I am generally not very ecstatic about my birthdays. I don’t consider them very special or exciting enough, except the fact that I get to talk to the most of my friends on the same day. It is not that I don’t like to celebrate, or shy away from throwing parties. I just don’t think that only a birthday is a special day. Everyday is a special day, in fact every moment is! Nature doesn’t act any differently on these so-called special days like showering one with flowers or money! Only way it makes you feel special is by your friends. Biologically there are always some dying cells and new-born cells to replace them instantly, so theoretically one dies and is born every moment. Psychologically you are born with new understanding every moment. So it is uncharacteristic, as well as amusing, that I am very excited about my birthday this year as I turn 28. There are a couple of reasons for that, one founded in literature and the other in mathematics.
What I found in literature : My office friends gifted me Thomas Hardy’s classic Far From the Madding Crowd on my last birthday, but not before I treated them for lunch. Lousy friends I have. Love them all! I have a firm belief that every event and every thing has some significance in your life. That day I could not comprehend what significance this book would have in future. I did not get chance to read it until just before my following birthday. The description of certain farmer Oak bemused me and made me eager to wait for the day when I turn 28. It reminds me of myself. Here is that apt and very beautiful passage:
“He had just reached the time of life at which "young" is ceasing to be the prefix of "man" in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.”
What the mathematics provided : Pythagorean Brotherhood was fascinated by numbers – Pythagoras proudly declared that Everything is Number – and among the numbers, they were after the very special and rarest numbers, called the perfect numbers. A perfect number is a positive number whose divisors exactly add up to the number itself. The first perfect number is 6, because 1, 2, and 3 are its proper positive divisors, and 1 + 2 + 3 = 6. The next perfect number, adding to my excitement, is 28, because 1 + 2 + 4 + 7 + 14 = 28 :) In other words, the perfection is achieved not when there is nothing to add, but when there is nothing to remove. These perfect numbers comply to that definition because adding the divisors just make the same number again, nothing more, nothing less.
The perfection of 6 and 28 is also acknowledged by some cultures who observed that the moon orbits the earth every 28 days and who declared that God created the world in 6 days. When I was 6, I was too young to appreciate this perfection and the next perfect number is 496, which I will not live to see unless I am blessed with immortality. So 28 remains to be the sole celebration of perfection in my current life. Let there be celebration galore!
One of the finest scenes of Yash Chopra’s memorable movie Silsila comes when Dr. Anand (Sanjeev Kumar) and Shobha (Jaya Bachchan) are chatting in the doctor’s clinic. Both of them are aware of their spouses’ clandestine affair. The good-natured doctor advises Shobha to exercise her right and plunge into action. In return, Shobha asks him, “Aur raja kya kar rahe hai?”, referring him as raja, and obviously showing dissatisfaction over his lack of action. That moment the palpable pain and helplessness over his face is enormous. He is drowned in silence. Whenever I see Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh, I am reminded of that scene.
The recent unearthing of some corruption scams have been quite uncomfortable for the PM. The two most striking ones are CWG scam and 2G spectrum scam. They obviously have dented the image of the country on the global front. Together they might reveal the graft of 200000 crores. But the statistics only does not reveal the true nature of wrongdoing. What is really unnerving is that these scams had gone on for many years, right under the nose of the PM. By no means, I am accusing him of graft. To his credit, even his staunchest enemies would not dare to blame him for corruption. He is incorruptible, and that is given. It is not possible that he was not aware of the scams much before the world came to know about it. He chose to remain silent over the whole episodes arises a suspicion in the mind that he was privy and gave his approval. What baffles me is his silence on these matters.
He has been silent for too long. Silence is golden, but it ceases to be a virtue if not backed by right action. Then you become object of public ridicule. Remember the joke doing rounds on internet - Regarding 2G Manmohan Singh said "I know only 2G -that are RahulG and SoniaG"? The PM’s credibility is at stack. You cannot claim your right to remain silent when you are a leader of a country of 1.2 billion people. Nor can you find relief in the fact that you were performing your dharma with utmost sincerity, barring these incidents. In more than one ways, his is the situation akin to that of Bhishma in epic Mahabharata. Like Bhishma, he decides to do his duty selflessly, but for the wrong side (the sides are not the political parties, – they are all same -but the people of the country and their betrayers). In that way he has betrayed the country. All he has to offer is that like Caeser’s wife, the PM should also be free of suspicion. The problem, Mr Singh, is that in the country where family values are still revered, the whole family of Caeser’s wife is expected to be free of suspicion.
Being a PM, he is answerable to the people of the country. By some strange and misplaced sense of duty, the PM thinks that he is only answerable to Sonia Gandhi because she put him into that seat of power in 2004 by renouncing the crown. No, Mr PM, you were not given any favor but you were favored because of your clean image. There was no one else who could have claimed that. Sonia, in fact, did not renounce the power; she renounced the responsibility. In the current arrangement, she decides the policies and portfolios while the PM gets all the blame for anything which is not right. That was the reason A Raja was made telecom minister again in 2009 in spite of Manmohan Singh’s opposition. Politics certainly has some place for theatrics. Atal Bihari Vajpayee showed that when he threatened to resign and got his way when he was PM. It’s time Manmohan Singh follows his predecessor.
The country is suffering because of these unwanted happenings and there are not many people we can hope to provide the beacon of light – Rahul Gandhi is also busy dividing the people of the country like many others, Narendra Modi is busy taunting Congress leaders, Advani is busy bringing Uma Bharati back in BJP and other leaders are busy strengthening their little pockets of power. True that the night is the darkest before the dawn, but there is a lingering question in mind – Kya is raat ki subah hogi?
Waking up with a burden of history is no good feeling. And I had twins to tackle with the day I woke up for the Bangalore Ultra Marathon 2010. One, I was going as a reigning champion in the 37.5 KM category. Victory feels sweet the day you taste it but also puts you under the pressure of expectations, from your well-wishers as well as from yourself, the next time you compete. My change of category from 37.5 KM to 50 KM not withstanding, I somehow could not rid my mind of that fact, though I always considered that win a favor from fortunes. Second, more importantly, was the recent incident of bonking when I had severe back pain as well as feeling of intense exhaustion while training for the Ultra. I stopped after 36 KM that fateful day, feeling terribly dejected. The pain ruled so much over my mind that I tried, with little success, to show it an exit door thru a poem. Then there was that niggle in my left knee, which frequently gives me scare. In short, it was a terrible state to be in.
The race started at 6 AM, during that period of twilight when the darkness gives way for the light. As the runners got into their rhythm and pace, I found myself running with Ajith, a fellow from my runnerhood. The sky was clean and cloudless, and the sun peeped over the green meadows and hillocks. Something in that sun was telling me that it was going to be a hot day. Ajith also agreed to that. The mood was rapturous among the runners, not fully aware of the sun’s plans, as they kept on chatting and cheering. My anxieties started vanishing, rather slowly like the pace I was running at, watching the proceedings around me. A little while later, the history was history again and the pain became just another four letter word. When you hit the road, nothing matters but the present. Running, or any other sport for that matter, helps one achieve what the zen philosophers and psychologists always profess – live in the moment. The mind, however, has too many doors to escape. One of the important psychological studies this year shows that Just about half of the average person's time is spent "mind wandering". My mind wandered in the world of the words, especially the four letter words, and could not stop observing how some of the four letter words have profound effect on life(itself one of those words) – love. luck, fate, will, pain...even f**k.
All this while, I kept on looking at the fellow runners and noticing their efforts. During the first round, the runners greeted each other with loud cheers. As they grinded themselves further, the greetings became less ecstatic and more subtle. In the end, one only moved his eyes to say the most. There is unwritten pact between runners to acknowledge the agony and ecstasy of running. The camaraderie keeps growing during the thin and thick of the running. The 12m12m which we will embark on next year is born out of such camaraderie.
By the time I finished the half distance, the sun was ruthless in its pursuit of sucking energy from the runners. Mai, a Motorola colleague, who came all the way from US to run one of the best ultra marathons in the world, was all red and struggling to keep her heartbeat. The effect was evident on the other runners also. The Bangalore weather was considered to be the biggest advantage for this illustrious event but this year it sprung a surprise not many people were ready for. In the end many people would give up their challenge in what was later believed to be the toughest Bangalore Ultra Marathon till date. The recent training in late mornings and afternoons certainly helped me a lot in reducing the effect of the heat. Along with that I carefully kept eating oranges and bananas and glucose biscuits to fuel the engine. The bigger challenge was to keep the monotony out of the equation which results from 4 rounds of 12.5 KM each. To that effect, I planned to utilize ipod in the last round to listen to songs which could give me some boost. How well it worked that day! I finished the distance after 5 hours and 35 minutes. That being my first ultra marathon distance(anything more than 42.195 KM), I thought I did pretty well. The heart still rejoices for finishing my first ultra distance. But the icing on the cake is the realization that the past and pain are just the bystanders which you can choose not to heed.
Though I admit that I prefer solitude or a company of one or two friends most of the times, there invariably are times when I get bored being in company of myself and there are no friends around to seek the immediate meeting. In those times, my hands automatically search for my ipod shuffle, and the feet effortlessly march towards the nearby garden. And why not! There are so many signs of life in the garden that one can hardly remain aloof – plants and trees dancing to the tunes of the wind, children running around and playing all sorts of games, elder people chatting or indulging in the laughter sessions and joggers performing their routine. Today being one of those days, I end up in the garden looking for revival of my mood.
I find an empty bench to sit on. The sun is fast winding up its day behind my back. While my ipod sets into rhythm of its own, the gardener comes and turns on the rotating sprinkler to water the lawn. The spread of the sprinkler is little more than what is required so it succeeds in spraying the benches in the opposite row. One of the benches is occupied by two little girls, 5-6 years old I assume. They try to duck the water but break into laughter whenever the water wins the duel. Their giggles and the resultant unadulterated joy attract attention of everyone present there. Aware of this attention, they blush which makes the whole act even more attractive.
On the right side of them, three friends, a couple and their male friend, are busy performing their own part. The man of the couple collects some green leaves lying nearby and makes a bandana out of it. He puts it on the head of his love interest. The lady then mocks a winner of a beauty pageant. She is crowned as the beauty queen and her friends cheer her. Her happiness makes me wonder if she really was crowned Ms World or Ms Universe or something like that. Thinking more about it, she is really the beauty queen of her own small world! Every man is a king, every woman is a queen. You do not require crowns of pearls and diamonds to realize that. A bunch of leaves can do that for you. Your kingdom is around you. After all, the best kings and queens rule the hearts.
My mind soon travels from palaces to playground as I notice some children playing. All of them are involved in ball games. The youngest of them are playing with light inflated rubber ball. They pass each other the ball with their tiny hands and run for it on their tiny legs if somebody fails to catch it. If a new kid comes, they include him without any hassles and the game goes on. The situation is different with the elder children, though they are also playing similar ball game. I get the impression that they are school going children. Everyone tries to throw the ball the farthest, everyone tries to be first to catch it and no one wants to pass it or include a kid who is not familiar. I cannot help but thinking if our education system has something to do with it. We have made it so competitive that every situation is being looked at as a race or competition and we have forgotten the idea of community or sharing. Probably those younger children can teach us more about it.
A kid cuts short this race of thoughts. He comes running, shakes hands with me and then repeats the ordeal with others. His shoes dazzle with green and red lights as he stamps the floor. After shaking hand with one person, he looks around, finds yet another person to shake hands with, smiles at him and runs towards him. There is no caution in his steps, just long and carefree steps. Like a branch of a wild tree which grows unabatedly without any notion of boundary or limit, the kid follows his heart and extends his warmth to everyone. With a delightful coincidence, my ipod plays Taare Zameen Par.
A puddle elsewhere meanwhile continues its pleading for consideration. The shadows of the trees make its water green. A few yellow flowers are bathing leisurely in it. A kid comes running and splashes water around by jumping frenetically inside the water. His mother, not amused by his undertaking, comes and scolds him but is unable to drag him out of the water. While the kid continues frolicking, his mother looks worried and keeps babbling about cleanliness and health. Pity us grown-ups: the kids have all the fun while we remain apprehensive about the surroundings.
In a flash the heavy wind blows up, bringing the dark clouds of rain. Umbrellas are open and those without one start searching for cover. The rain pours in buckets and tanks now while I remain standstill on the joggers’ track. It’s the sheer joy of catching rain, like a chance meeting with a long lost friend or an unexpected gain! Water trickles down my head and face and makes its way inside my clothes. A chill runs down my spine and the body is shaken uncontrollably but I refuse to give up my position. The ipod has uncanny knack of playing the right songs and it does not fail to exhibit terrific timing this time also. It plays Gunja Sa Hai Koi Iktaara. Eyes closed, I listen to the song as well as the sound of the rain and I feel as if I am transported to some different world. I am completely drenched – outside from rain and inside from the bliss. It is inevitable that the mind is impregnated with a seed of a dream. The words of Baawra Mann Dekhne Chala Ek Sapna fill my ears and the heart.
O alien! This is not your abode, You belong to the planet where screams and nightmares rule; Say me hi, if you really insist, But rush off to say bye in the same breath; Yours are not the ways I wish to tread on, Nor hit the wall they ultimately end on; Pain, pain go away! Pain, pain go away! But before you go -- make me strong, show me way!
Curiously enough Waka means poetry in Japanese and quite fittingly the poetic display of Spanish team won them the FIFA World Cup 2010. The intricate passing, ability to play in the triangular formations, supernatural awareness of their teammates’ positions, patient build-up of highest quality and belief in their type of football got the La Furia Roja (The Red Fury) their first world cup. The team shed the tag of perennial under-achievers to put the most coveted trophy on the earth alongside their Euro 2008 crown. They still under-achieved in terms of number of goals they scored in the tournament. For a team which averaged 3 goals per match in 10 qualifying matches, 8 goals in 7 matches was definitely below par. But had the football been only about the goals, the game would be decided in the 10 minutes of penalty shootout rather than 90 minutes of tactical brilliance.
The signs could have not been more ominous in the beginning. Their most potent striker, Fernando Torres, was nursing injury and was not at his best. They lost in their first match against Switzerland which only knew how to unfailingly block the ever raging Spanish bulls. History was against them as no team which lost their initial match in the world cup ever went on to win the trophy. But the history is made by those who dare to believe. The signs were already there in that match. They kept working on the passes; they kept their cool and showed indefatigable will to trust their brand of football. As the tournament progressed, they got better and better. It was like a beautiful orchestra. Sadly it never reached to its rightful crescendo.
They were destined to be winners. This golden generation of Spanish football has all the qualities which make a team successful. They have the most creative midfielders in the world – Xavi and Iniesta. Xavi completed the highest percentage of passes in the championship. He was the master orchestrator. Iniesta was fast, imaginative and subtle – in a sort of poetic justice, he scored the winning goal in the final. He was omni-present throughout the tournament. He was in left, right and center, on flanks, in attacking positions and in defending positions. The opposition must have feared him the most as he might hold the distinction of being fouled the maximum number of times. In Xabi Alonso and Busquets, they have the best of the holding midfielders. While Torres left his shooting shoes somewhere in Spain, David Villa came to the fore. Sergio Ramos ran like a mad bull and perhaps deserved many goals, and still managed to perform his defensive duty with exceptional accuracy. Capdavila was so efficient that he almost managed to go unnoticed. Piquet and Puyol made sure that they could defend a slightest margin of one goal. When everything else failed, there was captain Iker Casillas who again proved that he is the best goalie in the world. All the reserve players were so good that it was injustice to leave them on bench, but such was talent in this side. Llorente was remarkable in league stage, Pedro entertained in semifinal and Navas and Febregas illuminated the SoccerCity in the final. Then there was grand old guiding force behind the Spanish armada - Vicente Del Bosque.
In a country fiercely fragmented, the credit goes to Del Bosque, a Madrid coach, to lead the team which consisted mainly of Catalonia players and a few from Madrid, Basque and Canary Islands to the glory. The country is already reeling under financial turmoil and touted to be the next ‘Greek’ tragedy. But the win gave them something to rejoice and revel in. There was everything Spanish about the win. They played like a team. They showed great respect for the head of the family (the coach). They were selfless (almost, as Pedro showed his selfish side against Germany in the semifinal, and immediately got retributive justice in the form of substitution) – so much selfless that the midfielders wanted to pass even when they were in the sight of the goal. Iniesta and Xavi were like monks in the garb of footballers. Following Bhagwad Geeta’s immortal philosophy, they continued performing their karma without any visible wish for the fruits. They showed how the beautiful game should be played. When there was scare in the final, San Casillas (Saint Casillas) saved them to elevate his status from a saint to a god. Iniesta’s message on his jersey was a great tribute to Dani Jarque who dies last year: Dani Jarque siempre con nosotros ( Jarque, You are always with us).
I have a complaint though. My biggest worries for the final were not founded in my fear of seeing the side losing. I knew they cannot be defeated if they play the way only they can. It was about the aggressive physical play of the Dutch. Within first couple of minutes, Robie Van Persie jabbed Busquets behind his knee without any intention of playing the ball. A few minutes later, Mark Van Bommel came rushing and slid to dispossess Iniesta from behind. No wonder Van Bommel is hated by the opposition fans wherever he plays his club football. The Dutch dedicated themselves to gamesmanship against the beautiful game of their opponents. As Van Bommel went down, he carried on Iniesta with him. It was that natural human folly grounded in the envy – I will get down but make sure you accompany me. De Jong kicked Alonso in his chest as if to prove that they were in a bout of wrestling. And it was form of WWE because the Dutch were good actors also. Quite predictably Spain responded the way the Dutch wanted – by reciprocating, though not as pugnaciously but still uncharacteristically. The team which got only three yellow cards in their first 7 matches got 5 more in the final game (though I do not understand what prompted the Yorkshire referee to give card to Xavi, and Iniesta was carded for removing his jersey after celebrating the goal). The Dutch surely got better of the Spain there, getting 1 red card and 7 yellow cards. A world record for total number of cards in a final. I remembered the match between Portugal and the Netherlands in the previous world cup when they wrestled with each other in the infamous match.
My fascination for Spanish team was born out of the fair play they demonstrated and rightly rewarded with fair play award in the 2006 edition of the tournament. They shared the honors then with Brazil. Though they even denied sharing the fair play award with anyone this time, I wish they had less yellow cards in the final or no cards at all. Agreed that the Dutch started it all and the Spain were dragged into the brawl, but they should have displayed the same hermit like qualities with which they won my heart. For once Iniesta was flustered by the Dutch sandwiching him anywhere and everywhere. As Gandhiji put it, the means to an end is as important as the end itself, though they won all fair and square. A little more fairness and beauty would not have harmed. One word for the Dutch – the will to win got them into the tactic to play physically aggressive but they showed great character when they refused to play the corner when jabulani jump beat Casillas and also the respect they showed for the winner before the victory march in the ground. That prompts me to think that there is nothing like black and white, in football in particular and in life in general. Like in Marodana’s beard and suit, there is shade of grey in everything.
It was necessary for them to win to show the world that you can win fairly and beautifully and can still gain respect of your opponents. The match with Germans was the best of the tournament when it came to fair play. There lies the hope for the future – both Spain and German teams are quite young and if they continued playing fair and with flair, the beautiful game will win many more hearts. They will represent all the good there is in football. As the game goes to Brazil from South Africa, the Samba dance will take over after 4 years. One just hopes that the sound of the irritable vuvuzela dies soon and the fair play never does.
The Saturday morning is fulfilling its promise of non-stop reading the newspaper without any thought of getting ready and going to office. While I find myself lost between the colorful pages, the phone ring brings me back from the world of newsprint. I answer without looking at the screen to see who the caller is. “Ready for an adventure?” asks the caller. It is Mihir on the other side. “What?” I am startled by this sudden inquiry from a person for whom the only real adventure lies in gulping pitchers of beer down in as less time as possible and it’s still too early to go to a pub! In that state of bafflement, I still ask what kind of adventure he is referring though I am sure about the answer. But it turns out to be a different one. He wants me to accompany him to City Market. Now for those who think that going to a market does not qualify as an adventure, it will be good to know that in the world where we do most of the shopping online, visiting small and crowded shops in narrow alleys of a bustling market and bargaining about everything gives you some sense of adventure. I have been hoping to visit the market for a long time and grab the opportunity at first go.
Along with the obvious cost-advantage, these markets also offer the charm of old world: criss-crossing of streets, frantic negotiating of vendors and buyers, an occasional roadblock by a cow or a hand-cart, people rushing like ants and delight of some tasty street food. Our shopping list includes dry fruits, books, spices and thermocol balls (you heard it right, the tiny balls with which a bean bag is stuffed). Not surprisingly, the market has designated streets for different items: there is a street for spices, for dry fruits, for books, for sarees, for clothes and on and on. The trouble is that we do not know the names of these streets or their locations. We just decide to roam around and find our way somehow. We start with the dry fruits as the quantity is less and it also empties the wallet faster. We just need to unburden, don’t we?
The spices market is really the extension of the street where we find the dry fruits. You cannot miss it as the smell of the Indian spices is unmistakable. That moment you realize what really drew Vasco de Gama to India five centuries back: it was not the temptation of gold; it was the smell of the famed Indian spices over the oceanic air. The closure of the spice route must have been crisis for the Europeans from which they had to bail themselves out if they wanted to add spice to their lives. For a few moments I breathed more pepper, chilly and turmeric than oxygen! Mihir comes up with this patentable idea of inventing cameras which can capture images as well as smell. Very imaginative but I hope it does not happen else people will never get out of their couch in their air-conditioned rooms once they capture the smell.
Cubbonpet delights us beyond limit. We want a coffee/tea break and there is no better place than the one we have just hit. Curiously named Indian Coffee Bar, the place serves exquisite South Indian filtered coffee (as per Mihir’s testimony as I do not drink coffee). Mihir is ecstatic, again, for the idea of combining a bar and café together which can serve finely brewed beer and filtered coffee, both his favorite drinks. We also buy some coffee powder from the opposite shop and observe the big machine eating the coffee beans and grinding it to powder form.
While roaming around, we find the shop which sells thermocol balls. The shop is full of the little things for decoration and parties. From every corner, the glossy and funky specimens are dangling above your head. We buy two big packets, each around 3 feet high. The tiny ultra-white balls shine through the thin transparent plastic cover. As we head for the Avenue Street (the book market), someone pokes a hole in one of the plastic covers. Mihir goes back to the shop to get the cellotape while I wait outside when the other plastic bag also decides to give company to its cousin. We somehow patch both the bags but the thin plastic remains a constant threat.
Avenue Street is the place to buy the books for schools/colleges. Mihir has a long list of Computer Engineering books to buy so I wait outside the shop with the bags of thermocol balls. The fun begins now. Within seconds the bright thermocol balls seduce the onlookers. They become the object of their curiosity. Everybody wants to know why I have bought two full bags. A few of them want to know the price. A fellow - obviously inspired by the Indian film industry – assumes that the plastic balls are going to be used in a wedding scene in some movie. He wants to know the movie name. I unsuccessfully look for a place I can hide behind to fend off the questions. Luckily Mihir does not take too long and I survive the onslaught of the questioning brigade.
It takes a while to reach to the place where we have parked the bike from the Avenue Street. Chikpet, Balepet, Nagrathpet, Tharaupet and many more streets are on the way. On every corner or cross-road, I try to put the image in my memory so that I can call upon these images when I need to visit it again, though I am quite sure I will not remember it; not for my memory will abandon me but because what I see embodies beautiful chaos and there is no fix pattern to chaos which you can recollect. As a pillion rider, my duty is to hold those two bags containing thermocol balls on my lap, one on each side. They completely shield me from both the sides so much that only my back is visible. If someone sees Mihir driving from front, she will imagine that he is propelled by two white cylindrical engines on the back of the bike. I have more romantic version though. Remember that poster of a popular Bollywood movie, in which that lady with a soft voice, Karishma Kapoor, and ever-smiling Madhuri Dikshit are in arms of SRK on each side. I, in fact, have fairer beauties on my lap – the Karishmas and Madhuris of the world are pale in comparison to those white balls. And the plastic covers give them a transparent skin. My mother once told us a story in which a beauty of a princess was described in terms of her transparent skin: when she drank water, one could see the water rushing down her throat. Such was her skin! This is by no means to suggest that I am SRK (!!!) but when a 3 arms length plastic bag full of mushy balls can be Mrs. Nene, nothing seems too far-fetched. And ultimately, dil to pagal hai! Enough of the silly fiction! Our SRK falls flat when the bike stops at Church Street on Brigade Road. Mihir wants to have coffee at recently moved Coffee House.
In a friendly gesture, I give one of my dashing girlfriends to him, for the time being, of course. Coffee house has changed the building, but still it feels the same as the old time. But my mind keeps nagging me that there is something really eerie about the place. It takes a while for me to figure out that it’s not as much about the Coffee House as the company we used to be with. Before career, family or ambition moved many friends to different cities, we used to come here in a big gang. There were constant blabbing and fights and discussions. I can still hear the chatter as if it happened the day before. I am happy at least Mihir is there. What the place will resemble when there is no one to sip coffee there from that happy bunch of people who formed my world then? A cemetery…may be. A ruined palace…perhaps. Time brews us all. That’s the bitter truth.
Fortunately some people cannot allow you to be sad. Mihir is one of them. My cup of grief is empty before he finishes his. We head back for home. On the way the mouth of one of the bag is open and I am not aware of it. A scooter-rider points to that. Before my fair lady dismembers into white spray like a falling star, I manage to shut the mouth off. The bags reach to the house safely, and so do we. We stuff the bean bag. By virtue of carrying the bags, I earn the right to dump myself on the bean bag whenever I am in the house. I do not waste much time to use that privilege. There certainly is fun in being a lazy bum once in a while.
It was Sabine’s idea to go to Nandi Hills, some 45 KM from Bangalore, and run from the base to the peak. As she put it, one can run/walk/crawl but should not stop on the way – what matters is the moving feet on the road. I needed a change from my routine running routes, so happily agreed to the proposal. Owing to the habit of my cook coming very late in the night, I could not sleep before midnight and I seriously doubted if I could run uphill after waking up early in the morning, deprived of much-needed rest before the run. Eventually when the morning arrived, rather too early at 4 AM, I woke up, feeling extremely good and light. I knew then it was going to be a great run.
We reached to GKVK at 5:15 after picking up Gopal from his home. There were more people than I imagined. Sabine was preparing for 100 KM Ultra run and this run was part of her uphill training. Sunil Chainani, the director of FabIndia, already ran 100 KM in previous Bangalore Ultra Marathon and is veteran long-distance runner now. Sindhu and Jagdish are regulars at GKVK and we often get to see them on the running trail. Then there was Rajesh, and another Rajesh and the third one could not join that day! Prakhar, Gopal and I completed the contingent. We set off from GKVK at 5:30 and reached the Nandi Hills base at 6:05.
Light had already started loosening the evil grip of darkness by the time we started running. It is actually a 7 KM tarred road from the base to the top and you go from 1000 meters at base to around 1450 meters at top. There are 41 curves; many of them sharp hair-pin bends. The initial half of the route is consistently and gradually increasing gradient. I started slow, but still found myself leading the peck. After about half a kilometer, my lungs already started working overtime. But the weather was beautiful; air fresh and rejuvenating. The monsoon had clearly set its sight on the hills, it seemed so, as all the hills were covered by the thick clouds as if they actually made the mountains! It was pretty sight to watch brown and green hills clad in the grey and silver clouds. Wind, though blowing in my face at times making running difficult, encouraged the trees to whistle and dance in early morning spectacle. The shrubs smelled of fresh rain and there was no stopping of cheerful little birds chirping and running wild.
I continued running without stopping for water after half-way. Prakhar convinced his driver to support us on our way, so we made his car a mobile support. We put all our water bottles and eatables in his car and the driver stopped and waited at some points on the way so we could get what we needed from the car. That relieved us from the trouble of carrying water in our hands. As I crossed 5 KM mark, I saw a fickle sign of the sun between the clouds.Surprisingly it was not crimson red or orange or golden. It donned the silver attire to go with the theme. I was happy that it was too shy to come out that day. That kept at least the trouble of heat out of our equation.
It has become custom in India to paint the names and messages on rocks, and it was no different in Nandi Hills. Someone had decided to proclaim his love for a girl, so he would draw a heart, put an arrow within and write the name of his love-interest. Cupid game or stupid game, I asked? Then there was painting of the most famous and omnipresent of the all Gods in India, Hanuman, carrying the SanjeevaniMountain to revive Lakshman. I thought about the Hindu Gods; a monkey is the most famous God and an avatar of Shiva, a turtle and a fish are made into Gods, cow is considered to be a mother, every God having an animal as His vehicle, there are temples on every reachable mountain top. What do all these suggest? Our ancestors were wise enough to carve an image of God in every life form and build temples in such places so that we could preserve the environment. It gives sanctity to the cause of the environment protection. There is so much to learn from the ancient wisdom.
The clouds got darker and thicker as I moved up. The gradient was steeper now and wind blew heavily. The winding hair-pin bends became pain now and I was almost jogging. As I turned after 6 KM mark on a sharp turn, I heard a few dogs barking. I passed by those dogs a few moments back. The noise got louder with each passing second. When I turned back, I found army of 4 dogs chasing me. I had to stop against my wish because they were adamant and relentless in their pursuit to slow me down from my slower than slowest speed. When I started running again, they started their chase again. I had no option but to walk for a while. But what I experienced was amazing. Water droplets started trickling in. The valley looked beautiful in rain from distance. The wind almost carried me along with it. The elements of nature conspired together to create that scenery. And the dogs were part of the whole scheme! They were not chasing me to bite, they came running to plead me to stop and savor the bounty of the nature. Happily I obliged. The dogs ran away once they realized that I got the message. The peak was just a few meters away but I was in no hurry. The light faded completely and it was totally dark. I could not make out if the silhouette at my arm’s length is of a tree or a cloud. The winding road was barely visible. Inevitably a few lines emerged from my heart:
The road is narrow and winding,
The conditions are tough and grinding;
The clouds of doubts blinds your vision,
And fear is in air beyond the reason;
But darkness gives way to the light,
Fear makes room for will to fight;
Only if you put your heart before your head,
There is always…always way ahead.
One more right turn and I reached to the entrance of the hill fort. 7 KM of running and I was celebrating my first uphill run. Sunil followed soon. Others were lagging behind. We did not want to stop so we ran downhill for a kilometer and joined them to go back to the peak again. We filled our mouths with bananas and cakes and refueled ourselves with water and Gatorade. The downhill run was easy, but hard on knees if one is not careful. Half way, Sunil and I decided to go uphill again instead of going down all the way. The sun finally gave vent to its wish to come out of the clouds. Everything dazzled in the bright sunlight. This time, after touching peak, I ran downhill till the base. When I touched the feet of Nandi at base, I noticed no pain in my body, and mind was still as fresh as before starting the run.
I was glad I finished my first hill training. That was the best run of my life. What made it easy and enjoyable? I was feeling very good that day from the beginning. I think it’s imperative to feel good to do well, to go beyond your limits, to surmount the seemingly insurmountable, though sometimes it’s difficult to feel good when you are going through rough patch, when the lady fate refuses to sleep with you. If you keep reminding yourself to feel good, no matter the circumstances, the life will not shy away from extending its helping hand towards you. Nandi Hills are out of way now, but there are mountains to climb and I wait for more beautiful mornings.
It has now become my habit to blog about my experience during the run. So this time I thought, instead of doing that, I will put down some nice quotes I noticed during Bangalore Sunfeast World 10K 2010 and Bangalore Duathlon(marriage of running and cycling) with a couple of photographs. So here it goes:
·I would rather wear out than rust away. (This one truly captures a runner's mindset)
·The race for education has no finish line. (How true!)
·I felt like running. (Is there a better reason to run?)
·We are a team in a solo sport. (My own creation - a tribute to my Runnerhood friends)
·If you are not going to cheer them, why did you come here? (Overheard a mother scolding her son who was not too enthusiastic about cheering runners)
My favorite memory, though of those runs, turns out to be during Bangalore Sunfeast World 10K 2010. As I passed by Cubbon Park Library, I saw a girl holding a banner bigger than her size with the message “My daddy is the best”. One of our Runnerhood members, Rajesh, reached to her and said that he also thought her daddy was the best. Later on, while we were feasting on apples, we came to know that she was daughter of Gopal, our fellow runner(Bib no 1550 in below photograph)!
द्वंद्व खेलते काले घने बादलो से शुरू होती गरजती, असीम आकाश के प्रचंड रूप का प्रचार करती टप्प टप्प गिरती ठंडी बूंदों से, मासूम हंसी सी ह्रदय के द्वार पे दस्तक देती है ये बारिश |
पेड़ों पे जमी हुई धुल को उड़ाती मानो बेजान इंसान को झंझोद्ती हवा में सरसराते पत्तो से सिमटकर उनको फिर से हरा कर देती है ये बारिश |
स्वयं को नष्ट कर देने की चाह लिए अविरत गिरते ये बूंदों के मोती धरती की रगों में खून की तरह मिलकर नए जीवन के आरम्भ का एलान करती है ये बारिश |
कभी तो प्रियतमा से दूर अकेले प्रेमी को बेचैन बनाती, विवश करती, तडपाती, तो कभी दुनिया की भागदौड़ में भटके इंसान को अपने आप ही से मिला देती है ये बारिश |||
It was the second league match between Mumbai Indians (MI) and Rajasthan Royals (RR) during the recently concluded IPL season 3. I was obviously supporting MI as the God of Cricket plays for that team. The going was good for the Mumbai side and Sachin was at his best. He hit a brilliant unbeaten half-century to take his side to a strong position in the first innings. He particularly hit very good boundaries to Shane Warne and exploited the field placements to his advantage in the final overs. All was well.
The Rajasthan batting started the way I wanted. They lost a couple of wickets in first 4 overs. Shane Watson was a key player and when he got run out in a horrible manner, I was quite exuberant. I was happy noticing his sad face while he was making his way towards the dug-out. When Yusuf Pathan, the last hope for the stumbling Royals, got out, I jumped out of my seat and celebrated as if I had won the world cup for my country. But there was something really unpleasant and sadistic in that celebration. I soon realized that my joy was not result of my love for Sachin as much as for my hate for Shane Warne and some of his teammates, notably Shane Watson. That was quite disturbing. My ecstasy was justified when Sachin was playing like only he could. But marveling at the misery of Shane Watson or misfortune of his team was mean by all standards.
The realization got me into thinking – what makes me hate Shane Warne? As some people point out, he is not quite a gentleman in the game of the gentlemen. His methods, and execution of them, are quite questionable at times. In short, he is not a good man. But does hating him make me any better? Or more importantly, does it make me worse than him, assuming he is actually a bad person? He is one of our own lot…a fellow human being…as imperfect as we all are. So what really makes us hate other people?
Before I understand source or the cause of hate, my thoughts wandered to the topic of love – the equally celebrated, if not more, brother (or sister, if you will) of hate. The case of love is no less intriguing. It escapes the clutches of reason effortlessly. It gives a miss to the rationale and intelligence, which we proudly consider the gift received only by the mankind. Take the case of Sachin – while all his good shots are considered to be straight out of heaven, like the holy river of Ganges, whenever he gets out, I so conveniently blame the bad bounce, the bad luck or bad umpiring for his dismissal. My love for him does not make me accept that he may be imperfect, out of form or simply, outplayed. When we love someone, we simply underplay her mistakes and impropriety, and overplay her achievements and good deeds, however small they are, again and again. The question becomes bigger and sharper – why do we hate or love as much as we do? I am sure I am not the first to ask this question, and certainly not the last. Many people have asked the same question to themselves. So do we really have the answer? Or is there no answer because the answer is more uncomfortable than the question? Blaise Pascal, the wise man, did provide one satisfactory explanation – Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas (The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing). I managed to get one different explanation though – these are not to be understood, but experienced.
No, it did not start when I first time decided to start long distance running two years back when I registered for the inaugural Bangalore Sunfeast 10K Run. It started long time back - some 2500 years back – when the Greek soldier Pheidippides, a messenger, ran from the Battle of Marathon to Athens. The soldier did not know then, obviously, that he was unintentionally setting the roots for what would become the ultimate test of endurance and determination for generations of human beings – a marathon running of 42.195 KM. Like Pheidippides, I also did not know that 10 KM run would sow the seeds of the dream to run a full marathon (the term full marathon is a misnomer – a marathon itself signifies 42.195 KM. All other distances are just there to attract greater participation.). There comes the Auroville, the place where I would try my first marathon.
It was 5:00 in the morning, the starting time of the race. More than 150 runners gathered at Certitude, the starting point. At the word Go, the runners started running like horses let loose from a stable. My mind had already started running much before that. It was dark and all the runners were given torches to find their way. In the dark, the different colors of light the torches threw made nice colorful moving images of yellow, green, white, blue, and purple. At 5:30, I was sweating, which was a bad sign. The day was going to be hot and humid, the kind of weather a runner loathes. Apart from the chirping of the birds, the only sound I could hear was that of the stamping of the shoes on the road. The cracking of the fallen leaves beneath the feet was no less than the music. Occasionally a dog would bark somewhere to break the silence. I like to run watching the trees, the road and anything around. But in the dark, it was impossible, so I observed the light beams coming out of the torches. I could make out which runner was struggling by observing how violently the light beam moved. After crossing the Visitor’s Centre, the tarred road gave way to the mud road. It was mainly flat, but sometimes uneven and stones-studded. A couple of runners fell down, but their courage did not give in. All they were hoping for was the daylight. After about 15 KM, near the Surrender community, I saw the sun coming out from the trees; the road was visible now, the torch was not needed and the surroundings looked at their beautiful best – the way you always imagine the Auroville.
The path between Surrender and New Creation is one of the most scenic routes one would see in the whole Auroville Marathon. It almost felt like I was running through some forest – so narrow at times that only one person could pass and one would require to make his way between the plants. Plants bearing small flowers were plenty on both the sides. A fortunate person could spot some beautiful birds there. One of the most pleasant things about the event was the cooperation of the people and the support of the volunteers. Right from the cyclists who showed us way initially in dark to the enthusiastic lot of school children who manned the aid-station near New Creation, everyone made us feel special. The most of the inhabitants in Auroville are foreigners, but the best thing was that, looking at them, you could not know their nationality. No putting them in different categories based on their country, cast, creed etc. They were just good human beings, ready to help you any time. As simple as that.
I finished the half of the marathon by completing the first round at Certitude at 7:10. Two hours and Five minutes was not a bad time for 21 KM run. I was happy and feeling well. I hoped before the start that I would take less than four hours and thirty minutes for the run, and I was right on the mark till then. Then it hit me, somewhere after Siddhartha Farm. I felt sudden pain in my right knee. I was at 24 KM mark and still there were 18 KM left. My first reaction was to ignore it since it happens a lot many times to a runner – the body, wanting to give up, throws some pain here and there. Soon the hip conspired with the knee to aggravate the pain. I started walking. When I tried to run, I made sure I put more weight on the left leg than the right to avoid the trouble. That did not help – the left knee also started hurting.
I was in a new territory – that was the first time I felt such an intense pain while running. I tried to trick my mind by watching the buildings and trees which I could not see during the first round. I even unsuccessfully tried to compose a song! The body wanted to give up and it had reasons. At such times, one needs to listen to the body. I was not running now; I was barely able to walk by supporting the right hip with my hand. I wanted to stop there; the excuses were many - there will be more opportunities in the future to run marathon, I can be better prepared next time, there can be something seriously damaging the knee, you can hurt your knee beyond repair. They rang loud in the ears. But the heart did not want to stop, as if it was saying with every beat – there is something more important than the pain. I listened to it and continued.
The volunteers and photographers encouraged the runners. Irrespective of how one ran, they kept repeating, “You are running very well”. That helped, but not for long. Like a dog, the pain is a loyal companion. At around 32 KM, I was walking alone when I found a fellow runner sitting on the road massaging his knee. I instantly understood what he was going through. I asked if he was well. He replied positively. He inquired if I wished to walk with him. I needed a company, a feeling of fraternity to carry on. He proposed to run for four minutes and walk for a minute and repeat the same till the end. I obliged. Running and talking with him diverted my mind from the pain. I suppose he also felt the same. He was running his tenth marathon and was supposed to participate in a grueling 90 KM run in some mountains in South Africa. That was inspirational to know. Together as a team, we found a way around our troubles. Like my Runner Hood t-shirt quote says – We are a team in a solo sport.
We diligently followed the run-and-walk strategy. After the last aid-station, we increased our speed a bit. The road after the second to last turn was long and bare – not many trees, playing grounds on each side and the sun directly firing at you. I focused on the last turn and kept on running. When I took the last turn, I saw many people on both the sides of the road, cheering and greeting me. Some of the half-marathon runners were walking or stretching there. The finish line was visible now and I called on the last reserves of energy and will to fire on all the cylinders. My strides got longer and swifter. Gopal and Satheesha paced me up for last 100 meters. In a flash, I was on the other side of the finish line.
Nenikékamen (‘We have won.'), uttered Pheidippides before collapsing and dying after his marathon run. There was another me on the other side of the finish line. I said the same words to him. Winning over the devils of within. It took me 4:57:42 hours to finish my first full marathon. Coincidentally, meaningful or otherwise, I was ranked 42nd in my first 42.195 KM run. But long distance running is not about victory, or the timing. For I thought it was eternity before I could finish it. A runner’s pride is in finishing; finishing when everybody else has finished, when you are the lone runner, when you think you cannot do it. It is about the pain, patience and perseverance. What you eventually get is pleasure which is beyond description. Gopal said that all that is good comes with a little wait. I want to add to that – All that is good comes with a little wait…and some pain.
I thought about last two years of my running. Everything came in front of the eyes like action replay: getting up early in the morning when the whole world sleeps in their cozy beds, running half-naked in the cold winter morning, each bone sweating in hot summer morning, protecting myself from a barking dog or a speeding vehicle. All these sum up to this one moment. 42.195 KM – it’s not mere a distance – it’s a manifestation of a dream, a realization that with determination we are capable of much more than we think.
While returning back to the hotel, I looked at the finisher’s medal. I kissed it again and again. Insane it was! A simple hand made piece of paper became my object of affection. As I am writing this, I think about why I did not stop when my body almost gave up. It is sheer madness. A certain madness which comes from love. Love for running. So much love that it hurts! But today what I remember most is finish line and the joy of crossing it. The pain goes away, the memory of it also follows, but the joy remains. Running is a kind of intoxication which gives you a happy hangover. That hangover stays till your next run. Yes, I am addicted to it!
A few turned impatiently in their beds in the anticipation of the trip. Some other unfortunate ones missed on the sleep because of the work. After days of waiting, the sunshine brings the cheers today. We gather near our office gate and wait for the vehicle which is to take us to Waynad - literary Land of Paddy Fields -a district in north-east Kerala, bordering the states of Karnataka and Tamilnadu. Bharathi, Rashmi, Vidhya, Udhaya, Amit, Chandan Bhagat(CB from now onwards) and Sanjay line up on the footpath with their luggage – a few backpacks, badminton racquets, volleyball, speakers, snacks and water container. If their eyes were heavy with the expectations, the luggage was heavy with every imaginable thing you would find on the earth to make a trip fun-filled and comfortable. Chandan Mohanty(CM) arrives just in time before the vehicle, a 12-seater silver color tempo traveler. We stack up our luggage inside, make ourselves comfortable and take the name of God –He will surely be needed and relied upon in the time to come –as the journey begins at 7:20 AM. We still have to pick Vishwambhar, his wife Anamika and Gunjan on the way.
The motion of the vehicle puts Amit into action. With his hand glued to his camcorder, he starts interviewing the people. In next three days, he will use that camera so much that I will start wondering if he was born with his hand tied to it. Sanjay and the Chandans(by now you should know this is not about a couple) voice their opinions about the probable winner of the fashion show which is planned for today night. CM particularly stresses that a certain oomph factor will eventually decide the winner. Udhaya puts a brave face when asked about her lack of understanding of Hindi. She is indeed courageous – the only one in the dozen not to understand the language and still decides to come. Though we give her bravery award for that, we make sure she keeps the wonder and horror on her face by using Hindi as much as possible. Amit asks me if the trip will turn out more enjoyable than the planning we carried out for last few days sitting in our office amphitheatre. What a thorough planning Amit has done for the trip – the only way it can go for toss is if the 24-hours day changes to something else! I am sure the trip will surpass the fun of the process of planning. I have this belief that all the trips I go on turn out quite eventful, sometimes a little uncomfortable and chaotic but always memorable. Meanwhile Rashmi and Vidhya, like good and caring Indian ladies, prepare vegetable sandwiches for all of us. That is the advantage of, not the only one though, travelling with a woman. You can take her out of kitchen, but never a cook out of her. Without them we will be waiting for the next good breakfast joint forever. You see, men know how to remain hungry; they seldom know how to prepare food.
Once Vish, Anu and Gunjan board the TT, we are served with sandwiches which I have been guarding with watering mouth till now. Anu, in spite of meeting us first time, gels with everyone without any strain of extra effort. A series of karaoke songs follow. We soon realize that the TT is somewhat uncomfortable and we are cramped for space. We choose to ignore that fact as it is not going to increase the space in the vehicle. After a while, we start playing Antakshari, India’s unofficial national game. To make the circle small, I share the seat with Sanjay. Our fun-hungry fellow-travelers take that cramped closeness as intimacy. We just play along, of course to provide them some entertainment and perform little act of Dostana. No kisses, mind you.
Amit tries to be adventurous by sitting on the side-rest of a seat and falls badly. He whispers in my ear to check his jeans from behind. I explode in laughter when I see a window size opening just above his left knee! It stretches vertically upwards to you know what. Between those fits of laughter I manage to seal the opening with two safety-pins. Amit escapes the embarrassment and is much relieved. He changes his jeans when we stop at Kamat Lokruchi on Mysore Road for another round of breakfast. There has been a constant complain that except Amit, none of the men has contributed much to the planning of the trip, so to wash our hands off the accusation, and give ourselves a false sense of importance, we decide to take care of the security of the girls. A frantic process of assigning each girl a security person follows. While I am about to board the TT, an old lady, a beggar, comes approaching me. I generally don’t give money to beggars, but something inside me prompts me to spare a dime. I oblige to the inner voice. The next moment was one of the most touching moments of my life. She takes my hand in hers, rolls her other hand on my head and gives me tons of blessings while symbolically taking away my difficulties. She repeats the same with Vish. In moments such as this, you see hand of God.
We spend the next few hours playing games, singing songs and dancing. We are forced to take lunch at an Udupi restaurant in Gundulpet since the time is running out. Next time we stop at the forest department check post somewhere in Waynad. While Pervez, our driver, goes to the office for permission, we climb up the TT to show our Chhaiya Chhaiya moves. On the other side of the road are the ever-expanding bamboo trees. We slip inside and click some photographs for memory. The remaining part of the journey is spent in silence as the most of us are tired and feeling sleepy. We check in hotel Haritagiri in Kalapetta at 4:30 in the evening.
After freshening up, we set out for a walk. We get some refreshments at Woodland restaurant. We wander in the bazaars purposelessly, just for the sake of it. It is dark so we start back for the hotel. It is the time for the fashion show, much anticipated by the well-prepared people, and equally feared by the others like me. First it’s turn of the men. One by one each of us walks the ramp. I double up for a cameraman also. It is difficult to hold yourself back when your natural instinct is to start running whenever you come across some open space. I somehow hold my horses. CM makes us laugh like a crazy bunch of people when he answers the question – whom would he choose among us as a slave if he is given a choice? He says that he would like to make all of us his slaves. The reason? Well, he wants us to make his roti, wash his laundry and clean his house. 11 slaves for his seemingly basic necessities of life – Roti, Kapda Aur Makan! Manoj Kumar would be ashamed of himself for making the movie with the same title!Amit, in response to the question what will be the happier world – one with only the boys or one with only the girls, answers that it would be a world with only the girls and him. He surely has a funny bone somewhere in his body. He then dissects the problem thoroughly, as always, by arguing that since hot and beautiful girls add to the global warming, and their complete absence makes the world freezing with global cooling, such possibilities are avoidable at any cost. He is eventually declared the winner. Global warming is still hot topic around the world, isn’t it?
The ladies take their turn for catwalk after that. And you immediately notice the difference. Every inch of the detail is taken care of, starting from the minute details of dress, the footwear, the hat, the walking style, the expressions on the face, the positioning of the hands on the back, anything and everything. And here I am, in a t-shirt and denim which is not less than three years old and worn out. Thank God, I did not win in my category. It would have been a shame and a disaster for the fashion industry! When we were planning for the trip, I noted that men love ideas, and the women love the details. Well, I did not think then that they are sticklers for every detail. Probably I did not go into the details much. Irrespective of the details, they are certainly capable of the oomph factor which CM so much expected. Bharati gets the winner’s trophy for female category, while Rashmi runs away with the best model among the dozen of us. As the ladies show their beautiful legs for the camera, it reminds me of Saadat Hasan Manto’s letter to Uncle Sam in which he talked about pretty legs of American ladies.
We have a short –ok, not quite short! -drink session while the ladies have dinner. It is time to hit the beds and we cannot wait any longer.
Day two starts very early. CB gets up first at 6:00 AM and then he makes sure both CM and I listen to him. He shares some interesting anecdotes and passes some knowledge to us. I call it guru gyaan and from that moment onwards, he becomes Chandan Baba for me. All of us gather in Amit’s room and make jokes of each other. CB, in his own humorous style, notes how CM’s heavy and loud breathing in the night made him believe there was a storm passing by. The fashion show is still the most talked about thing. We decide to get ready and meet for breakfast. After a heavy breakfast – we may not get proper lunch – we leave for Banasura Dam. Considered to be the largest earth dam in India, it is surrounded by hills and bounty of nature. We need to walk from the place where we parked the TT. As we climb up the steps to the wall of the dam, the spectacular view of the dam unfolds. There are small islands and the hills everywhere. CM, Vish and I cannot resist the temptation of going closer to the water. We jump the wall, hop on the big stones and dive knee-dip into the water. The small fish with black and orange vertical stripes soon give me titillating foot massage. Others decide to go for boating which we think is not good trade in exchange of spending some time peacefully on the shore made up of stones.
The water is crystal clear. The clear blue sky and the greenery on the hills give it hues of beautiful blue and green. When the sun rays hit the water, the optical effect gives the impression as if diamonds are generously spread on waterbed. It is quite tranquil. Breeze blows through and sends the mild waves of water hitting the shore. We delightfully track the waves. As the waves hit the stones, it produces nice low sound as if stirring a soul with gentle care. A solitary bird comes down hurriedly and flies over the water like a hovercraft, picking some fish in its beak. CM or Vish throws a stone in water which breaks the spell of silence. We watch the whirls touching our feet. Then they start singing thehre hue paani me kankar naa maar, saawre; mann me halchal si mach jaayegi, baawre! -Do not throw stone in the steady water; it creates ripples in my heart. By now no corner of the heart is untouched.
After noon we start for KuruvaIsland. On the way there are lots of banana orchards and coconut trees. All these trees, along with bamboo trees, grow straight upwards. Involuntarily a sudden thought comes in mind – political situation notwithstanding, the things natural are quite straight and simple in the God’s Own Country. Curiously enough for me, I find a lot of gas cylinders on the road time and again. My guess is that people keep empty cylinders outside their houses as some kind of indication to the gas agency.
We get the tickets for the boats which carry us inside the island. There is a long queue of people waiting for the boats. It takes some amount of waiting and shouldering to get our turns. The trekking starts as soon as we land on the other side. KuruvaIsland is formed by tributaries of river Kabini. The forest is very dense. A patient bird-watcher can spot scores of birds here. We hire a guard who leads us inside the forest. The river is flowing parallel to the path. Then we come to a point where we are required to cross the river. It’s full of small and big rocks. The green cover of the forest gives the water green color. We start crossing the river. As we reach in the middle, the water level goes above my knees. The slippery rocks make some of us fall in the water. But that is the best part of the water – once you take plunge in it, you are completely into it. We shed the last trails of reluctance and march forward. Obviously we have to support each other – giving hand to each other, making a human chain, we cross the river. Bharati and Gunjan see their footwear floating away in the river before we somehow manage to bring it back. We cross the river three more times before we reach to the other end of the island. Rashmi falls in water while talking on her mobile phone. Her phone stops working and she strangely celebrates it! When inquired, she replies that she has been waiting for long to buy a new phone and this gives her opportunity. We sit there on the rocks, eat fruits and happily chat. We missed our lunch so we decide to eat some Kerala parotas and have tea at the nearby dhaba before going back. The plain ground and the surrounding trees make it perfect place to spend a lazy evening. But we have to leave the place because of the restrictions in the area.
While returning back, instead of crossing the river four times, we take a boat to the other side. It is rather a simple structure of bamboo sticks made like a floating carpet. No rafts are used to move it in the water. Instead a rope is tied to a tree from one riverbank to the other. The boat-like structure moves ahead as you pull the rope. A turtle is seen on a far rock sitting meditatively. That ends our trekking expedition on KuruvaIsland. So we thought! But to Sanjay’s astonishment, the boat service is closed and we still need to cross another tributary to get out of the island (remember the long queue?). We again start crossing the river one last time. This turns out to be the deepest water and the most difficult crossing. Bharathi breaks the toe-nail of her left foot. She braves the great pain (I know what that pain is since I have broken three nails while running) and reaches the end. Vidhya, having the record of not falling in water till now, falters at the vary end. Nobody is spared from the water, but we eventually win the battle, although battered and bruised.
As we head back to the hotel, we see sun playing hide-and-seek with us in the winding roads. CM notes that in Bangalore he never gets to see sunset. In the night, we gather for a campfire. We play a game of Truth and Dare. Boy o boy, how many truths surface themselves! All kinds – funny, romantic, revealing, emotional, lovely, childish! We take the dinner there. While coming back from KuruvaIsland, Amit proposed that the men should do mujra for the ladies! He in fact is quite serious about it. So we go to our room, the ladies arrange two duppattas and then they sit on the bed like the frequent visitors of the kothas who arealwaysready to savor the dance. Amit starts with dil cheez kya hai aap meri jaan lijiye. Once he breaks the barrier with it, each of us follows. CM’s steps remind me -more than a mujra -of devoted Meera dancing for Mohan, such is the state of trance he is in. I try to do inhi logo ne le liya dupatta mera. My thumkas become instant hit. CB then comes, a duppatta drawn as a veil, and serves the drinks to the visitors. Vish tops it all with his spirited performance on salaam-e-ishq meri jaan. Laughing in that madhouse, we finally separate and go to our rooms to sleep.
The next morning also brings a little sadness – we have been enjoying together for last two days and it will be over today night. We want to make full use of our time, so we take breakfast and leave for Soochipara waterfall. After about a 2 km of walk through woods, and some downhill climb, we reach to the fall. The first thing you want to do when you see it is to go inside the water and reach to the bottom of the fall. We all oblige to that feeling. The rocks are slippery but it does not hamper our spirit. We sit at the bottom of the fall, enjoying the water hitting our backs like stones. CB does not come inside; instead he sits on a big rock and watches us as well as meditates. Later he will share his keen observations with us. We scream, dance and sing, celebrating the nature. After an hour or so, everyone else comes out of water while CM and I sit there, appreciating the waterfall. We thank God for making such a beautiful world.
We line up on a long rock to dry ourselves. I feel so much cold that my body shakes violently for long time, as if it received an electric shock. When we are about to start for the uphill climb, Rashmi suddenly faints on a rock. Udhaya manages to catch her and lie her down. She tries to bring her to senses. I shout to Vish to throw water bottle and glucose. After spraying some water on her face, she regains her consciousness but still feels very weak. I give her glucose and a few seconds later she is back on her feet. But that incident gives a little scare to me. Though I like to travel alone once in a while, I fear what will happen to me in such situation. What if I die in the lack of any first aid? Surely, the death in the cradle of Mother Nature is the most dignified one, but I want to live and enjoy every moment. That thought makes you more responsible and caring. You want to take care of your near and dear ones. For once, you do not want to jump the rock, cross the water and reach to the other side before anyone else does. You do not want to show that you are the most adventurous and fearless. You want to stay behind, watch the steps of your friends and give them hand if they falter and hold them if they topple.
Taking frequent breaks, we finish the uphill climb. We buy some souvenirs and then leave for the hotel as it is already 1:00 PM. After lunch, we say goodbye to the hotel Haritagiri and start for Bangalore at 3:45 PM. We expect to cover the distance of around 280 km in 7 hours. On the way we see a family of tuskers. We also spot some deer and monkeys. Some 18 km before Gundulpet, the TT stops on the road. We have barely crossed the forest. The driver suspects that it has run out of fuel. He takes out an empty can and hitchhikes to bring the fuel from Gundulpet. We are cursing him for his stupidity – how on earth he forgot about fuel? To cheer ourselves up, some of us climb on the TT and entertain others. Udhaya and Anu decide to stay inside and catch on some sleep. When we feel hungry, we climb down and search for food inside the TT. Udhaya feels weak and dizzy, so we give her some chocolates. While we cheerfully chew on some of the food, CB notes with his sharp observation that Udhaya has fainted! We are shocked. We try to bring her to senses but to no avail. Gunjan checks her pulse. It is running. Thank God! We spray some water, but she is still unconscious. Panic-stricken, we try all we can to bring her back. Some of us curse the driver. Some other prays to God. That seems to work – she comes back to senses, but still very weak and on the verge of unconsciousness. Vidhya and Bharathi keep talking to her so that she stays awake. She mumbles for every word. With glucose, she regains some strength. The driver arrives, to our merriment, and we head for a hospital in Gundulpet. I stand up in front of Udhaya’s seat to keep a watch on her. We do not want her to faint again. I see grim faces all around. Everybody looks dull and concerned. In that somber state, I see mellow and orange sun going down behind us. Something in that sight makes me feel very happy as if all izz well. Taking it as a positive signal, I am relieved. We go straight to a hospital in Gundulpet and the doctor there gives Udhaya some primary treatment and medicines. We leave the hospital and continue the journey.
We bypass Mysore while singing some songs. From the beginning of the trip, Gunjan has expressed her desire to have dinner at McDonalds on Mysore-Bangalore Road. She is very excited and looks everywhere for the red Big M. In her excitement, she even mistakes a green board bearing name Melkotte as McDonalds. Rashmi is very hungry and joins Gunjan in the wait. By now we have almost forgotten that Udhaya is not keeping well. She reminds us that, and how well! By the time we reach Maddur, she again complains of vomiting and dizziness. We stop at Coffee Day thinking that she will be OK in a minute or two. She again almost faints down and also complains of skin irritation. Realizing that it may take a little longer, we get down and unwillingly have dinner there while Udhaya takes some rest. Panic spreads again as she is still low. She recovers for the remaining journey of 77 km. Bharathi decides to take Udhaya to her house in Bangalore and Vidhya agrees to stay with her. By now all of us are very tired and sleep in the TT. Gunjan stays awake though, like a hawk – her increased mental awareness due to the consumption of Red Bull will not let her sleep. Besides she is the first one to get down. One by one, our fellow travelers get down. CM, Sanjay and I remain the last ones to get down. It is 2:00 in the morning now.
We bring back lots of memories from the trip: from the highs of the waterfall to the lows of the faint episodes, from the catwalk to the boys’ talk, from the falling down in the river to the falling down laughing while watching the mujra, from the tranquility of the water to the shrills of frequently exercised vocal chords. The treasure trove is enriched with the finest of the jewels. They will shine forever.
