The "storehouse of snow" beckons me on yet another weekend. Disguised as Rishikesh-yet-again, I will be up to (pun intended) more exciting stuff than your mothers can imagine. Now, don't start imagining yourself, since I doubt if you've ever exercised those faculties - metaphorically speaking, you're imagination fits a 30B. Admittedly, I won't be deflowering freshly fallen snow beneath my feet, or any snow for that matter, but there is a disciplinary shift involved here. Additionally, I shall be a witness to all those towering deities - that present a panoramic delight - whose names Ghoru throws into conversations as casually as the Indian (cricket) team lineup.
My return from this risque Himalayan circuit coincides with Boukreev's 14th death anniversary, which also coincides when I will start with reading his narration of the epic 1996 Everest (mis-)adventure.
On other fronts, things are holistically fucked-up.
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