My Watch

I like my watch. Scratch that, I love her*. And with that deep identifying sort of love mostly reserved for more animate objects (Ok, ok, "people". Sheesh.). I have owned several watches. I liked a few, but was loyal to all. But, none appreciated me (big surprise, huh?). They abandoned me on rocky river beds, in cramped rooms, and at unheard of hotels. Some just gave up on the struggle to maintain a working relationship with me, and stopped a tick short of a tock. The present one is special though. When I saw her cooling her green straps in The Granite House in Fort William, Scotland a year ago we couldn't take eyes offa each other. In fact, I would swear that her second's hand missed a few beats, while I nearly bumped my head on the ceiling. For those few fleeting moments I was as close as I will ever get to understand the oft quoted concept of 'love at first sight'.

I think I will go stare at her dial for a few minutes now.

*I identify the watch with the feminine gender to reiterate my orientation. It is necessary after a particular run-in at The Royal Opera House, but that is for another day.

Backpockets

On a particular sunny wintry Sunday morning in March I stumbled out of bed into Cambridge's city centre. It was teeming with loving doves with eyes only for each other. To further drive their intimate point home they had arms entwined in various interesting knots. The older generation with a nod to ravages of time settled for a simple hand-clasp. The chummier ones went for arms around each others shoulders, and the chubbier ones for a simple linking of limbs. The more adventurous, or flexible ones, went for some or other variation of the Heimlich manoeuver. Whatever the knot in their appendages, care was taken to protect their fingry extremeties from a particularly toothy wind.

Just as I was getting bored with the knotty display, the couple of the day hove into view. It comprised of a reasonably fit guy and a relatively larger lady wearing a particularly close-fitting pair of jeans*. The lady in a frank admission of revolting intimacy, and betraying a pie-eyed imagination, had her hand in the chap's backpocket. The lad feeling that such gestures require reciprocating, tried to get his hand in her backpocket. Failed. Tried again. Failed again. The lady let out a nervous titter, and the guy settled for a shoulder wrap-around. The biting wind tore gleefully at his knuckles, and I watched in fascination as they turned a cheery (teary?) red. He had forgotten his gloves.

Well, a famous Sooth did say to "Beware the Ides of March".

I almost took a picture, but the guy looked a little irate. Perhaps he was regretting giving the lady chocolates on Valentine's Day that may be responsible for stuffiness in her backyard.

*We call such fits shrink-fits. The SRI during one of its regular sittings at Cafe Nero came up with two suggestions to achieve such fits.

1.) Take a regular pair, and start digging into cakes, pies and pastries, taking care not to take off said pair of jeans for some months.

2.) Purchase a pair several sizes smaller. Don't worry, climbing into them is not that much of a problem. Preparation is the key. About an hour before wearing them, you should either boil the jeans, or deep freeze self. We recommend both to ease fleshy pain.

Journalese 6: Furiously funny funeral

Newspapers report on the recent demise of erstwhile Kannada superstar hero Dr. Rajkumar.
It seems that his last role, in which he essayed a dead man, brought the crowd (yet again) to their collective feet. Finding themselves at a loss when on foot, the crowd then proceeded to bring the house down on Bangalore, as seen from yet another freewheeling report below (albeit nearly a month long in the tooth), culled from the highest practitioners of journalese in India.
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Amid chaos and violence that claimed three lives, including two in police firing, the mortal remains of Kannada thespian Rajkumar were laid to rest at Kanteerava studio complex Thursday evening. Though doctors claim that Dr. Rajmukar died of natural causes, many people believe that he succumbed to bullet wounds sustained while he was embarking on his last journey.

Hours before the arrival of the funeral procession, fans grew angry about not being allowed to attend the funeral. Their sorrow gave way to fury. Fury let slip the Dogs. The Dogs of War. At least two buses were torched near the stadium and scores of private vehicles damaged elsewhere in the mob fury that took a turn for the worse. Transport authorities were rushing in supplies of extra buses pre-whetted in gasoline to allow the mob to pay their last respects to Dr. Rajkumar in a befittingly warm (if not altogether scalding) fashion.

Hell broke lose just before the funeral procession entered the complex, as emotionally-charged fans defied the police and stormed the venue after attacking them with stones. However, some starry-eyed eye-witnesses claim that the emotionally-charged fans were not fighting the police, but, hush, the Devil's own footmen who had sprung forth when 'Hell broke loose'. Their aim was to waylay the mortal remains of Dr. Rajkumar while he journeyed to a rightfully deserved heaven, thereby providing Hades a much needed source of entertainment*.

Violence marred the mourning rite from the morning as distraught fans fought pitched battles with the police in and around the Kanteerava stadium, where the body of Rajkumar was kept in a coffin for the public to pay homage. The family of Dr. Rajkumar was severely disappointed in the crowd's attempts to upstage Dr. Rajkumar's final tear-jerker by its own large-scale production filled with mindless action.

Meanwhile, a condolence note from Mrs. Sonia M.-Gandhi assured Dr. Rajkumar's family of all support in their time loss, and promised to "fly in well-trained and personally known high-quality mobs from Italy to mark this solemn occasion" in case local mobs were found wanting while facing up to the gendarmerie.

Police repeatedly burst teargas shells and resorted to a lathi** charge as surging crowds in their thousands tried to force their way to attend the funeral. However, sources add that this may have been as part of a well-meaning Government strategy to ensure that everyone (especially Tamils) attending the funeral had adequate, if not copious, amount of tears in their eyes. As an unnamed official notes, "Dr. Rajkumar's departure deserves to be highlighted by the highest display of sorrow, and it is the State's duty to ensure, by any means possible, that the same is provided".

As the situation appeared to be spinning out of control, Chief Minister H D Kumaraswamy, who came to the venue, had to return for security reasons. Asked to comment on Dr. Rajukmar's last public performance, "Look at him playing possum", he said admiringly, "My party members have so much to learn from him. Especially around judicial and vigilance officers". Though he claimed to be a long-term admirer of Dr. Rajkumar, he cited various health problems as reasons why he could not accompany Dr. Rajkumar on his final journey. "...but for my bad back...", he muttered. Critics observed that the Chief Minister a golden opportunity to sneak into heaven by hiding behind Dr. Rajkumar, "... especially, considering that this was the only way for a politician ...".

Summarizing the day, state Director General of Police B S Sial told PTI, "We have confirmation of one death". He then checked himself, "Wait there might have been two. It seems that a certain Dr. Rajkumar too died recently, but I cannot confirm that at present".
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*If the political grapevine is to be believed, it seems that the shrill machinations of the mother-son duo of Indira and Sanjay are getting on Lucifer's nerves, while the comic relief provided by Rajiv Gandhi gets increasingly stale.
**wooden sticks

String theory

So, I spent an hour at a string theory seminar. A college-mate, with a PhD. from Chicago, and a post-doctoral appointment at IAS/Princeton was stringing us along with wierd notation. It was a long hour. But, I used it constructively, to string together some facts that I believe you should know.

Impossible = I'm possible.
(Unless it is String Theory, or six minute miles)

The difference between "I dunno" and "I do know" is toil.

Pardon me for these motivational insights. I was still making a glorious attempt to follow the speaker. Egging myself awake. But, I quit while still sane. So, on to the good stuff:

Why is Man not the brightest mammal around?
Considering that Hell's such a nasty place, Men still queue up for it in large numbers. Don't know about women. Do they go there? Most probably. High chances that the Devil is straight.

Why Viagra?
Because middle aged women were getting tired of leading their men around by their fingers.

What should a Blonde avoid saying to a barista in case he is Indian?
"I will take a chocolate brownie to go, please".
She will only get the poor dear's ... er... hopes up.

Freelance writer: The first such writer was Genevieve who, while Arthur was away, touchingly wrote, "I am now free, Lance".

Since then this title has been usurped by writers who cite freedom from a corporate culture, and cutting insights that they need to communicate to us common people (they just feel it inside them), the reason they hang out all day in boxers (or slips) re-rearranging their 40 gigs of mp3s. Lance would have put it down to sloth. He was a man of few words and a-lot of action.

Ben Damh: Sidekick of the Torridonian giants

Day 2: Ben Damh
Torridon, at the head of Upper Loch Torridon is a lucky hamlet. And, not just because they had Robert DeNiro and Michelle Pfeiffer cooped up in the Loch Torridon Hotel, awaiting their turn to trip the light fantastic for the upcoming Hollywood spectacle 'Stardust'. I kid you not...


(Upper Loch Torridon)


(Torridon trembling at the foot of Liathach, The Gray One)

After being chastised by Slioch, I was having severe misgivings about my present, and future, as a hill-walker. How could a mere 1000 m. hill get me down in perfect weather. Hell, I used to skip up these Earthly protuberations like a goat's own. Was it the unwieldy boots? The heavy rucksack? Or, shudder, age? So I dumped the pyjamas and the underwear, and chose a hill that was high enough, but snow-light (not snow-white), so I could grade myself against past triumphs on similar slopes.

This meant that I cancelled Ben Alligin (Gaelic for 'The Jewel', and it is a beautiful hill)


(Note the remarkble vertical-walled cleft right in the middle. It is like a beauty spot.)

and Ben Eige



for they had too much snow on top, and gave Liathach (Gaelic for 'The Gray One')



a miss, because the Am Farsinen (The Talons) pinnacles (the jagged stuff in the middle) would be beyond my technical capabilities, and my garden-variety nerves, to traverse in Arctic conditions, and settled on (almost a Munro) Ben Damh.



Progress was fast. The views, though great, were not terribly well lit. This may not have been a drawback for the great photographers, but for average Sharma's like me, it was one hell of an ask. So, indulge me.



The corrie of Ben Damh is quite a sight. All Scottish hills, owing to their glacial origin, tend to have corries - excavated cups that look like dirty leftovers of once ravenous glaciers.



The coy compass: Having reached the saddle that separated the main peak of Ben Damh from it smaller frontpiece, I thought I would at least attempt the top of Ben Damh. It was covered with snow, and even though I was lighter, my heavy trekking boots made walking on snowclad rocks feel like walking on greased popsicles. The nimble-footed Sharma of last year's vintage, who leapt from crag to crag, had been reduced to an equilibrium-challenged, doddering old man by a mere boot. However, I marched on. Halfway up, the clouds came in, but I didn't worry. I had my trusty compass, and my loyal map. Especially the compass. It was a darned expensive one - so expensive that it bordered on the expansive, and compelled me to query the retailer whether at that price it would climb the hill for me as well. Coming back to ground zero. I patted my pockets for reassurance, but they remained unresponsive. I had left the compass behind. In consternation I stumbled over an inconveniently placed rock and heard something jangle in my backpack. I heaved a sigh of relief. All was not lost yet. I had brought a bottle of multi-vitamins along. So, while frostbite may get me, I will not go down with Beri Beri.



The Intruder: I retreated when still fifty metres from the summit. With time on my hands hounding a wounded ego, I decided to scale a peak that occupied Ben Damh's front office.



It promised great views of Loch Damh, Loch Coultrie (the little one on the left) and Loch Kishorn (in the far back)



and Loch Torridon (the copious amount in the background) feeding Loch Shieldaig (on the left) and Upper Loch Torridon (on the right)



All this while, I had been alone. A grand feeling. Of course, inconsequential compared to the feelings of those who weren't with me. I had also made good time, wasn't a bit tired, and so was feeling pleased with my hill-walking. Then this aged dame of sixty odd years strides up 'my' hill, along with a couple of dogs and remarks, "Lovely day for walking, isin't it?".
Dashed, damn, drat and darn.