat that is made oppressive with so many stories. Ahead, I see the green of the lake and think it would be lovely if it had a fountain in the middle; a fountain to circulate the water so it didn't stagnate. What I see, though, is still water that could be beautiful if only someone cared: If the maid that hung the clothes despite a sprain in her back stopped to stare. If the person who flicked that cigarette butts cared. If the person that watered plants on a hot day cared. If the man who flung the plastic wrapper onto the road cared.

And if I cared...

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Conquering Heart Break Hill

2013-03-25T21:44:00.001+10:30

Running hills is a necessary part of endurance training. You just have to run hills if you want to run long distances. And like a lot of things in the activity itself, running hills is much more of a mental exercise. A runner has to instruct their body to propel themselves up a hill. I had read all the material on ‘attacking hills’. There is enough literature to suggest that a hill runner must look ahead 50 metres at least, that they must try and shorten their stride, manage their centre of gravity, activate their core muscles and lean into the hill. A friend of mine who loves running hills told me to continuously say to myself ‘I love you hill’ rather than moaning or saying ‘Damn you hill, this is hard work’ as I ran. I knew the theory, but failed in putting all of this into practice. As with most of my running itself, I learned this lesson the hard way on Heart Break Hill.

Running has been my religion for a long time, and nothing could stop me from engaging in it every day. Not the heat, dust, stench, the pain or my own inabilities; I just have to run. Every morning.

I am normally up every day at 4.45am – even on Sundays – and am out pounding the pavements soon after. I hate treadmills these days. I used to run on them almost always when I lived overseas, where I began my love affair with running. Not anymore, since my move to Mumbai. Counter intuitive, if you actually thought about it. First, the air quality is significantly worse in Mumbai than almost any other city in the world I have run in. Moreover, there are few pavements in Mumbai to run on; pavements are to runners what water is to swimmers. Most Mumbai roads come with potholes and debris, which is not at all good for runners. And if all of this wasn’t enough to make life hell for a runner, there are the smoke-billowing vehicles that vie with the other two hazards on Mumbai roads. Yet, I love running the roads of Mumbai.

After my move to Mumbai, I identified and carefully mapped out several tracks around my home. I can be quite boringly meticulous. ‘You are definitely a four-letter word contained in analytical,’ my friends often tease me. I mapped out a three-km route, a five-km route, a six-km route, a seven-km route and a 10km route. Sometimes, especially on a Sunday, I would run the same route twice or add a few of the routes together to make up a longer run. Many of these routes would take in the smoke, the dust, the stench and the exciting life of Mumbai, a city that is interesting even at 5am. Occasionally, I would run past a park with the fresh morning wind blowing in my face. And sometimes I would run past pavement dwellers too. Many of them would be fitfully asleep, completely oblivious to the sound of traffic around them. Most had a simple, thin cloth protecting them from the dust, cold, rain and vehicle smoke. Some of them would be stirring and a few would just look and smile at the walkers and joggers who walked or ran past. Those who were up would often be laughing and joking amongst themselves as they ushered in a new day.

I often ran with either Neha or Kapil, sometimes both of them. We are a good running group. I have always believed in running at a talking pace; not that the three of us talked a lot. For us, running was a time for either introspection or meditation, for focusing on the self, and for reflection.

As I ran, I would often reflect on the unresolved arguments I had left behind me (or run away from) or the challenges ahead of me. I would often ask myself difficult questions about my behaviours and responses. Was it right to be that intense? Should I have let go? Should I have argued as passionately as I did? Was I being too selfish? Did I understand fully at all? Did I understand enough? Should I be more accepting of people? Should I be less judgemental ? The questions swirled around. I did not have an agenda or a list of questions; they just arrived in my head as I ran and I confronted them without fear and mostly, with honesty. Or so, I thought. And although I ran with Neha and Kapil, this was exclusively my time.

Each of us would have only one ear plugged for music. The other ear was open to the occasional question or comment from the other two. Every now and then, one of us would say something and the others would contribute to a quick conversation. But mostly, we focused, introspected, listened to each other’s breathing and ran in silence.

Most of our conversations, when we did talk, revolved around pain. I had accepted pain as a way of life and loved the challenge of overcoming this pain. To my fellow running mates, I understand pain. Running has taught me that. Ten years ago, I would barely run 100 metres before collapsing in a heap from pain in my shins, or my calf muscles or in my lower back; sometimes, all three. On those days, I thought I would never be able to run again. I always wanted to. Badly.

I have gazed at runners with a mix of awe and respect. I loved and simultaneously envied the way runners could effortlessly glide across running tracks and cut through hard pavements. I loved to hear the sound of running shoe scratching bitumen. I loved the grace and the gait of a runner. But mostly, I enjoyed seeing runners tell the story of their running through their repeated and, perhaps, monotonous motion. Back in the day, when I could not run, I looked for that story in every runner. The story of the runner coping with their fatigue, or pain; of focusing on the process and not the destination; of the runner spraying water all over themselves to cope with heat; of the runner plugging away despite the exhaustion, or simply enjoying their run. I wanted to embrace the trail. To me, this was an unrealized dream. So I taught myself to accept and, slowly, overcome the pain of running. And slowly, I taught myself to run. Small distances at first, and then the longer distances invited me. Even today, I am not free from pain. My pain would always start in my shins in the first kilometre of my daily run and this pain would soon travel up to my glutes by the time I had clocked three kilometres. And that pain would often remain with me right through my run. I would merely block it.

Paddy, a running mentor of mine had once told me about the mind-body-intellect framework and I used that framework to overcome and block out my everyday pain. The physical pain is transmitted by the body, the vehicle. The mind would feel the pain immediately. But I had been taught to work on my rational intellect – in this mind-body-intellect nexus – and had taught it to be independent of the mind. I had conditioned the intellect to quietly observe, moderate, regulate and counsel the mind. The intellect won... mostly.

I woke up that particular morning; getting up was always the tough part. That day, it was made tougher because the previous day was a bad one for me. I had had a few unpleasant, hurtful, testy and unhelpfully fractious arguments. I felt the need to introspect deeply. I had to learn more about myself, my reactions, insecurities, discomfort, judgemental behaviours and my own needs. I was in a dark and somewhat uncomfortably unfamiliar space. And as I stretched in preparation for the run, I knew I had to run hard that morning. I knew that this would not be like any of my other runs.

I secretly hoped that Neha and Kapil would not run that day. Although they ran ‘alone’ even when we ran together, I wanted to be totally on my own that day. As if by magic, Neha and Kapil had both informed the watchman that they would not be running; one had a dodgy knee and the other had a cold. ‘This is perfect,’ I thought to myself as I stepped out into the cool morning.

I decided I would run 10 kilometres that morning and would also set off at a faster pace. I discarded all my carefully mapped out routes and, instead, ran towards the hill. The hill formed a picturesque backdrop to our apartment complex, dwarfing the tall, majestic buildings, giving them a sense of their own fragility. A few months earlier, I had driven towards the hill and mapped out a course on this reconnaissance drive. I wanted to accept the challenges the hill posed. But the path that I mapped out during my earlier reconnaissance was discarded by my running group. But things were different this particular morning. I was on my own.

So, this particular morning, I ran towards the hill at pace. I did not know what it was called. So, I named it Heart Break Hill. The Boston Marathon has a Heart Break Hill, a rise of approximately 30 metres over a 600 metre stretch; a gradient of about 5%. I had run ‘The Tan’ (short for Botanical Gardens) in Melbourne regularly. This track includes a killer stretch along Anderson Street; an incline of 27 metres over a 75 metre stretch. My own Heart Break Hill was an incline of 120m over a one and a half kilometre stretch; a gradient of about 8%. It was reasonably hard and I hadn’t run that hill before. That day, I was presented with the perfect opportunity.

As I had different playlists for different days and different moods, I selected a playlist that included Springsteen, Sting, Pink Floyd, Tom Petty, Peter Gabriel, Talking Heads and U2. The lyrics did not matter. The rhythm did; all of the songs had to be at 80-85 beats per minute. I strapped on my heart rate monitor, pressed the start button on my Garmin and set off purposefully. I had to conquer that hill this morning.

It was three kilometres by the time I reached the bottom of Heart Break Hill. By then, my shin pain had already set in; it struck me a bit earlier on in the run that morning. I tried to block it out, but it was hard. My mind wasn’t entirely under my control that day. I reflected and tortured myself as I ran. I thought of my BMI guru: ‘the intellect always has to be independent’ was the voice that kept ringing in my ears. But the intellect was a slave to the mind that day; a mind that was focused totally on deep introspection in a dark and unfamiliar space. The intellect was no longer independent; it was hardly even present. The mind had taken over, felt the pain and the course and all of this coalesced with the confusions that emanated from an unfamiliar space. To make matters worse, just as I reached the bottom of the hill, my breathing shortened – an indication that my asthma was kicking in. Asthma is something I have been dealing with since I was five years old. I was so terribly unfocussed that morning that I had forgotten to puff on my Ventolin inhaler prior to my run. But I could not throw my hands up in the air and head back home. I focused immediately on regulating my breathing; three short exhalations and one long inhale. This was already tough work, even before I reached the hill that I was determined to conquer.

My breathing was short and raspy. My pain had intensified. Freddie Mercury sang ‘I want to break free’. Ironic. ‘Break free from what,’ I thought to myself. I continued to attack the hill mercilessly. One step at a time; one breath at a time. The stride shortened as did my breathing and I slowed down to a painful seven kmph. Half way up the hill I did encourage thoughts of giving up, although giving up was not why I ran. I did not know how to give up. I could not handle failures or disappointments through lack of trying and I had never run away from a battle. I had to know that I gave it my all; that I had tried my hardest to conquer, to understand, to comprehend. It mattered to me that I fought myself and warded off my own demons and limitations in a bid to understand myself better. The hill had to be defeated; it had to be conquered this morning.

The phrase ‘conquer’ rang in my mind constantly as I ran. I was three quarters of the way up the hill when cramps set in – in my calf-muscle. I had slowed down to 6.5 kmph and my heart rate monitor beeped alarmingly. My heart was going at a crazy 182 beats per minute, a good seven points above my suggested/theoretical max heart rate. I had never seen the dial reach 182 beats per min in all my years of running. I considered stopping and walking up the rest of the hill to the peak. But then I wasn’t about to give up. The hill just had to be conquered that morning.

Then, with 250m to go to the peak of that hill I suddenly remembered what Raju Martolia had said. Raju is this incredibly calm, very collected, supremely able and wonderfully fit Garhwali guide who had accompanied us on all of our Himalayan treks and climbing expeditions. Every day, after our trek had concluded, our trekking group would talk, mostly about other trekking and climbing experiences. One day after our day’s trek, as we relaxed around a camp fire, I asked Raju to tell us about the toughest mountain he had ever conquered. Raju’s face immediately registered a mix of shock and hurt. He was taken aback and said, “Sir, we Garhwali people do not conquer mountains. The mountain is a goddess for us. We take her permission to use her for our own benefit. I have never ever conquered any mountain.” He went on to explain this was why Garhwali guides would never place a flag at the very peak. A flag at the peak would suggest that the expedition had ‘conquered’ the mountain. “We always place the flag a few metres short of the peak. If we think we have conquered the mountain, our goddess has a way of teaching us unpleasant lessons on the way back,” he said.

I remembered those very words as I tried my own very unsuccessful hill conquer expedition.

As soon as I recollected Raju’s words, I realized I was doing it all wrong. I slowed down and sought permission from Heart Break Hill instead. I wasn’t angry anymore. I wasn’t confused anymore. My rational intellect was suddenly freed. I had nothing to prove. I wasn’t fighting myself anymore. I could give up if I wanted to. I could let go. This wasn’t a fight to a facile victory. This was me trying to understand myself more, be accepting of my own limitations, boundaries and shortcomings. I knew what I was; who I was and I was comfortable with that. Suddenly, I wasn’t attacking the hill anymore. All of this meant that I immediately felt more relaxed and observed a change in my stride. It was now easier and smoother. Even the breathing appeared more regulated. The asthma vanished too and with it, the pain. Or maybe the pain and the laboured breathing were both made irrelevant. Suddenly, there was clarity too. I cruised up the remainder of Heart Break Hill and reached the top. I hadn’t conquered the hill. Instead, I felt that Heart Break Hill had taught me an important lesson that morning.

And as I ran down the other side of the hill, I looked back at where I had run from. Heart Break Hill still stood where she always was. She wasn’t moving. She wasn't going to move either. But she appeared to bid me good bye benignly and compassionately. She hadn’t been conquered. Forget conquered; I wasn’t close to even understanding the mystery she was. That morning, she had merely provided me with permission to run and enabled me to overcome my own insecurities, anxieties, inadequacies and irrational fears...

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Mumbai Marathon: A few suggestions

2013-01-21T21:53:00.001+10:30

There is something unique and wonderful about running the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon (SCMM). The event has grown in size steadily over the last 10 years to become a premier event in the world running calendar. The large numbers of people that line up the streets do make it an expressive carnival that Mumbaikars take immense pride in. And the event has grown in terms of the numbers of participants that run the various races that make up the SCMM. These are only a part of what makes the event a riot of colour, noise, participation and an expression of togetherness.

Since the addition of the Bandra-Worli Sealink the course is also quite wonderful. The many extended flat segments, the 4km Sealink, the run along Queen's Necklace and the gentle inclines make it quite a nice course to run without being either too difficult or too challenging. The good parts more than make up for the stench that a runner is hit with along a few segments of the run. The entire course is closed to traffic and that is a definite plus. The volunteers and organizers are extremely polite and highly focused.

Although it is a serious run for many people, there is much fun to be had. It is definitely one of the better organised races in India; perhaps even the best. I wrote a blogpost on my own experiences running the SCMM2013 earlier today.

Yet, I do believe that the event must be better organised. Here are a few suggestions I have for the organisers and runners.

Portaloos at the start point:

Five portable toilets (portaloos) for men and five for women at the starting point is just not enough please. There were a few more portaloos along the course as soon as we started the half marathon run, but most runners gather at the start point at least half an hour in advance and do not want to hold their stuff in them for longer than is necessary. The loo queue was way too long in my view. I hate writing this and I'd hate to be the reader of what I am about to write, but after waiting in queue for 15 minutes, the loo I went in to was filled with unpleasant stuff. Why? Because there was no water for the guy(s) that had used the loo before me. So the lack of enough portaloos and the lack of water makes it a massive double fail in my books. Why can't we get this aspect of hygiene right? Ever?

Water station at the start point:

Runners spend nearly half an hour in the holding bay at the start. Few runners got water with them. A water station at the holding bay will not go awry. Runners preparing to move towards the start line need to hydrate properly.

Mark the water stations please:

The Mumbai marathon has plenty of water stations and this is a big plus. However, as a runner I do not know when the next one is going to come up. It should not be too much of a hassle to mark our the water stations clearly with a banner that makes it easily recognisable from at least 100m out. A blue dot that sticks out (say) 3m high will mark the water station out distinctly. Depending on which side of the road the banner is, runners who need the water can then line themselves up to either on the right or the left side of the road as they approach the station. The last thing you want to see is runners cutting across your path from right to left (or the other way) the moment they realise they may just be about to cross a water station.

Crowd management at the finish line:

The finish line has always been chaos central in the SCMM and this keeps getting more and more chaotic with each passing year; simply because the numbers keep increasing. It would be great to see better organisation and better crowd dispersion management controls at the finish line. The absence of portaloos at the finish line was a source of severe disappointment. After having consumed copious amounts of liquid -- a mixture of water and isotonic drinks -- I was hopping around after my finish -- not from pain but from a distinct desire to not have an embarrassing accident.

Telephone capacity:

This is less to do with the organisers and more to do with the telephone carriers. All runners were desperately trying to contact their family or friends to let them know they were fine; that they had completed. Many of them may have wanted to organise their ride home. Few phones worked. The fact that the telephone companies could not organise additional capacity on the day was a major fail in my books.

Runner etiquette:

Apart from the BO index (especially near the start line) being insanely high, the main problem I had with my fellow runners was that they'd drop their water bottles in the middle of the road after finishing with it. If you can't find a bin, do fling the bottle to the side of the road and against the pavement. Two reasons mainly. Firstly, this makes it easier for the cleanup operation. But more importantly, it makes for a clearer path for the the slower runners and the elite marathoners who would trod the track later. However, I found many a half-finished water bottle, a half finished orange or assorted rubbish on the road. This was somewhat disappointing behaviour from a cohort that was generally excellently aware, organised and prepared.

Overall, the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon 2013 was excellently organised. I will certainly run more SCMMs in the future. If a few jagged edges are ironed out, I am sure SCMM will be a much better event than it already is.

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Run Mumbai Run

2013-01-21T18:54:00.001+10:30

I saw the 18k mark approach me. And yes, that's exactly how it was for me from the 15k mark onwards. I wasn't running; the course ran towards me.

Just as the 18k mark reached me, I glanced to my right to see a man in crutches walk his way along the course. He struggled to place one foot ahead of the other; each step, accompanied by a grimace. Yet he braved the course and trudged along. Occasionally, he would smile at someone in the crowd. But he was largely focused on his own progress, his own work. I am not sure what distance he ran; but, if I were in his shoes and crutches, 100m would have been hard. But this remarkabe man wasn't interested in giving up. He was't there to give up; he was there to complete. He grimaced and smiled his way with extreme determination. I know. I stopped as soon as I saw him, partly in admiration and partly to support him. And I walked alongside him for a while. After a while, I realised that he did not need the support. I did! I acknowledged the presence of a lump in my throat, saluted him and looked ahead at the work I had to do. I had another 3km to go. The course came towards me once again.

At the 19km mark I was once again stunned. I spotted a man with one good leg. From his knee down, his other leg was a graphite rod. He ran along the course in a determined manner. He looked ahead, his gaze fixed on a point some 10m ahead of him. He ran proud; each stride measured, purposeful and filled with determination. I felt privileged to run along with him for about 100m or so at the end of which I saluted this man too, and once again allowed the course to flow towards me.

People like these two remarkable men reaffirm my hope in human endeavour. They stretch the limits of human achievement. They brave pain and achieve their goals through the force of their intense determination.

I was underprepared for the Mumbai Half marathon this year. Among other things, extraordinary work pressures hindered my preparations through much of November and December. But I did compete. Thanks to these two wonderful men, my own battles with my sense of underpreparedness and with the course were rendered hopelessly insignificant in comparison. I was carried to the finish line by these two and by the lovely people of Mumbai.

"Run Mumbai Run". That was what I heard many spectators, including an old woman, shout as I ran my third Mumbai (half) marathon today. At the 17km mark, I spotted this old lady seated in a plastic chair by the side of the road. She clapped enthusiastically, just as many other Mumbaikars had, to cheer the runners. The old lady must have been about 80 years old; barely able to stand. Yet she braved the chill January air, her family stood around her, and applauded the runners along Peddar Road. And it is people like her that make the Mumbai marathon one of the very best in the world. I have run a few organised long runs. I have never seen such heartfelt participation as I have seen in Mumbai.

Plenty of kids, youngsters, old men and women lined the streets. Some held trays of biscuits, some a candy tray, others offered peeled oranges. Many just clapped and provided words of encouragement. Along Worli Seaface one man had set up an ad-hoc pain-relief-spray camp. He would spray the weary legs of runners who wanted the relief. When I ran past, there were at least 10 discarded cans of spray around him and his army of helpers. Another man had set up a pain-relief station with ice cubes wrapped in plastic sachets. He applied these instant ice packs on several weary calf muscles.

And then there were the banner holders. I remember one banner held aloft that said, "Have fun on your run. For this is your day in the sun." And there was another one near Peddar Road that cracked me up. A young girl held aloft a poster that read: "Run fast like you have stolen something." Posters like these deflect the attention of amateur runners from their tired legs! The many DJ stations that pumped out music, their words of encouragement and the Navy Band along Queen's Necklace helped too.

The constant applauding, the shouts of encouragement ("keep running there's not far to go") and the chants provided a constant fillip to exhausted legs; they add to the atmosphere and relieve the pain of running. That said, I'm not sure "Fire on the mountain run run run" was an entirely appropriate chant. My backside and legs were already on fire. The last thing I wanted was to run away from an imaginary fire on an imaginary mountain! Every now and then, one of the runners would shout “Ganapathi Bappa” and the few tired runners around him would dredge out a “moriya” in response.

These lovely people combined to add at least 4km to my weary and underprepared legs. It was a perfect day for running, but it was also a cold day for those that weren't running. But the gorgeous spectators were all there to make the Mumbai Marathon special in the running calendar.

I ran for a worthy cause: Vidya. They do some committed and fantastic work, and provide access to education to the underprivileged. If you are able to, please visit their website and give generously.

Oh, I did complete the half marathon. The finish time was unimportant. On a lovely and a perfect day for running, when many runners scored their personal best times, I scored my personal worst half marathon time of approximately 2 hours and 36 minutes (the official finish times will be released in a fortnight). However, for me, like those two wonderfully committed men, what was important was that I took part. Like those two wonderfully courageous men, it was all about "Run Mumbai Run”.

-- Mohan (@mohank)

A square peg in a round hole

2012-12-13T22:15:00.001+10:30

...of clichés and weasel words

My bank manager has been a very unhappy man for a long time. Yes, the same guy who has ‘I am not at my desk’ on his mobile phone voice mail. He has now become a good friend of mine because I empathize with him. I listen to him and I try to offer solutions to his (many) problems. He has often told me that he feels he is from a different generation. Much to my chagrin though, he insists on saying that he is from my generation. “Saar, I am from your generation,” he says in a desperate bid to find solace even though he is a good 10 years older than me.

His current problem is that he doesn’t quite fit in with the young and modern crowd at the bank. The young people at his bank are all fresh out of management schools – known as B-schools in these parts. When I hear that term I always ask: “Arre, I don’t care about those. Where the A-schools?”

I once went to the bank to meet with him and was stunned to see a sea of young faces all around. These young folk looked like Emraan Hashmi, Ranbir Kapoor and Virat Kohli in suit and tie. The poor fellow looked completely out of place in an office full of young people with gel-laden hair, tattoos and eyebrow-piercings. They were fresh, enthusiastic and young people: "dudes" apparently. The bank manager was told recently by one of these young dudes, “You are very old school dude,” to which the manager could only muster, “Arre, what are you talking? I did not go to school only. I worked my way up through the ranks. First you learn your facts and then talk.”

The kids laughed at him.

That was when he called me. He could not understand the language these kids spoke. “They do not speak English. The other day one of them wanted to kick a few tires. I have no idea why they want to do that,” he said and asked me for help.

So I attended a meeting at the bank to assess the extent of his problems. The manager introduced me as an external reviewer of a project that an Emraan Hashmi lookalike and Virat Kohli lookalike were working on.

After the introductions were over, Hashmi and Kohli launched into a speech on a new consumer product the bank was about to launch. I asked them to describe what the new idea was, what it was all about, what made it unique and different and what it would do for the Bank. Four simple questions, one would have thought. No?

Hashmi started off first. He said “We had lots of ideas but we needed to socialize them and workshop this holistically. We started with a blank slate and put in the hard yards. We needed to first chew the fat a bit. All ecosystem synergies were looked at synergistically before we decided that this one idea had legs.”

At this point, Kohli jumped in with his own verbiage: “This is a win-win proposition. If we can foster key relationships, we can create a paradigm shift and score goals. But for that we need to wrap our heads around this and be on the same page. However, we first needed to be proactive and blue sky this, for it won’t be a walk in the park for us. But this idea will certainly separate the men from the boys, the wheat from the chaff as long as we walk the talk. Because, unless we aim for the skies, we will shoot ourselves in the foot.”

I was already exhausted by then. So I put my hand up, stopped them and said I had not understood any of what they had said.

Hashmi said, “I see where you are coming from,” to which our bank manager jumped out of his seat and thundered, “Arre, how do you know where he is put up and why does it mater? Anyhow, he comes from Powai only.”

Clearly, we had a problem.

But Kohli ignored the interjection and carried on, “Look, all we need is to pick the low hanging fruit. For that we need to get a few runs on the board, push past first base and look at benchmarking this gig. We will be happy to loop you in and keep you engaged.”

I still had no idea what they were talking about and so asked for clarification. “Could you tell me what exactly this product is and what it will do?”

Kohli continued, “Oh that’s easy. We are starting with a clean slate on this one. All we need is a few quick wins under our belt. From then on, all we need is to burn the candle at both ends, live it, breathe it 24-7-365 and get past first base. There are a few issues to iron out but we will certainly attempt to close the loop in a key manner.”

“Oh yes I do understand all of that,” I said, at which point my bank manager immediately fell at my feet and asked, “You really do?”

I smiled at him, looked at Hashmi and Kohli and asked for clarifications on what they were talking about. I said “I know you guys are talking about something important but I do not know what it is.” Then, in a bid to join them, I asked, “Can you give me a thirty five thousand feet view of what this idea is all about?”

Hashmi said, “Oh that is easy. We have been underperforming as a unit. We decided to right-size our operations, wear out our shoe leathers and step up to the plate. At the end of the day, when rubber hit road, we decided that we did not have the bandwidth to do anything other than to stick to our knitting. We stuck to our core-competencies while we thought out of the box. We had to tear down our silos, and harvest fresh ideas. We developed a go-forward strategy, managed expectations and developed an open-door approach to synergise thoughts. We leveraged all talents and brought all minds to the plate. We had put many ideas to the basement and we left many others in the parking lot. But we put a stake in the ground with a winner. It has a wonderful value proposition.”

I was getting highly exasperated with this excruciatingly painful diarrhea of weaselwords. These two boys were extremely well spoken and well dressed (and well paid too). But they also appeared to be good at saying a lot without saying anything at all. By now, I was beginning to develop new respect my bank manager. “Yes, all that is fine, but I didn’t ask how. I asked what?” I shouted, and for good measure I added with a smile, “This is the third time I am asking what is it that you are attempting to do... and as you know from your B-school notes, generally, three strikes and you are out.”

Kohli jumped in at this point, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp, white, neatly-ironed Pierre Cardin shirt and said, “See, as we said, we needed to address the elephant in the room. We were not right sized. We needed to level-set expectations for we had far too many chiefs and not too many Indians. We hired a change-agent and made him the go-to guy to run with this gig. We empowered him fully and convinced ourselves that he would not drop the ball. We had a hot potato in our hands. So we carefully looked at benchmarks and best practice methodologies to ballpark this. We also carried out due diligence and applied the 80-20 rule to many other ideas that struck us from left-field. We then decided to home run this one. We have built in redundancies for we don’t want to be thrown under a bus and be caught on the hop.”

I had had enough. I said to Kohli and Hashmi, “I don’t think you have compared apples with apples on this product. This idea has to be moth-balled. There, I have declared all my cards. Let's touch base later. We may need to take the rest of this offline guys,” and got up suddenly.

I looked at the bank manager and told him that he was, unfortunately, a ‘square peg in a round hole’ and left.

-- Mohan (@mohank)

Motivation cycles and rhythms...

2012-12-11T01:58:00.000+10:30

I do not like intensely motivated people who get up every day at 5am to go for a jog or a gym session. These are the sorts of people who use the phrase “24x7x365” a lot in everyday conversations even with their drivers. You know what this kind of person would do that is most irritating? At a critical juncture in a work meeting they’d stretch their calf muscles and squeeze their face in agony. One of the people around the table would inevitably ask, “Everything all right?” to which the calf stretcher would often say: “Oh, nothing much, really. I overdid my run today,” pretend as though everyone else in the room wanted to hear the rest of the story and continue, “I should have stopped at the 33 kilometre mark, but continued on to complete 35 kilometres. That probably did it for me.”

That sort of intensely motivated person... The world is full of these types of people.

This sort of person brings such supreme levels of motivation, drive, determination, energy, commitment and focus to everything they do, whether it is running, gymming, work, studies or even the organisation of the office football competition. They give the anal in analytical a new meaning. This sort of person scares me more than Himesh Reshamaiyya. This sort of person appears to have no imperfections at all.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a bit of a runner and a gym fiend too. I too get up at 5am and there are work meetings when I get severe cramps in my calf muscles. But I go through cycles of intensity in everything I do. There are phases when I am intensely focussed on an outcome and will work incredibly hard to get there. For example, November (2012) was a tough month for me from a work perspective. It was also a month when there was much non-work nonsense that was swirling around too.

However, what I did first in November was to cut out much of the obvious distractions (Twitter and Facebook, for example). We live in an age of monumental distractions; each with its own customizable alert tone or vibration. If an incoming email doesn’t compel you to reply immediately, even as you run on the treadmill, your Facebook will let you know, through yet another unique alert tone, that someone liked the silly picture you put up just a few seconds before you hit the gym. Most of us are almost always on the losing side of the distraction battle that today’s electronic media has with us and imposes on us.

In November, I defined my purpose and goal rather clearly and succinctly. More importantly, I was able to rid myself of debilitating negativities that tend to make the ‘calf stretcher’ look better than they actually are. For me, at times like these, I also work on shortening the list of things I do rather than lengthening; which is a temptation because there is just so much to do. I prioritize my goals rather brutally. Being productive is not about doing everything. It is about doing a few things really well. I write these down as a reminder and only focus on these.

All of this delivered the focus that enabled me to get through that work-month... and more. I was productive even though I put in many 3-hour sleep nights and 15-hour work days. My gym work and my running suffered. I had no sore calf muscles to draw attention to at work meetings. And I did not organize any office football competition. But I got through the month even though it was an imperfect month when seen through the lens of my personal fitness.

Now this is an imperfection that the intensely motivated person perhaps does not have. They focus on a few things and do them really well; they drive these to within an inch of perfection.

I am not like that. I exist in what I call ‘motivation cycles’. I like that rhythm, that imperfection and that lack of continuous focus to everything I do; and I do have many interests that ebb and flow over time.

I go through periods of lethargy. A very good friend of mine refers to this by asking me whether I am in the ‘fit or fat’ part of my fitness motivation cycle. I go through similar cycles in all other pursuits of mine; professional and otherwise.

I do normally get up at 5am and, after sending out a few work emails, I am either out on a run or I hit the gym for at least an hour and a half before I head out to work. However, when there are other priorities – such as my work-intense November – I am able to switch priorities quite easily. I easily slip into the trough-phase of my fitness regimen. I remember there were days in November when I would get up at 5am – having only slept at 2am – with the intention of going for a run. I would wash my face, don my running clothes and stealthily climb back into bed without even a semblance of guilt; I soaked it.

Even after my intense November work-phase concluded, I just could not bring myself to get into that gym routine for a week. Perhaps it was the mental exhaustion caused by work. Or perhaps I had reached a burn-out point. I just had to get out of the trough; the valley of the Sine curve I existed in. I knew I would. I had done that before too.

At times like these I rarely beat myself up with a wet towel; I build resolve. I accept, embrace, understand and cope with the resultant guilt. I do not deny the sloth. I grow determination instead.

I then monitor the return carefully until the endorphins slowly take over again. There is a process to this. I maintain records in this period; records of how much I run each day, or how far I cycled, or what weight I pressed on the bench press. I am most cautious and deliberate at times like these without beating myself up; I try and identify the reason for the sloth (usually mental exhaustion or other work personal priorities). And I am more honestly observant of myself at these points in time than at any other point in time on the motivation curve. The most important step in this journey is monitoring the return process honestly, deliberately and slowly. It works. Always.

Especially if you are not one of those intensely motivated people who like to complain about their insanely taut calf muscles at meetings...

--Mohan (@mohank)

The ruffian and the gentleman: a long short story

2012-11-29T23:55:00.000+10:30

As we drove from Karnataka into the newly carved state of Madipur, I noticed immediately the colours, texture and function of the land had changed significantly since I had left the place.We drove from the lovely and expansive Bengaluru Airport along the new expressway, which ran through Malgudi before cutting through the new state of Madipur. The lazy countryside gave way to concrete, glass and steel. There was a markedly different tone and rhythm to Madipur City, the capital of Madipur state.

The Madipur City I grew up in was lethargic. Today, it was the hub of knowledge outsourcing. Most of the world’s largest companies had moved their research and development centers to Madipur. This new state had much to offer: an abundance of talent, natural resources, lovely weather, institutes of science and technology, proximity to the Bengaluru International Airport, and much more.

In exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, I had reached the Madipur Vidhan Sabha. 'It would take me that long to get from the Bengaluru Airport to Indiranagar,' I thought, as I got out of the car that had ferried me to the new legislative assembly building of Madipur. The exhaustively interconnected metro that was promised for Bengaluru was 20 years in the making and still incomplete. In direct contrast, Madipur had a fully interconnected metro network and a lovely system of roads. As we drove in to Madipur City, a large sign welcomed us: ‘Visit the State with no scams and traffic jams’.

The Vidhan Sabha of Madipur was an impressive building. Imagine the Vidhan Soudha in Bengaluru. Multiply its expanse by an order of magnitude and give it a coat of dark red paint. That was the Vidhan Sabha. Indeed, Madipur represented exactly what Bengaluru would have been but for the latter’s governance void, trust deficit and distinct lack of visionary leadership. In the beginning, constructing a new state adjoining Karnataka would have been hard. There was always the possibility the vibrant Bengaluru, with its greenery, its lively bars, strong educational institutions and young people would overshadow Madipur. However, within a short period, the young and the old had slowly moved out of Bengaluru to settle down in Madipur, “a happening place which is simultaneously a pensioner’s paradise, a hipster’s heaven, a dreamer’s delight and a teenager’s thrill location,” Poly Narayana Reddy, Madipur’s chief minister would say to me later that day. He clearly loved his alliterations.

He loved other things too, like food. But more importantly for Madipur, he had extraordinary vision and drove towards it with the energy of a man possessed. When he was elected to power as Madipur’s first chief minister, he declared he would make it the ‘cleanest and most progressive state in India’. In just 10 years, he was ready for the next big goal, having already satisfied his stated goal when he first took over as chief minister. “People talk about ‘single window’ government operations. In Madipur, we do not believe in either windows or doors. We believe in open plan offices,” he once said in an interview. Since he became chief minister, things he said were constantly quoted in business magazines; nearly 40 journal articles and case studies had been written on him and his style of open governance.

And I was here, in Madipur, to meet with him.

He had met me in New York the previous month where he was due to give a keynote address at a large management junket – sorry, conference! I was a part of the panel discussion that immediately followed his keynote address. He spotted me in the audience during his talk and waved. After his talk he came up to me, embraced me and said, “How are you Siddharth? We do not have much time to talk now, but you must come to Madipur. I need you there,” and quickly departed. I was amazed he remembered me. We weren't friends when we had grown up together in Madipur City. We went to the same college. However, we had had only a few dealings in my time there. I also thought he would forget our meeting in New York. However, two weeks later, I got a call from his office. The chief secretary to the Madipur state called me and asked if I would visit the city as a guest of the chief minister, Poly Narayana Reddy.

I stood outside his office wing and said, “My name is Siddharth Rao and I...” and before I could finish my sentence, Poly Reddy’s PA said, “Sure, we are expecting you. Please walk with me sir” and whisked me into the chief minister’s wing. It was called ‘The People’s Wing’ of the building.

Colourful modern paintings adorned the walls, which were all painted in solid colours and included sharp, clean corners. The furniture has sleek and, like the walls, had sharp corners. A few large plants in large earthen pots decorated the floor and helped accent the visual appeal just appropriately. Much like the people that worked in it, the place had a welcoming yet businesslike feel to it. I stood in the waiting are for exactly two minutes before I was asked to go into the chief minister’s office.

He was a big impressive man, with a thick mustache He wore spectacles these days. He had a rather neat and cuddly tummy. That part hadn't changed. Indeed, when I was in college in Madipur, I would often wonder why he was known as Poly Reddy or Poly Narayana. Initially, I thought this was because of his cute little paunch, shaped like the ghatam, the percussive instrument often used in Carnatic music concerts. I thought his girth, the ghatam and his roly-poly appearance gave him his nickname. He would always rest his folded hands at the top of his pot, much like a ghatam player would. Sometimes when he was unhappy, his palms would rest face up at the top of the pot. That was when you knew you were in trouble; and with Poly Narayana ‘trouble’ meant losing your knee cap at the very least. It was only later that I found out that ‘poly’ had nothing to do with his roly-poly appearance. It actually translated to ‘nasty fellow’ in Kannada; that was where he had inherited his moniker from.

His office had a wall of books on a range of subjects. There were several management and self-help books. Books by Christensen and Gladwell appeared to have been read many timesover. But the shelves also had Krylov, Pushkin, Gorky, Nabokov, Havel, Garcia-Marquez, Miller, Mahfouz and more. These weren't mere show pieces either. Through the day, he would quote from Nabakov or Mahfouz. He had actually read these books and recalled passages from them. This was a guy that hardly spoke English when we were at college together.

Poly Reddy wore a dark blue Armani suit and, as always, wore Hermes cologne. Even in his college days, when he walked you felt he ruled the world. He didn't believe in slouching, nor did he drag his feet. His was a walk of a confident, arrogant man. “The word humility does not exist in my dictionary,” he told me once while we were at college together nearly 20 years ago and, on seeing my raised eyebrows, continued, “...and although I could get a new dictionary, I prefer this one that I have.” I had one look at the way he went through his work that morning and was convinced that Poly Reddy had not yet procured that new dictionary. He did not need it.

He signed many papers that morning as I waited. It was fascinating to see the man in operation. He would sign papers with a flourish that represented poise and self-belief.

He looked at me briefly, peered through the papers he was signing, and said “Two more minutes Sid. I will be done here and then I am all yours,” and, as he took off his sun glasses, he paused and added, “...for the rest of the day.” I immediately wondered why he wore sunglasses inside his office. But I didn't linger on that thought for too long. I was, instead, concentrating on what Poly Reddy had just said. I had just heard him say “...I am all yours, for the rest of the day”; this was simultaneously worrying and comforting. How would I engage with him for the rest of the day? What would we talk about? Even if he brought it up, I was certainly not going to talk about our largely murky past. Even though I remained worried and strangely comforted, I was confident of what I could and did not want to talk about. And that was one major difference this time: I was no longer in awe of the man.

I was in awe of the man when we were at college together. I was always the studious guy and would never interact with Poly Reddy, who was already developing a reputation as a deadly ruffian. I was studying Maths and he, law. So we really did not have much interaction. I would see him from a distance every now and then. For some reason, he had taken a huge liking to me and would always nod or smile at me. I would be simultaneously worried and comforted. But I was also in awe of his swagger, his confidence, his walk, his very being.

However, I stayed clear of him because he worried me. Yet, my past interactions with Poly Reddy were not orchestrated by me though. It involved a girl called Malini.

I thought about Malini and how I had fallen in love with her. I was 17 and in the first year of my two-year pre-university course (year 11). Malini was warm, bubbly, extroverted and incredibly loquacious. She was also exactly what the testosterone of some 30 boys in our class needed at that time. Of the 20 girls in the group, she was the one that everyone wanted to talk to and be with. For over a month I plotted strategy after failed strategy, on how I might approach her and ask her out for a coffee when, one day, she made the first move. As our Chemistry lecturer was spotted walking down the corridor, I sat down in the chair in front of her. I leaned back to rest my back on her writing desk when she pulled the desk towards her. In a matter of seconds, I lost my balance and my head was, instead, on her knee. I looked up at her face and saw her smile in a benign and inviting manner. I fell in love immediately. The connection was thus made. The rest of the class was more electricity and biology than chemistry!

At the end of that hour, I actually didn't need to ask Malini out to coffee. We just ended up at the coffee shop. We didn't talk much. We didn't need to. Indeed, we rarely did. We just sat and stared at each other as 17 year old kids tend to do. This would soon become our regular routine at the end of our day. There were no posh coffee shops in those days. This was in the pre-CCD era. So Malini and I would go to the nearby coffee shop, which we fondly used to refer to as ‘Cholera Bhavan’,and stare into each other’s eyes as we sipped our coffees from a glass. After our post-college coffee, I would drop her home, which was one suburb away from my own home. I would drop her at the end of the street her house was on; her parents could not see us together. Not yet anyway. Occasionally, we would go to a slightly posh restaurant. Even there, we would mostly look into each other’s eyes. From time to time we would talk about Arun or Amit or Lalita or Swaroopini and laugh at their immense immaturity, their tendency to gossip or their inability to spend money on their friends. Every fortnight, we would go to a Hindi movie. Neither of us understood Hindi, but that was hardly the point of going to the movies. We walked in the park, we held hands and wanted the world to know that we were an ‘item’. We didn't care what people said. There was a song that released around that time that became the catch cry for us lover types. The words ‘khullam khullapyar karenge hum dono’ from that song became our refrain.

Life was good.

That was until Soma Prasad paid a visit to the park bench near my home one day and asked for me. When I wasn’t with Malini, my friends and I would gather at this park bench to either play or talk about cricket. On that particular day, when Soma came calling, I was with Malini at the movies. He apparently asked for me by name.

Everyone knew Soma as the local goon. He walked around with a knife hanging down the front of his trousers. He was always dressed in a tight yellow T-shirt and had a thick gold chain hanging down the front of it. The chain had a Volkswagen emblem at the end of it. I was never quite sure why this was the case, but that was what he always wore. Soon though, one gold chain grew into two and then 10; so much so that we used to sometimes refer to him as Chotta Bappi, for while he had the chains, he was only a quarter the size of the legendary gold-chain-loving musician of that era. Soma was a thug and he wore his gangster tag with immense pride. No one from our locality crossed Soma’s path. Of course, I was oblivious to Soma’s existence. I was either lost in my books or on Malini those days.

The next day, Soma came visiting again. He came over and warned me to not go out with Malini ever again, “aa Malini nann area hudigi, bit-bidu siva illandre ninage yen agaththe gothilla...” he said in Kannada. (“That Malini is from my area. Drop her otherwise I don’t know what will happen to you...”)

I told him I didn't speak Kannada but, nevertheless, understood what he was saying. I also told him, “Can’t do. Sorry.” and went on to describe the history of property and possession of property. I talked about possession as enshrined in law from the times of Renaissance Europe and of how human beings were deliberately and pointedly excluded from such ownership laws. I told him that Malini wasn't anybody’s property: not mine or his. I was incredibly angry at that stage, but also incredibly stupid, for Soma was less than impressed with the law lecture and was beginning to lose his shape.

He showed me a knife and told me that if I did not stop seeing Malini, he would have to use it. I walked away, but I was determined that I would not allow a goon to dictate what I did in my life.

By then, I was having second thoughts about Malini. I wasn't really in love with her. We had gone past the ‘who can stare the longest into the other person's eyes and still show immense love’ stage. I needed exciting conversation more than I needed the eye exercise. I was convinced that Malini was not the one for me and was contemplating how to end that relationship. However, I was doubly convinced that I would not end the relationship on a thug’s say so. So Malini and I continued the hand holding and the eye exercises for another week.

Soma came calling again. This time, he came with two other people, who stood behind him, arms folded while Soma talked. Well, he didn't really talk as much as barked. He asked me why I hadn't stopped seeing Malini yet. I started talking about the origins of European Law once again when he lifted his right elbow and crashed it into my jaw. The speed of that one simple movement was enough for my jaw to crack. I felt my teeth rattle so hard, I thought they had all dislodged from their sockets. I could barely feel my jaw and doubled over. As I doubled over, he brought his knee up slightly. My forehead thudded into his knee. Everything happened so quickly. In just under five seconds, I was bruised and defeated. Soma and his two hooligan friends left saying he would not like to visit again the following week.

I was jolted back into the present by the strong smell of Hermes. Poly Reddy was hugging me.

While I was lost in my recall of the Malini-Soma episode, Poly Reddy had said to his PA that he had had enough for the day. He had asked everyone to leave his office. He had taken his Oakley sunglasses off and sat them on top of his head. He smiled as he hugged me; it wasn't merely a hug. His was a violent embrace.

The glasses were off and remained off for the rest of the day. I could see his eyes. They were fierce and determined; they were also the eyes of a tired man.

Poly Reddy and I talked continuously that day. We talked a lot about the Madipur that he had fought for, about his vision for his state. We talked about his passion for good governance and about how he wanted to show to the world that we could, in India, build a model city and state that the entire world could aspire to. He said, “I want the young people of my state to have career options and prosperity that people like you thought you could only secure by leaving the country.” He showed me that day that he had reinvented himself into a wonderful gentleman; a man with a large heart that had passion, pride and a place in it for everyone.

The ruffian had given way to a gentleman.

He was certainly a very different man from the Poly Narayana Reddy I knew in college. We talked of that man he was in college. We talked about how we first interacted with each other immediately after my needless interface with Soma.

The day after my close interaction with Soma’s elbow and knee, I was badly bruised and my face sported deep purple blobs the size of baby mushrooms. I told my parents that I had fallen down the stairs at college. I don’t think they bought that at all. My father, Srinivas Rao, looked at me, shook his head despairingly, and walked away; we communicated mainly through a series of grunts those days. I did go to college that day even though I was bruised. Although, to be honest, I think my ego was bruised more than my face was. However, I was convinced that I would need to go through another meeting with Soma. And another. And another. I wasn't going to give up on my right to a choice.

Quite by accident, I met Poly Reddy at the college entrance that day. I really did not know why Poly Reddy needed a college education. He wasn't interested in studies. He would turn up every day for a few hours, talk to a few girls, eat some tiffin and head back home. He was the son of a wealthy businessman and land owner in Madipur. He drove to college in a chauffeur driven BMW car -- these were times when CEOs of large companies could barely afford an Ambassador car. The previous year, he saw me act in Macbeth as Mark Anthony. We played 10 nights in the college auditorium and he was there every night. He would stand up and applaud after the ‘Friends Romans and Countrymen’ speech. Every night. And he couldn't speak one full sentence of English. Yet, he would attend every play I acted in. There was a connection between us that was as baffling as it was deep. I couldn't quite understand the connection.

He wanted me to teach him English. “Teach me to talk like you,” he said one day. He knew I wanted to go overseas and study some more. He used to say he was proud to know a guy like me who spoke “such perfect English”. He wanted to speak English like me and wanted to be a lawyer. He told me once in Kannada, “I know you will become a big shot in the US. Me, I only want to wear suits and cooling glasses and work as a lawyer somewhere in India itself.”

Poly Reddy met me at the college gates that morning. He took one look at my bruised face and raised an eyebrow. That was his style. He wouldn't ask directly. He would gesture with his eyes, his hands or his face. I said the bruises were nothing much and tried to move away. But he would have none of that. He stopped me in my tracks and asked, “Who beat you up? I don’t even want to know why? Just say who?”

There was concern, empathy and anger in his voice. I had no idea why he sought me out. We never talked at college, but he would seek me out always. We would say a hello or raise eyebrows and that would be all. But he would always look out for me those days.And today, there was anger too. I tried to avoid the issue. But he pressed and demanded an answer. He saw through the ‘fell down the stairs’ attempt and said,“Just tell me who.”

So, I told him what had happened and immediately sensed his anger and consternation. I told him that this was something that I would go through, on my own.

That night, he called me and said, “Come to the Narayanapura grounds at 11am tomorrow. Sharp,” and hung up. I did not know what to make of it. I knew it wasn't to play cricket. Poly did not play any sport, as evidenced by his immense size. I went to the grounds at ‘11am sharp’ as I was instructed. My worst fears were confirmed when I spotted Soma on the cricket pitch. I saw a crowd of 10 people standing next to the cricket pitch. Soma had been summoned at '10.30am sharp'. Apparently Soma had arrived there and for half hour Poly Reddy and he had been talking about the state of local politics. The moment Poly Reddy spotted my approach towards the cricket pitch he pointed out to me and asked Soma if he knew his ‘very good, beloved and most lovable friend Siddharth’. As Poly said this he rested his palms on his belly, face up. Soma immediately fell to Poly Reddy’s feet and asked for forgiveness, “nanigge gothilla guru, bitt-bidu nann-na,” he said (“Leave me alone boss. I did not know at all”). But Poly did not stop there. He did not let Soma get away. He held the knife that one of his henchmen handed to him and marked Soma’s thigh with deep gash. As Soma yelled in pain and anguish, Poly said that that gash should serve as a reminder to Soma to never mess around with a good friend of his.

He then turned to me and said,“Now continue your romance without fear.”

My teeth clattered uncontrollably at the sight of blood, the knife, the sound of pain and the brutal aggression I had just witnessed. Without my knowledge, I stuttered and spluttered my way through a lecture on the principle of property as enshrined in European Law. Poly Reddy waved me away and asked me to go home.

The next day I met Poly and told him that I was not impressed with what had happened. I told him that I was not interested in the staring exercises I had been indulging in lately. I told him that I was also not impressed with him defending my rights and my principles, especially in the manner he had and especially when I had not requested such help. I told him that he had no right to protect me or defend me or make me an accomplice to thuggery. I protested vehemently and told him that it was my problem to solve and confront. Not his.

He said, “Principle or love, your choice. To defend you or not, my choice. Now go.”

There was something unsettling about it though. I wondered if that choice he had made came with a price tag.

It did.

“Here have some coffee,” he said as we walked around the lawns of Madipur’s Vidhan Sabha, thereby jolting me out of the Soma episode. He would tell me later that Soma worked for him these days as his principal private secretary.

The Vidhan Sabha in Madipur was an impressive building. There were no security machines, no gun-toting policemen, no barricades. People could walk in and out of the building when they wanted to. “It is, after all,theirs. We are merely temporary residents of this building, occupying it with the people’s permission,” Poly Reddy told me.

The facade of the Sabha was like the Vidhan Soudha in Bangalore. However, behind the facade was a large lawn that covered the rest of the building. The assembly hall was buried under this lawn. Madipur’s people were invited to sit, eat and play on the lawn above. He would tell me later, “Like the parliament house in Canberra, I wanted the people to be able to sit and walk on top of the assembly area as a constant reminder to us legislators that we are only here for one purpose: to serve the people who stand above us.”

He took me on a tour of the property later on. And as we walked on the lawns I noticed a sign out of the corner of my eye. It read: “Please walk on the grass”. I had seen that sign before. It was in the botanical gardens in Sydney. The sign spoke of confidence and courage; it spoke of humility and it spoke of sharing.

As we walked around the lawn he told me of his political career and his future ambitions. It was impossible not to be swayed by his energy, his dynamism, and his animated and expansive style. He looked me in the eye and said he wanted me there. He said he had followed my career as a scientist and then as a science policy maker in Washington. He seemed to know every single project I had worked on; every single paper I had written; every single publicly available policy document I had authored. He said that he admired my own energy and drive and said that he wanted me in Madipur to help him make his beloved state an even better place. He talked about how he had completed his law degree, practiced law and moved into politics; a move that was as natural as it was necessary.

He then said, “None of this would have been possible without you.”

I didn't quite see it that way, maybe because that reminder embarrassed me thoroughly. It left a sour taste in my mouth and the only way of me coping with the discomfiture was for me to push it to the dark recesses of my mind. I was in denial. I shuddered every time I remembered what I had done as 'payback'.

Yes, there was ‘payback’ for his defense of me against the wrath of Soma.

A few months after the Soma-leg-marking incident, Poly came home. He had never been to my home up until then. He said he needed a favour. “I need a big favour from you,” he said, and the moment he said that I knew I was in trouble. He was a proud man. He seldom asked people for favours. He said it was his lifelong ambition to become a lawyer. He said he had attempted three papers twice already and had failed in all attempts. He had one more attempt at passing “property law”, “advanced English” and “interpretation of statues”. I had to remind him first that it was statutes and not statues that needed to be interpreted. I then told him that I would be happy to tutor him on these courses even though I wasn't an expert in these topics. I was already thinking ahead at the work I had to do myself to score well in my own final exams when he said, “No I do not want to be tutored. I want you to write these exams for me!”

I could not believe what I was hearing. I said I had no familiarity with the content and had my own exams to pass. Moreover, I told him that I wasn't a cheat and did not want to get apprehended for being one. I told him that it was blatantly wrong to be an imposter in an examination. “It is totally against the law,” I said, pointing to the subtle irony that these were law exams we were talking about.

I protested. But my protests were ineffective. He assured me that the invigilators in the exam hall would turn a blind eye. They had all been paid off. He said he was confident I could study the courses and pass them for him. All my protests were useless. He said he had had other people write the previous two attempts too, “All useless,” he said. In the end, he said, “You have no choice guru. You have to write these exams for me. No one in my village has a law degree. No one in my family knows what a degree is. I want it. And you have to help me get it,”and placed his palms on his tummy, face up as he said this.

And so I studied ‘interpretation of statutes’ and ‘property law’. The irony did not escape me, for after all it was my allusion to ‘property law’ that got me into trouble with Soma in the first place. I studied for my own exams too. All the invigilators in the law school exams knew I was a petty imposter. I felt horrible and irrelevant. In my own eyes, I was worse than a common thief. Even though I did not seem to have a choice in the matter, I was angry, bitter, repulsed and nauseated. This was wrong at so many levels. But the exam invigilators turned away as I wrote the three papers furiously. In each case, I walked out of the exam hall in two hours in three-hour exams.

Poly Reddy passed. Indeed, he had scored the highest marks in the college in these three papers. He came home when the results were announced and told me he had secured a ‘first class’ in these three examinations. He hugged me and said I had no idea what this ‘achievement’ did to him. He told me that I could ask him for anything I wanted. I reminded him that this wasn't his achievement. I told him that the only thing I wanted was to never be reminded of this horrible offence I had committed. He agreed to this and as he left, I said I had another request, “Never make contact again. Ever.”

My awe had given way to anger. Slowly, that anger dissolved and was replaced with indifference. I was also in denial of my own wrongdoing.

That was then.

Today, Poly Reddy talked to me from across the table. He was the chief minister and wanted me to work with him. He said to me, “I have followed your career with great interest. I know you talked to Malini saying you wanted to end it the very next day after our little event in that cricket ground. I know you went to Harvard to complete your PhD in computational chemistry and then become a professor. I know that even though you stopped publishing science papers 2 years ago, you still have an h-index of 42. I know you specialize now in Science policy.” He said he needed my help in Madipur. He wanted the best companies to come to Madipur and set up their R&D facilities there. He wanted the best colleges and universities to come to Madipur and develop talent there. He said,“You need to work with me to achieve this vision. You need to give back to the place that made you.”

I got up slowly and placed my palms on my own tiny belly. Face up.

I told him I had lived with the examination blot on my conscience for way too long. Despite the remarkable progress he had made for Madipur, this was not what I wanted as a constant reminder. And despite his own progress as a human being, and regardless of his immense energy, vision and passion, I told him that he wasn't a person I wanted to work with. I told him, "You are an impressive gentleman today. But I cannot forget the ruffian that forced me to be a cheat."

His hand too rested on his ghatam; his palms, face up.

His shoulders tightened. I feared that he would force me to do something I did not want to, again. But then, after what seemed like an eternity, his shoulders drooped. He then jumped up from his chair, rushed forward and hugged me. He thanked me for my honesty and said ruefully, “...Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.” He was even quoting Shakespeare now! He then said, “Go in peace Siddharth. I understand. Some blots are indelible and are impossible to remove from the copybook.”

He waved me goodbye at the end of the day and as I drove away, I noticed his folded hands. His palm rested atop his ghatam, face down...

- Mohan (@mohank)

The 34k Mark

2012-10-30T02:48:00.000+10:30

I've learned the most when I've been pushed to the edge, cornered.

I was reminded of this the other day when Arathi (@miffalicious) said on Twitter: "Your true strength is identified when you soldier through immense difficulties despite how vulnerable you feel."

I don’t quite know why, but that statement immediately reminded me of the first full marathon that I attempted; The Melbourne Marathon. This was several years ago. I had trained intensely for this race. In the lead up, I had read every single online ‘marathon training for beginners’ guide and built my own specialized program. I don’t know what I was trying to prove and to whom. However, I knew I always wanted to run, but couldn't. I would only be able to run 100m before collapsing in a heap due to acute shin splints. Yet, I never lost the desire to run.

So I learned how to run. I learned to blot out pain. I strengthened my shins. I sought the advice of experts. I visited and started a relationship of utter trust and dependence with Jane, my physiotherapist. And then I started to run long distances. At first, I didn't care about distances. I would run songs. I’d run one song, then two, then three, then four. Soon, I was running 10 songs. I needed to fill my iPod shuffle with more and more songs. The songs had to all be between 80 and 85 beats per minute. I could not run to any other beat. The rhythm was more important than the melody. The songs were as much a drug as the endorphins produced in long distance runners that gave me the 'runner's high'.

A few years later, I was able to run 25 songs and I completed several half marathons.

But that wasn't enough. I wanted to run 50 songs. I wanted to run the Melbourne Marathon. I signed up for it, and devised a training program for myself. I got a colleague, a veteran marathoner, to look at the program I had devised. I commenced my training only after he gave it the seal of approval. I had all my gear ready right at the start: the shoes I’d train in; the shoes I’d ‘wear in’ a few weeks before race day; a new heart-rate monitor; a new watch; 'skins' for recovery; energy gels; magnesium tablets; and more. I was prepared. I then embarked on a substantially rigorous 16-week training program.

I was meticulous in my training and did everything possible to ensure that I was in the best shape I could be to attempt this goal. I don’t remember missing even a day’s training due to lack of motivation or lethargy. If I missed a day’s training it was only because I was unwell. Even when I traveled inter-state for work in those 16 weeks, I would carry out the training that was scheduled for the day.

It was grueling, but fun. I always undertook my long runs on Sundays with my running buddies. I remember some incredibly tough and unpleasant long runs that I undertook and some of the more pleasant ones too. A week before the race, when we were meant to complete a 38 kilometre run – my longest ever run up until then – we encountered terrible weather. It was windy, gusty and presently it started to rain as well. We were two kilometers into the start of our training when we stood at a traffic light, hopping from one leg to the other in order to keep ourselves warm. We waited to cross the road on to Beach Road in Melbourne. That day, were to run along the Esplanade and then along Beach Road for 12 kilometers before turning back. A cyclist had stopped by our side and asked, “Long way to go?” We had just started our long run for the day. I said, “Yeah, 38 today, 36 left,” to which he asked, “Minutes?” I replied: “No kilometers!” The expression on his face is one I will never forget. He mumbled, “In this weather? You guys are mad,” and cycled off at great speed. But we completed our training that day and tapered off for the rest of the week before the big day.

On race day, I was completely focused and felt I was really well prepared. As we walked up to the start point just outside the MCG and as we were flagged off, I was confident this would be a good day for me. As we ran along Lakeside Drive, where the Melbourne Formula 1 race is conducted every year, I was humming; perhaps even 'motoring' along quite nicely! I remained confident and collected for much of that part of the run. I remembered the simple tips I had picked up in the preceding months: ‘Do not go out too fast’, ‘Hydrate regularly’, 'Expel bad air from the lungs regularly'. I was doing just fine. At the half-marathon mark, I had achieved my personal best time for a half-marathon. At that point, I even had dreams of a sub-four-hour full marathon finish time, which would have been just great.

And then the weather turned nasty as we ran back up Beach Road, after the half way point. The previous weeks’ training run along this road was a walk in the park in comparison. On the day, it was hot, windy and dusty. At one point, I had dust in my mouth and occasionally, a leaf would slap me in the face with a force that simultaneously stung and woke me up.

‘But all that training that I had put in will come good,’ I said to myself as I maintained my pace as we headed along the lovely Beach Road. I had the choppy blue ocean on my left and the lovely, expensive $1m houses of Beach Road lining the road on my right. But I had eyes only for the road ahead. The scenery could wait. The rich folk who stood on their glass-edged balconies and waved the runners along as they sipped their morning coffees could also wait.

Around the 34k mark, just as I had run up Fitzroy Street, I turned left onto St Kilda Road. I remember telling myself ‘All I need to do now is plod along this lovely tree-lined street for a few kilometers, head off right down Birrarung Marr and into the grounds of the MCG before completing the marathon with a lap inside the MCG.’

You see, the Melbourne Marathon concludes inside the MCG. It concludes with a lap of The ‘G’. For a cricket tragic like me, there can be no better joy than the completion of a long and exhausting run inside what must rank as the finest sporting Colosseum in the world. The grass had played host to the shoes and the soles of heroes of mine from the cricketing world like Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, Mark Taylor, Sunil Gavaskar, Alan Border, Steve Waugh, David Gower, Richard Hadlee, Imran Khan, Kapil Dev, Saurav Ganguly, The West Indies Team from the 1970s and more. I would have an opportunity to run on that turf too.

In a bit. In a bit.

But that wasn’t on my mind as I trudged up the nasty Fitzroy Street incline, and reached the 34k mark in the race. Mind you, the incline is not really 'nasty'. But after having run nearly 33km in hot, dusty and terribly windy conditions, even a gradual and kind 10-meter gain over the one kilometre that Fitzroy Street represents can be quite an experience.

As I turned right from Beach Road the coffee and breakfast smells of the cafes the lined Fitzroy Street hit me. The chairs that decorated the pavement were filled with people who applauded the marathoners that ran, or walked, or trudged or labored up the gentle incline. Some of the morning breakfast-goers clapped. Some of them offered a word of encouragement. All of them sipped coffee or bit into their wholemeal fruit bread toast on this Sunday morning.

I was hurting. I could barely feel my feet. My thighs were burning. I think I had a rash of sorts under my left armpit. My back hurt. My calf muscles twitched. I was in pain and was digging deep to try and blot it all out.

And that is when I told myself for the first time, “Why am I doing this really?”

For me, that was immediately a sign of trouble. All through my training, I had never questioned the goal. I just accepted it, embraced it and did everything I needed to do in order to ensure success. And here I was, laboring up Fitzroy Street, questioning why I was putting myself through what I was doing. It is then that I knew I had to dig deep. The months of training would have to pay off. I had to find that inner strength that would enable me to "soldier through immense difficulties despite how vulnerable" I felt.

At the top of Fitzroy Street, I remember fondly that I was passed by ‘Digger’. Now, Bruce ‘Digger’ Hargreaves is one of the Spartan Legends of the Melbourne Marathon; an exclusive club of marathoners who have completed over 10 Melbourne Marathons. Digger is also a part of the '100 Marathon Club', a collection of runners who have clocked more than 100 marathons around the world. On that day Digger crossed me as part of the 4 hr 30 min ‘pacing bus’. In fact, he was the pacing bus.

Clearly, my pace had slipped considerably. I was now being crossed by the 4:30 pacing bus. From entertaining thoughts, however briefly, of a sub-four-hour completion, I was now looking at a completion time of at least 4 hours and 30 mins, if not more. I looked up at the sign that Digger carried on his back (to indicate his pacing bus) in a somewhat forlorn manner. I felt myself disintegrating at that point. Perhaps Digger sensed this too, for as he turned into St Kilda Road, he looked back at me and said, “Keep going, mate. I have run several marathons. And these are the very worst conditions I have encountered. You complete it today, all right?” I nodded and touched his extended hand. It was a hand of encouragement; a hand that talked to kindness and empathy. And I had touched and felt a running legend.

I told myself as I looked at the looming 34k marker that I would make it to the finish line. I convinced myself that my questioning of the ‘goal’ was a momentary lapse of reason. I was determined to finish. I convinced myself that I would complete that lap around the MCG. I had to take my shoes off at the finish line and feel the grass that Tendulkar, Dravid, Taylor, Border, Waugh, Gower, Dev, Khan, Viv, Hadlee, Ganguly and others had walked on. I had to savor the feel of that grass under my feet, however bruised they were.

And then I then blanked out.

I remember nothing much of the race along the lovely, tree-lined St Kilda Road. The trees that used to once offer shelter from sun and rain to passers-by, now shed leaves, unable to withstand the force of the winds that morning. The breeze swirled around. Leaves dislodged from branches and flew around. There was much dust in the air. It was a horrible day for walking; but a whole lot of us were running towards the MCG.

Apparently, Girija was there although I do not remember seeing her as I ran. She said later she was concerned at the pain I was going through; pain that marked my face. My face was already white with streaks of dried sweat salt. She told me later that she would see me, jog along with me for a few meters, hop on a tram to the next stop along St Kilda Road and wait for me to catch up. She said she did this till I reached Birrarung Marr, where I was told I was met by a few of my friends who were there to encourage me on to the finish line. Apparently one of them ran along with me from the top of Birrarung Marr to the ‘G’.

I came to my own as I entered The ‘G’ and came to my senses again. I did not know how I got there. Then again, when Girija told me, later, that she was there on St Kilda Road from the 35k mark onwards, I was able to recall it. When my friends told me, later, that they had waited for me at the corner of Birrarung Marr, which marked the 40k mark in the race, I seemed to remember it. Although I have no recollection of nearly 8 kilometres of the run, I was able to piece it all together later on.

Maybe I had hit the ‘wall’ at the 34k mark. And maybe from that point on, in the remaining seven kilometres, I was able to cut out many other thoughts from my mind. The ‘wall’ is something many long-distance runners experience. Dick Beardsley, one of USA’s best marathoners, said this of the ‘wall’ he encountered in the second marathon he ever ran: "It felt like an elephant had jumped out of a tree onto my shoulders and was making me carry it the rest of the way in.” He overcame that, learned from it and went on to run several more marathons. He made history by finishing two seconds behind Alberto Salazar in the 1982 Boston Marathon.

When I hit my own ‘wall’, I was focused merely on my own processes. Left leg. Right leg. Left. Right. It was as though I had blotted everything out of my mind and wanted to train all my mental thought processes just on completing the race.

In that sense, I had always compared my long distance running with a research scholar going through a PhD degree. It is a thoroughly lonely process. You sometimes do ask yourself, “Why am I doing this really?" You need to train really hard and ensure that your background, preparation and methodology are just right. But, your training, background and ability can only take you that far. In the end, when we hit a ‘wall’ (or a dead-end in your work), what one needs is intense focus, will-power and determination. Focus is as much cutting out needless things as it is training your mind on the very thing(s) that needs to be accomplished.

And so I focused hard and completed the race that day. And as I ran through the welcoming corridor and into the 'G', I saw myself on the big screen. I waved. The big screen waved back at me. I was on it for a full eight seconds! And then I ran a lap inside the ‘G’. It was my own lap of honor. After completing the run, and as my legs gave way, I slumped to the turf. I felt and kissed the grass that many of my cricketing heroes had played in.

Today, whenever I hit a difficult phase in my own life I say to myself that as long as the preparation has been good, and as long as the processes in the lead-up have been honest and sound, this is nothing but the 34k mark in a tough race...

-- Mohan (@mohank)

A terrific tragedy

2012-10-16T02:24:00.003+10:30

The other day an uncle of mine said to me, "I hear you have no issues." Now I am a fellow that always has plenty of issues. I have issues with anything and everything. I battle issues on a daily basis. So I said, “No uncle. You are wrong,” to which he pressed on “No, I mean you have no issues, no?” I said, “Believe me, I do; lots of them!” He looked a bit distressed and said, “Arre, I mean, you are issueless no? You do not have any issues that have resulted in good newses for your parents right?” Then it struck me.

But ‘good newses’? Really?

By the by. Myself Mohan.

The topic of “Indianisms” like the one above has been the generous subject of many a blog and newspaper column. Indeed from ‘years back’ many ‘kind authors’ have felt the need to ‘discuss about’ Indianisms and have been ‘doing the needful’. Without 'eating their brains' they have all ‘reverted’ and ‘preponed’ their ‘updations’ of these articles. Examples of such articles are here, here and here. (It was a few hours after the current article was published that I was alerted to this rather delightful post too.)

I would often read these and get upset. What is this compelling need to mock Indian English? Why do these authors attempt to ‘nose cut’ us? Are they our ‘uncles or nephews’ to take so much interest in us and our way of communicating? Why make fun of it all the time?

Speaking of which, I have no idea why people use ‘ish’ when they talk about time in India. It is not "9.45 ish"; it is either 9.30am or 10am. But I suppose because we are famed for our punctuality in India it can mean anytime around 9.45 and it is used a lot. I sometimes feel that IST, the Indian Standard Time should have been renamed ISH.

I once told my friend’s 12 year-old son I would meet him at 11am to go with him to a book store. The poor kid looked stunned. He was expecting an “ish”. He got a precise time instead. He replied, “Give me a call when you leave home, no?” so that he could be ready when I got to his place. I said, “No. I will be at your gate at 11am” and requested him to be ready at that time. He said, “Come downstairs and give me a ‘missed call’ no?” I said, “No. I will be there at 11am.” The poor kid was confused, all because he could not respond to a time that did not contain an ISH in it.

But that is the way we are.

Is it ok for English folk to say “tata” when they actually want to say bye? Do they not know that TATA is a proud Indian company and brand name? Why can’t they say “Chrysler” or “Leyland” when they want to say goodbye. Instead of that they ‘take the name’ of an Indian company. Do we laugh at them?

Talking of byes, have you noticed that we seldom end phone conversations with a ‘bye’ or a or a ‘ciao’. It is always “humph” or “ok” or “haan”. I never know when a conversation has ended unless I look at my phone which confirms ended conversations with a red ‘Disconnected’ symbol. This rude form of disengagement is particularly harsh when you talk to people who offer you a service that has gone horribly wrong; say a bank officer, an insurance claims officer, or some such. My neighbour told me of one such incident. He said, “These phone agents act too ‘pricey’. The fellow ‘put the phone’ down rudely and ‘cut the call’. He was acting so funny I wanted to give him a ‘tight slap’.”

Talking of phones, why is it that few Indians have voice mail or a message service on their mobile phones? It is just not done, is it? A colleague thinks that it is 'dicey' to have a phone message, so I do not have one either.

A few weeks ago, I came across one bank manager who had a strange message on his mobile phone: “I am not at my desk. Leave your good name and your number behind and I will revert forthwith.” I do not wish to delve into references to ‘good name’, ‘revert’ and ‘forthwith’. I do, however, worry about the use of ‘behind’ in a message. The use of ‘not at my desk’ on a mobile phone message seemed to go against the very reason for having a mobile phone!

Now this bank manager is a typical ‘big shot' in the ‘hurry-burry’ that represents the world of banking today. His was a ‘rags to riches’ story. Legend has it that for a long time he was also ‘under the scanner’ of the headquarters for a few ‘underhand dealings’. The Tax department tried hard to ‘hunt him down’ but still, ‘heads did not roll’ because he did not quite ‘run amok’ nor did he ‘run roughshod’ over procedures and processes. But it was common knowledge that he ‘swindled’ lots of money.

Anyway, after leaving a message on the bank manager’s mobile, I called the deputy manager who informed me that his boss was ‘not at his desk’ because he ‘used his connections’ and ‘greased many palms’ to go ‘out of station’. The manager’s grandfather had ‘kicked the bucket’ recently. So he and his children had to ‘leave in a huff’ by the ‘shortest cut’ to Sholapur, which also happened to be his ‘native place’. The kids were the ‘worst hit’. One of them was ‘mugging’ for his ‘class twelve and IIT Entrance’. Note that if the phrases ‘class twelve’ and ‘IIT Entrance’ are not used in unison, it means your kids are doing some ‘useless’ commerce or arts or worse, home-science course that will do nothing for their careers. Anyway, as the bank manager was unable to ‘join duty’ for another week, I had no option other than ‘leaving my good name and number behind’. I did. I wasn't expecting to hear from the manager for a while.

I was, therefore, surprised when the bank manager returned my call just five minutes after I had left my number behind. “I am on my way to Sholapur sir. I got tickets with a lot of pull. But on my way to the train station, my car was met with an accident,” he said, as I choked on my lunch. The manager did not meet with an accident; his car did not meet with an accident. But the car was met with an accident. How quaint, I thought.

He then said, “You know, everything was going spic and span. Even my son, Sriram’s class-12 exam got over yesterday. As a max person you will be very happy to know that his best subject is max. But he will not get centum. His max paper was out of portions, but that was also ok. At least I am glad he will be passing out as a proper convent educated now. He never bunked school. You know he got into this school without any pull. His IIT entrance, next week. Full pressure. Suddenly grandfather was off. I don’t know what happened. He was always in tip-top condition. But he became suddenly off. So we have to leave immediate to Sholapur. I have enough leaves. So that is ok. But everyone was hither thither. But I was calm. We have large joint-family. The whole jing-bang wanted to go to Sholapur. ‘No fierce’ I said. But everyone said this-that-all-that. They wanted to go to pay respects. All logistics were in place. I wanted to make a bus, but my family made me take the Sholapur passenger train instead. The car was to ply us to the station. My car was reported at sharp 10am. And then we left. Suddenly, bang. My car was met with an accident. Now everything has gone for a toss. Try and understand my position. I need your kind help. Everything has gone for a six now. But I must ignore this accident hocus-pocus and I must make a move now. Can you send me your vehicle for a few hours? I can send someone to pick it up also. Where are you put up?”

Every line was a gem. The son had got into a good non-government convent school without the need to exploit the father’s networks and connection (commonly referred to as 'pull'). His son would not max ('centum') his maths ('max') paper since some of the questions were out of syllabus ('out of portions’). The son had no need to make the maths paper a portion of a meal, although he may well have 'passed out' had he done that. Quite like the sons’ great grandfather who was recently “off” – or, in other words, had recently passed away. The manager wasn’t a tree that grew shoots and leaves. He was talking there about the number of holidays he had accrued ('leaves'). Nor was the manager also an automobile assembly line production manager to physically 'make a bus'. He implied that he had gathered enough family members to hire a bus. Moreover, the manager’s car wasn’t 'reported' like a petty thief. The car turned up at the appointed time.

But rather than admire and decode his English, I had a more pressing problem. I had to respond immediately to the managers’ request. I muttered, “Sir, I am sorry I 'cannot able to help you' especially when you are facing 'commute-shammute conveyance difficulty'. Also what a 'terrific tragedy' you are facing right now. I am going to 'hill station' myself. The time is 10am already and 'my car hasn’t reported' yet although my driver said he will be here 9.30-ISH.”

-- Mohan (@mohank)

One has to protest...

2012-10-07T03:52:00.001+10:30

I like obsessions; I have a few of my own. Some are even healthy. And most are acceptable. But what is with this polite obsession with the word "one"? I have tried, and then tried again. It all sounds very formal and all but why, exactly?

The other day, this fellow jumped up even as the plane touched down in Mumbai after a long flight. As he jumped up from his seat, he grabbed hold of the overhead locker as though if he didn't, it would fly off on its own. He then pulled his carry-on bag out of the compartment in under 3 seconds and beamed at everyone as though he had achieved a personal best time in "time lapse between touch down and bag recovery". Unfortunately, the plane braked hard as it touched down. The man flew and along with his recently reacquired bag, crashed into me, all arms and legs and bag! I thought to myself, "What an utter pillock" but smiled at him. I don't do anger at these things. I am now used to utter pillocks.

He recovered, turned to me and said: "One is very sorry."

That's it. I lost my temper like anything.

"Arre! Are you sorry or are you not? Why hide behind the proud number one? Be a man. Say I am sorry, no? What is this ONE is sorry?"

So, I wasn't upset that he had acquired a PB that no one cared about other than he. I wasn't upset that he had flown across three rows of seats to crash into me. I wasn't upset that I was, by then, bleeding profusely from a gash in my eye; he had eye-gouged me in a manner a professional Rugby player would have been proud. I wasn't upset that my newly procured shirt shirt was now torn; the bag handle had made that contribution. But I was upset by his use of the word ONE. What was wrong with, "I am sorry"?

I am angry these days because we have acquired an unhealthy obsession for an inappropriate overuse of the word 'one'. This abuse is because of what I call political politeness. I think social scientists should start writing scholarly papers on political politeness (PP) as they did on that other insidious monster, political correctness (PC). PP is a deadly evil, I tell you. PP will make PC look like how a dictionary makes Shahid Kapoor's spelling look.

This use of 'one' enables us to escape from personal responsibility for things that we may have done wrongly. Like this "bags and arms and legs" fellow. He wasn't sorry; one was!

The other day I attended a wedding in Chennai. A board outside declared, "Welcome to one and all". What does that even mean? See what we Indians did? We took some usage of 'one' from the British and, much like democracy and the Westminster style of governance itself, we have mangled it, abused it and invented our own inappropriate use cases for that word.

The other day, a fellow said to me: “What time is one expected to be present?” I was stunned. And yes. Again, I got angry. I started shouting at that fellow like anything: "What is this? If you want to ask what time you have to be there then just ask that right? And why pick on the number one? It is a solitary fellow. A singular number. Not plural. It signifies one person, usually you. Also, why hide behind a number? It is a simple number. The Indians did not invent it. Indians only invented zero. Why abuse other numbers? If you want to abuse a number, abuse zero. It is yours!"

As a mathematician, I protest at this inappropriate abuse of a number. I have a right to protect the number from constant torture.

It is not as if there are no other pronouns available to us. There is a very convenient I, a perfectly polite you and a wonderful we. Use those no?

What time is one expected to be present it seems. What if you and your friend wanted to present yourselves? Will you then ask, “So, what time will two have to be present?” No, no? That would be rather silly. So, use the direct pronoun next time. Please.

Do not make me angry again. See what I did there. Did I say "Do not make one angry again?" No. Everyone needs to learn like that only: to use pronouns properly.

There are some uses that are correct. One can be used in non-specific, general, and non-direct advice. For example, the use of one in, "I don't believe one should disrespect elders" is appropriate. Try saying that as, "I don't believe I should disrespect elders". That doesn't sound right, does it? Firstly, the general advice is lost. Secondly, the statement, as altered, gives the impression that I am currently disrespectful of elders.

Can you ever imagine Krishnamachari Srikkanth indulge in this political politeness nonsense? I mean, can you imagine the same guy who said “Boss, you just shut up ok?” saying “Ok tell me, what time should one be there to shut you up”? I greatly doubt it and if you can imagine it, you have a far more forgiving and fertile imagination than I do.

Speaking of strange fellows, another strange fellow who is part of a volunteer team I run asked me the other day: “What does one have to do now on this project?” How was I supposed to reply to that? I knew, for instance, 10 people were supposed to be working on that project. The first thing that popped into my head was to ask him, “Oh, suddenly only one person is working on the project?” I also found myself wondering why this strange fellow was selfishly concerned only about one member from that group of ten. What will the rest do? 'Which one of the ten people was actually working?' I thought. See? The kinds of doubts that arise from this terribly inappropriate usage of the number one.

I am all for people who are self deprecating in their language. I cannot stand pompous people (and yes, I do not look at the mirror often either). I like people who do not sound self-obsessed and self-centred in their communication, but this is taking a bit too far, no?

It is a little more acceptable if you are talking on behalf of a whole bunch of people. The ‘one’ in your sentence could actually stand for many and this could well be a plural pronoun. But my question is simple. Why? Can you not just say, “What time should we get to the show” instead of “What time should one get to the show”? What do people have against direct speech? It is the least of very big evils, certainly lesser than the atrocity inflicted on us by Himesh Reshamiyya's music.

The other day I was talking to one fellow... See? This is correct usage of the word one. Not the others. Yes, you can thank me later. Anyway, this fellow went on and on about how he kept failing in life. He then asked if I could mentor him. Till that point in the conversation, I was bored. But then, suddenly, I was bursting with unbounded joy. I had finally found a person to mentor. Earlier that year, I was beginning to beg people if I could mentor them. And true to my dislike of polite politeness, I did not go around asking, “Can one be your mentor”. I asked, "Can I please be your mentor? Please?" Till that point, everyone had said, “get lost”. One is used to getting snubbed routinely. (Got you there, didn’t I?) Okay, okay, I meant I am used to getting snubbed routinely.

Anyhow, that evening, I was ecstatic at being asked to be this boring fellow's mentor. Before he had an opportunity to rethink, I cheerfully and shamelessly said, “Of course, I can mentor you”. I immediately grabbed his hand and said, “Yes. When can I start? How much should I pay you?” I had almost signed him up as a ‘person to be mentored’ when he got on yet another soapbox and waxed eloquent about King Bruce and his Sisyphus-ian spider. I listened to it wondering, “Am I the mentor or is he”. In other words, “Is one the mentor or is the other one”. Then he presented me with the deal breaker. He said, “The moral of the story is that if one fails, then one must try harder next time.”

I left him with a comment and a couple of questions, as is a mentor’s wont. “Who failed? I am sorry about being harsh but you failed. ONE did not fail. The number one, if you haven't noticed, has been a success all it’s life and it is about time you realized that.”

-- Mohan

Ps: The 'person to be mentored' ran away at that point. It has been a few years since that conversation with my potential 'person to be mentored'. Do you think I am wasting my time refreshing my email waiting to hear from him?

Ps (10-Oct-2012):

Subsequent to writing the piece, @yaavanoObba sent me the following (quite relevant) YouTube link.