SIMPLY SIMHA......!!!

Resilience

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Wed, 17 Jul 2024 12:14:00 +0000

Resilience

It is the Fight, It is the Pain

It is the Journey, sans the Gain

The deafening Silence of memories that resound

The momentary Pause, that evokes emotions profound

The sweat beads of effort that refuse to dry

The tears that you swallow and refuse to cry

The smile you smile to keep the child (in you) Alive

The thrust it takes for the Spirit to thrive

The scars within that you proudly wear

Yet, the stomach, the resolve and the gumption to dare

The dreams, winds of Destiny blew to Neverland

The Courage with which you build new ones, with your own hand

Darkness trusts You - as a Beacon of Hope

Vulnerability seeks You - as a pillar of Strength

That is Your Life, That is the essence

That is the Story of Your Resilience

- 15th May 2019

Photo by Patryk Sobczak on Unsplash

Rupin Pass: Of Beauty, Difficulty and Satisfaction!

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 30 Jun 2024 15:23:00 +0000

Rupin Pass: Of Beauty, Difficulty and Satisfaction!

"Heights worth climbing
For sights worth seeing
Of Valleys and Streams
Of Mountains and Clouds
Where the Journey becomes the Reward
Stunned and Silent in a Snowy Abode

All I could do, was watch it unfold"

Day 0: Delhi - Simla - 7467 ft

There was a sense of familiarity as I entered the ISBT at Kashmere Gate in Delhi. This was where it had all begun in 2016, with my first Himlayan trek - to "Har Ki Doon". Here I was, eight years later, on my sixth adventure in the Himalayas.

That first trek was also the harbinger of multiple travel escapades in India and a few of them abroad. Travel, I've always believed, touches you in multiple ways. Be it inspiration from nature or appreciation for man-made creations that have pushed the limits of human potential; Travels that reek of luxury or travels that revel in our necessity for adaptation; Travels where you're journeying outward and inward at the same time.

Moving into an air-conditioned bus after braving fifteen minutes of heat on a Delhi summer day was enough to help me pen those lines above, in my journal. A nine and half hour journey lay ahead of me. And I had plenty of things to do - try to read, try to "not think", stay away from the phone for a length of time and get a glimpse of Delhi, Haryana, Punjab and Himachal!

Day 1: Simla - Bawta - 7700 ft

We started from Simla at around 7 AM in the morning. This would be a nine hour drive,at least. We were 21 of us split into three groups in three vehicles. The first day of the trek is when you try to find your coterie - a bunch of people with whom you'll possibly spend a major chunk of your trek. I seemed to have found mine that morning - with a bunch of people from Bengaluru, a man of wisdom from Kolkata and a civil engineer from Hyderabad.

We stopped for breakfast a couple of hours later and I found the appetite and the courage to try the "Siddu", a local dish of the Himachal that had been recommended strongly by friends back home. The vehicle then ambled across the serpentine roads of the hills, as we tried to get to know each other in between power naps. The hills were covered with apple and cherry orchards. One interesting aspect was the tree-tops that were covered by tarpaulin-like material, possibly to protect the fruits from birds (inputs on this aspect welcome).

The "Siddu"

The journey was rather longish and most of us dreaded the second half - which was supposed to be a Kachcha road. And indeed, our patience was tested post lunch. Our driver had been throwing tantrums since morning, that worsened in the afternoon and continued into the evening. A roadblock thanks to a landslide also brought in Murphy's law to the equation, even as we tried to find excitement in a bull-dozer drilling rocks and pushing them downhill to make a path for us.

A Landslide and Murphy's Law!

After thirteen hours that seemed an eternity, we reached our homestay in Bawta by eight in the evening. To exacerbate our frustration, the walk to the homestay was another fifteen minutes. At the end of Day 1, we were already muttering about poor management -using corporate jargon that we had carried along with our backpacks. Up there, the mountains waited patiently for us, with jargon of their own.

Day 2: Bawta - Jhaka - 9000ft

We woke up the view of green hills that surround Bawta. It was a great morning for the first day of a trek, helping us stay boisterous. I could overhear plenty of suggestions and instructions being passed along by the leads and some of the more experienced trekkers in the group. Phew! 21 was a large group - considering my last two treks had under 10 people in the group. That was one reason why the leads insisted on a lot of discipline during the trek in terms of stoppages, distance between trekkers and the group behaving as one unit. And some of these rules would come in handy during the business end of the trek.

Good morning from Bawta!

The initial part of the trek was on a muddy road, upto Jiskun - which is about 2km from Bawta. The clear skies and sunny morning meant that the day's hike was warm and sweaty. From Jiskun we followed a trail - where we finally felt we were entering the wilderness of the hills.

In the distance we could see bulldozers trying to drill through the hills and the rocks to pave way for a road that might be operational in a few years. There was the constant sound of drilling and rock-felling. It's always a conundrum for societies. Do you let these hills and mountains remain untouched, preserving their ecosystem? Or do you bring roads, vehicles and infrastructure from the urban world over time, partially losing the pristine ecosystem of thousands of years? The selfish side of me felt that these places should remain untouched. But then, should the people remain deprived of amenities - I kept wondering.

The first look at the "hanging village" of Jhaka provided some answers. It's called the hanging village because of its location at the edge of a hill. The village was not "remote" in a lot of ways. Wooden houses, mobile networks, electricity, constant water supply - it was simple and comfortable. I was surprised to see symbols of national parties and signs of some active campaigning from the recently concluded general elections.

The "Hanging Village" of Jhaka

We reached Jhaka around midday and were treated to sumptuous lunch. Time seemed to slow down in the mountains. An elderly resident of the house sat on his cushioned wooden sofa and watched the hills. Something told me he'd been doing it for years and still wasn't bored of it. While some of the trekkers had mobile network and were busy checking social media or getting touch with people back home, Vodafone had helped me start my digital detox a day early. I was at total peace, without the urge or the ability for any kind of communication on my phone.

Later that evening, most of us bonded over "Mafia" - a game that's extremely popular during group treks. A few rounds of the game evoked laughter, camaraderie, controversy and in yours truly, some stupidity as well. I earned the moniker "The Destroyer" that evening - and the name would last through the trek!

Day 3: Jhaka to Dandrayesh Thatch: 11700 ft

The day was the second toughest on the entire trek. We were to gain about 2700 ft in height and walk for 11 km in the effort. The day's trek started at 8. This was also the day of election results and a lot of us in the group were curious for snatches of information about the way the winds were blowing. Jhaka was the last village and source of information along the route. We realised we'd have to wait for a few days before we got our dope on the results.

We gained height in patches. Ascents followed by walks along a flat trail. The trees got taller - as we trekked, with pines and other conifers dominating the vegetation. We'd finally left the bulldozers behind. It was time for the typical silence in mountains, only punctuated by the chirping of birds that at most times remain invisible to the untrained eyes. Since this was a longish walk, I was able to put some distance between those ahead and those behind, hiking to a rhythm that was dictated by the silence.

The first sign of what the Rupin Pass trek offers differently, was visible about two hours into the trek, when we encountered our first snow patch. These are isolated patches of snow that remain after the surrounding snow has melted. For the next couple of days, crossing these snow patches would remain the most looked forward to and the most dreaded part of the trek at the same time.

The first of many Snow Patches

Crossing the first one was rather easy and the location of the patch made it look extremely unique. Immediately after crossing the patch we were walking almost next to the Rupin river with its turquoise waters. We took our first break of the day at a Tapri along the river, one of the last such shops on the trek. Clouds gathered in the sky, indicating that the weather would soon be at the mercy of the mountains lording over us.

We stopped for lunch around one-thirty and our trek leads mentioned we were half-done after about five hours of trekking. The trail was slowly getting tougher and there were first signs of rain. I'd forgotten my poncho and didn't think of a rain cover for my day-pack during packing. It led to an unsavory exchange with the guides. Luckily, the doctor from Bengaluru helped me with a rain cover for the backpack. It solved half the problem. I'd brave the rains without a poncho if it got heavier.

The landscape opened up in all its glory for the next couple of hours till we reached the Dandrayesh Thatch. We entered a valley, with mountains on both sides and walking next to the Rupin river. The sun kept playing hide and seek from behind the clouds, with warmth enough to dry our clothes that had soaked up some rain. Our moods got better and crossing the snow patches seemed tricky yet fun. I kept looking back every few minutes and the same landscape appeared in multiple perspectives. What stood out for me, was a shepherd with his flock of more than 500 goats crossing the valley. I'd never seen such a herd! The goats dotted the valley, the black and white blending beautifully with the snow patches and the surrounding mountains. The guides kept hurrying us, warning us about the dangers of weather - but some of these sights were too surreal to ignore and just keep walking.

The Rupin Valley

The skies opened up with purpose just before we reached the camp at the Thatch. There was thunder and lightning and instead of rain, it was hail. It was exciting - but with the precipitation getting intense and the wind stronger, we rushed to our first camp site on the trek. There would be plenty of time to appreciate the campsite on the acclimatization day that would follow - but for now, we hastily got into the tents and warmed ourselves up.

The kitchen staff was ready for us,with tea, soup and snacks - the Pani Puri was sheer surprise! The hail and wind did abate and as night took over, the sky was a canvas of stars. A lot of us took time post dinner to admire the night-sky. I snuggled into the sleeping bag for well-deserved rest. The day had blessed me with enough sights and adventure already!

Day 4: Acclimatization Day: Dandrayesh Thatch - 11700 ft

The morning was bright and sunny. The mountain toilets more welcoming than they were previous night. As I brushed and washed my face at the riverfront, I took time to take in the sights of the campsite. The lower, middle and upper waterfalls stood right in front of us, the mountain from where they cascaded forming a wall that we had to walk around, the following day. Numerous smaller water falls formed on mountains on either side and there were a few frozen ones as well.

The tents added to the beauty of the entire landscape, bringing a riot of red and yellow to the green, blue and white of nature. I could see every face in the camp light up as we reveled in the serenity of the campsite. Each of us spent the morning in different ways. Some spent it by the river, some of us went on a short hike around the site, photographing the site and ourselves along with the site seemed to be the favorite choice! We watched in awe as groups in front climbed over the middle waterfall en-route the next campsite, crossing the snow patches in a disciplined straight line, wearing their spikes and helmets. That would be our path as well!

Campsite - Dandrayesh Thatch

As expected, the weather turned murky and it rained again in the afternoon. We were almost expecting this now. And even thankful. It would only mean that the next morning would be bright and sunny all over again and there would be one less factor to negotiate. The free afternoon meant some more games and an overload of snacks. When we started the trek, we never really wanted this rest day. But that day, we realised that it was a crucial break.The rest and acclimatization would hold us in good stead once we reached for 13000ft and above, over the next two days.

Day 5: Dandrayesh Thatch - Upper Waterfall Camp - 13300 ft:

Being wary of the weather, our guides had decided that the trek would start at 8 AM in the morning. The trek would be short. However, the altitude gain substantial. There was a slight element of technicality as most of us used micro-spikes for the first time. We had two huge snow patches to cross - both with substantial inclination. We were also provided helmets for protection against rockfall.

After a brief demonstration on how to use the spikes, we started off. Using equipment makes me clumsy and nervous. It was no different that day. I looked around to see how others were fitting the spikes on their shoes, sometimes helplessly looking at the guides with a plea for support. It was almost comic at times.

Twenty minutes into the hike, the first patch was in front of us. The guides forbid us from taking our phones out to click pictures. We hurriedly clicked a couple of them at the base of the patch and stowed our phones away. And then began our first major challenge on the trek. Even with the spikes, the patch was slippery. We planted our foot in the same spot as the hiker in front of us, as though it was assurance that we won't slip. The incline wasn't much of an issue up close, but if one of us slipped we were sure to take the ones behind us down the slope along with us.

From the top of the first patch

We planted our trekking poles firmly for support, made sure our feet were sufficiently spaced to make room for the spikes, ensured atleast a couple of feet of distance from those ahead and in front. All of it while our guides egged us on saying the top of the patch was within reach. This was where, we realised, that sticking together as a group mattered. We could watch what the others were doing, the guides could control the group and there were little conversations of motivation that would help us with the next few metres.

While every step seemed to take a long time, we'd reached the top of the first patch in about an hour. The campsite was now a colored speck in the valley below. After some rest and hydration, we trekked to the second patch next to the upper waterfall. This seemed rather easy, after our experience in the first. We were reaching the 13k feet mark and the mountains seemed closer and more glorious from our vantage point.

En-route Upper Waterfall Camp

The Upper Waterfall camp is nestled on a piece of flat ground at the edge of the waterfall. We could see multiple other camps at a lower height, next to the river at about 15 minutes distance. We were thankful that this camp was closest to the trail next morning. Come afternoon, hail pounded our tents for a good one hour. It looked ominous for a while, specially with the high wind speeds. Needless to say, we were all layered up. The tea and soup that evening lent so much warmth. And when the guides announced an early dinner at six thirty in the evening, the Summit Day beckoned all of us.

Day 6: Summit Day: Upper Waterfall Camp - Rupin Pass (15350ft) - Rontigad - (12300 ft)

We were up and about at 2 AM in the night. Most of us hit bed at seven, the previous evening, hoping to catch some sleep. I'm not sure I slept well - but was well rested. The sky wasn't exactly starry. There was no sign of rain thankfully, but a wind kept blowing making it a chilly morning. I brushed and washed my face, but couldn't make use of the toilet tents so early.

Mountain Maggi as breakfast at 3 AM was eminently palatable but I wasn't really hungry. Call it cold or nervousness or just the fact that it was too early in the morning. I was pre-occupied with my gaiters and the lack of a headlamp, that I planned to mitigate with my hand torch. The path that the guides had indicated last night was full of boulders and that we would be navigating them in the darkness wasn't something that enthused me. But, Rupin Pass lay five hours ahead of us. We were down to 19,from the original 21, attempting the Summit (a father-son duo had backed out in Jhaka, because of the father's ill health). All of us conscious about our shoes, trekking poles, electrolytes, dry fruits, headlamps and numerous little things that we felt might make a big difference. All of looked healthy without a hint of mountain sickness(unfortunately, a senior citizen from Bengaluru had to turn back midway on Summit day..so near yet so far).

At 3:45 AM in the morning, we set out. The next five hours were the most difficult in my limited experience as a trekker. We started climbing almost immediately through a patch of boulders, gaining height with every step. The darkness made it difficult and we had to rely constantly on the person trekking in front. The cold and the altitude added to the difficulty and we took a break every few minutes. The guides constantly egged us on, calling out our names individually and making sure we were okay.

About 45 minutes into the trek there was a particularly difficult stream crossing, of which no photograph exists. The stream was about 4 feet wide, but was flowing from a height into the gorge below. The guides immediately swung into action, placing boulders across the stream. Some of the boulders were stable; some were slippery; Just like us - some of us were confident, some of us slippery. One of the guides stood like a wall against the flow of the stream, guarding us from slipping into the gorge. A second one stood on our side and the third moved to the far end. We literally held each of their hands to make our way across. I fumbled on a couple of boulders and was nervous prompting one of the guides to yell "You need to be more confident and lose your fear" - wasn't that true in many areas of life, I wondered!

It took all of us a while - and by that I mean about 10 minutes - to recover from this crossing. It was by far the most dangerous moment on the trek thus far, considering the darkness, the slope and the slipping boulders. We were soon up on our feet, negotiating the trail all over again buoyed by the thinning darkness. About half an hour later, the first rays of the sun illuminated the peaks of the mountains opposite with an orange hue. Just the peaks - nothing more or less. It was again a moment that's etched in memory. We watch these in movies, on our screens. But to be there to watch it unfold in front of your eyes, is in a lot of ways, what you live for. It takes some pain, some grit, some perseverance and some blessings to get there - but to be there is a profound feeling of gratitude.

Peaks illuminated by the first rays of the sun

The morning ushered us into an abode of snow. Just white all around and beneath our feet as well. Peaks that were orangish-golden in the sunlight; a path that was white with a tinge of brown. It was still cold but we were all doing ok, as we walked in a single file on the snow covered path for another ninety minutes or so. Every now and then I took my gloves off to click pictures, knowing that my fingers would be numb by the time I put my hand in the gloves again.

It was seven thirty in the morning by the time we were face to face with the Rupin Gully. And just beyond it was the Rupin Pass. We watched the first trekkers of the day make their way across the gully and disappear behind the mountains. It gave us confidence. It made us curious. We were there to cross the Pass anyway. And there was no going back now. Spikes on, trekking poles in tow and most importantly with a sense of "this is what we are here for", we starting climbing the slope that led to the gully.

"This is what we are here for"

With the altitude and inclination, this was the toughest climb on the entire trek. The forty minutes, as we climbed the slope, navigated the gully and reached the top of the pass, were the most challenging forty minutes of the entire trek. We staggered, we slipped; We gathered, we gripped; If I was ever mindful - it was in those forty minutes. I was aware of every breath, the racing heart, the thoughts about slipping, and then egging myself on. Worried about legs giving way, anxious about the trekking pole, conscious about my shoes. Making sure I don't lean on the trekker behind; making sure I'm alert in case the trekker in front leans on me; It was almost comical that I was even alert to the smell of fart that emanated from time to time, thanks to full bowels that were trekking along with most of us.

We started climbing left to the Rupin Gully and the Summit was visible for the first time. Trekkers who'd already made it were egging us on asking us to push ourselves in those final minutes. I would forever be grateful for a video made by one of those trekkers! Minutes away from the peak, one of the younger trekkers in our group panicked and started yelling for the guide. She was doing alright till then - but the moment overwhelmed her. With her feet firmly planted in snow, she called out for the guide, seeking desperate help. All she needed, it turned out, was that reassurance from the guide over the next few steps and she was at the Summit all by herself.

One hour of climbing the slope and the Gully, we were at the Summit!! The Rupin Pass opened to mesmerizing views of the Kinnar Kailash in the distance. We were feeling grateful for the safe climb, the sights and at the same time feeling validated, now that we were at the Summit. I sat down by myself for a while, just taking the moment in- something I didn't do last time and regret it till date. The views that lay ahead, the path we had just traversed, the sense of accomplishment. I hadn't expected the Rupin Pass trek to be "difficult" so to speak - but up there, it was a different feeling altogether.

Ofcourse, an elaborate photo-op ensued at the Summit. Solo pictures, group pictures, some with the Summit banner, some even with the national flag - it was the culmination of a lot of effort. And it is in these moments that the famous question I keep asking myself comes to mind: Is it the destination or the journey or the company?

Summit!!!

Thirty minutes of jubilation later, we were promptly asked to start descending and make our way to Rontigad. I was amongst the first to start and promptly slipped and started sliding down the slope, quite by accident. And midway during the slide, I discovered the fun side of the whole thing and started shouting in excitement. It seemed to trigger the excitement of the group and the entire group started sliding the slope and enjoying the event.

We did that a second time a little later, faster and more deliberate. I'd always dreamed of walking in the snow for a length of time. And that day, I had the opportunity to do so for close to six hours. A snow covered path, mountains surrounding and nothing but a white canvas all around. While I continued to slip and stagger,I enjoyed every moment along with the nervousness that came with it!

The rest of the journey to Ronti Gad was largely event less. Thanks to the early morning start, most of us felt we were walking for an eternity. We finally reached our final camp on the trek at around four in the evening - meaning we'd walked for almost 12 hours, stoppages included. Ronti Gad is located at 12300 ft, but it still felt warm and comfortable. We spent the evening reflecting on the entire trek,taking turns to talk about our experience and our moments on the trek. Thanks to some quick thinking by the kitchen staff and guides, we even celebrated a birthday with a mountain-made cake.

There was some chatter during descent about how once the Summit is done, any trek loses its allure and the descent is more a formality. I disagree. I believe that a trek complete only once you descend safely and reach home in one piece. Rupin Pass had been kind enough to let us through without incident. We needed to make sure we do the remainder of the descent with due respect to the mountains.

Descent Swag

Day 7: Rontigad - Sangla - Simla - 7467 ft - Epilogue

We woke up to a convocation of sorts. The guides presented all of us certificates for successful completion of the trek. There were some emotions, some nice words and a lot of mutual appreciation. We hiked for another two hours to reach a road head where vehicles awaited to take us back to Sangla.

Mobile networks that eluded us for the last four-five days made their way back into our lives with full force. Talking to loved ones, making sure everyone back home is doing ok, gathering news from the election results and the sheer dopamine rush of social media notifications took center-stage again.

Along with all other news, there was also news about trekkers from Karnataka who'd perished in Uttarakhand, caught in a blizzard while heading back from a trek. The news had caused panic amongst our families back home.

While we returned successfully post Summit, this news was and remains a bitter pill to swallow. Mountains can be meditative; Mountains can be humbling; Mountains can be inspiring; And yet.....

I reached home in Bengaluru a couple of days later. Added one more prayer flag to the collection. Rupin Pass is now done. What next?!!

- 30th June 2024

A Writer's Woes: On the Brink of Death...

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 07 Apr 2024 13:55:00 +0000

A Writer's Woes: On the Brink of Death...

I opened the door of my home, switched the lights on and immediately shut the door. Amma always says keep the door open for a while after switching the lights on - it allows Goddess Lakshmi to come in and bless you every evening. That evening though, I had more important things on my mind.

There he was, lying on the couch, his breath shallow. Over a period of months his pulse had slowed down. His resolve had weakened. His eyes were blank and so was his mind. I sat next to him. With concern. I wished I'd shown the concern some months earlier. Before he reached the stage he was in. He looked at me and held a hand out, weakly. I grasped it tight. I didn't want to lose him either. Yet, something seemed imminent.

His eyes looked into mine. The gaze was sharp and almost accusatory. I couldn't hold it for a long time and bent my head down in disappointment. In shame. Surely, I wasn't solely to blame for all that had transpired in the last six months? Life's monotony, the body's fatigue, the mind's weariness and the rigmarole of every day life could shatter the creativity of anyone into pieces. Why was I the only one to bear this burden?

I mustered the courage to look into his eyes and share all these thoughts in a single gaze. "Then set me free!" his eyes pleaded. "I'll find someone who's more deserving!". But I was at my possessive best that evening. Even as his hand tried to wriggle free from my grip, I held on. More with determination than with force. This seemed to calm him down and he took a deep breath. A breath that seemed to infuse a little morsel of strength into a life fast approaching death. I held onto him with more poise.

He smiled a weak smile. Laced with sarcasm. Even on his deathbed, he was keen to take a jibe at me. "Would you be able to help me recover - and get out of this couch? I don't see that happening anytime soon...."he spoke his first sentence in a long while. "You are way too distracted for me" his eyes added.

"I'm sitting with you here today, because I don't want to let you go. It's going to take effort - but I want to nurse you back to health" I noticed I was pleading. And then I asked "Is it just me who was responsible for your state? There were so many times you could've sat me down. Prodded me, guided me with something that would've made me take notice of your health. You could've told me that you were deteriorating. Yet you chose to remain silent. We owe each other a hard conversation at times"

For the first time that evening, he looked defensive. He realised that my intent was to see him hale and healthy all over again. That seemed to make him stronger. He gestured me to prop him against a pillow. "Can I get a glass of water?" he asked, in a tone that was more conciliatory.

I went to the kitchen. I couldn't hold my tears. Here he was. After all these years, still craving for my attention. He'd always been in my corner for the last two decades, giving me plenty to cherish. The world had seemed different when we was with me. I knew that and recognised that for most part. And I'd always tried to nurture him to the best of my abilities. We were, in many ways, symbiotic. Yet in the last year or so, we stopped paying each other the attention we deserved. He started struggling. What I failed to realise in time, was that I had to nourish him consciously - give him the right amount of attention at the right times for him to thrive. I'd failed to do that and here he was. Fighting for survival. And while he fought his battles, I'd been oblivious. That evening though, I'd resolved to be on his side.

I got him the glass of water. He gulped it in one go - not something I'd seen in a while. It was obviously a good sign. "Was there nothing you could get me in all these months?" he asked. "You know....from airports or travel or office? No happiness, anger, romance - or even misery? Any of these would've helped...."

We sat in silence for a while. I'd gone back to holding his hand. It seemed stronger now. The glass of water had even brought back a decent glow to his skin. My other hand involuntarily reached out to my phone. He made a violent gesture asking me to not check it.

"This is the problem with you. The distraction. When was the last time you paused to take notice of me? Or notice others? When was it the last time you experienced silence? Observed yourself or others?" He started coughing. It was painful to watch him convulse as he coughed. For a fleeting moment I was ok to let him die. It was going to be a struggle for both of us to get him back on feet and start exploring the world with me all over again. I mean...there are so many people we let go. And time changes everything. Time heals. May be our journey together was supposed to end here and now...

"It was the water that choked me for a bit.....let's not be so eager to bid each other goodbye" he said, reading my thoughts as usual. "Can we spend some time together in silence, every day? It could be a minute or an hour - but it would be just us. I need that to get better." he commanded. I found myself nodding. I'd started that exercise already that afternoon - consciously counting the two minutes as a traffic signal changed from red to green. I took notice of the road, the people, the vehicles, the trees even. I narrated my experience to him.

"That's a brave start. What about the consistency?" he asked. He was now getting greedy. For once I was feeling a sense of elation that he was getting back to his old self.

"We can hang out. I'll try to talk to you everyday. And let's sit together to brainstorm every week?" I brooded aloud, seeking his opinion.

"Let's sit together in silence. You and I don't need a storm. That's for your boss in office. You and I need silence. And a quality conversation like this. Help me get up, will you?" I was thrilled at his last statement. We'd spent a couple of hours together and it had worked wonders on his health. I didn't realise if it was our hands held together or the glass of water or my promise or the conversation itself. He was feeling strong and that's all that mattered. I helped him get up and supported him as we walked around in our home. He looked at the couch he'd slept on with gratitude but also with an expression that said "It'll be a while before we meet again." A huge part of the responsibility was on me to ensure he didn't go back to the couch anytime soon.

The Writer and I had lived through thick and thin for more than twenty years now. There were periods when either of us was unwell. We'd identified that and nursed each other back to health rather quickly. This episode, though, had been the worst. He was on the brink and a little more neglect would've meant losing him forever. As he took a tour around the home just looking at the paintings, the prayer flags and little things that made him smile - I resolved to be in his corner a lot more often.

The Writer in Me. I needed him more than he needed me. I needed him for me to appreciate the people around. To appreciate Nature. To appreciate the White, Black and Grey. To appreciate the silence outside when there's noise within. And to appreciate the silence within when there's noise outside.

We looked at each other with meaning. Held onto each other tight. We looked out of the window. The moon had risen fully. The silence was complete.

- 7th April 2024

Corporate Musings: The "Mid-Sales" Crisis

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sat, 28 Oct 2023 16:53:00 +0000

Corporate Musings: The "Mid-Sales" Crisis

I paused. Deliberately. It hadn't been a long time since my last break. But I realised it had been a long time since a pause. That Friday evening, I shut my work laptop with meaning. It was a "long weekend" to follow and the best part, ironically, was I didn't have an agenda.

It was around this time last year that I said yes to a dream job. Well, one might argue that each job is a dream one, when you're taking it. For me, this was closing the loop with my sales journey. Joining what the world calls a "hard-core sales" organisation. "Can you hustle? Can you persevere? Can you work with (hungry) lions?" were questions that had stumped me during the multiple interviews and I just had one answer "I'll stick to the process. Results will follow"........

Eight months on, I reflected on the questions and the answers all over again, as I took a well deserved walk that Friday evening. In all my professional life, work was never on my mind once I shut shop for a weekend. In the last few months though, I was having imaginary conversations with customers and colleagues all over the place. From elevator pitches, to case studies to strategy to even my imaginary defense when my manager and his managers questioned my commission statement that was yet to get off the mark. "Afghanistan and Netherlands are doing better" I could hear my manager point out, though I still don't know if he tracks cricket!

A game of chess with my eight years young nephew was what helped me take my mind off work for the first time that evening. A couple of hours of innocent conversations later, I realised I was in the middle of a major disconnect, most of all, with myself.

As a sales professional, I've always been polished but I've never been flamboyant. About eight years ago, I first said yes to sales because I always wanted to get out of the cocoon that I'd wrapped myself in and put myself out there. From selling light bulbs (I still pride myself for this), to being in pharma and then moving to more sophisticated forms of sales, the allure changed from "putting myself out there" to being "accountable for my own success and failure". But with the present role, I realised the difference between "success" and "failure" was half my salary. And while I've never measured my success with money, I slowly started realizing that in "hard-core" sales, money was a barometer with which the system would measure you.

"It's not about the money" I told Amma, on Saturday morning. For once, I was relishing the Akki Rotti that she'd prepared for breakfast. We sat down together after breakfast. And the conversation that day took a different turn, after my initial rant about work. Every once in a while, Amma and I sit down together talking our family, our extended family, my childhood and her childhood. Her mother - my Ajji - is a favorite topic for both us, for the role model she's been. That morning, we revisited all these chapters for a good couple of hours. It was lunch time when she got up and I noticed that her hands had shrunk a little. "You're growing old, Amma" I said, with a mixture of sarcasm and concern. "I'm sixty, if you remember" she brushed if off. But that moment stayed with me for a good while....

What has served my health well since the pandemic has been a certain level of commitment to staying fit. This has helped me both mentally and physically. That evening I did another one of those five kilometre runs in Lalbagh - that beautiful lung space in the heart of Bengaluru - with the usual determination. What was different was that I wasn't doing it to bust stress, but to feel more of that peace I'd been feeling for a day now. I stopped by the lake and clicked a couple of pictures of the clouds and sunset. Connecting with Nature is one of those things that comes easily to me. Of late again, I was guilty of losing the fervour for such simple joys. Lalbagh was nudging me to do better that evening - or was I nudging myself?!

A day and a half on, I realised that time is such a beautiful concept. Thirty six hours could be as long or as short as you'd want them to be. With the people you want around you, doing things you love or simply doing nothing can add so much quality to those hours. The imaginary customer conversations were still rearing their head up in the back of my mind as I rode to my friend's place that Sunday morning. His father had passed a fortnight earlier and some of us were attending the fourteenth day rituals. The depth of feeling that I experienced during the rituals and later was the most poignant I'd been in a while. That someone who'd grown with me was never to going to see a parent again hit me hard. We were all "adulting" for a while now, I realised. And while the whirlpool of work lives and the pressure of our ambitions would keep weighing us down, to be there for people who matter and in ways that matter is probably why we put ourselves through the grind in the first place!

An afternoon nap later, the depth was replaced by a sense of excitement. I decided to break my silence with the kitchen. It had been months since I'd stepped into my role as a "forever apprentice" under Amma's tutelage. We whipped up our own version of Mexican Rice, complete with colorful bell peppers and sweet corn. The hiss of oil, the vegetables donning their brightest color once sauted and the powerful aroma that emanates to tickle the appetite showed me another side of myself that I'd forgotten in a while. And by the end of that evening I almost started feeling positive all over again - my job was more a challenge that I'd taken up by choice. I had to find ways to make peace with it and with myself; Probably come up with coping strategies that didn't burn me out quickly.

I slept peacefully with this realization and it was perhaps a moment of mini-catharsis. As I bathed next morning, I noticed I was no longer having imaginary customer conversations with the bathroom wall - but humming a rendition and adding my own dash of creativity with the swaras. "Wow!" I patted myself on the back - wouldn't that be a perfect start to every day?!

It had taken about sixty hours for me to work through the sense of anxiety that had built up during the past weeks. As I prepared myself for the weeks ahead that Monday evening, I almost felt the sense of optimism getting back to where it was some months ago. More importantly, I felt I was being too hard on myself and focused on only one aspect of my life. The three days showed me that I'd stopped connecting with people, with nature, with creativity AND with myself! A year ago, any job was just a part of me. Something I'd not even give a second thought between Friday evening and Monday morning! Here, I felt I was (and am) way more committed than I've ever been! I've had sales conversations I've never had before. I've learnt faster than I've learnt before...

Shouldn't the result of that be more satisfaction as an individual? Yet, as I write this piece, I realised that I'd lost connect with the key facets of my life. I'd even lost connect with the writer in me. I always believe that the writer in you doesn't die when you stop writing. He dies when you stop thinking like one. Or rather, when you stop "feeling" like one.

Well, come Monday morning, I'll still be that hunter looking to get any number of small "yes's" from prospects looking to take those coveted deals forward! But at the same time, I hope that I have the awareness once in a while to take a little pause, opt out of the rat race, connect with myself and let the world take care of itself!

Statutory Disclaimer: The views expressed are my own and do not have a bearing on my employer

If you're my colleague reading this - happy to connect and know how're doing!

If you're my friend reading this - happy to connect and know how're doing!

If you're my manager or his manager - you know how I'm doing!

If you're my customer - Dear Sir...when are we closing that deal? ;)

- 28th October 2023

The Fisherman and The Salmon

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Tue, 13 Jun 2023 17:33:00 +0000

The Fisherman and The Salmon

“I longed for the golden rays of the sun” the Salmon mused

“Yet a part of me craved his voice…

His youth, His vigour, His zest for life

The tanned skin, the toned muscle and his gait radiant with poise”

“The Fisherman cast his net wide in the Sea” blushed the Salmon

“And his song cast a spell on me…

While my kin took the bait to wriggle and wobble

I floated mesmerised, a roll of destiny”

“There were too many fish in the Sea everyday” narrated the Fisherman

“Yet this Salmon caught my eye…

She swam the waters with surreal grace

I couldn’t but let my imagination fly”

“What if she was the answer to my dreams?” gushed the Fisherman

“The Fisherman’s Salmon: The world’s envy, my pride?

Her dance in the morning sun was meant for me

Ohh yes! I yearned for her to be by my side”

“If I could be human only for a day” sighed the Salmon

“Then his song would crave my dance…

The mer-woman’s tryst with a man on land

The World would revel in this trance”

“If she could be a woman only for a day” craved the Fisherman

“Then her dance would complete my song…

Our folktale would echo in the sands of time

The flavour of the Ocean sprinkled all along”

And so they prayed to the Gods they worshipped

For a chance -they thought it was – at liberation

The Lords that day were in a jolly mood

For them the weird wish itself was fascination

*************************

“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her” exclaimed the Fisherman

“Bathing in sunlight, the nymph of the Ocean!

Her fingers caressed my outstretched hand

As she hopped onto the boat, the pearl of my affection”

“I melted at the way he looked at me” conceded the Salmon

“Ohh…I was literally a fish out of water!

And as his strong arms rowed the boat towards land

That I was leaving my home just ceased to matter!”

“People gasped as she walked with me” chuckled the Fisherman

“Even her footprints deserved a second glance…

Our eyes smiled and our faces blushed

Our hearts fluttered…all in a day’s romance”

“His little home looked palatial that day” reminisced the Salmon

“Indeed, he treated me like a Queen!

I lived the night in his muscular arms

It was the warmest I’d even been”

And then the Gods felt they risked Creation

With a whimsical union of predator and prey

It was time to put the order back in chaos

After all, their wish was “Only for a day”

************************

“I woke up….unable to loosen his hold” choked the Salmon

“I yearned for that gulp of air”

“The stench of fish had filled my home” faulted the Fisherman

“My foolishness had been laid bare”

“Those murderous eyes had faked affection” complained the Salmon

“A spell that almost destroyed me!”

“To end her life was to put her in her place” justified the Fisherman

“It was the only way to set my heart free”

The bliss of the previous day was a distant memory

As the Salmon rushed back into the Ocean

“Between Land and Sea were many a story” the Wise ones said

This was just another one to the collection

Morning dawned to the Fisherman’s song

For a moment the Salmon was all at Sea

Then the Fisherman chased and the Salmon escaped

Desire and Despair would remain their shared Destiny!

- Inspired by Instagram and "Babruvaahana"

13th June 2023

Back to Office.....and How?!!

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Wed, 08 Mar 2023 16:14:00 +0000

Disclaimer: This could well be a piece in the excitement of having attended office consistently in the last three weeks - a "phenomenon" in my life after nearly three long years!

The enthusiasm of a new job, the tipping point where work from home starts sounding like confinement and most importantly, public transport connectivity to office have enthused me to consider "work from office" as a viable option - till I get bored of office or vice versa!

And it has been a wave of nostalgia! Right from getting up in the morning and getting ready with that sense of purpose. Needlessly to say, that feeling of "dressing up" is so integral to a sales role. Shirts and trousers shelved like artifacts in a museum are beginning to see the light of day all over again. The best part is that they still fit! Not sure if being the same size after three years is considered good or bad - but it has definitely saved some cost here! Even the shoes smile with that coat of polish that eluded them for years. It's another matter that my feet and the shoes need to find romance all over again. For now, there is still the occasional tiff on uneven surfaces that is all too obvious.

The seven minute walk to the bus-stop reminds me of days from college and my first years as a professional. The city bus - for me - has always represented the world. People and personalities from all walks of life. The determination to make every rupee count. Yet the spirit of optimism as each of us in the bus prepares to face the world. It could be a student, an employee, a street vendor, a housemaid....all crammed in that microcosm. The bus travel of twenty minutes makes me feel part of a grand plan.

Ofcourse, the familiar feeling of being a run of the mill corporate answering to a boss, a super boss, a grand boss and ultimately the whims of an organisation returns with full force as I become aware of the ID card around my neck. But being in office reminds me that there are hundreds of millions in the world who are doing the exact same thing in one capacity or the other. We still have a stomach to feed and bills to pay.

Having people called around called "colleagues" is what I missed since the pandemic years. No, I still don't know more than a handful of my colleagues yet. I never may. On most days, I exchange smiles with a few of them and then there is the occasional lunch in the cafeteria. No proverbial "water cooler" conversations that lead to insightful grapevine or transformational ideas. Yet, the presence of this species called "colleagues" around, atleast for now, lends a sense of calm and purpose. And Mondays have a special ring to them, as my entire team is in office!

"Deep work" is the behavior
where you work for reasonable periods of time without distractions. The definite upside of being in office has been that the probability of me engaging in deep work has increased. This, I believe, can help me be more productive (hope my Boss is not reading this ;) ). And productivity or not, the sense of being in a "flow" without distractions lends a lot of meaning to my day.

All this aside, going back to office has brought about changes on the home front as well. I wake up atleast an hour early and constantly want to improve on that. I'm motivated to groom myself. There is a tendency to organise priorities - work, workout, writing, reading and the likes. Work from home meant that work stretched endlessly from one day to the other. It's something I want to get rid of - though only time will tell! The afternoon siesta, so much an integral part of my life in the last three years, inevitably stands cancelled. And ofcourse, my parents can hopefully enjoy some peace, respite and space from the innumerable calls, cribbing and cacophony that's part of a typical day at work. Though Amma presently tells me that she misses my running into the kitchen every hour for snacks and short-eats!

On a more practical note, I'm conscious of the premise with which I'm writing this piece. I'm "experiencing" office all over again after three years and there's definitely a spring in my stride. But I'm cognizant that I could be singing a completely different tune in a couple of months down the line!

For now though, I'm enjoying this little dose of pride every time our househelp asks "Anna, how is it that you're going to office everyday?" Three weeks on, I've still not stopped smiling at that question!

- 08th March 2023

The opinions expressed are completely my own and have no bearing on my employer.

The Landline says Goodbye!

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Thu, 19 Jan 2023 17:22:00 +0000

I always loved that I ushered in positivity; and a certain basic courtesy amongst humans. Even if you were speaking to your worst enemy, you still had to be civil and start the conversation with a cheery "Hello!"

I don't remember much of my life before I entered the family I now serve. And I've served about twenty five years - longer and more illustrious than most of my peers in other homes. They have been "dead" for a while now. I mean, a more advanced species called the "mobile phone" and its ubiquity is spelling doom for us in a lot of ways!

I was brought to life one happy morning, with my identity being the number ending **71. My first cry, something humans called the "ringtone" brought as much joy to the household as the birth of a baby. It was still those days when a landline symbolised a certain class elevation and not mere connectivity. We came in multiple colors and designs with multiple ringtones. And boy, did we enjoy the status!! With me was the directory. Again how classy it looked depended on the family's taste. I'd say the family's choice of directory wasn't great - but it wasn't mediocre either.

Memories of my early days are filled with instances of two boys trying to memorise my number with fervour. It seemed a matter of pride that they now owned a phone and wanted to share their phone number with anyone they knew! The perplexing part was that they competed between themselves to memorise phone numbers of my kin who resided in homes of their kin. They could've easily referred to the directory for the numbers - but no! Memorising numbers seemed to be an obsession for a long time.

What was intriguing though in those days, was the manner of the elder lady in the house - the grandmother. For some reason, she never wanted to use my services. I never felt she hated me. But for some reason, she never wanted to touch me. And on those desperate occasions when she was compelled to use my services, she would stand away from me and shout out at the top of her voice. Lucky, I had a speaker feature that enabled her to listen to the party at the other end, invariably her sons who were in different parts of the country. It was ironic that I ultimately carried the news of her death to different relatives like an intimate messenger, while we never shared an equation while she lived.

I get quite philosophical of his part of my role. I've conveyed news of births and news of deaths; Of moments of happiness; Of moments of anxiety; of episodes of ill-health; of reassurances of great health; It almost made my ringtone the harbinger of good or bad news depending on what the family was expecting at the time. I've noticed the look of happiness when I chimed and also the look of dread when I chimed. I only wish I had the power to alter my ringtone to suit the occasion. May be...sound ominous when the news was bad and merry for the good news. Alas, I didn't have the psychic power to discern the emotions of the caller!

About five years into the new millennium, I realised my species was quite ubiquitous. The family soon found me a companion, who ironically never stayed in the same room with me. She was called the "Cordless". Black, slender and elegant, one could carry her around the house and still speak to the person on the other side. Unlike me who was always connected and grounded. The beauty was that she was almost useless without me. And she realised that pretty quickly! Whenever someone brought her to the living room, we would exchange looks and a mute conversation would ensue. Inevitably, she would go back to her room. I'd yearn to see her again. I like to believe she pined for me as well.

But rest assured that the cordless and I were a deadly combination. If someone called and the call was received through me, it was possible for a second person to listen to the conversation through the cordless! Ohh my! The scandals it created those days in some households! For some reason this family always seemed to operate in good faith. It was boring. But it was peaceful.

The cordless and I did spend a few years together. But then she died an untimely death. She started malfunctioning way too often for the family to take care of her. Her ability to move wasn't such a great advantage after all! I missed her silent companionship. But got used to the life of a loner again.

As the kids grew up, though, they started spending a lot of time with me. These guys were above average intelligence and there were a lot phone calls prior to exams. I have distinct memories of the father proudly conveying his sons' exam results through me to his friends and family. After a point, I could've recited the scores myself. For some reason, even I felt proud on those days! Probably a phone call that I facilitated helped them score better....??!

That was the time I suddenly became indispensable to the family. I was soon connecting the family to something called the "Internet". This time the euphoria was bigger than at the time of my birth! Gone were the days when I was connecting individuals. I was now the family's ticket to the world that seemed to appear on their computer screens! The Internet opened up possibilities that hitherto didn't exist and I was the key that unlocked those possibilities! I definitely enjoyed the exalted status. If I sneezed, their entire world caught cold. I was treated with utmost care......

And that care has started turning into more of an obligation in the last seven years or so. It turns out that most of my fraternity were managed by the "Government" - a group of humans who never manage to deliver what is communicated(unlike us!). And the government had an incentive to promote our "distant cousin"- the mobile phone. Our internet story was soon collapsing around us. New technology for the internet meant we were not indispensable after all.

The lady of the house kept me alive. I was still her preferred communication partner as she dialed her sisters everyday and spent hours discussing family gossip or the latest recipe that she tried over her hapless husband and kids. Over the last few years, the features on the mobile phone and the plummeting tariffs meant that this last string of utility slowly started severing as well!

I grew morose. I aged faster than I'd aged in years. On occasions I chimed because of a rare call, I tried to sound boisterous in a cry for attention. Relatives of the family who visited the home looked at me and said "Our landline doesn't exist anymore....it's just a burden!" before adding "who calls you on it anyway? Why don't you dispose of it and save four hundred rupees a month?" Such cruelty. I mean, it wasn't unexpected in a way. Humans do send their aged to old age homes. I'm not sure if there are old age homes for land lines being discarded?? Yes, I've heard of museums. But that's for the illustrious amongst us - or the downtrodden. I, like the family, am average. Middle class.

I went out of order for a few days in the last couple of weeks. The family is now contemplating whether they have to "get rid" of me. I hoped they would just say I'd "served my purpose" and not use the "save four hundred rupees" angle. But then, cold logic triumphs emotions in most humans. Only the elder boy looks at me with intent once in a while, as though asking me what I'm feeling right now. If I could live and breathe, how would I feel...being relegated from a position of importance to a toy that has lost its significance?

Well, this monologue is exactly how I feel! And if there was a last wish, I'd want to be that happy messenger carrying the news of the boy's wedding to his friends and family. I hope he finds someone as elegant and understanding as my beloved cordless!!

- 19th January 2023

Musings of a Solo Traveller

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Thu, 05 Jan 2023 18:07:00 +0000

I recently backpacked solo to Vietnam - and I'm still gushing that I pulled it off successfully! I initially tried to document the entire trip as a travelogue - but then I realised that this was as much a journey inward as a journey in a different country. It has taken some time to distill my thoughts and I'm sharing them here more as the "musings of a traveler" and not exactly a travelogue of sights and scenes!

The Noise...The Quiet...The Noise.....

My first day in Hanoi was an abundance of well-meaning noise. I met plenty of fellow solo-travelers on a walking tour. I ended up talking to a lot of people, having "Viet Coffee" and later on met them again in the evening during the "Happy Hour" - a time for some watered down free beer to encourage socializing. Well.. if this was travelling solo, it was merry, to say the least!

But barring exceptions, connections made overnight (and over beer) are tenuous at best. The next morning I was back to discovering Hanoi on my own, with Google Maps and Gojek riders for company. I planned my own schedule and charted my own course through the day.

Contrary to evenings in Hanoi, evenings on the Cat Ba island were rather quiet with almost no one for company. But then there was always something to engage myself in. The sunset in Catba was the best I'd seen in a long while. Sitting there with my journal, having coffee and watching the sun and the sky turn from yellow to orange to deep red was one of the more deep experiences on this trip. I probably wouldn't have enjoyed this moment as much with company.

Travelling solo helps you appreciate company when it's there. And where there is none, you learn to accept and enjoy your own company. Someone once told me "If you can't enjoy your own company, who else will?!"

Of sunsets, coffees and journals

Stories, Perspectives and Possibilities.

On many evenings, I sat mesmerized as my companions for the evening opened up and gave a glimpse of their world. (I did my part of the sharing as well).

A Spanish carpenter had sold his business to make a trip to Asia. His village has 150 people. He sat awestruck as I told him about the 10 million people in Bengaluru. A German woman had lost her baggage in transit and chose to wait in Hanoi as the airline figured how to find it and ship it to her. She seemed to enjoy her stay despite the uncertainty of her baggage. A Spanish couple had named their son Shiva because they loved India! A young couple from the Netherlands were skeptical about travelling to India because of what they'd heard from fellow travelers. A Bulgarian graduate was excited to come to India because he'd heard "crazy good stories" about India. I met Israeli women who were keen to share their experiences from their mandatory service with the army....and an Indian IITian who marked towns in India as Red/Green/Blue depending on his inclination to visit them at some point in time. People teaching English in non-English speaking countries just so they can travel the world.....the list goes on.

And as I listened to these people, I realised that the possibilities of the world are immense. With life plans, relationships, careers and with how you want to experience life. Just being open to a conversation gives us a fleeting glimpse of the world at large. May be, we'll never be able to experience all the dimensions of life (may be we'll never want to). But the fact that these dimensions exist makes us less judgmental and more accepting of the world around us. You'll start reflecting on your values and may be discover that some values you hold may not even matter anymore - or that a value you hold dear may resonate with the rest of the world. For instance, I found that my inclination towards not acquiring too much material wealth and spending money on travel and experiences is a normal outlook amongst budget travelers - but my well-meaning family back here may never be able to connect with this idea.

Each person is a story (including yours truly!)

The Perils of Information Overload

Travelling solo and travelling for a short ten day vacation meant that I had to plan a lot. Even as a person, I enjoy the predictability that planning brings with it. I did quite a bit of research.Where to go, what to visit, how to get there, how the place looks - because I'd be in an unknown country. I wanted to be in total control and make the best use of my time.

While my foresight eliminated major hiccups and I had a smooth trip, there were times when I felt a little underwhelmed. I would visit a certain place and more often that not, the real place would seem slightly less magnificent than in the pictures. Ironically, the places that seemed most interesting were the places that I didn't know much about and hadn't seen a lot of pictures. The Pagoda I felt truly in harmony with and wanted to spend time, was not even on my list to begin with.

May be, if there was little more time, I could've let something serendipitous happen! Or may be if I had little less information!

Peace....where I least expected it!

Adventure Comes Calling!!

Not that the trip was sans adventure. Again, adventure need not mean the adrenaline rush of an activity that heightens your senses. It could be - in my opinion - anything that pushes you out of your comfort zone. As simple as trying to know a new person in a room full of strangers.

In that sense, the trip itself was an adventure because I was travelling solo internationally for the first time (for a vacation).

But yes, there were several moments that deserve mention. Standing next to the railway track in the clumsy yet renowned "Train Street" in Hanoi as the train whizzed past was one. Entering a busy hotel in the non-touristy part of Hanoi that was full of locals and ordering vegetarian food as the locals smirked, was another. On top of the list is hitching a ride with a Vietnamese policeman from the deserted national park area in Cat Ba. But where I exceeded my expectations was when I rode about 50 km on an automatic bike in incessant rain in Ninh Binh. I still don't know what gave me the guts and gumption to do it - having never done it here in India. The latter half of this ride was through a forested area in the darkness of night made more challenging by the rain, wind and chill. I'd have done my more accomplished biker friends proud. At the end of it, I thanked God and destiny. I thanked my presence of mind throughout the ride. But I also thanked my sense of adventure that rose to the occasion in unknown territory!

After my most adventurous ride till date

With the grace of Almighty, I've done two trips in the last three months that opened up a plethora of perspectives. The first one to the Everest Base Camp was a test of physical and mental fortitude. And upon reflection, deeply meditative and self-actualizing. Even after a fortnight of my return, I found the world back home mundane and mechanical. The solo sojourn to Vietnam on the contrary, connected me with the world while also allowing me to spend time with myself, noticing the melange of emotions that each day brought with it between dawn and dusk - from apprehension to joy to accomplishment to anxiety and even disappointment.

The biggest learning though has been that all we need in life is a backpack to carry our world and a space of three feet by six to rest peacefully at night (that was roughly the size of my bed and bunker on these trips). A mind that is open to embrace multiple perspectives and a heart that is simple enough to be amazed by a place and its people!

The (solo) traveler's world after sundown

- 05th January 2023

At The Foot of the Sagarmatha - A trek to the Everest Base Camp: Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 06 Nov 2022 18:49:00 +0000

Day 7: Dingboche - Lobuche (4940 m)

The day started with sunny weather and a flat hike with towering mountains in the background and yaks grazing the meadows. The excitement was palpable as we were less than two days away from the boulder that said "Everest Base Camp". Hundreds of fellow trekkers walked along the route towards Lobuche today, pausing every once in a while to click pictures. On my part, I clicked a few pictures but soon realised that the beauty and the serenity of the landscape was beyond what pictures or videos could capture. I stayed at a certain distance from the group trying to absorb and preserve the moment while walking in silence. Every few minutes, I looked back at the mountains. And each time, they appeared in new perspective. I spent almost an hour walking this way, consciously choosing to be overwhelmed and humbled by the grandeur of what Nature had unraveled that morning.

Mountains and Meadows

After a couple of hours, the meadows narrowed to a trail again. And hidden amongst the mountains was the lake Chola Che. We could only see a part of its pristine green waters hidden behind a screen of mountains. I thought the lake was 30 minutes away, given the visibility to the naked eye. Lhakpa laughed it off, saying it would take more than a few hours to get there.

We reached Thukla by 11. Thukla is a settlement with about 4-5 lodges. The Thukla bridge is an extremely small and short wooden bridge. But what we were told is that it is rebuilt every season because the river keeps changing course and the boulders keeps shifting.

We chose to skip lunch and settle for light snacks in Thukla. We were warned of the steep ascent immediately after this break and didn't want a full stomach to add to our woes. This was "the ascent" of the entire trek - The Thukla Pass. The ordeal doesn't last for more than an hour, for the average hiker. But you become conscious of the weight of your backpack, your heartbeat; there is this impulse to drink more water and take pauses - sometimes even every 20-30 steps. Being deliberately slow is the best way to tackle this ascent at close to 4600 m. As we climbed higher, Thukla became smaller and more distant and a mist enveloped the settlement.

The end of the Thukla Pass brought us to a landmark I'd been wanting to see, albeit a sombre one. The Memorial place for Everest Climbers. It's overwhelming that so many mountaineers - Sherpas and others - have lost their lives in their attempt to conquer the highest mountain in the world. You might wonder if it is sacrifice or foolishness. I can safely say that even when you are at heights lesser than the base camp, there is this overpowering, irrational desire to hike to greater heights and climb mountains. The struggle becomes the reward. Knowing that your body is hurting and your mind is willing to give up and still plodding on one step at a time becomes the victory. I can't comment for the rational motives of the legends who try to climb the Everest, but even as a hiker, I can relate to the irrational desire to put yourself out there and play this game of attrition against the mountains.

In the Memorial Place, I tried to look for those of Scott Fischer and Rob Hall - made famous by Jon Krakauer's bestseller "Into Thin Air" and the movie "Everest" based on the book. The movie and the book were major inspirations for me to even contemplate the Everest Base Camp trek. While the Memorial Place itself is sacred sombre ground, the mood at the place was festive. It was an ideal resting place after the arduous Thukla Pass to revitalize and regroup.

Scott Fischer and Rob Hall - Memorial Place

The rest of the hike to Lobuche wasn't exactly strenuous. Colorful moss and lichen and a gentle stream of water greeted our entry into Lobuche. Our stay here was called "Oxygen" - a high altitude oxymoron. Daal Bhat awaited us. We were slowly getting tired of Daal Bhat and tried to find variety in our meals. Yet Daal Bhat was still where we felt at home, specially when we were hungry. The portions got smaller with height, an indication of increasing prices and decreasing appetite. The EBC was now less than 24 hours away. It was at the back of our minds all the time. But we still had to spend a night at more than 15000 feet and wake up healthy enough to reach Base camp.

Day 8: Lobuche - Gorakshep - Everest Base Camp (5364 m) - Gorakshep (5164 m)

The big day. Two things weighed on our mind since last evening. Whether we'd have enough time to trek from Lobuche to Gorakshep to Base Camp and back to Gorakshep before sunset. And whether we'd get a glimpse of Mount Everest today. The answer to the first question was something we could control. The answer to the second, was completely dependent on the weather or as some of us observed philosophically "It was dependent on whether the mountain wanted to show itself to us." Lhakpa kept saying "If we get good window, we see Mt. Everest" before adding "hopefully" with his innocent smile that I'd started to love.

We were at the breakfast table by 6 AM and all set to start by 7 AM in the morning. The sky was blue and we were optimistic that it would be a fruitful day's hike. After downing some black tea and toast, I set off with the rest of our group on the trail to Gorakshep.

Within half an hour, we were viewing a panorama of mountains. It was a 360 degree view of mountains that dominated the landscape. There was a crystal clear view of some peaks; Some of them were still waking up and had a blanket of clouds around them that was growing thinner by the minute. The majesty and the magnificence held us in awe as we walked along. In front of us were Pumori, Lingtren, Khumbutse, Lho La and Nuptse. The Pumori and Lingtren looked incredibly beautiful and unique. And in between Lho La and Nuptse was where Mt. Everest would give us a glimpse, as we moved closer to base camp.

Pumori, Lingtren et all

After we'd trekked about 90 minutes that also included a short yet stiff climbing of a hillock, we got our first view of the Khumbu glacier. The glacier itself was mostly filled with boulders at this time of the year but it was broad and long and continued for kilometres on end. And as we moved closer to Gorakshep, our fervent prayers were answered by Almighty - or should I say the Sagarmatha. Hidden like a gem behind the Lho La and Nuptse, we got a glimpse of Mt. Everest!! The summit of the tallest mountain in the world came into our view. If you do some soul-searching, there would only be a few events in your world, that could bring forth a sense of self-actualisation. These are, in most cases, beyond the realm of the material world. For me, this trek was one such event. Given the bad weather, I'd decided to push the sighting of Mt. Everest to the background and focus on getting to Base Camp. However, now that the dream of viewing Mt. Everest in person was fulfilled, my sense of fulfillment multiplied.

A glimpse of Mt. Everest - in the centre of the picture

I trundled along a boulder filled trail that brought us closer to Gorakshep. There was a continuous stream of people making their way towards base camp and back from it. We started asking those who were coming back about their day at the Base Camp. Their responses filled us with enthusiasm and curiosity at the same time.

We reached Gorakshep at 10:30 AM. We'd been trekking for more than three hours now and the Base Camp was three kilometers and roughly three hours away. We had an early lunch in Gorakshep. The weather was warm and sunny. The Nuptse appeared a "stone's throw away" across the glacier and reflected the bright sunlight directly into our eyes. We walked towards the Base Camp that was 200 m higher than Gorakshep. However, there was no significant climb on the route. An hour into the trek, we could see the famed Everest Base Camp milestone about a mile away, surrounded by a Paparazzi of trekkers eager to make memories of a lifetime.

After negotiating a tricky path full of boulders for fifteen minutes, that I was forced to traverse sometimes on all fours, I reached the Everest Base Camp. The boulder 5364 m was right in front of me and I touched it, as though trying to make sure it was real; that the moment was real. I walked around the site, trying to take in all that the place had to offer: The view of the (in)famous Khumbu Icefall, the tents of summiteers that were visible about half a mile away and obviously, the sense of accomplishment that seemed to prevail at 17500 feet in front of a boulder.

As everyone from our group arrived at the base camp, we congratulated each other and thanked our Sherpa guides. It was now our turn to get in front of the boulder and click those pictures that we would cherish for a lifetime. One of our teammates had brought an Indian flag that we proudly held in front of the boulder and clicked away. People from other countries had brought
their own flags too. There was a south Indian who played the flute at the Base Camp and videoed it. He wanted to show his Guru back in India that his lungs were strong enough to play the instrument at 5000+ m. After the initial excitement abated, I took Lhakpa to a side, clicked a few pictures of us together and requested him to click some of mine (I had to do that!). For an Everest Summiteer, Lhakpa is an incredibly down-to-earth Sherpa. I thanked him for his support, guidance and most importantly patience in guiding a group where each of us had our own strengths and weaknesses.

With Lhakpa Sherpa

I then tried to call Home, to announce that I'd made it to Base Camp. NCell didn't disappoint. I could hear Amma's voice with a bit of a lag and some disturbance. "I'm at the Base Camp" I said and expected her to say "Wonderful!" But true to her nature, she asked "Are you safe and healthy?". The patchy call lasted a couple of minutes during which I tried to convey both that I'd made it to Base Camp and that I was healthy. Though I'd been in touch with my family some way or the other on each day of the trek, they were still a worried lot. Weather in Uttarakhand and Nepal had been terrible for ever since I reached Nepal and there was plenty of bad news on both mainstream and social media. Amma described later on the tension that had prevailed while I was away in the mountains.

We spent close to an hour at the Base Camp. I picked a couple of stones from the site as souvenirs and put them in my backpack. The initial part of the return hike was again a chance to get a glimpse of Mt. Everest and capture both the mountain and the Khumbu Icefall in a single frame. Unsatiated with my previous call home, I called back again from a quieter place with lesser people around; this time telling my father that I'd made it. He sounded rather boisterous, but the questions on my safety persisted. I realised there was something beyond the usual concern that was driving their anxiety.

In hindsight, if there's one small regret that I carry from the entire trek, it is that I didn't spend a couple of minutes with myself at the Base Camp. I clicked pictures, I took in the sights, I called home - but I'd have loved to just sit there and soak in the entire scene for a few minutes. This was on my mind almost immediately after I left the Base Camp and crossed the difficult initial fifteen minutes back to the main trail. I tried to compensate for that by walking alone and glancing back at the site every now and then, till it disappeared from view. It was as though I didn't feel something I was expecting to feel or wanted to feel or imagined I would feel when I reached the destination. To be honest, I've never validated myself against a goal in a trek - but have always tried to enjoy the journey and the process. Was it because of the hype around reaching the destination that I expected to feel something at the Base Camp? What if, for some reason, I was never able to make it Base Camp? Would I have regretted the entire experience? I want to think it would have been otherwise - that I'd have cherished the experience all the same. But at the same time, I also feel that I would've probably reconciled with the experience and had an other go at some point, but never would have cherished the experience if I'd not made it to the Base Camp.

The Khumbu Icefall

The Descent

Day 9: Gorakshep - Pangboche (3985 m) via Lobuche, Thukla and Pheriche

I was perhaps afflicted with mild mountain sickness last night. A headache that started as mild throbbing once we returned from Base Camp, took a turn for the worse as the evening wore on. I also started feeling nauseous. I decided that the early morning optional hike to Kalapatthar, for better views of Everest, was beyond my reach in my condition. Two of our teammates who made it to Kalapatthar after starting their trek at 4 AM in the morning returned jubiliant and satisfied.

We trekked from Gorakshep to Pangboche today. A descent of close to 1300 m. For most part this was easy, as we were constantly losing height. We took a detour post Thukla to walk to the town of Pheriche. The trail was beautiful and kept our mood upbeat. There is this obvious dip in motivation on the first day of the descent. You've reached your destination - but home is still a few days away. You need to push yourself to keep walking and find distractions on the way. The approach to Pheriche was one such distraction. Pheriche is a windy town. When we reached it around 2:30, it was already engulfed in mist.

We reached Pangboche at around 5 PM. The rains started getting heavier. It seemed as though we'd encashed the balance of mercy Nature had bestowed over the last four days and it was back to square one.

We stayed away from the conservative Daal Bhat that evening and treated ourselves to chowmein, pizza, fries and burgers that evening. In fact this would continue throughout the return trek over the next couple of days.

Day 10: Pangboche - Jorsalle (2835 m) via Tyengboche and Namche

The rain was rather heavy today. There were also a couple of strenuous ascents and the trail was infested with slush. We decided we'd trek beyond our designated stop at Namche and get down to Jorsalle, which would save us a couple of hours on the final day's trek.

We "bypassed" Namche, not passing through the main town but walking along a trail that ran on its side. Even from a distance, and for the second time, the town held us in awe. Miraculously, the weather cleared just after Namche. For a while, we could even see the snow-clad mountains we missed on our way up. But the lucky part was that there was no more rain. True, we had to descend through a slushy, slippery trail to get to Hillary bridge. But without the rain, we were more in control.

Crossing the Hillary bridge for a second time was a more conscious effort on my part. I was finally getting used to the hanging bridges. I paused for a moment at the centre of the bridge to look at the river and the entire landscape. I still didn't have the courage to take out my phone and click pictures!

We stayed right next to the Dhudh-Kosi that night, in Jorsalle. I couldn't decide if the sound of the river was soothing or disturbing as we got into bed. One thing was sure: we would love to wake up in the morning and take in the beauty of the river-front!

Day 11: Jorsalle - Lukla ( 2860 m) via Phakding

We woke up to a beautiful morning. Easily the best morning on the entire trek - and ironically the last morning. There was not a single cloud in the sky and mountains we'd missed while on our way up suddenly sprung into full view.

Relative to our experience on the entire trek, today was a breeze of a walk. The mountains seemed to want to send us off in style and escorted us out of their abode with some stunning views. Till we exited the Sagarmatha National Park, it was the majestic Khumbila that adorned the background. As we trekked onwards to Phakding, it was the mountain Thamserku that stood like a fort wall, with the snow shining bright in the sunlight.

The "Thamserku"

We reached Lukla and Mera Lodge around 4 PM. It took me a while to accept that the trek was over. About 12 days earlier, we were on our way to Lukla. Now we were back. That we'd descended 7500 ft in 3 days seemed as momentous as the climb upwards.

The evening was reserved for some souvenir shopping. I'd already decided what I'd want to take back home. A prayer flag and a map of the trail were top of my list. Tasting raw onion at dinner after about two weeks seemed to give my taste buds new life. We tipped our porters and guides and bid them a formal goodbye. They were the architects who helped us fulfill our dreams. We would always be just another trekking group to them. But for us, they'd always remain heroes of the mountains.

Our Sherpa guides and porters

Day 12: Lukla - Ramechap - Kathmandu (1400 m)

We were back at the Tenzing-Hillary airport. Eagerly waiting for our flight "Summit Air" back to Ramechap. We realised we'd been lucky on a lot of fronts. The weather had taken a turn for the worse from the day after we reached Lukla. Trekkers who were waiting in Ramechap for a flight to Lukla were stranded in Ramechap. They had to wait for multiple days for the weather to clear and then take the flight. Or travel to other smaller airfields and pay for a helicopter that could drop them at Lukla. Or travel to a village called Kharikola by taxi for 12 hours and walk for a day to reach Lukla. We escaped all this misery by arriving in the nick of time.

In another stroke of luck, the weather had been terrible for the last four days as well and flights to Lukla had been suspended. It had gotten progressively better since yesterday and thankfully we were flying back as per schedule. I was doubly lucky, as unlike my teammates, I didn't have a reserve day in my schedule. A lesson learnt.

The Tenzing-Hillary airport has plenty of pictures that almost made me think about planning another trek in the region soon. The Gokyo Lake, the High Passes Trek and pictures of other destinations had me hooked all over again as we waited for our flight.

We were back in Ramechap by noon. And Kathmandu after a gruelling car journey of six hours. Our manager Mr. Nethra had arranged a Nepali style send-off that included a traditional dinner and dance by locals. It was good to know that local whiskey was a part of their traditional dinner but most of us politely refused the Daal Bhat. We respected the Nepali "power-food" - but it had served its purpose.

Trek The Himalayas - EBC - Oct 10th 2022

Day +1 and Beyond - Bengaluru (920 m)

I reached namma Bengaluru to the music of our sweet tongue Kannada, the cacophony of traffic and rain that has more or less become an uninvited guest.

It took almost two weeks and the realities of work-life for me to eventually put the mountains out of my mind. I realised that for whatever reason, this trek meant a lot more to me than some of the other treks and trips I'd completed. That this trek had touched me deeply. It wasn't just the views. It wasn't just the accomplishment. It wasn't just the strain. It was a combination of all of these and something more. Something more that was intangible and something I probably would never be able to put into words.

Within a week of coming back, I'd read "Into Thin Air" all over again. I sat down with the map of the EBC trail and marked our route, point by point and at the end of it, I felt that the epilogue had ended too! I've taken about ten days to pen this travelogue and as I reviewed the pictures and notes, the trek came back to life all over again.

And to that question in the beginning, "Why do you have to punish your body and mind?", I found an answer that would hold good in the mountains and in life:

"To see sights you've never seen, you have to climb heights you've never climbed!"

- Sunday, 7th November 2022

Link to Part 1

At The Foot of the Sagarmatha - A trek to the Everest Base Camp: Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 06 Nov 2022 17:57:00 +0000

At The Foot of the Sagarmatha - A trek to the Everest Base Camp: Part 1

"Why do you have to punish your body and mind to that extent?" people question me when I start on a trek. "You've got two weeks off...why don't you vacation like a king?" they ask. I ask myself the same lingering question probably during the last meal before leaving for a trek and as I tuck in to that cosy bed of mine the night before the trek. These questions would always answer themselves....one way or the other.

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Day 0: Bengaluru - Mumbai - Kathmandu (1400 m)

Journeys to the Bengaluru airport have definitely become laborious and eventful. Late Saturday night traffic and non-seasonal rain made sure that my first decision on the trip - that of leaving five hours early to the airport - was handsomely vindicated.

There still was a good couple of hours before I boarded the flight to Mumbai as I ordered Misal Poha from the eaterie near the gate. As the food induced lethargy overpowered my travel anxiety, I enviously noticed those travellers who were bold enough to use a bedspread/shawl and lie down on the airport floor. Curling uncomfortably on a chair, I tried to while away the remaining hour or so before departure.

The sunrise at the Mumbai airport was a sight to behold. It seemed to suggest that my trip was well and truly underway! The South Indian breakfast was an easy way to lighten my wallet. It was as though I was paying for the view of the runway rather than the breakfast. (Paying for views was the whole point of this trip!)

The fascinating part of flights is how a journey of two hours can transport you to a different land and different culture altogether. There is no transition. You sit in a black-box and when you come out of it, the world is totally different! The people are speaking a different language. The landscape looks different. I've never ceased to be in amazement of this phenomenon. And so it was when the flight landed in Kathmandu at around half-past noon, Nepal time. I adjusted the time on my wrist watch to reflect the local time. Getting a pre-paid SIM card was the first item on my agenda. On other treks, my family would be convinced that I'd be out of network coverage for a week. Here, thanks to the literature available about the trek and the promise of network on the trek - I was almost ordered to have a local SIM card as soon as I landed in Kathmandu.

Our ride (two more trekkers of our group joined me at the airport) to the hotel was already present at the airport. That the receiving party chose to garland us as part of Nepali tradition was a warm gesture. It was lending a certain colour to the trip already! We were hosted in Hotel Marshyangdi in Thamel. Thamel is where most trekkers and foreigners put up. There are plenty of outlets selling trekking gear and paraphernalia throughout the area. From cheap goods for the budget shopper to proudly claimed "first copies" of popular brands, Thamel seems to have it all. Not to mention the numerous cafes and resto-bars that would be ideal celebration points for a "have a safe trek" party or "welcome back from a successful trek" bash. It was here that we first got acquainted with the "Daal Bhat" - the carbohydrate rich Nepali power food that is the staple dish in the region.

The "Daal Bhat"

Our agenda for the rest of the evening was clear. We would be briefed by Mr. Nethra- our local manager. Then make some last minute purchases and retire for the evening. We would start to Ramechap at 2 AM in the night.

The highlight of Mr. Nethra's briefing turned out to be the introduction to Lakpa Sherpa - our guide for the trek and an Everest Summiteer. Needless to say, some of us were more curious about his Summit expedition than what lay in front of us. That would have to wait, as Nethra and Lakpa talked about weather, oxygen, acute mountain sickness (AMS), diamox, importance of hydration - care and caution seemed to be the mantra of the meeting - and it reined in our enthusiasm. To succeed, we'd have to approach the trek like a test match, not a T20.

Day 1: Kathmandu - Ramechap - Lukla - Phakding (2610 m)

We reached Ramechap by 6:30 AM for a flight that was supposed to take-off at 8 AM. However, it was only by 11 AM that we were finally issued boarding passes for a flight that was aptly called "Summit Air". I've been on these vibrating-noisy-congested 16 seaters before. Yet I could sense my nervous excitement as the engines revved and the flight picked up speed on a short runway before taking off at the end of it.

Ramechap to Lukla is a 18-20 minute flight. Just as we were getting used to the beautiful transition of the green hills to the white mountains, the flight touched down at Lukla. We disembarked at the "Tenzing - Hillary" Aiport. All Everest Base Camp treks, Summit expeditions and multiple other treks and expeditions start from Lukla. Needless to say, Lukla is called the "Gateway to Everest". I already felt I was on sacred land. Treading the path of legends.

The "Tenzing-Hillary" Airport - Lukla

After a short stop at "Mera Lodge" for lunch, we finally started our hike - a moment that we'd imagined for months now and anticipated ever since we landed in Nepal. The beginning of the hike is a paved descent complete with steps. I was almost surprised to see that there was no "trail" but a proper path. As we hiked we encountered almost a procession of fellow hikers - and all of them were on the base camp trail. And throughout the path from Lukla to Phakding were cafes, lodges and teahouses that could serve anything from tea to vodka; from Daal Bhat to French Fries to varieties of meat. Over the next couple of days I realised that difficulty and altitude notwithstanding, this trek is globally popular. The popularity explained the facilities available enroute. Especially when hiking from Lukla to Phakding.

As we walked to Phakding, we saw our Sherpas briskly walk past us carrying weights of more than 30 kilos per person. Most trekkers offload their luggage to Sherpas while carrying a day-pack with essentials like water, snacks, raincoats and emergency medicine. We were astounded as they carried these weights not only at 2,500 m but also in the later parts of the trek at heights of 5000 m plus. We also met our first "Jhopke"s. A Jhopke is a crossbreed of a cow and a yak. It is used to ferry loads between towns/villages along the trek route. I spent a lot of time on the trek trying to correctly discern between a Yak and a Jhopke. What was most striking though, is the sweet sounding bell tied to their necks. These bells have different sizes and frequencies and apparently help the owner locate an animal that has strayed away from its track.

The "Jhopke"

After a hike that lasted about three hours and nine kilometres, we arrived at Phakding. A town located 200 m below Lukla in terms of altitude. The decline had been gradual and the first day enthusiasm had seen us through. I had a mild headache that threatened to get severe soon. I was aware that it was because I'd spent two nights with hardly any continuous sleep. I curled into bed for nine hours of uninterrupted sleep. The Everest base camp was 9 kilometers nearer, now!

Day 2: Phakding - Namche Bazaar (3440 m)

The day's departure was set at 7:30 AM. We were mentally prepared for a longish hike. But what we didn't expect, was the pitter-patter of rain even as we stepped out of our stay. Well, unless the rain was life-threatening, the trek would go on. We removed our raincoats from our day pack, heaved a determined sigh and started the day's trek.

The initial part of the hike didn't have a pattern. We walked along the Dhudh-Kosi river. Upstream. The name is apt and the water itself is as white as milk. The human "traffic" along the route was again conspicuous. Especially after we entered the "Sagarmatha National Park". It was as though people had gathered for a fair and not a trek. Greetings and small conversations with fellow hikers, often beginning with a "Namaste" became the norm. Most of these conversations never went beyond "Where are you from?" and "Which is your trail?". As the trek grew more arduous, I coined a term for these hikers, calling them "momentary companions" - offering their smile, encouragement or just acknowledging that their hearts are racing just as fast as yours or their legs are giving way just like yours.

After a good 4 hours of hiking, we reached the village Jorsalle. We ordered lunch here and relaxed for about 90 minutes. It was amazing how the weather showed multiple hues in this time. The rain stopped, the weather got warm, the sun gave us a glimpse from behind the clouds, disappeared as the clouds won the tussle and it started raining all over again! All this while we finished a plate of Daal Bhat!

We started our post lunch trek, resigning ourselves to the wet weather, our stomachs full and our spirits buoyant. The intensity of the trek took a different turn now. We walked along a seemingly flat trail for the next thirty minutes. And in front of us, at about four hundred feet high, stood the Hillary bridge. We'd crossed multiple suspension bridges on this trek since Lukla and would cross some more in the latter part of the trek - but the Hillary bridge was definitely the scariest bridge crossing in the entire trek. With the rain and the roaring river flowing beneath, I couldn't muster the courage to look sideways or down and simply jogged across praying that the bridge didn't give way!

The "Hillary Bridge"

From that point, started the third toughest ascent - in my opinion - of the entire trek. The trail was no longer paved, but muddy and slushy. As the route wound upwards, we took a pause at every turn to take a few deep breathes and stabilise our heart rate. It was a marathon ascent and in about one hour, we'd gained enough altitude that made the Hillary Bridge look like a speck in the landscape and not the monument it had seemed up close.

We climbed further and both the bridge and the river disappeared from view. We were now trekking on a path with the hill on one side and conifers on the other. The change in view didn't bring about any tangible ease in the ascent. As expected, we soon started asking our guides the standard question "how far is Namche yet?" and invariably received a standard reply "we are almost there..." which we knew was a euphemism for "just keep hiking...you've signed up for it!". About two hours after crossing the Hillary bridge - that seemed an eternity - we reached a checkpost that indicated the start of Namche Bazaar.

Knowing the day's destination was close definitely bolstered our spirits. But what made the day's hike worthwhile was the first look of Namche Bazaar. I'll never forget the moment I took a turn at a bend and the town suddenly appeared in front of my eyes, as though I was entering a different world altogether. Nestled at roughly 3500 metres above mean sea level this town is a true Himalayan marvel. I'd seen pictures and visuals of this town in movies and the Internet, but I was awestruck to behold this town in reality.

Namche Bazaar

Namche is the unofficial capital of the Khumbu region. It's strategically located, midway between Lukla and the Everest Base Camp. Multiple other trekking trails branch out from Namche as well, making it an ideal base for planning/regrouping/acclimatization. The town has posh lodges, bakeries and shops selling trekking equipment, a bank and even currency exchange centres! I would add a helipad to the list - but most towns along the trek do have a helipad. It's worth mentioning that Namche has a Nepali Army Camp as well. I met a couple of locals in other towns who were taking their ware to the Namche "market" for sales. Probably, that's why Namche is also "Namche Bazaar".

Our hotel for the next couple of nights was the "Green Tara". Green Tara is a mountain goddess in the region. We'd gained about 850 metres (roughly 2500 feet) during the day. The trek, specially the ascent after Hillary Bridge, was reiterating that the mantra for the days to follow was patience and perseverance. The acclimatization day tomorrow provided us just the platform to muster these virtues.

Day 3: Namche Bazaar (3440 m) - Acclimatisation Day

The clouds and rain didn't let up today as well. The start to the day was relaxed, knowing the agenda was just a small hike to acclimatise. We had to trek to a view point about 20 minutes away, gaining some height - probably a couple of hundred feet. And we immediately realised the effects of altitude. We were panting at almost every step. The effort along with the rain did dampen our spirits a little. The cloudy weather at Namche meant that the trip to the view point didn't have any scenic value. There was some compensation though, as we gazed open mouthed at helicopters that were flying to higher points on the trail.

The most interesting part of the day was our visit to the "Everest Museum". This has been built on the same land on which the first successful expedition in 1953 had camped. The museum has traditional objects that were used or continue to be used in households of the region. In a second hall were pictures of climbers, expeditions, press articles - an abundance of information that inspires you to dream about climbing the highest peaks in the world. Mountains stand tall and high. What rivals their height is the depth of the indomitable will of man to be at their summit. What I realised in the museum though, is that mountaineering is not adrenaline. It is a slow game of attrition where you learn to survive against the challenges the mountain throws at you. What matters most, is not getting to the summit - but coming back safely to tell the tale.

The "Everest" Museum

We came back to the Green Tara for a well earned lunch. We were instructed to not sleep in the afternoon. So we resorted to a couple of games of bluff. As the afternoon drifted to a lazy evening, the weather got murkier. Trekkers who arrived from Phakding today were drenched in rain. I decided to buy a fleece jacket from a shop where the lady remarked "This jacket is 4000 Nepali. But I give you at 2400 Nepali because Indian and Nepali are brothers!" I'm sure she still managed a handsome profit - but was appreciative of her gesture all the same. The rain was no longer steady. It was pouring. "Let the skies empty during the night.....so we have clear weather in the morning!" we prayed.

Day 4: Namche Bazaar - Tyengboche (3860 m)

It was as though someone up there listened to our fervent prayers! The rain had abated by the morning. There were even patches of blue sky. The puddles had more or less disappeared.

The immediate ascent in Namche that was the beginning of the hike, seemed a lot easier today. We were pleased with the way our bodies had acclimatised. This along with the prospect of clear weather bolstered our spirits. Infact, thanks to the weather, most groups we passed along the trail seemed to have a spring in their stride.

The first part of the day was a rather flat trail. We were blessed with some excellent views of the forested hills with the Dhudh Kosi appearing like a slithering silver serpent, thousands of feet below. We spotted our first snow clad mountains on the trek, the most prominent one being the Kusumkhang Ru. Our eyes and hearts, yearning for some view of the white mountains stirred mildly at this first sighting.

Enroute Tyengboche

The nature of the trail allowed me to pick our guide's brain and ask him about the numerous varieties of flora that appeared on the trail. There were pines, junipers, orchids, rhododendrons and flowers of different hues and colours. What struck me though, was this plant that's called the "Old Man's beard" -that grew on tree barks and twigs - probably because it was easy to spot and seemed to thrive in today's trail. Wikipedia now tells me that this is a type of lichen. We also spotted Himalayan Tahrs that stood on the edges of cliffs and kept watch on us from their vantage point.

"Old Man's Beard"

About 30 minutes away from our lunch point, we got into an almighty descent that was steep and sudden. Any descent, is easy on the heart but tough on the knees. The irony of this descent, though, was that we would have to gain the same and height and more post lunch to reach Tyengboche. A small part of our lunch conversation at Phungi Thanga was reserved for venting out this frustration. While we got acquainted with chapatis made from maida and mountain chilies during lunch, we realised the weatherman's kindness was in short supply. It was time to get our raincoats out, all over again!

What followed was the second toughest ascent on the trek. Again, the trail was the least of our problems. But we were gaining height rapidly and at every curve. We had spent the spirit the clear weather of the morning had bestowed and had to drum up every ounce of determination for the next ninety minutes. This is where I believe trekking tests us. To be able to keep hiking and climbing everyday for days together without quitting. When the weather is good, the views are beautiful and the trail is innocuous, it's a breeze. But when the weather turns against you and the trail gets demanding is when you need to "show up!" And on this trek, we had to show up almost every day till now one way or the other!

We reached Tyengboche by three in the afternoon. Our stay was right opposite the revered Tyengboche monastery which is the largest in the region. Our guide told us that trekkers on expeditions to the Summit seek blessings from the chief priest at this monastery. We were curious to watch the service at the monastery but were late to arrive. We visited the monastery nevertheless and spent some time in sitting in silence.

The Tyengboche Monastery (Courtesy: Aditya Parikh)

By evening, the weather cleared somewhat and there was commotion in the common room at our stay. People seemed to be rushing towards the balcony or even outside the hotel as though a show had started. Well, Tyengboche is nestled in the midst of some beautiful mountains. While the weather thwarted chances of clear views, these mountains were revealing themselves bit by bit as we climbed higher. We caught a glimpse of the Lhotse and the beautiful Ama Dablam. However, it was just that - a glimpse. Post dinner that night though, the clouds parted to reveal the moon and we even saw some stars smiling down on us. What was more enthralling was the view of the monastery, that now seemed to have acquired an almost regal majesty, with the mountains that revealed themselves in the backdrop. It was the one occasion on the trip when I heartily cursed myself for not mortgaging our home to buy an iPhone. I resolved to speak to my father about it on return!

Day 5: Tyengboche - Dingboche (4410 m)

In hind sight, this was the easiest day of the entire trek. We did gain more than 600 m during the day. However, most of that was done gradually and without excess strain. With Dhudh Kosi left far behind and below, it was now time for us to walk along the Imja River. The day gave us a lot of time to enjoy views of forests on the other side of the Imja. We passed by multiple smaller settlements viz. Debuche, Pangboche. Our guide Lhakpa told me that "Che" means a group of lakes.

Enroute Dingboche - River Imja

As is typical with me on treks, I was the one trailing in our group and the assistant guide Sona chose to hang back with me. He talked to me about his earnest desire to migrate to Saudi Arabia to earn more money. When I asked him about the jobs he would fit in in Saudi, he mentioned he could get trained as a waiter in a hotel or as an employee in a mall or store. He apparently had trekked to EBC as a porter initially and over a decade learned enough to become a guide. The money these guides and porters earned never seemed enough, because as we climbed higher, even the modest Daal Bhat cost atleast 700 Nepali. And this charge was the same for both Sherpas and trekkers. I told Sona that I always thought Sherpas were not required to pay so much for a meal because they were locals and the hotels and lodges were considerate to people of their own. Sona confessed that owners of these lodges were not exactly the best people to deal with. Infact, the owner of our stay in Tyengboche had denied porters entry to the common room of the hotel. On the one hand, the trek was showing me how Mother Nature had created mountains, rivers, trees, animals and humans with brush strokes filled with artistry, adaptability and affection. Yet on the same trail, I was also discovering that the harsh realities of life and livelihood that sustained us and ate away at us at the same time were the same - irrespective of whether you are at 40 m or 4000 m.

As we trekked higher that day, there was a visible change in the landscape. The trees and shrubs soon disappeared. Our path was now a riot of colour from small plants and moss that grows on rocks. I wish I had someone well versed in plants and geography to figure the right jargon and names of the myriad vegetation I saw on the trek.

Flora enroute Dingboche

At around two, we could see Dingboche in our horizon. The second largest settlement in the region after Namche, this town is equally well equipped for trekkers to acclimatise and spend two nights in relative comfort. Our stay was called "Yak Lodge" - telling us implicitly that we'd reached heights that the Yaks call home!

Day 6: Dingboche (4410 m) - Acclimatisation Day

It was decided that we would have a relaxed acclimatisation day with a short ascent and lots of hydration. At this height, it seemed as though we'd left the clouds and rain below. The day started with the astounding Ama Dablam right in front of our lodge. From our vantage point on the hike, we could see an entire range of mountains comprising the Island Peak, Ama Dablam, Kangthega and Thamserku and multiple others. I'm sure it sounds alien and disconnected for those reading this at home - but these names and mountains are an integral part of the journey as you trek towards the coveted base camp. Even on the trek it was overwhelming to see people - specially westerners - sit down after a trek and makes notes for the day, maps spread wide on their dinner tables.

We well and truly put our phones and cameras to good use today, clicking away, capturing the mountains, ourselves, ourselves and mountains, the town below, the sun and clouds above. For once, the courtship between the mountains and us was shaping up towards a meaningful relationship. Our persistence was reaping its first rewards. While returning from the hike, Pasang (Lhakpa's son) and I did a bit of a plastic clean up, picking up bottles, chocolate wrappers and covers. It was for me a tacit way to show this kid that he needs to be conscious about Nature and protect the mountains that are his source of livelihood. And a small gesture of thanks from my end to the mountains!

Dingboche and Ama Dablam

.......Continued in Part 2

A Writer's Woes: Of Numbers, Milestones...and Blocks

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Wed, 11 May 2022 13:37:00 +0000

A Writer's Woes: Of Numbers, Milestones...and Blocks

The writer kept flipping continuously between his ninety-ninth and hundredth pieces. It had been a few days since he'd published the hundredth piece. His note to his readers saying this was number hundred, had been met polite appreciation by a few. But largely went unnoticed. He had felt euphoric when the appreciations arrived - a sense of validation that every writer, novice and veteran, craves for. A catharsis for all the effort and sweat that goes into creating a world with words.

Then came what he had been dreading. It didn't hit him in the face. It didn't restrain him from behind. It crept slowly and stealthily. It made its way through him in his time of euphoria without giving him a chance to take stock. And when his elation finally subsided, he noticed it coursing through his being. The Block had finally resurfaced.

During his hundred pieces, he had met the Block multiple times in some way or the other. It manifested as creative constipation, lack of discipline, horrible schedules that didn't give enough mind-space for ideas to germinate, fear of failure, lack of motivation and sometimes the dangerous feeling of "this is enough". He wondered what it was this time..

The number hundred kept bothering him. A hundred attempts at writing. A hundred attempts at creating prose or poetry. A hundred attempts at telling himself that he could write. A hundred attempts at telling the world he could write. He went back to how jittery and nervous he felt ever since the ninety-first piece. What if the world that was within emptied itself just before he reached the number hundred? The anxiety was more and more pronounced as he closed in on the ninety-seventh, ninety eighth and ninety-ninth pieces. What if the hundredth never happened? Or what if it wasn't his best attempt yet? A cricket fan, he likened his trepidation to that of a batsman in his nineties - ever cautious, circumspect and anxious.

And once he hit publish on the hundredth piece, it was a cocktail of euphoria and relief. And soon, that numbing feeling that he had given it all and had nothing more to offer the world or himself. The nineties seemed to have drained him. The "Block" possessed him.

All he could do now was reflect. That was one skill he had learned over all the Blocks over all the years. Reflect. Just go inwards than outwards. Stare at the blank screen. Stare at the blank ceiling. Stare at the scenery in front of you. While the churn happens within. And then type out something - anything - that makes the remotest sense. Wait...was someone who'd written a hundred times still expected to do all this? Wasn't he beyond all this?

It was at that time that another sobering, simpler train of thought hit him. Everything was just a number. Ninety eight, ninety nine, hundred. Any of his writings could've won....any of them could've lost. His fifty seventh piece might have been way well received than his thirty first. He might not even have liked his first ten pieces - but the eleventh one was a winner. Yet without the thirty first, there was no fifty seventh. Without the first ten, there was no eleventh.

He allowed the these thoughts to linger on for some more time. And then it seemed obvious. Agreed. Without the ninety-ninth, there was no hundredth. Yet the hundredth piece could still have its own identity and presence in this wide world, without having anything to do with the other ninety nine. Unlike in cricket, where the hundredth run had a meaning because of the previous ninety nine. A character, an idea, a plot, a climax were born with each piece and could hold their own, without any connection with those in the previous one. The writer in him took birth with each piece....and at the end of each one, he died. Only to be born again with a fresh idea.

He turned his attention to the Block again. He had done what he used to every time it had hindered him. Allow it to possess him for a while. Give it its due. Then search his depths for a while to find out if he still had the urge to create. More often that not, he found out that he did. Whether the urge would result in something meaningful to the world at large was a different question. While he was still creating, meaning would find him in some way....

And as for the game with numbers, he hoped he could put it to rest. A hundred pieces read by the world, meant that atleast twice the number of ideas that had originated...never made the light of day. Some were a line long, some were a page long, some were pages long - but never found a sense of completion to stand on their own.

Ninety-nine, hundred, hundred and one....the count would go on! Whether the world noticed or not, each piece would still be his creation.....an edifice that would stand on its own!

-11th May 2022

Struggles and Survival

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sat, 05 Mar 2022 14:02:00 +0000

Struggles and Survival

"This Struggle is for our Country” The Ruler proclaimed
His strength the notion of Sovereignty
His lure the mirage of Legacy
And millions became means to his end

The World witness to this Lunacy

"This Struggle is for our Religion” The Messiah decreed

His conviction the greatness of “His” God

The promise of imagined Salvation

And millions butchered each other for truths non-existent

God wondered if this was ever his Creation

“This Struggle is for our Conglomerate” The Capitalist declared

Profits and Prosperity his rallying cry
A life of luxury that would never run dry
And millions jumped into the bandwagon of mindless consumerism

It was too late, before they asked themselves “Why?!”

“The Struggle is not the one outside” The Saint preached

“But the one within”
“Conquer Thyself to Conquer the World”
And millions embarked on a coveted journey of self-discovery

Yet, that would never be enough to escape their misery

Into this World arrived a Child

Bereft of shelter, defiant of hunger
Clad in tattered clothes, he appeared out of nowhere
For the pursuits of the World, he couldn’t care less

All he needed was some food, a little care

Legacy, Religion, Luxury, Discovery – were indulgences of a full stomach
The (in)security of Faith, would never provide him shelter
The badges of Identity would never fit on his tattered clothes

Hacks to nourish his Ego….would never deliver him from hunger

A Refugee from the World

A Refugee of the World
His World was an abundance of deprival
As the rest of us wrestled with enemies imagined,

His Life was a “Struggle for Survival”

- 05th March 2022

ಬೀಳ್ಕೊಡುಗೆ

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Tue, 15 Feb 2022 14:28:00 +0000

ಬೀಳ್ಕೊಡುಗೆ

"ಅಪ್ಪ ಬಾತ್ ರೂಮಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಸಿದು ಬಿದ್ರು ,ರಾಘವ" ರಮೇಶ ಹೇಳಿದ. ಅವನ ಧ್ವನಿ ಗದ್ಗದಿತವಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಗಾಬರಿ, ಅಸಹಾಯಕತೆಯನ್ನೂ ರಾಘವ ಗಮನಿಸಿದ. ದೂರದ ಜರ್ಮನಿಯಿಂದ ಫೋನ್ನಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾತಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರೂ ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿನ ತನ್ನ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಏನಾಗುತ್ತಿರಬಹುದೆಂಬ ಚಿತ್ರ ಅವನ ಕಣ್ಮುಂದೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿತ್ತು.

ರಮೇಶ ತನ್ನನ್ನು ಸಂಭಾಳಿಸಿಕೊಂಡು ಅಮ್ಮನನ್ನು ಸಮಾಧಾನ ಪಡಿಸಬೇಕು. ಯಾವುದೇ ಸಮಯ ವ್ಯರ್ಥ ಮಾಡದೆ ಆಂಬುಲೆನ್ಸ್ ಗೆ ಕರೆ ಮಾಡಿ ಅಪ್ಪನನ್ನು ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆಗೆ ರವಾನೆ ಮಾಡಬೇಕು. ಘಂಟೆ ರಾತ್ರಿ ಹತ್ತಾಗಿತ್ತು. ರಮೇಶನ ಮಗಳು ಸಂಧ್ಯಾಳಿಗೆ ಇನ್ನೂ ಮೂರು ವರ್ಷ. ಈ ಗದ್ದಲವನ್ನೆಲ್ಲ ಕಂಡು ಅಳುತ್ತಿರುತ್ತಾಳೆ. ರಮೇಶನ ಹೆಂಡತಿ ಪುಷ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನನ್ನು ಗಮನಿಸುತ್ತಿರುತ್ತಾಳೆ...

"ರಾಘವ..ಆಂಬುಲೆನ್ಸ್ ಬಂತು... ಈಗ ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆಗೆ ಹೋಗ್ತೀನಿ ನಾನು. ಆಮೇಲೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡ್ತೀನಿ." ದೂರದಲ್ಲೆಲ್ಲೋ ರಮೇಶನ ಧ್ವನಿ.

"ಸರಿ. ಏನಾದ್ರೂ ಮಾತಾಡೋದಿದ್ರೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡು" ಎಂದು ರಾಘವ ಫೋನ್ ಇಟ್ಟ.

ತಮ್ಮ ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ತಂದೆ-ತಾಯಿಯರ ಜವಾಬ್ದಾರಿ ವಹಿಸಿ ತಾನು ಜರ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಬಂದದ್ದು ಸರಿಯೋ, ತಪ್ಪೋ ಎಂಬ ದ್ವಂದ್ವ ರಾಘವನನ್ನು ಸದಾ ಕಾಡುತ್ತಲೇ ಇತ್ತು. ಸದ್ಯ, ಅವರ ಆರೋಗ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾವ ವ್ಯತ್ಯಯವು ಆಗದಿದ್ದ ಕಾರಣ ಇವನು ನಿರಾಳವಾಗಿದ್ದ. ಮಡದಿ ಮಾಲತಿ, ಮಗ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ನ ಜೊತೆ ಖುಷಿಯಾಗಿಯೇ ಕೆಲವು ವರ್ಷಗಳನ್ನು ಕಳೆದಿದ್ದ. ಇನ್ನೊಂದೆರಡು ವರ್ಷ ಇಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದು ನಂತರ ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿಗೆ ಮರಳಿ, ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನನ್ನು ತನ್ನ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಇರಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ಯೋಚನೆ ಅವನದ್ದು. ಆದರೆ ರಮೇಶನ ಫೋನ್ ಕಾಲ್ ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನು ಬುಡಮೇಲು ಮಾಡಿತ್ತು.

"ಊಟಕ್ಕೆ ಬಾರಪ್ಪ" ಎಂದು ಐದು ವರ್ಷದ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ಮುದ್ದಾಗಿ ಕರೆದಾಗ, ಈ ಆಘಾತದಲ್ಲೂ ಒಂದು ಸಣ್ಣ ಚೈತನ್ಯ. ಡೈನಿಂಗ್ ಟೇಬಲ್ ಮುಂದೆ ಕೂತರೂ ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಏನು ತಿನ್ನುವ ಮನಸ್ಸಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ. "ಅಪ್ಪನನ್ನು ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆಗೆ ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ ಎಂದಾಗ ಅವನ ಕಣ್ಣಂಚಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದೆರಡು ಹನಿ ನೀರು. ಎದುರಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಳಿತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಮಾಲತಿ ಬಂದು ಇವನ ಪಕ್ಕದಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಳಿತಳು.

"ಏನು ಆಗೋದಿಲ್ಲ ರಾಘವ್. ಹೀ ವಿಲ್ ಬಿ ಓಕೆ" ಎಂದು ಸಮಾಧಾನ ನೀಡುವ ಪ್ರಯತ್ನ ಮಾಡಿದಳು. ಏನೂ ಅರಿಯದ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ತನ್ನ ಕೈ ಬೆರಳುಗಳನ್ನು ಅಪ್ಪನ ಕೈ ಬೆರಳುಗಳೊಂದಿಗೆ ಸೇರಿಸಿದ್ದ.

***************************************

ಜರ್ಮನಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಘಂಟೆ ರಾತ್ರಿ ಹನ್ನೊಂದಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಅಂದರೆ ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಎರಡೂವರೆ ಸುಮಾರು. ರಾಘವ ಫೋನ್ ಪಕ್ಕದಲ್ಲೇ ಕುಳಿತಿದ್ದ. ರಮೇಶ ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆ ವಿವರವನ್ನು ವಾಟ್ಸಪ್ಪ್ ಮೂಲಕ ಕಳಿಸಿದ್ದ. ಹೈಟೆಕ್ ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆಗೇ ಅಪ್ಪನನ್ನು ಸೇರಿಸಿದ್ದ.

"ದುಡ್ಡಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಏನೂ ಯೋಚ್ನೆ ಮಾಡ್ಬೇಡ" ಎಂಬ ರಾಘವನ ಸಂದೇಶವನ್ನು ರಮೇಶ ನೋಡಿದ್ದ. ಆದರೆ ಉತ್ತರಿಸಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಸಣ್ಣ ಅಳುಕು. ಬಹುಶಃ ಇಂಥ ಸಮಯದಲ್ಲಿ ತಾನು ದುಡ್ಡಿನ ವಿಚಾರ ಎತ್ತ ಬಾರದಿತ್ತು. ಆದರೆ ಅವನಿಗೂ ಉದ್ವೇಗ. ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಏನಾಗಿರಬಹುದು, ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಏನು ಹೇಳಿದರು ಎಂದು ತಿಳಿಯುವ ತವಕ. ಯಾವುದೇ ಸಂದೇಶ ಬಂದಿಲ್ಲವೆಂದು ತಿಳಿದಿದ್ದರೂ ಐದೈದು ನಿಮಿಷಕ್ಕೂ ಫೋನ್ ನೋಡುತ್ತಲೇ ಇದ್ದ.

ಇನ್ನು ಸುದ್ದಿಗಾಗಿ ಕಾಯಲಾಗದೆ ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ. ಒಂದೇ ರಿಂಗಿನಲ್ಲಿ ರಮೇಶ ಉತ್ತರಿಸಿದ.

"ಅಣ್ಣ...ಇನ್ನು ಮಲ್ಗಿಲ್ವೇನೋ?" ಸಹಜವಾಗಿ ಕೇಳಿದ ರಮೇಶ.

"ನಿದ್ದೆ ಹೇಗೋ ಬರುತ್ತೆ...ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದ ಏನೂ ಸುದ್ದೀ ನೇ ಇಲ್ಲ... "

"ಗಾಬರಿಯಾಗ್ಬೇಡ ರಾಘವ... ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಹಾರ್ಟ್ ಅಟ್ಯಾಕ್ ಆಗಿದ್ಯಂತೆ. ಇಪ್ಪತ್ನಾಲ್ಕು ಘಂಟೆ ಅಬ್ಸರ್ವೇಷನ್ ಅಂತೆ. ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು ನಲ್ಲಿ ಇಟ್ಟಿದ್ದಾರೆ. " ರಮೇಶ ಹೇಳಿದ. ಅವನ ಧ್ವನಿ ಶಾಂತವಾಗಿಯೇ ಇತ್ತು.

"ಹಾಂ...." ಒಂದು ಕ್ಷಣ ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಏನು ತೋಚಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಮೌನವಾಗಿದ್ದ. "ಸರಿ. ಈಗ ಜ್ಞಾನ ಬಂದಿದ್ಯ?" ಕೇಳಿದ.

"ಇಲ್ಲವಂತೆ. ನನಗೆ ಒಳಗೆ ಹೋಗೋ ಅವಕಾಶ ಇಲ್ಲ. ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು ಆಚೆ ಕೂತಿದೀನಿ. " ರಮೇಶ ಹೇಳಿದ.

"ಅಮ್ಮ ಹೇಗಿದ್ದಾಳೆ?" ರಾಘವ್ ಕೇಳಿದ. ಅವಳನ್ನು ತಕ್ಷಣ ನೋಡುವ ಮನಸ್ಸಾಯಿತು.

"ಪುಷ್ಪ ನೋಡ್ಕೋತಿದಾಳೆ. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಶಾಕ್ ಆಗಿದ್ಲು. ಆಗುತ್ತೆ ಅಲ್ವಾ..... ಈಗ ಮಲಗಿರಬಹುದು. ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ ಮಾತಾಡು. "

"ಹೂ..ಸರಿ. ನೀನು ಹುಷಾರು. ನಾನು ಬರ್ಬೇಕಾದ್ರೆ ಹೇಳು....ತಕ್ಷಣ ಹೊರ್ಡ್ತೀನಿ. ಇಲ್ಲ ಅಪ್ಪ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದ ತಕ್ಷಣ ಬರ್ತೀನಿ."

"ಸರಿ ಅಣ್ಣ.. ಆತುರ ಬೇಡ. ಸದ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ ಪರಿಸ್ಥಿತಿ ಕಂಟ್ರೋಲ್ ನಲ್ಲಿದೆ. ಆಂಬ್ಯುಲೆನ್ಸ್ನಲ್ಲಿ ನನಗೆ ಒಂದೆರಡು ನಿಮಿಷ ಕೈಕಾಲೇ ಆಡ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಈಗ ಪರವಾಗಿಲ್ಲ." ಮೊದಲ ಬಾರಿಗೆ ರಮೇಶ ತನ್ನ ಒತ್ತಡವನ್ನು ತೋಡಿಕೊಂಡ.

"ಸರಿ. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ರೆಸ್ಟ್ ತೊಗೊ....ಕಷ್ಟ...ಗೊತ್ತು.." ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಮುಂದೆ ಏನು ಮಾತಾಡಲು ತೋಚಲಿಲ್ಲ.

"ಸರಿ ರಾಘವ.. "ಎಂದು ರಮೇಶ ಫೋನಿಟ್ಟ.

ಅತ್ತ ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಒಂದೊಂದು ನಿಮಿಷವೂ ಒಂದೊಂದು ಯುಗದಂತಿದ್ದರೆ, ಇತ್ತ ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ಸಮಯದ ಪರಿವೇ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಕಳೆದ ಮೂರ್ನಾಲ್ಕು ಘಂಟೆಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಏನೆಲ್ಲಾ ನಡೆದುಹೋಗಿತ್ತು. ಅಪ್ಪ ಬಚ್ಚಲುಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾವಾಗ ಕುಸಿದರು ಯಾರಿಗೂ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಊಟ ಮಾಡಿ ಕೈ ತೊಳೆಯಲು ಹೋದವರು ಹತ್ತು ನಿಮಿಷವಾದರೂ ಹೊರಬಾರದಿದ್ದಾಗ ಸಂಧ್ಯಾ ತುಂಟತನದಿಂದ ಬಾಗಿಲು ತಟ್ಟಲು ಶುರುಮಾಡಿದಳು. ಆ ಕಡೆಯಿಂದ ಉತ್ತರವೇ ಇಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದಾಗ ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ಗಾಬರಿಯಾಯಿತು. ಅವನು, ಪುಷ್ಪ, ಅಮ್ಮ ಎಲ್ಲರು ಬಾಗಿಲನ್ನು ಜೋರಾಗಿ ಬಡಿದರು. ಉತ್ತರವೇ ಇಲ್ಲ. ಅಮ್ಮ ಕಂಗಾಲಾಗಿ ಸೋಫಾದ ಮೇಲೆ ಕುಳಿತರು. ರಮೇಶ ಪಕ್ಕದ ಮನೆ ಜಾನಿಯನ್ನು ಕರೆದು ಇಬ್ಬರು ಬಲ ಪ್ರಯೋಗ ಮಾಡಿ ಬಾಗಿಲನ್ನು ಒಡೆದರು. ನೋಡಿದರೆ ಅಪ್ಪ ನೆಲದ ಮೇಲೆ ಬಿದ್ದಿದ್ದಾರೆ. ಜ್ಞಾನವೇ ಇಲ್ಲ. ಕ್ಷೀಣವಾಗಿ ಉಸಿರಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ. ಯಾವುದೋ ಮಾಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಪುಷ್ಪ ಅಂಬ್ಯುಲನ್ಸಗೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಳು. ಆಕೆಯ ಸಮಯ ಪ್ರಜ್ಞೆ ಮೆಚ್ಚಲೇಬೇಕು. ಹತ್ತೇ ನಿಮಿಷದಲ್ಲಿ ಆಂಬುಲೆನ್ಸ್ ಮನೆಯ ಮುಂದಿತ್ತು. ಅಷ್ಟರೊಳಗೆ ಆಕೆ ಇವನಿಗೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದುಡ್ಡು, ಫ್ಲಾಸ್ಕ್ ನೀರು, ಕ್ರೆಡಿಟ್ ಕಾರ್ಡ್, ಪವರ್ ಬ್ಯಾಂಕ್ ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಒಂದು ಹೊದಿಕೆಯನ್ನು ತಯಾರು ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಳು. ಕಂಗಾಲಾಗಿ ಕುಳಿತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಅತ್ತೆಯನ್ನು ನಿಧಾನವಾಗಿ ಕೇಳಿ ಮಾವನ ಕನ್ನಡಕ, ಒಂದೆರಡು ಬಟ್ಟೆ ಹಾಗು ಅವರ ಬಿ.ಪಿ. ಮಾತ್ರೆಯನ್ನು ಪ್ಯಾಕ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಳು. Stretcherನಲ್ಲಿದ್ದ ಅಪ್ಪನ ಜೊತೆ ರಮೇಶ ಆಂಬುಲೆನ್ಸ್ ಏರಿದ. "ಯೋಚ್ನೆ ಮಾಡ್ಬೇಡ. ಮನೆ ನಾ ನೋಡ್ಕೋತೀನಿ . ಮಾವನ್ನ ನೋಡ್ಕೋ" ಎಂದು ಸ್ಥೈರ್ಯ ನೀಡಿ ಕಳಿಸಿದ್ದಳು.

ರಮೇಶ ಐ. ಸಿ. ಯು. ಬಾಗಿಲನ್ನು ದಿಟ್ಟಿಸಿ ನೋಡಿದ. ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಬರುವವರೆಗೂ ಯಾವ ಖಚಿತ ಸುದ್ದಿಯೂ ಬರುವಂತೆ ಕಾಣಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಚಡಪಡಿಕೆ ತಾಳಲಾರದೆ ಡ್ಯೂಟಿ ನರ್ಸ್ ಬಳಿ ಹೋಗಿ "ಮಿಸ್ಟರ್ ರಾಧಾಕೃಷ್ಣ ಹೇಗಿದ್ದಾರೆ?" ಎಂದ. "ಏನೂ ತೊಂದ್ರೆ ಇಲ್ಲ ಬಿಡ್ರಿ" ಎಂದು ನರ್ಸ್ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಲಘುವಾಗಿ ಹೇಳಿದಳು. ರಮೇಶ ಕೋಪ ಬಂದರು ತಾಳ್ಮೆ ಕಳೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಏನೂ ಮಾತಾಡದೆ ತನ್ನ ಜಾಗಕ್ಕೆ ಹಿಂದಿರುಗಿದ. ನರ್ಸ್ಗೆಗೆ ಏನನ್ನಿಸಿತೋ. "ಸಾರ್.. ಅವ್ರು ಮಲಗಿದ್ದಾರೆ. ಐ. ಸಿ. ಯು. ನಲ್ಲಿ ನೋ ನ್ಯೂಸ್ ಇಸ್ ಗುಡ್ ನ್ಯೂಸ್ ಸಾರ್. " ಎಂದು ಸಮಾಧಾನದ ಮಾತಾಡಿದಳು.

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"ನೋ ನ್ಯೂಸ್ ಇಸ್ ಗುಡ್ ನ್ಯೂಸ್.... ರಾಘವ" ರಮೇಶ ಬೆಳಗ್ಗೆ ಅಣ್ಣನಿಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದ. ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಕೊಂಚ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿ. ಪರಿಸ್ಥಿತಿ ಹೆಚ್ಚೇನೂ ಬದಲಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆದರೆ ರಮೇಶನ ಧ್ವನಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಧೈರ್ಯ. ಅತ್ತ ಪುಷ್ಪಾಳಿಗು ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದ. ಅಮ್ಮ ಶಾಂತವಾಗಿದ್ದಳು. "ಪುಷ್ಪ ಮಗಳ ಹಾಗೆ ನಿಂತು ನನ್ನನ್ನ ನೋಡ್ಕೋತಿದಾಳೆ" ಎಂದಾಗ ಸಂತೋಷವೂ ಆಯಿತು. ತಾನು ಅಲ್ಲಿಲ್ಲವಲ್ಲ ಎಂಬ ಸಂಕಟವೂ ಆಯಿತು.

"ನನಗೂ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಬಹಳ ಕಷ್ಟವಾಗ್ತಿದೆ. ಅಪ್ಪ ಬಂದ ತಕ್ಷಣ ಹೊರಟು ಬರ್ತೀನಿ. " ಎಂದ ರಾಘವ.

"ಹೂ ರಾಘವ...ನೋಡೋಣ.. ಏನೇನಾಗುತ್ತೋ.. "ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾ ಅಮ್ಮ ಫೋನ್ ಇಟ್ಟಳು.

ಇತ್ತ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಪುರಂದರ ದಾಸರ ವೇಷ ಧರಿಸಿ ತಂದೆಯ ಮುಂದೆ ಬಂದು ನಿಂತ. ಅಂದು ಅವನ ಶಾಲೆಯ ವಾರ್ಷಿಕೋತ್ಸವ. ಫ್ಯಾನ್ಸಿ ಡ್ರೆಸ್ ಸ್ಪರ್ಧೆಗಾಗಿ ಒಂದು ವಾರದಿಂದಲೇ ತಯಾರಿ ನಡೆದಿತ್ತು. ಧರಿಸಿದರೆ ದಾಸರ ವೇಷವನ್ನೇ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ಧರಿಸಬೇಕು ಎಂಬ ತನ್ನ ಮಾತನ್ನು ಮಾಲತಿ ಸಂಪೂರ್ಣವಾಗಿ ಒಪ್ಪಿದ್ದಳು. ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ಗೆ ದಾಸರ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಸಣ್ಣ ಕತೆ ಹೇಳಿ, ಅವನು ವೇದಿಕೆ ಮೇಲೆ ಹೋಗಿ "ಅಂದು ನವಕೋಟಿ ನಾರಾಯಣ, ಇಂದು ಪುರಂದರ ದಾಸ" ಎಂದು ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ನಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳಬೇಕು ಎಂದು ನಿರ್ಧಾರವಾಗಿತ್ತು.

ವಿಡಿಯೋ ಕಾಲ್ ನಲ್ಲಿ ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಇದನ್ನು ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ, ಅಪ್ಪ "ಇಷ್ಟೇ ಮಾಡಿದ್ರೆ ಏನು ಸುಖ ? ಅಲ್ಲಿರೋ ರಿಗೆ ಏನು ತಿಳಿಯೊಲ್ಲ. ರಾಘವ..ದಾಸರ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಒಂದು ಸಣ್ಣ ಟಿಪ್ಪಣಿ ಮಾಡಿ ಹಂಚು....ಆಮೇಲೆ....ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ಗೆ ನಾ ಹೇಳ್ಕೊಡ್ತೀನಿ....ಈ ದಾಸರ ಪದದ ಎರಡು ಸಾಲು ಹಾಡ್ಲಿ 'ಜಗದೋದ್ಧಾರನ....ಆಡಿಸಿದಳೆ ಯಶೋಧೆ.. " ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿಕೊಟ್ಟರು. ತೊದಲು ನುಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮುದ್ದಾಗಿ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ಅದನ್ನು ಒಪ್ಪಿಸಿದ್ದು ಕೇಳಿ ಅವರಿಗೆ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಖುಷಿ.

"ಲೇ ರಾಘವ..ಅಲ್ಲೇ ಸಂಗೀತದ ಕ್ಲಾಸ್ ಇದ್ರೆ ಸೇರಿಸೋ..." ಎಂದಿದ್ದರು.

ಇಂದು ವಾರ್ಷಿಕೋತ್ಸವದ ಕಾರ್ಯಕ್ರಮ ಮುಗಿದಮೇಲೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದಲೇ ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಕರೆ ಮಾಡುವುದೆಂದು ಮಾತಾಗಿತ್ತು.

ಮನಸಿಲ್ಲದ ಮನಸ್ಸಿನಿಂದ ರಾಘವ ಕಾರ್ಯಕ್ರಮಕ್ಕೆ ತಯಾರಾದ. ಮಾಲತಿ "ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಕೂತು ನಾವೇನು ಮಾಡೋಕ್ಕಾಗಲ್ಲ. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹೊತ್ತು ನೀವೂ ಯೋಚನೆಯಿಂದ ದೂರವಿರಬಹುದು. ಹೇಗಿದ್ರು ರಮೇಶ್ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡ್ತಾರಲ್ಲ..."ಎಂದಳು.

ಕಾರ್ ಹತ್ತುವ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ರಮೇಶನಿಂದ ಕರೆ ಬಂತು. "ರಾಘವ...ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಆಪರೇಷನ್ ಮಾಡಬೇಕಂತೆ. ಇನ್ನೆರಡು ಘಂಟೇಲಿ. ನಾನು ಒಪ್ಪಿಗೆ ಕೊಟ್ಟಾಯಿತು. . ರಾತ್ರಿ ಮೇಲೆ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗುತ್ತೆ..ಮುಂದೇನು ಅಂತ"

"ಹಾಗಾದ್ರೆ...ನಾ ಈಗ್ಲೇ ಹೊರಡಲ?" ರಾಘವ ಕೇಳಿದ.

"ಬೇಡ...ಆ.. ರಾತ್ರಿ ಹೇಳ್ತಿನಿ" ಇತ್ತ ರಮೇಶನಿಗೂ ಕಸಿವಿಸಿ. ಇತ್ತ ರಾಘವ ತಕ್ಷಣಕ್ಕೆ ಬಂದು ಮಾಡುವುದೇನು ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ತಾನೇ ಅಪ್ಪನನ್ನು ಒಂದೆರಡು ನಿಮಿಷ ನೋಡಿದ್ದಿರಬೇಕು, ಐ. ಸಿ. ಯು. ಗೆ ಸೇರಿಸಿದ ಮೇಲೆ. ಆದರೆ, ತನ್ನ ಮಾತು ಕೇಳಿ, ಅವನು ಬರದೇ ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಏನಾದರೂ...?

ಏನಾದರೂ ಆಗಲಿ, ರಾತ್ರಿ ಆಪರೇಷನ್ ಮುಗಿದ ಮೇಲೆ ಅವನನ್ನು ಕರೆಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳಲು ನಿರ್ಧರಿಸಿದ.

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ರಾತ್ರಿ ಒಂಭತ್ತಾಗಿತ್ತು. ರಾಘವನಿಂದ ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ವಿಡಿಯೋಸಹಿತ ಸಂದೇಶ. "ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ತೋರಿಸು" ಎಂದು. ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ಪುರಂದರ ದಾಸರ ವೇಷದಲ್ಲಿ ವೇದಿಕೆ ಮೇಲೆ ನಿಂತು "ಜಗದ್ದೋದ್ದಾರನ...." ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾನೆ. ಅಪ್ಪನ ತಾಲೀಮು ಎಂದು ರಮೇಶನಿಗೂ ತಿಳಿದಿತ್ತು.

ಅಮ್ಮ, ಪುಷ್ಪ, ಸಂಧ್ಯಾ ಎಲ್ಲರು ಇವನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಬೀಡು ಬಿಟ್ಟಿದ್ದರು. ಮೌನವಾಗಿ ಕೂತಿದ್ದವರಿಗೆ ರಮೇಶ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ನ ವಿಡಿಯೋ ತೋರಿಸಿದ. ಅವನ ತಾಯಿಗೆ ಮೊಮ್ಮಗನ ವೇಷ ಕಂಡು ಸಣ್ಣದಾದ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿಯ ನಗು.

"ತದ್ರೂಪು ರಾಘವನೇ . ನಿಮ್ಮ ತಂದೆ ಎರಡನೇ ಕ್ಲಾಸಿನಲ್ಲಿ ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಈ ವೇಷ ಹಾಕ್ಸಿದ್ರು" ಎಂದಳು.

"ಓ ಹೌದ... ಈ ವಿಷಯ ಗೊತ್ತೇ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ...ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಈ ಉಪಾಯ ಹೊಳೆದಿರೋದು"

"ಒಂದು ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ದಾಸರ ಪದ ಹಾಡ್ತಿದ್ರು, ನಿಮ್ಮ ಮಾವ...ಈಗ ಬಿಟ್ಟಿದ್ದಾರೆ" ಎಂದು ತನ್ನ ಗಂಡನ ಹೊಸ ಪರಿಚಯ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಡುವಂತೆ ಪುಷ್ಪಳಿಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದಳು.

"ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದ ಮೇಲೆ ಮತ್ತೆ ಹಾಡ್ಸೋಣ ಬಿಡಿ" ಎಂದಳು ಪುಷ್ಪ.

"ಯಾಕೋ ಕಾಣೆ...ನನಗೆ ನಾನೇ ಧೈರ್ಯ ತಂದ್ಕೋತಾ ಇದ್ದೀನಿ." ಎಂದು ರಮೇಶನ ತಾಯಿ ಶೂನ್ಯ ನೋಟವನ್ನು ಬೀರಿದಳು.

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ರಾಘವ ಜರ್ಮನಿಯಿಂದ ಹೊರಟಾಗಿತ್ತು. ವಿಮಾನದಲ್ಲಿ ಅಪ್ಪ ಪ್ರಯಾಣ ಮಾಡುವಾಗ ಮೋಡಗಳ ಆಕಾರಗಳನ್ನು ಗಮನಿಸುತ್ತ ಖುಷಿ ಪಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದುದು ನೆನಪಾಯಿತು. ವಿಮಾನಗಳ ರೂಟ್ ನೆನಪಿಟ್ಟುಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ವಿಚಿತ್ರ ಹವ್ಯಾಸ ಅವರದ್ದು.

"ಆಪರೇಷನ್ ಮುಗೀತು.ಅಬ್ಸರ್ವೇಷನ್ ಅಂತೆ. ನೀನು ಹೊರಟು ಬಾ...."ಎಂದು ದೂರವಾಣಿ ಮಾಡಿದಾಕ್ಷಣ ಹೊರಟಿದ್ದ. ಮಾಲತಿ,ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ರನ್ನು ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಬರುವ ತಾಳ್ಮೆ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಪ್ರಯಾಣದುದ್ದಕ್ಕೂ ಅಪ್ಪನದೇ ಫೋಟೋ ವಿಡಿಯೋಗಳು, ಐ ಪ್ಯಾಡ್ ನಲ್ಲಿ. ಅವರ-ಅಮ್ಮನ ಇಪ್ಪತೈದನೇ ಮದುವೆ ವಾರ್ಷಿಕೋತ್ಸವ, ಮಹಾಬಲೇಶ್ವರ ಪ್ರವಾಸ, ಕಶ್ಮೀರ ಪ್ರವಾಸ; ಅಲ್ಲಿನ ದಲ್ ಸರೋವರದಲ್ಲಿನ ದೋಣಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಹೂ ನೀಡಿದ್ದು, ಜರ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಬಂದು ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ನನ್ನು ಮೊದಲ ಬಾರಿ ಎತ್ತುಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದು ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನು ಒಮ್ಮೆ, ಮತ್ತೊಮ್ಮೆ, ಮಗದೊಮ್ಮೆ ನೋಡಿದ. ಕಿಟಕಿಯಿಂದಾಚೆ ಮೋಡಗಳಲ್ಲೂ ಅಪ್ಪನ ಮುಖವನ್ನೇ ಕಂಡ.

ತಾನು ಜರ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಹೊರಟಾಗ, "ನನಗೂ ನಿಮ್ಮಮ್ಮನಿಗೂ ಎಪ್ಪತ್ತಾಗುವುದರೊಳಗೆ ನೀನು ಇಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ವಾಪಸ್ಸಾಗಬೇಕು..."ಎಂಬ ಅವರ ಷರತ್ತನ್ನು ಇವನು ಗಂಭೀರವಾಗಿ ಪರಿಗಣಿಸಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆದರೆ ಅಪ್ಪ ಗುಣವಾದರೆ ಈಗಲೇ ಜರ್ಮನಿಯಿಂದ ಸಂಸಾರ ಸಮೇತ ಹಿಂದಿರುಗುತ್ತೇನೆ ಎಂದು ಮನಸ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲೇ ನಿರ್ಧಾರ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಂಡ.

ಇತ್ತ ಅಮ್ಮ, ಪುಷ್ಪ ಮನೆಗೆ ಹಿಂದಿರುಗಿದ್ದರು. ಅಪ್ಪನ ಆಪರೇಷನ್ ನಂತರ ಅರ್ಧ ಘಂಟೆ ಅವರ ಪಕ್ಕದಲ್ಲಿ ಕೂರಲು ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಅವಕಾಶ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಟ್ಟಿದ್ದರು. ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಇನ್ನು ಜ್ಞಾನ ಬಂದಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆದರೆ ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಏನೋ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿ. ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ರಮೇಶನನ್ನು ಕರೆದು "ಆಪರೇಷನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೀವಿ. ಯಾವುದಕ್ಕೂ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಸಮಯ ಬೇಕು. He is responding, though" ಎಂದು ಅಡ್ಡ ಗೋಡೆಯ ಮೇಲೆ ದೀಪವಿಟ್ಟರು. ಪುಷ್ಪಳ ಹತ್ತಿರ ಹೇಳಿಕೊಂಡ ರಮೇಶ, ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ತಿಳಿಸಲಿಲ್ಲ. ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿ ಹೊರಡಲು ಹೇಳಿದ್ದ.

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ರಾತ್ರಿಯೆಲ್ಲ ರಮೇಶ ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು. ಮುಂದೆ ಕುಳಿತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಮುಂಜಾನೆ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು. ಒಳಗೆ ಏನೋ ಗದ್ದಲ, ಚಟುವಟಿಕೆ. ಒಳಗೂ -ಹೊರಗೂ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ನರ್ಸ್ ಗಳು ಇವನನ್ನೇ ಕಳವಳದಿಂದ ನೋಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದರು. ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ಗಾಬರಿಯಾಯಿತು. ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು. ಡೆಸ್ಕ್ ಬಳಿ ಹೋಗಿ "ನರ್ಸ್, ಏನಾಯಿತು? ಯಾಕೆ ಏನೋ ಟೆನ್ಶನ್ನಲ್ಲಿ ಓಡಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ ಎಲ್ಲರು?" ಎಂದು ಕೇಳಿದ.

ಆಕೆಗೆ ಒಂದು ಕ್ಷಣ ಏನು ಹೇಳಲೂ ತೋಚಲಿಲ್ಲ. ನಿಧಾನವಾಗಿ "ಸಾರ್...ನಿಮ್ಮ ತಂದೆ ಆರೋಗ್ಯ ಮತ್ತೆ ಏರುಪೇರಾಗಿದೆ. ಡ್ಯೂಟಿ ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ನೋಡ್ತಿದಾರೆ. ಸ್ಪೆಷಲಿಸ್ಟ್ ಬರ್ತಿದಾರೆ..ನೀವು ಕೂತಿರಿ" ಎಂದಳು.

ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ತನ್ನ ಕಾಲುಗಳ ಶಕ್ತಿಯೇ ಉಡುಗಿಹೋದಂತಾಯಿತು. ನರ್ಸ್ ಏನನ್ನೋ ಹೇಳಲು ಪ್ರಯತ್ನಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. ಅವನಿಗೆ ಏನೂ ಕೇಳಿಸಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು. ನಿಂದ ಆಚೆ ಬಂದ ಡ್ಯೂಟಿ ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಇವನ ಹೆಗಲ ಮೇಲೆ ಕೈ ಹಾಕಿ ಅವನನ್ನು ಅಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದ ಸೋಫಾದ ಮೇಲೆ ಕೂರಿಸಿದರು. ಪರಿಸ್ಥಿತಿಯ ವಿವರಣೆ ನೀಡಿದರೋ ಏನೋ - ರಮೇಶನಿಗೆ ಯಾವುದೂ ಅರ್ಥವಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ.

"ಸೋ...ಮಿಸ್ಟರ್ ರಮೇಶ್.. ಮಿಸ್ಟರ್ ರಾಧಾಕೃಷ್ಣ ಈಗ ಲೈಫ್ ಸಪ್ಪೋರ್ಟ್ ನಲ್ಲಿದ್ದಾರೆ. ನೀವು ಹೇಳಿದಾಗ... ಯಾರಾದ್ರೂ ಕಡೆ ಬಾರಿ ನೋಡೋರಿದ್ರೆ.... " ರಮೇಶ ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಅವರ ವಾಕ್ಯಗಳನ್ನು ಪೂರ್ಣಗೊಳಿಸಲು ಹಿಂಜರಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದುದನ್ನು ಗಮನಿಸಿದ. ಅವನೂ ತನ್ನ ತಾಯಿಗೆ, ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಈ ಸುದ್ದಿ ಹೇಳುವಾಗ ಹಾಗೆ ಮಾಡಬೇಕೇನೋ..? ಎಂದು ಯೋಚಿಸಿದ.

ಸೌಜನ್ಯದ ಸಲುವಾಗಿ ಡ್ಯೂಟಿ ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಇವನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಹತ್ತು ನಿಮಿಷ ಕೂತಿದ್ದರು. ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು.ನ ನರ್ಸ್ ಬಂದು ಇವನನ್ನು ಒಳಗೆ ಕರೆದೊಯ್ದಳು. ಒಳಗೆ ಅಪ್ಪ ಲೈಫ್ ಸಪೋರ್ಟ್ ನಲ್ಲಿ. "ಆಪರೇಷನ್ ಆದ್ಮೇಲೆ ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಜ್ಞಾನ ಬರ್ಲಿಲ್ವಾ?" ಕೇಳಿದ ರಮೇಶ್. ಇಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ನರ್ಸ್ ತಲೆ ಅಲ್ಲಾಡಿಸಿದಳು. ಸಾವಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ರಮೇಶ ಒಂದೆರಡು ಬಾರಿ ತಂದೆಯೊಡನೆ ಚರ್ಚಿಸಿದ್ದ. ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರಿಗೂ ಸಾವಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಕುತೂಹಲ.

"ಕಡೆಯ ಕ್ಷಣದವರೆಗೂ ನನಗೆ ಜ್ಞಾನ ಇರಬೇಕು ರಮೇಶ.. ..ಸಾವು ಅಂದ್ರೆ ಏನೂಂತ ನನಗೆ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗಬೇಕು." ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿದ್ದರು.

"ಇಲ್ಲಪ್ಪ... ನನಗೆ ಆ ಅನುಭವವೇ ಬೇಡ.." ಎಂದು ಇವನು ಹೇಳಿದ್ದ.

"ಬದುಕಿನಂತೆ ಸಾವು ಕೂಡ ಒಂದು ಅನುಭವ ರಮೇಶ..."ಎಂದಿದ್ದರು. ಅಂಥವರಿಗೆ ಜ್ಞಾನ ಹೋಗಿ ಎರಡು ದಿನವಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಬಾತ್ ರೂಮಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಜ್ಞಾನ ಹೋಗುವ ಮುನ್ನ ಅಪ್ಪ ಏನು ಯೋಚನೆ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದಿರಬಹುದು? ಇವನಿಗೆ ನೆನಪಾಗಿದ್ದು ಅಪ್ಪ ತಮ್ಮ ಊಟ ಮುಗಿಸಿ, ಸಂಧ್ಯಾಳನ್ನು ತೊಡೆಯ ಮೇಲೆ ಕೂರಿಸಿಕೊಂಡು ಮೊಸರನ್ನ ತಿನ್ನಿಸಿದ್ದು. ಯಾಕೋ ಏನೋ, ರಮೇಶ ಅದರ ಫೋಟೋ ತೆಗೆದಿದ್ದ. ಈಗ ನಿಶ್ಚಲವಾದ ಅವರ ದೇಹದ ಮುಂದೆ ನಿಂತು ಆ ಫೋಟೋ ನೋಡಿದ.

ನಿಟ್ಟುಸಿರು ಬಿಡುತ್ತ ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು. ನಿಂದ ಆಚೆ ಬಂದ . ಮನಸ್ಸು ಮುಂದೆ ನಡೆಯಬಹುದಾದ ಘಟನೆಗಳೊಂದಿಗೆ ರಾಜಿಯಾಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ನಿರ್ವಾಹವಿಲ್ಲದೆ ಪುಷ್ಪಾಳಿಗೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ. ಬೇರೆಯೇನೂ ಹೇಳದೆ "ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಕೊಡು" ಎಂದ. ಸುತ್ತಿ ಬಳಸಿ ಮಾತಾಡುವುದು ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ ಎಂದೂ ಇಷ್ಟವಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

"ಅಮ್ಮ...ಅಪ್ಪ ಉಳಿಯೊಲ್ವಂತೆ. ಲೈಫ್ ಸಪೋರ್ಟ್. ಅವರನ್ನ ಕಡೆ ಬಾರಿ ಜೀವಂತವಾಗಿ ನೋಡೋದಿದ್ರೆ ಬಂದು ನೋಡ್ಲಿ ಅಂದ್ರು ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್." ಎಂದು ಒಂದೇ ಉಸಿರಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳಿ ಮುಗಿಸಿದ. ಅವನ ಎದೆ ವೇಗವಾಗಿ ಬಡಿದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಅಮ್ಮ ಹೇಗೆ ಪ್ರತಿಕ್ರಿಯಿಸುವಳೋ ಎಂಬ ಭಯ, ಉದ್ವೇಗ. ಕೆಲವು ಕ್ಷಣ ಆ ಕಡೆಯಿಂದ ಯಾವುದೇ ಮಾತು ಕೇಳಿಸಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅಮ್ಮ ಅಳುತ್ತಿರಬೇಕು. ಸದ್ಯ, ಅವಳ ಆರೋಗ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ ಏನು ತೊಂದರೆಯಾಗದಿದ್ದರೆ ಸಾಕು ಎಂಬ ಯೋಚನೆ ಹಾದು ಹೋಯಿತು. ಆ ಕಡೆ ಮತ್ತೆ ಅಮ್ಮನ ಧ್ವನಿ.

"ಒಂದು ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡು. ನಾನೇನು ಬರೋದಿಲ್ಲ. ರಾಘವ ಬಂದಮೇಲೆ ನೀವಿಬ್ಬರೇ ಅವರನ್ನ ಕರೆದುಕೊಂಡು ಬನ್ನಿ.." ಎಂದು ದಿಟ್ಟವಾಗಿ ಹೇಳಿದಳು.

"ಆದರೆ ಅಮ್ಮ.." ಎಂದು ರಮೇಶ ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದ.

"ಇಲ್ಲ ಪರವಾಗಿಲ್ಲ. ನಾ ಹೇಳಿದಷ್ಟು ಮಾಡು ರಮೇಶ.." ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ ಫೋನ್ ಇಟ್ಟಳು.

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ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು ತಲುಪಿದ ರಾಘವ ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆಗೆ ಧಾವಿಸಿದ. ರಮೇಶ ಕೂತಿದ್ದಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಬಂದ. ಇಬ್ಬರು ಒಬ್ಬರನ್ನೊಬ್ಬರು ನೋಡಿಕೊಂಡರು. ರಮೇಶನ ಮುಖ ನೋಡಿದಾಗಲೇ ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಅರ್ಧದಷ್ಟು ವಿಷಯ ತಿಳಿದು ಹೋಯಿತು.

"ಸರಿ...ಏನಂತೆ ಈಗ?" ಕೇಳಿದ.

"ಲೈಫ್ ಸಪೋರ್ಟ್, ಅಣ್ಣ. ನೀನು ಬರ್ಲಿ ಅಂತ ಕಾಯ್ತಿದ್ದೆ." ದುಃಖದಿಂದ ಹೇಳಿದ ರಮೇಶ. ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೆ, ಪುಷ್ಪಾಳಿಗೆ ತೋರಿಸದ ಉದ್ವೇಗ ಅಣ್ಣನೆದುರು ಸರಾಗವಾಗಿ ಹರಿಯಿತು.

"ನಾನು ಅವರನ್ನು ನೋಡಬಹುದ?" ಎಂದ ರಾಘವ, ಗದ್ಗದಿತವಾಗಿ. ನರ್ಸ್ ಇಬ್ಬರನ್ನೂ ಒಳಗೆ ಬಿಟ್ಟಳು.

ಈ ಲೋಕದ ಪರಿವೆ ಇಲ್ಲದೆ ಮಲಗಿದ್ದ ಅಪ್ಪನನ್ನು ನೋಡುವುದು ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಕಷ್ಟವಾಯಿತು. ಅದರಲ್ಲೂ ವಾರದ ಹಿಂದೆ ಲವಲವಿಕೆಯಿಂದ ಮಿಡಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಜೀವ. ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಹೊತ್ತು ಅವರನ್ನೇ ನೋಡುತ್ತಾ ನಿಂತಿದ್ದ. ರಮೇಶನೇ ಮೌನ ಮುರಿದು, "ಇನ್ನೇನು ಮಾಡಲು ಸಾಧ್ಯವಿಲ್ಲ ಅಣ್ಣ. We should take a call" ಎಂದ. ಒಪ್ಪುವುದು ಕಷ್ಟವಾದರೂ ಅದು ಸರಿಯಾದ ಮಾತು ಎಂದು ರಾಘವನಿಗೆ ಗೊತ್ತಿತ್ತು.

"ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಈ ಸಾಯುವ ಹೊತ್ತು ,ಘಳಿಗೆ....ನಂಬಿಕೆಯಿತ್ತ?" ಕೇಳಿದ.

"ಇಲ್ಲಣ್ಣ. ಸಾಯುವಾಗ ಜ್ಞಾನ ಇರಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ಆಸೆ ಇತ್ತು...ಅಷ್ಟೇ" ಅವರನ್ನೇ ನೋಡುತ್ತಾ ಹೇಳಿದ ರಮೇಶ್.

"ಹೇಗೆ ಕಳಿಸಿಕೊಡೋದು? ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದ್ರೆ ಎಲ್ಲ ಮುಗೀತಾ? ಅಷ್ಟೇನಾ?" ಕೇಳಿದ ರಾಘವ. ಒಂದು ಸಣ್ಣ ಮಾತು ಬದುಕಿಗೂ, ಸಾವಿಗೂ ಇರುವ ವ್ಯತ್ಯಾಸವ?

"ಅಷ್ಟೇ ಇರಬೇಕು..ಎಲ್ಲಾದ್ರೂ ಸಹಿ ಹಾಕಿಸಬಹುದು"

"ಇಲ್ಲ... I want to give him a proper send-off" ಹೇಳಿದ ರಾಘವ. ಎಲ್ಲೋ ಏನೋ ಅಪೂರ್ಣವಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಅಪ್ಪನಿಗೆ ಇಷ್ಟವಾಗುವ, ತನಗೆ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿ ತರುವುದನ್ನೇನಾದರೂ ಮಾಡಬೇಕು ಎಂದು ಅವನ ಮನಸ್ಸು ಹಾತೊರೆಯುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಒಂದೈದು ನಿಮಿಷ ಚಡಪಡಿಸಿದ. ಬಳಿಕ ಅದೇನನ್ನಿಸಿತೋ ಫೋನ್ ತೆಗೆದು ಅವರ ಕಿವಿಯ ಪಕ್ಕದಲ್ಲಿಟ್ಟ. "ಜಗದೋದ್ಧಾರನ...ಆಡಿಸಿದಳೆ ಯಶೋಧೆ" ಎಂಬ ವಿಶ್ವಾಸ್ ನ ತೊದಲ್ನುಡಿಯ ಹಾಡು ಅವರ ಕಿವಿಯ ಮೇಲೆ ಬಿತ್ತು. ಅವರ ಅಸ್ತಿತ್ವದ ಯಾವುದೋ ಒಂದು ಭಾಗ ಮೊಮ್ಮಗನ ಹಾಡು ಕೇಳಿರಬಹುದು ಎಂದು ತನಗೆ ತಾನೇ ಸಾಂತ್ವನ ಹೇಳಿಕೊಂಡ. ಹಾಡು ಮುಗಿದ ಮೇಲೆ ಒಂದೆರಡು ನಿಮಿಷ ಅವರನ್ನು ನೋಡಿ

"ನಡಿ ಹೋಗೋಣ ರಮೇಶ" ಎಂದ. ಇಬ್ಬರೂ ಐ.ಸಿ.ಯು. ನಿಂದ ಆಚೆ ಬಂದರು.

ಡ್ಯೂಟಿ ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಪತ್ರದೊಂದಿಗೆ ಸಿದ್ಧವಾಗಿದ್ದರು. ರಾಘವ, ರಮೇಶ ಮುಖಮುಖ ನೋಡಿಕೊಂಡರು. "ನೀನೆ ಸಹಿ ಹಾಕು" ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ ರಾಘವ ಮಾಲತಿಗೆ ಕರೆ ಮಾಡಲು ಹೋದ.

ನಡುಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಕೈಗಳಿಂದ ರಮೇಶ ಸಹಿ ಮಾಡಿದ. ಆ ಕ್ಷಣವನ್ನು ಅವನು ಮರೆಯುವುದು ಎಂದೂ ಸಾಧ್ಯವಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. "ಹೋಗಿ ಬನ್ನಿ ಅಪ್ಪ" ಎಂದು ತಂದೆಯನ್ನು ನೆನೆದು ಅಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದ ಚೇರ್ ಮೇಲೆ ಕುಸಿದು ಕುಳಿತ.......

- 15th February 2022

Footprints in the "Snows" Of Time: Winter Spiti 2021 - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 09 Jan 2022 16:50:00 +0000

Footprints in the "Snows" Of Time: Winter Spiti 2021 - Part 2

Day 4: Kaza-Chicham-Kibber-Key-Kaza (For more on Kaza)

Morning greeted us with beautiful weather again. We woke up to the sight of snow covered mountains from our homestay. I feel envious that every man, woman and child at this place has a chance to do this everyday of his life. But then our host Rohit at the Welcome Homestay had done something tangible about it. Originally from Bhopal, he chose to settle down in Kaza and run the business, with the owners of the mansion as his partners. Apparently, outsiders cannot buy property in the Spiti region.

I changed for the only time during the trip. Tilak and I then walked to the Kaza monastery. Kaza is the administrative centre for the Spiti region with a population of close to 6000 people. The Kaza monastery too has a presence befitting this stature of Kaza. We stayed in the courtyard of the monastery for sometime, viewing the structure and the mountains in front of it. The day seemed to be significant for monasteries in the region and the monks had congregated for their rituals. We didn't feel like entering the monastery and disturbing them.

We then walked to the highest petrol bunk in the world that is located in Kaza. The Indian Oil bunk has this written in bold, with the name of the regional manager currently in charge. We were surprised by the number of cars in Kaza, for a small town of 6000 people. Also learned later that the people are financially well to do, and people generally end up finding government employment.

Post brunch, we traveled to Chicham. The Chicham bridge is the highest bridge in Asia. This bridge was completed in 2017 and is at a height of 13500 feet above sea level. It is well and truly an engineering marvel considering the terrain. A plaque in front of the entrance to the bridge has the names of the engineering leaders who made this feat possible. Enroute Chicham, we were able to see the Rangrik village on the other side of the Spiti river. One can almost capture this village in a single frame and yet this is one of the largest villages in the region.

From Chicham, we headed to Kibber. This region houses the Kibber Wildlife Sanctuary. We were lucky to spot a mountain goat that was standing right next to the road. We saw a couple more in the hills far from us. At 14000 feet, what held our attention yet again was the landscape. Kibber is also known to be the home of the snow leopard and adventurers camp here for months together to get a glimpse. We could see some electrical fencing in the village and we speculated that this was perhaps to discourage animals from the sanctuary entering the village.

The Key Monastery was one of the sights we'd all been anticipating since the beginning of the trip. A picture of this monastery with the mountains in the background is almost bucket list stuff. The icing on the cake would be snow covering the monastery. Though that wasn't the case, pictures from here are veritable portraits. The Key Monastery was built in the 15th century and has withstood both invasions and natural calamities. It presently houses about 200 monks. It is home to the reincarnations of the great translator "Rinchen Zangpo". According to one of the priests at the monastery, it was the efforts of Rinchen Zangpo that ensured that the Buddhist texts in Sanskrit were converted to Tibetan. Else, Buddhism may not have proliferated as much in Tibet. The climb to and within the monastery was steep. Inside one of the buildings were meditation caves for the monks. We were also served herbal tea in one of the rooms that provided much needed hydration. (For more on Key Monastery)

Key Monastery

We returned to Kaza in the evening, still energetic enough to visit the market area. The dogs of Kaza that seemed polite and affable in the mornings turned ferocious in the nights. Umesh had warned us of this earlier. As someone terribly scared of dogs, I chose to walk along with the group, making sure there were enough people around me. The market area is a stretch of at most 200 metres with clothes, souvenirs, essentials and even hotels in the same stretch. We made a beeline to "Maya's kitchen" the most popular "restaurant in town". We ordered Thukpa and Momos. The Thukpa here tasted way better than the one at Spillow. Such was the demand that we got the last plate of Momos on offer that day. The authenticity (meaning spice) of the red chutney brought tears to the eyes, but warmed us for a long walk back to our stay in the night.

Back in the Welcome Homestay, we were served "Timo" for dinner, which we jokingly called a distant cousin of the Momo. This dish doesn't have any stuffing and is pure steamed flour. We ate with the cabbage and cauliflower side dish our hosts had prepared. Keen to spend as much time in the common room, we resorted to digital ludo - a game I played for the first time. I always believe that when you spend a couple of nights at a place, the place and the people start to grow on you. I've experienced this in Pushkar, Rishikesh, Varanasi, recently Puri - Kaza would be no different.

Day 5: Kaza - Langza - Komic - Hikkim - Kaza

It was daylight by around seven in the morning. Sleep slowly starts to fade at this time. But for me in Kaza, my alarm to get up would be the rays of the sun falling on the walls of my room. That was definite indication that it was warm enough to go out and freshen up with the hot water that would be just warm by the time it touched your hands.

I found the water heating technology unique. The cold water is in a tank. To prevent overnight freezing, this cold water is filled into the tank only in the mornings, every morning. Then there is a kettle with burning wood and water around it. You funnel the cold water into this kettle. The warm water already in the kettle is displaced and comes out through an outlet. Engineering at its simplest. I tried finding out the local name of this "heater" but was none the wiser.

Rohit offered to take me and the Keralite couple (we were the only ones ready by then) to a view point just above the monastery. Though it was a steep climb, the view point gave us a bird's eye view of Kaza. Rohit talked to us about local life, answering questions about everyday life, local politics and even how Spiti tackled COVID. There is a lot of difficulty in the operational aspects of daily life - but then there also seemed to be a sense of community that helped them tide through. We coincidentally saw a funeral procession that morning. Rohit told us that while married relatives of the deceased would stay with the family, unmarried relatives would visit each home in Kaza as part of the condolence rituals.

The highlight of that morning for me was a short game of cricket with three local kids in Class 6. The moment I suggested it would be "Spiti v/s Bangalore" they rose to the occasion. It was an intensely fought game till the end and I was trying to match up to the fitness of three kids who'd grown up in those conditions. Inevitably, there was some crowd interruption by my travelmates and the game was declared an honourable draw.

The scoreboard read as follows:

Spiti: 16/1 in 2 overs

Bangalore: 14/1 in 1.3 overs

We traveled to Langza later that morning. While Pin Valley was the most beautiful location, the drive to Langza was the most scenic drive on the entire trip. We gained height for a while and then plateaued to snow all around. New vistas opened up at every turn and every turn presented the same landscape a different view that was more stunning than the previous one. The Buddha statue at Langza is located at an altitude of 14300 feet and is an excellent vantage point for a view of the entire village and the mountains surrounding it.

A few metres away from the statue is the aptly named "Shanti Cafe". Seabuckthorn Tea in this cafe was a delicious mountain drink. It brought back memories of the Seabuckthorn juice I'd enjoyed more than once back in Markha. It was worth climbing the height from Kaza just for the tea. As we drove from Langza, some of us chose to ride on top of the vehicle for a few minutes. The roads were suited for such an adventure. I obviously backed out. Adrenaline is not exactly my preference.

We then made a token visit to Komic, touted as the highest village in the world with a motorable road. At an altitude of close to 15000 feet, this village has a population of 114 people. Well, if it seems a lot, we didn't meet anyone from the village that afternoon.

Hikkim, housing the highest post office in the world was our next destination. The romance of sending out hand-written post cards from the Hikkim post office made this one of the more looked-forward to stops on the trip. Each of us had our ideas to ensure a lasting memory from here. Nitin and Lakshmi wrote postcards to almost 15 of their friends and relatives, and hoped atleast half of them would be delivered. Dhrashti and Manishji were sceptical about the letters getting delivered. So they chose to write the content, get a stamp from Spiti and either hand deliver the letters or courier them from Mumbai. I chose to write a letter home and to my five years young nephew - and left it to chance to ensure they get delivered. A lot of it would depend on if the lady at the counter was in a good mood to stamp and forward the postcards the next day. Ten days on, I'm still waiting. (For more on Hikkim)

World's highest post office - Hikkim

Some of us made another visit to the Kaza market that evening, buying souvenirs. Dinner that night was typical Chinese - soup, fried rice and chowmein. We were vacating next morning and another tour party had already arrived. We suddenly felt like locals, as they asked us what best they could do in the two days available to them. The common room bustled even more that day. We were conscious that this was our last night in extreme cold and also the fact that our holiday would soon draw to a close.

Day 6: Kaza - Kalpa and a Happy New Year!!

We were determined to leave early from Kaza the next morning, which was also New Year's eve. And ten in the morning is as early as it can get in such weather. Departure from Kaza would mark the beginning of two days of return travel to Shimla.

The journey from Kaza to Kalpa was majorly event less. Vishal chose to drive rather cautiously that morning as the left tyre was short of air. We would get that filled later on in a BRO (Border Roads Organisation ) camp along the way. There were a few blockages because of loose stones on the hills that the BRO chose to remove using JCBs and artificial landslides. Needless to say, roads are the lifelines of the region and the BRO is the lifeline of these lifelines.

There was a minor tiff between Manishji and the organisers towards the evening. There was a stoppage for more than an hour as the brakes of the traveler had overheated because of continuous usage on the mountainous roads. Manishji was unhappy with the delay - but Vishal and his driver friends were insistent. Most of us were too tired to take part in the argument which died down once Manishji had vented with the organisers.

We reached Kalpa around nine, three hours to the New Year. Kalpa was definitely warmer than Kaza - but I still couldn't get my layers off. The organisers had arranged a party to celebrate the new year. Vegetable Salad, roasted Paneer and peanuts seemed a luxury after one week of sustenance on Roti and Rajma. Bonfire, music and alcohol loosened us a little bit. It felt as though we'd earned the occasion and the celebration.

Kalpa had a restriction on open parties post 10:30 in the night apparently. The police were swift to land on the property and warn us not to play loud music and party outdoors. We felt like a bunch of college kids at that point. What followed was disappointing, when one of the organisers said he'd spoken to the local bureaucrat and we had permission till midnight. It was a display of the typical "I'm well connected" syndrome that some of us suffer from in our country. Nothing would give us the right to disturb the peace of the mountain people - specially when they'd been so hospitable to us and would continue to be to the hundreds and thousands of tourists every year.

Well, soon it was 2022! It's always wonderful to welcome a new year with travel. They say what you do on the first day of the new year sticks throughout the year. I hope the travel sticks!

Day 7: Kalpa - Shimla and onward to Delhi!

We woke up to the view of Kinnaur Kailash from our Hotel Aucktong in Kalpa. If we thought that our tryst with mountain views had ended the previous night, we were happily wrong. The Hotel had a clear view of the Kinnaur Kailash and adjacent mountains. We were blessed with beautiful weather yet again. (For more on Kalpa)

Thanks to the New Year celebrations, we woke up late and started to Shimla by 11:30 in the morning. Umesh was unwell and for some reason, Vishal seemed circumspect. We stopped late afternoon in Badhal for lunch. While most of us chose to be cautious with lunch, I felt hungry and good for a couple of Paranthas with butter and vegetable salad. I wanted a good meal.

It was probably destined that the trip would be action packed till the end. As we neared Shimla, a huge traffic jam stretching to about 16 km blocked our passage. The slow moving traffic jeopardised our departure plans. Sourabh and Nitesh, both college students who had to board a bus to Manali, were left stranded in Shimla as they couldn't make it to the terminal in time. The rest of us made it in the nick of time to board buses to Delhi. If we'd planned a peaceful reflective trip back from Kalpa to Shimla, the peace had to wait for sometime.

Day 7 +1: Delhi to Bengaluru - until next time!

We reached Delhi at six in the morning and bid hurried goodbyes to each other, totally unaware if our paths would cross again. Tilak was a benefactor and invited me to stay with him for the morning. I was grateful for I had no clue how to spend about ten hours in Delhi till my evening flight back to Bengaluru. Bathing in hot water and changing to a new set of clothes in the hotel room lent a fresh lease of enthusiasm to continue my journey homeward.

A salad, some fruit juice and a Palak Paneer- Rice later, I was back to the familiar Kannada radio in a Bengaluru cab. Amma waited, with rice, rasam and pieces of onion. Anna had switched the geyser on already. About 250 unread work mails would usher me into the New Year.

Life and Work would surround me completely during the next few days. Nevertheless, the heart would start yearning for that inevitable call soon enough. It would be a call from the mountains yet again. And as they always say, "When the mountains start calling......"

For Part 1, visit Winter Spiti 2021- Part 1

Footprints in the "Snows" Of Time: Winter Spiti 2021 - Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 09 Jan 2022 16:49:00 +0000

Footprints in the "Snows" Of Time: Winter Spiti 2021 - Part 1

The Himalayas are nourishment to the eyes and the soul. Once you discover them, the only option left is to visit them again - and again. How often - is an individual question. But my last tryst with the mountains being July 2019 (I gifted myself a trek to Markha in Leh when I turned 30), it was about time that I received the inevitable call this December.

Instagram sold Winter Spiti to me virtually. All I needed to do was evaluate a couple of vendors who organised the trip (they prefer to call it an "expedition") and reserve my slot. This part done in early December, I kept hoping that COVID didn't take a turn for the worse. The moment I announced that the temperatures would be in the minus 20s, advice and concern poured in in equal measure. The optimists were a cousin and an uncle who'd been to Spiti in Winter and thought the trip was eminently doable and definitely enjoyable.

I was mentally on the flight to Delhi the moment I shut down my work laptop for one final time for 2021, on 23rd December. I like to "go through the motions" before travel, specially vacations. Preparing a checklist of stuff I need to pack, organising them, packing them and finally crossing them off the list. It's almost meditative and helps me get in the flow. Yes, I usually do miss a couple of things along the way - but it's probably a sign of good luck that I do. And yes, the night before travel is a time when I get second thoughts, specially when travelling alone. Is it worth it after all? To leave the comfort of home for a week or more - not to spend the time in relative luxury - but to survive and thrive in the awareness of discomfort. Again, this anxiety is also what I've accepted as part of the process.

Day 0: Bengaluru to Delhi and Onward to Shimla!

Any such jitters disappear the moment I board the cab to the airport and know that I'm on my own. And it was the same this time around as well. I asked the cabbie to play some Kannada radio and turn up the volume. Once you reach the airport it always feels as though the whole world is travelling with you. So many unions, so many separations - most temporary, a few long term. May be someone's starting a holiday, may be someone's completing one. Someone's on their first flight, someone's tired of flying. I've contemplated on this before - and continue to do so each time.

The highlight of my journey to Delhi was the Muesli and Yogurt I'd ordered in the flight. I tried Muesli for the first time and it could end up on my breakfast Menu near term. My first task on reaching Delhi was to add a layer of thermals to my clothing. How to do it in the airport restroom was the question. Squeezing my backpack and myself into the toilet and wearing the thermals was my first sense of discomfort on the trip - and also my first sense of accomplishment.

Delhi welcomed me with a view of the evening sun in the horizon - clouded by the smog that Delhi is now (in)famous for. Even the metro compartment seemed to smell of smoke. I arrived at the bus terminal without much hassle and had a wait of five hours to look forward to. It was here that I met my first acquaintances of the trip. Four people from Mumbai - and interestingly one of them was "employed" as a politician. They would go on to invite me to join them on the exclusive Innova they'd booked for the trip. I politely refused, saying I wanted to meet more people, and a trip like this would have a lot of solo travelers like me.

We finally started to Shimla at around 11:30 in the night. Thirty of us in a Volvo. People from different backgrounds, cities and professions. Enthusiasm ran high. Stories of previous travel, work life and even some candid personal ones started flowing. Alcohol bottles were inaugurated at the 70th Milestone from Delhi as we stopped for a break. The expedition was definitely underway.

Day 1: Shimla to Chitkul

We reached Shimla at seven in the morning. It was our first proper taste of winter on the trip. Hand gloves were out in an instant. We spent the next thirty minutes getting used to the cold before starting on our journey to Chitkul. We were assigned to twelve seater tempo travelers. This group of twelve would stay together through the trip and would be led by a co-ordinator from the tour organisation. Umesh was an exuberant 27 year old, and would eventually earn a lot of respect for the way he led our bunch.

Our driver was a 22 year old and his skills were put to test almost immediately. The left front wheel of the vehicle burst just outside Shimla. It gave us our first scare on the trip. We used the break to freshen up in a wayside hotel. Again, it was an exercise in getting used to ice-cold water that would be the norm throughout the trip. But at that point, this was still a novelty and we were excited by the prospect.

We gained height as we cut across the hills. The hills were a mix of brown and green with step farming- a phenomenon I've encountered only a few times after high school geography. Loud Punjabi and Bollywood music on the traveler would turn out to be a default in the vehicle. Apparently, it's a useful stress buster for the drivers who need to drive along roads that only get more perilous as we climb higher.

We stopped for lunch at Badhal late afternoon, still about four hours from Chitkul. The weather didn't look or feel great. But we would continue to Chitkul. I realised that these enduring journeys were part of the package and there was no other go but to hope for the best. I confess I worry about these dangerous drives a lot more than most people - even when I'm not the one in the driver's seat.

Our first point of interest was the Kinnaur Gate. This marked our entry to the Kinnaur region, of which Chitkul is also a part. After a brief photo-op, we continued to Sangla and Chitkul. It was soon night and the temperatures outside dropped. Chitkul to Sangla in the night, I must say is a foolish adventure given the quality of roads. With our stays booked in Chitkul, there was no choice.

Kinnaur Gate

(Please click for more on Kinnaur District)

We reached Chitkul at around ten thirty. People who had a functional phone network told us that the temperature was anywhere between -10 to -13 degrees. If that was the case, we were doing ok, with about four layers of clothing.

I decided to share rooms with a Tilak from Chennai. We would go on to share rooms throughout the trip, though he sometimes vacated the room in the middle of the night telling me I snore. That night in Chitkul was the ice-breaker that would help us become travel mates through the trip. We found we were almost the same age. We exchanged notes on each other's families, work and even our toilet habits. The last conversation was definitely the most crucial one, as it would help us know who needed the bathroom when.

Day 2: Chitkul. Chitkul to Tabo (For more on Chitkul)

Chitkul is the last village on the India-Tibet border, in Himachal. That is the village's claim to fame, along with the beautiful landscapes and the snow covered mountains surrounding it. With bathing out of the equation, we'd freshened up by around nine. It was ironic that with snow all around, water was a scarcity. When we wanted to relieve ourselves, our hosts offered us their regular toilets. One of them offered me a mug of water to wash myself once done. Without thinking twice,he added they'd take care of the flushing, as we might use more water than necessary and they'd have to work extra hard to get water even from their nearest source. Water was at a premium throughout the trip - and its rational usage a lesson for all of us who take it for granted.

Our hotel in Chitkul had a mountainous backdrop. The chill of the night was now history as the sun shone brightly, sprucing up the entire location with life. We walked to the main street of the village that was now bustling with tourists. Using the last village tag, was a post office that said "Last Post Office of India". There was also a dhaba that called itself the "Last Dhaba of India". A picture in front of the board that said "Last Village of India" was what mattered most to us. A stream flowed peacefully in the valley, probably a hundred feet below. A bridge was built across this stream. The landscape on the other side looked more beautiful. A day's time and it would have been worth exploring. But our next destination was waiting for us.

We started from Chitkul to Tabo around noon. The organizers sensitized us that the day's journey would again be long and arduous. We traveled down to Karcham from Sangla and then to took a detour to Spillow. The Border Roads Organisation has a significant presence in this stretch and the roads are amazing. With the Sutlej river flowing alongside most of the time, we reached Spillow by evening. I took my first dig at Tibetan cuisine for the trip, ordering Thukpa, that turned out ok. It would keep me warm for atleast a portion of the evening.

Spillow to Nako and onward to Tabo took about four hours and by the time we reached our homestay in Tabo, it was eleven in the night. We were not sure if this was poor planning or just the way the trip was scheduled. There was definite relief at reaching the homestay, though. This was probably our best stay on the entire trip, from a weather and hospitality perspective. The common room was spacious, the tandoor radiated enough heat to keep all of us warm. Warmer though, was the welcoming tone of the family that hosted us. Man,lady,son and daughter. They offered to carry our laden backpacks all the way from our vehicles, prepared tea in the dead of the night, allowed us to rest before serving sumptuous dinner.

And once we finished dinner, we found it difficult to retire to our rooms - because the common room was so warm and cheerful. While sleep dragged us inside, the warmth made us wait by the tandoor. Manishji, Jaini(Manish's daughter all of Class 9) and Dhrashti (friends from Mumbai) would eventually choose to sleep in the common area, trying to have the best of both worlds. Pradeep -a Bengali raised in Lucknow settled in Delhi - would be my new room-mate that night. Tabo was colder than Chitkul outside. But in the Tashi-Yangphel Homestay, it was a warm good night.

Day 3: Tabo. Tabo to Kaza via Pin Valley

The relative comfort of the previous night meant that we woke up refreshed. The clear weather and sunlight made us feel even better. Tilak, Pradeep and I chose to take a walk around the homestay and discovered a nearby stream. The brown mountains and the blue skies reminded me of Markha. We later understood that Tabo would hardly receive any rain throughout the year, because of the mountains surrounding it.

(For more on Tabo)

We returned to the homestay for some happy conversations. Manishji enthusiastically related his experience from the numerous Amarnath Yatras he'd done in the past. Nitin and Lakshmi - a couple from Kerala - revealed it was their first wedding anniversary that day. This was a difficult anniversary holiday, but I'm sure they felt the sights were worth it! Dhrashti completed her morning prayers in the common area, with the photograph of the deity she worshipped on her phone. She was determined not to break her 21 day ritual which she'd started a couple of weeks ago. Equally intriguing was Amish's (a lawyer from Mumbai) determination to only have Jain food on the trip - which meant he wouldn't be eating anything that grew beneath the ground. The localites' innocent suggestion that he could have eggs in that case, evoked laughter much to his dismay. What I found ironic through the trip was his insistence on strict diet - which caused some difficulty to our hosts - while being completely ok with consuming cigarettes and alcohol. Religion as always, is a touchy topic!

We started from the homestay around eleven, first stopping by the Tabo monastery that is more than a thousand years old. The walls of the interior part of the temple are covered with paintings and there are numerous statues inside. From near the monastery, we could also spot the caves on the hills that the monks used for meditation.

At around one in the afternoon, we commenced our journey to Kaza. Our first stop would be the Dhankar monastery, located in the Dhankar village. This is a fort monastery and was the capital of the Spiti kingdom in the 17th century (source: Wikipedia). A description at the monastery indicates that there are about 200 monks residing in the monastery present day.If there was something I missed on this trip, it was some historical context to the different monasteries we visited in Tabo, Dhankar, Kaza and Key. They were all visually appealing and were nestled in gorgeous landscapes. In hindsight, there would have been more flavour if we'd spent time knowing their significance.

(For more on Dhankar Monastery)

We descended from Dhankar and traveled to arguably the most beautiful location on the entire trip - Pin Valley.
Enroute was a frozen waterfall that had become a temporary tourist attraction. It may be a normal occurrence in the region at this time of the year - but managed to hold us in awe as we gave it celebrity status and clicked frantically.

The drive in the valley began with the Pin River alongside and as we drove further in the valley, the river slowly froze and turned white. It was nearing sunset and some of the surrounding mountains acquired an orange hue. We kept driving and were soon covered by snow on all four sides. None of us on the traveler had seen such a vast expanse of snow and been part of it. Some of us chose to play in the snow to celebrate the moment. I chose to sit silently in admiration of Nature's creation and send a prayer of gratitude to God, for making me part of the landscape that day that moment.

Pin Valley

As evening turned to night, the cold returned with vengeance. To be honest, we were intruders in its fortress. That it had turned dark outside meant that all we could do in the bus as we traveled to Kaza was to view the pictures in our cameras and phones and relive the evening again. We reached the "Welcome Homestay" in Kaza at around eight in the night. We now knew that the place we would need the most was the common room with the warm tandoor and we were not disappointed. Huddled around it for heat, we tacitly accepted Kaza would be our home for the next three nights. The chill of Kaza (temperatures were close to -20 as expected) would be our companion, whether we liked it or not.

Continued on Winter Spiti 2021 - Part 2

Here We Meet Again....

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 15:31:00 +0000

Here We Meet Again.....

We made eye contact from across multiple queues for the numerous check-in counters. We tried to look away, but the awkward familiarity along with obvious curiosity meant we searched for each other's eyes again. It was definitely her. The hair slightly shorter, her face a little more round. The effortless smile that she could never hide was still playing on her lips. I knew it wasn't for me. It's just that the smile was always there. Our eyes finally met in a more deliberate way for a moment longer than usual. We recognized each other - and chose to ignore each other as we joined our respective queues.

**************************************

I rushed to the car park at five thirty sharp every evening. It was a common one that belonged to multiple companies at the tech park. At twenty one, I had just started working. A car was beyond me. But the car park was where I'd noticed her the first time, a couple of weeks earlier. As she walked out of the car park, her loose hair resting gracefully on her shoulders. From that day on, I made it to the car park with earnestness bordering on sincerity, hoping to get a glimpse of her every evening.

It was easy to figure out we didn't work in the same company. And once that possibility was out the way, my life purpose was to find out where she did. Somehow, it seemed any little detail about her would draw her closer and more forces in the Universe would be set in motion to bring us together.

Every evening, my spirits rose as she walked to the car park, always with the same friend and at the same time. And when she drove out a few minutes later, my heart sank, along with the setting sun.

*************

A corridor discussion with my manager cost me ten extra minutes that evening. I rushed out of the office and ran to the car park, panting for breath. Had she left for the day already? For some reason, I was suddenly conscious of other people in the car park staring at me. Was it the effort with which I'd arrived there? Or had it always been the case? It made me nervous. But then, the twenty-one-year-old in me brushed it aside and waited for her, like always.

And there she was! In her car, driving past gracefully like every evening. For some reason, I'd attributed the adjective "grace" to her. Everything she did appeared graceful - either that or my vocabulary was rather dull.

As I watched her that day, for some reason her car seemed to slow down. My palms started sweating. I wasn't prepared for this. What if she stopped in front me and asked who I was and what in the world was I doing? I wanted to move, but my feet froze. She slowed down, and gave me a long stare. I was sure it didn't mean anger. Nor irritation. If anything, it was curiosity. Her car passed. And after a couple of seconds, I could notice her still staring at me through the mirror. Her face didn't assume the scowl I feared it would. Instead she smiled. A smile -that I didn't know at the time- she always wore on her face.

My heart skipped a beat.

****************************************

My heart skipped a beat, even after ten long years. When your heart skips a beat in your teens, you ignore - it happens more often than not when you see someone attractive. When your heart skips a beat in your twenties, you start feeling she might be the one. But, when your heart skips a beat in the thirties, beware. It could just be a symptom of anxiety.

We cleared security at the same time. We looked at each other. I smiled first and acknowledged her presence. She didn't have to. The smile was always there. With the acknowledgement out of the way, I thought the encounter was done and dusted. I rushed past her, without wanting to give her a chance for conversation. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see that she was still looking at me. But I was headed on a holiday, and an uncomfortable conversation just wasn't part of the itinerary. I headed to the departure gate and buried my nose in a newspaper. The coincidence - a part of me hoped - ended there. And ofcourse, there was another part of me!

********************************************

Something had to happen, the next day. She had noticed me. There was no escaping it now. I didn't want to be someone perennially staring at her at the car park. My intent was way bigger. I brooded the entire day, trying to figure out a way I could strike a conversation with her, without coming across as obnoxious. The easiest way and the only way was to be direct.

I gulped a good filter coffee before walking to the car park, hoping the caffeine would help keep my wits about me. The normal evening, seemed momentous for me. I didn't remember being this nervous in a long time. I reached the car park and looked at my watch. She would be there any moment. I prayed that my courage didn't give way.

There she was, walking to the car park with her friend. Did she have a spring in her stride that evening? Did her smile have that extra allure? Were her eyes searching for someone -perhaps, yours truly?Let's face it. The last one definitely wasn't the case.

I took a deep breath and took the plunge. I walked till I was by her side, smiled nervously and said "Hi!". She looked at me. And then there was this eternity during which the mind developed and discarded multiple scenarios which typically convinced me that this was a huge mistake. Yet, the twenty-one year old in me stood his ground.

"Hello...how are you?" she replied, coolly. Her smile at the time bordered on mischievous. Her friend started walking ahead of us, within striking distance to overhear but giving us that element of privacy.

Needless to say, my levels of optimism hadn't envisaged a polite conversation. I was caught off guard. Thankfully, I recovered in time.

"I'm good. How have you been?" I asked, trying to get my confidence back.

"All well. So where do you work?"

The conversation meandered in closed questions. We strolled to her car, where her friend was already waiting. True to Einstein's relativity, the walk had ended too soon.

" I didn't get your name though.." I asked, still processing the last couple of minutes that I'd relive for a long time.

"Oh...I'm _____" she said and held out her hand.

"____ here" I replied, taking her outstretched hand. I'd remember the silken touch for a long time.

"See you around, _____" she smiled as she got into her car. And for once, I felt the smile was meant for me.

******************************************

I folded the newspaper and kept it aside. There she was, sitting on the opposite chair. She smiled - and once again, I felt the smile was meant for me.

I threw my hands up in the air. "This can't be true..." I exclaimed. "We're travelling on the same flight...not having been in touch for ten years now..."

"It does surprise me....but...here we go..." she admitted.

"I was half-hoping that we were not on the same flight...I'm on a holiday...you see" I said, meekly. May be I still reeked of the disappointment from all those years ago. She was smart enough to notice it. She took the barb sportively.

"Which means...you were also half-hoping that we are on the same flight....and let's see...your wish has been granted..." the mischief that I'd known ever so slightly at the car park all those years ago still seemed alive. My heart skipped a beat, again. Anxiety I told myself. Again.

Inevitably, a sweet voice on the microphone interrupted the conversation. We joined the queue for boarding, exchanging notes on our upcoming trip. It turned out that she was visiting her relatives. Both of us knew this was small talk. We were tacitly hoping for another roll of the dice.

***************

It seemed quite normal, given the string of coincidences through the day. We had been allotted the same row. There was an old woman occupying the middle seat as she took the window and I took the aisle.

"Is this your friend from the car park, who's grown old too soon?" I said softly, as we took our seats on either side of the old woman.

She didn't respond. She stared out of the window, as though in deep thought. Her face assumed a seriousness that I'd never associated with her. She suddenly seemed oblivious to my presence. I greeted the old woman for courtesy and decided to focus on the air safety manual and the air hostess who atleast seemed keen to ensure I landed safely at my destination.

The flight took off. The old woman who seemed nervous during the take-off now appeared relaxed. The woman next to her still seemed lost. "Life and its Surprises" - would be the title of my next blog post, I ruminated.There was plenty of content for that since morning. I closed my eyes and rested.

A few minutes later, I could hear her speaking to the old woman.

" Aunty...would it be ok if you could exchange seats with the gentleman next to you? We are old friends and would want to catch up." she was asking, not once looking at me.

"Sure, why not?" the woman obliged readily. I smiled at her and we exchanged seats.

She was still looking outside the window. The clouds were beautiful.

"Well, you'd wanted to go on a drive, sitting next to me. A slight change in plan. We are on a flight. But I'm still next to you. Does this work?" She still wasn't looking at me.

My heart skipped a beat, again. Was it anxiety anymore?

*****************************************************

Over the next few weeks, we added slowly to our string of greetings and conversations. I would rush to the car park at the usual time every day. On some days, I just greeted her from a distance - pretending to be busy on a phone call. There were days when I would walk her to her car, making small talk about work. She probably figured that I didn't have a car and that my sole reason for hanging around at the car park was to meet her.

I wasn't able to decide what to do next. Should I confess my liking for her out of the blue, with a caveat that she wasn't expected to respond? (What would be the whole point of the confession?) Should I ask her out? (And face the wrath of rejection?) Or should I just maintain status quo, content with greeting her and the occasional walk to an underground car park? (Business school would teach me in later years that status quo was the worst scenario to be in). I decided to make my move.

I waited at the car park that evening. She came there, albeit some minutes later than usual. She carried a gift someone had presented her. Her friend wasn't around. Was that a sign of good luck?

"You seem to be popular!" I said cheerfully, looking at the gift.

"Am I not, now? Specially when people wait at a car park to meet me?" She said, smiling.

"Well, that may have nothing to do with your popularity..." I said, surprising even myself with the candor.

"What is it then...?" she asked, looking straight into my eyes. We had reached her car. Walking this conversation would have been a lot easier. I fumbled and looked around. She knew she'd put me in a spot and was enjoying my predicament. It was now or never.

"Could we go on a drive in your car?" I asked at last, making a tacit admission that I wanted to spend more time with her. For a fleeting moment, I saw both surprise and disappointment on her face. Months later, I would still try to decipher the reason for that disappointment.

"Well...we'll see....Bye for now,______"she said, as she got into the car and drove out of the car park. I had no choice but to wait for an answer.

I waited. And I waited. The next day. The day after. The next week. The week after. Everyday, I made that walk to the car park. I waited till the sunset. But she was nowhere to be seen. I checked her parking bay too, a few times. Someone else's car was parked now. Was it a shift change? Did she work in the evenings now? Or was it early mornings? Or had she quit?

After a few weeks, I spotted her friend at the bus stop. She recognized me. We'd never talked before. I didn't bother to greet or make introductions.

"Is ________ not coming to work anymore?" I asked.

" She quit last month....surely, you'd have figured that by now?" she said, almost smiling at my stupidity that I tried to mask as optimism.

**************************************************

"For some reason, I continued to wait at the car park, even after your friend told me you had quit. You'd become a part of my routine" I said. It was my chance to attempt closure.

"Hmm...she did tell me about it, though long after" she revealed. I was taken aback. It would have been better if she hadn't admitted it.

"I searched your profile on Facebook as well...for quite sometime after that..."

"You wouldn't have found it...because it doesn't exist" she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"But why? Why didn't you tell me that it was your last day? It was as simple as that..." I asked, a slight anger in my voice, even after all these years.

"Well..what would you have done? Would you have asked me out..? I doubt that....all you managed in weeks...was to ask me if we could go on a drive. And that too on my last day in that place. I didn't know if you were confident about me....and quite frankly...I didn't know if you were confident about yourself...."

Her words, I had to admit, had a ring of truth. A diffident, nervous twenty-one year old, all I ever did was try to get her attention. But once I got that, I was clueless. How would I take it forward, was a mystery I'd never been able to solve.

"I felt...somethings were never meant to be said out aloud..." I tried to defend myself, meekly.

"In that case...I'm sorry to burst your bubble..there were guys who were confident enough to tell me that they liked me." She paused. I wasn't sure if she was being rude or truthful - or both.

"I genuinely wanted you to ask me just once.....but you never did." I could sense the emotion in her voice.

We lapsed into silence. For a while, there was turbulence outside and inside. I probably got my closure - but I started feeling I'd have done better without it. All these years, I'd made peace with the fact that she never took my attention seriously. Eventually, it turned that I had only myself to blame.

If the old woman was listening to us, she didn't come back with any sagacious advice. The air-hostess started serving snacks. She paused at our row and held them out for us. We both reached out and our arms brushed against each other. The silken touch transported me to the day we first shook hands. For a moment, I felt twenty-one again.

We finished our snacks in comfortable silence. The pilot announced landing. as though he was giving us a deadline.

"Are you still single?" I asked, slightly more confident than the last time.

"Well..I'm not "still" single. But I'm single right now" she said with a mischievous smile. I could notice her going slightly red.

The flight was gaining speed. We were hurtling downwards. We took a moment to fasten our seat-belts. The old woman was now her nervous self. All three of us in that row were nervous right now.

"May I have your number?" I asked, taking a second step. She showed mock anger, grabbed my phone and fed her number in it.

"Crew to stations for landing" cackled the pilot over radio. She was now looking at me, waiting for the question I'd failed to ask all those years ago. For some reason, after ten years of longing, business school, treks with strangers and meetings with Vice-Presidents, I still found myself scraping the depths for that ounce of courage to pop the question. I settled for something typical.

"If I ever want to ask you out, can I call you on this number?" I asked, trying to sound witty, but sounding sheepish, stupid and clueless all over again.

It was her turn to throw her arms up in exasperation.

"I now know why you want to leave certain things unsaid......because you don't know how to say it" she exclaimed. "And for the record, if you were to ask me out, the answer would be yes" she blurted and started looking out of the window, blushing and determined to avoid eye-contact.

I felt relief wash all over me. We'd touched down and were speeding along the runway. As the rest of the passengers got busy to deplane, I chose to close my eyes, sit back and record the moment in the journal that forever kept running in my mind. "Life and its surprises" did have a pleasant ending, after all.

The plane came to a halt. My eyes were still closed. I felt a hand ruffling my hair with genuine affection. Bygones were bygones. It was the start of something new. And she ruffling my hair was a perfect start.

I opened my eyes to look at her. She was still staring out of the window, lost in thought. The hand ruffling my hair had been the old woman's. The jitters of landing out of the way, she seemed rather relaxed. She smiled at me and said "Be sure of yourself, my boy. You can do it." She then lowered her voice "She loves you...don't let her go again". She winked and deplaned.

She was still looking out of the window. Probably recording the moment in her own journal. I looked at her. She was beautiful, as ever. My heart skipped a beat.

A journey had just ended. A journey had just begun....

- 23rd December 2021.

The Trek - Aborted

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 12 Sep 2021 14:13:00 +0000

Both soles of my pair of trekking shoes started leaving behind a trail of powdery leather as I left home. The size of the powdery mass only got bigger as I waited for the bus on Richmond Road. I quickly stowed away the shoes in my backpack - planning to save them in their best shape for the trek. And comforted myself, saying shoes that had survived in Markha....would definitely last in Kudremukha....

**********************************

I'd probably never had breakfast at 5:30 AM in my entire life. The homestay was already a bustle of activity. A 22km trek in one day meant we needed to start early - reach the peak around noon and turn back soon enough, to come back down in time. I'd made acquaintance with Abhishek on our journey from Bengaluru. Having curd rice on the highway and sitting next to each other on the overnight bus journey qualified us to be mates for the day.

We managed to dump the breakfast into our stomachs and wash it down with hot coffee - the need of the hour. Trek leads Prajwal and Navya grouped us together. We were then asked to hop on to jeeps that drove us to the base of the trek about 5km away. If some of us were sleepy, the jeep ride woke us up completely. Muddy, eroded narrow roads and slush from the monsoon made the ride adventurous bordering on dangerous.

The interminable ride ended in about twenty long minutes. There was some excited chatter as we waited for the leads to give us marching orders to start the trek. The black leather crumbs my shoes were leaving behind were starting to get the attention of people immediately around me. May be the thick soles with ridges for would fall off, leaving behind normal shoes that would work for the rest of the trek. I had too much faith in those shoes that had accompanied me on several hikes and treks - even this particular one five years earlier.

The trek started. The monsoon was in its post peak phase, but it was raining as we began the ascent. Not the pleasant drizzle - nor a downpour. But just enough to make the ascent slippery and tricky and warrant that we stow our phones in our backpack and get our raincoats out. Abhishek and I found ourselves long enough wooden sticks that would serve for makeshift trekking poles for the day.

With each passing step, I was becoming more and more aware of the reality that my shoes wouldn't last the entire trek. I stopped looking at them, but the local guide Ratnakara, would point out as whole pieces of the sole started to come off. From an open trail, we entered a swamp and the rain suddenly got thicker. As more of my shoes started giving way, I started walking lopsided - something that would have looked funny in normal circumstances, but made me extremely nervous that day. We had to wade through multiple ankle-deep water bodies and I could feel the water gushing in through the debilitated shoes and wash my ankles.

I started slipping. Never a great sign on a trek. My shoes were now completely bald with no ridges and leather on the soles. Each time I slipped, I laughed nervously to make light of the situation. But those around me started realizing it wasn't that simple anymore.

I managed to complete a small ensuing ascent that opened to a stretch of flat grasslands. The trek leads had planned "seed bombing" here, which is basically throwing seed balls across the open area and hoping that the seeds would start germinating, willed by the forces of nature. I used the break to finally gather courage and take a good look at my shoes.

I finally acknowledged that my shoes and I had to part ways. I could see my socks peering through the mouth of the shoes. The bottom of the shoes had given way completely and I could feel my socks touching the moist ground underneath. There was no way I could continue wearing them and trek. In a sudden act of separation, I removed them and placed them against a rock. I took a couple of pictures and looked at them with emotion. (A fellow trekker told me later on that he watched me praying with folded hands as I looked at them. I might've. They were rather close to my heart.)

And now, the next question loomed large. Would I continue the trek? If yes, how would I continue? If no, how would I go back? We were about 3km from the base. An arduous 8km lay ahead of us. I didn't have shoes. How would I trek either way?

In a moment steeped in coincidence that I'd prefer to call destiny, Abhishek mentioned he was carrying his slippers - just in case. And was glad to offer them to me. It was renewed hope. I was in two minds at the time, my desire to continue higher than the common sense to abort. The trek leads and local guides noticed it too. They suggested that I carry on and see how far I could make it.

The balloon of hope that I'd inflated minutes ago received its first puncture as I stepped into the first stretch of black slush with the slippers. The slush was fresh and the rain continued to make the situation worse. I slipped at every step. Some of them were comical. Some slips were dangerous. Every now and then one of the slippers would get stuck in the slush and as I pulled my legs out, the slipper would remain the slush.

Inevitably, I got stuck in the rear. The separation between the main group and me was growing. Abhishek was nowhere to be seen.. As I completed another rainy ascent, holding out my hand to anyone who could help me take that next step upward, whatever little ego that I had -saying I have to complete the trek at all costs - vanished. I realised I couldn't do it. My upward trek had to come to an end soon. Else, I'd probably jeopardize the efforts of others or even end up hurting myself resulting in other outcomes that I didn't even want to think about. The ascent led to a stretch of grasslands which was also considered the midpoint of the trek in some ways. A lone tree stood out amongst the grasslands and trekkers called the spot the "Onti Mara" (lone tree). I conferred with the leads and decided to stay there - while the rest of the group trekked to the peak. I'd join the first ones to come back. Though the leads expressed their sympathies, they were probably relieved that I decided to stay back.

The first minutes alone at the lone tree were not as bad as I’d thought. The views from this spot are amazing. Hills covered in greenery with different shades of green are a treat to the eyes. The scenic beauty on the Kudremukha trek is unparalleled. Having more than enough time to spend the Onti Mara was in many ways a consolation for not making it to the peak. For the first time since morning, I relaxed and allowed myself to completely appreciate the surroundings.

However, as it happens on hills and mountains, the weather took a turn soon enough. A mighty breeze started blowing across the open grasslands bringing with it thick rain. My spirit cowed down again. Moving in the rain is different. Standing in one place as it drenched me made me feel helpless.

I tried to make myself comfortable, sitting on a stone. I wanted to remove the sludge from my slippers and get them dry. Socks and slippers were again a terrible combination. I decided to get rid of the socks. And greeted probably my most important companions on the trek. Leeches. While I knew that there would be some encounter with the leeches on any monsoon trek in the Western Ghats, I’d never expected to be part of an onslaught. Blood oozed from multiple leech bites on my left foot. A random gentleman passing by used his lighter and then bare hands to remove a swollen leach from my foot, even as I looked on, momentarily dazed and helpless at the size of the leech. The bites weren’t hurting. But in their own way seemed to suggest that I had to brace myself for worse luck that day.

Forty minutes of rain and wind seemed like an eternity as I tried to find solace looking and smiling at people who passed the Onti Mara. And finally, there was a second person who decided to abort his trek at the same spot. Mr. Shenoy, who was fifty one and decided to not trek further because he felt his body won’t be able to take it. He made peace with it saying the views were amazing and he couldn’t ask for more. Such consideration for his body and such calm acceptance of his limitations. His group went on. I felt better. We broke the ice slowly, knowing we’d be stuck with each other and would probably need each other to climb down the trail.

Then a third person joined us. Ms. Meera, a Yoga Trainer from Bengaluru, who coincidentally had torn soles too. I started feeling that I wasn’t the only one at fault that day. As we unboxed our packed lunch and started eating, the rain stopped and some sunlight peered through the clouds – reflecting my improved mood and spirit. And ironically, I felt great when one more person from our trekking group, Hemant, returned with a torn sole as well. Clearly, there was something about Kudremukha and shoes that day. His friend Harsh had graciously decided to abandon his trek to give company to Hemant.

We were now a group of five at the Onti Mara. We completed lunch and at one-o-clock, took a call to start climbing down. I mooted the idea that we shouldn’t wait for the others because I didn’t want to be pressured into descending fast in slippers. The others with torn shoes agreed. It took slightly longer to convince Mr. Shenoy - but he finally agreed seeing he would need more time to descend too.

The weather smiled on us as we descended. The rain had abated. There was almost no wind. The ground seemed drier compared to a couple of hours earlier. And we trundled along. I was obviously at the rear for most part. Mr. Shenoy and Meera turned back every few steps to make sure I was descending ok. I was nervous. But more confident in my slippers than I’d been all morning. For one, I was on the return journey. And it was just the five of us. No one telling us to hurry on and make it quick. We had plenty of time. Getting rid of the socks and the dry weather provided much needed grip that I almost felt comfortable.

Not to say it was completely smooth. I lost track of the number of times I slipped. There were times when I slipped every step of the way for 8-10 steps. And a dangerous moment when Mr. Shenoy was helping me negotiate a step and he fell – dragging me along with him. The rest of them didn’t need as much help as I did. But they stayed back at each steep step, swamp and water body to help me across safely.

The final piece of misfortune on the trek was when the right slipper tore. But by that time, we were so used to my bad luck with footwear that day that Mr. Shenoy joked that the slipper was a martyr. It helped me get down safely for most part and even after being torn, protected my foot. The downside was that Abhishek, who lent me the slippers, remained without footwear for the rest of the trip. Ironically, I still had sandals as back-up in the home stay.

This was the first trek that I had to abort in all these years. And I dearly wanted to complete this one because it was my first trek since the pandemic. Eventually, it turned out to be a totally different experience, making me ruminate on multiple fronts.

First, my total lack of planning and that sense of complacency in thinking that my shoes would last the trek – especially when the leather had started crumbling even as I left home the previous evening. Then, that wonderful piece of destiny, where Abhishek came and sat next to me in the bus journey and we developed enough rapport overnight for him to lend me his pair of slippers on the trek. Else, there was a possibility that I’d have had to trek down barefoot. Between all that was going on in my head at the time, I had the common sense to say I’d abort my trek for the sake of the group and for my own sake. And finally, there are always good Samaritans around only if you’re willing to look for them. Mr. Shenoy, Meera, Hemant and Harsh – all of them who helped me get down step by step for almost five kilometres(which seems like a lot more on the hills). We didn’t know each other before that day – and I’m sure we are not going to end up as buddies. We’d probably end up following each other on Instagram, if anything.

Mr. Shenoy texted a couple of days earlier saying on the night after the trek, he woke up multiple times because his body jerked, mimicking the number of times we slipped throughout the trek. It was the same at my end. I must’ve slipped more than 60 times throughout the day. And amazingly, I didn’t even have a sprain/scratch to show for it. For a while at the Onti Mara, I felt this was probably my worst trekking experience, all thanks to my own doing. But as I sat down laughing at my experience with fellow trekkers that evening and showed them the leech bites that were my trophies, it seemed worthwhile after all.

May be not every trek is meant to be completed! May be it’s the journey, and not always the destination!

- 12th September 2021

The Apprentice , Forever

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Mon, 19 Jul 2021 15:14:00 +0000

The Apprentice, Forever

The urge is palpable on days when work has been particularly stressful. And on weekends when I wake up from my siesta and find my evenings rather empty - thanks to one lockdown after the other.

The Kitchen. An art-house where delicacies are creatively crafted by master chefs to satisfy the sensory urges of smell, taste and sight. A factory where the raw produce from farmers is transformed to nutrition and well being every morning, afternoon and evening - by people we love. A lab where novices like me experiment with spices, mortally endangering others of our species gracious enough to be part of the charade I call cooking.

Ironically, what dragged me to the kitchen at a practical level was my parents confined to different rooms in home isolation, with my brother and I trying to take care of them. As I cautiously tried to turn on the gas and light the stove without causing much alarm, even my sick mother suppressed a weak smile. The double whammy was a younger brother with a condescending stare and a certainly superior skill set in home science.

Our family's tryst with COVID seemed to have affected our palate and appetite in a definitive way. We were not confident enough to go down the home delivery route just yet - but we were equally concerned by the restlessness of our taste buds that were used to at least occasionally tasting something that was a departure from the usual kitchen menu.

YouTube guided our imagination. A younger cousin expanded our horizon of possibilities with her exploits in the kitchen. I either pushed or gave enough confidence to a now fully recovered Amma (prefer to believe in the latter) to try something new in the kitchen, with me being her aide.

And yours truly, slowly climbed the hierarchy. Cutting vegetables was where I first made myself useful. Adding ginger, lemon, chilly, salt and pepper to complete a salad was my induction. The riot of colour in the salad was my first art.

Amma made it abundantly clear that if we wanted to taste novel stuff "from the kitchen", we better make ourselves useful by being "in the kitchen". I was soon standing in front of the stove, watching the pasta cook - as Amma indicated if I need to lower or increase the intensity of the flame, always sceptical because I'm left handed.

I was soon proficient enough to tell cooked from raw and vice versa. Then came the initiation to sauteing
. The hissing of cooking oil as the water evaporates sounded ominous initially, but was soon music to the ears. Adding chopped ginger, garlic and chilly to the boiling lake of oil and watching the changing colour turned out to be a bi-weekly craving. The pungent smell emanating from the combination would be the first announcement that something interesting is evolving in the kitchen.

I learnt to sort vegetables by their cooking time, made sure that that the vegetables didn't stick to the base of the pan and burn and learnt to carefully remove a piece of vegetable to see if it was still raw or cooked. And all these commanded hundred percent attention that left little head-space for other thoughts during the hour or so. For someone who doesn't cook regularly, the phenomenon of onion changing from pink to brown was wonder. A certain brightness sauteing in oil gave the carrot was amazement. The tomato melting in the frying pan was magic! And I never knew that all this happened in the kitchen everyday!

The Magnum Opus though, had to be the Vegetable Biriyani. The condescending tantrums of those calling it an oxymoron notwithstanding, this simply is the most beautiful cooking experiment in our kitchen till date.

It's as though the entire family comes together to create the biriyani. Father is in a corner peeling garlic. Amma is carefully cleaning cauliflower. My brother has gone out to get the rice and spices. I'm in charge of cutting the other vegetables. Then the kitchen comes to life. The cloves, cinnamon, cardamom and the mishmash of spices; The different vegetables blending with these spices in a canvas of oil and water. The rice is getting ready in a separate vessel to lend meaning to the vegetables.

The finishing act is what takes my breath away, always. The vegetables are spread in the cooker. Then a layer of rice on top of them. A smattering of saffron and fried onion. Then layers of the remaining vegetables and rice. The monument of our collective efforts steadily takes shape. The countdown begins as the vegetables and rice slowly lend their flavors to each other in low flame. We want those fifteen minutes to be the fastest and slowest of our lives at the same time. When the biriyani eventually comes to life, it is the anticipation of almost two days that attains salvation.

I always thought being a foodie meant that you need to be gorging on anything and everything in sight. Then I had this light bulb moment when someone corrected me: being a foodie was more about enjoying different foods, appreciating the cooking and presentation - and knowing when to stop during a sumptuous meal. As I discovered the kitchen and its indulgences, I found myself resonating with this statement more and more. There are even days when the process and preparation are more enjoyable than eating the end result. And the appreciative nods and lip smacking means that the effort has found its reward.

If Amma were to read this piece, she would definitely point out that my occasional apprenticeship in the kitchen (under adult supervision) is only good for this sophisticated essay, while she faces the music of having to plan breakfast, lunch and dinner everyday - and has been doing for as long as I can remember. Yet in moments when she lets her guard down, she is hopeful that I might eventually learn to whip up a Rasam or a Sambhar with some rice and relieve her for a day from the kitchen!

But then....I've never been able to convert an apprenticeship to a permanent job offer, just yet!!

- 19th July 2021

The Next Door

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Thu, 20 May 2021 15:10:00 +0000

The Next Door

It was nice to observe that flutter of life gleaming through the blurred glass window one fine Monday morning. The window wasn't open. Blurred movement beyond it suggested that someone was finally breathing life into the house, making it a home.

*****************************

The Next Door, had been empty ever since the pandemic struck. Nobody knew where our neighbours went. Or what happened. It wasn't that we interacted with them. We didn't even know their faces. Yet, their sudden absence seemed to allow this virus to make another point - score another goal - against humanity.

May led to July. July ushered in September. The empty Next Door didn't get our mindspace for most part. Yet there were those boring weekends -during the multiple lockdowns- when we looked out of our window into the now closed kitchen windows of the Next Door, sipping our evening coffee - and wondered what had become of the family.

And then ruminate about the fifteen years we had spent as neighbours to multiple families. A family in which a woman my Ajji's age used to wait for Ajji to come down every summer from Mandya and then spend hours chatting through the windows. (Weirdly, they never invited each other home). When it used to be an office and I loudly (and jokingly) threatened my parents that I'd burn myself if I didn't pass Class 10 - only to attract an hour of friendly advice from the employees.. Then this family, where the lady of the home seemed to have struck a rapport with Amma, visited us once and never spoke to us again. We never got to see anyone from the last family that resided in the Next Door. The mystery continued when the house suddenly seemed vacant, one Sunday morning.

The year turned a corner. We celebrated the New Year with whatever limited fervour the Virus bestowed on us. The Next Door continued to be empty. The Bengalurean summer which has now started announcing itself in mid-February, meant that my brother and I had to change the setting of our room quite a bit. My workstation now had a direct view of the living room window of the Next Door. A couple of pigeons played on the ledges of the window, finding some respite from the summer heat. And as day turned to night, the pigeons stood still, as still as the empty house.

*************************************

It was a welcome change to notice the living room windows of the Next Door open. There was some hustle in the house as people brought in a fridge, a television, some cupboards and carton boxes - all indications that someone was definitely moving in. In the evening, the lights in the living room were switched on for the first time in months. And the social life starved souls in our home, felt this small excitement of finally becoming neighbours again, to a new family.

We huddled every evening at coffee time to sneak a peek into their kitchen from our living room. The incandescent bulb lit up every evening at precisely the same time, but the kitchen window never opened. Our olfactory system craved for the aroma of the food that would escape at some point, giving us important insight into their food habits, from which Amma vowed to find out where they were from.

The family did begin to announce itself in subtle ways. Their terrace, that had been empty for multiple months now had shirts and sarees hanging out to dry every day. The living room window was more or less open through the day. And when I broke away from looking into the monitor to gaze at their living room window, there was an elderly woman who seemed to be sitting at the same place throughout the day. In the evenings, a couple of banian clad men sat around the elderly woman and there was small talk and laughter.

Our terrace was Amma's favourite hangout for fresh air, as the second wave seemed imminent. From her vantage point she gathered that the family had two middle aged women - who came to their terrace to dry clothes and spices. Apparently there was a couple of times they made eye contact, but the two women didn't seem too eager to smile. "It's only a matter of time" Mother said, as we sipped our evening coffee. "See..their kitchen window is open today!"

It was indeed. The bulb was on and the window wide open. And a few minutes later, the splash of spices into the Tava and the hiss of cooking oil was unmistakable. As our neighbours fried ginger and garlic, the tangy aroma wafted into our home. "North Indian Curry!" my brother and I exclaimed. We were as delighted as though they'd invited us to dine with them. May be that would be a reality at some point! We just had to make sure they were vegetarian!

**************************************

Slowly but surely, we grew accustomed to their presence. There were no smiles or greetings yet. But there was an unspoken familiarity that brewed as tacitly as the second wave. The younger of the two men seemed to be well versed with the Dholak. During the weekends, we would unexpectedly hear a couple of rhythms and our feet tapped the floor in silent appreciation. In the evenings, they would switch on the television and Bollywood melodies from the nineties and the early millennium would provide a good break from the monotony of work related calls. Though we never spoke to each other, it was now mutual knowledge that we would casually look at each other's windows, as though acknowledging the presence of the other family. I rather looked forward to the evenings, when their kitchen got active and the spices got frying. The aroma was a welcome appetizer. For some reason, their living room light remained switched on throughout the night. I would realise a couple of months later, that the light radiated the warmth of company and presence and I had grown rather used to it.

*************************************

It came as a bit of a surprise to see that their windows were still bolted tight, one Wednesday afternoon. The situation in Bengaluru had started going south again. The increasing frequency of ambulance sirens and the increasing intensity in the cacophony of news anchors meant that the Virus was pulling the system down all over again - albeit more resolutely than last time. The silence at the Next Door was not a welcome sign at all. We were not friends. We didn't know their names or their town or anything that would make us their acquaintances. Yet, they were our neighbours. A part of us started working all on possible theories as to why the windows were boarded up and all signs of life vanished overnight. A part of us was disappointed that their disappearance now meant that even the pretence of a social life now ceased to exist for us.

Our evening coffee was again full of speculation. Amma walked the terrace, always looking for some sign that would betray why the family went missing. If only I had acquainted myself with the Dholak guy who seemed my age, we could have shared numbers and he would probably be just a call away. My call of concern would probably pave way to a lasting friendship between the families. We would eventually exchange BisiBele Bath and Paneer curry through the windows.

******************************************

The Friday morning a week later put an end to our speculation. The windows of the Next Door were wide open. Something was amiss though. The elderly lady wasn't seen at her usual place, staring at our room. The television wasn't switched on. The kitchen windows were open too. Yet there was no hissing garlic and ginger spice. The ladies seemed to be hurrying from the kitchen to the living room and back.

And sometime in the afternoon, I saw the older of the two men sitting near the window. His head bald. His eyes tired and a little empty. He didn't seem to mind my staring at him at all. It was a while before one of the women pulled him away from the window and closed the window in a hurry - lest we notice their collective sadness. Amma came back from her terrace walk in the evening and told us that the family had perhaps washed all clothes they had and hung them out to dry. All of it pointed to only one event.

For some reason, we felt sombre. Throughout the next day, we spoke in hushed voices. Our television was on only at minimal volume. We wanted to know more about what had happened, understand how the elderly woman had passed. Be of some support to our neighbours. But we only knew them...and we didn't know them. As I went to bed that night, I could see that their living room light was switched off around eleven. It was probably kept on throughout the night in earlier times, because the elderly woman had wanted it to be that way.

*********************************************

We woke up Sunday morning to find the windows boarded up all over again. In the television and newspapers was news of the impending lock down that would kick in from Monday. Visuals of people scrambling for beds and oxygen brought back last year's anxiety all over again. Images of people leaving the garden city in hordes left us speechless. Perhaps amongst the latter were our neighbours.

When I went to bed that night, I stood by the window of our room and looked at the living room windows of the Next Door. The closed windows and the darkness beyond was definitely a void -a void from the loss of company. And weirdly, company that we never completely acknowledged.

The pigeons came back to spend their night on the ledges. I would initiate a conversation with the family once they returned.

- 19th May 2021

Adventures in Arranged Matrimony: AM Anonymous

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sun, 04 Apr 2021 15:15:00 +0000

Adventures in Arranged Matrimony: AM Anonymous

I looked at her mask clad face. Her eyes looked at mine. I wasn't sure if they were smiling. The few moments between her greeting me and sitting down to eventually remove the mask and give a glimpse of her full face, seemed like an eternity. Her social media profiles detailed that she was an avid "people reader". I fumbled, listened to blank silences and looked at the blank wall of the cafe. The conversation trundled on, coughed, spluttered and....as they say......the date was history.

**************************

Appa paced briskly between his bedroom and the kitchen to complete his target 15000 steps for the day. We'd ushered in and ushered out the pandemic at our home. And what with his recovery and retirement,his life purpose as he proclaimed every day once in the morning, afternoon and in the night, was to see my brother employed and me married.

"We need to be more aggressive this time" he said, as he skimmed through his now voluminous database. "Look at the number of Nagashrees, Soumyas and Divyas you've rejected." he pointed, as though trying to establish a connection between the names and why the prospective alliances didn't work."But I've been rejected a fair number of times too...Appa" I said. And each time I talked about my share of rejections, my hands automatically started patting the now regularly obvious paunch, thanks to the lockdown. "And why are we now looking at old data?" I asked, slightly irritated. He was about to answer the question as the doorbell rang and Mr. Manjunath entered.

Once upon a time a colleague of Appa, he had long retired. His son's marriage was done and dusted- the pride and relief evident on his face as he shared his experiences and (in his opinion) well meaning advice.

"Saar, your son is being very choosy..." I could hear him tell my father as they munched on the famous Subbamma store Kodbale in our living room. I'd long stopped sitting in the living room when these inevitable conversations happened. I listened to them from my room, trying to find that elusive nugget of wisdom that made these Uncles and Aunties with grandchildren - more successful in their quest. Atleast more successful than my parents at the moment.

"Perfect marriages are a myth...be it arranged or love" he started off with the cliche. "Let me tell you what I did for my son. We made a list of 10 criteria for every prospective daughter-in-law. And awarded 10 points for each right tick. The moment the score crossed 50, we would add 10 grace marks. The moment the score crossed 60, we would add 10 more grace marks. So..by the time the score reached 60 - it was already an 80 percent. Good to proceed to discussions with the girls' parents. Our son married the third girl he met!"

I shuddered as I heard the rustle of pen on paper. My father was making note of the "Mr. Manjunath Method" as I christened it after Mr. Manjunath left that evening. Somehow it reminded me of the Duckworth Lewis method in cricket - and even there, results never went the right way.

*********************************************

The twelve of us in the room sat in a circle and held hands of those next to us on either side. We were all guys. We were all above 30. And we were all in this infinite loop of Arranged Matrimony that someone had forgotten to write an exit condition for. This was our fourth meeting in four months. We had chosen to call ourselves "AM Anonymous". The purpose of the group, as our President - an unmarried techie of thirty five - had proclaimed in the first meeting was "To help each other in the quest of our soul mates through arranged matrimony". I eagerly helped expand the purpose and make it more lucid and bulleted. (Sorry, the detailed purpose statement is sacred and confidential. It now hangs proudly at our meeting location and reminds us of our group ethos and camaraderie.)

"Does anyone have anything to share?" the President asked, his tone sombre. All of us knew through our WhatsApp group that he had been rejected for the 35th time on his 35th birthday. The magnanimity with which he allowed someone else to vent out first was overwhelming.

The guy sitting next to me raised his hand and started. "I met an aspiring model through a community matrimony group last weekend. She was beautiful in the photographs and was well qualified. I looked forward for a week to meet her. We met and ordered coffee. Even before it was served, she said "So..this is not going to work. Your family would never accept my profession. Even my parents don't know the full story. I came here on their insistence. Let's not waste each others' time." The meat of the conversation had ended then and there. We meandered for some time around mundane stuff. She finished her coffee and left - insisting on paying the bill herself."

We sat there in silence for a minute, weighing the story in our minds before venturing a diplomatic opinion.

"Thanks for sharing your story Member 10. We appreciate your courage. We are with you. Now, any positives from the meeting?" The President asked.

"Yeah! I got the entire plate of fries for myself!" quipped Member 10. We laughed heartily. And in the same vein he continued "Thanks to this wonderful bunch, I'm now able to see the light side of this ordeal. To AM Anonymous!" he shouted as we joined the cheering.

"Wonderful, Member 10..we're always there for each other. Who next?" asked the President. Silence fell.

Member 3 put his hand up. " My parents introduced a profile to me a fortnight earlier ." he started. "I liked the picture instantly and was eager to meet. The horoscope too turned out a perfect match. We went to the girl's home and the family welcomed us graciously. The ice breaking was excellent and so was the Upma and Kesari Bath. Snacks ended and I was now eager to see the girl. You know, I'd pictured this moment of her walking from the room and parting the curtains to reveal her beautiful face. And how my heart would skip a beat at that instant.. The Kesari Bath and my expectations were making me giddy already. I nudged at my Mother and asked her to request the girl's parents to call the girl outside."

"And Lo! The father said "Oh...here she is!" Pointing at the girl sitting next to him the whole time. The girl had been sitting with us all this while. But she looked completely different from what we'd seen in the picture. I hurried to complete the one-on-one meeting with her. Our return journey was a stunned silence."

We sat in stunned silence too. This experience was definitely not new for any of us. But each time, it re-affirmed the gap between expectation and reality. "Pretty much summarizing life itself " like our President always said.

"It's ok Member 3. To be fair, all of us probably look different in our pictures than in reality. My advice though - would be to not get invested too much even before you meet" This was one reason I became part of AM Anonymous. The President was almost like a war veteran and seemed to have a solution to every scenario. I always thought he'd met more than 35 girls - for him to garner so much of experience.

"Could we have the final experience of the day?" he presently said. Member 1 volunteered.

"Dear Friends..." he began. He face seemed to be radiating a smile that was so uncharacteristic of the AM Anonymous meetings. We knew something was wrong(?!). "Thanks to all of you for your support these four months. This has been a journey of a lifetime. But it's finally time for me to bid goodbye to all of you. A girl accepted me last week and I feel I'm good too. We are proceeding to get engaged" He said, tears streaming down his eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment as happiness, surprise, pride, relief and some jealousy whipped a heady cocktail in our minds. But we were defined by our purpose! Again, our President led the applause and standing ovation.

"This is the best way for a member to exit AM Anonymous. It means we have supported him and he has supported us. His quest has come to an end. And it has given us a fine opportunity to render our anthem meaningfully today."

"Hum honge Kamyaab....." he started off and the group joined him in unison. "....Poora he vishwas..hum honge kamyab..ek din..." Member 1 was the most boisterous that day. As we saw him render the anthem with passion and purpose for one last time, our hearts were engulfed in a rush of hope. I could see a spark in the eyes of Member 10 and Member 3 who had the courage to share their stories. The President seemed to have forgotten his 35th rejection. I was able to forget characters like Mr. Manjunath for a while.

After the anthem, we did the customary group hug and repeated the club purpose (Sorry again - can't reveal that!). It was one down, eleven to go!

*********************************************

"Yes Mr. George...yes...his birth star is ____ and his Raashi is ____" Appa was busy on the phone when I entered home after the AM Anonymous meeting. Mr. George was a new name. And for obvious reasons, what would a Mr. George do with birth stars? He turned the speaker on so I could listen to the conversation.

"Your son's birth star indicates that he would like Maddur Vada....is that true?" Mr George was saying, with insight. Appa looked at me, confused. He knew that I didn't have a preference, yet he was too deferential to completely reject Mr. George's claim. "He...more or less likes Maddur Vada....but he prefers Sambhar Vada..." he said, not able to ignore my stare as well. "Well...any Vada is basically vada, Sir...I meant...your son has an affinity for Vada because of his birth star" the voice at the other end continued, pleased at Appa confirming his hunch. I threw my hands up in exasperation. After a certain Guruji and a Mr. Bhat who had diagnosed my planetary ailments and prescribed their dose of medication, we were know consulting a Christian priest who somehow still relied on Hindu birth stars.

I sat in my room, reflecting on the AM Anonymous meeting. The familiar rustle of pen on paper was again audible, as Appa made notes from his discussion with Mr. George. So many people had randomly entered my life in the last couple of years - Mr. Manjunath, Guruji, Mr. Bhat, Alliance Aunty,(who kept sending random profiles without caring to know more about me or my preferences), Agony Anna (he was the one who introduced me to AM Anonymous) and now Mr. George. For all their sakes, for mine and mostly importantly for my parents' sake, I wished the ordeal ended soon.

I unlocked my phone and saw a message from Ms.____, the most recent girl I was supposed to court. I had sent her a "Hello...this is Alok here.." last evening and was still waiting for a response. "Hello Alok...how are you?" she'd said. And she was apparently online at the moment. I hurried to type out a couple of pleasantries and immediately suggested:

"How about meeting tomorrow?"

"Oh...we could do it next week...busy tomorrow" came the reply. I obviously had no choice.

Amma walked in the next moment. Everytime she came to me with her phone, I knew she had a new profile relayed by Alliance Aunty. Again, I had no choice. "Alok, this girl is good and the parents want the two of you to meet next weekend". She served an ultimatum.

"But there's already a Ms.___ I'm expected to chat up with. Should I chat up with this girl too? What if the messages get mixed up??!!!" I wondered aloud.

Ohh..come on. You're keep boasting you're a Sales Guy don't you? Manage two clients then...." Amma said and walked out.

Appa lingered on for a moment more. "Listen Alok...this profile came in while I was having the conversation with Mr. George. It's auspicious. Apparently your planets are looking solid for the next two weeks!"

I knew I would never get a drift of the solar system. The planets and their crooked, wicked and benevolent moods which cast such a shadow on mere mortals like me. But I had to appreciate that for someone who'd not met a girl for multiple months, courting two of them suddenly seemed to improve my chances. Mr. George's analysis on Maddur Vada seemed to be bearing fruit already. My Salesforce suddenly had pipeline. And if there was a review, I could safely assign a probability. My livelihood hinged on opportunities, likelihoods and probabilities. So did my life, I realised.

Both these developments meant I had something to share with my brothers at AM Anonymous when we met the next month. I would probably call the President and ask him how to approach this "Double Header" - I was almost sure he'd have this experience too in his overflowing bouquet.

I kept both the profiles side by side and tried to memorise their names with faces and occupations, so I wouldn't get confused. I stored their names distinctly on my phone, so there was not even a remote chance they would get mixed up....

My thoughts were interrupted as Akshay ran in smirking:

"Brother...you're going viral" he exclaimed, amidst uncontrollable laughter. "Check Facebook!"

I logged into the app. And my face went white with fear.

"Need prospective brides for a smart BE, MBA, 31 years. Brahmins." The post read. With the post were two of my latest pictures. Social Uncle had launched a bride hunt on social media!!!

- 4th April 2021

P.S: Please don't Google AM Anonymous. They don't have a website.

Events dramatised for fiction!

Let The Travels Begin!!

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Mon, 22 Mar 2021 16:02:00 +0000

....Let The Travels Begin!

The rising sun, the setting sun,

The sea, beaches and sand

The breezy nights and those roaring tides

Humility and awe, did the Ocean command

The soft scent, the leather bind

Plots that thicken with Time

Words woven into delicate artistry

With Prose and Poetry sublime

Hills and mountains with God in their abode

A hue of green and white - waiting to enthrall

As mystique and magnificence walked hand-in-hand

I realised I'd always feel small

Lives that spring to life before my eyes

I allow them to hold my hand

Their joys, sorrows and trepidation become my own

As we journey to their promised land

A different people, a different culture

A different language, cuisine and tradition

I embraced the unknown as if it were my own

Always a sojourn steeped in realisation

Their wisdom stroked and the conscience stirred

My canvas would always be white,black and grey

The pages held a mirror - as I struggled to accept myself

But the stories moved on, much to my dismay

"Come to Me" beckoned the World outside

"Come to Me" urged the World within

The Rucksack and The Book would always stand by me

It's never early to say "Let the Travels Begin!"

- 22nd March 2021

ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sat, 13 Feb 2021 17:17:00 +0000

ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು

ನನಗೂ ವಯಸ್ಸು ಎಂಭತ್ತು ಮೀರಿತ್ತು. ಊರುಗೋಲು ಸಹಾಯಕ್ಕೆ ಬಂದು ಹತ್ತು ವರ್ಷದ ಮೇಲಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಈಚೆಗೆ, ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಹೊರಬರುವುದನ್ನು ಕಡಿಮೆ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೆ. ಮನೆ ಇದ್ದದ್ದು ಒಳ್ಳೆಯ ಬಡಾವಣೆಯಲ್ಲೇ. ಅಕ್ಕ ಪಕ್ಕದವರೂ ಒಳ್ಳೆಯವರೇ. ಆದರೂ ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯ ಭಯ. ಮೊದಮೊದಲು ಏಕಾಂತ ಬೇಕಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಕ್ರಮೇಣವಾಗಿ ಏಕಾಂತ ಏಕಾಂಗಿತನವಾಯಿತು. ನಂತರ ಜನರ ಸಂಪರ್ಕವೆಂದರೆ ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯ ರೇಜಿಗೆ. ಈಗ, ಜನರನ್ನು ಕಂಡರೆ ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯ ಭಯ.

Easychairನಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಳಿತು ಕಾನಡ ರಾಗದ ಆಲಾಪನೆ ಕೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಬೆಳಗಿನ ತಿಂಡಿ ಮುಗಿದಿತ್ತು. ರಂಗಪ್ಪ ಊಟಕ್ಕೆ ತಿಳಿಸಾರು, ಅನ್ನ ಮಾಡಿ ಒಂದೆರಡು ಎಸಳು ಈರುಳ್ಳಿ ಕೂಡ Dining Table ಮೇಲಿಟ್ಟು ಹೋಗಿದ್ದ. ನನ್ನ ಅತಿ ಸಣ್ಣ ಬೇಡಿಕೆಗಳೂ ಅವನಿಗೆ ತಿಳಿದ್ದಿದ್ದರಿಂದಲೇ ನನ್ನವರೆಲ್ಲರು ದೂರವಾದಮೇಲೂ ಅವನಿಗೆ ನನ್ನ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ, ಮನಸ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಜಾಗವಿತ್ತು. ಹೂ...ನನ್ನ ಅಸಹಾಯಕತೆಯು ಅದಕ್ಕೊಂದು ಕಾರಣವಿರಬಹುದು. ಇತ್ತೀಚೆಗೆ ನನ್ನ ಊರುಗೋಲಿನ ನಂತರ ಈತನೇ ನನಗೆ ಮುಖ್ಯವಾದವನು. Important...not close. Close.. but not close enough.

Laptop ಪಕ್ಕದಲ್ಲಿದ್ದ ಮೊಬೈಲ್ ರಿಂಗಣಿಸಿತು. ಮೆಡಿಕಲ್ ಸ್ಟೋರಿನಿಂದ ಕರೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿತ್ತು.

"ಹೇಳಿ"

"ಸಾರ್...ನಿಮ್ಮ ಔಷದಿ pack ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೀವಿ. " ಎಂದ ಅಂಗಡಿಯವ.

"ಸರಿ, ಎಂದಿನಂತೆ ಮನೆಗೆ ಕಳಿಸಿ. "

"ಹುಡುಗ ರಜೆಯಲ್ಲಿದಾನೆ ಸಾರ್. ನೀವೇ ಯಾರಾದ್ರೂ ಬಂದ್ರೆ..."

"ಅಲ್ಲಯ್ಯ..ನಾನು ಬರೋದೇ..?ನೀನೆ ಬಾ..ಐವತ್ತು ರೂಪಾಯಿ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಕೊಡ್ತೀನಿ" ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಕಾಲು ಆಚೆ ಇಡುವ ಶಕ್ತಿ, ತಾಳ್ಮೆ ಎರಡೂ ನನಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

"ಇಲ್ಲ ಸಾರ್. ಬೇಕಿದ್ರೆ ಯಾರ್ನಾದ್ರು ಕಳಿಸಿ. ಅಥವಾ ನೀವೇ ಬನ್ನಿ. ಇವತ್ತು ನನ್ನ ಬಿಟ್ರೆ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾರು ಇಲ್ಲ. " ಎಂದು ಗಡುಸಾಗಿ ಮಾತಾಡಿ ಸ್ಟೋರಿನವ ಫೋನ್ ಇಟ್ಟ.

ಇತ್ತ ರಂಗಪ್ಪ ಮತ್ತೆ ಬರುವುದು ನಾಳೆ ಮುಂಜಾನೆ, ತಿಂಡಿ ಮಾಡುವುದಕ್ಕೆ. ಹೊರಡುವಾಗ ಆತ "ಇದು ಬೆಳಗಿನ ಬಿಪಿ ಮಾತ್ರೆ. ಸಂಜೆ ಹೊತ್ತಿಗೆ ಔಷಧಿ ಕಳಿಸ್ತಾರೆ. ಅದ್ರಿಂದ ನೀವು ತೊಗೋಬೇಕು" ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ ಹೋಗಿದ್ದ. ಒಂದು ಹೊತ್ತು ಬಿಪಿ ಮಾತ್ರೆ ತಪ್ಪಿದರೆ ಪ್ರಾಣವೇನು ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆದರೂ ಜೀವದ ಮೇಲೆ ವ್ಯಾಮೋಹ. ಊಟ ತಪ್ಪಿದರೂ ಮಾತ್ರೆ ತಪ್ಪಬಾರದು ಎಂಬ ನಿರರ್ಥಕ ಶಿಸ್ತು. ಒಂದು ಸಾರಿ ಹೊರಗೆ ಹೋಗಿಬಂದರೆ ಕನಿಷ್ಠ ಒಂದು ದಿನವೆಲ್ಲ ಸುಧಾರಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳಬೇಕಾಗಬಹುದು ಎಂಬುದು ತಿಳಿದಿದ್ದರೂ ಮೆಡಿಕಲ್ ಸ್ಟೋರ್ಗೆ ನಾನೇ ಹೋಗಿಬರಲು ನಿರ್ಧರಿಸಿದೆ.

ಬಾಗಿಲು ತೆರೆದಾಕ್ಷಣ ಮಧ್ಯಾಹ್ನದ ಬಿಸಿಲು ಕಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ರಾಚಿತು. ಮನೆಯಾಚೆ ಕಾಲಿಟ್ಟು ಒಂದು ತಿಂಗಳಾಗಿರಬಹುದು. ಮನೆಯೊಳಗಿನ ಮಂದ ಬೆಳಕಿಗೆ ಕಣ್ಣು, ಮನಸ್ಸು, ಒಗ್ಗಿ ಹೋಗಿತ್ತು. ಹೊರಗಿನ ಬೆಳಕಿನ ಆಡಂಬರಕ್ಕಿಂತ ಮನೆಯ ಮಂದ ಬೆಳಕು ಹೆಚ್ಚಿನ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿ ನೀಡಿತ್ತು. ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ಊರುಗೋಲು ಹಿಡಿದು ರಂಗಪ್ಪನನ್ನು, ಮೆಡಿಕಲ್ ಸ್ಟೋರಿನವನನ್ನು, ನನ್ನ ಅಸಹಾಯಕತೆಯನ್ನು ಶಪಿಸುತ್ತ ಮೆಡಿಕಲ್ ಸ್ಟೋರಿನತ್ತ ನಡೆದೆ.

ಸ್ಟೋರ್ ಇದ್ದದ್ದು ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಅರ್ಧ ಮೈಲಿ ದೂರದಲ್ಲಿ. ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದೂರ ಬಂದು, ಮುಖ್ಯ ರಸ್ತೆ ಹೊಕ್ಕು, ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದೂರ ನಡೆದರೆ ಅಲ್ಲೊಂದು ಕ್ರಾಸಿಂಗ್. ಅದನ್ನು ದಾಟಿದರೆ, ಬಲಕ್ಕೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದೂರದಲ್ಲಿ ಮೆಡಿಕಲ್ ಸ್ಟೋರ್. ಈ ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟುವುದೊಂದೇ, ಈ ಅರ್ಧ ಮೈಲಿ "ಯಾತ್ರೆ"ಯ ತೊಂದರೆ. ಯೌವ್ವನದಲ್ಲಿ ಪರ್ವತಗಳನ್ನು ಸರಾಗವಾಗಿ ಹತ್ತಿದ್ದ ನನಗೆ, ಈಗ ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟುವುದೆಂದರೆ ವಿಪರೀತ ಭಯ. ಜೊತೆಗೆ ಮುಜುಗರ. ಯಾರನ್ನಾದರು ಸಹಾಯ ಬೇಡಬೇಕು. ಅವರು ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಹಿಡಿದು ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟಿಸುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಅವರ ಪರಿಚಯವೇ ಇಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರು ಅವರು ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಮುಟ್ಟಲು ಬಿಡಬೇಕು. ನಂತರ ಕೃತಕ ಕೃತಜ್ಞತೆಯ ನಗು. ಸಹಾಯ ಮಾಡುವವರಿಗೂ ಒಂದು ಸ್ವಾರ್ಥವಿರುತ್ತದೆ ಎಂಬುದು ನನ್ನ ವಾದ. ನಾನು ನನ್ನ ಕೆಲಸಕ್ಕೆ ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟಬೇಕು. ಅವರು, ಅವರ ಆತ್ಮತೃಪ್ತಿಗೆ ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಕೈ ಹಿಡಿದು ದಾಟಿಸುತ್ತಾರೆ. You can assist only those who want your assistance.

ಆ ದಿನ ನನ್ನನ್ನು ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟಿಸಿದ್ದು ಒಬ್ಬ ಮಧ್ಯ ವಯಸ್ಕ. ನನ್ನ ಮಗ ಕಿಶೋರನಿಗೂ ಇವನಷ್ಟೆ ವಯಸ್ಸಿರಬಹುದು. ಆದರೆ ಅವನ ಮುಖ ಈತನಿಗಿಂತ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಕಳೆಯಾಗಿದೆ. Ph.D ಮಾಡಿರುವವನ ಕಳೆ. ದೇಶಗಳನ್ನು ಸುತ್ತಿ, ಕೋಶವನ್ನು ಓದಿದ ಬುದ್ಧಿಜೀವಿಯ ಕಳೆ . ವಾರಕ್ಕೊಂದು ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿ ಮಗನ ಜವಾಬ್ದಾರಿಯನ್ನು ನಿಷ್ಠೆಯಿಂದ ನಿಭಾಯಿಸುತ್ತಿರುವವನ ಕಳೆ. ದೇಶವನ್ನು ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಪರದೇಶಿಯಾಗಿ ಸಂಸ್ಕೃತಿ-ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯಗಳನ್ನು ಮೆರೆಯುತ್ತಿರುವವನ ಕಳೆ.

ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟಿಸಿದ ಪುಣ್ಯಾತ್ಮ ಕಣ್ಣೆದುರಿಂದ, ಮನಸ್ಸಿನಿಂದ ಮರೆಯಾದ. ಆದರೆ ಮಗನ ಮುಖ ಮಾತ್ರ ಕಣ್ಣ ಮುಂದೆಯೇ ನಿಂತಿತ್ತು. ಮೈ ಮನಸ್ಸುಗಳನ್ನು ಕೊಡವಿಕೊಂಡು ಮೆಡಿಕಲ್ ಸ್ಟೋರ್ ಕಡೆಗೆ ನಡೆದೆ.

ಸ್ಟೋರಿನಿಂದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದೂರದಲ್ಲಿರುವಾಗಲೇ ಅಂಗಡಿಯವ ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಗುರುತು ಹಿಡಿದ. ಮೊದಲೇ ಔಷಧಿಗಳನ್ನು pack ಮಾಡಿದ್ಧ. ನಾನು ಪ್ಯಾಂಟ್ ಜೇಬಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಹಣ ಇರುವುದು ಖಾತ್ರಿ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಂಡೆ. ಕಿಶೋರ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಬಾರಿ Wallet ಉಪಯೋಗಿಸಲು ಒತ್ತಾಯ ಮಾಡಿ ಸೋತಿದ್ದ. ಸಂಪಾದನೆ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದ ಅಲ್ಪ-ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹಣವನ್ನು ಜೋಪಾನ ಮಾಡಲು ಮತ್ತೆ ಖರ್ಚು ಮಾಡಿ Wallet ಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ಪ್ರಮೇಯವೇನು ಇಲ್ಲವೆಂಬುದು ನನ್ನ ವಾದ. ಹಣ ಕಷ್ಟಪಟ್ಟು ಸಂಪಾದಿಸಿದ್ದರೆ ಅದನ್ನು ಜೋಪಾನ ಮಾಡುವ ಶಿಸ್ತು ತಾನಾಗಿಯೇ ಬರುತ್ತದೆ.

"ತಪ್ಪು ತಿಳಿಬೇಡಿ ಸಾರ್.. ಇವತ್ತು ಅಂಗಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ನನ್ನ ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ ಯಾರು ಇಲ್ಲ.." ಎಂದ ಅಂಗಡಿಯವ, ಔಷಧಿ ಪ್ಯಾಕೇಜ್ ಕೊಡುತ್ತ.

"ಪರವಾಗಿಲ್ಲ ಬಿಡಿ" ಎಂದೇ ನಾನು, ದುಡ್ಡು ಎಣಿಸುತ್ತ. ಅಂಗಡಿಯವನಿಗೆ ದುಡ್ಡು ಕೊಟ್ಟು ಹೊರಟೆ.

"Thank You Sir. Sorry for the inconvenience" ಎಂಬ ಅವನ ಮಾತಿಗೆ ಸ್ಪಂದಿಸುವ ಅವಶ್ಯಕತೆಯೇನು ಕಾಣಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಮೆಡಿಕಲ್ ಸ್ಟೋರಿಗೆ ಬರುವಾಗ ನನ್ನ ಕಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ಬಿದ್ದಿರಲೇ ಇಲ್ಲ. ಅಥವಾ ನಾನು ಗಮನಿಸಿಯೇ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಈಗ ನನ್ನ ಕಣ್ಮುಂದೆಯೇ ನಿಂತಿತ್ತು - ಆ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು. ನಿಟ್ಟುಸಿರು ಬಿಡುತ್ತ ಅದರ ಮುಂದೆ ನಿಂತೆ. ಸಧ್ಯದಲ್ಲೇ ಬಣ್ಣ ಬಳಿದಿರಬೇಕು. ಬಿಸಿಲಿಗೆ ಹೊಳೆಯುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಎಡಬದಿಯಲ್ಲಿನ ಆನೆಯ ಕೆತ್ತನೆ; ಬಲಬದಿಯಲ್ಲಿನ ಸಿಂಹದ ಕೆತ್ತನೆ ಈಗಲೂ ಜೀವಂತವಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಒರಗುವ ಕಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಎಲೆಗಳ ಕೆತ್ತನೆ. ಸುಮಾರು ನೂರು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ನಂತರವೂ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಕಾಲುಗಳು ಬಲಿಷ್ಠವಾಗಿದ್ದವು. ಮಧ್ಯಾಹ್ನದ ಬಿಸಿಲಿನ ತಾಪದೊಂದಿಗೆ ಹುದುಗಿದ್ದ ನೆನಪುಗಳ ಒತ್ತಡ ನನ್ನ ಶಕ್ತಿಯನ್ನು ಕಸಿಯುತ್ತಿತು. ಎಷ್ಟೋ ವರ್ಷಗಳ ನಂತರ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕುಳಿತೆ.

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" ಊಟ ಮಾಡು ಕೃಷ್ಣ" ಅಮ್ಮ ನನ್ನ ಹಿಂದೆ ಅನ್ನದ ಪಾತ್ರೆ ಹಿಡಿದು ಓಡಿಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. ಇಡೀ ಬಡಾವಣೆಯಲ್ಲಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಬಹುಶಃ ನಾಲ್ಕು ಮನೆ. ಮನೆ ಮುಂದೆ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಮೈದಾನ. ಮೈದಾನದ ಒಂದು ಬದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು. ಅದರ ಮೇಲಿನ ಆನೆ ಸಿಂಹಗಳ ಕೆತ್ತನೆಯೆಂದರೆ ಏನೋ ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯ ಆಕರ್ಷಣೆ. ನಿಜವಾದ ಆನೆ ಸಿಂಹ ನೋಡಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿದ್ದ ಮರದ ಬೊಂಬೆಗಳೊಂದಿಗೆ ಆಟವಾಡಿ ಬೇಸರವಾಗಿತ್ತು. ನಾಲ್ಕು ವರ್ಷದ ನನಗೆ ಮನೆಯಿಂದ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನವರೆಗು ಓಡುವುದೇ ಒಂದು ಆಟವಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಅದರ ಮೇಲೆ ಹತ್ತಿ ಮೈದಾನದಲ್ಲಿ ಆಗತಾನೇ ನೆಟ್ಟಿದ್ದ ಸ್ವತಂತ್ರ ಭಾರತದ ಬಾವುಟ ನೋಡುವುದು ಮತ್ತೊಂದು ಖುಷಿ. ಊಹೂ...ನಾಲ್ಕು ವರ್ಷದ ನನಗೆ ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರದ ಪರಿಕಲ್ಪನೆಯಿತ್ತೆಂದಲ್ಲ. ಊಟ ಮಾಡಿಸುತ್ತ ಅಮ್ಮ ಬಾವುಟದಲ್ಲಿನ ಬಣ್ಣಗಳ ಹೆಸರು ಹೇಳಿಕೊಡುತಿದ್ದಳು. "ಕೇಸರಿ, ಬಿಳಿ, ಹಸಿರು" ಮನದಟ್ಟಾಗುವುದರಲ್ಲಿ ಹುಳಿಯನ್ನ ಮುಗಿದು ಮೊಸರನ್ನ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಆ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ಸರಿಯಾಗಿ ಎಲ್ಲಿಂದಲೋ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಕಾಗೆ. ಆ ವಯಸ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲೂ ಊಟದ ಕಡೆಯ ತುತ್ತು ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ಕೊಡಬೇಕೆಂದು ಹಠ ಹಿಡಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ನನ್ನ ಹಠ ತಾಳಲಾರದೆ ಅಮ್ಮ ಕಡೆಯ ತುತ್ತು ಕಾಗೆಗೆ ಹಾಕುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು. "ಬಳಿದು ಭಾಗ್ಯವಂತನಾಗು" ಎಂದು ಅಮ್ಮ ಯಾರಿಗೆ ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು ಎಂದು ನೆನಪಾಗುತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ. ಆ ಭಾಗ್ಯ...ಆ ಕಾಗೆಯದ್ದೇ ತಾನೇ?

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"ಸಾ...ಧಿಂ..ಚನೇ ..." ಎಂದು ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕುಳಿತು ಸಂಗೀತಾಭ್ಯಾಸ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದೆ. ವಯಸ್ಸು ಹದಿನೇಳಿರಬೇಕು. ಸುಮಾರು ಹತ್ತು ವರ್ಷಗಳಿಂದ ನರಸಿಂಹ ಶಾಸ್ತ್ರಿಗಳ ಬಳಿ ಶಾಸ್ತ್ರೀಯ ಸಂಗೀತ ಕಲಿಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಅಟ್ಟತಾಳ ವರ್ಣಗಳನ್ನು ಒಂದು ಸ್ವರವು ಮರೆಯದಂತೆ ಒಪ್ಪಿಸಿದ ಮೇಲೆ ಶಾಸ್ತ್ರಿಗಳು ಪಂಚರತ್ನ ಕೃತಿಗಳ ಪಾಠ ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದ್ದು.

ಮೇಘ "ಸಾಧಿಂಚನೆ.." ಕಲಿಯಲು ಶುರುಮಾಡುವುದರೊಳಗೆ ನಾನು ಅದೇ ಹಂತ ತಲುಪಬೇಕು ಎಂದು ಮೂರು ತಿಂಗಳ ಕಾಲ ಶ್ರಮ ಪಟ್ಟಿದ್ದೆ. ಅವಳೊಂದಿಗೆ ಮಾತಾಡುವಷ್ಟು ಧೈರ್ಯ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವಳ ಸಮಕ್ಕೆ ಪಾಠ ಕಲಿತರೆ ಅವಳು ಹಾಡುವ ಪಾಠಕ್ಕೆ ನಾನೂ ದನಿಗೂಡಿಸಬಹುದು- ಎಂಬ ಸಣ್ಣದಾದ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಆಸೆ. ಹಾಡಿನ ಜೊತೆ ದನಿಗೂಡಿಸುತ್ತ, ನಂತರ ಸಣ್ಣದಾಗಿ ನಕ್ಕು, ಹೆಸರು ಗೊತ್ತಿದ್ದರೂ ಪರಿಚಯ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಂಡು, ಸಂಗೀತದ ಬಗೆಗಿನ ಸಂದೇಹಗಳನ್ನು ಕೇಳುತ್ತ ಸಲುಗೆ ಬೆಳೆಸಿ....ಸರ್ಕಾರದ ಪಂಚವಾರ್ಷಿಕ ಯೋಜನೆಗಳಷ್ಟೇ ಮಹತ್ತರವಾಗಿತ್ತು ನನ್ನ ಯೋಜನೆ ಕೂಡ.

ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು ಈಗ ಮೈದಾನದಲ್ಲಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಮೈದಾನದ ಸುತ್ತ ಬಡಾವಣೆ ದೊಡ್ಡದಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಮೈದಾನದ ಒಳಗಿನಿಂದ ರಸ್ತೆಗಳನ್ನು ಕೊರೆದಿದ್ದರು. ಯಾರೋ ಪುಣ್ಯಾತ್ಮ engineer ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಹತ್ತಿರ ರಸ್ತೆ ಸಾಗದಂತೆ ನೋಡಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದ. ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು ಇನ್ನು ಜೀವಂತವಾಗಿತ್ತು.

ಮೇಘ ಸಂಗೀತ ಪಾಠ ಮುಗಿಸಿ ಮನೆಗೆ ಹೋಗುವಾಗ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚನ್ನು ಹಾದುಹೋಗಬೇಕೆಂಬುದು ನನಗೆ ತಿಳಿದಿತ್ತು. ಪ್ರತಿ ಗುರುವಾರ ಅವಳು ಬರುವ ಅಂದಾಜು ಹೊತ್ತಿಗೆ ಅಲ್ಲೇ ಕೂತು ಅಭ್ಯಾಸ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಅವಳು ದೂರದಲ್ಲಿ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗ ಇನ್ನು ಪಕ್ವವಾಗಬೇಕಿದ್ದ ಸಂಗೀತ ಏರು ಪೇರಾಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದುದೇ ಹೆಚ್ಚು. ಆದರೂ ಮನಸ್ಸು "ನನ್ನ ತಪ್ಪನ್ನು ಸರಿ ಮಾಡಲಾದರೂ ಆಕೆ ಒಂದು ಕ್ಷಣ ನಿಲ್ಲಬಾರದೇ" ಎಂದು ಚಡಪಡಿಸುತ್ತಿತ್ತು.

ಆ ದಿನ ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಏನನ್ನಿಸಿತೋ. ನನಗಂತೂ ಯಾವ ತಪ್ಪು ಮಾಡಿದ ನೆನಪಿಲ್ಲ. ನಾನು ಕಣ್ಮುಚ್ಚಿ ಮೈಮರೆತು ಹಾಡುವಾಗ ನನ್ನ ದನಿಯ ಜೊತೆ ಆಕೆಯ ದನಿಯೂ ಸೇರಿತು. ನರಸಿಂಹ ಶಾಸ್ತ್ರಿಗಳ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾತ್ರ ಆಕೆಯ ದನಿಯನ್ನು ಕೇಳಿದ್ದೆ, ನಾಲ್ಕು ಗೋಡೆಗಳ ಮಧ್ಯೆ. ತೆರೆದ ಬಯಲಲ್ಲಿ ಆಕೆಯ ಧ್ವನಿ ಮತ್ತೂ ಇಂಪಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಸಣ್ಣದಾಗಿ ನಗುತ್ತ "ಸಾ...ಧಿಂ..ಚನೇ..." ಎಂದು ಮೇಘ ನನ್ನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಹಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳು! ಅವಳನ್ನೇ ನೋಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ನಾನು ಪಲ್ಲವಿಯ ನಂತರ ಹಾಡು ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಲೇಬೇಕಾಯಿತು. ಹಾಡು ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಿದ ತಕ್ಷಣ ಮೇಘ ಸಣ್ಣ ಮುಗುಳ್ನಗೆ ನಕ್ಕು ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದ ನಡೆದು ಹೋದಳು. ಬಹುಶಃ ಹಾಡು ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸದಿದ್ದರೆ.....ಇನ್ನು ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹೊತ್ತು ನಿಲ್ಲುತ್ತಿದ್ದಳೇನೋ?

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ಅಪ್ಪ-ನಾನು ಒಟ್ಟಾಗಿ ಆ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕುಳಿತು ಮೂವತ್ತು ವರ್ಷಗಳಾಗಿದ್ದವು. ಮಿಡ್ಲ್ ಸ್ಕೂಲ್ನಲ್ಲಿ ಅಮ್ಮ ನನ್ನ ತಮ್ಮನನ್ನು ಸಂಭಾಳಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗ ನನ್ನ ಓದಿಗೆ ತೊಂದರೆಯಾಗಬಾರದೆಂದು ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಬೀದಿ ದೀಪದ ಬೆಳಕಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅಪ್ಪನ ಮನೆಪಾಠ. English, ಗಣಿತ, ಕನ್ನಡ ಎಲ್ಲವು. ಹದಿಮೂರರ ಮಗ್ಗಿ ಮರೆತು ಏಟು ತಿಂದದ್ದು ಅಲ್ಲೇ. ಬಂಗಾಳದ ರಾಜಧಾನಿ ನೆನಪಾಗದೆ ಭಯದಿಂದ ಬೆಂಚಿನಿಂದ ಬಿದ್ದು ಮಂಡಿ ಗಾಯವಾದದ್ದೂ ಅಲ್ಲೇ.

ಮೂವತ್ತು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ನಂತರ "ಬಾ...ಆ ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಕೂತು ಬರೋಣ" ಎಂದು ಅಪ್ಪ ಕರೆದರು. He was clearly feeling nostalgic that evening. ಆ ವೇಳೆಗೆ ಬಡಾವಣೆ ಮತ್ತೂ ಬೆಳೆದಿತ್ತು. ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು ಈಗ ಫುಟ್ಪಾತ್ ಮೇಲೆ. ಯಾರೋ ಕಳೆದ ವರ್ಷ ಬಣ್ಣ ಬಳಿದಿದ್ದರು. ಆನೆ ಸಿಂಹಗಳ ಕೆತ್ತನೆ ಕಂಡಾಗ ಬಾಲ್ಯದ ನೆನಪುಗಳು ಮರುಕಳಿಸಿದವು.

ಇಬ್ಬರೂ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕೂತೆವು. ನಾನು ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದುದು ಬಾಂಬೆಯಲ್ಲಿ. ವೈಶಾಲಿಯನ್ನು ಮದುವೆಯಾಗಿ ಕಿಶೋರ ಹುಟ್ಟಿದ್ದ. ಅಪ್ಪ-ಅಮ್ಮ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಅಕ್ಷಯ್ ಜೊತೆ. ತಿಂಗಳಿಗೆರಡು ಪತ್ರ. ಒಂದು ಟ್ರಂಕ್ ಕಾಲ್. ಆರು ತಿಂಗಳಿಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಹತ್ತು ದಿನದ ಭೇಟಿ. ಸಹಜವಾಗಿ ನನಗೂ ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನಿಗೂ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಅಂತರ ಬೆಳೆದಿತ್ತು.

"ಕಿಶೋರ ಚೂಟಿಯಾಗಿದಾನೆ...Smart Boy " ಎಂದರು ಅಪ್ಪ.

"ಹೌದಪ್ಪ...ಐದು ವರ್ಷದ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಅವನು ಬುದ್ಧಿವಂತ" ಎಂದೆ. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಹೊತ್ತು ಇಬ್ಬರು ಮೌನವಾಗಿ ಕುಳಿತಿದ್ದೆವು.

"ಬಾಂಬೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹಣಕ್ಕೇನು ತೊಂದರೆ ಇಲ್ಲ ತಾನೇ?" ಅಪ್ಪ ಕೇಳಿದರು. ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಸ್ವಾಭಿಮಾನಿಯಾದ ನನಗೆ, ಇಂತಹ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆಗಳೆಂದರೆ ಮುಜುಗರ. ಆದರೂ, ಅದು ಅಪ್ಪನ ಕಾಳಜಿಯಿಂದ ಮೂಡಿದ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆ.

"ಬಾಡಿಗೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಜಾಸ್ತಿ. ಈ ವರ್ಷದ ಕೊನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ Promotion ಬಂದ್ರೆ.. ಅವನ ಸ್ಕೂಲ್ ಖರ್ಚು ಕಳೆಯುತ್ತೆ. " ಎಂದೆ.

"Very Good" ಮತ್ತೆ ಮೌನ. ಕೆಲಹೊತ್ತಿನ ನಂತರ ಅವರೇ "ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಸಮಯ ಹೇಗೆ ಕಳೀತೀರ?" ಕೇಳಿದರು.

"ಅಲ್ಲೇನು.. ಸೋಮವಾರದಿಂದ ಶುಕ್ರವಾರದವರೆಗೆ ಕತ್ತೆ ಥರ ದುಡಿಯೋದು. ಶನಿವಾರ ವೈಶಾಲಿಗೆ ಸಹಾಯ. ಭಾನುವಾರ.... I am Kishore's Father....ಅವನು ಹೇಳಿದ ಹಾಗೆ ಕುಣಿಬೇಕು. ಆರು ತಿಂಗಳು ಕಳೆಯೋದೆ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗೊಲ್ಲ.." ಎಂದು ಸಣ್ಣದಾಗಿ ನಗುತ್ತ ಹೇಳಿದೆ.

"ಹೂ.. ಭಲೆ" ಅಪ್ಪ ತಲೆದೂಗಿದರು. ಮತ್ತೆ ಮೌನ. ಬೀದಿ ದೀಪದ ಬೆಳಕಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅವರ ಮನಸ್ಸಿನ ಚಡಪಡಿಕೆ ಅವರ ಮುಖದ ಮೇಲೆ ಹಾದುಹೋಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದುದನ್ನು ಗಮನಿಸಿದೆ.

ನಮ್ಮಿಬ್ಬರ ನಡುವೆ ಆಳವಾದ ಸಂಭಾಷಣೆ, ಮಾತುಕತೆಗಳು ಬಹಳ ಕಡಿಮೆ. ಅಮ್ಮನ ಬಳಿ ಸಲೀಸಾಗಿ ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನು ಮಾತನಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ನಾನು ಅಪ್ಪನ ಬಳಿ ವಿಷಯಗಳನ್ನು ಹಂಚಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅವರು ಅಷ್ಟೇ, ನನ್ನೊಂದಿಗೆ ತಮಾಷೆಯೇ ಹೆಚ್ಚು - ಚಿಕ್ಕಂದಿನಿಂದಲೂ. ಇಂದು ಏನೋ ಮುಖ್ಯವಾದ ವಿಷಯ ಹೇಳಲು/ಕೇಳಲು ತವಕಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ.

"ಕೃಷ್ಣ...ನೀನು, ವೈಶಾಲಿ, ಕಿಶೋರ..ಎಲ್ಲ ಇಲ್ಲೇ ಬಂದು ಯಾಕಿರಬಾರದು?" ಎಂದು ಅಪ್ಪ ಆಸೆ ಅಸಹಾಯಕತೆ ಬೆರೆತ ಧ್ವನಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೇಳಿದರು. ಆ ಕ್ಷಣದಲ್ಲಿ ಅವರ ವಯಸ್ಸು ಎದ್ದು ಕಾಣುತಿತ್ತು. ತಲೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಈಗ ಹೇರಳವಾದ ಬಿಳಿ ಕೂದಲು. ಅಲ್ಲಲ್ಲಿ ಒಳ ಹೋಗಿದ್ದ ಕೆನ್ನೆ, ಕ್ಷೀಣಿಸಿದ್ದ ಕಣ್ಣುಗಳಲ್ಲಿನ ಚೈತನ್ಯ - ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನು ಗಮನಿಸಿದೆ.

ಆದರೂ ಮತ್ತೊಂದೆಡೆ ಕೆಲಸದ ಒತ್ತಡ. ಮಹತ್ವಾಕಾಂಕ್ಷೆ. ಆರು ವರ್ಷ ಬಾಂಬೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲಸ ಮಾಡಿದರೆ ಉನ್ನತ ಹುದ್ದೆ ತಲುಪುವ ಅವಕಾಶ. ಅಪ್ಪ, ಅಮ್ಮ, ವೈಶಾಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ಹೆಮ್ಮೆ. ಕಿಶೋರನಿಗೆ ಒಳ್ಳೆಯ ಭವಿಷ್ಯ. ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನನ್ನು ನೋಡಲು ಆರು ತಿಂಗಳ ಬದಲು ಮೂರು ತಿಂಗಳಿಗೊಮ್ಮೆ ಬಂದರಾಯಿತು. ವಾರಕ್ಕೊಂದು ಟ್ರಂಕ್ ಕಾಲ್ ಮಾಡಿದರಾಯಿತು.

ಇವೆಲ್ಲ ಸಮಜಾಯಿಷಿ ನೀಡಿ ಅಪ್ಪನ ಆಸೆಯನ್ನು ಕೆಲ ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಕಾಲ ಮುಂದೂಡಿಸಿದೆ. ರಜೆ ಮುಗಿಸಿ ಬಾಂಬೆ ತಲುಪಿದೆ. ಮಾತಿನಂತೆ ವಾರಕ್ಕೊಂದು ಟ್ರಂಕ್ ಕಾಲ್ ಶುರುವಾಯಿತು. ಎರಡು ಟ್ರಂಕ್ ಕಾಲ್ ಮಾಡಿದೆ. ಮೂರನೇ ಟ್ರಂಕ್ ಕಾಲ್ ಅವಶ್ಯಕತೆ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

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"ಕಿಶೋರ-ಶ್ರುತಿ ಹೊರಡ್ತಾಇದಾರೆ ಕಣೋ " ರಸ್ತೆಯ ಆ ಬದಿಯಿಂದ ಕೂಗಿದ ಅಕ್ಷಯ್. ವೈಶಾಲಿ ನಾನು ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕೂತಿದ್ದೆವು. ಘಂಟೆ ರಾತ್ರಿ ಒಂಭತ್ತು ಮೀರಿತ್ತು.

"ಟ್ಯಾಕ್ಸಿ ಬಂತು ಅನಿಸುತ್ತೆ. ಬನ್ನಿ, ಅವರಿಬ್ರನ್ನ ಕಳಿಸೋಣ" ಎಂದಳು ವೈಶಾಲಿ, ಅಪೇಕ್ಷೆಯಿಂದ. ನನ್ನ ಕೋಪ ತಣ್ಣಗಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

"ಅವನಿಗೆ ನನ್ನ ಆಶೀರ್ವಾದದ ಅವಶ್ಯಕತೆ ಇದ್ದ ಹಾಗಿಲ್ಲ. ಕ್ರಿಶ್ಚಿಯನ್ನ ಮದುವೆಯಾದ ಮೇಲೆ...."ಮುಂದೆ ಏನೂ ಮಾತಾಡಲು ತೋಚಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಒಂದು ವಾರದ ಹಿಂದೆ ನಾನೇ ನಿಂತು ಇಬ್ಬರಿಗೂ ಮದುವೆ ಮಾಡಿಸಿದ್ದು ನಿಜ. ಅವನ ಪ್ರೀತಿಗೆ, ಮದುವೆಗೆ, ವೈಶಾಲಿ, ಅಕ್ಷಯ್ನ ಕುಟುಂಬ ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಬೆಂಬಲ ನೀಡಿದ್ದರಿಂದ ನನಗೆ ಬೇರೆ ವಿಧಿಯಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಆದರೆ ಅದರೊಂದಿಗೆ ರಾಜಿಯಾಗುವ ಮನಸ್ಥಿತಿ ನನಗಿನ್ನೂ ಬಂದಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

"ಅವಳಿಗೇನು ಕಡಿಮೆಯಾಗಿದೆ..? ಲಕ್ಷಣವಾಗಿದ್ದಾಳೆ. ಅಮ್ಮ ಹಿಂದು. ಅಪ್ಪ ಕ್ರಿಶ್ಚಿಯನ್. ತಪ್ಪೇನು? ನಮ್ಮ ಸಂಸ್ಕಾರವು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಬರುತ್ತೆ. ಕ್ರಮೇಣವಾಗಿ ಹೇಳಿಕೊಟ್ರಾಯಿತು." ಎಂದು ವೈಶಾಲಿ ನಿಧಾನವಾಗಿ ತಿಳಿ ಹೇಳಿದಳು. ಈ ವಿಷಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಅವಳು ಹೊಂದಿಕೊಂಡ ರೀತಿ, ವೇಗ ಎರಡೂ ಆಶ್ಚರ್ಯಕರವಾಗಿತ್ತು. ಒಬ್ಬನೇ ಮಗನ ಮದುವೆಯ ಸಂಭ್ರಮದಲ್ಲಿ ಸಂಪೂರ್ಣವಾಗಿ ಭಾಗಿಯಾಗಿದ್ದಳು. ಆ ವಿಷಯದಲ್ಲಿ ನಾನು ಹಿಂದೆ ಉಳಿದೆ ಎಂಬ ನಾಚಿಕೆ ನನ್ನದಾಗಿತ್ತು.

"ಆದರೆ...ಆದರೆ..ಮದುವೆಗೆ ಮುಂಚೆ ಪ್ರೀತಿ ಮಾಡುವ ಅವಶ್ಯಕತೆ ಏನಿತ್ತು ಅವನಿಗೆ..?" ಎಂದು ವಾದಿಸಿದೆ.

"ಆಹಾ..ಇದೆಂಥ ವಾದ ನಿಮ್ಮದು? ನೀವು ಹದಿನೇಳನೆ ವಯಸ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲೇ ಮೇಘ ಅನ್ನೋಳನ್ನ ಪ್ರೀತಿಸಿದ್ದು?" ಎಂದು ವೈಶಾಲಿ ಮರುಪ್ರಶ್ನೆ ಮಾಡಿದಳು. ಅವಳ ತುಟಿಯಂಚಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಮೂದಲಿಸುವ ತುಂಟ ನಗು. ಮೂವತ್ತು ವರ್ಷ ಒಟ್ಟಾಗಿ ಕಳೆದಿದ್ದ ನಮ್ಮ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ಯಾವ ರಹಸ್ಯವೂ ಇರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಮೇಘಾಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ನಾನೇ ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಬಾರಿ ಆಕೆಗೆ ಹೇಳಿದ್ದೆ. ಅವಳ ನಗುವನ್ನು ಕಂಡು ಮನಸ್ಸು ಎಷ್ಟೋ ಹಗುರವಾಯಿತು. ಆದರೂ ಕೋಪವನ್ನು ಬಿಟ್ಟುಕೊಡಬಾರದೆಂಬ ಹಠ.

ಮತ್ತೊಂದು ವಾದ ಹುಡುಕುವುದರೊಳಗೆ ಟ್ಯಾಕ್ಸಿಯೊಂದು ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಬಳಿ ಬಂದು ನಿಂತಿತು. ಕಿಶೋರ ಶ್ರುತಿ ಕಾರಿನಿಂದ ಇಳಿದರು. ಇಬ್ಬರ ಮುಖದಲ್ಲು ಹೊಸ ಜೀವನದ ಉತ್ಸಾಹ.

"You know Shruthi...ಈ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚು ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಕಡಿಮೆ ನಮ್ಮ ಕುಟುಂಬದ ಆಸ್ತಿ. It's almost family heirloom. ನಾವೆಲ್ಲರು ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬೆಳೆಯೋದ್ರ ಜೊತೆ ಇಲ್ಲೂ ಬೆಳೆದ್ವಿ" ಎಂದು ಕಿಶೋರ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚನ್ನು ಶ್ರುತಿಗೆ ಪರಿಚಯ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಟ್ಟ.

"ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮ ನೀವು ಇಲ್ಲೇ ಇದ್ದದ್ದು ಒಳ್ಳೇದೇ ಆಯಿತು. ಫ್ಲೈಟ್ಗೆ ಹೊತ್ತಾಯಿತು. ಆಶೀರ್ವಾದ ಮಾಡಿ" ಎಂದು ಇಬ್ಬರೂ ನಮಗೆ ನಮಸ್ಕರಿಸಿದರು. ತುಂಬು ಮನಿಸ್ಸಿನಿಂದಲೇ ಹಾರೈಸಿದರೂ ನಾನು ಅದನ್ನು ತೋರಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳಲಿಲ್ಲ. "ಒಳ್ಳೇದಾಗ್ಲಿ.." ಎಂದೆ. ವೈಶಾಲಿ ಶ್ರುತಿಯನ್ನು ತಬ್ಬಿ ಬೀಳ್ಕೊಟ್ಟಳು. ಇಬ್ಬರೂ ಟ್ಯಾಕ್ಸಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಳಿತರು. ನಾನು ತಡೆಯಲಾರದೆ "ಆಗಾಗ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡು ಕಿಶೋರ್" ಎಂದೆ. ವೈಶಾಲಿ ನನ್ನನೇ ನೋಡುತ್ತಿರುವುದು ನನಗೆ ಗೊತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಟ್ಯಾಕ್ಸಿ ಹೊರಟು ಕಣ್ಮರೆಯಾಯಿತು. ನಾನು ವೈಶಾಲಿ ಮತ್ತೆ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕುಳಿತೆವು.

"ಸಾ...ಧಿಂ..ಚನೇ ..." ಎಂದು ವೈಶಾಲಿ ತುಂಟತನದಿಂದ ಗುನುಗಿದಳು. ನಾನೂ ನನ್ನ ದನಿ ಸೇರಿಸಿದೆ...

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ಕಿಶೋರನ ಮದುವೆಯಾದ ಮೂರು ವರ್ಷಕ್ಕೆ ವೈಶಾಲಿ ಕೊನೆಯುಸಿರೆಳೆದಳು. ಸಹಜವಾದ ಜ್ವರಕ್ಕೆ ಆಸ್ಪತ್ರೆ ಸೇರಿದ ಅವಳ ಆರೋಗ್ಯ ವಿಚಿತ್ರವಾಗಿ ಕುಸಿದು ಹದಿನೈದು ದಿನದಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲವು ಮುಗಿದುಹೋಯಿತು. ಲಂಡನ್ನಲ್ಲಿದ್ದ ಕಿಶೋರ್ ಬರುವುದರೊಳಗೆ ಅವಳ ದೇಹವನ್ನು ಸುಟ್ಟಾಗಿತ್ತು. "ಕಿಶೋರ್ ಬರ್ತಿದಾನೆ ತಾನೇ?"ಎಂದು ಕೇಳಿ ಕಣ್ಮುಚ್ಚಿದ್ದ ವೈಶಾಲಿ ಕಣ್ಣು ತೆರೆಯಲೇ ಇಲ್ಲ.

ಆಗ ಕಿಶೋರನಿಗು ನನಗು ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಮಾತಾಗಲೇ ಇಲ್ಲ. ಒಬ್ಬರ ಮೇಲೊಬ್ಬರಿಗೆ ನಿರರ್ಥಕವಾದ ಕೋಪ. ಇನ್ನು ಬೇಗ ಹೇಳಬೇಕಾಗಿತ್ತು ಎಂದು ಅವನು. ಅಷ್ಟು ಕಾಳಜಿಯಿದ್ದರೆ ಇದ್ದು ನೋಡಿಕೊಳ್ಳಬೇಕಾಗಿತ್ತು ಎಂದು ನಾನು. ಅಕ್ಷಯ್ ಸೇತುವೆಯಂತೆ ನಮ್ಮಿಬ್ಬರ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ನಿಂತು ಎಲ್ಲ ಕೆಲಸಗಳಿಗೂ ನೆರವಾದ.

ಮೂರು ವಾರ ಕಳೆದ ಮೇಲೆ ಕಿಶೋರ್ ಶ್ರುತಿ ಲಂಡನ್ನಿಗೆ ವಾಪಸ್ಸಾದರು. ಇನ್ನಾರು ತಿಂಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಮಗುವೊಂದನ್ನು ನಿರೀಕ್ಷಿಸುತ್ತಿರುವ ಸುದ್ದಿಯನ್ನು ಹೊರಡುವಾಗ ಕಿಶೋರ್ ಹೇಳಿದ. ಲಂಡನ್ನಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಕೆಲಕಾಲ ಬಂದಿರಲು ಒತ್ತಾಯ ಮಾಡಿದ.

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ಮಧ್ಯಾಹ್ನದ ಬಿಸಿಲು ಕಡಿಮೆಯಾಗಿ ಸಂಜೆಯೆಡೆಗೆ ತಿರುಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಟ್ರಾಫಿಕ್ ಗಿಜಿಗಿಜಿ ಮತ್ತೆ ಕೇಳಲು ಶುರುವಾಯಿತು. ಮತ್ತದೇ ಎಂಭತ್ತರ ಮೈಭಾರ. ಆದರೆ ಯಾವುದೋ ಲೋಕ ವಿಹರಿಸಿ ಬಂದಷ್ಟು ಹಗುರವಾಗಿತ್ತು ಮನಸ್ಸು. ಏನೋ ನೆಮ್ಮದಿ.

ದೂರದಲ್ಲಿ ರಂಗಪ್ಪ ನಡೆದು ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಮುಖದಲ್ಲಿ ಗಾಬರಿ. ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಬಳಿ ಬಂದವನೆ

"ಮನೆಗೆ ಹೋದ್ರೆ ಬೀಗ ಹಾಕಿತ್ತು. ಹುಡುಕಿ ಹುಡುಕಿ ಸಾಕಾಯಿತು. ಸಧ್ಯ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿದ್ರಲ್ಲ. ನಡೀರಿ." ಎಂದು ಒಂದು ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಹಿಡಿದೆಬ್ಬಿಸಿ ಮತ್ತೊಂದರಲ್ಲಿ ಔಷಧಿಯ ಪ್ಯಾಕೇಜ್ ತೆಗೆದುಕೊಂಡ.

ಮತ್ತೆ ರಸ್ತೆ ಕ್ರಾಸ್ ಮಾಡಬೇಕಿತ್ತು. ರಂಗಪ್ಪನೇ ಕೈ ಹಿಡಿದು ದಾಟಿಸಿದ. ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟುವಾಗ ಅವನ ಮುಖವನ್ನು ನೋಡಿದರೆ ಅಲ್ಲೂ ಕಿಶೋರನ ಮುಖವೇ ಕಂಡಿತು.

ರಸ್ತೆ ದಾಟಿದ್ದಾಯಿತು. "ರಂಗಪ್ಪ....ಇವತ್ತು ಯಾಕೋ ಕಿಶೋರ ಬಹಳ ನೆನಪಾಗ್ತಿದಾನೆ ಕಣಪ್ಪ.. " ಎಂದೆ.

"ಓಹೋ ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ಇರ್ಬೇಕು...ಅವ್ರೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ರು" ರಂಗಪ್ಪ ಹೇಳಿದ. ನನಗೆ ಆಶ್ಚರ್ಯವಾಯಿತು. ಕಿಶೋರ್ ಸಾಮಾನ್ಯವಾಗಿ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದದ್ದು ಶನಿವಾರ. ಈ ಸರಿ ಬುಧವಾರವೇ ಯಾಕೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದ?

"ಏನಂತೆ?" ಕೇಳಿದೆ.

"ಮನೆಗೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ರಂತೆ. ನಿಮ್ಮ ಮೊಬೈಲಿಗೂ. ಎರಡು ಕಡೆ ಎತ್ತ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ ಅಂತ ಗಾಬರಿ ಇಂದ ನನಗೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದ್ರು."

ನಾನು ಮೊಬೈಲ್ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಮರೆತು ಬಂದಿದ್ದೆ. "ಸರಿ... ಏನಂತೆ?" ಮತ್ತೆ ಕೇಳಿದೆ. ಅವತ್ತೇನೋ ಮಗನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ವ್ಯಾಮೋಹ ಹೆಚ್ಚೇ ಇತ್ತು.

"ಬರ್ತಿದ್ದಾರಂತೆ...ಈ ಶನಿವಾರ. ಒಂದು ತಿಂಗಳ ರಜೆಗೆ. ಸಧ್ಯ..ನನಗೆ ನಿಮ್ಮಿಂದ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದಿನ ಬಿಡುಗಡೆ" ನಗುತ್ತ ಹೇಳಿದ ರಂಗಪ್ಪ.

ಎಂಥ ಒಳ್ಳೆ ಸುದ್ದಿ! ಮಗ ಎರಡು ವರ್ಷದ ನಂತರ ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾನೆ. ಮೊಮ್ಮಗಳು ಧ್ವನಿಗೆ ಈಗ ಆರೇಳು ವರ್ಷ ವಯಸ್ಸಿರಬೇಕು. ಅವಳನ್ನು ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿಗೆ ಕರೆತಂದು ಕೂರಿಸಿ ಕತೆ ಹೇಳಬಹುದು.

" ರಂಗಪ್ಪ... ಮೊಮ್ಮಗಳನ್ನ ಕಲ್ಬೆಂಚಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕೂರಿಸಿಕೊಂಡು ಕತೆ ಹೇಳಬೇಕು.. ಪ್ರತಿ ಸಂಜೆ ನನ್ನನ್ನ ಕರಕೊಂಡು ಬರಕ್ಕಾಗುತ್ತ?" ಆಸೆಯಿಂದ ಕೇಳಿದೆ. ಯಾವ ಕತೆಗಳು ಅವಳಿಗೆ ಇಷ್ಟವಾಗಬಹುದು ಎಂದು ಆಗಲೇ ಮನಸ್ಸಿ ನ್ನಲ್ಲಿ ಪಟ್ಟಿ ಮಾಡಲು ಶುರುಮಾಡಿದೆ.

"ಆ ಮಗು ನಿಮ್ಮ ಜೊತೆ ಇಲ್ಲಿವರೆಗು ಬಂದು.. ನಿಮ್ಮ ಹಳೆ ಕತೆಗಳನ್ನು ಕೇಳಿದಳು...ಅದಾಯಿತು...."ಎಂಬ ರಂಗಪ್ಪನ ವ್ಯಂಗ್ಯ ಕಿವಿಗೆ ಬೀಳಲೇ ಇಲ್ಲ.

- 13th February 2021

A Writer's Woes: The "Empty Vessel" or The "Blank Canvas"?

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Mon, 09 Nov 2020 16:32:00 +0000

A Writer's Woes 9: The "Empty Vessel" or The "Blank Canvas"?

The Vessel emptied. Just like that. There was no more doubt about whether it was half full or half empty. Enough intellect, logic and wordplay had been expended on the matter.

The Writer sat staring at the blank wall. The Blank Canvas that his mind was at the moment, projected effortlessly on to the wall. He knew that the Blank Canvas often gave birth to the best art. There was no prejudice, no framework, no bias. A clear sky that summoned the writer to give wings to his imagination.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Here he was. Trying to get out of a rut that he often found himself in. Multiple times. And each time he climbed out of it with nothing less than superhuman effort. On the contrary, his mind was teasing him with a question, asking him to decide if the writer in him was now "An Empty Vessel" or a "Blank Canvas".

Perhaps he was an "empty vessel" now, after all! The cacophony in his mind that eventually manifested on paper seemed a perfect example of the adage "empty vessels make more noise". Crude ideas, vague articulation, powerless language - he'd been there, done that. And whenever he went the empty vessel way, even the noise died midway. Then the silence. The silence that challenged his ideas and his need to write, in the face. The silence that ironically seemed so comfortable. That spared him of questions on his intent and ability to write. The silence that sounded so meaningful in front of the noise from the empty vessel. That exposed his probably withering ability - an ominous reality.

"There is so much to write about the empty vessel, though" the writer chuckled.

The "Blank Canvas" he wondered. The whiteness of the canvas exuded a sense of liberation. Unlike the empty vessel that had its limitations and boundaries, the canvas could stretch as far as the writer could imagine. The canvas didn't compel wisdom, like the vessel, but guided child like creativity. There were ideas of different colours and textures that seemed to flow without judgement. The canvas seemed to soak up everything that was on offer and always seemed ready for something more.

"Curious Contradictions" the writer mused. There, suddenly, was an improvement. A levelling up of the questions he was posing to himself. For a person who was wondering whether the writer in him still existed, he was now asking himself whether he was "an empty vessel" or a "blank canvas".

Did that now mean that it was established that the writer in him still lurked somewhere? He wanted to believe so. It would definitely let him take the next question up with more authority.

The "empty vessel" construct appealed to him from a wit and wisdom point of view. Knowledge and ability would fill a person's mind and heart - and how empty (or full) a person's "vessel" was would point to how learned he was. Filling up that empty vessel to make it "half full" or "completely full" in due course was an intellectual pursuit and an ambition worthy of the esoteric. The more full the vessel was, lesser the noise. What would then flow out would be mature, meaningful ideas taking shape within the vessel and that of the vessel.

The "blank canvas" though, tugged at his heart. It had this child-like simplicity that was endearing to him and for that matter to his audience as well. For some reason, he felt the canvas didn't judge. And it never forced itself on the onlooker. Each angle offered a new perspective. There was ample room for multiple perspectives to converse and converge - or simply coexist. It was almost how the author wanted the real world to be. Liberated. Free of bias.

In hindsight, may be everything he tried to write derived from both elements. While some ideas stemmed from his deep seated beliefs, value systems, upbringing and societal constructs, there was a part of him that yearned to break away from these structures and value things for what they are. While his logic, intelligence and wisdom guided him on the contours of his characters, his creativity added the zeal and empathy for life which made the characters come alive.

While the "empty vessel" wrestled the ideas into a perfect form, the "blank canvas" playfully imposed newer perspectives. While the blank canvas wanted to stretch itself and create beyond limits, the empty vessel stepped in with its own set of realistic limitations that provide direction.

It was now time for the writer to step in. He had to choose his construct. The blank canvas offered him infinite possibilities yet the empty vessel was tryst with cogent reality. He knew both of them helped him hone his craft. A world of ideas wouldn't do him any good if he couldn't distill them and give them concrete shape and form.

He stood in front of the blank canvas and projected his newest idea onto it. The canvas turned to an endearing hue of colour and life. The idea slithered and spread on the canvas and soon even beyond it. The author smiled. He collected the spreading idea into his empty vessel. There was definitely a better shape and form to it now. He closed the lid of the vessel - lest the idea escape into the dead of the night, while he earned his well deserved sleep. Life was good.

- 09th November 2020

Confessions of a Bystander

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Sat, 27 Jun 2020 15:28:00 +0000

Confessions of a Bystander

As I write these lines, our area has been declared a containment zone. The Government seems to have finally woken up to the fact that the (Un)Lock Whatever.0 is not working. For someone who’s been a bystander thus far, the threat - finally - seems real.

2020 started off with the usual bout of resolutions that kicked off in the first couple of fortnights in January, stood firm ground in the beginning of February and inevitably withered come March. When my employer declared WFH in mid-March as a precaution, the feeling was of curiosity, with – I confess – mild excitement. What was this virus – that forced organisations to take a view that its employees could work from home?

The crisis somehow seemed to circumvent India – was it our good karma? As the pandemic stepped out of China and rattled Europe and the USA, I, was a curious bystander. I devoured movies like “The Contagion”, “I Am Legend” and the home-made “Virus”. I was educating myself watching movies -while scenes from these movies played out in the western world, right from sudden sickness to mass graves.

“Worldometer” showcased the number of cases everyday and built graphs and charts that tickled my average numbers orientation. It’s ironical that data reduces human pain and loss to numbers. Panel discussions on national television indicated a “sluggish” world economy and an impending recession. I was a student embroiled in the toils of earning a degree back in 2008-09 and didn’t even realise the repercussions of a recession then. This time I thought – and I confess – that I’d probably understand what one is.

The Virus seemed more real and gained the status of a national enemy once all of us walked the streets, clapping our hands and creating makeshift drums with our plates and spoons. We were saluting our health warriors. Our leaders felt it was an opportune moment to stir up our lately-not-so-latent-jingoism. Almost a bystander even that day, I took the high ground of a hard to impress critic, stating “It may keep our spirits high. The country needs this at the moment”. I stood in the middle of the road, clicked a picture and wrote a Poem, saying the Virus was teaching us “How to Live” I propelled myself – I confess – to an exalted position trying to decode the intellect of the Virus and its intentions for human kind.

And then we were locked down. Forty days. Forty days where traffic disappeared from the streets, maids disappeared from our homes, long lost board games became mainstream and online collaboration became what everyone started calling the “New Normal”. The cases seem to surge on paper and on TV. Yet strangely, everything in the vicinity seemed normal. We bought our vegetables, cooked, ate, cleaned, worked, played and slept. I was audacious enough to say “I’m doing good. Everything ok around here. Just that being cooped up at home isn’t a great feeling” on every other call. I was – still – the bystander.

Pictures and reports came in about lakhs of guest workers being displaced from our cities – trundling back home on foot, cycles and whatever means they could find. For the first time – I confess - I was beginning to understand a huge layer of our society and their means to livelihood. We called our maid. She was back in her village, safe for the moment. We transferred her a couple of months of salary in advance – and thought our job was done. I took a silent pledge to donate a small portion of my salary till the country tides through this – and thought my job was done. Are food and money going to solve all problems – I wondered. But then, without food and money, would you be able to think of other problems, another thought countered.

In a country where thousands of white collar companions of mine were rendered redundant and hundreds of thousands of those in the unorganised sector found themselves trashed, - I confess – that a part of me was relieved that I still had a job and almost cribbed that I wouldn’t be getting a pay raise this year. Customers started putting projects on hold and delayed their payments – and that ironically, was my first taste of reality, apart from the fact that I wasn’t able to order from Swiggy or Amazon in the last couple of months.

News houses portrayed a catastrophe when the numbers surged in the hundreds and accepted reality when we hit thousands. Numbers were now a fatigue as much as – I confess - online calls. The Virus was still far away. I would always be sympathetic to what was happening elsewhere. But my home and locality would be an island and I would always be a bystander - willing to engage if I was dragged into the battle, but happy to watch it from the sidelines for as long as it took.

Then the great Unlock happened. Masses took to the streets – first in a trickle and then in a flood. I took my first walk in the park in months and had to post it on Instagram- I confess - for validation. The Garden City would soon be on its course. I went out and met relatives. Ran a few errands for home and even ordered Pizza in a crude celebration!

And all this while, the Virus slowly crept in to our backyard. It could have been an innocent citizen, a belligerent health warrior, an adventurous rogue or a simpleton bystander (like me!) – fact remains that parts of our neighbourhood are now contagious.

Scenarios that played out in other cities and countries – I confess – seem to now have a more realistic chance of replicating themselves in front of our own eyes. The streak of curiosity and the screen of sympathy are slowly being replaced with a sense of foreboding with a slice of fear. Fear for one’s own self and fear for one’s kin. Fear of knowing that it’s now so real – it’s only a matter of time before you hear one of your own battling the unseen enemy.

And in between the three days I took compile these musings – Mother has switched to Bigbasket, after rumours that the neighbourhood supermarket was frequented by someone who tested positive; we successfully dissuaded father from attending an office lunch as Mother tried a new recipe from Youtube; I experimented working out on-line; My brother and I have cribbed about the possibility of sharing the same room for work for at least another three months. However, the government seems to have rolled back on its decision to make our locality a containment zone!

Emotions journey through cycles of fear, resilience, hope and optimism. The dichotomy between the practicality of being careful bordering on being obsessive with hygiene and social distancing and the philosophy that there are certain things we may never be able to address and control, still persists. And then the (sur)reality that the island might have grown smaller – but we are still on one. The Audacity to still proclaim that’s its out there, but still not in here. And that selfish yearning – I confess – to forever remain a Bystander.

- 27th June 2020

*Photo By Andrew Neel on Unsplash.com

The Merchant Of Dreams - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Alok Simha) — Wed, 13 May 2020 15:11:00 +0000

The Merchant Of Dreams - Part 2

I didn't want to switch the lights on. I didn't want to open the door of my room. Amma kept knocking the door for a long time before she gave up. My father knocked on the door a couple of times. I ignored him. "Dinner is ready...you can join if you want to" he said loudly and walked away. And then I was left with silence to talk to.

I opened my eyes slowly. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see someone sitting on the floor, a couple of metres from me. He had the look of empathy in his eyes, as though saying - "This happened to me too. You'll get over it"

****************************

It had started out as such a fabulous day. I went to school in the morning. Class 10 was tough. But I was doing reasonably well. I scored more than eighty percent in the preparatory papers. I was sure I was peaking at the right time with my studies. And cricket. My hardwork for the last two years seemed to have paid off. Coach reckoned I was bowling well. That my skills were peaking and that my fitness had improved dramatically.

I met my class teacher for a review. "You're doing well, Murthy. With some focus, eighty five would be a breeze. Anything more than ninety...you'll have to sweat it out. But I believe, you want to sweat it out on the cricket field. I see you have a bright future there. Don't give up!"

I was elated. If I could balance my studies along with cricket, there was nothing like it. I would complete Class 12 for sure. And then give it a shot for a couple of years to make it to the national side. I knew the odds were stacked heavily against someone like me. I was not raw talent - but sheer hardwork. My father was a clerk who worked ten hours a day six days a week to make sure we went to a good school. But then, I had this dream. As the country celebrated a decade of Independence, my father and I were hooked to the radio commentary of India's many test matches. When we went to the barber's, my father always requested for old newspapers - from which the many scorecards, reports and pictures would enter my scrapbook.

Coach had called me for a discussion the same afternoon.

"You need to attend state trials Murthy. They happen right after your boards. You have to spend more time fine tuning your action. And let's work on your yorker and bouncer from next week." His words were music to my ears. All I had to do was put in that couple of extra hours in the night for studies, so I could spend those two hours at nets in the evening. Life was planning things well for me.

I walked home deep in thought. In my mind were calculations on how best I could plan for my exams and my cricketing future so I could give my best at both. I was perfecting the seam position with the imaginary leather ball in my hand as my mind raced with formulas from trigonometry. Even the seam had to be held at forty five degrees to generate swing.

Father was already home. He was relaxing on the easy chair, eyes closed for a short nap. But his mind completely aware of everything around him. And his ears alert for the smallest of conversations.

"I have to spend two extra hours at school from tomorrow, Amma" I told mother.

"Why is that so...with the Boards so close?" she asked.

"Net practice. Coach wants me to give a shot at state trials after the Boards"

" I don't get all this. Ask Appa. It's between you and him"

"Why now Murthy? Is it even the time to discuss all this?" Appa asked.

"Coach feels I'm doing well, Appa. He says I have age on my side. And my skills and fitness are peaking. You know the hat-trick I took a couple of months ago..right?" I blabbered. The look on his face meant he needed some convincing.

"Nothing doing. What are your preparatory scores?"

"I'm at eighty two Appa. With the work I'm putting in, Shantha Ma'am says eighty five is a breeze. But I'm setting my goal as ninety percent... Appa." I knew I had to put to myself under this pressure, if I wanted to attend the trials.

"Do you want to end up a clerk like me, Murthy? Or do you have a more worthwhile ambition?" Appa stood up, rage in his eyes. The home was silent now. Amma wouldn't intervene.

"I....I want to be a fast bowler..Appa" I blurted. I felt his rough hand slap my cheek the next moment. Tears streamed from my eyes. I wanted to tell myself it's because of the pain, not because one slap had caused irrevocable damage to my desires.

"It's a game played by eleven men and watched by eleven crore fools. You are not training from tomorrow. And I don't want anything less than ninety percent in your Boards" Appa said, wagging his finger at me. I had never seen him that way before. He was towering over me. My younger brother watched from a corner. I felt small.

"Teenagers and their tantrums..." he murmured in anger. And in an act of vengeful symbolism, he tore the scrap book I had meticulously built up over the last two years. I was shocked that he didn't even care that it was he who had helped with all the pictures and scorecards.

I was rattled. I sobbed uncontrollably for a couple of hours, crouching in the corner of my room. I didn't even want to switch on the lights. The searing pain of the slap had vanished long ago. But I figured the impact that it had would last for many years to come.

I opened my eyes slowly. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see someone sitting on the floor, a couple of metres from me. He had the look of empathy in his, as though saying - "This happened to me too. You'll get over it"

"Who are you...?" I asked, shocked to see a stranger in the room. I couldn't figure if he was for real. But he didn't seem dangerous.

"Call me your friend...Murthy.." he said. He looked slightly older than me. Probably senior by about four years, I thought. He was clad in whites. It reminded me of the cricket field.

"That was a rough day wasn't it..?" he asked, smiling. I wasn't sure I liked him much. But I don't think it mattered to him.

"Yes...I have never seen Appa so furious. He seems serious about me not training from tomorrow. He even destroyed my scrap book" I said, in between sobs.

"But..isn't it your dream to be a cricketer, Murthy?" the stranger asked. I was silent for a couple of minutes. Yes, it was my dream. But a greater fear - the fear of my father - was crushing those dreams by the minute. Or was it the fear of the future? My father's statement on ambition had definitely made me think. At that stage of my life, I definitely wanted to be a cricketer. But what if I couldn't be one? What if I never got through all the trials? The rage in my father's eyes, the slap, the darkness that seemed to engulf me in this room...dreams that were flying like birds in the clear sky of my mind suddenly felt their wings clipped.

"But I want to be a good son too...and a respectable citizen..." I said. It was my first surrender to the real world - a surrender people confused with maturity.

"And get that ninety percent..?" he asked me, while slowly untying his gunny bag. Even in the darkness, he walked across to my cupboard and brought the leather ball with him.

"Tell me....can I be a cricketer?" I asked him. But my voice didn't have the purpose it had all these years.

"You can...but after all this, do you really want to?" he questioned, with a piercing look that seemed to search for the answer in my soul.

For the first time in two years, I was tongue tied. The "Yes" hesitated to form in my heart and obviously never came out of my mouth. He had his answer. He put the leather ball in his gunny sack and handed me a piece of paper. It seemed like a degree certificate. I didn't get what he was up to. But I guessed it meant that I had to focus on my academics from then on. He got up to leave.

"Wait a minute....who are you...? How do you know me....?" I asked him, wanting to know he was real or the trick of a tired mind.

"They call me....The Merchant Of Dreams.....See you around" The Merchant evaporated into the darkness.

*****************************

"You know what.....I scored ninety two percent in my Boards. Appa was obviously thrilled. He even said I could continue to play cricket in my free time, with friends. But I didn't bowl for two years after that...I just couldn't." I sighed. We were back in my lawn. The Merchant was sipping the tea I'd prepared.

"Tell me Mr. Merchant....why did you have to take away those dreams?" I asked, my tone accusatory. I didn't have anything to lose that day.

"Did I take them away....Murthy? Or did you trade them with me?" it was as though he was expecting the question all along.

I realised he had a point. On both occasions, I was fearful, insecure and worried about the future.

"I was scared of failure Mr. Merchant. I was fearful for my Future. And you seemed to offer a more rational choice. I just grabbed at it." I said. "You shouldn't have offered the choice at all...." I wanted The Merchant to accept some portion of the blame.

The Merchant burst into laughter. It broke the still silence of the night. He took his iPad and made notes all over again.

"What do you type in the iPad, Mr. Merchant? You didn't have it the last time we met..."

"Mr. Jobs hadn't invented one the last time we met. He was a difficult man to trade with..Murthy. He didn't trade with me, infact." he said, in a matter of fact tone.

"That's beside the point Murthy. What you need to know....is that our Dreams walk hand in hand with our Fears. It's just that you chose to give up your Dreams because you couldn't face your Fears."

"And trust me..." The Merchant continued "It's the case with most in this World...and that's why I thrive" There was a look on his face that told me he was a shrewd businessman.

"So...what do you do with my dreams...or anyone's dreams?" I asked. We finally seemed to be getting to the crux.

" I'm a trader Murthy. I trade your Dream with someone who wants it more than you do. He pays for me with his Dream. And I sell his Dream to the next person who wants it. I remember this home you built was once the Dream of a person who is now roaming the World. He wanted to see the World more than he wanted to settle. I gave it to him."

"And you would have a Dream too...wouldn't you...Mr. Merchant?"

The question seemed to unsettle him a little bit. I'd probed him with one question too many.

"I probably had too many Dreams, Murthy. I couldn't settle on one. Being 'The Merchant of Dreams', I get to live everybody's best Dreams for a little while, before I trade them. But I can't keep a Dream that someone else wants with all their heart - that's the Golden rule. It's both a blessing and a curse" It took me a while to comprehend his words. I was sure I would never understand him fully.

"Anyways...I come to you today with a gift. It's again, a Dream I traded with someone. But I thought you might like it." The Merchant opened his black briefcase and pulled out a document. He handed it over to me.

"Murthy Dream Homestays" the title of the document read. I look at The Merchant, surprised. I flipped through the pages. It was a business plan. Completely ready for execution.

"Do you want to take this up?" The Merchant asked. "I'm a little guilty that the travel company didn't take off.."

I was definitely excited. My heart beat fast. I was seventy four. But age was just a number. I stayed alone in the magnificent home that I'd built. I could definitely turn that to a homestay. My business acumen was still strong. I could still hire, train and manage people to run the show. What if I couldn't help people travel to their favorite destinations? I could help them with a place to stay, when they visited their dream destination..

"I'll take this up..." I told The Merchant, with conviction. He beamed at me. And for the first time, we shook hands. I turned to look at my Home. I was already contemplating where I needed fix the signage. A mental map of single and double rooms, a library, a common area, a recreation area were already forming in my mind. I still had one question that I wanted to ask The Merchant...

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Merchant....but who do you work for, anyway?" I asked him. There was no response. I turned to face him. As always, he had disappeared into thin air.

I rang my son in Delhi. "Son....I want to start a business..."

- 09th May 2020

* Image by Emrah Tolu at Pexels