Uttar Kannada with Manju

Mysore, 19 Nov 2019, 4:45 am

Sleep is cut short by nerves awaiting the ride to Uttar Kannada. It feels strange to not set off alone as I wait for my riding partner, Manju Kashyap.

He's 21 and we play basketball at Mysore University. For the first time I'm on a trip with someone much younger. I wonder how Wendrick felt when they first met me at Kovalam, when they were in the mid fifties, and me 17.

Manju and I have done a short trip to Chikmagalur a year ago, and shorter rides before that, so there has been a slow progression in familiarity. The partnering gets me nostalgic about Joy and Gopal for a moment. We have 3 Aluminium boxes fitted to the bike, and he's a big guy when compared to me. I can immediately feel the weight of a pillion, which I'm not used to, and buckle down to accept it. The riding is harder with a pillion, and one can switch, so there is a neat trade-off. A few days later Manju would say that the first day of the ride is the hardest - and I found that interesting; getting out of the familiar can be boring and we have nearly 500 kms to go.

Karnataka has a sprinkling of unmarked speed breakers all over, even on roads which are speed breakers in themselves. It's tiring to be alert, and quite often we run over speed breakers at 70 km/hr, and it's a bit unpleasant, but doable thanks to the suspension. The suspension on the Tiger 800 XCA is called WP (White Power - whoever came up with that!), and it has over 21 cm of travel at both the front and the rear. For the most part we can glide over bad roads. The trade-off is that the bike is tall, and it's difficult to 'put bends' on corners, and a fall feels like one off a horse.

For the next few hours we ride silently, past fields of sugar cane, rice, corn and arecanut. We stop to stretch, and to eat. The bike draws looks and questions. Price? Mileage? Over the years I've been asked if I was a vagabond, or an advertisement. I get a machined cut and a clean shave so people hesitate to mess with the potential army man.

As we cross Shivamoga, there are plenty of ponds and lakes that spring up on the side of the road, and it feels lush at the start of the dry season. Lunch at Sirsi was the first of a series of simple (and same) meals for around Rs 70. The quality of the betel leaves and arecanut in the Sweet Paan is exceptional, and it remained so across Uttar Kannada.

From Sirsi, we have to reach Anshi-Kali National Park before sunset and find accommodation. We're close to Yellapur when we see a signboard saying 'Magod falls'. This trip was originally conceived as a waterfall hunt, and got postponed 3-4 times. Magod falls was one that Manju has had eyes on for some time, so we decided to take a u-turn. As I turn to my right, I lose balance and we fall.

Manju has a partial tear in his Anterior Cruciate Ligament in his right knee from earlier this year. And during this fall he landed right on that knee and his entire weight fell on it. I hear the bike fall, and I get up to see his face in distress as he cluthes the right knee. There is petrol leaking thanks to the incline. Thankfully there is some traffic, and people come to help me lift the bike up.

Manju's knee is throbbing, and he has felt this before once when he returned to the basketball court too soon from the injury. It's not a tear, but the knee feels like a pissed off snake, hissing and rumbling to let you know that something is wrong. We sit, walk up and down, and thankfully it's not a serious re-injury. Much stretching later we are off, and my shoulders are stiff and tense. I cannot wait for the ride to end. I'm telling him that we'll rest one day, and if he doesn't feel better, we'll head back to Mysore.

I feel guilty at having dropped the bike, and I realise that u-turns on the right is something that I am not good at. My legs are not strong enough for a load on the bike. We are tired and ragged now, and I'm thinking what an unpleasant end to the first day. The throbbing knee makes it hard to sit pillion, and pain is magnified. The perks of sensory distractions are so clear while switching between rider and pillion.

After the fall, we ditch the original plan and head towards Dandeli. Because we have no bookings, the end is not in sight. An hour later at 4 PM, it's been 10 hours and we are gassed. We stop at a scenic bridge for more stretching. Manju's knee is still throbbing, and sitting tight is not helping. He groans as he gets off and stretches. The pain is written on his face.

Less than 30 minutes later we find Kulgi Nature Camp. We are there, the tents are empty, yet I am asked to book online first. An example of mindless application of 'Digital India'. There is no network or signal in the forest, yet the distrust in the system demands that they insist on online bookings and payments.

I try talking nicely, and they insist I go to Dandeli town and book online. The injured knee card is not enough. Then in a moment of nothing-to-lose madness I raise the lack of professionalism and service, and rant about how salaries are paid to these people and they don't do work. This irks one Forest Official there and he takes exception. To my luck I am able to pacify him saying that I'm not talking about him but the system in general, and it wakes him from the slumber. We get a tent.

Here I felt that I need to know the law. Under which act does the Forest Department establish these Nature Camps, and what are the laws and rules that govern them? The Forest officials are not used to being challenged, and one needs to know the law to be able to speak effectively.

We get a tent for 1400, and it's a great price. I'm trying to compare the prices to 15 years back - we used to spend between 200 to 400 per night for two people back then. Manju likes view points and we walk to one nearby from where mobile phones can make calls. While being photographed his favourite pose is back-to-the-camera, so we take turns.

The next morning I wake up remembering that I had killed a small scorpion the previous night as it crawled near the shoes, and I can't find the dead scorpion. Dead meat doesn't last long here.

We go bird watching, thru a 'Trail' marked out by the Forest Department. In one tree right on the main road we see dozens of birds, and we stand there for a long time. Manju clicks away. Later he'd say that he wants to know what he's clicking in the future. The 'Bird Trail' doubled as a Timber Trail, with logs of wood meant for commercial use. It's a reminder that the Forest Department is primarily a tool of exploitation of forest resources - controlling access and profiting. Conservation here is akin to Corporate Social Responsibility for Capitalists. Then again, we all use wood, and it has to come from somewhere, so we should also ask questions about consumption.

By 10 AM we are ready to head out for the waterfalls. Manju's knees feel alright, and we ditch the big side-boxes, so it feels light and slender. We ride thru the same forest that we passed thru the previous evening, and it feels beautiful and relaxed this time. Besides fatigue and injury, uncertainty over the end point makes a lot of difference.

Two hours and some broken roads later we are at Magod falls. It's a misnomer as it's merely a view point. Still, the view is mesemerising, and we are elated to be present there. It's been a dream for Manju to see Magod falls so there is a lot of excitement. We take the usual back-to-the-camera pictures. I give out safety advice as he heads to the rock beyond the rails on the cliff, and I feel old. I used to be that guy, and now I'm catching myself giving advice. In my mind it feels like the waterfall is as good over here as from the cliff - clearly I don't know better anymore. I am happy for his enthusiasm, and I love the contagious nature of it.

We go to a view point afterwards to see the Kali river in the plains. There are a couple of couples there and I feel bad about interrupting their privacy, but they seem less than bothered. They take photos, and the women are working on their hair for the pictures. We give them some space and sit some distance away. A security guard walks down with a ledger that we fill. The chit-chat reveals that he is less than pleased about 'non-family' people visiting the cliff. He also tells us that a month back some guy couldn't suffer thru a love failure and came here and jumped off the cliff, hence the register.

The security guy felt that the couples need to be asked to leave, because this is a Family Place. I love the importance accorded to Family in Indian society. Even if Families abuse their adults or children, as long as they are legally sanctioned by society as Family, it's cool. But unmarried couples at view points? That is like loose Plutonium.

Manju tells me that at Sathodi falls we can jump into the water. It's a 30 km stretch of ruins of roads, and some parts are entirely loose stones  on steep hairpins. I am feeling the pressure, and the thought that we'll have to ride back up these roads is nagging me. We walk quickly to the falls, and it's gorgeous. The Rhesus Macaques close in on our belongings - helmets, footwear and clothes. There are stones everywhere, so it's a volley that the monkeys can't stand, and they retreat to pockets higher up on the rock face. We keep a close eye, and cannot truly relax. Still, the water was refreshing and I received a brief back massage from one set of rapids. Manju is amazed with how his back looks in the pictures, and we take enough back-to-the-camera photos to respect the gym work put in.

The ride back is aggressive and tense, and Manju holds on tight to the rails. I ride fast and he doesn't complain. He observed later that there were a lot of bends to the right on the way back, and he was worried about a fall to the right, where his injured knee resided. I told him that he should feel free to communicate without hesitation.

We reach back just before sunset, after 185 km. The next morning we go to Dandeli and I book a room at Anshi, and two nights at Cocopelli Surf School in Gokarna. With a big bike and bulky riding gear unplanned ends are less appealing. I realise this when I feel a sense of calm and relief after the next three nights are made certain.

We eat Hubli-Dharwad style meals, and it feels distinctly different from anything we'd eaten so far. Jowar rotis, and the way the vegetables were cooked were different and very nice. The bypolls are on in Karnataka, and the TV is blaring news, flashing endless graphics to keep pace with the decreasing attention span.

Manju rides slowly thru the forest and it feels peaceful at 60-70 km/hr. Maybe he wanted to experience this after the previous evening's mad ride. I felt completely relaxed, and it was my favourite stretch in the entire trip. The forest itself was so lush and rarely interrupted. There were laterite bricks everywhere, and it feels like the buildings are one with the surroundings.

That afternoon we decide to split. He takes the bike to a view point at Kadra Dam, while I find a stream nearby that I want to explore. Leaving the chappals where people can find them, for evidence, I set off barefoot on the shallow, stony riverbed.

As soon as I found a comfortable perch on the river, the leeches show up, and I realise that the jungle is only idyllic in pictures. Even at the start of the dry season, there are leeches in the wettest regions. It's also a sign of a healthy ecosystem, so I'm happy to see them.

I head back, and get lost in some sand-banks with fallen trees. I'm wary of vipers hiding close to the water, and nervously find my way back. I sit there and read the first book that I remember reading that affected my thought process - Waiting For The Mahatma by R K Narayan. I remember the train ride I took in the summer of 2001 - West Coast Express from Chennai to Coimbatore, on my way to a cousin's place in Payyoli, Kerala. It was a slow and empty train, and I sat by the window, in the sun. The only other person in the coupe asked me if I would like to sit in the shade opposite him, and I said no thanks, I like the sun. He didn't speak to me after that, and I remember soaking in that book. It inspired me, and when I got off that train at Coimbatore, I had changed irreversibly. I remember wishing I had been born before Independence, and wished for a sense of purpose and a girl to run behind like the main guy in the book.

Back to the present, I'm floating in nostalgia when Manju stops at the bridge and calls me to come over, he has something important to tell me. I rush up, and he says that the bike just refused to start a while ago. He's panicky and shaken up. I told him that I've been in that position and that it happens sometimes - what can you do? Worst case park the bike on the side and hitch a ride back, we'll figure something out. He took the help of some people to push the bike to start, and now he doesn't want to turn off the bike. What are we going to do - keep the engine on all night? I switch the bike off, and this time it starts. These big bikes are very rugged compared to say, Enfields. Regular parts don't break down as a matter of routine. But if something does break down, it's damn near impossible to do anything about it. There is so much computing and automation inside that it requires to be plugged to a computer to even detect the problems at the service center.

The mosquitoes in the evergreen forest are big and plentiful, and we have smoked our room with Mortein so I sit out until the smoke clears. After sunset the mosquitoes mellow down, and it's a pleasant night's sleep. The next morning we go back to the stream for a dip. Manju piles some stones on the other bank and we take aim for an hour. It was reaffirming to know that we don't need much to invent nice games on the fly.

It's a delight to float and look up at the canopy above. The water was clear and cool, and there was a piece of wood to perch on and jump off.

We don't hit our Stone Pyramid even once. Still, it's a great morning, one that reminds me of Chikmagalur and Hornadu from 20 years back, when clear water was plentiful and everywhere. We pack up and speak to a Forest Officer over breakfast. Tea for him is served in a ceramic cup, as opposed to steel for us. He enquires about real estate in Mysore with Manju and takes his number. We overhear him exacting a 100 ruppee per person cut from daily wages paid to the labourers hired by the Forest Department.

As we climb down from the Ghats, we spot the labourers who helped Manju yesterday when the bike wouldn't start. He explains things briefly, and we show thumbs up and set off. The road gets crowded once we hit the coast, and we see hordes of Enfields on the opposite side of the road, exchanging a variety of hand signals that are considered cool. There is nothing spectacular about this stretch. The bikes are going for an annual Royal Enfield congregation in Goa. I never understood these mass congregations of people in a place just because they bought the same tool. I understand it at an age when there were few riders, and people maintained their own machines for the most part.

I never understood riding clubs that had dozens of bikes going together somewhere. The whole point of riding is to experience some freedom, and what's the point of following a line then? All forms of private transport are ultimately evil, and real freedom is with a small bag, off the road and on foot.

At Cocopelli Surf school we get a decent room for 1500. The shore has a gentle slope, and the waves are perfect for bodysurfing. Wendrick taught me bodysurfing at Kovalam in 2002, and it's made some beaches so much fun. After an hour on the waves a jellyfish bounces off my legs and it's stinging. I head back to the room and the advice is to pee on it. I had just peed in the sea, so I'm wondering if I should ask for pee from one of them. The thought magically musters more pee in my bladder, and I have enough. The jellyfish here are not that bad, and I rest at ease.

We head out to town for dinner, and the center of town feels like Mylapore. There is a Deepotsav, and the Brahmins are out decorating the streets with colourful kolams. Coming from the Agrahara in Mysore, Manju is thrilled at the display of culture. The white people are suitably impressed. Blending in like Waldo is a tribal woman, whose glides thru so light on her feet that I'm fixated on her walk, and she goes undetected - nobody looks up or moves to avoid or let her pass. I'm surrounded by Brahmin uncles at the restaurant, and it feels like Mylapore.

Back at the Cocopelli Surf School, the main guy Sandeep has hired the services of a couple from Bangalore to paint the wall to his home's entrance. The theme he gave them was Waves, and the artists painted for three days. Sandeep tells me that he has a girlfriend who has given birth to their daughter 6 weeks ago in Europe. He tells me how he has a past with so many women, and now he has a daughter and things have changed. Later he sends the picture to his girlfriend, and she is pissed off.

I particularly like the artist's interpretation of the lady's face. The artist is happy with the work, and is shocked when told of The Wife's objections. As I feel a need to contribute, I tell Sandeep that maybe it's the post-partum hormonal rushes. Later with the artists he would repeat this advice, and I feel slightly guilty of being taken too seriously. People advise him to hold his ground with his wife, but ultimately he decides that the painting must go before she arrives. "I don't know why she doesn't trust me bro... after the daughter also..."

I find the use of 'bro' to be really odd and funny. I catch myself slipping into Bro mode, and I tell myself that I'm not that guy who uses 'ji' and 'bro'. Sandeep tells me that I should stay back one more day because a couple of English girls are coming to stay over, and we could party. I laugh.

The next morning I go for a long walk on the beach, and one end of the beach has road-access, so buses of Indians land there early in the morning, post their temple visits.

I see some human feces on the beach as I walk back. I walk into one of the beachside restaurants to feed, and some things don't change, like the terrible overpriced food by the beachside. Soon after I get back to the room, it all comes out, and I'm cleansed, feeling light and ready to go.

I ask Manju if he would like to join us on the beach, and he says 'of course!' Even though he cannot surf until his knee gets better, he is full of enthusiasm to watch me learn to surf. I am totally floored by his enthusiasm. After two hours sitting on the beach with no hat or shades, he has a headache, which didn't prevent him from coming the following morning again.

By 9 we are out on the beach, for surf lessons. Sandeep draws a board on the sand and we practice getting up into surfing stance, as I'm advised on the position of limbs, body and so on. The water is warm, and I'm learning to paddle and it's hard. Sandeep pushes me into a few waves and shouts 'Get up!' whenever he feels appropriate. After a few tries I stand up momentarily, and it continues like that for an hour before I am able to ride a wave for ten seconds, and it's pure elation.

Sandeep is very precise and sharp with his observations and feedback. I really like good teachers, it's a delight to learn from them. There is someone on the shore filming me for the surf school's website, so my baby steps on the surf are captured for posterity.

I go shirtless and the paddling on the board has left my front side bruised. The nipples are tender, the shoulders are tired from the paddling, but I'm happy that no jellyfish found me today. It's the paddling which got to me finally - I couldn't do it anymore, so we call it a day.

We split for lunch as I want to eat Fish Meals and the place has no vegetarian options for Manju. As I plough thru the mountain of rice with many varieties of rava-fried fish, I see an old woman seeking alms. A group of foreigners give her some money and take a picture of her in exchange.

That evening we find our way to a cliff. There is one solitary guy there, and I bet he was looking forward to some alone time on that beautiful cliff when we landed up and unintentionally drove him out. Sunset was beautiful, and Manju said it's perhaps the best he's witnessed so far. There is some Hanuman music blaring from the speakers of a temple which plays the same line on loop for hours. We adjust our position to the far side of the cliff where the sound waves can't reach so well.

Later that night I tell Sandeep that I'm considering staying back for one more day. He sits me down and tells me how it's really good if I stayed back. Normally he takes 3 lessons (for 2000 each) before one can be on their own. He would try to fit all the lessons into Day 2 for me.

In the NBA players often give themselves, or are given, nicknames. Kobe Bryant called himself Black Mamba, Lebron is The King, Paul Pierce was The Truth (one of my least favourites), Kevin Garnett 'The Big Ticket', and so on. Like that, on that evening I felt like I was conferred mine, by Sandeep. He called me a Natural.

Clearly now The Natural cannot decline surf lesson number Two on the next day. This time Manju jumps into the water and his head doesn't ache. I start off feeling like I took a step back on the surf, but slowly I get better, and I'm able to catch waves on my own. Manju is there in the water shouting and cheering as I stand up on the board. He is the best cheerleader, even a cow will stand up on the board if cheered that way. My paddling improved, and it became smooth from then on.

Three hours later I've been thru a few tumbles on the sandy floor and I'm exhausted, bruised and happy. From here on I need a board to practice and learn on my own.

Some nights at Gokarna come with low voltage, and here I thank Madras for my ability to sleep thru fanless nights. Manju, spoilt by Mysore weather, takes the pillow out of the room and sleeps on the floor outside.

The next day we leave at 6:15, and ride along the wide coastal road which would soon get overcrowded. By the time shops opened for breakfast, we were climbing up towards Agumbe.

The last day's ride is usually easier than the rest, because there is a clear and tempting end goal, and one doesn't need to save up any energy. We pass by one view point that Manju mentions casually and asks if I'd like to go, it's only 7 km. I tell him that I've had enough views, and turn down the idea, and I feel bad at dousing his enthusiasm. Later we see a board for Sirimane falls, and it's close to Sringeri. We agree to go here, and I'm mentally preparing to jump into the water to cool off. Since it's so close to Sringeri, there are many fellow tourists. Don't they have any work on a Monday morning? We quickly turn around and head back. Manju is a little disappointed, I tell him that it's the small price to pay to discover nice places, and that we should come back here during the rains when no one wants to be here.

Soon we reach Belur, and we are really tired and our legs stiff. Sitting at the back is not easy over long distances, so we take turns shifting more than usual. Sitting at the back also leaves the mind to dry out there, so all kinds of thoughts come in. There is no real sensory distraction to escape to, and mentally it's a challenging experience - one that I didn't realise while riding solo earlier. A clear and happy mind is needed to enjoy the pillion's seat.

After lots of stops and stretching, we reach Mysore by sunset. We are both happy about the trip, and it's really nice to feel the sense of exploration and learning. Manju is a good travel partner, and I'm lucky to have found him and his high energy enthusiasm.

Open Sesame

It's so nice to be able to speak freely that it feels like a cheat code in a video game. I grew up like a feral cat, living a lonely existence inside my head. My brother also grew up in the same house, and while we turned out differently in many ways, some of the base tendencies and struggles sound uncannily similar. Particularly the need for acceptance and fear of rejection (borrowing from Wendrick's lexicon).

The Pleiku days were particularly dark, and loneliness forced me into coping mechanisms of my own design, which is something I'm used to, and for the most part incompetent at. Let's just say it wasn't a great success, and resulted in significant collateral damage.

Like any other muscle memory, it's hard to open up and speak after a lifetime of silence. There are a few people who really help me open up. You know who you are, thank you. There was one person back in the day that I could speak freely with like no other. We used to call it the feeling of being naked in front of each other. There was a feeling of freedom from judgement and manipulation. Everything spoken was straight from the heart, and honest, with no expectations or outcomes in mind. Unfortunately, this was part of the collateral damage, and one that I feel most remorse for.

In this world I would be considered a very social guy, and I feel confident in my ability to blend into any social situation. The anti-social-anxiety type. However, it's merely a front, like an Import-Export company in a gangster movie. I use it to hide deep insecurities and loneliness. Maybe a fear of abandonment also helped me hone some social skills.

The mind is a sensory organ. It's merely a tool to perceive the world. The individual is a distinct from the mind, and for so long I had been a slave to the mind. Recently I've been able to detach the mind and look at it as a separate entity, and not react or be enslaved by its moods and swings. I can sense the mood coming from afar now. It doesn't mean I'm the Buddha, at least not yet. It's a start, and feels great.

farmers in a classroom

2 July 2010, Central Highlands, Vietnam

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i am in a classroom full of farmers, young and old... some dressed up for the occasion, some straight out of bed... all listening to Sunny, who is our agronomist and the most jobless person in my company (not an easy title the way we work)... he conducts 2-3 surveys a year and generally goes around drinking beer with our people in different places all year long... he's suitably fat and looks like the bad guy who turns into a snake in conan the barbarian.

 Sunny is in the local community hall, facing the farmers, who are the most intent listeners i've ever seen inside a class room. like they're reliving the excitement of going to school after years of toil in their coffee fields. the room is dusty and damp even before the rains... the soft 8 am sunlight makes everything look beautiful... the audience starts murmuring and Sunny gets the projector projecting and the audience is enamoured by his desktop... a few more mins to go... Sunny plays tom and jerry to entertain his students-to-be... all eyes are fixed on tom as he chases jerry... something falls on tom, flattening him, filling the classroom with laughter... but why are we all here? why would my company give a fuck about farmers if we can't make a little something out of it?

it all started with the coffee-drinkers in rich countries feeling bad for the poor vietnamese farmers sitting in front of Sunny today. they said, this is blood coffee! grown with no regard to society or environment or the children of the farmers and workers... how do i know my coffee is not stained by sweat from a child who ought to be in school? or a worker who doesn't get decent working conditions? so here came UTZ which said i'll certify all the good coffee... so if you see my name UTZ on the cover of the coffee you, since its so distinctively meaningless, you know it has to be good... you can pay up a little extra, drink in peace and sleep with the pride of having done your bit for humanity. go have a party now... feel good about yourself, please.

so on a ton of coffee worth $1700 today, the farmer stands to get $10 extra if he does all the right things prescribed by UTZ. let's put that in perspective now... the average farmer who has 1 hectare - or 3 tons of coffee, stands to gain $30 - that is Rs. 1500 in extra income for the entire year... in return for sending his kids to school, and ensuring the kids of his workers too... and adhering to environmental issues like soil erosion and deforestation... essentially things that he'd be hard-pressed to give a fuck.

enter capitalism... the $10 is not guaranteed. if the economy slips the coffee companies will see fewer consumers paying up to feel good, hence they will buy less of UTZ and the farmers have to watch the mood and pockets of the rich consumers... then comes the middlemen... the actual premium is way higher than $10, but what will the world come to if not for middlemen? so for the trouble of waking up early and educating farmers and proving the goodness of the coffee using documents which cannot be verified, i get a little cut... and so does the little agent in the village... and so do the Nestles... after we've all eaten our cuts, we also put it in our brochures and annual reports so our investors can also feel good about themselves.

for me, the beauty lies in the inability to verify any of this. who knows about kids in faraway lands and their trips to school? or the conditions in remote farms and big factories... aren't we smart enough to know that $10 is too little to expect a farmer to change. how come free-market brains switch off here? don't we know that we're doing all this only for the money and nothing else. so if a little fudging can happen, why would we do otherwise?

moving back inside the class room after cigarettes and coffee in a plastic cover, i sit in the front row... Sunny is one third into his 3 hour monologue. he shows pictures of coffee and fertilizers and gives free knowledge on the right amount to be used... on how soil need N, P and K... from NPK fertilizers... the slides are full of color, and all bright... one for each line... a phone is ringing loudly... one farmers picks the call and speaks even louder... a few farmers light cigarettes while the monologue continues... the room is filled with the smell of smoke and Sunny's voice.

my head is spinning with all the vietnamese falling into my ears and flashing into my eyes... i wish i were in school where i could sleep... its not fun being the tall guy with big eyes, sitting in the first row. i try my best to understand what he's saying... like a detective knitting together stray clues.

Sunny is nearing the end of his talk... where he has a slide titled 'World 2070', which contains his views on the future of humanity... he shows pictures of famine and floods, drought and wild storms, starvation, death and suffering... the audience is suitably shocked and Sunny is happy... because it gives him the necessary build-up for his final point in that day's monologue - save the environment or else!

the farmers are called one by one to sign on papers confirming their participation in today's session... free-market fanatics might prefer to ignore my accountant chicks distributing $3 (Rs 140) to each farmer for having devoted their mornings to our pockets.

class over - the middlemen shift to a local restaurant for lunch with rice wine and beer... the village head repeats the same lengthy speech as he raises a toast 5 times.. everyone is drunk... he asks me if i go massa... i say yes, of course... he asks how many times i've been to massa...  i ask him how many times he's downed beer in his life... he says he can't remember... i pause for effect and feel like birbal while people laugh appreciatively at my wit and move on to getting drunk and erasing the day from our collective memory.

The Beef-eater

"What do you think of beef and caste Hindus?" she asks.

"Caste Hindus are conditioned into hating beef so that intermingling with beef-eating castes becomes difficult. For caste society to reform, there should be no concept of purity or impurity in society over food. I accept that caste Hindus of today are already conditioned and hard-wired to not eat beef. I don't care if they eat or don't eat, but they throw around cringing faces and sounds of tsk tsk when I eat beef on the same table. It's my culture and my source of nourishment, and they have no right to disrespect it."

He then visits Vietnam where he encounters throbbing hearts of cobras, half-formed chicken fetuses, fermented baby shrimp paste, rats, frogs and more. He cringes a few times, and sticks to chicken and beef. You might be surprised to learn that the fermented baby shrimp paste was the hardest to sit thru, because he could decline to eat, but he had to breathe.

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If Heisenberg had to choose between position and momentum in the context of our evolution as people, he should choose momentum. Where one begins is an accident, and insignificant compared to how much one can evolve.

The Independent

"What are your thoughts on the Burqa?" he asks.

"It's regressive patriarchal conditioning applied at a young age, used by men to control the minds and bodies of women, as if they were property. We need to educate young girls that they own and control their bodies, that no one else can tell them what to do with it."

She then goes to bathe, picking out a lace bra for her tiny breasts. She walks out smelling of shampoo and soap, and sits in front of the mirror. Make-up is limited to Essentials. Concealers, masks, lighteners, darkeners and enhancers result in Flawless Skin. Waxed limbs glow in a varnished finish, and clanky pieces of metal dangle from different body parts, rounding off the look of the Independent Woman.

Lightness of Being

It has been three months of replaying my whole life - starting from the first memory:

In the mid 80s, there was a school near my house which accepted any kid whose parents paid the fees. When I was just short of two years, I was dragged to that school against my will, and they left me there despite my protests. I remember sitting in that class among kids double my size (one boy even wore suspenders) and I remember the feeling of being abandoned, and thinking that I have to fend for myself. That was my first memory in life.

Fast forward to two days back: I'm sitting on the Madras house terrace, trying to make sense of life, and doing it alone. I enjoy being alone with my head compared to the labour of talking to someone lacking in intelligence or empathy. I like speaking to close friends, but some things are too dark - so dark that I can barely begin to converse with my own head.

Two days back, something clicked. I was able to coax my mind into facing suppressed memories. Once the memories were out of the closet, and I could stare at them without fear, it took the brain a few minutes to piece together 35 years of life. Within moments I was jumping up and down in joy, unable to believe what just happened. I threw my hands up, and screamed Yaaay! 

I couldn't believe the lightness I've felt since - like fluffy seeds which float around in the wind. It was a moment of truth: I could now enjoy the lightness of being alive without the cobwebs of memory shackling the mind from evolving forward.

In case you're wondering what the hell did I learn, I won't disappoint you entirely. Life came down to three things: Guilt, Shame and Fear.

What helped me is this: We have limited time in this world. What is the point in carrying these feelings into Death? Won't life be better if we shared our feelings truthfully with those we love, or for a start, with oneself? Imagine all of us going to our graves with our little Truths hidden deep inside, and no one will ever know, including - and most importantly - ourselves.

I have all these thoughts in my head and I don't quite know what to do with them just yet. Like Abhimanyu and the Chakravyuha, I've entered my mind and opened the cupboard without thinking of the way forward. I figured that so long as the way out exists, I'll find it.

I am reminded of the letter that Andy writes to Red in Shawshank Redemption's closing sequence - "Dear Red, if you're reading this, you've gotten out. And if you've come this far, maybe you're willing to come a little further."

I am Andy, and my mind is Red.

Karma

What goes around, comes around.

Yet, there is no correlation in reality.

It's not about this life, it's from the previous, and onto the next. Do good because then good things will come to you.

Imaginary data points aside, you do good because it's the right thing to do. Not because you expect good in return.

A voyueristic cat

Reducing Life

October 2015

A magical time in life. My longest solo ride then, to Kumaon. A step back from Google maps and fixed plans. Ride till sunset, ask around for a place to stay.

A cop stops my bike, and gets on without permission. "There is a guy running away, chase him!" I don't know who I'm chasing or where this is heading, but I ride along, full throttle. A brief experience of absolute right of way on the road, cop with gun sitting pillion. After some time we find a guy, who lacks the urgency of a fugitive. He is caught, amidst no drama. I don't understand anything, but it doesn't matter, I ride on.

The rivers have wide sandy beaches and closer to Rishikesh there are countless campsites - it feels like any good thing remains good only until everyone finds out about it. So one way to live life is to look at choices that others don't want to make. Like physical inconvenience is a great tool to keep crowds away. This has inspired Spiti in winter, Rajasthan in summer, Western Ghats during monsoon and places that you can reach only by foot.

Back to the ride, a few times kids going back home from school jump on, as do some adults. Outside big towns in the hills, for the most part there is only one road, and people are much more free to ask for help and to offer help here.

The end of the day is the best time and I don't want to stop. I can ride for as long as I please and sync with the sun, rather than distance. It's like the difference between timing food with hunger as opposed to eating based on fixed timings.

Prayag mean confluence, and everywhere I turn there is a town named Prayag on this route. For all our worship of the Himalayas and the great rivers birthed there, the sight of so much concrete damming dry river beds is ugly. What is a river without flowing water?

The sun sets as I approach Karnaprayag, I stop and say hello to an elderly man. What's a good place? He points me to a hotel - Sri Krishna. I enter and I see Rajinikanth's photograph with the guy behind the counter. The room is not too dirty. One avoids close inspection of the sheets, and fatigue takes over.

From here the places remain anonymous. Any place which attracts too much attention gets spoiled, so here I'm doing my bit.

The ride goes on, past dusty roads under construction, across invasive forests of pine planted 200 years back for turpentine. Two days later, I arrive at the base for the trek - a 100 year old house. One guide (Tillu), one porter (Babloo), and me start out.

As we start the climb up, we stumble upon a snake - a baby Russell's viper. My first ever Russell's sighting, a snake that stretches from sea level to over 2,000 meters.

At the end of the first afternoon my legs are crying for rest. We climb down to fetch water from a known water source. It's dry. Tillu and Babloo venture further down, while I return to the tents and wait. We had just missed some nomadic shepherds and mutton at 2500 meters. We are left with a carpet of goat shit to admire, and of course it's utterly joyous to be so high up and have the world open out in front.

The next day we climb further up, and only Rhododendron is left now, as we approach the alpine meadow above 3,000 meters. We reach early afternoon, and I'm going mad with happiness - running, jumping and rolling around. Just happy to be alive at that moment. 

Life is reduced to food, water, tent and company. There is nothing else the mind craves, and there is absolute contentment with life as we settle around the fire to watch the stars. Shooting stars zoom past, galaxies glitter away, and we are taking it all in. I'm thinking this particular scene would've been there since humans first appeared, and this visceral joy for nature is a common thread that has endured.

The night is freezing, and the Tillu and Babloo silently regret their choice to bring tarpaulin for an open tent. They light a fire at 3 AM, and it melts the icicles on the roof and we have rain inside the tent. I hear sounds of chatter, and I just lay there, waiting for sunrise.

The following morning we climb further up to see sunrise at 3,500 meters, above the clouds. I catch myself looking at it thru my phone screen, and I feel stupid. I put the phone down and enjoy the rest of it.

Why do people wish to capture every moment for posterity? I find it particularly amusing when people hold up their phones to record a concert, sporting event, or Niagra falls - things which are constantly covered by professionals. Why can't we see a picture on Google or a video on Youtube? What's the joy in capturing things which have been captured to death by people with far more competence?

The climb down was quick, and my legs were happy for a break. A day later I was riding back, and my mind was filled with joy. As I ride towards Dehradun, I see a building that reminds me of my Indore campus. Turns out, it's an IIM, and I'm in Kashipur. The hostel and classrooms fall on either side of the main highway and I keep asking understand how?

Towards the end my clutch cable snaps, and I push the bike for a while and find a mechanic. It's dark and I'm tired. The stretch as I approach home is like the last chapter in a book being written.

A week later we would ride to Spiti, at the beginning of winter.

The most important variable in life is human company. Joy and Gopal would've loved it. How fortunate though that we found each other with time in our hands back in the day.