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

Sunday, September 09, 2012

Breaking Bad

"No duplicates!" the old man living downstairs had said with a Major's authority, as he handed me a key to the lobby entrance of the new dwelling I've shifted my base to. Here I am, a few days later, at this prominent Delhi intersection, getting the duplicates done, having snuck out the lock right under his nose and against the reigning authority And it wasn't like an in-out job, too - I had to pilfer the humble lobby lock thrice over the course of the day; the first two times were a miss, as the keymaker - one hella unreliable fella, whom I learnt was more frequent to the bar than to his roadside shack - was missing from his... shack; the third time was enough for me to drive out to the more trusted of keymakers a bit far, where I am right now at this prominent Delhi intersection. I will deceive the old man twice his unexpectation, as I have asked for two duplicates to be done. Enough of disturbed chains of logic.

In the meantime I can occupy myself at the sight of imbecilic antics of these two kids - a boy and a girl of about the same (6-ish) age - whose guardian apparently thought it a good idea to give these kids fresh air at this polluted and dangerous venue (not to forget the filthy uncovered runnels). There's also a derelict girl (selling balls made of motley bright patches) sitting exhausted and tearing apart one such defective ball, a girl of ~16, whom I imagine could fare better than many women of high standing after a mere bath and wardrobe upgrade. Its a sad thought, but I don't lament her condition for too long. I have some other kick.

In the next few minutes, chaos ensues at the intersection, as the traffic lights, which were dead this far, suddenly come to life, and that too in a maniacal fashion - first they blink orange in harmony, and then abruptly go red (yes, all of them, at once), and then turn green (all at once, again), and then abruptly begin to function responsibly. All this happens before your average Dilliwala could realize some mischief or malfunction involved. Then arrives a confused traffic cop to investigate into the chaos whose origin seems at this hub of keymakers (and their clients), mischievous kids and fatigued bystanders - the lazy arm of authority finally manifesting; he fiddles with a small dashboard with several buttons, then irritably announces foul play, then walks away in anguish - and probably under the assumption of teaching a lesson to one of the kids the next time. The evil smile (one that a friend, S, had perceived in the remoteness of Jispa with the Intrepid 4) briefly appears. I love kids.

Friday, September 07, 2012

Foodie's Night Out with HD

Me: now featuring with an added 2.2 kCals, after the dinner - comprising of a variety of meats, in a variety of preparations, and 4 kind of desserts (served twice). As irresponsible towards my manliness is to be consuming meat, equally irresponsible towards my health is to be turning my tummy into a industrial processing unit. I can now imagine my body machinery dedicating itself to assimilating nutrition from all the unprocessed stuff for the next few days, which doesn't fit with the workout ambitions. She must be really mad at me, at this repeated promise of me taking her out, but being unable to, on the account of a tragic state of my valve. For a moment jerking off in the comforts of my espacio grande seems more beneficial than such social commitments; there's Camus to read as well. But being me, I'm overcommitted in these last days in Lko, as a result of which I should be prepared to suffer my being for the entire day tomorrow as well.

Thursday, September 06, 2012

Dem gayl h8 my taste

Read this. A shared link (and no, not someone making her preference known).
By end of the first para, my thoughts went... "i have a hairy chest and geeky antics!"
By end of the article... "oh shit, why didnt i wait till the second para"
Since surveys are an average, am I supposed to fucken hate Indian girls now, on an average? On the other hand I could just trash the article, both for the trifling concerns it promotes, as well as the media source that puts it out there (reminder: ToI is a blot on journalism). No I'm not "groovy" for an Indian girl, but - in all likelihood - neither is wisdom too attractive for that person.

But why am I cribbing about trifling fornication prospects when I could be bragging about my 16 inches of penis foodie delight in this city of Lucknow, about that Achari Gosht and Biryani at Lalbagh that I'm gonna be returning back to again and again. With the addition of the T, alone, into my social nexus, hangouts and street cruising have been transformed into wiser (albeit sometimes illegal) affairs. [there's also the S and his new Wagon R to thank, but nothing beats what the T brings] The T is one who will always be available for that need of wasting an evening in general. It was that, today.
The S picked me up from my place, then we picked up the T from his place, then drove around, until settling in a shady nook, with shady intents. The T, the S, and I, each found a role, which went towards making that final roll. Once the roll was enrolled did we roll out to have a scrumptious meal, then follow up with our 'kulhad' of lassi (that cost the same as our meal earlier). I wanted more of everything we'd had this far, but sadly these guys were done for the day.
Tomorrow it'll be beer and Rogan Josh (some outlet near Novelty Cinema) on our itinerary. I'm looking into medical procedures for removal of my entire food tract, after all the masala of this city that has featured in my tummy lately.

Dil Aisa...



लल्ले [nutjobs] - why couldn't they rather be snorkeling, or flying RC planes, or trying to locate the Susu? I dont get this song - he's on a boat, amidst beautiful scenery, with the Katrina Kaif equivalent of those days (Sharmila Tagore), and still wasting his time singing that. Unless Ms. Tagore is playing a robot in that movie, he should be jumping on her on that boat.

Self-loathing is annoying. Its also, however, addictive - I could sing that song about the pathetic programming paradigm Javascript has exposed me to, for somebody coming from a world of C++.

Cat's Existentialism


This to preface my start with Camus' "The Rebel", that I located on Pa's bookshelves just this morning. Its strange why I hadn't laid my hands on it earlier, when I was on my unmatched reading streak, coming across some very formative gems of writing in succession. Frankly, I don't know what the book would be about, to have tagged it outright "existential". Whatever it is, I'm hopeful it gets me some nice booty.

Tuesday, September 04, 2012

Darkness and dreams

From catching a brief glimpse in to the discrete charm of the bourgeoisie on my media-box through much of the night, I take a break now that my own discreteness can manifest, as it nears daybreak - just another coupla' hours to go. I step outside. Outside, I cozy myself against a dark corner on the rooftop, in all abandon (except a funny feeling of being beheaded by a violent lightning strike, as I sit right under an iron rod, in the month of the monsoonal rage that might whip up any moment and send thunderbolts screaming towards the terra firma). Here, I am among the shadows, of zero existence as far as this scene of this night is concerned, a mere observer, a pure detachment - and I like that. A dark grin first comes on my face, merging well with my dark place, a grin about all that we can do to take ourselves far and high, to drive away from the ordinary, to give us an identity, to save us some satisfactory thought for our last moments to have us die with a peaceful expression on the face despite fighting a biological reality. And I chuckle at that thought. Then I proceed into 'waking my big toe' - to spur myself into action (however I interpreted that scene in Tarantino's Kill Bill) - and try to look 'ahead'.

I get no delusions. My head is blank, if not for inspiration from my senses that give it processing to do and accidentally triggering some thought chain or two, or scanning some slice in our memory - what we call being pensive [see: pensee]. Such sensory input does come - through my vision, of the high wall of the neighbour's adjoining plot - and in the next second I see myself high up there... way high up than the wall itself, atop a fancy summit, bearing deep pink cheeks and a wide smile and a pink tongue rolled out dripping with saliva - in greed for life. I'm perturbed as well, mulling over two things: the time I have to build my dreams, and that which I have to chase those. Not all dreams can come true, as the aphorism goes, but I guess this is one single fact that drives me closer to being a fool, because I'm never gonna heed it in all my wisdom.

The cool air erases these images from my mind, and brings with it an image from a more certain future - one where I'm to start on the bananas to fuel myself on the morning run with S, to the stadium and thereon to that street where nice girls come out in the mornings, and back home to load on a scrumptious breakfast, to drift into sleep while worrying about shirking work yet again.

Monday, September 03, 2012

jalebi guy

Indian kickstart food had me pinned down for the day. After having liberal servings of jalebi, kachori, dhokla, matar poori - and also to include tea, and milkshake, - I went into an alternate reality (of dreams) that I only returned from around noon. And guess what, more food followed soon as I stepped down from the cushy bed since it was already lunch. Pamper is the right word here.

Only now that the sun nears the horizon does my day seem to have started. The gears finally feel like shifting now that I've solved the annoying issue of getting BSNL to work on the new modem, which calls for a celebration as I now get to use the Belkin with the crappy Rocknet connection. Following the resurrection of the internet, D pinged me on gtalk and reminded of some professional stuff, which I could easily shirk but will take up for a change (for a change in the past year and a half, that is). [so far I had 'smoking pot' on the itinerary, but seems like plans need be revised]

In other news, I was dreaming like it was a disease. There were people I knew, but not like that; there were buses trapped in floods, with me making my last minute exit; there were lakes and huge aquatic creatures out to get me. I guess sleeping too sound all this while in my dark chamber (aka pimp room) has left me with a backlog, or maybe sleep processing isn't a transparent process outside my dark chamber which is why I'm seeing all the more.

[PS: title of this post is supposed to be a pun on 'jalebi bai']

Saturday, September 01, 2012

Nasty Hurt

I worry about my phone. It offends me that the device, which had once produced some of the most beautiful voices and frank admissions in my life, could now sink so low as to become a mere receptacle for the futile and perhaps angry remonstrances of my friends.
Some of them call up to say they hate me; some of them call up to say they hate me even more. Collectively, they share the responsibility for the present condition of my pyloric valve, which I need not elaborate upon. Oh how they forget that soon, they will hate all change, much like they hate me - me, who intends no hurt.

Speaking of hurting... featuring me, twice in the past week.
First to come was my leg, banged against a cliff (in an attempt to scale it). Left me with a deep bruise.

Next to come was my left toenail, in a moment's excitement of indoor football with my bro. Its probably uprooted, and hurt a lot. I'm gonna wait till it falls off, then keep it in my uprooted nail index.
Gruesome!




Friday, August 31, 2012

Mandala finished - I'm no wiser

Two consecutive days of facepalm. Yesterday it was the incident with the Army guys. The day before was when I finished with Jamyang Norbu's "Mandala of  Sherlock Holmes" in the last hours in Gethia (Nainital). Oh, I'd - so eagerly - ordered it from Flipkart to wrap myself in a beautiful lingering memory...

The novel went from exciting to a pulp fiction by the last chapters - I was eagerly finishing my chapters in the first couple of reads, but on this last read I was praying for it to stop; the incredulous moments and illogical subplots took me off balance. There was a Jung's UFO-Mandala essay (for effect to something like a digestif) that seemed either misplaced or misprinted.

The book, though less on imagination, is soaked in some very interesting trivia - I loved the descriptive settings, objects, and customs around the middle of 19th century. If I ever try this book again, I'd need to sit with two dictionaries - a regular one, and one for the 'quot erat...' type latin phrases.
There's a hunch that I might give it away by the next time I feel like having it... any takers?

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Fight for Your Right

By the time I'd left the office, it was dark, and I was tired. Another inconvenient Tuk Tuk ride followed, and I was at Sikandarpur Metro station. That is when another tiring incident took place.

As I was standing along the platform balcony, watching the Gurgaon skyline and my office buildings visible in the distance, a security guard accosted me - these are CISF jawans (NCOs) on duty protecting this valuable commuter service, in the lingering threat of female emancipation and terrorism. I turned around to find three of them surrounding me. To lend from Ignatius Reilly, “Like a bitch in heat, I seem to attract a coterie of policemen and sanitation officials. ”

It seemed casual. I should've known that a facepalm moment was in the coming.

"आप काफी देर से खड़े हो..."
"हाँ, तो?"
"ट्रेन भी छोड़ दी अपपने, दो तीन..."
"तीन?"
"हाँ, मैं देख रहा था "
[in reality, i only skipped one train, which too wasnt bound for my destination, which I tried to clarify]
"एक ही ट्रेन छोड़ी है, Sir, वो भी सुल्तानपुर वाली "
"जो भी है, आप साइड से हट जाइये "
[what they were upto was herding bystanders towards the platform, at their personal whim, in the name of security]
"क्यों? मैंने क्या किया?"

At my protest, all three of them jawans grouped ganged up, and asked me to move away, as if their job was making collective strategies to abuse civilians and countering accountability. I asked them for names, but they were more insistent on bossing around. It was annoying, and annoyance is easy to read from my face - always look for that expression of 'ludicrous' on my face and a narrowing of eye slits and a confusion in tone (as a civil society in the urban world is one place I can't do with irrational argumentation - the truckers & hoteliers & dhaba owners & taxiwallahs & prostitutes & peddlers & pimps & the odd traveler, are few of those I've managed in the Himalayan outbacks - but never carry that expectation in the city).

Ultimately one nudged me from the right. It felt demeaning, and I demanded his name, but neither did he tell it, nor could I read his identity from his badge that his bulletproof vest shielded alongside his life. Some folks must have taken notice - of this young rebel, who stood not upto a mere tank which was lacking short range capability, but 3 Indian jawans which were getting as absurd as Monty Python Flying Circus (except that their manifestation in the real world is virally destructive) - coz after the next coupla' minutes of explosive confrontation when I looked around, there was a crowd around us, albeit one which dispersed as quickly on arrival of the next train (which demonstrates the great apathy Dilliwalas are known for).

Meanwhile, those 2 minutes... the guy to my left - the original accoster but the most understanding of them all and coincidentally the youngest, too - then called for a break in their BS, and 'informed' me about some girl's suicide from Metro stn a coupla' days back. Now this news I neither had knowledge of, nor I see why I should, since it holds no relevance into our ongoing conversation of why I shouldn't be standing at some particular public spot. Its no secret that someone committing a suicide is as random as it gets (had it been that girls wearing a chrome turban on their heads and a silken florescent scarf around their waists with a folded paper in one hand and a male iguana in another are jumping off gray-colored buildings fitted with marble tiles, then I could've understood targeting certain people with chrome turbans or silk flourescent scarves or male iguanas).
He also explained me a "profiling" process they use to choose their suspects. Bloody Morgan Freeman wannabes. I could reason me being taken for a suicide "suspect" (again its a random evaluation), but not why they had continued to harass me after having cleared their doubts. Suspects are prone to questioning, not harassment and ego exercises.

I was casual till this point, border line irritated, and arguing rationally against a rising barrage of nonsense. That is when the center jawan tried to use force against reason, grabbing me by the throat. I immediately pulled myself out from his grip, and began to billow in anger - it wasn't seething in anger types, but more of a disappointed anger ("why did I even start politely with these guys?" types). I demanded his (the middle guy) name, but again thanks to his bulletproof vest... But I still hadn't come to threatening them with a demotion, or Court Marshall, or an arrest for assaulting an officer (I was slowly being goaded into that), but with a more vehement, primal plea to respect the civilians who they can't push around like 'भेड़ बकरी'. There was also a line about me having spent enough time with Army, CISF, BRO, etc to know mutual respect. One of the bystanders also came forward to defuse the situation, calling me to calm down and the jawans to let peace be.

Dunno which of the features of the post-throat-choke argument it was, but the jawans soon relented, and didn't seem like they were gonna assault me. The left guy, again, was the most conversant (notice that the 'argument' had toned down into a 'conversation' now). We bullshitted a few lines - me against having to allay their deep fear of suicidal youth jumping from all metro stations [to think of it, I should've reasoned with, "सर, हाथ में ऑफिस का काम लेकर कौन ऊपर जाना चाहता है?] - which might've won me a round on dark comedy] - until the next train arrived.

As I parted their circle, they asked me my name, which I arrogantly refused to tell, starting at them again with an intimidating "क्यों?" and ready to face another round of bullying, but luckily civility seemed to have won, and it was the jawans who first game me their names, in response to which I went "Prashant, Deepak, Prabhat Bhaiyya,..." and shared my name. I then turned and shuffled into the train. As I left - and so did they alongside - the same guy who informally adopted the role of a PR Officer and saved CISF some grace - waved me, and I waved him back.

Let us see if we ever cross paths again, and how we reason.

"तू कूदेगा क्या?" ("are you gonna jump?")
"क्यों, आप पैसा दे रहे हो?" ("why, are you paying me for it?")
"दूंगा तो फिर कूद जायेगा क्या?" ("if given, would you jump?")
"कूद तो जाऊँगा, मगर पैराशूट के साथ" ("i could, but with a parachute")
[WTF expression on the jawan's face - priceless]

Nightly ghoom for food in Delhi

I had alighted at Anand Vihar from my 6 hour journey back: Gethia - Kathgodam - Delhi. Shiv was to pick me from Saket Metro, and we were to head to PVR for dinner. Hunger wasn't my priority - I was already bloated on preparations by IRCTC crew onboard Shatabdi.

As I climbed up the stairs at Saket stn, a redrafting of food plans transpired in my head. Shiv arrived, but instead of a minor loop that he expected, I drove out far, seemingly directionless.

To solve the situation of hunger, we first drove to USO house... closed. Then to Indira Market(?) in RKP to Al-Kauser... where they tried passing us the leftovers (a bastardization of Kathi rolls for INR540) which we refused. Then to another of Al-Kausers, the one behind Assam Bhawan for better (and cheaper) food, which I trusted would be open... closed. I realized it was a Tuesday, when the meat becomes a sacred entity for a day in the name of a God, and Delhi doesn't eat out.

Then we changed directions to South Campus, the hotbed of student crowd, which surely would have some late-night eateries... all closed, merely minutes prior to our arrival. Its hard to believe that there is no option for the nightly (to say, it wasn't even midnight) mobile crowd in Delhi (or whatever large tract we covered). Delhi really sucks. I had an innocent assumption that even outside of our originally planned destination, we could find food. Blame it on my concern that I wanted to put freshly-prepared warm food on table at my friend's place, which was a part of the redrafted plan.

Driving a bit ahead, we found a yogurt shop with lights on, which turned out to be open. Something, finally. We had a coupla’ bowls of yogurt (priced so extravagantly for the college crowd - and even for a working professional like moi - that I can’t believe this business still sustains in this locality). Yogurt isn't a meal, but sadly there was no other option. So, finally, the food that made it to the table was freezing cold anyways.

That I'm Not Here


....
And what exactly is a dream
And what exactly is a joke.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Wrong Shoe Size


A cicada sets off in the willow above me, and its song travels through such a wide tonal range that I momentarily mistake it for a jet either raiding or surveying the skies
(with the recent (re)viewing of Grave of the Fireflies, it doesn't take long to figure out my delusion).

A murmur set up in the leaves of a Poplar tree behind me by its swaying branches also raises an alarm, as if something's slowly rumbling in.

Through these distractions, I am actually being solicited by nature to see the dreamy rustic scene of the valley - soaked in rains, lush flora carpets the chain of hills in all directions; the flat monochrome walls of homes bear a saturation and sheen (also thanks to the zero haze) one finds - if at all - in paintings (and photoshopped flickr pics); the clouds mesh a dreadful fiber above that will tear open to surprise meeklings anytime; the sun works in installments, much annoyed by the train of traveling clouds; orange, black, blue, and white beaks shuffle among the branches, landing blows on tree bark and earth to knock out some unlucky worm, and they also fill the noisescape with a cheery honey trill; ants march under by boots (and some even make through alive) savouring breadcrumbs from the last of my lot that I just finished.

I feel so badly hooked to this scene that to get out of these I won't without mutilating myself. I realize a lot more things await me to the city I will land back into later tonight, but its like stepping out of your good shoes into something 3 sizes smaller.

Your ayyashi, my music

I could be complicit in your ayyashi but not in your music. that is why, despite the experimentations of the weekend, now is when I find my high, in the music of pink floyd coming from the speakers indoors off my own playlist. There's nothing to complain about the adventure and ayyashi with my Nawabi amigos that just parted ways, but as much as I start to miss them, there's a feeling of relief in parallel, as I can plug into my own music - I walked back home listening to orchestral pieces, and to follow PF right now is wobbly Persian music.

I have these friends, however, to thank for a great musical (mis)education.

I'm sexy and I show it

S and T must presently be LKO-bound, and probably rolling into HLD in their 21:55 Bag Express. We parted ways ~1930 in a shared Innova being in front of Modern Hairdresser (Tallital), following which I walked across the rd. to get a haircut, following which I purchased food supplies (for survival in the following 17 hrs) and walked back to G. listening to music on my PMX680s, with the song on pause at the void zones (regions void of human/civilizational presence, say, a barren chain of hills) to soak in the jungle.

The joyride (aka ultimate मुंहचोदी) is over now, but I'm on a lingering high, nonetheless, for the 3 days spent with these guys was an alt. and exciting experience. It was, unbelievabingly, my first visit to Mukteshwar (and I boast my Kumaon lineage as if the region leaves me no unexplored destinations); I have been lazy as the locals are, which I can blame upon human nature. Reading from the milestones, the names in Corbett's accounts came flashing back... Mukteshwar, Devidhura, Mornaula - brings back memories of a teenager nervously leafing through his books and discovering the ways of handling fear. I felt a lot wiser by end of this trip (than what I was anticipating in the comfort of my loneliness until S called me up) and also feel like a fool for being ignorant of travel in this region and travel in the monsoons.