Category: Life Ordinary

  • Juley

    In my mind, I can still hear that Ladakhi greeting, though its been a few days since our return from Leh. There are stories of mountains and mountains of stories I could tell you. Of the trip that almost didn’t start because the taxi service got the day and month right, and booked us a cab for 2010!! Of the Delhi weather which over delivered on the warm welcome premise at 40 deg C.

    Of the jovial captain of the Leh flight, who said that one third of our trip cost would be ‘made up’ by the first view of Leh. Of him being proven right by a sight so magical that one could hear a collective gasp as the lofty snowy peaks were seen for the first time through the windows. Of the mountains that for one moment looked the magnificent phenomena they were, and in another looked like clay models that kids made for school exhibitions.  Of another statement the captain delivered on – a free camel ride, he called it – the landing at the Kushok Bakula Rimpoche Airport.

    Of being on a high already and wondering whether one would be hit by the much written about high altitude sickness. Of being phlegmatic while popping pills and drinking bitter cough syrup at the first sign of phlegm. Of wandering through streets where tiny wrinkled old people chanted with prayer wheels in hand, and the next generation listened to heavy metal and peddled rock bands’ skull tees. Of wandering up mazes to see the ruins of the old palace and then lazing in the relatively palatial comforts of the hotel. Of waking up at dawn and setting out on journeys in which every view was click worthy, of getting tired of clicking and relying on the video mode far too much, even as the mind captured images. Of the visit to the gurudwara, where one was caught between the twin pleasures of the awesome sweet tea and the warmth from the cup.

    Of gazing at the mighty river that spawned a civilisation, and wondering how much has changed for the nomadic tribes that live in tents and roam about with their Dzo (a hybrid of yak and cow). Of the noisy rush of air as one climbed up mountains to gompas (monasteries) that awed you with their silence. Of glass cases that carefully and lovingly stored centuries old manuscripts and a realisation of the tiny timeframe of six years of blogging. Of the excitement of staying in a tent, quickly followed by the realisation of how exactly one could feeze to death, and then feeling an intense thankfulness for one’s supple and warm bed companion, despite the rubbery exterior -the hot water bag.

    Of boarding passes that got you to 35000 ft in no time, and mountain passes at half the height that made you crawl for almost three hours to get to them. Of being driven up narrow mountain roads, slipping on snow every now and then, and wondering if your final destination was going to be up or down. Of pitying the military guys who lived in the severe cold, and then muttering at them for making decisions that cost us an entire day. Of creating yellow snow after getting tired of holes in the ground and portable loos that cleared up the blocked sinuses in no time!! Of seeing a lake at 13500 ft- Pangong, shared by two countries, that competed with the sky for the shades of blue that could be displayed. Of a heavy snow fall that forced one to get out of the comforts of the push back seats in the vehicle and attempt to push the vehicle, which pushed back!! Of the disappointment of knowing that nature took only a few minutes to shatter one’s well laid plans. Of begging and pleading and cajoling cops to let us through after the official closing time.

    But most importantly, of the wonderful wonderful person who took it upon himself to make sure that we got to see all the sights we wanted to – Tsewang. He, who confessed after much questioning, that he was having his first meal of the day at 3 pm after driving 9 straight hours through horrible conditions at altitudes above 14000 ft.  And then proceeded to drive up to Khardung La, the world’s highest motorable road at 18380 ft-  all in a day’s work, he said. Nothing I said or did could assuage my guilt.

    The long journeys through the mountainscape pushed random thoughts into my head- of heaven, and whether living at such high altitudes meant that one was closer to God. 🙂 Of whether the milieu that nature offered in these places instilled the compassion and concern for fellow humans, that I saw in many around, and if that was the secret behind the peaceful and happy faces, despite the hard conditions and lack of even common facilities in several places. The great heights and its citizens gave me perspectives and a sense of harmony that I still seem to be carrying with me, hoping that the daily grind won’t take it away.

    As I looked at Leh before I stepped into the airplane, I realised that this might be the only time I’d visit this place. I also realised that perhaps my memories would fade, and I might forget the images I could now easily recollect in my mind. But I like to think that there’s one picture that will never go away – the lofty peaks of the mighty Himalayas, glistening with snow, and a light breeze that causes the flags at the monastery to flutter silently, all of this can only make up the background for the innocent, peaceful joy on Tsewang’s face as he plays with the Lama kids, and as he sees me approaching, he  asks me with his customary smile, if I’m ready to continue the journey.

    until next time, a daily lama

    PS. You can catch a few photos here.

    collage1

  • The Real and the Virtual

    He got married on April 24th 2003, to the woman he had loved for six years. He noted that somehow it all seemed to add up to 6. And so, on the sixth day he created ‘manuscrypts‘. From then on he was in seventh heaven. It’s been six years.
    It would’ve ended there, but manuscrypts was tempted to finish his sixth year with sixty six words.

    until next time, six degrees of separation 🙂

    PS: Next post, in about 7 days. 🙂

  • Rambowed

    I started reading a Pico Iyer book a few days back “Video night in Kathmandu”. I was hooked on from the first page because he started off with an icon from my childhood – Rambo 🙂 Pico Iyer writes about how in the mid 80s Rambo took over Asia – China, Indonesia, Burma, Thailand, India lording over cinemas, inspiring local versions and becoming what the author calls (then) America’s single biggest export, and the most powerful force in Asia that autumn.

    I could identify totally with this. I still remember the trips to Guruvayur, the famous temple town in Kerala. No, I haven’t totally lost it. You see, the rest of the family went to Guruvayur with spirituality in mind, but for me, it was mostly materialistic, the kind of simple joy that a typical 7 year old finds in staying in a hotel for a few days, having ‘non home’ food three times a day, and most importantly, after convincing everyone on how intact his spiritual outlook is, manages to charm his way into getting himself a few toys. The strange thing was, the toy shops that abounded around the temple had some excellent collection of superhero stickers, labels for notebooks and various knick knacks that I could never find in Cochin. So I always made it a point to devote a lot of time to checking out the stuff on display before I made a purchase.

    [Aside: I also remember buying my first and only guitar there – a plastic contraption with Rishi Kapoor and Karz on the packaging]

    And that’s how I found a toy set that enthralled me for (I think) at least a year. It was a Rambo kit! And in the days that followed, several citizens of a certain university campus in Cochin claimed to see a creature that suddenly sprang out of the bushes and from behind the acacia trees, dressed in (what were formerly decent) t shirts and trousers, with dark green crayon marks on them, similar to the ones on the face, with a cloth around his head and carrying plastic bows, and arrows that stuck to conducive walls using vacuum, and with a plastic gun and a sheathed plastic knife inserted into the trouser loops. The outdoor covert operations lasted only a few days, since, after scaring an old woman, the creature was captured, hauled (bawling) to his mom’s presence and subjected to severe interrogation, and mild physical punishment which resulted in more bawling, and confiscation of weapons. The weapons were returned the next day, but the theatre of overt operations was restricted to indoors. More than a couple of decades later, these memories came storming back when I read the book, and as though the cosmos was conspiring, I got to know that Rambo (Part 4) was premiering that night on television.

    But though he had conquered enemies in Vietnam and Afghanistan, Rambo was yet to face an Asian force, that having been born in the late 70s, would prove a formidable opponent to the aged warrior – D, no, not the one with the shades and company, but my wife. Yes, you could  argue that she has shady company too, but I shall ignore that for now. And that was how Rambo lost his first battle, as D refused to  even entertain the thought of watching the movie, and an agitated fan helplessly watched Cloverfield on another channel. D had drawn first blood!! Maybe I should practice my bawling.

    until next time, marital laws!!

  • Driven to it..

    The driver ahead, talking on the mobile,  was disrupting traffic…irritating him. And then he saw the sticker. At the junction, he knocked on the window and said “Thanks for the warning sticker, ma’am, but your responsibility doesn’t end there. You should also realize that the baby on board is too immature to drive you around”

    until next time, hit and run

  • Moult

    Two new malayalam movies watched in a fortnight. Nothing special in that, you’d think. What does make it special is that they brought back characters from the past.

    “2 Harihar Nagar”, the official sequel to a movie, after 19 years, has four characters who’d set a benchmark in comedy at that time. [Priyadarshan, as he regularly does with decent Malayalam movies, screwed it up in Hindi as Dhol]  Handled by a capable director and an extremely good screenplay, these guys managed to pick up right where they left off. They had us in splits this time too, and add to that, sprinkles of nostalgia and some good suspense, this movie was a treat. It was amazing to watch their chemistry, intact, or perhaps rekindled, after so many years, more so, because their ‘image’ has changed quite some in the years that have passed. A couple of them play character and villain roles now, and popular ones at that; one had some time in the limelight, even being anointed the “common man’s hero”, before making an idiot of himself in inconsequential roles and TV shows, and the last flirts with the screen once in a while. But what we saw in the movie was a transformation, and a pleasant surprise.

    “Sagar alias Jackie”, the director claims, is not a sequel to any film, but merely  uses the hero (and one more character) of an earlier one. On hindsight, that makes a damn good disclaimer. The original movie ‘Irupatham noottandu’, made in 1987, starring Mohanlal as an enigmatic ‘smuggler with a conscience’ , was one that in no small way contributed to his rising stature in the industry. Over the years he has proved his acting skills time and again, until recently. These days he is more of star, and scripts pander to this. He is easily the best actor I’ve seen, and though I used to be a fan of the superhuman avatar in the initial days, when it used to be backed by excellent screenplays, these days his roles are quite indistinguishable from each other. More stylised, this one proved to be the same fare, unfortunately.

    Both scripts used the equity of iconic characters. While one set of actors broke their current moulds, and recaptured the feel of their original characters, another actor was caught in a mould and couldn’t come close to the original character. One could argue that the scripts made the difference, but maybe the difference was in acting, and one set proved better because they stayed true to character, and the portrayal automatically fell into place?

    It made me think whether this also applies to us too. Over a period of time, do some of us get cast in a ‘have to be’ mould, arising from others’ and self expectations, or a ‘want to be’ mould because of our own aspirations? Do these moulds take us away from what we originally are, is there an original mould, and would reclaiming it and living with it give us the joy we seek? The choice is an intriguing one.

    until next time, casting lots with the self