Backpacking Across Spiti [Part2: Love At First Sight]

Read Part1 here.
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There's just one bus from Reckong Peo to Kaza every day at 7AM [11 hours, 330INR]. And it's not just a bus, it's the lifeline of the region in every sense of the word.

It serves as the only newspaper delivery mechanism with the driver promptly 'delivering' neat bundles of 1 to 3 newspapers rolled up and tied together with rubber bands from a moving bus. It serves as the only vehicle carrying officially sealed bundles of India Post without supervision to far flung post offices (including Hikkim - world's highest post office at 14,400ft - routed through Kaza). It serves as a lot more, best understood by talking to Mr Mohan Singh - one of the four conductors on the route - well versed with the region.

Talking to locals is the only way to learn about Spiti, which, with a population density of less than 2 people per sq km, is a land of stories that didn't find their way out. Take out the-relatively-easier-to-live-in Lahaul and what remains is a land of criminally few people and vast stretches of almost virgin beauty.

"Hunooz Spiti Dur Ast" - Nizamuddin Taulia

If the roads from Rampur to Peo were dramatic, I was in for the proverbial roller coaster. I got a ticket only till Nako, which looked somewhere midway on the map. The Nako village [Alt 12000ft, Population 572] and the Nako lake after a short trek, which I got to know later, would have been a fantastic option to explore. But after being forced to miss the Kinnaur gems of Sangla [9000ft], Rakcham [10000ft] and Chitkul [11300ft], I wasn't destined to explore Nako, too.

I was not feeling well at all. It wasn't mountain sickness, though. It was the fact that I needed to use a washroom urgently and the roads weren't helping. After a couple of hours that seemed like an eternity, the bus stopped at a sleepy highway village of Spillow.

'Strictly for 10 minutes,' shouted Mohan Singh.

The short clip shows the roads between Spillow and Pooh. The roads are pretty much the same from Peo to Spillow, too.

Almost in slow motion, I ran down the bus and then a small hill with a bottle of Kinley and the Dettol squeezy handwash, which by the way, is the biggest invention by mankind since sliced bread and condoms. A few minutes later, I personified world peace.

No adjectives or pictures can do justice to the incredibly humbling experience the rest of the journey was. It can only be lived. Especially the last hour before we leave the district of Kinnaur and enter Spiti would remain in my memories as the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen.

 Pic coutesy Sagar Bolbhat, a friend I made on the trip

Pic coutesy Sagar Bolbhat, a friend I made on the trip

I didn't get down at Nako and got a ticket till Kaza. The bus stopped at Hurling [4000 ft], the second village of the Spiti district after Sumdo, for lunch. It was where I met Dorje from a village called Chandigarh in Spiti who regaled me with Spiti stories.

One of them was about Chandigarh, the 'newest' village of Spiti around 50 years old. It had a population of 250, huge by Spiti standards. It was during the Chinese invasion in the 1962 war that the Indian goverment decided to relocate some people closer to Indo-Tibetan border to the plains of Chandigarh and Mohali. Not willing to leave their home soil, the villagers from several small villages set up the settlement on the highway and called it Chandigarh!

The other story was about a living mummy in a village called Giu which was 10km away from the place we were having this conversation at. Apparently, a buddhist saint asphyxiated himself with his knees to achieve the supreme form of transcendental meditation in the fifteenth century. In the 1975 earthquake, the mummy got washed up in the Spiti river only to be discovered when a ITBP digging shovel hit it on it's head and it started bleeding. The proof of the pudding lies in the fact that hair and nails still grow on the mummy's body!

One of the only 11 'mummified' Buddhist monks that somehow didn't get destroyed by the locals fearing the Chinese post the Cultural revolution. Carbon dating confirms the times of the 15th century. [Pic courtesy trekearth.com]

Planning to do Giu along with Tabo, I sat on the bus only to find myself catching forty winks involuntarily and wake up suddenly every few minutes to look outside and marvel at an entirely different terrain than the last time I woke up. The experience, in itself, was a unique one. It was almost a trance, with the night's sleep catching up with me in funny way.

Photo credits already taken by the photographer in the pics

Almost used to not having proper roads in the much more hospitable plains. I was pleasantly surprised by the work done by BRO and ITBP in such hazardous terrains. Hats off, to not just their willpower but also to their weird sense of humor exemplified in small boards that one finds all along the way.

Their acronym makes everything just so cool!

At around 7PM, the bus reached the much awaited basecamp for the next few days: Kaza [12000 ft, Pop 3000]. Fell in love with the place the moment I got down the bus!

Kaza Bus Stand [Pic courtesy human-vagabond.blogspot.in]

Met a couple from Sweden in the bus who told me about the two best places to stay in Kaza: Sakya Abode and Deyzor. Tired like a dog, I buckled up and started walking when I came across the best little thing in Kaza: Sol Cafe. 

                                  

 [Pic courtesy Ecosphere]

Stopped by to have a cup of some seriously good coffee and met some great people, in turn. I would spend all the post-travel evenings that I would spend in Kaza in this little place meeting more interesting people than I could have ever imagined. The Seabuckthorn tea [50 INR] steals the show with the special Sol Sandwich [80 INR].

Sol Cafe, along with Taste of Spiti, is run by Ishita of Ecosphere for the last 12 years on the sheer strength of her iron will. They are 'developing the ecological and cultural conscience' of Spiti promoting eco-tourism, sustainable livelihoods and seabuckthorn - a local berry that's supposed to be awesomesauce for our health. It's run through a well-oiled chain of volunteers who participate in short or long term assignments on things as big as conservation development and as small as running the Sol Cafe. [Know more about the enterprise, which is no longer not-for-profit, here] It is here that I made friends with Abhishek, Shaishavi, Vera, Tien and Sumant with whom the mountain ropeway at Chichum was an experience of a lifetime a couple of days later.

It was here that I also got the much needed roadmap because it was getting increasingly confusing with all the stories and I desperately needed to put things in perspective using a map. The 10-rupee map that made everything crystal clear looked something like this:

Fingers crossed, I next went to the infamous Kaza ATM, only to find it out of order. Little did I know that it would not be working for the next four days and I would not be able to check out of the hotel till a wonderful couple from Chandigarh bail me out! 

It was then when I overheard people talking in Spitian and the only words I could hear were 'Spiti Festival'. I took a chance and asked them what were they talking about and it happened to be a question of amazing consequences.

Serendipitous as it might sound, it was the penultimate day of the Spiti festival: the annual cultural/sports extrvaganza of the district where people from all the villages walked tirelessly up and down the mountains for three consecutive nights in the dark and assembled in the Kaza Government school.

The folk dances were breath taking and so was the innocently explosive response of the crowd after every performance. I had seen the likes only in pics in the online travelogues. Witnessing them firsthand blew me away. Below are some pics from the Spiti festival - absolutely not doing justice to what the experience was like.

It was pitch dark till the time I decided to move on to the hotel. There was no electricity in the village and the only sounds were those of a few travellers and a lot of dogs. The mountains still looked majestic! [I try finding other adjectives for them but there's nothing - not even one - that does justice other than majestic] 

With a torch for company, I would have gone to every corner of Kaza before finally stumbling across the hotel Sakya Abode which, for future references, was next to the Sakya monastery.

Sakya Tangyud monastery [Pic courtesy Rudolf Schratter, Tripadvisor]

Sakya Abode, though not looking as beautiful without electricity, is still the best hotel in the district [Pic courtesy - Tripadvisor page]

I was told that it was impossible to get a room in Sakya without prior booking but I was lucky to get one, though I did see many of my cotraveler friends having to switch hotels because Sakya Abode was pre-booked!

Hotel food is so damned good that when I was came back to Kaza and didn't get a room here, I stayed at the hotel next door so that I could get food here. More importantly, the dining area is just too good with amazing coffee table books and retiring travelers with whom one can share a conversation or two with ease.

Dining area, Sakya Abode [Pic courtesy hotel website]

It was here that I met Mr Tsering Bodh, the property owner who also runs two other properties and organises camps, treks and all things in and around Spiti with several collaborators online. He is a rockstar with proud Spitian roots and a Delhi education. He knows what he does really well and is down to earth like few others. He happened to play an important role in my journey. 

It was also here that I met Poonam, the stud caretaker-cum-waiter from Assam who loves spending 6 months every year in Kaza!

I got a room downstairs for Rs 1000 a night, which Tsering reduced to Rs 900 at the time of final bill! This, by the way, is super expensive by Kaza standards where you can get a room for as low as Rs 200 and an equally comfortable room as Sakya Abode would cost Rs 600. 

But I'm glad I stayed here as some of the people and the resulting experiences I met here probably changed the way I think forever.

[To be continued in Part 3...Spiti Festival, Key, Kibber, Chichum, Langza, Komik, Dhangkar, Tabo and back to Kaza]

Backpacking Across Spiti [Part 1: What You Seek Is Seeking You]

“Sometimes, the only way to find yourself is to get completely lost.” - Someone stoned upto his balls.
With a recently fractured wrist, chronically swollen ankles and a Wildcraft Gangotri 65 for company, I set on to discover the mythical land of Spiti with a childlike sense of wonder, hoping to discover a part of me which I had really started to miss for a long time.
Little did I know that our discovery of self is routed through discovering everything else, giving ourselves a much needed break from the mundanity of everyday existence. It’s only when we don’t need the daily masks is when we put down our guards: ready to absorb every single experience like a sponge rather than trying to preempt, critically analyse or dismiss it summarily. It’s only when we realize how monstrously insignificant we happen to be is when we understand how blissfully inconsequential our issues are.
And that realization, if not an orgasm, is pretty fucking close to it.
This would be the right time to violently lament the loss of my cellphone which had the surreal pics of the incredible terrain: the mischievous Sutlej, Spiti, Chandra and Manalsu rivers, snow capped peaks against the bluest skies, awe-inducing majestic mountains of various hues, patterns and rock formations and the best-at-heart humans I ever met - the gentle people from Spiti.
The phone was lost on the penultimate day in Spiti. It was shattering. It was the first time I felt bereavement in the 27 years of my existence. Not only did it make me cut the trip short by at least couple of days, I didn’t even feel like going to the seemingly divine Chandrataal lake after camping at -10 degrees for the night.
All of the memories, gone in a jiffy. More on that later, though. Some pics used in the travelogue were saved online and some others belong to friends I made on the trip.
Shimla and the Kinnauri Shaadi
Like every other place on the mountains, there are two ways leading to Spiti. One is the Delhi-Chandigarh-Shimla-Rampur-Reckong Peo-Tabo-Kaza route, which although of the same length, takes a couple of hours more than the other one which is Delhi-Chandigarh-Manali-Gramphoo-Batal-Kaza route which happens to the one where you get to high altitude (13000ft-Rohtang Pass) very quickly. People with prior experiences of mountain sickness should prefer the former.
This, in entirety, summed up my preparation for the trip which was ‘planned’ one day before I left for Shimla. It was only the sheer curiosity that the Chacha-Chachi of Batal generated in me that my I dumped the thoroughly planned Parvati valley itinerary for an absolutely unplanned foray into the district of Lahaul & Spiti. More on the couple later.
Booking a bus to Shimla was my first brush with HRTC (or Himachal Parivahan, as it’s better known) and it was love at first ride. Some much more glamorous states can learn a trick or two from the behemoth that the Parivahan is, which isn’t just the lifeline of the state - connecting otherwise totally cut off villages with the mainstream - but is a pleasantly potent combination of punctuality and courtesy.
This is a daily affair for HRTC [Pic courtesy Team BHP]
I have problems sleeping on buses. For someone with no such peeves, the semi sleeper Volvo [9 hours, 850 INR] would the most comfortable journey that would be in store for the next fortnight or so. After a dinner hault at Rai, Sonepat and a 3AM hault for tea, the next thing I knew was that the bus had reached Shimla, 2 minutes before the scheduled arrival of 5:30AM.
The hill-town was still sleeping although there were a few early birds on their morning walks. Had booked my first ‘Zo Room’ Bridge View Regency which, upon enquiry with the local folk, was a 40 min ‘walk’ up the incline or a taxi costing me 350 INR or a three-hour wait for the ‘lift’ which took people up in a minute at a nominal cost. The wind was pleasantly chilly; it had rained in the night. I took out the jacket, gloves and the skull cap, buckled up the backpack and started walking.

It took me an hour of walking amidst scores of monkeys jumping from buildings to wires to roads with impunity and chatting with some really jovial policemen over cups of tea to reach the hotel where the room wasn’t ready. The chai sutta on a rickety-ish chair on the rooftop where the sun was rising against the haphazardly stacked-up houses on the hills felt strangely princely. Might have to do something with the fact that Shimla, the summer capital of the British Raj for a long time, was after all the seat from where one-fifth of the human race was governed. 

Rooftop, Bridge View Regency, Shimla [Pic courtesy hotel website]

Shimla should be the best place to have a tablet of Diamox/Acetozolamide. For an average healthy adult, it should help one acclimatize for the next week without sweat. Shimla should also be the place where one should find a Himachali contact and get a BSNL sim using his local address proof, in case you haven’t already got one on you. Kaza, the district HQ of Spiti, gets only BSNL network. The places around Kaza have no network at all but it’s good to have an option to connect in Kaza at least in case of emergency. The best thing to do, though, to that emergency sim+phone is to keep it switched off to discover Spiti in all it’s glory.

After a bottle of the heavenly Himachali apple cider called Tempest (8% alcohol, 100 INR) and the above two duties (Diamox+BSNL) done, I was all set to go all touristy. I walked for five hours non-stop exploring the capital town teeming with honeymooning couples, romancing teenagers and sunbathing oldies and it was a delight. 

Went to the Lakkar Baazar bus stand and enquired about bus timings. Could do Sangla-Rakcham-Chitkul or Peo-Kalpa depending upon when I woke up and reached the bus stand. Like the rest of the fortnight ahead, I had no idea where would I be sleeping the next night.

The evening was well spent on an edge of the cliff seat in a quaint little joint called Cafe Simla Times with beer and some seriously kickass Caesar Salad to myself.Had whatsapped these pics to a friend. [Pic courtesy me]

Woke up a little late only to find a monkey in the room. Had left the balcony door unbolted after spending a couple of hours there the last night. Reached Lakkar Baazar bus stand around 11 to discover that I was late. The only feasible option was to go to Rampur and spend the night there. I ‘planned’ to go on to Sangla the next morning, walk a delightful 6 hour trek to Rakcham that I had heard so much about and head to Chitkul, one of the many ‘last village on the Indian side’ along the Indo-Tibetan border.

Only, I did neither of these.

I met Rajesh, a man from a village near Karchham [my age, married with a 3 year old kid] who I made good friends with on the bus to Rampur. He invited me to the ‘reception party’ of his sister-in-law who had already eloped and married. There was a small problem, though. The party was on the same night and there was no definite way to reach Lakho, a small village in the Kinnaur district where he hadn’t gone before, too. We decided we’ll figure out once we reached Rampur, the bustling-by-neighborhood-standards valley town around 6PM.

Rajesh took me to the CM’s palace (which was shut for visitors following an episode of alleged sexual assault) and to meet some of his friends. Had some beer and smoked up some of the finest stuff ever. Add to it the daivik shakti stories the guys narrated in the most matter-of-fact way ever that raised every hair on my body.

The evening had already become unforgettable. Only, it was just the start.

We went to the bus stand at 11 in the night. We heard there is a bus to Reckong Peo around midnight. The ‘plan’ was to drop the idea of going to the wedding party, get down at Karchham around 1AM, walk 3 kilometres to Rajesh’s village, have his mom’s parathas and figure out life in the morning.

Instead, we stumbled across an Innova looking for two passengers.

Having bought the already occupied front seat in return for the occupant’s fare, it was a moral responsibility to not sleep. There was practically no road for long stretches with width of the stretch being no more than seven feet at times. Rajesh had personally witnessed a bus accident 3 days back where the bus fell off the road killing all passengers on the spot. There were obviously no street lights and a vast nothingness accompanied the car on the left throughout along with the gurgling sound of majestic waterfalls which we could only hear. Summing it up, the next three hours were spent on world’s most dramatic roads (according to WikiTravel) between Rampur and Reckong Peo which I can never, ever forget.Imagine these roads at midnight [Pic courtesy devilonwheels]

The Karchham plan was dropped midway when Rajesh’s brothers-in-law forced him to attend the party on phone. So we got down at 2AM in the middle of nowhere where the only sound was us breathing and the only light was our cellphones. We had to walk down a mountain for a couple of kilometres before Rajesh’s brothers-in-law would come to escort us to the village.

We had majestic black mountain shadows on both our sides. For a brief period, I must say I was scared and had second thoughts about Rajesh as well. Thankfully, I hadn’t slept at all in the car and the stuff had started kicking in. Being zoned out reduces the ability to think straight, which, in the circumstances, was to scream ‘What the fuck am I doing in the middle of nowhere with a person I just met 12 hours back and where am I going to’ to Rajesh. But then, he wasn’t in complete senses, either.

So, we continued walking for what seemed like an eternity to find our hosts searching for us. They took us to my first brush with the nicest Pahari people I could ever imagine.

Decked up in grey and green Kinnauri hats alike (literally all of them), drinking the Himachali alcohol from a kettle (literally all of them) and dancing for hours holding hands (literally all of them), Rajesh’s kin impressed me royally. They were really poor. There wasn’t enough place for everyone to sleep. But it didnt seem to bother anyone at all, not even the mysterious army man from ITBP whom no one seemed to know but was a part of the celebrations. Clicked a couple of selfies with him, too.

My backpack was kept in open with the luggage of rest of the guests. Apparently, theft is the biggest crime you can commit in Lakho. It meant that the property was safe in the open. Human life, not so much.

In a period of two hours, there were seriously bad scuffles between the bride’s and the groom’s side at least ten times. There was a lot of blood involved. But the dance continued despite everything. It was a routine affair. I made a video which had the dance and the fight sequence both-in-one. Could have been one of my most prized possessions.

[On hearing that I lost my phone, Rajesh, right now, is waiting for an opportune time to go to Reckong Peo so that he can send me the images he clicked through an active internet connection. The pics would be uploaded in a couple of days.]

Had a pristine view of the Kailash parbat from where I was sitting. If I were lucky, I could also chance upon The ShivLinga. It was visible once a month from Lakho. It wasn’t the day, unfortunately. Watching the sun rise against the mighty Kailash was therapeutic, though.

The mighty Kailash. Kinner Kailash trek is open for 2 to 3 months in a year which can take one pretty close [Pic courtesy me, Whatsapp]

Rajesh told me there are buses around 1PM to both Kaza and Sangla and he would take me to an enchanted forest before dropping me off to the bus station. Only, he was flying higher than kites. Luckily, I wasn't.

I left at 6AM for a 4KM total trek up the mountain to Reckong Peo. No words can do justice to how the Sutlej river looked flowing along with the way. The sky was divine blue and the mountains still had morning snow at the peaks.

I hadn’t slept at all. All throughout the trek, I kept on marveling at Rajesh’s family and the unforgettable experience when a car stopped which I sat into only to realize that the driver was learning how to drive. Up a fucking mountain without roads! The co-passenger was the instructor who kept on guiding - “Good, ab doosra lagaao”, “Clutch chhodo”, “Teesra lagao theek se”. I almost peed my pants.

Thankfully, I got down soon and reached Reckong Peo bus stand at exactly 7AM to find that there was no bus to Sangla today and the only bus in the day to Kaza left exactly at 7AM.

My cellphone showed 20% battery and I had 2500 rupees in cash (there was just one ATM in Kaza which was almost always out of order). Worse, the morning ablutions hadn’t been performed and calling the ride to Kaza spine-chillingly-bumpy was an understatement. I had to take a call between staying back in Reckong Peo doing absolutely nothing all day; and risk shitting my pants, having a drained cellphone and be out of cash in Kaza.

I had less than a minute to decide.

I sat on the bus, which swivelled off to glory the very same instant.
[To be continued in Part 2 here...the bus ride, Dorje, Giu, Kaza, Sol Cafe, Spiti Festival]

Mumbai Blasts and Armchair Patriotism on Facebook

The post was published on Viewspaper. Find the link here.

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It's the same old tale. Explosions in country's favourite city and ensuing knee-jerk 'reactions' on social media. Fits of armchair-keyboard patriotism. What suddenly gets fashionable is talking about Kasab/Afzal and blaming the goverment - the easiest one can do without the tiniest of research/understanding. The media is in a frenzy misinterpreting every single official press release: rabble-rousing at the time we need it the least. I'm still unable to come to terms with how are news/entertainment channels broadcasting half-hour programs unfairly blasting an uncharacteristically balanced statement by Mr. Rahul Gandhi. What follows is my understanding/response to whatever happened and is happening.

One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. A cliche beaten to death. Still relevant. Religious scriptures are misinterpreted and people are brainwashed. They think they have a cause. And they're passionate about it. So much so that the desired ends justify every possible means. It's incredibly easy to rationalize when you have a decent education and food in the belly. The root cause, as I understand, is the sheer volatility and inflammable sentiments of what we term 'terrorists'. To me, they're just a bunch of extremely passionate believers standing by their belief. Isn't that exactly we are taught and we appreciate?

You're no different. They're told that their 'brothers' (criterion: same religion) are being massacred. They react. You see that your brothers (criterion: same country) are being massacred. You react. On Facebook.

It's just that they're ready to take a couple of steps more than us rational-in-our-AC-rooms intellectuals. But the root is the same. The volatility. The impatience. The urge to revenge. The tendency to club together individuals who happen to share nothing more than the same faith.

Killing Kasab/Afzal doesn't solve shit. If at all, it'll make matters worse. I'm not justifying the inordinate legal delay. The protracted (lack of) prosecution is indeed shameful for the entire nation. But let's move on and not crib about the same old thing. Can someone please explain what will killing them achieve? What message do we want to send across? And more importantly, TO WHOM? The to-be bombers? Let's get a hang of the ground reality. Our stereotypical Mr. Terrorist doesn't consume the media we do. For all we know, Mr. Kasab/Afzal might just be projected as ideals who made the ultimate sacrifice and who need to be idolized. What next, Mr. Facebook-status-updater?

War with Pakistan is not a solution. War is not a solution. To anything. Does anyone understand the consequences? Does anyone even know how is a war started? On what grounds? Like Uncle Sam does? Go - bomb - fuck civilians - destroy economy - destabilise region? I don't know either. All I know is that it is more difficult, destabilising and detrimental than beating up an eve-teaser.

Fuck you, media. Do I need to explain?

Stop envying Rahul Gandhi. The sooner you accept the fact that he was born with a silver spoon in one of his holes and you weren't, the better it gets for you. Stop blaming him and his motherfuckin' family for everything that goes wrong in this nation, however rotten they are.

Acquired wit, Inherent Stupidity. I have special sympathies for people with status updates: 'Kasab's birthday, have a blast'. Trust me dude, you're not funny. Escpecially when 500 people have posted exactly the same! At least make the minimum effort of validating. Kasab's birthday was Sept 13 for the record. Plus, ramblings like India should have expected something like this is dumber than anything Digvijay Singh has ever farted. How I wish you had the ability to think!

For fuck's sake, understand the meaning of a 'secular state'. What amazes me is the tendency to update 'status' in a fraction of a second spewing venom about a word one doesn't even understand. Foremost, we are a secular republic only in theory. Officially we don't have a religion and that's everything we can boast about. Religion is involved on a daily basis on both macro and micro level. But I don't want to even get started in that direction. What beats me is allusion to secularism-fathered impotence. Now, what's being potent? Let's have the balls to uneuphemise our life. It directly refers to seeing every Muslim in bad light just because the perpetrators have often belonged to that religion. Can any premise be any more flawed? Can we be any more prejudiced?

She

A romantic January night. Cool breeze from the window. Dim lights and some soft Elvis number pouring out of the speakers. I saw her for the first time. She was just perfect. Flawless. Awesome. I wasn't expecting her, like, at all. She was way out of my league.

I had fantasized about her in times of loneliness and despair. Lust knew no bounds. And I wasn't even ashamed. If only I could have her just one time! And here she was. Mine. All mine. The very sight of her gave me goosebumps. It was surreal: beyond all limits of conceivable thought.

But destiny had it's own plans. We soon had our differences and the damage was beyond repair. It wasn’t like she went out of my life. I bumped into her time and again in the arms of others, often being shared by multiple partners. It was painful. I even began questioning her character. Having no hopes of finding her back, I succumbed to anonymous mediocrity.

She was the first A I got in XLRI way back in Marketing 2. Eleven months and three trimesters down the line, I had her again. (And again, today! :D)

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Why MBA?

Type a 'why' on Google and the first suggestion that it throws up is 'Why MBA'. If you've landed here through Google search, I pity you. Please do not be under any illusions of enlightenment. Leave.

People all across the country, even Sri-sri-ek-hazaar-aath Arindam Chaudhuri, have torn their hair apart only to find themselves more confused every time. Some versions of Ramayana narrate the sleepless nights Rama spent in the endless pursuit. Even some great saints have been known to observe extreme penance to find the Ultimate Answer.

I still puke at the sight of brown newspapers. I still can't figure out the head or tail of an annual report. I still think that market research and statistics are buckets of shit. I still don't know how a stock market works.

But it's not been for nothing:

• I can define 'core competency' without falling down laughing
• I reply to 'What's Up' using a SWOT Analysis
• Requests for financial aids to parents are referred to as IPOs
• I ask my four-year old niece what the 'mission statement' in her life is
• I advise friends to lend some semblance of 'sustainability' to their relationships
• I talk to my girl about our future in terms of all the 'value' we can 'co-create'
• There are never less than six tabs on my browser
• 'Ctrl' is the most pressed button on my keyboard
• 'Reply to all' is my default action on reading a mail
• I make daily diary entries in MS Power Point

But the biggest 'value-add' to my life till now has been the mastery over GASing. For the uninitiated, GAS expands to Global Action Strategy. It refers to the art of blabbering/typing absolutely fucked up bullshit to a captive audience.

It usually starts with an epiphany - "Damn. I do not know jack about this" - usually followed by a quick reference to The Handbook Of Versatile MBA Jargon starring the likes of 'value', 'sustainability', 'strategy', 'organisational', 'leadership', 'hierarchy' and 'culture'. And then starts the quest for the Holy Grail: Frameworks!

Frameworks have been the most crucial inventions to mankind since sliced bread, wheels and condoms. For starters, these are lethally effective weapons of gas construction sired by jobless academicians and money-laundering consultants available to the rest of the world in hour of need/greed. The best of lot, my personal favourite is called a "Two-By-Two Matrix". TBTM is a motherfuckin' gem that swears to generalize even the most specific phenomena on earth. No person, animal or thing has ever been able to escape it's venom.

So, why MBA? The closest-to-acceptable answers are fat pay cheques and networking. If grades are any indicator of the cheque's flab, mine is bound to be severely malnutritioned. And networking, tch. My scorecard on this front shows all red. 553 days into the hallowed portals, I'm still as clueless as Manmohan Singh!

Here's FedEx take on the evil.

The Grand Old Sleeper of India

The good old times were so bloody different. Or probably, it was the ignorance-induced-indifference of my age. Whatever be the reason, the sleeper coaches never used to bother me. They were taken for granted on a family trip. Travelling in air conditioned compartments used to be considered extravagance of the highest vulgarity.

22 hours in the sleeper coach of Purushottam Express brought back everything. It was a kaleidoscope of all the possible colors, dialects and cultures. The toilets stank. Males ogled blatantly at the plateaus of female anatomy. Discussions ranged from instantaneously solving political quagmires to making roadmap of the Indian cricket team to the WC. Hawkers sold spurious packaged drinking water with impunity. Some destitute-turned-junkie swept the entire coach with his shirt – that he would still wear after the exercise – for quick change and some glue to sniff. Ticket examiners made moolah at the expense of the employer. And everyone seemed to flash their ‘chai-neej’ phones squirting the latest Bollywood chartbusters that superimposed with one another making me beg the Lord to enlighten them about earplugs!

Today, I’m one friggin snob. Today I cringe in disgust. Today I travel AC.

Today, I travel with the crowd that throws huge words like ‘civic sense’ and ‘etiquette’ in a split second. The crowd that changes colors like a chameleon. The crowd that does “upar neeche” with the TTE without the slightest of hesitations. The crowd that uses the choicest expletives once it gets out of the coach. The crowd that thinks the world is it’s dustbin. The crowd that contributes more than it’s fair share to the smelly heap of garbage next door. The crowd that knows just one game: that of blame.

Will the buck ever stop? Will Musaddi Lal ever come out of the lazy reluctance bred by the ‘Chalta Hai’ attitude? Will we ever start using dustbins, however scarce they might be? Will we stop promoting beggary by offering them food instead of hard cash? Will the stranglehold on spurious water bottles ever tighten? Will the TTE’s wings ever be clipped? WILL PEOPLE EVER START USING EARPLUGS?

P.S. I’m totally convinced that the education system in UP sucks. This is Ishika (niece)’s take on English:

…C-A-T cat, D-O-G dog, E-O-G elephant…

Pissed Off

Well, I've been off blogosphere for a full month now! This very place once used to be my escape-route to a non-artificial world. Not only did it serve as a vent to all the shit inside, it also made me connect to some really awesome writers (and persons). Sorry, folks for not keeping in touch, like, absolutely.

Reason 1: Absolute inability to express anymore. Or, something like it! I've tried and tried some more. But there are no shapes, there are no figures and there are no fuckin expressions. Blogger's block, probably, if such a creature exists.

Reason 2: MBA. But that's no news. I have been suffering from this goddamned disease for 525 days now and I should have gotten used to it. But I haven't. Actually, things are in the worst probable shape ever. I want out and I want it now. I'm mighty pissed off with everything associated with this fuckin plague and that makes the mood ever-irritable.

Reason 3. MBA, again. I have lately been swamped with work. Lots.

Reason 4. Sticksports.com. I just want the motherfucker who coded this shit called Stick Cricket to get ants in his ass. Alternatively, the site can be brought down. When there's no work, I play the absolutely addictive flash game, like, all the time.

Not much has happened in life in this last month. Well yeah, Facebook happened. I finally took the plunge and am sorry I did so. For all I know, this new fad has turned everyone into a crybaby vying for attention through 'like's and comments. More on that later, sometime, probably, in the near future, if at all.

Well, that's all. Also, Indi-fuckin-blogger, all of a sudden, thinks that my blog stinks (the ratings have fallen from 80 to 65 during the month I was inactive).

Bunking Chandra Chatterjee

Let's name this prof X and this course Y.

I had volunteered for providing my services for counselling twelfth grade students as a part of the ongoing "Joy Of Giving Week". The schedule happened to clash with Lecture 1 of Y. Now I couldn't let the organising team down by not turning up at the last moment. So, I decided to give the lecture a miss. I pushed the electric-start button at 8.55 am and accelerated. There he was, Sir X, on his way to the lecture hall. Evidently, I had 'bunked' the introductory session and was caught bike-handed by none other than the professor. Dumbfounded, I greeted him and he returned a wicked smile.

Lecture 2. Sir X enters the lecture hall and scans the student area.

Sir X: "I hope attendance is not required today. Everyone seems present."

(Giving me a mean look:) "Oh, you're present! Everyone is here then."

I died in embarassment.

Two days later. We were forced to bunk the Lecture 3 to submit a business plan on time whose deadline, awesomely, co-incided with the lecture. Not having slept for 36 hours, we decided to treat ourselves with the legendary Bauaji-tea. As fate would have it, Baua-ji wasn't open and we came back. While I parked the bike, there he was, Sir X, returning from the lecture. I was caught again, bike-handed. Dumbfounded, I greeted him to a no-response.

Lecture 4. Having a lot of assignments the previous night, I had not been able to read the case study scheduled for discussion.

Sir X: "So, what is the dilemma in this case? Varun, why don't you try?"

Clue-fuckin-less, I turned the pages of the thirty-page case study, hoping for a miracle.

"What is the dilemma? Is it a bird, an animal, what is it?" I stared blankly, biting my lower lip.

"Have your read the case?" I shook my head.

"So you want a break? To read the case and come back? You want what: 10, 30 minutes? You want me to stop the class so that you can read it and enlighten us?"

I died in embarassment.

Lecture 5. I was feeling really proud of myself. Not only had I read the case study, I had also read the scheduled 16-page reading. There was no way in this world could I be raped this time. Bring it on.

"So, who all have read the reading?"

Sniffing an air of arrogance, I raised my hand: only to find that mine was the only one above the sea-level.

"Oh, for a change, Varun has read it."

Chuckles back to himself and repeats, "Today, for a change, Varun has done the reading!!!"

I died in embarassment, yet again!!!

P.S. A few minutes later while discussing the purchase behaviour for a bike, Sir X asked if anyone had recently got a bike for himself. Yours truly raised the fabled hand. Sir X dealt a crushing blow again.

"Oh yes, I have seen your bike."

Damn, this tiny XL campus!

Chulbul Pandey in XLRI

We at XL know one thing - to live life XL size! We have formal committees for the most informal of all things in the world. While the most popular committee ensures the absence of sobriety on the campus, Film Lovers In XLRI (FLIX) has pirates who screen awesome-quality shit on huge lecture screens. If it's a movie, it's on FLIX.

I'm one of the six pirates of the campus. We have screened all kinds of movies - from downrightly sleazy to cult classics with audience-of-five. But, this Tuesday was different. We screened Dabangg. The rest is history.

Marketing maniac that I think I am, this was the first teaser that I sent to the batch.

Normally, teasers cease to be anything more than movie posters. They aren't teasers, really, in absence of the tease quotient. But hype had to be created this time. The subject of the teaser read "SCREENING OF THE YEAR".

By 8pm, Anshat and I decided to spice up the movie watching experience. We got popcorn, cold drinks and 'thanda' paan!!! And I sent out another teaser with strategically placed fonts.

Next, I printed out the following and stuck it in the hostel elevator.

(Munni Zandu Balm hui, Darrrling tere liye)

2315 hours. Lecture Hall 2. The experience.

Imagine sitting in a theatre in Bengal watching a Mithoon-Da movie from the first few rows with the "mass audience", as we elitists call them. The atmosphere was equally electrifying in XLRI. The hall with a seating capacity of 70 had 90 people to start with. Whistles, desk-bangings, roars of "Why are we waiting, FLIX is masturbating!"

Chulbul 'Robin Hood' Pandey then took the hall by a storm, a tsunami rather. It was a cheap, sleazy, double-meaning dime-a-dozen flick with a difference. Colossal screen presence of Salman even when he breaks into a dance everytime between a fight, Gawd-level action sequences and "Makkhi" - it was more than we could take. [Makkhi happens to be the nickname of a batchmate Nitin Makhija whose name was shouted everytime "Makkhi" was mentioned onscreen].

Dialogues like "Dekhen, kiske batashe kitney gol hain!" [Let's see, who has the balls!"] flared the lecture hall more than what's happening in Kashmir.

And, among all this, there was Anshat, shouting out his sales-pitch "Popcorn-popcorn-popcorn"!!!!

A night to remember!

You Know What I Did This Summer

Summer Internship. Sales. FMCG. Jharkhand.

For the uninitiated, this means that the two months are NOT being spent in any cozy air-conditioned office with transparent walls and free internet. Instead, I’m living out of a suitcase ‘touring’ all of Jharkhand. This also includes the interiors with terrestrial connectivity worse than the jungles of Amazon. Anyway, it’s an experience of a lifetime. An account follows.

• Every address has ‘Near Hanuman Mandir’ on it. I wonder how many fans does the H-Man have in Jharkhand!
• I’ve come across incredibly innovative spellings and grammar. “Please your on laggage”!!!!!
• I have been sneezed and coughed upon in the face so many times now that I’m looking forward to being spitted upon – the Holy Grail.
• I have peed in the most unhygienic of places, sometimes after climbing hillocks of garbage!
• I have travelled in the most ‘rocking’ of vehicles – the desi version of Disneyland swings. My spinal cord seems wrecked for eternity.
• I met a person called ‘Birbal’ for the first time in my life.
• I have grown fond of Sattu – the desi Gatorade.
• The dust on the roads and places named Telmocho, Chas and Tipudana give me the feel of Latin America.
• I have pissed off a sales officer so bad that he has asked me not to call him up ever again.
• I have travelled in an auto-rickshaw without headlights on streets with no light whatsoever at eight in the evening in thunder, storm and rain. Talk about blind trust!
• I have come across a dilapidated hut named ‘Indian School of Learning’ that guarantees ‘100% placement’.

Half of this period has been spent in Ranchi. For people never been to the place, it is merely a newfangled capital of a newfangled underdeveloped tribal state. But the exponential rate of “development” has led to explosions – of population, traffic, pollution and noise. An account follows.

You know you are in Ranchi when:

• The roads are narrower than Keira Knightley’s waist: far worse than the by-lanes of Jamshedpur.
• You find no traffic lights but traffic police on squares in 2010!
• The traffic is excruciating for the size of the roads.
• All school buses are yellow in colour and are the biggest culprits in traffic jams.
• Stuck in a jam, if A is behind B and B is behind C, all three are honking at the same time.
• In a jam, if you don’t stick the nose of your vehicle up the ass of the one ahead, some vehicle is bound to cross the road from the gap in between.
• The rickshaws turn at ninety degrees without a whisker of a signal.
• Bumpers and potholes included, there are more speed breakers on the road than the rest of India combined.
• There is no civic sense – AT ALL!!!!
• There are no dustbins – AT ALL!!!!
• You find a lassi hawker everywhere. Fortunately, the town is a sucker for it.
• The favourite evening snack is Chinese food, especially rolls and momos. The extent of craze makes one wonder if it was once a Chinese colony!
• If you are on the opposite side of the road to Big Bazaar, you have to drive for 2 kilometres to come back to mall’s side of the road.
• Big Bazaar is a big big sham. It takes less time to shop there than to cross the road at 10 in the morning.
• The service in restaurants is abysmal and is not a function of prices charged.

Anyway, its just a matter of 20 odd days and it gets over for good! Pray to God that I get strength enough to survive through all of this!

Hiya!

Thanks for all the nice pings and mails and comments of appreciation. Honestly, it was humbling!I never knew so many people missed me here. I suppose it wouldn’t be possible to maintain the same frequency of posts but I’ll try to keep up. Also, rest assured that I will read all your blogs and comments and mails and tweets and reply to them in due course of time. Also, I see a few new followers. Great choice! :P Thanks again!
--

I’ve been off my blog for twenty days now. For nerds knowing what radioactivity is, my blog is made up of a hyper radioactive material called khuja-lee having a half life of a million years. For the “kewl” junta, it implies that occurrence of a patch of such cessation of activity on my blog is as improbable as KKR winning an IPL match, or even more.

The reason behind this rare phenomenon of ‘judai’ is the occurrence of another phenomenon – Summer Internship. Without going into the details of the experience - which calls for a totally separate blog altogether – it would suffice if I say it’s been a heavenly experience till now.

Some of the retailers I’ve visited for data collection have treated me worse than they treated lepers in Latin America in the 30s. The heat is awesome: I start wondering the moment I find myself not sweating. Scorching sun has suddenly made the back of my neck magically granular. The traffic of Ranchi has raped the gears of my bike so bad that I wish Kieren Pollard hit me for a six everytime I have to crawl at less than ten kmph for ten minutes at a stretch.

Rewinding, the internship commenced at the city of joy (I wonder who called it that first!) – Kolkata. For someone who has lived all his life in one of the most planned towns in India, Kolkata was a synonym for paranoia. And it lived upto the (un)expectations. An account follows.

You know you’re in Kolkata when:

• The cabbies start “bargaining” from Rs. 280 and end up taking passengers for Rs. 80!
• The platform security check-up is a gigantic sham as anyone can bypass it through an eatery on the corner called ‘Comesum’ with two doors!
• The waiting room on the platform is on the second floor with fifty stairs!!!! (Grrrrr)
• The traffic jams every two minutes – right, every two minutes – raise no eyebrows at all: such is the level of acceptance!
• Girls in airtight jeans and more make-up than Shilpa Shetty buy lingerie with their boyfriends on the footpath!
• The crowd makes you think that all of the one billion Indians live in Kolkata!
• You find people crossing the roads running on the zebra crossings!
• You find kids bathing in full shame-shame costumes at the hand pumps by the side of the streets with more than average traffic!
• You sweat like a pig!
• There are no dustbins – AT ALL! The whole city is one big shameful crapbag!
• Everyone, I repeat, everyone smokes!!

God help the city, especially on the grand eve of the biggest festival of all time – an IPL match – when everyone seems to go insane.

Anyway, I guess I’m back on the blog and would be more frequent than the Haley’s Comet from now on. So what have you been upto?

Surveyphobia

A plague has come upon XLRI. And it has its roots in new 'in' thing: 'status' messages. There was a good old time when I looked forward to the hyperlinks in them. It was our desi version of StumbleUpon. Anyone who discovered anything interesting over the web shared it with his e-circle of friends.

But this plague is different. Its called "Survey".

From carbonated drinks to smoking habits, from product placements to IPL and from a new car to a new home, every XLer has been bombarded with questions, the answers to which he has none. The questions are masterpieces in themselves. The best one I came across was"

• "During the past one month, how long(in minutes) have you usually taken to fall asleep at night?"

ROFL! I would lend my kidney to the person who could possibly answer this. Do notice the couple of words in brackets. "In minutes". Count baby, count.

And the seven-point scales. Phew!

Every morning I open my eyes, I ask myself:

• "I dont want to wake up."

Staunchly agree/strongly agree/a lil less strongly agree/moderately agree/weakly agree/slightly agree/neutral

If this continues, there would be a time when an XLer would propose to the girl of his dreams in the following fashion:

• "Rate on a scale of 1 to 7(7 being Strongly Agree). Would you marry me?"

The "surveyors" are leaving no stones unturned to make the survey reach even their mausi-ki-bua-ke-devar-ki-maami-ke-bhatije-ki-beti. Some surveys are even disguised in 'tinyurl's.

Yours truly has also joined the bandwagon. But this one's different. This one is not for market research. This one is for my blog! :)

Randumb Snippets

I never wear bright colours. Gurdit says that I wear colours resembling a 'dead lizard'. Can somebody explain to me what-in-the-name-of-that-lizard's-arse does it mean? And why does it have to be dead?

--

These are some of the masterstrokes by the genius professors we have out here at XLRI:

• "You would have looked very smart if you hadn't brought your face."
• "When rape is inevitable, its wise to enjoy it."
• "Boss, I can tell you at least maximum(!!!!????) would have done it wrong."
• "Saari Raamayan khatam ho gayi aur tum poochh rahe ho Seeta kiska Baap!"
• "You wretched-face creatures with no sense of dressing and walk in sleep..."
• "The only thing you have learnt in XLRI is how to stand still after a bottle of whiskey."
• "Can you please come down from the House of Lords (last benches, slightly elevated as you go back every level) and sit in the House of Commons (the front benches)?
• "(The graph is) pressed from the top and getting big from the bottom...
• "...but, a very big but..." [if you don't get this last one, Think JLO, think Malaika, think Nicole]

--

Sometimes I think what do the toppers(read: ghissus) get after burning midnight oil (it's a phrase!), slogging till their butt swells up, and giving up on the obvious delicacies of life! Even if they get an 'A' , their CQPI (cumulative grade) comes down! Poor souls! Their life can best be compared to the disclaimers on sleeping pills: "May not cause drowsiness"!! (link)

--

I got this sms a couple of minutes back. "Characteristics of VKG- finds smsing her taxing but blogs every moment. has nothing to talk about to her but adds a new topic to his blog daily. Finds walking with her taxing but goes to jubilee park with friends every week. Listens to everyone's complaints but not her. Will do every other work when with her but when alone, he either does "kuch nahi" or watches movies. Will give advice to everyone but not her."

Poor her! Or, poor me? :P

Psychedelic Patterns

They are all there. They are all cheering, hands in air. Roars and Applauses. He is the light at the other end of this tunnel. They are taking His name. The one in the red turban and an unkempt beard is a bit over the board. He's joining both his hands in an inexplicable manner so as to devout himself. The lady with the slightly unhooked blouse is screaming like never before. Their hands are dirty and their hair is rough and messy. The legs are weak and the feet are bare. Its scorching hot. They do not feel an ounce of heat. These are the winds of change.

"What the blip happened to the the picture quality?"

They are all there. Some new as well. Some did not make it.

He's blurry eyed. He can't see them clearly. The noise has risen like anything. They need their rights. They need their dreams fulfilled. They want back a part of themselves that they gave to Him. They do not seem to get it back. Why does this always happen?

They are all there. They are a JPEG image from this high. They are colours. The red crowd there - in the middle of the left row: He has to take care of them. They keep Him happy. He loves being happy. Everyone loves being happy. The chamiya loves the pearls, too. They have wild sex, every night. Its wild for Him at least. The blue in the right row do not even know the red are there. They have their own deals. They have their own ideals. They need to be listened as well. Do you have a friggin's clue what how many pixels they are and what their pixel size is? Be wise. Be calm. Be careful.

They are all there. They have assembled again. Long time back. Many centuries back in time. They are silhouttes. But not silent. They have voices, equally strong, equally shrill, equally loud and equally clear. The heroes are in white neat robes, fresh from their burial, not a long time back, together, all at once. They are taking Him to the gallows.

"Plug the earphones out, you bugger."

Its silent as death. Am I deaf as well? Its dark. Am I blind as well?

"Achcha, match shuru hone wali hogi na"

--

The above post was written and saved after six glasses of bhang. There were patterns in my mind. Of crowds, of cheers and of a hero. This is how I interpreted them. This is an unedited copy (punctuation and italicisation aside).