Sunday, December 30, 2012


I need not kill for you.
You need not love me anymore.
They need not know about it all.
We need not acknowledge each other anymore.
Nothing feeds the seed to need
Unless the need is in the seed
Itself a part of our genetic code.
Which means our love,
Isn't merely a day old.

Friday, December 28, 2012

Paradoxical Me

Paradoxical undressing occurs in 25 to 50 percent of hypothermia sufferers, who are often found partially undressed.

This may be caused by the hypothalamus, the temperature-regulation area of the brain, malfunctioning due to the cold. Hypothermia sufferers also tend to exhibit animal-like responses to cold in seeking small, enclosed spaces, similar to hibernation.

Been there, done that.
Just a month and a half back, that would've been me, at 3220m, at 2AM of a sub-zero night, on India's most famous alpine meadows, all alone (okay, with one other person, equally inebriated and out of senses).

Paradoxial undressing happens when a hypothermic body is about to die, the muscels restricting the flow of blood to the extremities let go, and blood flow returns, giving the feeling of a hot flush, and the person then undresses because they feel hot.

Woo! closest to death I've ever been...

Re: Fwd: no joke

how long before i can do it right
how long that i can get it right
getting getting
fretting fretting
under the crimson sky
oh what a setting

unemployment. doing nothing. of no worth. like i am, presently, is no small deal. im gaining conscience of being economically or socially worth nothing. what im upto, is absolutely nothing, like a void. im losing time, im losing money, im losing societal understanding, im losing workaholic perspective. its like running head first into a wall of all your insecurities. when your cerebellum deduces you are worth nothing, and only losing what you have, it shoots a signal into the nerval sky that sends all muscles jingling and tendons straining like dogs who are in excitement of anticipating their prey. im enjoying this phase. its worth what it is. it is an understanding of oneself. its a spiritual thing, if spirituality is what i can produce. now i know more.

Friday, December 21, 2012

My feet are dancing again. I feel all the younger.
The younger I feel, the younger I become. The younger I become, the more stupid I wanna be. Not the reckless kind of stupid; neither the cello-dropping-inebriated stupid; but the type that does Manali to Leh on a single breath, the type that leaves right now on another adventure.
See you soon, world.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012


I realize that I'll be going - away from it all. The human nature, however, will remain undeciphered. The going would only be a physical act - no metaphor. For I won't be going away from anything that I don't already have or that I already don't. I won't be going away from anything I can't win or anything I can lose. I will leave with no language or pick a new one. I will leave with no regrets or pick any new ones.
I will leave in a fog and find myself standing in one, lost, with a white dazzle in front of my eyes, all around me, all inside me.

Delhi Rape FTW

As they say, you can't keep a fish out of the water for too long...
You can't keep brutal rape out of Delhi for too long,
and you can't keep Delhi out of news for too long.

If the massacre at US schools trigger gun control debate, then will repeated offences against women in India trigger a penis debate? Will semi-automatic erections be banned?

Just this morning, Justice Markandey Katju probably skipped his breakfast to justify his "90% idiot" comment, which he is being threatened to be sued against. Firstly, thanks, the patriotic youth for taking offense against speech; we should all take offense against some speech to declare our complete impotency against greater evil in the actual deeds of malformed social elements. Secondly, Katju should indeed apologise, and correct his wording, from "idiot" to "starved". We're a fractured society, living in starvation of several 'streams of nutrition' (to word it that way) necessary for a healthy organism that a society should be.

Coz they're rapin' everrybody out there!

Monday, December 17, 2012

Watch me

Came across this. Despite that it looks cheesy, I reminded me that I've used that line this year itself.

It was in Spiti, and we'd made it to Chandra Tal on our bikes. There's a barrier 400m from the lake, that prevents entry of any motor vehicles. But the forest officials there bunched our bikes (bicycles) under "motor vehicles", and told us to leave them behind. Petty arguments ensued, and C got into entertaining their feeble brains too much.
"No, no, no vehicle can go beyond this point"
I simply walked into the zone with my bike, with the line - "watch me (do it)".

They fumed, they cribbed, then they gave up. I didn't wait around to see any of that backward nonsense.

Friday, December 07, 2012

IIC eve - don't read

White wine. Yes.
Red wine. Yes.
Gin&Tonic (the girls' drink). Yes. The tonic was a strong negation to the gin, i must say.

Matching gazes with
- Brinda Karat
- Sitaram Yechury
- Arun Jaitley
- the "Haha" guy
- the GoW inspiration

Fish, chicken, and paneer, to indulge in...

Decent end to the heavy day.

Hoodie alert

Had my own Zimmerman moment of sorts in the form of security guard and desk attendant who wet their pants seeing me in a hoodie. If not for an attempt to delve deeper into my social experiment, I would've just walked beyond the point where I'd already walked beyond them. But I turned around, anyways, pretending to have heard their shouts just then.

One has to be deliberate at mischief to both cause mischief, as well as to study the human psychology. After a long, long break I decided to wear my hoodie today. Winters are a good excuse for looking hip while wearing utility garments - the hoodie serving as a tee, a windsheeter, and a headgear at the same time, eliminating my need to 'gear up' as I went out. As with shorts, same with the hoodie - nobody takes you for a professional, or to frame it in other words "somebody out for generating value". They assume you're out for a picnic of sorts.

This 'picnic' front is greatly envied (and hence frowned-upon) by the blue-collared professional, and suspiciously looked upon by the security guard (who're so used to their kin looking all the same that they assume that professionals ecosystems of all sorts can't function without a dress code). When somebody doesn't fit into their assumptions, the blue-collared professional frowns harder, and the security guard starts making flailing gestures.

That is why professional environments look professional - because they make it difficult for the unprofessional professional to be, uh... professional. That is also why I call these professional environments and personnel 'superficially' professional - because of their reliance on a 'profiling' system; which is just another word for laziness. How else do you think social engineering works? - it's thanks to these retard profiling systems. It is also the reason why geeks hate these so-called professional setups. It is also why I can't function normally, since I'm already deprived of my freedom to cycle to work (yes, another issue, that), wear what I fucken want, and personalize my workspace (think coder caves).

So there I was, turning back to the security attendant who'd shown a great concern to investigate this hoodie hoodlum - ironically armed with a office laptop bag - to get her ass off the chair, and start in my direction. I am polite to those who show any iota of sincerity to their job.

First social tactic - I remove the hoodie to allay her suspicions. Lack of battle scars on my face, no missing earlobes, and a display of well maintained hair, and a groomed face, would make me approachable. It disrupts her belief chain.
"Sir, ID"
"I don't have one. You never ask for it."
"Its a rule."
"You never had this rule before... I just walk in all the time"
"We keep making new rules"
"Oh yeah? 'Making new rules'? Try coming at me with something else"
[I could see that we were going nowhere with this]
Since learning that the smile evolved from "monkeys and apes who often used barely clenched teeth to portray to predators that they were harmless", I regularly use it to the same effect. So, I push my eyeballs out and show teeth. She let me be.
Social hacks FTW.

But this is India, where hoodie isn't popular enough to be a symbol for anything. This is India, where assorted headgear are seen bobbing up and down in all environments. I guess these people rely not on a "looks suspicious" match, but rather on a "not one of us" match - so one who doesn't look like everyone else has gotta be disruptive. Disruptive indeed, today, but only enough to blog about it, and make a tiny dent in the universe.

To reiterate the rule, again:
Into some needless confrontation? - push your eyeballs out and show teeth.

Wednesday, December 05, 2012

Book nerd day

I'll dearly cling to my love of books; cruisin' and readin' as I go around the city, which would eliminate that need to read into the blank stares, to "THINK" about humanity (or why it shouldn't be), and the epitomes of un-health crowding around moi. This was no more evident than today, as I finished Slaughterhouse 5 while making a roundtrip to the fringes of Delhi, to a horrible university called I.P.U. (re)located in barrenness of Dwarka. I focused, firstly, on acquiring a seat, and then entirely into the text. To be proud, I went through a meaty part of it today, to finally end the book halfway into my return journey. The book was amazing. My love for Vonnegut grows with each kicker of a line of his - I could get dehydrated just underlining all those passages and piths in this tiny novel that managed to stimulate some intelligent lobe of the mind.

Books of varied genre make my new sarvashiksha abhiyaan curriculum. Digressing into the subject of my education, I'd like to report that I failed miserably in the Stanford U online courses that I'd subscribed to (one of which, coincidentally sees a deadline today, but I'm least bothered). I also am on the verge of another failure into application process for 2013 studies. So there, my book genres and online "karts" are the ones to recourse to.

In the heat of moment, I placed my order for 3 different books from 3 different online retailers (Indiaplaza, Infibeam, and Flipkart - in that same sequence). With the free shipping each offers, the price point was the sole criteria, and I have to say that there's no single place for the best deals. Look how easy allegiances change - I never thought (since 2008) I'd ever need to look outside Flipkart for books.

Of the three books, one is (of course it hadda be) KV. Bluebeard. KV is what I now call my schooling in postmodernism (and everything wise about the universe).

Curiosity got the better of me, which is why I ordered the second book, Serious Men, by Manu Joseph. I think Aaranyam Kaandam, a Tamil movie I saw last year, would have subliminally influenced me to perceive this book in a positive light. Each year I end up trying one Indian author, and ending up scarred - they write horrible. Let's hope this one will be better.

As for the third book... Would you be surprised if someone loved a book to the extent of ordering it for the fourth time? Well, I did.
After giving away my first copy to a friend who featured in an elaborate dream in the context of the book, the second one to my uncle, and leaving the third copy in a cafe, this fourth one I'm probably gonna foist, firstly, upon my office reception desk, and later perhaps, pass it to the bride/groom at one of the few weddings I'm going to attend this season (just imagine the hilarity in case it ends ruining a honeymoon). I'm not telling you which book it is.

So it goes. Gah, KV has turned me into a cliche man.

Sunday, December 02, 2012

getting a hang of the trekkies

Fought the ganda-wala Dilli ka traffic on my humble bike - weaving in and outta grid of metal boxes of quadruple to centuple the dimensions of the bike, accelerating and braking constantly, switching from the tarmac to the footpaths to the service lanes, jumping traffic signals, keeping the urge to blurt out 'bhenchods' to the ignorant motorists at bay - to catch a presentation at the IHC. That presentation was of a unique nature - a high altitude trek; one that marked a first, of a civilian team making it from the Nelang Valley to the Saraswati Valley through Basisi Col. High altitude, mountaineering expedition, and civilians; this one had a lot for me, and gave me a break from the ongoing Shahi Paneer and Butter Chicken marathon at home (my tummy would also be thankful).

Made it to the Gulmohar Hall, a bit late - lemme put it this way, that when I started climbing the Safdarjung flyover, these guys started climbing from Gangotri; when I was huffing past the decorated facade of the Islamic Cultural Center, these guys were huffing on some moderate slopes towards their Day 3 basecamp; when I made it into the hall, these guys were on Day 3. Quick them, quicker me. The hall was packed. I found the last unoccupied seat, backbencher as always.

Their presentation was in the form of a movie. The movie itself was a scrappy deal - all the while I was thinking of the shortfall in technicalities that could've been overcome. That aside, the presentation as a whole, put the route and the team in good perspective. The Basisi Glacier coming into view was breathtaking, the money shot, I'd say. A Q&A session followed, which seemed a worthy addition to the movie. One exhilarating aspect was how these guys used 'jugaad' of Google Earth for their route planning and map requirements - stitching together screenshots to make larger scale prints, and even capturing their marked route on camera before leaving. A surprising aspect of it was to learn the level of novice involved here, one even I felt I could match (imagine that one in their team was trekking after 8 years). What was sad was to see that their greatest skill in the whole project was gaining permissions from various SDMs and other departments, a lengthy and dirty process of recommendations through long chains of friendship.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

lets be men

I wonder how we came to be so fond of people who were so unlike us. Timidity was our connecting thread, I guess. We couldn't dare to look into the other persons eyes, or the soul, and we chose others who with similarly lowered gazes. This was back then. I thought that was our prime at some point. I was wrong in that assumption. They changed. The problem with such people is a strong sense of disassociation they can feel. This makes them manufacture a way of inclusion, necessary all by themselves. This results in idealism creeping in. idealism brings a strong sense of identity. And having attained an identity, they could confidently live on their own terms, cut the strings of their circle, and give the world a finger. Then they are, like everybody else, trying to be like everybody else, that is unique.

Monday, November 19, 2012


I've been reading about this city held hostage in the past few days. No living person could've demanded such glorification, forget a dead one. Death is either to be perceived as a great equalizer, an event undemanding of any reverence, one outside the course of life of a person who could be revered for his life; or it could be perceived a celebration, necessitating a revelry of sorts, which might not be irresponsible, but surely doesn't impinge on others' freedoms, or rights. In one aspect, the 'believers' could be seen as enjoying themselves in the revelry of reverence, albeit a revelry of the irresponsible sorts, which is what nobody likes.
In footnote, let me mention I'm the lesser informed/learned/opinionated of the citizens of this country. I don't even have a PhD.

In a sutta-shop-conversation style, I could say that the past week was a good one for India. The leader of its fascist party succumbing to age, hopefully stalling the party synonymous to the word "goondaraj" ("The reality of the Sena will soon degenerate into virtual reality. The virtual reality of the Shiv Sena will then disappear in cyberspace." source). And an infamous liquor baron, and the owner of a (black) empire, also dead in a shootout, hopefully initiating an investigation that gets our nation a few thousand million crores of corruption money. Big and rich people dying is very hopeful for this nation; our past has been mired in corruption, cronyism, and communalism.
Note, again, that this is a "sutta-shop-conversation style" opinion.

Okay, now remember this name - Ludovico De Varthema.
He's an Italian traveler of the 1500s, who extensively traveled India, and captured its customs so precisely and artistically, that it was made into a book. He was T3H man. I couldn't imagine traveling so consistently. On a sidenote, his paintings feel a lot like tribal (Gond) art that still survives in India.

For High Class Matrimony

Perplexed mummies and daddies and sons and daughters, take notice.
Seen on the Gurgaon-Faridabad Road

Friday, November 16, 2012

Homecamp Basecamp

Didn't get to debut the tent on the previous trek, so thought of doing so right here in my apartment. Blogging from inside my tent right now :)
Short note: Today was curious - got up in time, had a bath, got a slick new shaved look, got ready to move out, and then just spent the entire day in front of the computer. So I have been "camping" in more than one sense today.

Say hello to my tent buddy, Blush

This one with the sheet on

Shiftfaced at Dayara

Fecal brown is the color of the day! Though there is an ongoing colorful show of daybreak at 11,000ft at our eye level - a sky of changing hues, an alpine meadow coming to life, a sun climbing up clandestinely behind an amphitheater of snow-bound god peaks to inject color into our surroundings - with us being the sole audience; but despite all the color, nothing strikes more than that particular shade of brown that I mentioned. Color of my previous night, color of my present dawn, and color of my soon-to-commence retreat back into civilization.

Over the next 24 hours, I, alongwith my buddy Y, will be backtracking our route - from this hamlet at Dayara Bugyal, to the village of Raithal, to the town of Uttarkashi, to the city of Dehradun, to the metropolis of Delhi. We are returning home, on time for the grand festival of Diwali, but with an embarrassing note on our faces that tells that we really didn't mean to. We had a much longer trekking route in mind: Raithal - Dayara Bugyal - Morpada - Dodital - Darba Top - Hanuman Chatti; but so were the considerations of the moment that we had to call it quits. Now, "quit" is a word I don't understand when in the lap of "mother" nature, since she made things to be possible (otherwise we won't have evolution, to begin with), so I was taken aback and had to pretend I understood what Y meant when he proposed that.

But first, let me give some foreground on that. I might switch to a third-person narrative for better effect.

So there were these two guys, twenty-somethings. One was a true man of the outdoors, charged, hardy, active, rich, brash, smart (womanizer), sentimental, decisive. The other was a jobless software programmer. They had been friends for a while. They had also been playing bait-and-hook with a lot of trekking plans for a while. They had done a single trip that qualified as 'trek', The Hamta Pass, in last year August; so understandably the itch of outdoors was strong. By October, the itch was intense. Coincidentally, they were equally unsocial in nature, to interpret the November week of Diwali - the Indian (Hindu) festival of lights and celebration and family reunions and prosperity - as a void in their schedule, waiting to be filled. So they decided to trek, and after brief research (or should I say under-research) worked out a 6-day itinerary in upper reaches of Uttarkashi. It was to be of a double honour, of visiting two destinations - Dayara Bugyal, one of India's most beautiful meadows at 11000ft, and Dodital, an enigmatic lake at 10800ft, also claimed in mythology as the birthplace of the Indian elephant god, Ganesha - in the same week.

The most ambitious aspect of this trek was that they planned to do it all by themselves, that is, no reliance on guides, or load-bearing mules, or opportune chaiwallahs, or greedy hotel owners. To be self sufficient, they had equipped themselves with sufficient clothes - for keeping warm, a tent - for stay, food - for survival, and a stove - for the food. Not to ignore other emergent facets of human isolation, they were also equipped with music - for the dull evenings, texts - for the idle moments, cameras - for the memories, and (most spectacularly) a bottle of Old Monk rum - for the madness (or escaping it). They had been sincere, at least in their preparation.

They left the city of Delhi very happy, because they could see - as they inched in an autorickshaw towards their transit destination to catch a bus into Garhwal - of what deplorable a setup, that is sadly called 'society', they were running from. The whole city was going crazy, like there was some zombie outbreak - policeman, miles of traffic jams, sirens, pollution; they were happy to be leaving it all behind. They felt a shudder seeing the clamor at the bus depot, where all levels of civilization converged to act equally uncivilized. The bus conductor was probably sympathetic to their condition, which is why he didn't force them to cram like chicken at the backseat, making their journey a rather comfortable one.

Their route was:
Delhi >--(bus)--> Rishikesh
Rishikesh >--(taxi)--> Uttarkashi
Uttarkashi >--(taxi)--> Bhatwari
Bhatwari >--(taxi)--> Raithal
From the village of Raithal, they started their uphill climb to Dayara Bugyal.

Reaching uptil Bhatwari was easy, but reaching Raithal from Bhatwari - the last 10km - wasn't; they had to nervously wait for a couple of hours before an overloaded taxi showed up and crammed them like chicken alongside other human chickens (and little chicks, with schoolbags). By the time their jeep labored up the bends like a dying hag and reached Raithal, it was already 16:30. There had been a persistent drizzle in the last half hour, which though had now abated, made the weather unpredictable - "If the clouds do open up on our way, it would probably come down as snow," they reminded themselves. But being arrogant, finicky, indecisive, and - consequently - embarrassed at the idea of giving into the subtle coercion (to stay, waste a day, and prosper the village economy) by the villagers, they chose to trudge ahead. It was already 17:00.


At this point, I must give 'them' an individual identity, since their individual characters/strengths/handicaps shone through by the time they'd barely made it beyond the village. It was somewhat like the ribbon of the rainbow that wrapped the mountain at that very instant, white light being subjected through walls of moisture at funny angles and broken into individual colors that had their own names (VIBGYOR). Let us call them Nagraj and Doga [1, 2]. (those familiar to Raj Comics might subconsciously pick their favorite at this time, which might be detrimental to the narration, so please avoid making any connections).

Doga was the slower one, though surprisingly Nagraj was the more burdened among the two. They trekked up the well-defined trail from Raithal village, taking frequent breaks for rest, water, change of clothing, or bodily discharge. Inside an hour, darkness had taken over, so their CREE headlamps had come out. The temperature had also taken an abrupt (albeit expected) dip, so their fleece jackets were out as well. It was a paradoxical situation, as the jackets which were sufficient protection against the cold, also hampered the ventilation when the body would heat up on a tough section and produce sweat. They had no clue of how far they'd come, as the trail, though broad and unambiguous throughout, isn't marked. They had no clue of how far they had to go, as there was not a hint of human presence anywhere up ahead, despite the villagers confirming of a team of workers employed for trail maintenance camping somewhere along. Though tired, they were thankful for the clouds that still maintained their dignified calm, and kept trudging ahead in the dark with damp clothes, breathing heavily, sticking close.
To be continued...

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

No show on Diwali

Filaments of smoke make in through the grille and the sounds constantly play hockey in my ears, but I do my best to shut myself away from these revelries of Diwali, and shift my mental frame into a day in the past, when I was somewhere really special.

Right now, I should be at Dayara Bugyal, or somewhere on that route spanning two ends of Uttarkashi - Dayara to Dodital to Darba Top to Hanuman Chatti. The intention I'd set out with, was to be lighting up a single candle firecracker on this day, at that mystery lake which mythology managed to claim as the birthplace of the Indian elephant god. I did set out, but I returned too soon.

Wish I could imagine myself there. Wish I weren't to suffer the violence of nature's economy or of the manipulative (to its means) human spirit. Sometimes we desire for freedom, but our body itself would not agree to this freedom and make its own demands.

Monday, November 05, 2012

Dream connect

D, my friend sitting 5200 miles surprised me, when he told me about his previous night's dream, where I was taking refuge at his apartment, after having killed a former batchmate (though some in the real would find relief in the prospects of that happening). This connects with my own dream the same night where - the sketchy details that survive tell me that - I was disposing a body by the end of my dream. Creepy.

That gives me the idea of making an online dream channel for each person on this planet, where people who had them in their dream could add their narratives (even anonymously). Isn't that rad?!

Odd resurgent memories

This broke me out of my drowsy state (that is like a permanent feature soon as I engage myself in any office work).
For one, it starts with a panning shot of their camp-site, which featured the same Quechua T2 tent I've been eyeing for upcoming treks; just seeing Jeremy Clarkson next to it has me sold - but besides the man worship, the fact that he's huge makes me trust that the tent would be comfortable, if not luxury, at high altitudes. JC does complain about other stuff "my sleeping bag broke, my blanket was see through..." but I can do better than the BBC crew there.

And another, in that I could pinpoint their exact location in all the scenes. The roads beyond Manali, I know all! It starts with them waking up at a three-hut settlement called Dorni, midway Chhatru and Gramphoo. There's a beautiful Stupa (overlooking a death fall), and waterfalls abound on either face. See the other side of that milestone in my pic. There's also a second picture to add more cred.
The Top Gear team did the Spiti Valley, which is really cool, albeit the condition of their cars suggests torture.

Then they are seen winding up the Koksar-Rohtang La gatta loops.

Then, they take a pitstop at Kothi, a noveau-rich village 13km from Manali, where they invented a new form of cricket with the locals. Their impromptu playfield is the exact spot where me and D hitched a ride on bus (to take us beyond Rohtang) on our bike trip in 2007.

Saturday, November 03, 2012

Polygamy v Promiscuity

The word “polymath” teeters somewhere between Leonardo da Vinci and Stephen Fry. Embracing both one of history’s great intellects and a brainy actor, writer, director and TV personality, it is at once presumptuous and banal. Djerassi doesn’t want much to do with it. “Nowadays people that are called polymaths are dabblers—are dabblers in many different areas,” he says. “I aspire to be an intellectual polygamist. And I deliberately use that metaphor to provoke with its sexual allusion and to point out the real difference to me between polygamy and promiscuity."

Crucial distinction, thanks to - Last days of the Polymath (

Call him a machine

Its 2 am. despite being ultra mobile for the entire day, I don't feel sleepy. The last movement of the day saw me out, at 9pm, to Noida to catch up with the C, then heading back, at midnight, to the far end of Delhi to abode of the Y - where I now am - to make it by 0130am, totaling about 60k on the bike*, that too with a heavy backpack. Before that I was looking forward to a night of libations, which sadly didn't happen; so I just busied myself doing the dishes until bro returned. I had just been back from a ghoom at Chandni Chowk, in search of randomness - and needless to say I was suitably rewarded. Prior to that I was a part of the spirited lunch conversation and ideation about present and future prospects of travel with the A&A- which had a silver lining in the form of a (slim) commitment by all, for the Annapurna circuit next summer.

And to think that earlier I had been cursing myself at a late start to the morning, declaring dead all hopes for an eventful day. Just another 3 hours, and then tennis, followed by a long day in places with shady sounding names. The weekend's still young.


Friday, November 02, 2012

Difficult fruit

If you ask me what the most difficult fruit is, I'm gonna say, straight off the bat, "Anaar" (pomegranate). The day before, I I finished one. Yesterday, while cleaning out my fridge, I found its purchase receipt, dated 19th August, 2012. That makes it 2 months and 13 days, but you could discount a couple, since I didn't immediately crack the pomegranate open. So, as it was, it took me 70 days to finish a single pomegranate, on and off in my eating routine. I'm perhaps the most conservative pomegranate eater in history of human civilization.

Mind you, I love this fruit, more so for its longevity - any lesser fruit would have been diseased by the first week itself, and sent me into the doctor's clinic.

Today, on a visit to Chandni Chowk, I got another one - a huge one. It weighed 400g on the scales, which was (almost) thrice that of the last pomegranate I finished, and cost me INR 50. It larger than the size of my fist. I shudder to think how long consuming this one would take. Handing it to those butchers whom I refer to as "others" could probably see it devoured in a single day. I could keep it as a showpiece, and in the meantime secretly nibble away its hidden half (which could last at least a month, if not more).

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Another failed first time

A momentary lapse of reason, and I agreed into doing something so abhorrent that I never subscribed to even in my college days. That killed my evening. I had plans, plans about planning about affecting my near and distant future. But, alas, so is life, and so it goes.

Right now the disorder of last evening has carried on to my next day, as I sit a few hours into my professional time, geographically faraway from my profession, and mentally even further away. I will light up a smoke and hold it fragile between my fingers as I stare somewhere faraway into space in he narrow confines of my room where I sit sipping lukewarm half a cuppa masala chai, just to dramatise the situation - seems I get more of my kicks from the destructive elements life has to offer, in some half-agreement to the nihilists and the satanists. I'm already living days in this carryover stuff, much like an algorithmic multiplication of 9s to a random infinite number, leaving a carryover at each step - carryover trail crawling, as life ordains me.

To come back to the original focus, what this boob had agreed to, was a concert; a rock concert; an Indian Ocean rock concert; organised at this sprawling complex of IP Park; organised by some Indo-Deutsch partnership. The inference chain went so :
- if not the venue, enjoy Indian Ocean
- If not Indian Ocean, enjoy the venue

Initially happy to see a free concert at hands, I found that 'free' is an initiation opportunity for a lotta other freeloaders, and this being India, 'diversity' is to be expected. So there were mummy-papa-baccha types, uncle-aunteejee types, uncleji types, bhaiyya-types, corporate-spending types, chirpy-bird types, mid-life-crisis types, and chutiya-wannabe-types. [On the way to here, I had been musing on the impossibility of a Woodstock in India - the sneaky kids, whiplash-wielding-self-discretion-using policewallahs, pariah dogs, vendors, wannabe oldtimers, and the adjoining shitting ground for some poor families, all spoiling the atmosphere for an observational rocker and push him back home to write diary entries instead] So I found myself on a wooden row of benches, beer in hand, pork sausages on the plate, right opposite a muslim couple (the girl was in a Burqua) - in their religion, alcohol is haram, so is pork. So this was the kinda opposing confluence it turned out. Later there was a trio of village women in kitsch green saris veiling their face (घूंघट डालना), opposing my view for a while - then they actually sat down to sit through the concert!

To add to it, there was Ashoka Hotels doing the catering, and doing so in the most creepout manner - by employing their over-professional crew to imitate a McDonalds; a McDonalds at the price tag of an Ashoka (kingfisher being the cheapest drink at 180/pint, and veg burger being the cheapest food at 200). There was a mustached-uncle in suit taking the order, on a whole page of grid of items on offer, which was to be given to seemingly-minor employees at the serving counter. But it had a silver lining, as the following incident explains: there were these svelte German girls sitting opposite for us for a while, into whom bumped some Indian acquaintance of theirs (white toothy smile plastered on his face) whom I found annoying. When he exclaimed "I'll join you guys with a beer!" I was relieved that he was gone for at least half an hour - so big were the unmanaged queues.

I.O. themselves were unspectacular; I wouldn't say they were lethargic or untalented, or that they were great, but they can't hold you for very long. I suppose they are less of what they started with by now. They have a sick drummer. They made me busy with a lotta questions about why I, impulsively, didn't like the concert. It could have to do with me re-entering a Syd Barrett phase presently, and expecting something more chaotic, more synthesized, more grunge.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

First Shaadi of the Season

My cerebral tubes are probably choked with Manchurian, Chaap, and Shahi Paneer, in multiple servings to satiate this evening's foodie that had been eager to attend his first wedding of the season. Finally, after committing to two other weddings (as a guest), where the wedding couple itself broke off commitments prematurely, I get one to attend in all fanfare. Disclaimer, that being in my league means almost commenting from a cave - social events are rare, rarer still are the ones I do attend.

One thing for sure, is that being abandoned is no fun (aka being a guest on behalf of yourself, as against the earlier routine when it was the parents we used to tag with and everything used to be 'on behalf of' them). I am newly-abandoned, so I could be led to confuse my unethusiastic impulse for inexperience, and linger on in the hope that there is some silver lining. But really, the only silver lining, as I've come to find is just that palpitational feeling of rubbing shoulder with lardbags in suit.

There is the assurance of food, if nothing else, but trust me, I feel like going on a pilgrimage every time I return from a wedding - not to forget the paradoxical situation of my stomach the next few days, that will not let me leave home. The course of 6 meals accommodated over a single hour is brutal for anybody, regardless of whether they deny it.
This guy, has his eating quirks - still no different from 12yr olds who are ignorant of propriety, skipping main course to accommodate more space for ice cream... which nets me even more lubber than I think.

Of note:
- New fat deposits. They will be useful WTSHTF.
- Dysmorphic body structures.
- People growing into their parents. But I hold negligible appreciation for any parents (mine included) in the first place. So this adaptation is of little use.
- The era of silence, when silence dominates congregations, is still faraway.

Friday, October 26, 2012

I'll be the King

It has been 18 hours that I've had anything to eat, and the same that I've locked myself in muteness. This is not my usual recluse in the Delhi apartment - I'm surrounded by the people called family, in my hometown of Lucknow, under assault by tastes that unlock some primal corner, and yet this is how my past 18 hours have been. My vision starts to feel blurred as a particular set of glands prove their existence, an emotion so alien that i make my way out to the open rooftop to tame this new level of emotion; my eyes hurt, and it's not the treatise on chronosynclastic infundibula to cause that, for a change.

I am alone, and I feel like it, for a rare time, in a very intense way. The vision of my world is just that, mine, and I panic. I know you won't be there.

Meat and Soul

"I can't help it," I said. "My soul knows my meat is doing bad things, and is embarrassed. But my meat just keeps right on doing bad, dumb things."
"You and your what?" he said.
"My soul and my meat," I said.
"They're separate?" he said.
"I sure hope they are," I said. I laughed. "I would hate to be responsible for what my meat does."

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Slow reader, Fast walker

Its unlucky that I'm a fast walker, but a slow reader. Books could've been much cheaper an indulgence than traveling, you know. I love getting lost; mountain trails and fictional worlds, are two of the best places to get lost in. But while the travel - and all the associated dreaming and planning involved - has destroyed my finances (my cash flow stream is a horror) and my profession (i've not yet matured to the concept of employment), book reading tends to make it light for you.

I wouldn't have spent on books in three years what I spent last winter on a single trek. Books, moreover, are a solo thing... you find one to read, you read it - there is no need to be chasing others to come read it with you, or settling on a date 2 months in advance for a reading session. Books don't require so many roles as trekking does - that of a salesman (for adventure), a beggar, a travel planner, a manager, a fixer, a passionate fool. Most importantly, books can be done in parts; travel cannot - not unless teleportation is invented.

Book-reading, however, is also a reflection on the nature of the people who stick to it: people who are always short on time, people who want to manage their life better (for the sake of what?), people who juggle with partial commitments (ever thought of a trek as a commitment, much like how parenting is?), lazy people, idealist people, conservative people. The "lazy" could also mean lazy enough to find satisfaction in another's description, experience, imagination, or opinion; travel, on the other hand, is one's own - you can't really find help with any philosophies or opinions when running into a herd of yaks or slipping on a glacier.

"There's more in a mile than in a 100 pages of a book", somebody famous said it on Discovery Channel, yo.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Puppy Crush

Last evening, came home from a run, to shrink in horror of seeing Pup-2 lying lifeless, jaw open in the agony of his last moments. He was a month old, at best. It was only in the last week that we had noticed this litter of 6 flopping all over our neighborhood; since then I'd been a regular benefactor towards their nutrition.

I love dogs, unconditionally, and seeing one whom I'd assumed guardianship turn road meat, was very sad. I was also the one to carry his still-warm body to the garbage dump. [Coincidentally, 2 days back, I had dreamed of disposing a dead dog]

Being 99% sure that it the deed of some local car owner, who carelessly backed out from the parking without any thought of having a tiny life at the mercy of its wheels, nobody could be blamed for this. But this afternoon, I acted 'proactively', and plastered these around the neighbourhood:

My one bit.

Cooker volcano erupts, leaves man scared

Look at that. Abstract art. Right in my kitchen, on the ceiling.
Alternate title: Pressure cookers gone wild!

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Idol Crisis

It's been a while that I've been in mourning about the fall of Roger Federer in the tennis arena. He's been on a downhill roll, more so since my committed endorsement of this legend of the game. He did win the Wimbledon since my rant about that, but that was eclipsed by his loss record, and moresoever by Andy Murray's - one time Roger's least of troubles - double of an Olympic Gold (defeating who else, but Roger) and the US Open.

Next to come is Lance Armstrong, cycling idol (nay, 'god-worship' is a better word). Victories, allegations, denials, vanishing sponsors... in my eyes he's turned from a step up in the evolutionary chain, into a mafioso boss who pieced together an almost-perfect drug ring to establish that image. Having idolised Lance, I still expect some large undocumented void in this (ongoing) doping saga, and sympathize with the censure he's subject to in these days (but who isn't, the tale of the Tiger (Woods) - for mere infidelity - was a more lamentable affair).

2012 hasn't been good - I've had to drop two idols; and I'm already past that stage in life to be making idols. Should I just go further back in history to pick a figure that has sneaked away untarnished, flew away in his/her make-believe wings of gold?

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Jusqu'ici tout va bien

Surrounded by all these worldly pursuits - a cat staring at me from the cover of the book I'm (presently) reading, a dual screen glowering at me demanding code and clicks, a pair of Nikes sneaking up to my bedside asking me out on a date to the forest trails nearby, a Jane Birkin eluding me - ooh mon amour - into throes of passionate love, a couple of bananas desperately flagging me against that Snickers bar, blowing kisses to get then picked up instead, - and yet I stay sedentarily distracted for most of the day in cognizance of none of that and deliberate on the virgin wonders of the world, the unchartered frontiers that lie for me, bound in a half dream.

Born free, ain't got any money; ain't getting out - that's been the story this far. Will it go any further? Any faster? When you fall, you gain velocity, but when you climb, deceleration is the benchmark. Am I falling?

So far, so good. So far, SO GOOD...

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Brand magnet

Last week, as I went out for a run, I noticed my pan-culturalism.
I had on me 6 articles of clothing, each of which coming from 6 different malls spread across 3 states and 4 cities - (going up) shoes from Ansal Plaza, in Southex, Delhi; socks from Sahara Mall, in Lucknow, UP; shorts from DLF Emporio, in Vasant Vihar, Delhi; tee from GIP, in Noida, UP; and cap from Ambience Mall, in Gurgaon, Haryana. Five international brands - Nike, Lotto, Adidas, Puma, Jockey - were involved.

In contrast, today was a more desi affair. My socks and shorts proudly a purchase from Nehru Place flea market. My briefs - Rupa's ("अब रूपा क्या पहनेगी!") - from Rishikesh. My cap, a free gift.
Only one brand violated my desi profile - Nike, in the tee and the shoes (but for shoes there is no match for Nike in the Indian commercial space). Just noticing how brand agnostic I am, and how marginal difference apparel (except shoes) makes in performance. Had my best run today, so I might infer otherwise.

Sexual illetracy

What are you? - asexual, heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, polysexual, intersexual, pansexual, transsexual, bigender, trigender, transgender, heteroflexible, homoflexible, bi-curious, androphiliac, gynephiliac, HUG, LUG, BUG...?
Can't be sure? Me neither.

Coincidentally, I've started with Polyamorous Perversity alongside. It had a distinct design input phase, and even more distinct gameplay (as you can guess from the screenshot below).

Delhi's Hook

Well, Delhi has a hook in me now. Outside the dull, disappointing, fading professional dimension, I have found a major motivator towards health (and mental peace) in the QRP - Qila Rai Pithoria, right next door. Some days I've been leaving the office early, some days I've been skipping office altogether, so as to not miss on the single kick from the day that I get from visiting this nature's abandon at the edge of Delhi. Yes, QRP.

I'm slowly coming to fix my long-held wrong assumption, that such places were hubs for gay cruising or prostitution. The place is nothing but dense forest crisscrossed with winding trails, with the ramparts surviving from Mughal Era forming its boundary. It is least of an attraction to the Delhi-wallahs who prefer picnics - with bhutta-wallahs, mungfali-wallahs, bhelpuri-wallahs, chai-coldrinks-chips-wallahs in vicinity - to a complete escape in the cradle of nature. The ominous look it bears is unsettling to the other gender, which is why neither one finds any young birds, nor the guys who come in anticipation of birding. It's a bit too unglamorous to the young romantics as well, who find greater attraction in the Garden of Five Senses a short distance (and INR20 entry fee) away. This complex has a more gardeny garden as its front, so that is where the old folks and kids stick to (even I was unaware of the sprawling complex that lay beyond for a few weeks), which means a thinner crowd, and a happier me. As for the criminal elements, I have yet to encounter any, and my present theory is that even they find this place too deep into the bowels of nature - some shoddy Dhaba or a more primarily-located ruin would suit them better.

From personal experience, there could be no better time than dusk. I enter late, and exit too late, at nightfall. Generally I've been the last person around, huffing and panting. Thursday evening I saw a Neelgai (Blue Bull). Today I had jackals crisscrossing my path on the last lap. Despite this being the time around a new moon phase, my adjustment to severely low visibility has been really good; I'm a cat! My mind keeps going to the thought of how nervous we feel in the dark, when there's really nothing to be afraid of anymore, at least not places like these; trust my instincts on this one (despite Delhi being labeled the rape capital).

And the best part of it? The rocks. The most amazing central feature of this place, where I am found flexing my hands and slapping trees after my runs. Lado Sarai Rocks, as they are popularly known in climbing circles. The rocks are one of the best climbing locations in Delhi, and yet so undeservedly unpopular, that my heart cries in pain. There are several climbing routes marked, and I believe on some rare days some do come to practice here. I have yet to even start with my climbing ambitions, unarguably the best part about this place, but I'm already in so much love with it.

moar dream frenzy

As ugly as it gets. I have a dirty tag in me now - a killer, a coward.

I could've saved saved that shark. Now I've got to dispose of it.
I could've saved the G as well. Now his only memory is those three last frames on the tape, before the flood swept him away. Poor guy.
I could've done better with the dog as well. Now look who's got blood (and viscera) matted into his hair and into his tee, standing at the kitchen sink...
Blood, fluids, the stench, the cleaning up.
[Update: 2 days later, I was disposing away a dead dog for real - the blood, fluid, cleaning up part...]

When weird and random are coupled, its means misery for moi.
'Kafkaesque' is what best describes the varied scenes from my dreams. Still trying to find out the connect or the interpretation of these so called 'symbols' - my guess is that nothing could satisfy a yearning for explanation, so might as well just go with it instead of subjection to reflection.

My subconscious surely couldn't be influenced by my last thoughts before going to bed - of making love with electrodes on (note: not to be confused with electrostimulation) :|

Monday, October 15, 2012

High Hopes

The biggest developing news in our country is another political embezzlement scandal, the rape of a NLSIU (Bangalore) student inside the univ campus, and a celebrity wedding ("sangeet ceremony was a star-studded ball", one should revel in that fact). Now I know what India would be busy in the coming week - more protests - or, asses complaining about other asses, as it has come to be.

Meanwhile, in world, Felix Baumgartner jumped from the Earth's stratosphere to become the first skydiver to break the sound barrier, a feat unimaginable (or 'mystic') to a majority of India's populace. We are so up our own ass that we never really see any such cherished moments in our timeline anymore. Independence was it. (and my friends circles, enlightened by conspiracy theories, tell me that even that period wasn't one to feel inspired of) To find larger-than-life inspiration outside our history books is really difficult. If one looks to current affairs, the 'difficult' transforms into 'depressing'. Somebody balancing a watermelon on a 40ft pole situated on his roused privates on one of those talent shows is pretty much the best there is. Shabash!

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Nutritional deficit

Another new. I tried having a reasonably-fed day, and found that I'm, indeed, incurring a daily deficit in amount of my calories. [That matches the financial deficit I coincidentally happen to be in, but that rant is for another day.] Having rid myself of the charms of mouth-watering Chhole, Samose, and Boondi (the types made as offering in temples) right down the street, I find that eating under discipline could pose an equal health risk to me. There is just so much that I need to count for, and with the options around, its difficult. I had been tracking myself - the morning apple, the snickers bar(s), the cappuccino, the Sub.

After foreseeing a grand deficit as the day neared closing, I had to surrender to being social - and even then, the South Indian fare of Vadas and Masala Dosa only helped me so much as to halve the deficit, but not give a full cover. If I were a labourer and had to work at a construction site each day, I'd develop some fatal disease by the end of my third sack of cement, probably. But thanks to being that man behind the machine - that most of us have grown into - I can work (which involves mental faculties and dexterity, but no mobility) despite the starvation. My shortfall of yesterday measures 563 - also to consider that I burnt away 564 just in the cycling to the South Indian place.

Today, this far, I've been keeping myself regularly fed. I'm almost halfway into the day, and I've counted for almost half the daily need, which is keeping with the expectation - but beverages make for a third of those, so that's something to be wary of. Khichdi's gonna be next, to make my day.

Romantic couplets of the men that make the nation mobile

चाय में रंग नहीं बनता दूध के बिना
महफ़िल में रंग नहीं बनता आपके बिना

तुझे तकदीर से चुरा लेने का मन है करता
तेरी एक तस्वीर से मेरा मन नहीं भरता

With all the grimy travel involved these days, I'm gonna keep a log of these. I've been long fascinated by the images - from days of Madhuri Dixit, Rani Mukherjee, to Katrina Kaif - complemented with these shitty romantic couplets, found pasted on truck/bus/auto/tempo windscreens. These guys probably develop their romantic notions from it - more likely (just my perception here) that the prettier the picture and the saltier the couplet, the better they jerk off.

Tuesday, October 09, 2012

Fighting (for) depression

"Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth."Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

For greatness, I need depression. Looking at the state of things, I deserve depression. Somehow I don't find myself there - fighting some overwhelming feeling of failure, listening to NIN's Hurt, holding sharp objects while contemplating, calling up friends and weeping over the phone... clearly something's horribly wrong. Depression feels like my prerogative at this moment, and yet here I am, satisfied; maybe even... that H word... Happy.

To make amends, I got hold of a friend - M - recently diagnosed with thyroid complications, for which the prescribed medicine warned (for me, advertised) of certain side effects, one among those being - TADA! - depression. I was very excited to call up, and find M in a state of depression as a result of the meds - which confirmed the efficacy of those pills, - to get out of which I recommended we met up, Friday itself. Alongside, I asked M for some of the medicine too. God bless Thyroid. I had a weekend of depression to look ahead to. FUN!

We met, went out to Pizza Hut, where we talked, and sampled from their ongoing Italian carnival. All was fine till the point that I paid the bill in courtesy, only to find M having taken the medication thing lightly, and having none at hand. All I got was a "LOL, really?" expression. So, there, my plans were squashed. That made me feel so sad, that I almost went into depression. But I didn't, so, fail, again.

Monday, October 08, 2012

Cat Phase

I am a cat. That's the name of the book I'm presently into - a book about a noname cat, by a Japanese legend, Natsume Soseki, which is, as I've come to perceive, the forerunner of all cat monology that's popular now. This morning I overstayed my morning at home, to finish its first volume (its a three-volume novel) - and enjoyed it.

Not to forget is Henri the cat, also a recent discovery (its been trending only recently, maybe that's why). But its most entertaining.

Virgin ideas

One archaic concept still dominant in our present (Indian subcontinent) society is that of keeping one's virginity intact. Humour me here - so a girl could talk dirty, watch porn, flirt, go out, exchange saliva (and a variety of other fluids), let you annihilate their breasts, give and get blowjobs, let you finger her, even let you take her anally, and still call herself that - virgin? I know a lot through shared experience to register this rant - thanks, friends (and smaller subsets). It's just too hard for us guys to comprehend what a girl means when she claims being that. I guess is equally hard (or harder) the other way round, when a guy makes such claims.

It's quite like asking for vegetarian food, then being served a plate piled with dog meat, bull testicles, roast cockroach, and snake viscera, and then foolishly asking "you sure there's no chicken in it?" How can someone imagine us to believe in the concept of "virgin" anymore, and why are these people keen on passing this futile notion to their offspring?

Iambic Tetrameter, you say?

Doug H is the geekiest person I can claim to have come across in my quest for learning and emoting. His process is amusing, baffling. Amusing for all the minutiae involved, obviously, which makes him t3h geek. But it is also baffling to see how easily he lays out his personal domestic life, that would mirror the same for any other guy sans the geekery; that I see as coming from fixed stable definition of a society and of what is expected of him. It comes as so straightforward that he needs not have any opinion or bent mandates on it, a geek who stays fixed to his skill than in social moral mores ethics. Marriage, kids, education - they are just meant to be that way. I admire and envy him, as I begin with his intro to Eugene Onegin.

Man-crush, you say? Probably. Envy? Probably that, too.

Sunday, October 07, 2012

You've to give me some credit here. I'm into 9th year of blogging - which is about half a life lived since the time that I started blogging - and yet the same traits of a strife-torn, caustic, impulsive, foolhardy (and adventurous, I dare say?) life reflect in my daily dealings. Laziness continues to dominate my days. Special (twisted) turn of events follows in a far second place. Consistency, if any, comes last. There are still elements of conventional living that my brain circuitry short-circuits at - planning, responsibility, professionalism, propriety, excess fat, television, romancing, etc. I do occasionally fall into the social trap, but with advanced scientific means, cut my way out of it, only to fall into a deeper abyss of (seeming) nothingness where directions mean nothing, and the purest of emotions and intents are only a distraction from the realization that one is to hit the bottom sooner or later. Would it be applicable to call this my Catch-22?
I'm in no mood to humour you here - its a condition you can be apathetic to, but not be ignorant of.

Wednesday, October 03, 2012

Restoring Feminity

This was so offensive that I had to paste it on my blog wall.

What I wasn't prepared for, however, was where the click on the ad led me to - a website marketing something called a "natural vaginal tightening gel", which provedly "Improves grip and strength of the vagina".
Agreed, that I don't know girls and what they desire. But I fucken never came across a guy who'd call this restoring femininity. I can see the contrast in those that inhabit this planet, in that I was listening to Nicki Minaj's edgy vocals in (KW's) Monster, and at the same time, of reading about a product, for which a market clearly exists. Where are my feminist brethren? Girls, are you buying such stuff?

The rotating banners say it loud:
* "After all these years in love, we have fallen in love again"
* "Now, every time feels like it's for the first time"
* "Just when we thought our wild days are over, we started all over again"

This is just an overload. I should just stick to slashdot and hackernews - at least the drivel is met with sharp, devastating critique and downvotes.

Tuesday, October 02, 2012

G ecosystem

Found: some post-monsoonal residents of the fields, where I presently am.

If last night was a tiring and embarrassing affair, today was quite the opposite. The sounds of nature are so intoxicating that I need no other drug. I'm floored by the collective cacophony of the cicadas that is now my favorite sound, and also makes me wanna be a sound engineer who can preserve these for the future - the death of some of my favorite insect species will need suitable elegies.
I can't recall seeing such dominance of insect species over the avian species earlier, especially from an aesthete's PoV. The spiders are at their most flamboyant. So are the crickets - I got rare (macro) footage of one munching on a petunia.
Talking about petunias... don't even let me come to flowers - they are in abundance, one for each of my lady likes ;)

disturbing their peace

I've been flipping out since my arrival back into the domain of nature. The shrill sound of cicadas is beautiful, almost unimaginably so, especially when in an ensemble, as right now. I've been chasing cicadas around, teasing grasshoppers about, and even molesting inanimate petunias. Later I might climb Montpellier and stalk foxes. The macro mode has been my best friend today, and presently I long for an SLR with a good macro lens.

Presently I also long for something else.


Historic day. I missed my first train. Not only does 2012 mark first tie I shooed any journey, but also one where I missed my first train. Both these incidents, however, were separate, and potently I'm combining my journey and shall be in kgm tomorrow morning as planned. I chose bus journey for an alternate, managed to get on the last train bound for av and managed to find a seat on the last bus to haldwani. It's been a dirty end to the day. But I have better things to look forward to, so can ignore this blemish on my travel record.

This year has been a string of narrow escapes, do this feels like a progression. But rest assured, I'm never mission another one. Tonight I travel in this rickety buys with front row view, and considering three pleasant weather I might enjoy the rude. Only hope that roads have improved, as on all past travels on this highway we've been stuck one place our other to reach few hours late, which translates to extra hours of discomfort. Out now.

Monday, October 01, 2012

some old s**t

(possibly too drunk, ca June)
This is epic. After a round of kingfisher beer, and stalking some social sciences chick named Cunningham, we're going to have 'aloo ke gutuk', the connect to our pahariness and away from our desi-ness.

Guy #2 is out already, and Guy #1 is going crazy in demand for a quick escape - to him I can only wish some gal who could escape the propriety and come straight to the benefits instead...

But my evenings rarely stay out - out on the rooftop - this way. They usually go: dead, phone call, dead. I might be dead soon.

Leaving for the office, happy

I'm leaving for the office, happy. The happiness has nothing to do with the office, however, for I'm leaving home as less an employee and more a traveller. Once the day's mask of profession is done, I won't be returning home - and head out for the station instead, where commences a train journey which would have me at the Shivalik foothills by tomorrow morning. I delayed my exit thrice, cleaned my apartment twice, had a modest yet heavy breakfast, packed and repacked for the journey (I'm breaking the one bag tradition this time, though laptops demand an exception from this rule), and had the ritual weekly cleansing after which I am gonna stay ignorant to various terms of contemporary hygiene for about a week. Strict abstinence from food until tomorrow when I get access to a toothbrush (note: my toothbrush).

It has been a while that I snuck outside this urban bog and found myself breathing in the fresh air of you-know-where - it feels like an year since, albeit records confirm I was in zones of elevation a month back (Mukteshwar/G.). Experientially, a full 4 week/ends of detachment is enough to cause severe psychosomatic symptoms ("the psychosomatic nature of man" - Herbert Ratner), so I have a lot of repair to do.

After a lotta deliberation, it was decided to keep both the nifty Tab and the bulky laptop. Earlier, I'd convinced myself of completely shirking work for this week, but now I think I might want to pull off an idea or two in my seclusion (outside the hours I'm being transformed into a khaate-peete-ghar-ka-ladka by mom, who'd be there, too, as would be the company of my entire extended family... so now one gets why productivity might be a futile expectation). One thing I really want to work right this time is the Tab - on previous occasions it has misbehaved on roaming for reasons I don't get); ultimately I wanna see it (the Tab) as my one gadget on future trips, so I can publish/store/share my meanderings as they happen, assisted by the power of the Swype keyboard, at my lazy comfort.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Coffee and early hours

Coffee is a scam, I'm pretty convinced now. Now wonder why I've adopted it as a comfort beverage, often in the hours preceding sleep. Don't jump on me, "but you're talking about milk coffee, it doesn't count" coz I've tried the black one as well (from time to time, with great hope), and besides causing facial distortion - that resembles the look when one is trying to ward off an Indian beggar, - it didn't help with the sleep. Its coffee that I had trying to fend off a sleepy morning, which then escalated into total sleep (on the desk itself) for almost an hour. Productivity must be sneering at me from some corner right now.

The day didn't begin so bad as I entered the complex really early - early enough to justify my continued possession of the sole set of office keys. No, really, past few days of past coupla weeks, my routine resonated with Dylan Moran's (see: Black Books S1E02): "Half ten! I've never been up at half ten. What happens?" - I, too, know that nothing happens. Nobody does anything productive, this time is filled with mundane stuff.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

My Monthly Zeitgeist

Just for keeping a track on recent past...

I had Google do a report on my Account Activity (use this link)

Let the world know that my top search query was: Ranjeet - the rape god of Bollywood cinema! To think of it, I can't imagine how or why I'd be into him so much. I should open a fanclub, if there's none on facebook, or if doesn't exist.

Happy to see me accessing from all 3 widely available platforms: Windows, Android, iPad. Is something missing... um, probably not. LINUX!

Of the browsers, I count for 3: Chrome, Safari, MSIE (ugh). I dunno where Firefox is - I'm probably using it for too much anonymous browsing. Gone are the days when experimental browsers would've shown activity from my account.

Of the "most contacted", one name debuts, and debuts straight at the top! The M is milking my time and my statistics.
Its lousy to find that Airtel helpdesk appears as my third most contacted contact, which isn't a good indicator of my social life.

I had no activity on Picasa or Google Latitude, which is a shame, and also a reminder that I must adopt the concept of 3g-enabled travel all the more.

But I'd have to say this report is sketchy. I don't know which all devices I have tracking enabled on, or if Google uses browser-specific cookies or something on their side.

Trust me, it's palatable

Would you trust if I tell you this is on the menu? What if I let you know its one of the best concoction mixes?

Since "2 girls 1 cup", the world will never be the same. How we see a certain texture will never be the same. But that is no ground to question my concoctions, that has a new secret ingredient so healthy and nutritious that I've adopted it into my lifestyle.
The secret ingredient is S - it won't be familiar to those outside the North Indian context or the bourgeoisie. I should write more about it later.

So, the chef-at-large in me is back sharing the good stuff.

coming undone - नाड़ा सूत्र

I miss my mom right now - the utility of having a mother, that is. I'm stuck in a situation outside my guy's experience, one that only my mom has a proven record of fixing. I guess all moms do.

So it was, that after 8 months of abuse, the elastic thread (its called - नाड़ा - in my geography) on my tracksuit came undone. It was an army tracksuit bought from the Indian Army store in Leh in January during the Chadar Trek. I had my days of wearing the tracksuit as it was meant to be, then wearing it with a slack thread that was slightly embarrassing and had the phrase "wardrobe malfunction" linger in my head, then wearing it with a thread so close to being undone (and well beyond embarrassing) that I had to dangle it down the insides of my tracksuit, where it'd be tickling my ankles. From that last stage it only took a careless tug to have it come out completely.

Being kids, we could always run to our respective moms, holding our slack pajamas with one hand (lessons in keeping modesty) and the elastic thread in other, and go (to the effect of) "मम्मी! नाड़ा लगा दो". They'd be prepared for it. Furnishing out their tools - a hair clip, and a coupla' knitting needles, or sometimes a thin ruler - our moms would fix it in no time. Indian pajamas come in two varieties - the regular ones with a vanilla thread hole, and a special one where the thread hole is a sadistic crumpled affair. It was a general expectation for our Moms to be educated for either.

Living a bachelor, I could only stare at the undone thread of my tracksuit, and miss Ma. That I had a thread hole of the sadistic variety made it all the more daunting. I had neither the skill not the toolset to get this done. Then I thought to improvise. Scissors failed, so did a pencil and a very thin-bodied Staedtler roller ball pen. So what was the closest equivalent of a knitting needle I could think of - porcupine quills (collected over the past few years in traversing through Indian jungles). So far, they only served for novelty; now was a time for application. After a dodgy start, I got a hang of doing it right, and in a single neat stroke had the thread all the way to my right waistpocket. Having no hair clip was a clear disadvantage beyond this point. But determination wins over a lotta handicaps, and soon I had it all the way to my left backpocket. After that, a dirty stitch line couldn't let me go any further with the quill. So I got to using hands - a slow, laborious, hit-or-miss effort. But I had my string out the other side, finally. HIGH FIVE!

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Steve worship

This guy, Steve, the other one, is a real enigma. You understand some people who go on ambition, you understand some who go by trends, but rarely the ones who does something so zany that they might just become trends.

Steve Wozniak is now going for an Australian citizenship. One of his cited reasons was a "$35.9 billion National Broadband Network (NBN) [that] aims to connect all Australians to superfast Internet by 2021 in a move the government hopes will transform the country's economy". Endorsing a country for the reasons of its features is futuristic. Imagine a time when human efficiency would be driven to such levels, that each specimen is a goldmine of talent, in hunt of which, countries would be scouting the whole solar system (yes, we'd have expanded to multiple planets by then) and giving a pitch for their land, after which the specimen would make his choice of citizenship. [then these countries grow resources to a specific level and upon that fulfillment engage in a bloody international combat until they deplete all their forces and then start again]

Also note that he was a rare nerd to come on Dancing With the Stars. Damn, I wish Stephen Hawking would've come on that show.

Maxing out on sleep

Oh boy, sure am having the best of sleeps in this new place that I've moved into (and that I'm now supposed to move out of - but that's for another narrative). I've occupied the innermost room, or the "pimp room" as I call it 1. This room sees no light, which is fabulous for my purpose. I could not tell day from night unless I steal a peek at the watch on the Windows 7 dashboard; I could not even tell whether it was 12:58PM (with a coupla' hours either side) without having performed the aforementioned. It is this kind of place I find myself comfy in, and the body is as the body does - it makes the best of everything. No wonder why I'm rousing into wakefulness at 12:58PM writing this blogpost, while I should be out there either working or pwning CISF jawans.

The sleep is so good that I'm not dreaming anymore. That kinda worries me, as I've always found my dreams - as weird as they get - to give me really fun analysis to do through the day. There have been no french girls piggybacking me lately, no dogs with oversized jaws chasing, no murders to investigate, no hanging out with dead friends, no sorceresses making out, no deaths, no snakes. If Freud had me under observation, he'd pull me out on the grounds of sleeping too peacefully. Maybe the weird part of me stems from this interface between my conscious and subconscious, breaking which might just make me less abnormal, which I dread! Freaky is good sometimes.

At a more worldly evaluation, I've already expressed how it affects my professional life (which I'm expecting to terminate soon - but that's for another narrative as well). Besides that, now my "regimen" also bears a fractured look - I didn't go out this morn as well, much like yesterday, which means that my sub-90-minute half-marathon ambitions will not be realized this Sunday; I'll probably be running like the other gazillion who show up in the name of validation.

*1 with an ulterior vision to convert it into a base for the debauched (okay, exaggerated word usage), so that friends come expecting a death, and really do find it here. Death, here, means an overnight re-appropriation of one's worldly (and otherworldly) concerns - and the modes of death being an assortment of alco, (evil) music, (evil) conversations, flavored hookah, tobacco, cannabis indica, bob hope, and Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche readings. Note the emphasis on evil - yes, it has to be, so none of your Justin Bieber, or Arcade Fire, or Coldplay, or T20 cricket get involved.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

So it goes


I miss u :( :*
At times my heart sinks.! :(
I really really really miss u.!
Really really a lot :’(
I love u like crazy <3

Oh, you don't know how much I miss you TODAY. I need you, more than ever. My day sucked. My life probably sucks, too, in your void. You were right - that life's too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes. I do not hate people, but I hate people who - twice or thrice my age - fuck up (i.e. make these perfectly horrible mistakes), and drag others into it. I had a day with this certain somebody, and it didn't end with me keeping my cool.

:* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
Thinking about you, and thanking you, I compulsively ended up getting this. I hope we're meeting around the weekend - but Friday seems to far :’( I miss u like crazy.!!!
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :*


That something is something that

Something that is born always dies. To prove the otherwise, finding something that never dies would obviously satisfy.

But what about something that never gets born - wouldn't that be satisfactory, too? "Something that is never born, never dies." But if that something is never born, how can we give it an existence? - the mere conception of that something will be the process of its creation. Hence it always has to be born, and yet not necessarily die.

Saturday, September 22, 2012


Its been a while that I've written about myself, or written at all. Almost two weeks, now. Its funny to see how our modes of validation and identity expression could go an overnight reversal. Its also funny to notice how identities change, and that its a game we are playing actively. Eating Snickers has given me enough courage to, presently, root myself at my desktop and go snapping at the keys about how my days have been.

Let me start with today. We'll go in reverse. Its been intensely crappy. I haven't seen sunlight, so to say, if not for the paranoid glances outside from the balcony. I'm in a state where I never want to forget yesterday and all but remember today. Besides a culinary detour - of finding the secret taste of roasted rajmah beans - I haven't been anywhere. I managed to notice the chrome reversal (aka fresh coat of paint) on my apartment stairs. I've kept myself reasonably-fed.

I don't know what I'm lacking and I don't know what I have. Sometimes I feel so small and sometimes I'm the big bad wolf.

Youtube discovery route

aka the efficient timepass trail
- Little Miss Philippines eps
- Reactions to '2 girls 1 cup'
- What's Trending uploads
- The Two Ronnies sketches

Thursday, September 20, 2012

10k deserves sleep?

Sometimes things feel like perfect, until some aspect - so blatantly ignored - knocks at your consciousness, and then you find yourself consumed in that. For me, it was sleep. And sleep is one thing that inspiring performances cannot evade, but rather only ask for more of. A sleep of 5 hours clearly didn't cut it.
A 10k run clearly didn't help either - no matter how inspired I was to have dragged myself out from my 'pimp room' (which sees no light) at breaking dawn of 0530AM, taken on the mongrels running the streets in the hours of the night, skirting the bad patches and the garbage dumps (that shrivel the nose and spoil the S. Delhi experience), and made it to Yogi's to finish my run, and in its aftermath get my motorbike back home, zipping at 90kmph with my beanie helmet and tears streaming from my eyes.
I reach home tired, and despite that, take an appropriate shower, was clothes, make myself a great omelette, and get ready for a solid professional routine by 0810. All that, until I take to the bed, and wake up 3 hours later with the guilt of mismanagement.

The sleep was much-needed, so I can't curse myself. But I sure could've slept a coupla' hours earlier than I did - modern communication marvels are more like personal doomsday devices, and as much as I love staying close to my gadgets, I loathe them all the same. [did wake up dreaming about someone's tits, but dreams are not to be trusted, those untimely puzzles to the subconscious]

Things couldn't have gone worse, with my motorbike picking a puncture enroute, which made an hour vanish from my day like magic.
[While at the repair shop, however, I was fascinated by the local fauna - a black bee (what we call भँवरा bhanwra), a red wasp (not the yellow ones), and two sneaky spiders]

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Monkey bite

It was painful. He had never been bit by a rabid monkey before. He couldn't be sure if it was a monkey or not, for it just - seemingly - glided in from the Neem tree outside and had him in the grip of its jaws. Were we to allow this to be passed into folklore, it could end up being interpreted as a spirit, too - they loved batmanning from Neem in our mythology, anyways. Calling something what its not - especially calling something the unknown - lends it a longevity that'd surpass some of the greater achievements of our generation, such are human tendencies. Exaggeration is another; soon we'd have a whole tale in our hands that relies on (reversed) experiences and ends with something blasting into a million pieces with the destruction of evil.

But lets just for once focus on the fact that he had been bit, and bit like never before. All he was doing was trying to do was inquire of the rain outside, just poking his head out for a while. He didn't get wet (as it had stopped raining), but got much more.

Now he's blank about what to do. Sure, administering 'jections and other drugs is okay, but not any less embarrassing than anything else. Embarrassment lies at every step ahead. That is the consternation. He was a fool enough to do what he did, and no less a fool in how he's handling it at the moment by not consulting a professional. No outside involvement, you see. The bite is gaining its own character now; everyday there's a ring of new color around the tiny little bite mark, swelling so fast that soon it might not be hidden anymore. The pain is fluctuating, receding around the evenings but prominently felt around the sleep cycles. Dreams, he hopes won't be too influenced by it. Last night he dreamed of defecating; for a fact we know that monkeys defecate in resolving territorial disputes.
If he were to have a kingdom, that monkey-thing would be the most wanted criminal today.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

One Mere Rotation

The storm growing brighter
The frames getting lighter
The planes fanning wider
The riders going sprighter
The doom's gate appearing whiter
The sunset bloom receding tighter
The blinkers choking a fighter
The ghosts scaring a biker

On the 22" IPS LCD the Spiti memories of a mere month back seem so nostalgic (and courageous, too). I sometimes find myself lost of where I'm to start finding myself.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Romeo fail

This was the line I used on a (female) friend a day back, before we were to catch up on lives, in the company of the Agave bomb aka tequila.
me: romeo and juliet and tequila
friend: i aint any juliet :D

Sure I scared her. But it turned out to be a day for Romeo and Juliet, indeed - the cigar brand, let me clarify, in case someone had assumed something else. Romeo Y Julieta Puritos, to be specific, a lot purchased from that sole cigar store in GIP, Noida that now seems to be on the course of bankruptcy (their main stall shut down and they stack a narrowing variety now).

I'd tried one on the Mukteshwar trip, and besides the novelty factor it didn't impart much flavor to the evening. I tried one yesterday, and it was the same dull experience. One clearly doesn't make friends on these Cubans - the draw is light, the flavor is just that of smoke, and the lingering aroma is negligible for any occasion. This was after I changed my choices, being promised a fresh stock of these against an older stock of what I was gonna purchase earlier.

My cigar spree was at its peak around the same time last year (blame it on the Monsoons?). The Cohibas were much better. Even the Monte Cristo cigarillos (which people say are of residual tobacco, and not a 'cigar' anyways) got more likes. On the level of phony, the Phillies chocolate cigars were also okay and had a dense draw.
R&J are just a disappointment. I've got three cigars left, and unless somebody asks for it right now, I'll be spending them on evenings with wannabe-cigar-aficionados who will smoke anything that burns and looks like a cigar - the taste of good alco shall probably mask the cigar experience, as it did yesterday.
[yesterday... yesterday... yesterday...
no don't cut to yesterday, i just got here
[see: BFM 9]

Reader subculture

"Is that a book on computers?" this guy standing behind me in the queue (a mile-long queue for the subway train) poked his head out front and asked. I was fascinated to learn of his ignorance, as he had no clue from the author's name on the cover, Camus, in size matching that of the book's title.
"No, its fiction," I replied, curtly.
"Oh, science fiction"
"No, just fiction"
I was already imagining some techie seeing others in his skin, until he clarified...
"Rebel was a supercomputer that played chess. I thought it was about that." [wiki-wisdom: the Rebel had probably stayed in his head since it beat vishwanathan anand (the Indian chess genius) in 1998]
Now it was me who was short on clue. I just put pretended being a complete media illiterate instead of a half-geek.
"I only know about that.. IBM one"
"Oh, yeah, Deep Blue, that is one, too"
I spotted a book in his hands as well, which turned out to be some Russian spy thriller. I'm sure it was a horrible one.

When we finally got in, this guy, much like me, hadn't boarded the first of the trains for it being too crowded, and hopped on to the next one, and again much like me, whipped out his book as soon. There was a third guy in a short radius busy in his own book in a spacious corner. Its nice identifying a sub-culture of readers.

What the third guy was reading had my eyes wide for a moment: "Tommy Boys, Lesbian Men, and Ancestral Wives". [googling tells its a book on the lesbian culture prevalent under the hood throughout Africa]. You don't find many into this kinda stuff.

PS: im almost about to be done with the introduction to The Rebel after a week of reading