A silly walk up Slioch

Day 1: Slioch (means 'The Spear' in Gaelic)



My gear was new. It was expensive. And damn good quality. Spirit was high, but the snow on the (mountain) tops diluted it slightly. But hey, my boots were the best, and this time I had trekking poles (a.k.a. walking sticks) to boot. For good measure my bond with the Scottish Highlands held strong, and I had splendid weather. This was nothing short of a miracle, considering that there was sleet the day before. But then I have a special connection with them far hills.

Smirk.

I reached the car park early. 9 am. Was the first there. By the time I got my rucksack packed, there was another car. Yet another while I tied my spanking new shoes. And another while I located my trekking poles. All these worthies got out, strapped on light daypacks, picked up the sticks, and started walking.



I continued tying my compass to a loop in my rucksack. Then I carefully hung my map, cunningly camouflaged in a waterproof map-case (in case He turned on the tap) and tied it to the backpack within optimal reach. Engineering training comes through.

I was a trekker well prepared for any eventuality, and good to go. Then the fit hit the shan.

The camera case: With the rucksack strapped, I looked for a place belt my camera case. Being the possessor of only one waist (as of now), there was room only for either the rucksack's or the camera-case's belt.

Quandry.

It took all of fifteen minutes to solve this one, by which time another coupla trekkers had come, seen, sniggered and scooted. Oh well.

The solution? Strap the case around the chest. This left about five square inches of the torso in atmospheric association. But, at least I could begin hillward movement. The first thing I came across was a graveyard. Bad Omen?



The pyjama plot: Progress was slow. Being a frustrated aspiring Andinist and a wannabe trekker, I had loaded myself with a full 70 litre rucksack, which averaged to about 20 kilograms. Training. Meanwhile, others were swiftly covering acres of ground underneath light five kil0 packs. Their packs contained the odd jacket, mine had everything that a a seven day trip demanded. Like change of underwear. The Scottish Highlands were treated for the first time to the unusual sight of an Indian taking his pyjamas uphill.

Now if night fell suddenly, I could sleep comfortably. That, dear reader, is foresight! Talking about sights...



A sticky mess: The walking sticks were becoming a nuisance. They were supposed to aid walking by shouldering some body weight. Accordingly, I was thrusting them viciously into the mud, with subsequent withdrawal pains. Not much good. It turns out that there is technique involved. For sticks? Go figure.

Moreover, whenever I needed to get rid of them to take pictures, they refused to balance stand up on their own ... er ... foot. So, hold camera, drop stick, pick up stick, drop camera cover, pick up camera cover, drop sunglasses... hop around in frustration and scream to the high heavens.
Eat your heart out Clouseau.

You get the idea?



The misplaced bridge: I kept walking. Even overtook a group. Overcome with joy, I decided to thrash my own way up the darn hill, forgetting minor details like bridges across rivers that separate one hill from another. I walked for ages along the wrong bank, saw the overtaken group on the other side, felt sick in the stomach, waved hello, and got told that I had missed the bridge by a mile. Downstream and downhill.

Swell.



Water bottle overboard: I slipped and slithered down to the bridge. Cursed, crossed and started climbing the real hill for real. I struggled up the first bluff, saw the grinning bridge-directors clamber over the next cliff, reached back for my water bottle, and groaned. The silly thing taking a strong liking to the highlands, had decided to plant itself permanently out in the wilderness. So, I went back downhill, crossed the misbehaving bridge and had a look around. No luck. So back up Slioch.

After an hour, the clouds let loose. The snow was very visible, and the sound of water omnipresent. This just made my muscles feel very high, dry, lonesome and downright sorry for themselves.

I stopped and looked around.



The cop out: Had lunch. The governing body decided that unless Darwinian evolution sped up and my skin developed some sort of water absorbing gills, my legs were heading back. The rest of me could do whatever it wished. The weight of a dozen underwear and several pyjamas cannot be borne up Slioch without water.

'The Spear' had sure dented my enthusiasm.

It was still a long hike back to the car. Thankfully the Woods were very wet, brown and bleak, because I sure had miles to go before sleep.



The Bum's rush: Walking back I noticed that the weather improved, the Sun came out, and 'The Spear' presented its best face. It felt like I had just been given the bum's rush by Slioch.

Going out of business (temporarily) notice

Dear misguided patrons,

The author is down in the dumps with that sad last piece of rotting chicken. Figuratively. I am vegetarian. And he is scared, i.e., feeling chicken. So, he is running away to the hills today, which is not really a good idea for he wants to climb hills that scare him even more. Out of his living daylights, in fact. Anyway, he intends to be out for seven days. He is toting his tripod along, so that he can prove that "he wuz dere", if he ever gets "dere". He intends to resume shouldering his share of digital pollution in a week. Or so.

Ho hum,
i.

PS: Sorry, to disappoint the lot that had hoped for a permanent closure of this deplorable waste.

Bike ride

Today I went for a bike ride. After two years. It felt really good to have a bike that was responsive, whose gears shifted, and which braked when the commanded. A gem. I realised how starved my muscles, my mind, were for the steady hum of the wheel, the time-stilling cadence of the pedals.

I also took my camera along, so that I can shellshock you with a photofeature, artfully, unoriginally, and perhaps even uappetizingly titled

Life

Childhood


Puberty


University


The first job


The last job


Autumn


Twilight


Memory

A prescription

Right, for some reason or another, I have decided to review some of the blogs that I have read, or read. Don't worry, while reviewing I rely on my ability to see both sides of the coin, logically sift through a myriad of different views, and if all else fails, to land a swift back-handed jab under the belt.

In the beginning there was Manish S. Chauhan and his musings. Interesting, insightful, and a fun getaway while you waited for the clock to punch six o'clock, when you could legitimately can another day. Highly recommended for his well though out logical constructs, and takes on the everyday World. At least that part which concerns me. No, the fact that I have known him forever didn't influence my review. Honest. Scout's honour. Brown man speak with straight tongue.

Then came Amit Varma, and his India Uncut. He was amusing for a while, and he probably still is, until it felt that he was either snidely cutting up, or, undercutting a certain type of India(ns), along with his liberatti and pseudo-literatti pals. The fact that he appears to be close pals with Dileep Premachandran (of Cricinfo infamy), whose arguing style mirrors left the American far right, doesn't help matters a wee bit. Nope very cut up about India Uncut. I agree that sounds like the the mouse (me) mocking the elephant (him), at least in the blogosphere. No, Sharma no go there no more. Nor should you. Stay here. See, I do believe in live and let live. If I live, I will let you live.

In the middle there was Dilip D'Souza and his Death ends Fun blog. On a good day, when he wasn't highlighting various holes in the Indian social/cultural/moral fabric (almost gleefully, it seemed), but instead writing on more general themes (like cheese), his turn of phrase was humorous. Sometimes. However, his Heart-of-Gold-but-Hands-in-Pocket documenting left much to be desired in the end. Yes, here too the mouse-elephant analogy holds very true. Nah.

Gaurav Sabnis is reasonably good, and the fact that he is fellow Dada-head helps a lot in my overlooking his sometimes too-liberal leanings. Can't really find any real flaw in him. (I know, I must be slipping. Age, you know). He sounds level-headed most times. Except that there is no real passion in his writings, or in his humour, or what appear to be his thought processes. Hard to imagine the latter, for he appreciates Dada. Maybe that is what IIMs do to you - teach you to camouflage your emotions and not hard-sell. Recommended. Sometimes. I know, I sat on the fence on that one. I will fret over the rash later.

I was a fan of Alfred J Prufrock for some time. Until I realized that his style was quite akin to his idol P G Wodehouse, so that in the end he, like PGW, became repetitive. But, I still go there more often than not, and he is recommended, if only for the fact that literate bureaucrats who appear, at least virtually, to be honest, are a rare commodity. Very rare. Trust me on that. I belong to a long line, a very long line, of civil servants. That is right, I am, after all, baba sahab. Incarnate.

Madhu Menon is recommended. He is light. He is witty. He is imaginative. I like his writing style. And he says he is a good cook, which kind of seals the deal. I will let you know about this latter claim if and when I visit Bangalore.

Derek too comes highly recommended. Most amongst this lot. Probably because he is funny. But, more because I do like his writing style. Easy, descriptive, economical and full of life. Well, not so much his style, as his choice of words. Though very vernacular, and lowbrow, you are immediately aware that this guy, so to say, "knows his shit". His pre-occupation with certain physiological facets of life may drag on some people, and it is a valid criticism that it is easy to be funny when commenting about these particular biological functions, but I believe his writing style itself is more than adequately humorous. Then again I always preferred the lively American style over that of the staid old British ponies. Chandler had more life in one sentence than Dickens could pound into a book. Check Derek out.

The Waiter, discovered from Derek's blog is surprisingly good, and is highly recommended. Not so much for his style, but for his stories. Stories that are interesting and are told in an easy conversational style, as stories need to be told. Some of his analogies are really good too, as in this one about Tapestry (towards the end). The one flaw, and the one that, in time, may perhaps reduce my visiting his blog are his overuse to the phrase "yuppie", his tipping-fixation, his implicit belief that difficult customers are always wrong, and that in spite of claiming to be a wise old head, his writings bring him across as rather rigid in his views. I know, people in glass houses shouldn't roll boulders. But, do visit. All the above flaws remain mere niggles when there is so much content on offer.

Finally, I would have reviewed yet another blog. However, it has been brought to my attention that my mother frequents my blog. I wouldn't want her to roll her eyes, and jump towards the telephone when she finds out her son's choice of reading matter. Might do herself an injury with all that sudden activity. If it is any consolation, I don't think this blog (that I was going to review) is very good. It thinks it is, but then most Canterbury graduates think they are, when most times they are just irritating. I am not a Canterbury graduate, hence by the laws of logic peculiar to Sharmanism, I am not irritating.

So there!

The horn matters

Nothing like mountains to put life in perspective. And when you are as much of a navel-gazing myopic as me, you sure as hell need a different take. Enjoy.

Party on

Once at Cornell I went to a party. Some badminton semi-pals of mine were DJing. Actually, those chaps got on my nerves. But I was fed up with myself. So I tooled along. I went up to this dimly lit loft were they were holding this do. It didn't need any lights, the noise (substituting for music) was loud enough. I thought they were trying to perforate my eardrums with particularly blunt chopsticks. It was then that I saw this trim little guy across the dance floor. Boogeying his rear into the ground. Our eyes locked, and I floated a hello across the floor.

No, don't jump to conclusions just yet.

Then because I refuse to grind, I parked my behind in a particularly comfortable chair, and decided to wait out the customary half-hour before you can slide an excuse to your hosts and get the hell out. My excuse for this evening had something to do with a forgotten and fragile pressure cooker on the stove. Anyway, I decided to pass the while by watching this pretty boy dancing on the floor. I had particular interest in this pretty boy, and his partner added infinite interest, if only because of a particularly hilarious story I had heard about her. Scouts honour guys. It seemed that I wasn't entirely devoid of interest, for pretty boy frequently sneaked glances at me.

Lovely. Just what unattached bachelors need. Attention.

Then he leaves dancing, and amazingly, his partner, and starts on a long circulatory route through odour-spewing dancing demons towards me. Hallelujah. Well, I wasn't astonished. To certain perspectives, I am better looking than most women. In fact, I went through most of my life being frequently mistaken for a girl. Right up until a beard broke through. In Scotland I could have kept up the charade longer.

I digress.

The pretty lad finally sidles up to me armed with a charming little smile.

"Hi, I don't believe we have met, I am J."
"Actually we have J. We were in the same class a couple of semesters ago."

Why the hell did you think I waved to you when I came in. Shit, I hope you didn't think that I...
I should have known. Actually, I did know about J's alternate tastes, but just didn't think the whole thing through before waving five fingers, all together, at him.
But hey, just because I ain't good with lasses doesn't mean that I aim to be good with the boys
Hell!
No, wait, this has comic potential.

The lovely boy's smile starts crumpling like so much paper. But, he is fighter this lad. He strives.

"So, do you come to such parties often."
"Only to ones with interesting people."

Nasty Sharma.

"Would you like to dance?"

This guy is a real hotstepper. Time to let the air out of a ballooning romance.

"Just waiting for some girl to take an interest."

That smile was evaporating fast. It was dangling by a mere shoestring by now.

"Well, I am sure you will be Ok. I was just on my way to the bar. Nice to meet you. I thought you looked familiar."

Yeah, sure. That would work, but my mamma didn't grow no dumb boys.

"Nice to meet you too."
Again.

It was time to start throwing around chit-chat about pressurized cookers.

Nutty justice

While clambering up the steps to the Tower Bridge from the quayside, I encountered a homeless and probably jobless person. Someone whose efforts in life have been bootless. (I really wanted to use that word). Anyway, as is their wont, he asked for charity. I had run out out change, so I offered him the bag of honey-roasted peanuts I had.

Mmmm.

He refused. Said he had nut allergy.

That is what I call being dealt from the bottom of the divine deck. Not only does the poor chap have no cash for a bash, he is denied potentially 50% of all food that he may otherwise obtain as charity, considering that nuts abound in this World of ours. Fate's angelic boot that got him in the rear was hobnailed for good measure.

Of course, it may be the case that I was the nut in this episode. Offering a grown man honey-roasted peanuts on a windy Saturday night, rather than a flask of the best.

No, my cardiac tissues are not all calcium carbonate. I am artless, not heartless.

Apparently Sonia M.-Gandhi has resigned from yet another post - Chairmanship of the Rajeev Gandhi Foundation. Nope, no idea what it does. Workshops on how to stage a good scam? Lectures on High Finance: How to kick back with kickbacks in Switzerland?

Anyway, all these resignations, and the consequent withdrawal symptoms can't be good for her health. She should just resign from life. A nice swift chop-chop job.

Sigh! I can at least dream can't I?

London's Other Eye

To accompany The London Eye.

The National Gallery redux: An alternate view of London's High Temple of Art. Of primary interest is the Woman in White, the Damsel in Distress, the Priestess on the Pillar. No doubt her Knight in Shining Armour, which just happens to be black in this case, is the guy in the corner here.


The Big Ben: A warning to mortals to not mess with Father Time, the big bad male that he is. He is there. He is watching. And boy, is he ready.


The Tower of London: Where the damned were deposited till they could either be dumped from the convenient neighbouring bridge, or otherwise separated from vital body parts, e.g., the head. Mary Queen of Scots, Sir Walter Rayleigh and Ann Boleyn were amongst the star performers who swiftly exited stage left from here.

A London horror story

Once upon a time, there was car, a mini car.



And as minis do, it got hungry. So it strolled to a hamburger joint, and partook of calorific, unsustainable sustenance. Slowly but steadily, its rear end began to enlarge, as the following graphic evidence suggests.



It was no longer a mini, but a midi. But, rather than noticing its large back fender (come on rearview mirrors are there for some reason), it continued on its merry way, stacking away German Bratwursts. In no time the obvious happened.



It became a super-sized, gas-guzzling eyesore.

A sad sad tale of greed and lust (for wax).

Postscript: The above pictures suggest two things. One that Madam Tussaud has hit hard times, and is trying to make some extra bit of cash by vending fried delights, and two that the fried delights probably taste like wax, if wax can be fried that is...

The London Eye

I was in London this weekend. So, while I compile my usual terrible three from London, here are three more photogenic aspects of that city, done injustice by my roving eye.

The National Gallery: Nice if you like art. But, if you think art's fart, step outside and enjoy the view. You will not be alone for Nelson did the same, and the World stood him on a pedestal. Literally.


St. James Park: A pretty little park between Westminster (where the British Govt. hides) and Buckingham Palace. Being spank in the middle of the Bureaucratic pleat and the Royal seat, it is the place to be if you have mysterious notes and suspicious newspaper bound packages to toss around.


The Tower Bridge: From where many a damned were dumped.


Prince Albert Memorial: And because you have been a good reader to have reached this far, I give you a bonus picture. A tapestry in gray and gold of Prince Albert musing on all the World he couldn't quite hold.