tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191811542024-03-07T11:49:55.846+05:30GangajalCome in! Come in! Whoever you are! Leave some thoughts, some gems of wisdom as you pass by.Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-67213039161542779612018-07-13T20:27:00.001+05:302018-07-15T15:45:49.481+05:30A wedding in Chennai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's been a while since we had a massive wedding on the wife's side of the family. This one was especially important as it was the first wedding of her next generation, in this case her nephew's. The oldest of that generation, he decided to enter the venerable institution of marriage obviously through some misguided notions of family and harmony.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Preparations began in early January for the event in July. The women of the family effected expeditions to Mumbai, Kancheepuram and Chennai. They also planned in meticulous detail the attire for themselves and the hapless husbands alike. Customized and coordinated matching costumes for each one of the hundred events often necessitated multiple costume changes in a day. As my brother-in-law mused during the event - if we are going to take a nap, what costume do we need to change to?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The wife and kids left Bangalore for Chennai three weeks before the impending union. This of course, elevated stress levels (not for me) as there was no guarantee that I would pack correctly, left to my own devices. A week before my trip, my wife called daily to ensure I didn't mess up. I went to the extent of garnering a mobile phone tripod so I could model all the clothes assigned. An additional stress angle materialized as I'd gained weight since the original clothing acquisition. However, the modeling and self photo sessions occurred without mishap and got the seal of approval from Chennai.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The <i>Sangeeth</i> was the first of the gazillion events; a lavish affair with no purpose other than to have fun and no bearing on the main event. A dance by the groom to be (nephew) and the bride to be kicked off the event. The other kids in the family (including my teen daughters) had painstakingly practiced a dance medley which they performed brilliantly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif;">There was then a musical game which involved remembering Tamil songs and words. The compere</span><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif;"> (a niece) roped me in at the last moment as I was doing nothing noteworthy. Team 3 was my group with three other women I'd never seen before. One look at me and they accurately gauged that I was a non-factor in the game. Our team actually co-won thanks to zero involvement from me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With all the choreographed and planned agenda out of the way, we unleashed on the dance floor and as usual I made a fool of myself with my uncoordinated prancing. A first for that side of the family, my antics actually gained appreciation mostly out of the hope I'd never again show such dastardly moves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The next day was a ladies only program which is the <i>Mehndi</i>. This is where women sit for hours together to get weird designs painted on their hands and arms by patient <i>mehndi</i> artists specially brought in for this eventuality. My attempts at integrating with this crowd was swiftly rebuffed by the wife who relegated me to a different room where one of my brothers-in-law slept fitfully (to be fair, he had recently flown in from the US and was badly jet lagged).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The engagement ceremony followed next, and this is when we first entered the capacious marriage hall called a <i>choultry</i> (no idea why). The brothers-in-law wandered around aimlessly most of the times, manifesting themselves for photos when called. Oh, and lots of eating in between.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Next was the reception. Here we need to get down and dirty with the details. Firstly, I was dressed like an elaborate flower bouquet and clothes bursting at the seams. Rajesh Vaidya enthralled us with his Veena performance and the three brothers-in-law sat in rapt attention for the most part. The highlight of the evening for sure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The wives of course would have none of it. One look at us and they realized that we were having it too good so they figured out a scheme to have us on our feet. Here's how the reception went (changing tense here for dramatic effect)...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The boy and girl are on a brightly lit elevated platform with colorful flowers all around, bright lights from every angle and sitting on a throne like apparatus. Well wishers approach from the right to take positions around the two in-focus people. Photographers then go berserk at this point and the video cameras go into a frenzy. There is also a mysterious drone replete with a surreptitious camera that appears out of nowhere and chills one to the spine with the large whirring fans creating icy downward winds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Anyway, the groom's mother makes decisions (with a clandestine thumbs up sign from stage) on which of the well-wisher groups gets the all important '<i>Vethalaipaaku</i>'. This is a return gift which in this case consisted of a bedsheet (or so I was told). When the groom's mother gives the signal, that group has to be escorted on a special walk to get them the <i>Vethalaipaaku</i>. The selection process defeats me though. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">(End present tense..)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The wives assigned the three jobless brothers-in-law to take over the <i>Vethalaipaaku</i> route. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">From stage, one of the ladies in the inner circle escorted each group to me. I then had to do a soft hand-off to one brother-in-law who then took them to the third guy who handed over the gifts. Needless to say, we made this a very entertaining endeavor. We had a lossless transmission of over 30 groups. Our best herding was a horde of 22 people that we skillfully led to </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">the path of </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">salvation and crisp bedsheets. There were, as usual, a few (chosen) rebel groups that attempted to backtrace their path from the stage. We mercilessly dealt with these revolutionaries to bring them back to their true purpose. Sometimes, a group would scatter and it was a logistical nightmare to get the constituents back together for the gift route. Often, one or two individuals would stop and try to socialize and this posed challenges to the supply chain as it would get backed up. Being a keen student of the theory of constraints and being first station in the supply chain, I held it together admirably well (insert self back pat here) and ensured smooth flow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The day finally ended with more food. What a surprise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The actual wedding happened the next day and this was mostly uneventful other than the by now ritualistic costume changes, random photographs and overeating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There was also the '<i>Nelangu</i>' event in the evening which was an unguided event (no priests to preside over the affair) which involved the freshly minted bride and groom pasting each other with <i>kunkam</i> and turmeric paste. Another curious program was where the bride and groom had to crack rice papad over each other's heads and try to get as much of the crumbs on the other's head (go figure). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One key observation during the furore that is an Indian wedding. There's always someone looking for someone else who hundred percent of the time is not anywhere to be found. No one asks for anyone in the existing multitude. This is followed by general panic until the individual is located. It's usually to ask for a key or other inanimate object. And it's always the person who's not there being sought after. Something worth researching...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That was pretty much it. The whole shebang came to a close with a sumptuous dinner and we all crawled home to get on with our mundane lives.</span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-87473178533649029022018-07-02T23:00:00.001+05:302018-07-02T23:00:22.304+05:30My story submission for Anita's Attic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For entry to the writing workshop by Anita Nair, I had to write a 400 word story given the opening line of the story. Here is what got me selected. Guess what? It's exactly 400 words. Now comes the hard part! To write a novel!!<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet'; font-size: 11.000000pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><u>The weight of its wetness stretched across the skin of her face.</u> </span><span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">She lay still;
comprehension of reality not there. The pigeons outside her bedroom window fell silent as if
on cue. A strange silence permeated the room punctuated only by her deep breathing that
somehow added to the quietude.
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">She made no move to get up daring not disturb the peace that had overcome her.
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">Her mind wandered back to her childhood. Through the tranquil haze, she heard her mother’s
voice asking her to come in to clean up and do some homework. Reluctantly, she handed over
the ball to one of the boys and walked in disheveled, unkempt but content. The boys were
secretly relieved to see her go. Her prowess and control of the ball made all of them look
bad, even her own teammates. She had scored a few goals today.
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">The wetness was now all over her and she felt the moisture beginning to weigh on her
clothes. She didn’t care anymore. A sense of freedom pervaded her.
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">“This is the only way”, uncle Ram said. “I know you’re only 19 but your mother can’t care for
you anymore and he will be a good husband”. She had no recollection of him, only knowing
that he was a distant relative. They had met in some wedding probably but she couldn’t
picture his face. Her mother looked at her imploringly. Ram uncle continued to sell the idea
of marriage but she drowned out his voice with her own thoughts.
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">She wondered now if she should get up. It was getting quite uncomfortable already. The
wetness was beginning to mix with her sweat and the smell made her want to throw up. She
turned her head to one side and tried her best to vomit. Nothing came out.
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">At first, everything was fine. Shridhar was attentive and caring. He never displayed much
emotion except during sex where he would get violent. She talked to her friends who said
such things were normal. The violence got worse and it wasn’t only during sex.
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<span style="font-family: 'TrebuchetMS'; font-size: 11.000000pt;">She pushed him away, stood and surveyed her work. The knife had cut clean through his
jugular vein. Blood was drying up on her face. The wetness was replaced by a stiffness but it
didn’t matter anymore. She smiled contently. Getting rid of the body would be easy. She had
already figured it all out.</span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-46319584082109514192017-06-06T09:49:00.000+05:302017-06-06T09:53:51.173+05:30To Today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">My schoolmate’s wife died late last week. Dengue was the cause. It happened abruptly, without warning and thoughts starting flooding in as they are wont to do in these types of events. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">A bunch of my other school mates showed up for the funeral. I hadn’t seen a few of them in many years and we bemoaned the fact that we were catching up only because of a tragic finality. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’ve tended to take so much for granted. There’s always the call that can wait, an email that is not responded to immediately, things not said waiting for a more opportune moment. Unfortunately, life doesn’t subscribe to our schedule. We come into this world often with much fanfare but when we go, it’s often like a candle being snuffed out. So many words unsaid, so many plans laid to waste and you are left wondering at the futility of it all.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">A few days after a death we’ll go back to our routine lives, worrying and fretting the mundane and confident that we have all this time to achieve what we’ve set out to do. I for one am not going to do that or at least consciously give my damnedest not to fall back into the fallacies I’ve been guilty of. I am going to be in touch with my close friends and family a lot more, never postpone a call or an email I’ve been sitting on. Carpe Diem is a well worn cliche, but this time the gravitas has hit home.</span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-27789657698631775062017-04-30T16:52:00.000+05:302017-05-09T14:05:56.225+05:30Annapurna Semi Circuit (The culmination)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1"><i>With modernization comes the perils of deforestation and destruction of some of the most beautiful trails Nepal has to offer. Lovely routes meandering through the wilderness and often stark landscapes have been overpowered by mud roads. </i></span><br />
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<i>The New Annapurna Trekking trail (NATT) is the brainchild of a Belgian born German Andrées de Ruiter and Prem Pai a Nepalese trek guru. The sole purpose of NATT is to create trekking routes for those not inclined to suffer the umbrage of pollution spewing motor carriages. The two aforementioned gentlemen actually looked for alternative routes away from the roads and marked the routes at regular intervals with red and white paint. Commitment of this ilk is something else. Imagine walking with a bucket of paint for hundreds of miles just to make it easy for trekkers to navigate away from the dust and decibels! Well, that’s what they did and the NATT stands out as a lifesaver for the myriads of walkers that dot the country’s trails.</i><br />
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<span class="s1"><i>If you haven’t read part 1 of our exciting journey through the entrails of Nepal, it doesn’t matter. But here we stop the day numbering business of part 1 as each day in the remaining narrative deserves a more descriptive heading. </i></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><i>Alright, here goes…</i></span></div>
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<b><i>In which we change the rules of engagement (Ghasa-Lete-Marpha)</i></b><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">David is a German lad whom the wife runs into at our hotel in Ghasa. He’s doing the full route anti-clockwise and tells us about hidden off-road routes. Already sick of walking on the motorable road from Tatopani to Ghasa and with the impending walk to Marpha on the same road, we latch on to David’s story and dig deep into his trekking routes and his English vocabulary. He expounds on the Blue and White marked routes which are side trails and NATT trails that we were unaware of.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It doesn’t take long for us to be convinced that we need to take a less trodden route to Marpha. A plot is hatched in the well lit and cosy interiors of Eagle’s Nest restaurant; we huddle around mobile devices and maps as we plan our foray into the great unknown. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">David shares this miraculous PDF which reveals the wonderful world of NATT. We figure out that we can get part way to Marpha without battling the roads. Excitement galore but who will bell the cat? There’s mutiny brewing in the guide ranks as they are convinced they need to follow the route that has been pre-planned. We cajole and smooth talk them into taking the different route. Not convinced but with not much choice, they reluctantly agree but with a few thousand disclaimers. We brush these aside as nothing will make us walk those diabolical dust traps again.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWA8R1uaO5veOjYG-tvgUjr0fa6cNORxPhAsofG9T2_UwX4ROWnQdpOJjjzVmtIwqGyRRBLzZZ3JXh_hGu_E1lHSDMDn4tzxHQYMOBOekRbZZ4FHc7ngk3drKQUAtuhFzkfdOa/s1600/IMG_20170420_092323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWA8R1uaO5veOjYG-tvgUjr0fa6cNORxPhAsofG9T2_UwX4ROWnQdpOJjjzVmtIwqGyRRBLzZZ3JXh_hGu_E1lHSDMDn4tzxHQYMOBOekRbZZ4FHc7ngk3drKQUAtuhFzkfdOa/s200/IMG_20170420_092323.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Trek from Ghasa</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">My foot fully healed, my stomach working like a well oiled machine (okay, maybe not the right analogy), we set off around 8:30 a.m from Ghasa.</span></div>
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The sharp sun and the incisive cold make a merry combination for a comfortable jaunt. First we walk down a stony path to another one of those suspension bridges and then it’s an up and down walk on the side of a mountain (okay, hill as apparently you can only call it a mountain if it has snow on it). There are innumerable pine trees on the forest path on the hills with the Kali Gandaki river flowing below and the multitude of soaring Himalayan peaks (Annapurna South, Annapurna I, Nilgiri South and Tukuche peak to the east) gleaming in white snow in the distance. The walk itself is not very tough as the ascents are actually gradual with some scary steep parts and there are a lot of slopes to walk down on. A heavenly walk through forests with the aroma of fresh pine and wet grass. Bamboo trees adorn the path and the ensemble is magical.<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">A few hours of walk and we spot a small hut that is part of a village slightly hidden below. This basket weaving village makes extra income by providing bottled soda drinks for the few trekkers adventurous enough to try this route. We happily gulp down Cokes and Sprites.</span></div>
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And then starts a climb up a really large mountain-like hill. Not very steep but a relentless climb. The roar of the river under us in unison with echoes from the great walls of the mountain make for an interesting surround sound mixed with the voices of birds. The path, wide in most parts for two people to pass, at times getting narrow needing watchful treads in the blowing wind. Nary a living soul did we pass here.<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">A couple of hours of this immensely satisfying climb and we reach a plateau. Everyone is famished and we stop at the little village of Jhepra Durali (might be butchering the spelling here). The makeshift restaurant here has a small primary school opposite it where I take pictures of the classrooms reminiscent of pre-Independence era schools in India. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8ZdPo5QGYDDzn-55PuuPcx0BUFkEJlid3jjCarJW3qQUFVkExCLQkleuSOuv16ioZ7M7rQJTgt5hTOlCiseWD7TDOmceLqRXnh8yhRmugPyhS-pkxZtFtcdQbxLJGrDLPtB8/s1600/IMG_20170420_130331.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8ZdPo5QGYDDzn-55PuuPcx0BUFkEJlid3jjCarJW3qQUFVkExCLQkleuSOuv16ioZ7M7rQJTgt5hTOlCiseWD7TDOmceLqRXnh8yhRmugPyhS-pkxZtFtcdQbxLJGrDLPtB8/s200/IMG_20170420_130331.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Primary School</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">We spend a good few hours in Durali as the wife and husband duo cook for us with delicious smells wafting out of their pots; we eagerly await a few yards from the action inside their large kitchen/dining room. A shy little girl (Namrattha) plays with us making sure to keep just out of reach, though she does acquiesce for a quick photograph.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJMBHB0DPNwDSTYkEURVeGSBhq9P5EONpLQYAiy4RMilUScufKyRC2vMT5AJnHSxasDLRiOjzmx4x6kG6wsKBveY8s8mU64DBWB0OMHu4k5rjO0DVxY919mUHmM_sMSUOeBO9/s1600/IMG_20170420_130357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJMBHB0DPNwDSTYkEURVeGSBhq9P5EONpLQYAiy4RMilUScufKyRC2vMT5AJnHSxasDLRiOjzmx4x6kG6wsKBveY8s8mU64DBWB0OMHu4k5rjO0DVxY919mUHmM_sMSUOeBO9/s200/IMG_20170420_130357.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Classroom</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Sumptuous doesn’t really cut it when it comes to describing the food. Boiled and salted spinach doesn’t sound appetizing but boy was this good! As was the dal, and the egg curry with white rice. We attack the food with gusto throwing caution to the winds. We finally set off on the second leg of our journey crossing the dry Titi Lake, a hamlet (Chhayo), over a suspension bridge over the Lete river and finally onto the dreaded main road. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqSm4YSq2-GohvRMiAZYm9VqAol31hqoOIILhsfxXMO2PlvcM80Pru1gFCWnvbAFFP2EPLfEy9W8a33veEjNCeS8yk134ckQwBp81eAAxkfJP0xs_PQQTW1PXuoRdLLULuWcT/s1600/IMG_20170420_152337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqSm4YSq2-GohvRMiAZYm9VqAol31hqoOIILhsfxXMO2PlvcM80Pru1gFCWnvbAFFP2EPLfEy9W8a33veEjNCeS8yk134ckQwBp81eAAxkfJP0xs_PQQTW1PXuoRdLLULuWcT/s200/IMG_20170420_152337.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Dry riverbed crossing</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueym9lo6uHYbYBEfRPF2mSRlslA3IcCaieKFq6acH3Ff352rwYOJ0wX52sqnhJFMQtPFU4H2QAfQU5fm_LGJekJigN8q0cpaX6uv4PF3ECErGdy1-rzPl-QwoVo6PRFO8PZ_d/s1600/IMG_20170420_155427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueym9lo6uHYbYBEfRPF2mSRlslA3IcCaieKFq6acH3Ff352rwYOJ0wX52sqnhJFMQtPFU4H2QAfQU5fm_LGJekJigN8q0cpaX6uv4PF3ECErGdy1-rzPl-QwoVo6PRFO8PZ_d/s320/IMG_20170420_155427.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Near Lete</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">As we hit the road, something doesn’t seem right and realization dawns that we have done six hours of walking and covered an actual distance that would have taken an hour and a half (from Ghasa to Lete) .But what the hell! We relished every minute of the six hours. And may I add, we didn’t see a single trekker on the entire route!</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Lete village lies on the main road. Being weary of foot and sore of body, we decide to jump onto a bus to Marpha.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlz8UDcWyvzeRb6tCVd7Eeu9WOSoSfDUJ76Od4vXXg2ts_CHGCvbIH1lF-rLzhe1ZRDNraQg6NOptrS5l6RIxT53R1Ux4vHuo0p36iWB7gmCKn0E9QqazbHZgmC8Y-g0WCzylQ/s1600/IMG_20170420_165147.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlz8UDcWyvzeRb6tCVd7Eeu9WOSoSfDUJ76Od4vXXg2ts_CHGCvbIH1lF-rLzhe1ZRDNraQg6NOptrS5l6RIxT53R1Ux4vHuo0p36iWB7gmCKn0E9QqazbHZgmC8Y-g0WCzylQ/s200/IMG_20170420_165147.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Bus on the River</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If my first bus ride was scary, the second takes it to another level. Not only is it a much longer ride, but sitting on the last row which is is a bare bones wooden bench with some pillows thrown on it jumbles our internal organs in unimaginable ways. At one point, our driver decides that the road doesn’t pose enough of a challenge and swerves right and onto the Kali Gandaki. Mind you, it’s not a dry river bed but a real river with flowing water. A passenger protests as his stop is on the wayside of the road. I mean, seriously, who lives near the road when the river beckons so benevolently. Anyway, the driver reluctantly stops in the river and the passenger gets out amidst much muttering and cursing.<span class="s1"></span><br />
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<span class="s1">We continue on our bronco ride till the town of Marpha (2650m elevation and in the Mustang District) where the wife promptly starts throwing up the minute she gets off the bus.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMayHC3zysRyOK0vHB6jCTk33vpjJFeHhun87h-inVxWnNQcweHbuDWUCCARBqOo04B3kDf4Qana3WYjZUwl9kA8XhyphenhyphenSwfPT6mMjsvlR1OrHbPY4z8S4U_FG5DI1owL_AkMXl8/s1600/IMG_20170420_174327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMayHC3zysRyOK0vHB6jCTk33vpjJFeHhun87h-inVxWnNQcweHbuDWUCCARBqOo04B3kDf4Qana3WYjZUwl9kA8XhyphenhyphenSwfPT6mMjsvlR1OrHbPY4z8S4U_FG5DI1owL_AkMXl8/s200/IMG_20170420_174327.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Marpha</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Marpha is beautiful village from the 1700s and apparently a model one in terms of its cleanliness. The entrance to the village is adorned with prayer wheels. A town crier walks up and down the streets telling folks of a visiting doctor from Pokhara in a musical voice.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There are probably about a thousand residents here. Marpha is considered to be the apple capital of Nepal. Apple orchards abound aplenty in this region and they are a sight to behold. The Thakali community lives here and the houses are decidedly different from what we’ve seen thus far. The top of each house has neatly arranged layers of wood logs no doubt to protect agains the harsh winter snow. Unfortunately, I can’t make a trip to the Nyingma monastery which sits high above the town. Something for another trip.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Did I mention them apples. Well, the freshly squeezed apple juice here is to die for. Two of the group members also partake in the local apple brandy brew and Khukri rum</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The night ends with a lukewarm water bath and the wife suffering considerable stomach pain with a still unknown cause.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i>The cheat day</i></b></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Today we decide that there’s no walking to be done as the wife is in bad shape. We decide to take a jeep to our next dusty destination of Jomson (elevation 2700m) which is the capital town of the Mustang District. The other three pick yet another NATT route to get to Jomsom much to our guides’ chagrin. <span class="s1"></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugB_3tBajnh4OeUBwk4YXRQbMBKbkiNUaC5OoKG4DpmebIwbVgLeDkAWYcdtHf5TEbU0By6DmljURyHRnqEm2QOefHWSdj4MnuIxCpzCXh3zTVpDrwDhbrMF9L23X24iIwEnp/s1600/IMG_20170421_095127.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugB_3tBajnh4OeUBwk4YXRQbMBKbkiNUaC5OoKG4DpmebIwbVgLeDkAWYcdtHf5TEbU0By6DmljURyHRnqEm2QOefHWSdj4MnuIxCpzCXh3zTVpDrwDhbrMF9L23X24iIwEnp/s200/IMG_20170421_095127.jpg" width="150" /></a></i></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Jomsom Hospital</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpc2LZ_QvTUylk1IjmThsRz8j7keffxlujwFrDjZl35qVCVYrTsIv8yBSqz9-PqnSiWQU9VEmeEp8b08NgfRjDj7oB-EpeF8EmrhG2_DRofpRF5SW_LQCFOyBZ6ZpFiwGfPq8a/s1600/IMG_20170421_102150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpc2LZ_QvTUylk1IjmThsRz8j7keffxlujwFrDjZl35qVCVYrTsIv8yBSqz9-PqnSiWQU9VEmeEp8b08NgfRjDj7oB-EpeF8EmrhG2_DRofpRF5SW_LQCFOyBZ6ZpFiwGfPq8a/s200/IMG_20170421_102150.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>View from the hospital</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">We get the lady treated in the Jomson hospital which has a grand total of two patients admitted for something that obviously requires admission but otherwise the hospital is empty. The view of the Dhaulagiri mountain from the hospital is clear and breathtaking. Wife is finally let off with a clean bill of health after a couple of hours of IV fluids, some suspect mushroom soup, a couple of pills and few words of caution. Apparently just a mild case of gastroenteritis.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">An otherwise uneventful day for us ends in the Himalayan Java Coffee cafe where the barista makes a mean macchiato and plays lovely tunes on his keyboard and guitar.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i>Three villages and a pass</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Finally, everyone is healthy and fit. After poring through the now bible like PDF, I discover a side trail (blue/white markings) on the Jomson to Kagbeni (elevation 2800 m) route that shows much promise. Again, the tête-à-tête with the guide as he says they don’t know this trail and is against deviating from their path to salvation. We overrule them (as usual) and take a jeep to Eklebhatti bridge a mere 8 km drive from Jomsom towards Kagbeni. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxkbMA3NANjh9LhQzGHmbJ-qsghMVynBjJC_hSCleVBQjGWBrXCQAuYnlj7BRmtg8JVDGUp1-5lFdkCuezvrVpzbyYLrRg1plU7vZh_MQzLrud72rQo4ouh1opqhythkorg2o/s1600/IMG_20170422_083409.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxkbMA3NANjh9LhQzGHmbJ-qsghMVynBjJC_hSCleVBQjGWBrXCQAuYnlj7BRmtg8JVDGUp1-5lFdkCuezvrVpzbyYLrRg1plU7vZh_MQzLrud72rQo4ouh1opqhythkorg2o/s200/IMG_20170422_083409.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Eklebhatti bridge</i></b></td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w5mQPDc9t1Z5QxS-vDtefa_QUwCwTcyORcb9rJYfodlGm6Q4MENte7NUgewMEqWnUNgJJLht6I1QfqMu1MaVBEnuZAdv697Zxux_11J28ubTC6y3y7MN30oL2vCibhuCw8cD/s1600/IMG_20170422_085818.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w5mQPDc9t1Z5QxS-vDtefa_QUwCwTcyORcb9rJYfodlGm6Q4MENte7NUgewMEqWnUNgJJLht6I1QfqMu1MaVBEnuZAdv697Zxux_11J28ubTC6y3y7MN30oL2vCibhuCw8cD/s200/IMG_20170422_085818.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>New born goat</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">First over the suspension bridge spanning the Kali Gandaki river (there’s really no getting away from it on the Annapurna Circuit) and a short while later we are in the village of Pakling. Other than a lady washing clothes and a large dog which takes exception to our presence, we see no one. The dry stony path leads up towards the village of Phalyak. An elderly man is walking down with a new born goat which still has it’s umbilical cord intact. I can’t resist but touch the little fellow and the mother goat providing the security cordon is agitated. We move on.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS6k9FAIeP5iNLk56AOTHsAyAFc1RXEg9ROIzctgcFWeH-kXhXmQq9LdxCdMJtBSN8X5fNEMStIYXS_Wtn_tBf-tz5WyoVVxjhVm2OhkdfRx-YjjlcGWjtk99TgiIVtsnzde4/s1600/IMG_20170422_090802.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS6k9FAIeP5iNLk56AOTHsAyAFc1RXEg9ROIzctgcFWeH-kXhXmQq9LdxCdMJtBSN8X5fNEMStIYXS_Wtn_tBf-tz5WyoVVxjhVm2OhkdfRx-YjjlcGWjtk99TgiIVtsnzde4/s200/IMG_20170422_090802.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>A personal milestone</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEh5O8ozWVTgK6-6OK6lbZqwF6xF_E285eQ9tKgqGLYxp1eyur-VZwaGKzZLEIiDwrpoEbrwnBcnx4EiObZkorJ-rpDBaHoTzBt0mg-QjlIJmn3nhXSKrhStk2M32JaJGRSasP/s1600/IMG_20170422_105735.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEh5O8ozWVTgK6-6OK6lbZqwF6xF_E285eQ9tKgqGLYxp1eyur-VZwaGKzZLEIiDwrpoEbrwnBcnx4EiObZkorJ-rpDBaHoTzBt0mg-QjlIJmn3nhXSKrhStk2M32JaJGRSasP/s200/IMG_20170422_105735.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Dhakarjhong</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The land gets drier and stonier as we ascend to the next village of Phalyak but the views of the mountain only get better. We are already at 3000 m and the altitude begins to tell on one of our group members. We soldier on to the last village on this route going down towards a rivulet with crystal clear water and then up to Dhakarjhong. What an amazing entrance to a village! First of all it sits at 3200 m and the entrance to the village is a cave with well cut stones forming the walls and ceilings of the walk through cave. Small doors on the sides of the walls lead off into homes and storage spaces. I try to capture it all on camera as best as I can. A channel comes up with gushing icy cold water and we reach a large man made pond. Here local women wash clothes amidst village banter. As is our wont during our walks, we are now very very hungry.<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pa2nc4mxwanApjaKbt_KxxJZeHVxvYLWNREyoi7VNjVU624E76oh5D8osped7ILTTI5w-Bk2DUfrDvEZ9I_j3gsEKlzZWZtm40h18gphybeFDvxqafPgCVtCO8P9_rMugPp2/s1600/IMG_20170422_113006.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pa2nc4mxwanApjaKbt_KxxJZeHVxvYLWNREyoi7VNjVU624E76oh5D8osped7ILTTI5w-Bk2DUfrDvEZ9I_j3gsEKlzZWZtm40h18gphybeFDvxqafPgCVtCO8P9_rMugPp2/s200/IMG_20170422_113006.jpg" width="200" /></a></i></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Drying Yak Meat</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sachin, our ever enterprising leader, finds a lady who tells us of another lady who is willing to cook for us. We pretty much take over her house, my wife occupies one of the bedrooms and I the dining room and push it by asking for a blanket which they readily oblige with.<br />
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A short catnap is interrupted by the call for lunch. We are served by Lakshmi Didi the warm hostess of the house. I try yak meat for the first time and I am hooked. The yak is dry and deep fried with spices and oil and makes a lethal combination with white rice. Maybe it is the hunger but the hot food hits the spot.<br />
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<span class="s1">The lesser known Batase Bhanjyang also called Windy Pass is a Mecca that I had omitted mentioning earlier. We had read about it in the <i>pdf</i> and it seems like an utopian dream to get to it as no one we talk to knows about it. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Now, in the village of Dhakarjhong, we learn about the tower that we can see higher up above. This is indeed the mystical windy pass and Laxmi Didi tells us that it’s about a 45 minute walk up. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The excitement palpable, we launch into our final climb which looks easy but is quite challenging especially with bellies full of Laxmi Didi’s delicious delectables.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The windy pass sits at 3450 m and from here Jomson is in plain sight. The wind is of such force that one can lean back into it and not fall backwards. On a clear day, you can see Upper Mustang, Thorong La, Tilicho peak, the Nilgiri, Daulagiri and Tukuche peaks. We are not so lucky and we only get a brief glimpse of Daulagiri and an even briefer glimpse of Thorong La. There are satellites and communication towers on the pass and nothing else.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjguA6hhFGfpXPgsXHpE7t5AdtiY8olLoW0w9XbP0U82jF27aGZ6dmxjhR7vcHosde9jFcOY5zInmuzAh07E3UIiRiyKXPFvSMMiNRg6FxKtGszSi6PziDjRQu7RuVjjne9-ld4/s1600/IMG_20170423_055510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjguA6hhFGfpXPgsXHpE7t5AdtiY8olLoW0w9XbP0U82jF27aGZ6dmxjhR7vcHosde9jFcOY5zInmuzAh07E3UIiRiyKXPFvSMMiNRg6FxKtGszSi6PziDjRQu7RuVjjne9-ld4/s200/IMG_20170423_055510.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>View from Kagbeni lodge</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Our souls appeased and with general contentment all around, we get back to Dhakarjhong where Laxmi Didi gives us hot tea for our efforts.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We then trudge back to the Eklebhatti bridge and catch a passing bus to Kagbeni without much fanfare.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Kagbeni is small town akin to Marpha but a little more commercial in its appearance. There are narrow lanes and by-lanes that go through the town and the place is filled with little cafes and restaurants. The forbidden (you need to buy a $500 pass) Upper Mustang begins somewhere here and the town overlooks the Kali Gandaki river and of course the omnipresent Daulagiri.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i>Where we thumb our noses at walking</i></b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevDpO6wx2xOlmAVBGAvj5Ds-qDER_mv8Xm_rlWOwZ1QyWeTNYR-QKx4wIzkXR9s3tl3xV4lMkryCEn4sKazasr9qZJRVx8Aqv7vA_MQvEwQSzHCREiVorF2i1Du6ey2vAvPbS/s1600/IMG_20170423_152735.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevDpO6wx2xOlmAVBGAvj5Ds-qDER_mv8Xm_rlWOwZ1QyWeTNYR-QKx4wIzkXR9s3tl3xV4lMkryCEn4sKazasr9qZJRVx8Aqv7vA_MQvEwQSzHCREiVorF2i1Du6ey2vAvPbS/s200/IMG_20170423_152735.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Muktinath Temple</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">General consensus on the eighth day in Kagbeni is that we’re done with our trekking. We decide to take a jeep to Muktinath (elevation: 3800 m), our final destination. There are a collection of shrines on the top, the main deity being Shiva. The entrance is decorated by random Indian looking Sadhus awaiting financial freebies.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCBv2C-sIfJi0xaXb4MI03SoZw3htj4FBuv6IKTdz1L7D0_lJU4zufyUuOZmCbmLMfw4tQB3Htk696rHgTzGsdHoecoFzzCUqW1sfrMcYX3K7yqJO6NO5ZjknFHyilv1yOIdJ/s1600/IMG_20170423_154019.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCBv2C-sIfJi0xaXb4MI03SoZw3htj4FBuv6IKTdz1L7D0_lJU4zufyUuOZmCbmLMfw4tQB3Htk696rHgTzGsdHoecoFzzCUqW1sfrMcYX3K7yqJO6NO5ZjknFHyilv1yOIdJ/s200/IMG_20170423_154019.jpg" width="200" /></a></i></b></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>More of the temple</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Fortunately, there isn’t much crowd and we get to see a couple of the shrines and the big sitting Buddha and have some amazing food in a Reggae bar and restaurant at the base of the hill.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The fading light of dusk now makes the drive back to Jomsom a bit edgy and is compounded by a stuck jeep which our driver tugs out of the water. I proudly put my Swiss army knife to its first productive use of its life as the tow rope made of the Hulk’s bones refuses to be untied by human hands.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The night has fallen and I strongly believe our driver is driving by instinct rather than by sight. My data point is that at a certain phase of our journey we are actually driving ON the Kali Gandaki river itself with the flow, on the flow and for a length of time that is not natural to be driving in river.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">Somehow, we reach Jomsom where our hotel has been overpowered by a large pilgrimage group from Tamil Nadu. They are dishing out bise bele baath, curd rice and stuff that we are all dying to get our hands on. My lady decides to go ask for a plate and is handed a full plate of South Indian food with no questions asked.</span></div>
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<b><i>Flight of fantasy</i></b><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7VEr2tL6T2NrdVBpfEtNjdtIRgjWm70beWFZIHKsyNyEOjEx-YZXc0h1xn6f-v_fhz6kqLT5SiBMklY8UJWSJxcbLK02q__D0Y6h2e-gxkkP9uYju8Jub2Pis9Iljf39y83y/s1600/IMG_20170424_062519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7VEr2tL6T2NrdVBpfEtNjdtIRgjWm70beWFZIHKsyNyEOjEx-YZXc0h1xn6f-v_fhz6kqLT5SiBMklY8UJWSJxcbLK02q__D0Y6h2e-gxkkP9uYju8Jub2Pis9Iljf39y83y/s200/IMG_20170424_062519.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>View from Jomsom Airport</i></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68HyIgMpwytfVWRRJtRNRCO7a0LYfZWKFej8zBzK8MbeoBiGeSzo4oT_L_l3SzqPHV0O1gTCeiofB5g7PnFP5Z1HtOWYhKC3VPSIyj7UiVAZznyL6e0E84ODYTrvNLb0gulw9/s1600/IMG_20170424_060127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68HyIgMpwytfVWRRJtRNRCO7a0LYfZWKFej8zBzK8MbeoBiGeSzo4oT_L_l3SzqPHV0O1gTCeiofB5g7PnFP5Z1HtOWYhKC3VPSIyj7UiVAZznyL6e0E84ODYTrvNLb0gulw9/s200/IMG_20170424_060127.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>True Heroes - Our Porters</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1"> </span>The small JetStream plane seats about 20 people. There is no door to the cockpit and various machinations performed by the pilot and co-pilot do is visible to all. It’s a lovely take off on one of the smallest runways I’ve ever seen. All the peaks that have been our companions the last 9 days surround us in all their splendor and we get great views once again on both sides.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UwzyAfk71VkofOwRwnyNYoICldJMXjEXe2u7XJenAjL8JHbUHANW_IOlLm43Lw5FTQcMNck-LfhjznNMFueXQ2uMTDnJB7pbbI_cB49zC1nMKnzpwXi4T0JRJjfLyh0io-aQ/s1600/IMG_20170424_063442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UwzyAfk71VkofOwRwnyNYoICldJMXjEXe2u7XJenAjL8JHbUHANW_IOlLm43Lw5FTQcMNck-LfhjznNMFueXQ2uMTDnJB7pbbI_cB49zC1nMKnzpwXi4T0JRJjfLyh0io-aQ/s200/IMG_20170424_063442.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Cockpit view</i></b></td></tr>
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Back to Pokhara after an amazing time with our own custom routes thrown in for good measure.<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">What next? Upper Mustang calls...</span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-71027518200727213702017-04-28T22:39:00.000+05:302017-05-02T16:38:07.308+05:30The Annapurna Semi Circuit (Part 1)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">Walking up and down mountains and through rivers and valleys is a romantic notion. I really had no idea what to expect embarking on the 8-10 day trek in Nepal that someone else (thankfully) had arranged.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">A brief background which provides some context to one of the most enriching experiences of my life and a reaffirmation of all that is good in this world.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Nepal, a mountainous land-locked Himalayan nation (adjectives much?) has a large porous border with India and surrounded by the latter on the North, West and South with the eastern border completely taken by Tibet (China).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The National Trust for Nature Conservation (NTNC) in Nepal has put a lot of heart and soul into the Annapurna Conservation Area Project (catchy acronym ACAP). </span><br />
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<span class="s1">The reason for boring you with these details is that the ACAP work stood us in good stead throughout our time in Nepal and one can only marvel at this organization’s efforts to mark often obscure trails to ensure no one gets lost</span><span class="s2">.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><i>Day 1 (14 km)</i></b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BujgdhSZnjf8wfTI1jhN2WefgJ_ti_083pfWOfxTUUXwjqKtn1OyNaXDpAzHD7Y8jCyfa7bYO4436rDN88Yy1_G6FKjDtejBZk736VRyav6H9T7bMOxWHLM14_-atpEFyIoy/s1600/IMG_3103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BujgdhSZnjf8wfTI1jhN2WefgJ_ti_083pfWOfxTUUXwjqKtn1OyNaXDpAzHD7Y8jCyfa7bYO4436rDN88Yy1_G6FKjDtejBZk736VRyav6H9T7bMOxWHLM14_-atpEFyIoy/s200/IMG_3103.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Pokhara Airport</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">In Pokhara, Mountain Monarch, our guide company efficiently distributes our duffle (or dufflel?) bags each containing within its cavernous interior a sleeping bag, jacket, blanket, a large plastic bag and the all important toilet paper.</span></div>
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Our walk starts with a drive. About an hour or so from Pokhara lies the small town of Nayapul. Most serious trekkers do the anti-clockwise route commencing from Besisahar to the east of Pokhara and complete the full circuit in ~16 days. Our group of five is a novice group and we elect to do the clockwise route but only half the circuit (hence the clever title). </div>
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<span class="s1">We have three porters and for some unfathomable reason - three guides though our ring leader Sachin had clearly instructed that we need three porters for our duffel bags, 2 porters to carry our day packs and one guide. Anyway, details details; we got what we got. Of the three guides, one of them is a teenage kid whose sole purpose is to carry a small red medical pouch which apparently houses cures for any and all deadly diseases we may encounter during our travels. With the colorful name Tasveer (picture in Hindi), he seems to serve no other purpose other than a free internship with our hapless group.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The porters on the other hand are made of sterner stuff. Each of our duffel bags weighs upward of 15 kg and the porters expertly tie two duffel bags together and effortlessly haul the loads and are off at a pace which we lesser mortals (with nothing to carry) can only dream of.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>First Lunch</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">We trudge our way up grassy slopes and tree laden lands and ascend gradually, passing trekkers coming the other way, some passing us and we scarcely passing anyone. Greenery gives way to a muddy road cut in the mountain. We reach Tikhedunga for our first exposure to dal bhat (lentils and rice), our comfort food for days to come. Blissfully unaware of the remaining hike to follow, I stuff myself with rice, lentils and noodles to account for 10 kms of walking (the furthest I have walked in a day). Needless to say, the second part of the hike is killing. For one, it is an incredibly steep incline heading to Ulleri our next stop. And my stomach isn’t quite right with the overload of carbohydrates and it reflects in my struggles to take on the never-ending steps of varying heights of unstable stone.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>On the way to Ulleri</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">We make it to the sleepy town of Ulleri (elevation 1300 m) where we are welcomed by our first overnight stay hotel called Meera (tagline: <i>Stay in a best place</i>). Our group of two couples and a single guy is then asked to share a restroom (only one bedroom had an attached facility) which results in much friction (an ominous portend of the conflicts to follow) with the lead guide who provides us some amazing logic for our predicament. To add another level of excitement, my stomach is now in full rebellion and I spend the better part of the cold night on the throne.</span><br />
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<b><i>Day 2 (10 km)</i></b><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">The day dawns bright and cloudless and we catch our first glimpse of one of the behemoths that Nepal is known for. Annapurna South, peaking at an impressive 7219 m looms over the the smaller mountains and it is one awe inspiring sight and I introspect human insignificance against the mighty mountains. Hiunchuli at 6441 m is the other large mountain that's clearly visible from our night abode.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Lunch</i></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCv1tGPfwXBzOmMHdD5UfkjVGm6BSKFe4fuBwy6A6XQFeB8W__lYi7zHzkuCj5FC5Q-H4aGcxwl0gloea6ARHK1XzAQ01s8DZ3W-3eXAdonjvqklZ70wI3MtMGmZP0tAm98iq-/s1600/IMG_20170418_083954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCv1tGPfwXBzOmMHdD5UfkjVGm6BSKFe4fuBwy6A6XQFeB8W__lYi7zHzkuCj5FC5Q-H4aGcxwl0gloea6ARHK1XzAQ01s8DZ3W-3eXAdonjvqklZ70wI3MtMGmZP0tAm98iq-/s200/IMG_20170418_083954.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Ghorepani Hotel</i></b></td></tr>
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<span class="s1">With my battle of the bowels still in play, we head to the next destination of Ghorepani. We stop for lunch at a beautiful wayside restaurant in Nangethanthi where we spend an obscene amount of time eating and resting. Here we discover the pleasures of Poon bread (also called Tibetan bread with apparently one more variation called Gurung bread). At about 2000 m elevation, we have left behind the dust and stones and are treated to lush hues of green on the soil as well as in the trees above. The ground we walk on is soft with the fallen branches and leaves and the natural moistness at this altitude. We keep comparing our surroundings to the Lord Of The Rings Shire, the home of the Baggins.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The Nepali definition of a gradual climb is not for the unprepared. Sometimes, not knowing what to expect maybe good as we complete the ‘gradual’ climb into Ghorepani by late evening. Here, at 2800m, we get a much better view of Annapurna South and it’s a view of which I could never tire.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">With my tummy tribulations, I take lots of rest and very little food that night.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<b><i>Day 3 (18 km)</i></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The rest of the team decide to brave the elements (icy cold and a thick mist) at 4:30 a.m to climb up Poon Hill (3200 m) for a better view of the mountains. I opt to sleep in.</span><br />
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbW2pd4tY541d0BQk85JLfyutujup0BJkTMv50D8_12ETjOqRPFyA4q_ZT_trvI-HayeW99oDVTjv1d1SmyRIGCMh65Ij_7JBu6U3SgUh4zKIEsbw6uWllEDztXK5M1SWTWVV/s1600/IMG_20170418_085651.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbW2pd4tY541d0BQk85JLfyutujup0BJkTMv50D8_12ETjOqRPFyA4q_ZT_trvI-HayeW99oDVTjv1d1SmyRIGCMh65Ij_7JBu6U3SgUh4zKIEsbw6uWllEDztXK5M1SWTWVV/s200/IMG_20170418_085651.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>From the hotel in Ghorepani</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Day 3 for me begins with one more conflict between the lead guide and our leader Sachin who takes exception with the arrangement of baggage carrying. Being blissfully unaware of the details, I’ll not delve into it further.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">One thing you learn during trekking is that no one and no sign ever speaks of distances with the usual measures. Distances are always measured by time which is meaningless as our group stops for photos at the drop of a hat and takes frequent rest stops.</span><br />
<span class="s1"></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdY-ZRnufFlbaPTmgy-MXe1CoMcEXiXXuz_-C2Ar1ZS3eyyJlhrEZ8lJmG3pMM-i3Xqouc2nFX-M_3T2X86N8sw3X7oNQ0IKhVx-vllJlMeK8WHaSRTYndgxtzzC0ZLU0dCya/s1600/IMG_20170418_092608.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdY-ZRnufFlbaPTmgy-MXe1CoMcEXiXXuz_-C2Ar1ZS3eyyJlhrEZ8lJmG3pMM-i3Xqouc2nFX-M_3T2X86N8sw3X7oNQ0IKhVx-vllJlMeK8WHaSRTYndgxtzzC0ZLU0dCya/s200/IMG_20170418_092608.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Ghorepani to Tatopani</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23Gl2aCAYx1zmGWT3YhHZ6viB2PHLydnAxyiDjuqiY2oavwvGq2IGXSw-IyFW4XdvtlM3qvyKolL_hjWDPAolcXtPOJQn9W6RzdqGL_9dAqkj7Xg5OOA8eEPp14ibD06bFViE/s1600/IMG_20170418_151441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23Gl2aCAYx1zmGWT3YhHZ6viB2PHLydnAxyiDjuqiY2oavwvGq2IGXSw-IyFW4XdvtlM3qvyKolL_hjWDPAolcXtPOJQn9W6RzdqGL_9dAqkj7Xg5OOA8eEPp14ibD06bFViE/s200/IMG_20170418_151441.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Ghorepani to Tatopani</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBMt1cBT0qdRFfN7UiKDzexyI6uMkbxROaT9sSCFj0VPAFRnJK66MUT0RdDN252VCZWs3XoKU9ZkXrXsarvdiZ1k-3z9UGbo9SwlsLONUcF8lkUxxBT5zG6hZVvJE4jtI9XIm/s1600/IMG_20170418_174546.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBMt1cBT0qdRFfN7UiKDzexyI6uMkbxROaT9sSCFj0VPAFRnJK66MUT0RdDN252VCZWs3XoKU9ZkXrXsarvdiZ1k-3z9UGbo9SwlsLONUcF8lkUxxBT5zG6hZVvJE4jtI9XIm/s200/IMG_20170418_174546.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Suspension Bridge over Kali Gandaki</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">We ar</span>e told this day will be our longest day which translates to 7 hours of walking. While relatively easy to do, walking downhill and descending 1700m pose their own brand of challenges.This I quickly discover as I place a foot on a not so cooperative stone and feel some pain as it twists in an unintended angle. Everything looks to be okay as our guide (now turned orthopedic consultant) makes me do some weird foot action and normalcy seems to be restored. More breathtaking views of Annapurna South and now Machhapuchhre and Dhaulagiri make our walk whimsical. The usual lunch fare is at Sikha another small hamlet on the way down.<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br />
During a restroom break in the great outdoors I catch a glimpse of a large snake but I’m unable to get a picture. We cross a steel suspension bridge hanging over the famous Kali Gandaki river. The last few kilometers are by ‘<i>motorable</i>’ road and we reach Tatopani (elevation 1100 m) after over 9 hours of walking, eating and resting.</div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5s3mPgFSi2X8ylwiwGOQ2sv0mNU7474ne5O6jGtV4B0ao4RzfZ5USWAmumoeNZm-aYPfswi-yqqqn4aVW7_TcKUPN_KquEQo9rnwfX1-szmVo1QD5RpTeHtL_x-YpAgs6m9r/s1600/IMG_20170419_093828.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5s3mPgFSi2X8ylwiwGOQ2sv0mNU7474ne5O6jGtV4B0ao4RzfZ5USWAmumoeNZm-aYPfswi-yqqqn4aVW7_TcKUPN_KquEQo9rnwfX1-szmVo1QD5RpTeHtL_x-YpAgs6m9r/s200/IMG_20170419_093828.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Hotel at Tatopani</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">The 18 km walk in conjunction with my twisted foot replaces my stomach ailments and my foot feels like lead now. I still limp nimbly to the fabled hot-spring of Tatopani where we are met by a small rectangular swimming pool like concrete enclosure with predominantly topless men smoking and chugging down a few. Undaunted, we slide ourselves inside the pool which does indeed have warm water though I am suspicious that there’s an electric/gas heater powering this all.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Day 4 (10 km)</i></b></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Our next destination is Ghasa, supposedly another 5-6 hour walk but of unknown distance. We come across a powerful waterfall (Rupse Chahara, 300m height) with a roar clearly being heard deep in the valley where we pause for our meals. The deepest gorge in the world - Kali Gandaki gorge is right here too.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">A slight drizzle now turns into a regular downpour temporarily suspending further walking activities and we use this time wisely - eating and drinking some more in the small (German Bakery) tea lodge ensconced between the waterfall and the gorge. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktXlugTkzOdz1dvPWSXWj_O_lYuvjZrwlYGXl4OXtsXYYdL94sU1bG8XMkrz63A_H7_3vORJp-8UZSVz1i4fAbN7BQ-Kh80h4pnMFgaOVAwbINjR7sRL6iqV9jyWWvByCpuTn/s1600/IMG_20170419_132354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktXlugTkzOdz1dvPWSXWj_O_lYuvjZrwlYGXl4OXtsXYYdL94sU1bG8XMkrz63A_H7_3vORJp-8UZSVz1i4fAbN7BQ-Kh80h4pnMFgaOVAwbINjR7sRL6iqV9jyWWvByCpuTn/s200/IMG_20170419_132354.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Rupse Waterfalls</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtC1_r9BhM7z1wZPtt9h6konhCL3x10Njk0AHFwQe8DiyvyOIqpROqH_D3VwA-WXrdmESMsmZdtOIvG8iuhXiQBErSUE6JmCH72ghpl5wYE1UKZjnIx37yQx0e8Dg2dvXn6Xtt/s1600/IMG_20170419_153217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtC1_r9BhM7z1wZPtt9h6konhCL3x10Njk0AHFwQe8DiyvyOIqpROqH_D3VwA-WXrdmESMsmZdtOIvG8iuhXiQBErSUE6JmCH72ghpl5wYE1UKZjnIx37yQx0e8Dg2dvXn6Xtt/s200/IMG_20170419_153217.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>After the rains</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The waterfall hitherto cascading pure white water now turns a chocolate brown indicating the severity of the rains in the mountains. My foot is now almost immobile and a stick and poncho are feeble measures against the elements and the sprain. The group takes a vote (without me) that I need to take a bus to Ghasa about a few kilometers away. We hail a passing bus which already is bursting at the seams and tilting dangerously to one side. The lead guide and I clamber on and miraculously make space for ourselves albeit standing. We also are the proud possessors of a doko which is a large bamboo basket holding all our day packs. The next fifteen minutes are the scariest of my life. The rain has not let up fully, the ‘motorable’ road is narrow and comprises of flowing mud and stones. Ghasa is higher up than Tatopani and with the Kali Gandaki river a few thousand feet below us, every curve we take I feel will be my last. The driver nonchalantly handles the bus like a kid would a RC vehicle and even turns back to exchange pleasantries with the conductor and other passengers. All this while dangerously maneuvering the bus through stomach churning blind turns and oncoming traffic which pretty much comes down in similar fashion.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPOmPa6rlYVB0NcN0jFrod8_pTiTPObSK6dGHPxkYVURZGu87W8SPtzmn1HRhCVHT-lI31PH32xXo12juxQIVh3GDNh8uG6RbiTUlef5gdI-8LmT23w94h_aKnrcj03u7aqT-/s1600/IMG_20170420_080956.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPOmPa6rlYVB0NcN0jFrod8_pTiTPObSK6dGHPxkYVURZGu87W8SPtzmn1HRhCVHT-lI31PH32xXo12juxQIVh3GDNh8uG6RbiTUlef5gdI-8LmT23w94h_aKnrcj03u7aqT-/s200/IMG_20170420_080956.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Our hotel in Ghasa</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We finally reach Ghasa (elevation 2100m) without incident other than the fact that the bus stops about 500m ahead of our hotel stop. With my poncho fighting a losing battle against the rain and wind, stick in one hand. limping terribly and the guide carrying the basket with two hands, we comically make our way back to the hotel.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
I take a good nap waking up to hot tea and biscuits while the wife and the rest of the team have a chance meeting with a German that would irrevocably change our plans for the rest of our trip.<span class="s1"></span></div>
</div>
Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-32561462476576484062016-09-30T16:18:00.006+05:302016-09-30T18:30:56.532+05:30Lessons in Management, Leadership and Flawless Execution<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Anticipating a nice long nap on a flight from Jaipur to
Bangalore, I was instead given a memorable life lesson or two... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A few nanoseconds after the seat-belt sign went off, a
flurry of activity ensued. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Three people in seats around me jumped up, bags and boxes of
food were opened and paper plates magically materialized. Kachoris, chips, two
types of sweets (laddoo and another one I couldn’t view due to the alacrity of
operations) were put in each paper plate and the game was officially on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There were at least twenty plates that were distributed
across the aircraft, incredibly enough with very little communication and zero
confusion on roles and responsibilities. One guy was opening the food boxes at
high speed, the other was loading the plates ensuring perfect balance in portion
size and one more guy was going around the plane dishing out the plates. The
frenzied efficiency of the entire operation was a sight to behold. There was
even this one white guy who just couldn’t resist all this food being passed
around and requested for a plate. Not an eyelid batted; he got a plate with no disruption
to the supply chain operations. The flight stewardess wanted to bring her food
card down the aisle to serve us less fortunate mortals but she was informed
politely but firmly that she’d have to wait 2 minutes. The estimate went up to 3 and then 5 minutes
all within a matter of a couple of seconds but at the end of 5 minutes, the perfect
operation culminated with a trash box to gather the remains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My learnings:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Overall Planning
</b>– These folks were born to do this. At no point was there any sign of trouble
or mismanagement. They made it look easy and seamless. I’m sure that only comes
from years of training in the trenches of kachori and ladoo service with the
constraints of time, space and resources<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Capacity
Planning </b>- Ability to cater to unplanned demand (they even asked the stewardess if she wanted a plate)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Scale and
Speed </b>- The entire operation was geared for the shortest possible flight
duration. A 20 minute flight suffices for
end to end execution<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Division
of labor </b>- Immaculate – everyone knew their role with minimal inter communication<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Optimization
& Efficiency</b> - Only three people were involved and 20+ people in
different parts of the aircraft got served in under 5 minutes. As my colleague on
the same flight put it, this was a surgical strike done with clinical precision<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Customer
Satisfaction </b>– The white guy had his fill and promptly fell asleep with his
mouth open and a look of contentment on his face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">7.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Quality</b>
– Zero defects, zero wastage, zero evidence of any food/service<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Needless to say I couldn’t sleep after this immersive educational
experience and spent the rest of the flight in a state of anti-climax.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-60650620139777122532015-12-29T19:25:00.003+05:302015-12-29T19:59:54.813+05:30Bates Motel (A Review)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Bates Motel is slick, entertaining and addictive. The name of the series naturally drew my attention with all the memories of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic thriller and I just HAD to watch. One always wonders about Norman Bates’ past and this series does a bang up job of presenting an amazingly well thought out perspective and context.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Before your very eyes, you see Norman evolve (not sure if that’s the right word here) from a gawky, innocent and shy teenager to a young adult with psychological problems due to his mother’s difficult childhood, his own encounters with the opposite sex and his coming to terms with his mental condition.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Without giving too much away, a quick summary/review of the series.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Set in modern day Oregon (though shot in British Columbia), the story is developed subtly and with extreme intelligence. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The fact that murders are commonplace in the small town Norman (Freddie Highmore) moves to and lives in is explained well with the town’s own issues, problems and generally weird goings-on. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Norma Bates’ personality spanning multicolor hues is richly portrayed by Vera Farmiga as you end up sympathizing with her in one scene to feeling she’s a real bitch in another. The conflict and anguish within her are evident as she realizes her son is not all there and she becomes the controlling mother in Hitchcock’s narrative. The subtlety of the series shows up in a few ways here. Her hair which is initially blond and wavy in Season 1 slowly makes way to the silver colored bun that is a hallmark of the movie. In another scene, Norman is sleeping in his bed and she’s rocking back and forth on the chair that is unmistakably reminiscent of the movie.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">The relationship between Norman and his mother also slowly changes as he starts realizing what he’s becoming and Norma’s helplessness as she attempts to cope with her own life and his. Shades of the Oedipus complex show up in flashes providing some explanations to his eventual persona.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The show is far from one dimensional with Norman’s elder brother thrown in the mix. Relatively more normal than his sibling and mother, the brother’s character only evokes empathy as he’s a man with a good heart and readily bails out his family from trouble which Norma and Norman keep getting into. As the town sheriff says in one scene to Norma ‘You seem to always attract trouble’ or something to that effect. There’s also the girl who helps out at the motel and always wants to help but feels excluded from the psychotic whirlpool that is the Bates family. Other characters include the town’s enigmatic sherif and the shifty uncle from the past.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Every aspect of the Norman Bates character is explained down to the tiniest detail including the reason that the Bates house is full of stuffed dead animals and his voyeurism.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The series has you on the edge every minute of every episode. One cannot do justice to it in a write-up. Scary, thoughtful, provocative and intensely brilliant and definitely worth a view.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Just make sure it’s not the last thing you watch before you switch off the lights to go to sleep at night.</span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-3755629784626369412015-06-04T14:30:00.000+05:302015-06-04T14:30:22.519+05:30Zak the Gentle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Zak died on May 22nd and with that, he took a part of us with him.<br />
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He was withering away for the last week or so prior to that and there was something deep inside that knew he wouldn't make it. Still that doesn't make it any easier. The second time we've lost a beloved family member in a few years time. Sol died when he was seven and half and now Zak at six.<br />
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From the moment we got him as a 30 day old, it was evident that he was playful but extremely disciplined. None of us ever remember training him but he just listened. Like any other puppy, he was a joy to be around and watch.<br />
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During my startup days, Zak regularly accompanied me to work where he was just another member of the team and he made sure to spend time with each of us during the day. Birthday celebrations were a big deal for Zak as he always got the first piece of cake,<br />
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Zak didn't really fancy too much activity or the company of other dogs. He always considered himself one of us. He's probably barked a few times in his entire life. Most people who've been terrified of dogs got over their fear just by being with him a few minutes.<br />
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In our apartment complex, we were all known as Zak's family and that sums up his presence. A beloved soul whose only need in life was to be loved and his fur to be ruffled. His only time of insistence was when you stopped petting him and he would place a purposeful paw on your leg just to remind you gently that he was not done.<br />
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He enjoyed our long trips and the girls spent many an hour in the cargo section of the car just being with him. We took him everywhere and he took it all in with the pleasure of a baby.<br />
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Zak passed away when we were out of the country and now that we're back, it's inconceivable that he's not around. I expect to hear the frantic paws on the floor every time I call him as he scrambles to get to me. It will take a while for us to get over his loss but the memories never go away and I know he's in a good place wherever he is. Goodbye big fella....there's always a place in our heart for you.</div>
Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-65314013075895483172015-02-16T17:12:00.000+05:302015-02-17T10:42:42.135+05:30Two decades and counting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My cousin who is a journalist and an exemplary writer recently wrote about her 28 years of marriage to a military spouse. An inspiring read to say the least but it got me thinking of my marriage and where (after 20 years) we've come to from our early days together as husband and wife though neither of us are in the military.<br />
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I've always had relationship issues or to put it bluntly, had no relationships at all with the fairer sex during my wild formative years in the northern regions of Nigeria nor during the obligatory four years of engineering in India. </div>
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The whole concept of getting married came quite out of the blue as I was merrily going about my first job in the US after completing my graduate degree there. My uncle in India kind of suggested I consider this girl who was a distant relative of mine. The type of decision making one does in the younger days is so unfettered and liberating. Being the 90s, I got her photos in the post and showed it to my ex-roomies who asked me what I was waiting for and that was it.</div>
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Vaishnavi and I did talk a lot during those early days apart and though I could ill afford the multi-hundred dollar phone bills, it didn't stop me. Though we were related, we'd hardly seen or talked to each other growing up so this was essential for both of us to do. When I did go to India for the the 2-in-1 program (engagement followed by wedding on consecutive days), it was still quite awkward for both us to say the least.</div>
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Our early days together in the US were hard only when we look back on them in today's context. We didn't have money and often withdrew cash from credit cards to put into our bank account (don't really remember why the convoluted transactions). We never thought of these as hardships though and just went with the flow. </div>
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When she cooked for the first time in her life, I made an innocent comment on the sink being full of pots and pans and pretty much a single cooked offering to show for it. She burst into tears. I also had to alter my daily routine drastically. I'd come home from work, have tea and take a nap. Hmm...</div>
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For a girl who's been around family all her life, being away for the first time in an alien land with a stranger cannot be easy any way you look at it. I must say she adapted remarkably well very quickly.</div>
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The start of the new millennium gave us our first experience of true adversity. We realized that we couldn't have children. It's when you know you can't have something that you want nothing else. It did take us a while to even accept this fact. We'd read about teenage kids aborting their pregnancies and newborns flushed down toilets and we'd cringe and lament at the unfairness of it all. </div>
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We finally reconciled to the harsh reality and then went about figuring out a solution. Numerous tests, prodding and medications followed. We found this amazing doctor specializing in IVF at Mayo Clinic in Phoenix and we were there a few times a week. It wasn't all bad. The whole experience was turned into an entertaining aspect of our lives and I still remember both of us laughing insanely at the stupidest things as we went back and forth from the hospital. An unforgettable quote from one of the doctors - 'you have a beautiful uterus' - cracks us up to this day. </div>
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Towards the end of 2002, we were informed that two eggs had fertilized and were on the merry path to parenthood. Neither of us believe in miracles but if there ever was one, this was it. And in the 37th week of our tiny adventure, during a routine examination, Dr Lindstrom (who Vaishnavi thought was very good looking) said these words - 'Let's get those babies out of ya. Would 1 p.m work for you today?'</div>
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We moved back to India in 2004 with our twin girls and life's been good. Our girls have grown up to be strong independent little women and we can't imagine how we survived before them. We have had job changes (me more than her), gone through distressing financial times and tough relationship times. </div>
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If I could draw a graph, I must say, overall, things have been well above the median in terms of how our relationship has evolved. Yes, we have become older, more irritable and grumpy, but when I see Vaishnavi, I still see the slim, long haired gorgeous girl all of 22 years old.<br />
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What prompted me to write all this now? One was definitely my cousin's eloquent recap of her married life. Other than that, memories started flooding back last night. Vaishnavi and I took a long walk and we talked about our future, our children's future, what and how we should plan for them. We got to thinking about how we started out and the fun we used to have together. It was time to pen down our joint history.</div>
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For most of us, there are no defining moments in life but a series of incremental events that define our relationships. The two of us are very different but our core values, morals and beliefs are the same and that's pretty much my nugget of wisdom for those embarking on the journey of togetherness.</div>
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I can't but resist ending with a few lyrics from an old Paula Abdul song because this so us!</div>
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<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.4399995803833px; text-align: center;">Baby seems we never ever agree </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.4399995803833px; text-align: center;">You like the movies </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.4399995803833px; text-align: center;">And I like T.V. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.4399995803833px; text-align: center;">I take things serious </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.4399995803833px; text-align: center;">And you take 'em light </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.4399995803833px; text-align: center;">I go to bed early </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.4399995803833px; text-align: center;">And I party all night </span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-13224911966548678112014-01-24T14:02:00.002+05:302014-01-24T14:09:16.967+05:30Running on Full<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Not one of those heroic tales this. A run in Mumbai is always magical though and worth documenting. Well over 6 hours to finish 42 km but that is another story...<br />
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From the moment one enters Azad Maidan, the energy and excitement are palpable. Thousands of runners from all over India nay from all over the world are here. There are the loud ones, the ultra fit ones and the debutants all raring to go. We are all penned into alphabetical enclosures, with 'A' being for the human torpedoes. In the dismal 'C' category with only the 'D' category bring up the rear.<br />
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5:40 a.m - A huge reverberating cheer ensues and we know that the race has started somewhere far ahead. The cold winter air brings a small shiver, or is it just the nervous energy. Church Gate passes at the start point. The 'C' folks are already 10 minutes into the race even before the start line.<br />
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Lovely running the first 10K despite the tumultuous Peddar Road. Loud cheering all the way. Music blaring, cops waving, yes, this is the Mumbai Marathon! The half marathoners go by and a few celebrities swish by at considerable speed.<br />
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Amazing to run on the sealink. 20K done. The elite runners with the BMW lead car go by silently at well over 20 km an hour. Just <i>have</i> to take photos as they glide by and can't help but marvel at how some humans are engineered.<br />
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Great support all the way. Cookies, oranges, ice packs, energy drinks, fruit juices, chocolates, peanuts are on offer from the thousands of residents who come out for the sole purpose of supporting foolhardy strangers. <br />
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Cramps at 25K but manage to finish with a hobble, limp, walk run combo. Going past the final electronic timer, the mind is already on 2015. There's romance and magic here and one can only dream of coming back year after year.</div>
Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-69341943762280813872014-01-13T21:26:00.000+05:302014-01-14T01:09:07.650+05:30Review: An American in Madras<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm really no expert on movie reviews, especially documentaries. However, this is one that I just <b><i>had</i></b> to write about. Karan Bali is my class-mate from my early school years and it was great to be able to see his work first hand.<br />
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Not one for watching documentaries unless it's about food or travel, there definitely was some trepidation when I entered the beautiful premises of the National Gallery of Modern Art in Bangalore. However, in a few moments after the screening started, I was totally into the narrative and picturization. I won't go into the details of the documentary itself as people more competent than I will do a better job.<br />
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For me, it was fascinating that a white man would come to South India and the Tamil film industry and make Tamil movies in the late 30s and 40s. The combination of sheer determination, creativity and focus of Ellis Dungan was a treat to watch.<br />
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With the right pacing and an engaging narrative, the events and interviews unfolded chronologically (in time) resulting in simple and effective storytelling. Like most documentaries, it was informative as I had no idea that Dungan had directed movies like <i>Meera</i> and <i>Shakuntala</i>. To me, the highlight will be the heartwarming look into the early movies of the legendary doyen of Carnatic Music - <i>M S Subbalakshmi</i>. A truly ethereal beauty with a voice quality I have not heard from anyone else. As Sarojini Naidu says in the documentary, MS <b><i>WAS</i></b> Meera!<br />
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I had never actually seen <i>MKT Bhagvathar</i> on-screen and getting glimpses of his acting and singing gave me an unique insight into his persona. And of course, who can forget the scenes of <i>MGR</i> in <i>Sathi Leelavati</i>. Some trivia here - I learnt that the signature MGR tiny beard was a clever ploy to hide a small cleft in his chin as such deformities in heroes were frowned upon! Who knew!<br />
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There wasn't actually a single dull moment in the entire seventy odd minutes of the documentary and the ending with the felicitation of Dungan in Chennai did leave me a bit teary eyed, especially seeing MS, still classy and dignified.<br />
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The research done, people interviewed (including <i>Kamal Hassan</i>), the rare footages; pretty much the entire package was something that I will cherish for a long time to come.<br />
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After the program, I overheard a Caucasian lady in the audience say that it's not often one gets to meet a director during a movie preview and wanted to go up and talk to Karan. I felt proud that I know a very good filmmaker well and sincerely hope he continues to make lovely movies of this nature in the future.<br />
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-16941468781079526382014-01-02T15:09:00.001+05:302014-01-02T15:27:28.210+05:30Wrapping up 2013 musically<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The music season in Chennai is one rocking affair. Multiple sabhas around town host some of most talented and popular musicians and events starting in mid December and going on until early January. Past attempts at attending have been half hearted and unfocused but this time I was determined to make full use of a week. Fair warning for the remaining part of this article - so many adjectives used that I ran out of them at some point.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Music Academy in Chennai is an awe inspiring auditorium comparable to most music halls in the west. The cavernous interiors with well laid out seating and incredible acoustics lend themselves to a superior experience for your senses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had the honor of opening my account with U Srinivas; a master of Carnatic music on the mandolin. His use of the low bass is exemplary and one wishes he just plays bass all the time. This is not to take away from his overall mastery and control of a difficult instrument like the mandolin for playing Carnatic music. Accompanying U Srinivas were S.D. Sridar (violin), Trichy B. Harikumar (Mridangam), E.M. Subramanayam (Ghatam) and Selvaganesh on the Kanjira.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The start was the haunting and melodious Kaanada raaga which pretty much set the stage for the remaining performance. This was followed by a mesmerizing piece in Bahudari, Nattai, Sriranjini, Shanmugapriya (Thiru Venkata Muraya Jaya Jaya Govinda). With my 10 year old daughter attending her first full performance, we didn't get to stay till the end but I got a good dose of some amazing mandolin playing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, the Music Academy is a bit uptight about their tickets and one needs to get there at 5:30 a.m. to get a token which can then be exchanged for a ticket at 8 a.m. As a result, I was not able to get any other events by well known artistes. Oh well....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On Christmas day, it was off to Krishna Gana Sabha in T Nagar for Sanjay Subrahmanyan who's one of the young breed of vocalists making big strides in the musical halls of fame. Again, the presence of two fidgety ten year olds cut short the experience but from what little I was able to listen, I was determined to attend his concert the next time I had the chance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The highlight of all the kutcheris I attended was undoubtedly Kadri Gopalnath on the saxophone. Unadorned by company, the focus was complete during his three hour non-stop performance which had me in tears for most of the time. What made it better was the fact that he played the ragas and compositions that I am familiar with. An opening with the evergreen Vatapi Ganapathi in Hamsadwani just sealed the deal. He was more than ably accompanied by A Kanyakumari on the violin who is a top notch violinist in India. The lilting Moksha Mogalada in Saramati was the piece de resistance and the gamakas were something else. To top that, he played Innu Daya Baarade and this was easily a 15 minute performance and the way Kanyakumari kept up with him was a treat to watch and hear. Both mridangam and tabla accompanied this great musician who has no equal in India or for that matter anywhere in the world for playing carnatic music on the saxophone. The finale was Bhagyada Lakshmi Baaramma and the last few minutes showed us why he's the best as the increasing tempo and crescendo to finish with a bang threw us off our chairs for a standing ovation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back at Krishna Gana Sabha a couple of days later, L Subramanyam hosted the Global Music Festival which saw stalwarts like Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna and Pandit Jasraj perform short and sweet gems leaving us yearning for more. The alaap recital with Pandit Jasraj and L Subramanyam was truly other worldly! The day also saw the introduction of Oystein Baadsvik to India. Hailing from Norway, he's pretty much the only solo tuba player and his mixture of tuba playing and lecture demo were astounding. Hubert Laws on the flute was yet another extraordinary event.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Proving that talent runs in the family, the daughter and son of L Subramanyam sang and played violin (respectively) and assured us that the future of music is in good hands. Kavita Krishanmurthy then sang a few bhajans and her powerful and passionate renditions were calming and invigorating at the same time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally dragging the wife, we finished our Chennai trip with a vocal recital by the Malladi Brothers with the superbly talented Mysore Nagaraj on the violin. The brothers complement each other in every way and their music is pure, imaginative and rich. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lots more to write but want to stop before the rambling gets worse. At least one of the new year resolutions is to revive my own musical learning so we'll see how that goes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here's to a great new year to everyone and for me - more running, writing and learning.</span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-83496822395850581432013-09-10T11:38:00.001+05:302013-09-10T11:38:24.560+05:30Testing in progress...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wanted to check out the new feature of sharing blog posts automatically on Google+. </div>
Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-3398252386479337392012-01-26T17:16:00.001+05:302012-01-26T17:18:15.655+05:30An unexpected gift<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #7a4c80; font-family: Chalkduster;">Are some
things just meant to be? I had never gone on the team runs for a few years now
and yet when I did go for the first time earlier this week, I was rewarded with
a disproportionate bonus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7a4c80; font-family: Chalkduster;">Right
after we completed our run, a bunch of us were standing around outside the park
and chatting, when, literally, out of nowhere this little fellow appeared
whining and generally looking very lost. Irresistible in every sense, the fat
puppy just had to be lifted up. We all looked around for the owner but he was
obviously alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7a4c80; font-family: Chalkduster;">Carrying
home was a tougher task than I anticipated, as he was quite the solid mass of
little dog. A warm bath with baby shampoo and some milk did wonders to the
scared champ and he tentatively started exploring the house. We had no idea
(and still don’t) of things to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7a4c80; font-family: Chalkduster;">The vet
said he was fine except for his body being overloaded with ticks and fleas.
Quite healthy overall was the prognosis. As far as his origins, the suspicion
was a St. Bernard/German Shepherd mix.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7a4c80; font-family: Chalkduster;">A good
24 hours was spent trying to come up with a name for him and as is wont,
suggestions ranged from outlandish to bizarre (someone suggested we name him ‘Cat’
just to confuse him).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7a4c80; font-family: Chalkduster;">Long
story short, Rogue has taken to our family like the ticks to his body. Our
older Golden Zak has not a moment of peace. Rogue has decided to live up to his
name. Nothing is safe from him, no more dangling your feet carelessly down,
shoes and wires are all fair game. He approaches life and people with an open
mind and if he can get in a nibble or two in the bargain, all the better!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #7a4c80; font-family: Chalkduster;">No final
verdict on his breed but there’s a strong chance that he might be an Akita.
Time will tell but in the meantime, Rogue continues to charm his way into our
home and our hearts. This one’s a keeper for sure!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-14976334815547249662012-01-16T22:17:00.003+05:302012-01-17T08:14:10.958+05:30A running start<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">“Run</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> Mumbai Run</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">”</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> was the chant that echoed all around and has
stayed in my mind. A truly magical start
to 2012. I know I</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">’ve</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> written
about my running before and I tried to give it a miss this time but
participating in the Mumbai Marathon is just too great of an experience for me
to not talk about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">I understand why it</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">’s</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> easy to fall in love with the city, even as an
outsider. First of all the logistics and arrangements were impeccable. From the
bib pick up to the starting location, everything was done perfectly. Secondly, the people here are warm and welcoming to one and all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">The 6:15 a.m. start
time for the half marathon was ideal and about ten thousand of us nervously paced around as time slowly ticked on. Everyone has a different way of preparing for a run. There were those who quietly stretched themselves oblivious to anything
around them, groups loudly yakking and full of bravado and those who
just sit silently. I fill the last category, as I don</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">’t</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> believe in doing anything before a long run. I just wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">A few minutes before
kick off, the entire crowd rose like a colossal wave and impatience was written
on everyone</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">’s</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> face.
Jostling, shoving and pushing ensued though I</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">’m</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> not sure for what reason. It really doesn</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">’t</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> matter where you start from; you have twenty
one kilometers to overtake others!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">The run began with much
fanfare, music and good natured ribaldry. The sea of humans took off as one. Right in front of me, was an ex-army officer with a steel leg who started off at an admirable pace. I felt motivated to give it my best with two legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">The feeling of running
on the Bandra-Worli SeaLink at a few hundred feet over the ocean at early dawn
is indescribable. The sea-link, off limits for pedestrians on
regular days, was lovely to saunter along on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">Very soon, and on the sealink, we crossed the
first of the full marathoners who had begun their run from CST Station near
Churchgate, our end point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">Rather than go through a kilometer-by-kilometer description, I really want to talk about the people
support. Every step along the way, huge crowds had
turned up to cheer us on. From infants and toddlers to folks well into their
eighties, the enthusiasm was infectious. The great thing about running is that
you don</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">’t</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> have to be a professional athlete or be an
Olympian. For ordinary people like me, this is the closest and best it gets.
The sheer presence of bystanders, clapping, encouraging, handing out almonds,
chocolates, biscuits, fruit juices was quite something and tears welled up in my eyes.
Nowhere have I seen a city come together in this fashion. Stage performances by
known and unknown artists, high school kids playing music, Bhangra dances </span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">–</span><span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> it was just a carnival out there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 173.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 173.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Hobo Std';">All
credit to the wonderful citizens of Mumbai for helping me finish my run with a
personal best timing because without them, this would have been a struggle.
Hats off to the organizers and the people of Mumbai who have gone through so
much in the past but still have the heart to come together when it matters.</span></div>
</div>Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-8465633579912033072011-12-22T01:22:00.000+05:302011-12-22T01:25:17.609+05:30App Frenzy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><span style="color: #e36c0a; font-family: "Noteworthy Light"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-themecolor: accent6; mso-themeshade: 191;">The only joy that comes close to seeing your child being born is when the
apps you were part of creating, come to life in the marketplace. In a short
span of two and a half months, we were able to start a company in Bangalore,
hire people and release 4 mobile applications to the Barnes & Noble market,
the Android Market, and the Apple iTunes store. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #e36c0a; font-family: "Noteworthy Light"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-themecolor: accent6; mso-themeshade: 191;">As the year ends, I can't but consider myself extremely lucky as I have
the best team anyone can hope for. The commitment, the perseverance, the
dedication and attention to detail are a few of the qualities this team
possesses in abundance. Hats off to the MoveableCode family and especially the
folks in MoveableCode India who have been with me through thick and thin,
always positive, always cheerful and always willing to go that extra step day
in and day out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #e36c0a; font-family: "Noteworthy Light"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-themecolor: accent6; mso-themeshade: 191;">Our work has just started but we could not have hoped for a better start.
Actually, it's been a dream start as I spread my entrepreneural wings for the
first time in my life. The excitement is building, the challenges are growing
and the team is ready to take on innovations, technology creations and do
whatever it takes to reinvent play for all generations and ages! A truly
remarkable endeavor we've taken up and boy have we delivered!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #e36c0a; font-family: "Noteworthy Light"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-themecolor: accent6; mso-themeshade: 191;">Another eight days to go for the new year and if I don't publish any more
posts this year, let's just call this a wrap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #e36c0a; font-family: "Noteworthy Light"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-themecolor: accent6; mso-themeshade: 191;">Happy New Year to all!</span><span style="color: #e36c0a; font-family: "Noteworthy Light"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-themecolor: accent6; mso-themeshade: 191;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></span></div>Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-50135536937573743702011-12-06T10:29:00.001+05:302018-07-13T21:28:29.793+05:30Wedding blues and other true colors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>This time we raised the bar so high that only orbiting satellites can see it. For one, we had a five day wedding and the madness that went with it was significant to put it mildly. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>As is customary, the festivities kicked off with the Mehndi night, which the boys of the family have mastered. Fortunately for us, the 'Kolaveri' song showed up a week before so there was plenty of ammunition and plagiarism as we customized the song to fit the groom's love life much to the embarrassment of the couple. But, that only helps motivate us more.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>The song medley skillfully led by the only real singer in our family was a sight to behold. About 15 of us were involved in this mess...sorry...medley and it took all of my cousin's patience and perseverance to get us through the numerous songs we belted out. Just the preparation for the medley rivaled the preparation by the New York Philharmonic since as usual no one had a clue what to do but everyone had a bucketful of opinions each and every second when we finally commenced singing in numerous beats, pitches and tones. While my cousin bravely attempted to bring a semblance of order, we all ploughed on, unmindful of her guidance. For some reason, we did get applause though the applause from the 'singers' drowned out the audience cheering.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>The highlight of the show was hands down the 'Kolaveri' song which the four boys had mangled skillfully to suit the occasion but was the most entertaining event for sure.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>The reception was kind of uneventful as the horde held back for the final onslaught which was the wedding day. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>The 6 a.m start did nothing to quell our enthusiasm and we even got into a musical duel with the bride's side (yes we were the groom's side). The 'Uyyaale' or the symbolic swing ceremony required a sedate song. Once the unknown old lady from the other side got going, we egged on our musical genius. Hesitant at first, my cousin soon warmed up and we started taking the lead. However, the opposition was made of sterner stuff and kept pace and volume if not matching in melody and harmony. We resorted to playing dirty and my cousin started off with a frenetic paced song in Malayalam. Game, Set, Match - Groom's family...yeah!! Take that!! We had even thought of making my cousin sing in Arabic if we had to.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>While the wedding went on (endlessly I might add), sheer boredom took over the boys and we entered the realm of creative photography with my 18 year old nephew as the star. Being of a healthy proportions and hairstyle like a nuclear explosion mushroom cloud, he was the easy choice. What helped of course was his willingness and initiative to be the model. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Fortunately for us. we had an entire length of the marriage hall protected by a dark curtain so we could do pretty much what we wanted. We began with some 50 meter races with my 8 year old daughters. After a few casualties, the photography sessions started in earnest. For props we used a large white dhoti which we 'innovatively' wrapped around my nephew. The first session was purely the 'Guruji' photographs, a part he fit to the tee. This was followed by a surprisingly self and well choreographed 'Durga' like pose where the photo shows just my nephew and a seven pairs of hands behind him in various positions. Truly a masterful work of art that was. We completed the photo shoot with some villanous politician pictures inclusive of the 'spitting the paan into the sidekick's hand' shot.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>As we later recapped the events, my nephew was surprised to learn that there was a wedding happening in the background.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>A great end to the year with lots of fun an celebrations in the family. Waiting in eager anticipation for the next wedding. Or if someone wants a Mehndi planning, execution and participating team, we're available at short notice... </i></span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04;"><br /></span></i>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-91890835505589498512011-10-27T18:08:00.002+05:302011-10-27T18:26:18.204+05:30A fresh start (up)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Earlier this year, I was wondering about what the heck I wanted to do with my life. Looks like that question pretty much got answered a couple of months back. A casual conversation with an ex-colleague from my first job days turned out into something really concrete. Things have been a whir ever since then and before I knew it, I had started a company, hired people and was into product development. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Any start-up journey is always exciting and mine has been as exciting as any other. Right from getting the legal and tax requirements done, to finding an office space, hiring folks, the excitement has not abated from day one. A few noteworthy candidate interviews that I want to share here:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">- One guy insisted that the first interview round HAS to be done on the telephone and he wouldn't come to our office</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">- One guy showed up with his friend for the interview and they sat by side while he answered questions</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">- I had trouble convincing one person that even though I am not a HR person, I still would like to talk to him for the initial discussion. Apparently, it is against protocol to have 'Engineering' have the first contact</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">The net result is that, our days are never dull and boring; there's always something going on and it's all good.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">On a more serious note, I truly believe I have hired some of the smartest folk and striving to get more brilliant minds into the company. Oh, and I need to tell you what we do. SoLoMo Play applications for kids and wannabe kids alike. It doesn't get more exciting and invigorating that that!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">A big thanks to the founder who made it all possible though. It's been a joy working here and looking forward to tremendous growth and tons of fun....</span></div>Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-55138334643325564702011-05-08T16:43:00.001+05:302011-05-09T18:28:46.876+05:30Distance may part and seas may divide us<p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>I racked my head for a while to get an apt title for this posting and my eyes fell on a line from our revered hymn book. I couldn’t have found a better heading.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>As I begin writing now, I can’t help but feel a lump in my throat and a tinge of wetness in the eyes. What a ride the last four days was! It’s going to take a long while for all of us to get over the 25th year reunion. And when I say all, I mean each and everyone who made it, including the amazing bunch of spouses (spice as we now call them) and lovely set of kids who made our gathering one of the most magical moments of our lives.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>Preparations for our get together probably began a couple of years ago by a group of determined and driven folks in our batch and to see it all come together was a crowning glory. Right from the hotel stay down to the fleece jackets, T-shirts and bags for the spice and kids, the thoughtfulness and care taken was something else. The 300 odd songs from our school times on two CDs was an extremely nice touch!</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>We landed up in Holiday Inn Ooty on the 3rd of May in a mini convoy of cars from Bangalore constantly trying to keep the red dot of a car in our radar. The dinner at Shinkow’s was more significant for the nostalgia than the food which has deteriorated since our school days. I guess around thirty Old Lawrencians from our batch showed up with families and the booze and food created a riot of activities and merriment that was a portent of things to come.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>One of the salient aspects of our gathering was that despite things being informally done, somehow they fell into place and was more fun than a series of choreographed and military like events. The picnic on the 4th is a good example. We all knew we were going somewhere but no one knew exactly where. Depending on whom you asked and when, you got different answers which just made it all more fun. Finally, someone figured out where to go and the buses and assortment of private transports got going.  As was the trend, the spot was great and even though we had a ‘Purple Uncle’ fall off the jeep, we all had a ball! One of our wonderful spices had organized a team game by the lake which our team handily won thanks to dogged exhorts by her Lawrencian hubby. It’s another matter that two of us landed in a team by accident but that’s another story.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>That evening is arguably the most memorable and touching ones of our lives. We had invited the family of one of our batch mates (who is no more) for dinner. A 30 minute slide show (of close to 500 photographs) put together expertly, professionally and with brilliant accompanying music ensured copious tears as we looked on a past that was so much a part of what we are today.  A rush of memories long lying dormant in the inner recesses of our brains was out in full force. Each photograph evinced shouts and comments as each one of us travelled back in time reliving our childhood and the thinking of the way things were. Our hearts and eyes took quite a beating to see the visuals of our departed classmates along with thoughts of our times with them. Though I had spent less time in school than most others, the memories were still overwhelming and I furiously wiped away the tears as fast as they were appearing. The most touching moment for me was when my eight year old daughter ran to me right after the show to give me a big hug with her moisture laden eyes. I don’t think we have all recovered yet from that thrust into our formative years that this slideshow evoked. Amazing work by George, Sanjay and Lekha for the brilliant effort on the photo slides. I am going to stop writing more on this right now just because I have too many emotions which words just cannot do justice to.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>More drinking and dancing followed along with photography sessions with every conceivable group and formation. Guys only, girls only, House-wise, primary school wise, city-wise; we pretty much exhausted all combinations. A great musical performance by Sunita was all that we needed to cap off a remarkable evening.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>5th morning saw our ‘86 group at school, a first time in many years for a lot of us. We showed up in full strength to inaugurate the solar water heaters that we had sponsored. It was wonderful to see a tangible outcome of all the money we had put in. Again, more photographs in nostalgic locations and positions followed. With the kids and spouses left to their own devices for a while, we all showed up for the OLA AGM which was in the girls’ school. For the first time, we guys were actually welcomed into this highly sought after area of our school (during our school days that is!). I actually didn’t follow much of what was going on in the meeting, my sole contribution being the distribution of some documents to the attendees.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>Dinner at the Savoy was a relatively quiet affair with some of us joining the professional Badaga dancers for some intricate moves. One of us with a unnaturally good memory and aided by others regaled us with tales from our school days, most stories which should never have got out in the first place! All in good taste and definitely brought laughs and groans depending on who the target was.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>The moment we were all waiting for. The Parade on the 6th morning! Bright and early we all got into Top Flat (the big ground) to witness and be part of the 153rd Founders’ Day.  A flurry of emails and Yahoo group postings on dress code still failed to deter some of us from flouting the agreed upon attire though we still showed up smartly dressed but non-compliant. </strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>The parade was actually very well done and we were especially impressed with the girls’ guards which just seemed a tad more sharp and coordinated than others. Our great time finally arrived. 75 of us from the batch of 1986 joined the parade in organized chaos and marched past the guest of honor marking a record attendance for any alumni batch in the history of the school. Granted, the entire march lasted about 20 seconds or so but for us, we were back in school, back to that uncomplicated childhood, for a moment our present lives and pressures forgotten; just happy school children marching away to glory without a care in the world. Not many outside our group will really understand how much that fleeting instance in time mean to us and I will not try and explain it either. Suffice it is to say that 75 hearts beat as one during that march and nothing has or will come close to how we all felt right then.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>The final dinner on the 6th was the culmination of one of the biggest emotional rollercoaster of our lives as we internalized what a unique group we were and the fact that so many of us had made the effort to come together from all corners of the world for a once in a lifetime event.</strong></font> </p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>I won’t go into details of the other activities we did except say that hosting a lunch for the teachers of our batch was a very caring and sensitive gesture. I’m sure I’ve missed a lot of stuff that happened but the idea was not to give a ball by ball account, rather capture the essence of my reunion experience.</strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>Personally, I got to spend precious time with some people whom I knew better than others and also to chat up with those I didn’t really know too well in school. We caught up with each others’ lives and exchanged contacts vowing to undo the self-imposed isolations of our last 25 years. </strong></font></p> <p><font color="#d19049" size="4" face="Goudy Old Style"><strong>Our batch is no more a bunch of kids who went to school together but an extended family of sorts that to my knowledge is non-existent anywhere else. Hats off to Mathew, Aparna, Palani, Rohan and the multitude of others who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to implant priceless memories in us that we will talk about and cherish for the rest of our lives. Here’s to the class of 1986, the best family to ever come out of our glorious school!!</strong></font></p> Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-58924689241984079512011-04-29T20:44:00.000+05:302011-04-29T20:56:06.341+05:30The passing of a generation<p><font color="#408080" size="4" face="Utsaah">I was always in awe of the two ladies who always were different from anyone else I knew in my grandparents’ generation. My mother and her siblings were definitely a bit wary of them and I guess that rubbed off on me. However, I don’t remember ever being reprimanded or spoken to in a harsh tone by the sisters of my grandmother. They were strict and led disciplined lives but were never unreasonable or austere.</font></p> <p><font color="#408080" size="4" face="Utsaah">For whatever reason, neither of them got married and lived with each other until the end. I remember their home in Fraser Town with the large tiger skin carpet complete with the head of the tiger. There were always the most interesting things in that house, from the artefacts picked up around the world to the rare collection of wonderful books in the dining room shelf.</font></p> <p><font color="#408080" size="4" face="Utsaah">Both were extremely active, teachers by profession, and conducting home tuitions until very recently. My interactions with them were always wonderful and their command of English and world affairs fascinated me to no end. Unlike most people of that generation, these were two practical people. Not once did the do the usual emotional blackmail of me not visiting them, that they’re old and dying and that our generation doesn’t care for them…blah blah bah. Whenever we met, which wasn’t very often, we conversed like we had met the day before and all they would say was ‘Do come by when you have time. We know it’s not easy with your work and personal commitments, but know that there are two old ladies to visit when you can’. I loved that! </font></p> <p><font color="#408080" size="4" face="Utsaah">Almost everyone in that family circle who ever fell sick would land up in their house. They pretty much looked after anyone who needed any kind of care. All this was done as routine – as part of their lives, never once feeling that they were doing a favor or that they were going out of their way to help. Eternally cheerful and full of good humor, these were role models of a rare calibre. Nothing bogged them down and nothing was insurmountable. </font></p> <p><font color="#408080" size="4" face="Utsaah">My first grand aunt died a year and half back. Her sister died on April 26th this year. I think the passing away of the elder  one took a lot out of her. She had wanted her body to be donated to the medical college and I went there on 27th morning to pay my respects to a great human being. Not that I was every close to them (mainly because I hardly saw them), but seeing her lying on the stretcher brought a few tears to my eyes. The inevitable finality of it all hit me and the fact that she was the last of the siblings of whom my grandmother was one. </font></p> <p><font color="#408080" size="4" face="Utsaah">To their dying day, my grand aunts were strong independent women, cherishing life and spreading happiness and positivity all around. I will miss them and think of them often as I attempt to lead my life the way they did; trying to make a difference in an uncomplicated manner. As I write this piece, I can’t help but wipe a tear from my eye as I realize how much people really mean to us and we find out only after they are gone. May their souls rest in peace.</font></p> Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-88701027032523467472011-04-22T12:04:00.001+05:302011-04-22T12:04:23.429+05:30First Act<p><font style="background-color: #9bbb59" face="Tempus Sans ITC"></font><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">One of the first plays I remember seeing was from a British troupe that had come to my school in Ooty. For some reason, one of the lines from that play remain stuck in my mind. It goes something like this:</font></p> <p><em><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">When Shakespeare played</font></em></p> <p><em><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">The Stage was bare</font></em></p> <p><em><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">and the throne of England</font></em></p> <p><em><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">was just a chair</font></em></p> <p><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">My own foray into theatre began at the tender age of 42. A chance conversation with my nephew saw me don the hat of a 73 year old ex-Vaudeville performer in Neil Simon’s ‘The Sunshine Boys’. Frankly, I had no clue as to what it takes to act in a play, my experience being limited to being a casually interested audience. One look at the 60 page script gave me strong misgivings especially being in the lead role. For some reason, my eternally optimistic nephew felt I could pull it off and I went with the flow.</font></p> <p><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">The first few rehearsals were cause for much merriment and mirth. Reading directly from the script didn’t seem to be very tough and not having a performance date set in stone contributed to my lackadaisical attitude. My nephew too, probably out of deference to his uncle, let me be. A couple of changes in the cast and a few weeks later, we pretty much had a good set of actors for all the roles.</font></p> <p><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">The date of play was finally decided as April 1st and that’s when reality slowly sank in. Rehearsals became more serious and durations became longer. Practice sessions that happened in the club house of our apartment complex slowly shifted to a rented out room and then to my cousin’s house which was lying vacant. One big motivation for me not to do the rehearsals at home was the constant ‘feedback’ from the spouse. Enough said!</font></p> <p><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">D-Day dawned and the plan was set. All stage settings ready at 11 a.m, stage rehearsal from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m and a break from 3 – 6. Yeah right! When the stage was ready, it was almost 7 p.m. and there was frantic scrambling to get the props. Most furniture came from our house and almost everything that could go wrong did. We had dubious help backstage and my nephew did most of the running around, in addition to being the director and one of the main performers. </font></p> <p><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">Though 8 p.m was the start time, we finally got going around 8:30. The sound went wrong in the first few seconds, props could not be found and nothing was where it should be. A comical scene was when my nephew says (in the play) ‘It’s freezing in here’ and he’s dripping with sweat due to the back-stage work he was also doing. Anyway, as one of the lines from the play go…’still we got terrific applause!’. The hundred or so in the audience seemed to genuinely enjoy the humor and comedy. We had a large family contingent which was also helpful and I remember most of my lines, doing some improvisations as we went along.</font></p> <p><font style="style" color="#c0504d" face="Papyrus">An eventful first performance, got lots of encouragement from everyone near and dear. It was great to see my Lawrence buddies make it to the play in the heavy downpour that decided to grace us on show day. Looking forward to a lot more acting opportunities in the coming months. Who knows, this could be my calling!</font><font style="background-color: #9bbb59"></font></p> Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-86079864028369350192011-02-23T22:30:00.001+05:302018-07-15T15:55:14.353+05:30Zen and the art of auto surveys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Rockwell;">Unfortunately, this is a second hand narration and didn’t happen to me but it warrants documentation of some sort. Apologies to my nephew if I failed to capture the sequence accurately:</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Rockwell;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Rockwell;">So this guy shows up to do a survey on cars people own. I’ll now change into movie script style and call my nephew ‘A’ and the survey guy ‘SG’. Creative huh? Okay, here goes:</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>SG</strong>: Sir, what car do you own?</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>A</strong>: A Chevy. You can see it over there</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>SG</strong>: Sir, can I write BMW 3 Series?</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>A</strong>: Er...sure</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>SG</strong>: What is your next car?</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>A</strong> (Really getting into it now): A Phantom</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>SG</strong>: What is your dream car sir?</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>A</strong>: Ferrari</span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Rockwell;"><span style="color: #008040;"><strong>SG</strong>: Sir, please can I write down ‘Hyundai Verna’?</span></span></em></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Rockwell;">Based on one data point, we now officially have someone with a BMW who’s planning to buy a Rolls Royce but secretly desires a Hyundai.</span></div>
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Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-42694763958986467642011-02-16T13:58:00.001+05:302011-02-16T13:58:18.746+05:30Thai off-site<p><font color="#9b00d3" face="AW_Siam English not Thai">A sure fire way to get stickiness of a new employee  is to take him/her to Thailand for an off-site immediately after joining. Well, of course, the bar is now set so high that it’ll be tough to beat that start!</font></p> <p><font color="#9b00d3" face="AW_Siam English not Thai">About 30 of us ‘senior’ leaders embarked on this 2 day extravaganza to Pattaya (oh yeah baby!). The bus ride from Bangkok to Pattaya was undoubtedly the highlight of the day. The personal introduction of each of us pretty much took care of the two hour journey. You learn a lot about people from their introductions. The director for one seemed to have had two failed crushes in college and both girls had the same name. One of us also indicated that he was the better half of his manager though the intention was to talk about the domain he owned. He also went on to enumerate the various modes of transport he had personally driven and ended with the now famous line…’and the most interesting part is I have also done a goat and a hen’. Oh well, it could be worse…I guess…</font></p> <p><font color="#9b00d3" face="AW_Siam English not Thai">The most fascinating person was our guide Tony whose narrations and stories progressively got more sleazy with the tour. He explained in some detail the vegetarian and non-vegetarian massages available and also went into a lengthy discourse on the ‘lady-boy’ concept and culminated with ‘you never know for sure if it’s a man or woman, just your luck’. On the way back he took it upon himself to regale us with his own brand of humor. Though lacking in humor, the narrations more than made up for the lack of punch lines. One of the jokes that come to mind is the story of a dad and son in a village and the punch line is that the son tells his dad that the only way he can get 600 villagers to work on his farm is to go to a village and impregnate 600 women in one night. I'm sure the actual humor was lost in translation and context but he did seem to think it was hilarious.</font></p> <p><font color="#9b00d3" face="AW_Siam English not Thai">I did get to bond quite a bit with Tony as I couldn’t handle the Indian food for every meal. Over some spicy Tom Yum soup he talked about how he was on the deathbed and his heart had stopped beating. His mother prayed in the <em>Shakthi</em> temple and he was miraculously revived confounding the medical community in Thailand.  His wife (four years his senior) is Chinese and he had to do a lot of convincing of his mother-in-law to get the girl of his dreams. He also had uncanny perception and was able to talk about my better half’s nature just by glancing at her photo. I’d rather not go into what he said for fear of bodily harm to me.</font></p> <p><font color="#9b00d3" face="AW_Siam English not Thai">Good trip overall and we even managed to get in a few working sessions in between. Looking forward to more trips and bonding expeditions…</font></p> Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-34085938608002280592011-01-16T21:34:00.001+05:302011-01-16T21:35:59.157+05:30Back to reality<p><font color="#808080" face="Perpetua">Almost feel like a child going to school for the first time. Got some rare time off between jobs (over a month actually) and now there’re withdrawal symptoms as I begin my new job tomorrow. Wondering if it’s really worth it to have a regular 9-6 job. I mean, the money is good and all that but the heart just doesn’t seem to be in this forced regularity and expected monotony. People ask me if I got bored not working but frankly it was fine. Lots of time spent with the kids, running, cycling, jogging, reading – the days went by just fine. The wife made sure I kept busy with tons of errands which were all duly completed and did some more just to over-achieve <img style="border-bottom-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-left-style: none" class="wlEmoticon wlEmoticon-smile" alt="Smile" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUSEWG6iE5wnzXT1Qx-9G5WSYHX_bldazQ6NwmHVxzyyrMtkoesbkcc9xXdqBnPoNx3qgTsEg2hPkhAW52u-zufyp3x5KIjDJd3FLQvBVcGjkbod6LvzYJoL64-peiwyoHEIx/?imgmax=800" /> ! </font></p> <p><font color="#808080" face="Perpetua">At this age, you are supposed to have it all figured out and know exactly what you want from professional life, but I don’t. I know what I <strong><em>don’t</em></strong> want to do but have no clue what I really want to do. Kinda scary huh? Yeah, especially for the better half who is acutely aware of every mood swing and emotion I go through.</font></p> <p><font color="#808080"><font face="Perpetua">I know I want to write something substantial and do so with more passion and discipline but that big idea just isn’t coming to me. It will, one day. Until then, it’s back to the rat race giving it my all. Just wish I had something figured out during the break that I could for the rest of my life! Oh well</font>…</font></p> <p><font color="#808080" face="Perpetua"><strong>Note</strong>: Wrote this deliberately in a grey font as that’s the color I feel I’m in right now. Cool huh?</font></p> Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19181154.post-61964898786806842142011-01-13T22:23:00.001+05:302011-01-13T22:27:02.074+05:30The enigma of Nagaraj Rao–A humble tribute<p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">On a warm summer’s evenin’ on a train bound for Mysore, I met up with the bookseller…</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">Sound familiar? Yeah, it’s a rip off from the Kenny Rogers song ‘The Gambler’. An account of the magical words/translations of the master needs to start where it all began. The suspense needs to build, the irrelevance unclear and the punch line obscure.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">My nephew, being boredom disposed hailed a passing travelling salesman in a train and acquired the now historic manuscript known as ‘Great Jokes’. Little did he or anyone else in our family fathom the powerful and everlasting influence this deceptive book would have on us.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">‘The Book’ and the contents are now part of lore and fantasy and while I will not delve in the actual writing, I will make an honest attempt to describe ‘Great Jokes’ to the best of my ability. I have delayed so long on the writing of this piece solely due to the inability to grasp the full depth of the master’s words. Like the proverbial onion, the layers never end. A doctoral thesis is probably the only way to analyze the Sistine Chapel of Humor.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">There about 280+ jokes in all. The opening number sets the tone for the remaining masterpieces with a grand finale that ends with ‘Do it before my husband comes’. In terms of comprehensiveness, no genre or discipline is left untouched. Topics cover sports, psychology, horror, sleaze, politics, international, religion, drama, theatre, arts, music education and pretty much anything else you can think of.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">The author takes creative and utmost liberties with punctuations. Commas, periods, parentheses, upper and lower case alphabets, quotation marks pretty much appear in the most unexpected of places with the parentheses affecting your sanity the most. Words in braces could appear on either side of the word requiring more clarification but in most cases, either the word in braces is the same or has no bearing on the original word. On a few occasions, both the words inside and outside the braces are not in English so a pure Anglophile  is left confounded as is everyone else. Some gems include a joke with this title  - “Gunda”  (““Gunda””) and one with the title – Gunda (“Able Gundas”).</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">Most jokes contain names and details which are completely irrelevant to the actual ‘joke’. A few examples here provide some insight – Chinkurli Sheenappa, Kempegowda, Hanumi are just some of the stars that speckle this fine book. The professions of the characters also leave you dumbfounded. Srinvas Rao is a gazetted officer and multiple readings still do not reveal the relevance of his profession.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">Of course, there are those jokes where details would have been good but are marked by their complete absence. The abrupt endings and punch lines of the jokes are undoubtedly designed to whet the readers’ appetites as well as providing complete freedom to draw your own conclusion on the humor.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">One of the biggest challenges you will encounter when attacking the mother lode of humor is connecting the title of the joke to the actual joke. I can vouch for the fact that many including yours truly have attempted and failed. </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">The rather abrupt one word sentences are also imposing barriers in comprehension. The sometimes rather sleazy phrases are now part of our family’s everyday vocabulary. While the impact of these phrases cannot be felt outside the jokes, here are a few – On seeing a good looking woman, a man’s reaction is described thus – ‘Mouth watered'. Or this classic – ‘She looked at him with one and a half eye’. Or still better – ‘He made a castor oil face’ and the creative ‘she made an asafoetida face’. Irresistible and spine tingling. </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">The ‘horror’ section is ably addressed by a lengthy narrative where the ‘doors of the windows kept opening and shutting’.  Liberties have also been taken with spellings ‘She did shought out loudly’ is one such diamond that readily comes to mind.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">In a few jokes, the writer invites reader interaction and often provides his own commentary on the events unfolding. In one where he talks about the value of education, he enquires and rhetorically states ‘In olden days, no value for education. But how about now?’. This kind of interactive dialog between the author and reader has so far remained untapped.</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">At other times, he ensures that he has our undivided attention by simply asking a ‘how’ or a ‘what’ in the middle of a joke and consistently at a totally unexpected juncture. A few classics have jokes where the title is longer than the actual joke. I mean, really! Who else can do that???</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">I will stop here as I don’t want to spoil it for you and also to give you the opportunity to invest in and get engrossed with the surreal world of Nagaraj Rao. However, I’ll leave you with some titles that you absolutely must not miss. ‘Raised Arrow Cannot be Downed’, ‘When Observed a Handsome Girl’, ‘In Thotadappa Choultry’, the ‘Beechi Told’ series and the ‘Gunda’ series. </font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS">Now for some closing words…</font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000"><font face="Comic Sans MS"><strong><em>(Special writer commentary):</em></strong> Unfortunately, I know of only five copies in circulation and by a twist of fate, all these five copies reside with members of my family. I still hold the <font color="#dfce04"><strong>Gold</strong></font> Copy which has now been sent for binding since it’s coming apart due to constant use and extensive research. In fact, my nephew had suggested sending the book for binding with a police escort and an armored truck to prevent fraudulent copying, plagiarism or even theft. However, I have been assured that the copy is safe and the book is due back in mint condition tomorrow. I have a good mind to send a copy to the Library of Congress where I know future generations can imbibe the nectar and partake the intense cistern of knowledge that I’m sure is there somewhere in the book. An expedition is in the works to trace the author through the publisher in Balepet which will be prove to be the nadir of our achievements to unravel the powerful works of Nagaraj Rao. <strong><em>(End special writer commentary)</em></strong></font></font></p> <p align="left"><font color="#ff8000" face="Comic Sans MS"><strong><em>Blog writer’s note:</em></strong> Nagaraj Rao ‘Great Jokes’ is not for the faint of heart or for the faint of humor. Dollops of patience and perseverance are required and of course lots of time. Best handled as a group (of like minded individuals) activity with all members suitably inebriated for the full and lasting effect. And do remember, a raised arrow cannot be downed…</font></p> <p align="left"><font face="Comic Sans MS"> </font></p> Trivhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06341525265132925354noreply@blogger.com4