Monday, July 21, 2014

Trek #2: The Markha Valley Trek

So then, my second trek…

It surprised me somewhat how quickly I signed up for this one, given that I’d whinged and groaned my way through the first. I’d thought then that I’d throw up merely at the sight of a backpack but here I was, in about a week, in the mountains again with one that weighed more or less the same. Melville was wrong then; it’s not the sea that calls to us but the mountains.

And I was smarter this time. On the last trek, everyone was much fitter and more experienced than I was, leading to very embarrassing situations where I’d reach the top of a pass about half an hour after everyone else and where the guide practically held my hand like I were a 5-year-old. So, this time, I made enquiries about my companions. Two of them were 10 years younger than me and experienced trekkers. Not so good. But the third was about my age and relying on “muscle memory” to get her through the trek. That sounded promising: it sounded like I’d have company at the rear. I signed right up.

The first day of the trek, from Chilling to Skiu, along the Markha river, was exactly the same route as the last day of my first trek. But it was in the opposite direction, so it was a whole different 180 degrees. It began inauspiciously enough, when a porter cut her finger very badly on the trolley across the Zanskar. We had a vet in our midst and she expertly bandaged up her finger (only noting that animals are easier to treat, their inability to talk and complain being a huge plus) before sending her back to Leh, to get it looked at in a hospital. I’d hated the last day of my previous trek but I enjoyed myself this time round despite the fact that the walk was uphill and that it rained a bit. Ladakh is a desert but it’s a law of nature that if I have a bit of a cold and am outdoors, it will rain. Still, I suppose it kept the heat away. The walk this first day was fairly short, only three hours or so. And I was pleased to note that my back muscles were in better shape to handle my backpack. I didn’t feel like the straps would burrow into my shoulder blades leaving permanent marks as much.

At dinner that evening, I would get an inkling of the disaster that would befall the good people of the Markha valley over the next 5 days. My companions were English and I’ve never seen any group of people eat as much. The villagers couldn’t cook fast enough to feed them. On that first day, at supper, our guide had cooked us these delicious momos. After my fellow trekkers were fed their three helpings, she went in and got her little plate. She placed it on the ground in front of us and then went in to take care of some business or the other. Despite the fact that they’d eaten about 36 momos each, they thought this plate was for us too. There were four of us and only 6 momos on that plate, so there were heated debates on how they would be split up. This took some time so, thankfully, she was back before we did anything that could never be undone. After a long, hard day of taking caring of us in the mountains and then cooking us our dinner, I wonder how she’d have reacted if she’d come back to find her dinner polished off by the four of us. To be fair, she’d probably have handled it with typical Ladakhi stoicism and not said a word.

The second day, from Skiu to the village of Markha, was a very long, flat and boring 8-hour walk along the Markha valley. The itinerary had painted vivid images of a “beautiful, green valley,” but meh… I’m from Kerala, I’ve seen greener. And towards the end, my backpack started to make its presence felt, so I was very happy to see a tea tent selling beer. I’d read somewhere that alcohol is bad for you at high altitudes but I think that’s puritanical rubbish. That beer was just great and for the next two hours, I felt no pain whatsoever.

Day 3 began a little later than usual. Markha was our guide’s hometown and we’d stayed at her house; she was understandably a little bleary-eyed when we started our walk to Hanker. It was, to our delight, a walk of less than 3 hours, I think, so we decided to walk a little further to Upper Hanker, so as to shorten our fourth day. The last bit was very steep and the views of an old fort or monastery up on the ridges were exceptional but there was nothing further to report.

Day 4, to the high-altitude plains of Nimaling, was to be our toughest day, so my companions fortified themselves appropriately. I imagine the villagers are, to this day, shaking their heads sadly at their severely depleted food stores and on a diet of one roti and half a cup of tea a day.

Nimaling is at 4800 metres or so. The climb was steady and hard and I think it took us over 8 hours to reach the camps. It was cold and windy, and it was snowing lightly at places. The altitude made it hard to breath, and with the biting wind all the layers of clothing we had on still wasn’t enough protection. Despair is a word that is often used lightly but I think I now know what it is. Despair is fighting exhaustion and cold and using your last reserves of energy to somehow or the other reach the top of the hill that you’ve set your sights on… and discovering on reaching there that it's only a false ridge and that there's another hilltop impossibly high further ahead of you… and then climbing to the top of that one and finding out that it was just yet another false ridge… and one more… and yet one more. 8 hours of false ridges with 13 kilos on your back: that is despair. We did have lunch by this very nice little lake that turned up unexpectedly, where, all covered up in balaclavas, we took pictures pretending to be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in Bolivia. So, it wasn’t all bad.

Nimaling itself was gorgeous: windswept and barren with a small stream running through its heart and a glacier at the head. To one side, the 6400-metre Kang Yatze dominated the view. We had it in our sights on and off for over 2 days, so it was thrilling to be finally at its foot. I climbed the ridge closest to it for a better view, only to find that it was another of those infuriating false ridges. Still, it was around sunset when I did so and the sight of Nimaling below me, more beautiful than ever in golden light, was adequate compensation.

This was the only night on the entire trek when we'd be sleeping in a tent. I had a sleeping bag with me but I foolishly thought I wouldn’t need it. And when it got really cold in the middle of the night, I was simply too lazy to unpack it. When we woke up in the morning, we found our water bottles frozen over, and my walk to the toilet a 100 metres across the windy plains redefined “cold” for me, like the walk the day before had done “despair.” It didn’t help that this toilet was only slightly less disgusting than the one in “Trainspotting.” After this 5:30 AM walk through the wind and the cold, and a wash of the face and the hands in the freezing stream, I simply had to listen to some Elton John back in my tent because I too felt like “a candle in the wind, never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in.” (That said, does a candle really try to cling to anyone in inclement weather?)

Day 5. The first 2 hours was a 450-metre ascent to the top of the 5250-metre Gongmaru La. I expected an unforgettably painful climb filled with desperate gasping, torturous steps and a fervent desire for death. And I wasn’t disappointed. At least there were no false ridges. And then began our long descent to Shang Sumdo. It was incredibly steep and long and I was glad that I wasn’t climbing the Gongmaru La from that side. After a few hours, we came to a very narrow gorge with a frozen stream. It was the most fun we had on the entire trek, sliding down the ice. I definitely enjoyed the sliding bits a lot more than the parts where we had to climb up the sides of the gorge and walk along narrow goats' paths with vertiginous drops to the stream below.

We then came across another of those tents that served beer, so I don’t remember much of the last hour or two to where our van was waiting to take us back. I suppose it was some sort of a path through the mountains along a stream.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Trek #1: Jingchen to Chilling

Beginners to trekking in Ladakh usually first do the Sham Trek, otherwise known as the Baby Trek. Babies in the rest of the world demonstrate they’ve made a step up by walking across the drawing room. In Ladakh, they’re set down at Likir and arrive 4 days later at Temisgam, walking, in the process, over a pass named Lago La, which translates to “a pass of no consequence.” It really is that useless. A trek made for me, then. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find companions for this trek. The one I did find ones for was the trek from Jingchen to Chilling, also of 4 days, but containing two close-to-5000-metre passes, which elevates it to the status of a trek for children aged 4 to 8.

The mini-van collected the three of us at about 8:30 AM and off we went. It was a ride of about an hour, punctuated by lovely views of the Indus. When the road ended, we were set down by the side of a small stream. Jingchen, it was, and our trek was at a start. This day was described in the itinerary as “a gentle incline of 3 hours.” Right from the start, I knew that this would prove to be an optimistic assessment of my day. I’d been rather enthusiastic with my packing, which resulted in a backpack that weighed about 13 kgs. Perhaps I could’ve dispensed with the change of clothes and the two sweaters. Maybe even the laptop. Anyway, walking on flat ground for 3 hours with a 13-kg pack is no mean task for me, much less on those uneven mountain paths. Also, by my watch’s altimeter, the 3-hour trek did eventually deposit us about 500 metres higher than the altitude we’d started at: “the gentle incline” was a matter of perspective. There were times when we had to cross small streams and walk along boulder-strewn river beds, but what killed me was walking up hills - especially with the backpack. I hadn’t yet mastered the art of taking short steps instead of my longer lowland steps, and so, what with the altitude and my backpack, even small climbs were unbelievably tiring.

Lunch was at this beautiful meadow and I don’t remember what we had save that it was the best lunch I ever had. Rumbak, our halt for the first night, was only half an hour away and I was much relieved to be there. From the side we approached, it didn’t look particularly beautiful - just a few houses perched up on the hillside. But the thing with the Himalayas is that you turn a corner and the sights that await you bear no relation with what you’ve been seeing up till then. So it was with Rumbak, at the base of this green valley, with fields stretching out nearly to the horizon. That it turned up unexpectedly amidst forbiddingly black mountains and up a seemingly inhospitable, barren, narrow, boulder-strewn valley was something I’d get used to in a while. We stayed in a house in the village, in a room with a view across the valley. It had none of the comforts that we city folk are used to but the thick blankets and the great views were more than adequate compensation.

The next day was what is known as an acclimatisation day, where you climb up a high pass and then sleep at a lower alitude, to enable your body to get used to the altitude. Plenty of trekkers on short trips to Ladakh ignore the need for acclimatisation and end up getting very sick (AMS can be fatal). Who it strikes can be rather random, irrespective of age or fitness. In fact, the younger, fitter folk are at higher risk because they end up doing too much too quickly. “They come here, they are heroes for a day, they fall sick, they eat oxygen, they go back in a stretcher,” as my guesthouse owner put it. Rumbak was at 4000 metres approximately and we were to climb up to Stok La, at 4850 metres.

The start of the day didn’t go too well. They put one piece of bread in our lunchbox and that was it, our lunch. We raised a quizzical eyebrow and they came back with, “Well, would you like butter and jam on the bread?” “Why not?” we said. Nearly as soon as the climb started, though, my day got a whole lot better. We spotted a little glacier to our right. It was across a stream and a bit of a climb up, but I was excited. I’d never seen ice that hadn’t come out of a freezer. None of my companions shared my enthusiasm, though. They were all Europeans and Ladakhis and said they’d seen enough snow to last a lifetime. But they did promise to wait for me while I climbed up to it. And it wasn’t a letdown at all, my first experience of snow! I even labelled pictures of some poo that I found on it as “snow-leopard poo” which my gullible lowlander friends on Facebook duly believed, too. The only disappointment was that, later on, we found ourselves walking across little glaciers like that all too often on our trek up Stok La: I could’ve experienced my snow without any of the extra work I did!

The walk was fairly flat for two hours or so but then we came across the ascent to Stok La, which was very, very steep. Since we were walking back to Rumbak at the end of the day, we weren’t carrying our backpacks and I was certainly thankful for that. I still didn’t make it quite to the top - was short by 100 metres or so - as I was a little too slow. But the views from up there were quite something. Rumbak was this little green dot far off, near the horizon, surrounded by mountains after mountains. There’d be one circle of peaks around the valley, behind which there was another circle, and yet another circle: mountains were all the eye could see, with tiny Rumbak in the middle. That is where you can appreciate what life is like in Ladakh, how isolated they are, how cut off from the rest of the world by the most massive mountains imaginable.

It also showed me how idiot trekkers can endanger the life and limb of other travellers. Somewhere near the top of the pass, I accidentally dislodged a stone that rolled all the way down to the base of the mountain. It was terrifying, as I watched it roll down, praying that no one was walking below, picking up other stones on the way, gathering momentum for what seemed like minutes on end. From then on, I kept a wary eye on the paths above me, wondering whether there were others like me somewhere high above. Also, the climb down was far scarier than the climb up. When climbing up, you are far too exhausted to note that the path is only a foot wide and that there’s nothing to break your fall should you slip. When climbing down, though, you note all this and your imagination gets very active - particularly when you see a stone roll about two kilometres straight down.

We were back in Rumbak by the middle of the afternoon, and began our short hike to the Yurutse. Our original plan was to sleep in Rumbak but we had a climb up Kanda La (4950 metres) (with our backpacks on) the next day, and our guide, perhaps noting how I made hard work of the climb up Stok La, decided that perhaps we should cut short the next day by walking right up to the village at the base of the pass. This part of the trek had a path so narrow that, at times, it wasn’t wide enough to put both your feet down side-by-side. It was high up a hill, with a river winding its way down below, and would sometimes disappear altogether, leaving me to scramble on hands and feet (ok, an exaggeration) along the hillside, trying not to look down. That was just me, though. The guide had a song on her lips and she looked like she was out picking daisies or whatever it is that Ladakhis do for recreation.

Yurutse is this village with just one house in it. It makes 9-family Rumbak look like a metropolis in comparison. It astounds me just to think about it, what their life is like, particularly in the winter when the temperatures drop to -35 Celsius, living alone like that, hours from anyone else. And it is also at the crossroads of many treks, so there were about 10 other trekkers already there by the time we reached. There wasn’t enough room for all of us in the house, so the only single members of the bunch - an Englishman and I - got bumped out into two tents outside. Which, I suppose, is still preferable to sleeping with three other people in one room. That was my first night in a tent, though, and I couldn’t sleep well. Thought the floor was at an angle. I dreamt fitfully of snow leopards, to the sound of barking dogs and braying donkeys (who have put in a performance at 2:30 AM precisely in every village I’ve trekked to).

The third day without a shower began early. I had my habitual brush and washing of face in a stream with a glacier a few feet upstream. By now I’d gotten used to the cold a bit and had stopped wondering whether my fingers had fallen off. Going to the loo was trickier. It was 5:30 AM and the house had not woken up yet, meaning that I was locked out. I could, of course, consider going out in the open but it was so cold and windy that I was worried about the effects of taking my pants off out there. What if my privates receded so far inside that they never came back out? Still, needs must and I scouted about for half an hour, trying to find an appropriately sheltered spot. None presented itself to me, so I was back at the house and banging insistently on the door. A groggy face opened the door and I let myself in without so much as a “jullay.”

A word about the composting toilets prevalent in Ladakh at this juncture. They’re essentially 10-foot-deep holes in the ground and have lots of loose dirt and manure lying about, with a shovel handy for throwing down earth after you’re done with business, which then is used to fertilise fields (animal dung, on the other hand, is used in place of firewood). On the whole, it’s very clean and dry, with no smell apart from that of manure. Not bad at all. The one criticism I have is that they don’t have hooks in there for trousers, which is an invention that has been around for thousands of years in other parts of the world. I did a survey and the women in the company reported no difficulties in using the toilet with the trousers on. Men, being anatomically slightly different, could get smelly stuff on their trousers and on the whole preferred to take them off before getting the job done. But, due to the complete absence of hooks, we had to leave them lying around on the dusty ground with the result that we looked like we’d just rolled down a hillside every time we came out of the loo.

This particular loo, in addition to not having hooks, also did not have a latch on the door. I like to take my time, usually going in with an improving book, but the absence of latches meant that I was out in 45 seconds flat. My attitude contrasted with that of the girl who refused to use the lock even when available, saying she’d rather be interrupted in the toilet by someone than take the risk of being locked inside a Ladakhi toilet. Different strokes for different bloke(ette)s.

If I thought the loo was hard, the climb up Kanda La was something else. This was at 4950 metres, and unlike Stok La the previous day, this had to be completed, for our destination lay on the other side of the pass. And I was carrying my backpack too. I couldn’t get enough air. I was gasping and going purple. So concerned was the guide that she offered to carry my backpack. Three times she asked and three times, like Julius Caesar, I refused, taking longer with each refusal. In the end, though, just when I was about to pass out, she took the pack off my back as if it were a pack of feathers and carried it for half an hour. She’s about half my size so it was a little humiliating, but what the hell, at least I lived to tell this tale. In the end, I did make it… after everyone else, granted. It was snow covered and had fantastic views, including of a 7000-metre twin peak way off in the distance. The climb down, to Shingo on the other side, was 3 hours or so but after the exertions of the climb up, it was barely noticeable.

Shingo is this little town of 2 or three families that seemed as if it was cut into the rock, LOTR style. Not much of a night life, admittedly, but absolutely stunning on first sight. Day 4, being just a downward walk up to the crossing on the Zanskar river, near Chilling, wasn’t very eventful. We hit a small town named Skiu with a monastery dominating it, in a couple hours, and in a further two hours along the Markha river, we hit the river crossing where our taxi was waiting to take us back to Leh. It should’ve been a nice, soothing walk back but it was at a lower altitude than the previous three days and it was very hot. Besides, after four days of subsisting almost entirely on bread, butter and jam, we were all already visualising the dinner menu in our minds and we walked faster than we should have. At least I did, and found my feet all blistered and cut up on reaching back home. The river crossing, being a manual trolley across a ferocious river should’ve been scary but after 4 days of goats paths along ridges, it wasn’t particularly.

The beer and the chicken at dinner was just great.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Tales of the Shanti Stupa & Other Horror Stories

My daily fitness routine has been to climb the 550-odd steps of the Shanti Stupa and have a tea at the cafe up top. On one occasion, though, I dropped in at the meditation hall between the cafe and the stupa. There was “silence” written all over the approach to it, so I tiptoed into the hall and looked about uncertainly. The giant statue of the Buddha at the end was impressive but my eyes were for the monk in the corner, who studied me impassively for a second before turning to the window. I shuffled about, studying this, looking at that, deciding in a while that I’d gotten all I could out of the room. I crept toward the door.

Just as I was about to cross the threshold, the monk cleared his throat and began chanting, accompanied by the big drum. It was arresting. I wanted to stay but didn’t know the protocol. Deciding that the worst that could happen was that I’d be asked to leave, I sat on one of the mattresses lining the sides of the room.

Five minutes in, two women walked into the room and sat bang in the centre, facing the Buddha statue, adopting the lotus posture with closed eyes. I was impressed. Here were people who knew what it was all about! The minutes flowed by, punctuated by the monk’s drum and his chants. Woman 1 opened one eye and addressed her companion. She wanted to know whether the price she was quoted for the Pashmina shawl earlier in the day was a fair one. Woman 2 was of the opinion that none of the sellers could be trusted and unless they walked around for a few more days and did a little hard bargaining, they’d be taken for a ride. It was a fascinating conversation that meandered for minutes and had several insights to offer on shopping techniques.

A few more minutes in, there was a sound outside not unlike a herd of wild elephants uprooting a banana plantation. The extended family; the largest I’d ever seen. There must have been 200 of them and they clearly thought that the “silence” boards outside indicated the name of a place. If this lot had been on the front lines of Kalinga, Ashoka would never have contemplated invading it.

The first 20 walked in, each of them with a camera. They stomped about the place photographing every nook and corner, even the dust on the floor. I couldn’t hear the monk over the din of the clicks. The master photographer amongst them was clearly the gent with the DSLR and the two-metre-long lens. He walked about with the swagger of the genius artist. At one point, he leaned over the enclosure separating the monk from us and with the tip of his lens about 3 inches from the monk’s nose, the flash went off. The monk, to his credit, didn’t even blink.

On and on it went. One batch after the other, for 45 minutes. The only constants were the two women in the centre. They would constantly entreat the ones outside to come in for “a few minutes of shanti.” The only recalcitrant one was this stripling who’d clearly never known shanti in his 15 years. She roared at him to come in for some shanti. He didn’t want any shanti. He was happy where he was. So she, reluctantly, had to give up her lotus posture and walk outside. The conversation that followed, I could not hear, being no longer conducted over 25 metres, from the inside to the outside, at high volume.

When the actors re-entered the stage, she was walking a little ahead, holding him firmly by the upper arm as they strode toward her former seating place. “5 minutes of shanti, 5 minutes, that’s all I’m asking you to experience. Would that kill you?” He went down like a sack of potatoes, grumbling that it was bad enough that he was being dragged from peak to peak, could he not at least stand in the sun outside? "Shh, let the shanti wash over you..." He spent his five minutes discussing football with his mate sitting two rows behind and three columns to his left.

Eventually, all 200 had their fill of shanti and left, including the two lotus posturers. The hour was almost up and the monk wound up his chanting too. He got out of his enclosure and collected, without a word or expression of complaint, the gum wrappers and the tissues and the other odds and ends that had seeped from the family like sand from a child’s pockets and, with a final prayer, left the hall.


Ladakhis, like the Arunachalis, are incredibly friendly and hospitable people. When I told the owner of the place I'm staying in that a friend of mine was visiting (but would be staying elsewhere) and that she wanted to know whether there were any shared taxis to be found into town from the airport, he was affronted. "Your friend is my friend. I'll pick her up," he said. But, the day before she was to reach, a large contingent arrived at the guesthouse and he could no longer spare the time.

"Here's my car keys," he said, "why don't you go and pick her up?"

When he said that, I turned to study his face. There was no hint anywhere on that cheerful, friendly face that the most likely upshot of his offer would be that his car would be found in a gorge somewhere, with the radiator in Pangong and the engine on a dune in Nubra.


Tales of high-altitude acclimatisation are many and strange. The most common complaints are mild headaches and very disturbed sleep in the first week or so.

Here's a description from a South Indian couple of their first night here.

The bloke couldn't get any sleep at all. Sometime in the middle of the night, he wanted to take a leak. But he didn't fancy stepping out of the blankets. Still, you gotta go eventually and he reluctantly stepped into the chilly, blanketless air. He then noticed that his wife was awake and complained to her, "I couldn't sleep at all, you know."

"But you were snoring for the last 3 hours!"

"Oh? Strange... I thought that was you."

Monday, May 26, 2014

To the roof of the world

The big iron bird hung in the sky, the sun glinting off its white metallic hull. It was the pinnacle of everything that the dominant species (on this planet under observation) had ever dreamt of, but here amid row upon row of snow-capped peaks glittering a thousand times brighter, stretching from horizon to horizon - north to south, east to west -  it seemed insignificant.

Maybe we should instead study its journeyers for a better story. So we float down alongside and draw up against one of the tiny windows. The bespectacled face staring out at us (though we’re invisible to it) is anxious, pensive. This is no surprise to us.

This one looks like a member of that group of wage-earners that they call programmers. They live a life of certainties, of money and time. The money, they get with clockwork precision at the end of every month. The time, for five days of the week, is spent bitterly complaining in little prisons with artificial lighting and climate. The only momentary relief they ever get is in torturing their fellow inmates, mostly through the medium of words delivered through the contraptions on their desk - even if the recipient is a cell-mate and they could just as easily turn around and talk to them - or that higher, subtler form that they call “meetings,” where several little cells empty into a larger cell and one sentence is re-arranged for an hour-and-a-half by every one of them. They read little, travel even less, and at the end of the fifth day they’re paroled for the weekend, which they spend imbibing various honey-coloured drinks. Of course, these are mere patterns: sometimes the parole is longer, and sometimes giant red bulbs glow all over and the words “production alert” blare on loudspeakers throughout the glass abode and their weekend pass is revoked. But, such as it is, this is their life.

This particular specimen is fairly typical. What he’s called travel up till now, whatever little of it, were planned to exhaustion: every night’s stay, every mode of travel, oftentimes every hour of every day too. This then is a bit of a journey into the unknown for him. Why this experiment, you ask? Who knows? We can read their memories but not their hearts. Maybe it’s this very question that’s the cause of his anxiety. Or maybe it’s the sudden roar of the engines, as it plummets to an impossibly tiny clearing in the midst of the mountains.

But wait, this is no way to tell a story. Every story must have a beginning, a middle and an end, and unless you be a prickly French filmmaker, it’s usually best to tell it in that order. This story is mostly one of geography, though; one which we could survey by ourselves if we so chose, with no need of his memories. But we have far more impressive sights where we come from and our eyes see differently than his: facts do not make a story, a point of view does. And this is his.


His trip began in a little sunburned city, ten degrees north of the equator, on the coast of the Arabian Sea. The first 2500 kilometres were on rail, a 38-hour trip. The first half of this was along the Konkan coast, and a marvel of engineering. The train sped along by the sea and the forested hills, over precipitous bridges and lakes and through impossibly long tunnels that cut short a previously much longer journey; one of the prettier rail journeys you could take. He didn’t have a seat by the window, though, and this being the premier rail service in his country, he and the other three in his cabin were fed a little too generously, with the result that the folks who did have seats by the window preferred to draw the shades and sleep through much of the trip. Still, he did get to see enough to not carry too much of a grouse.

The second leg of the trip, to Leh, was at dawn on the day after the train reached Delhi, a much shorter trip of 600 kilometres or so, only an hour by flight over the Himalayas. There was another way in, a beautiful, if harrowing, 2-day drive through mountain passes; a narrow, bumpy road, maintained by the army for transporting supplies, and reaching heights of 18,000 feet without so much as a handrail on the side. The passes are blocked by snow through much of the year, though (as it was now, to his relief). The flight it was.

He’d spent hours researching the aircraft type to figure out which seat would give him a view unimpeded by wings, and he was delighted to see that his researches were indeed accurate. (Well, except for the engines that protruded a bit into his field of view, but that was only a minor irritant.) He’d spend the hour with his nose glued to the window.

As soon as the plane left Delhi, the clouds took over. Mountain-shaped, with scarcely a gap in them to let the earth through, they formed their own ranges in the sky. Rather threw him off, too. He’d see an ominous grey shape in the distance, sloping down toward the earth, and imagine it to be the start of the Himalayas. But on closer inspection, no, just a cloud.

So sure was he that the change from the clouds to the mountains would be near imperceptible, that at first he didn’t notice the dark shapes visible through the occasional cracks in the white carpet below him. But as the carpet started to thin, he had his first glimpse. Dark brown, almost black, like the slopes of Mount Doom. No sooner did he notice them than the clouds seemed to disappear all of a sudden. Now the dark peaks below covered the whole world visible through the windows. It was beyond belief, the immensity of them - it wasn’t a range, it was a whole forest of mountains, as thick as the trees on the hills of the Konkan coast. There was hardly a space between them, neither valley nor river. Just barren, dark rock, as far as the eye could see.

In a while though, the peaks started to be capped with snow. They seemed so near, practically scraping the bottom of the aircraft. You could, he imagined, jump onto one of the peaks quite safely, and slide whee-eee down the slopes. They were now craggier and there were often huge crater-like hollows bordered by half a dozen peaks. The hollows were filled with snow, not solid but soft like cream, with the same ever-shifting shapelessness, rising here, dipping there, and altogether wholly irresistible. The mountains were now a little more spaced out, with valleys between them. The rivers that flowed through these valleys, though, were not liquid but of mist.

This too would change in a while. The peaks, with the white at the top and the dark at the bottom, gave way to white in its entirety. There were no longer any craggy peaks or valleys but only dunes in a white desert, all rounded, no longer sharp, with the dark nowhere to be seen at all.

As Leh neared, the dark snowless ranges made a reappearance. The difference, though, was that this time thick, grey clouds were flowing through them, just a little below their peaks. And what a sight that was! They were flowing against the direction of the aircraft and they were just like the waters in a river, mostly flowing around but sometimes jumping smoothly over the peaks.

Almost without warning, the pilot mumbled something about descending and the engines roared like never before. “Descent” may have been the pilot’s choice of vocabulary but “plummet” seemed a more accurate description to the programmer. By the time he’d caught his breath all he could see was a wall of rock through the window. He had to slump low in his seat to catch a glimpse of the mountain tops at all. And he could see ahead the impossibly narrow valley with a blue river (liquid, this time) winding through it, that was to be his destination. And it was then that he truly grasped where he was heading to: the feeling was one of claustrophobia, heading toward that tiny sliver of land, surrounded all round by these gigantic walls of rock. This was practically another planet, so isolated did it look.

The aircraft turned around and, to his immense relief, the valley widened considerably: a brown landscape, with a strip of green around the blue river winding through the heart of it. As he got off the plane, on this runway at 11,000 feet, he’d half expected all his insides to get sucked out of his ears and nose, but no, the difference in air pressure wasn’t noticeable. What was noticeable, though, was the cold - especially for someone who’d spent the previous three months in a tropical sea-side city.

Happy to feel solid earth beneath his boots, he studied the mountains all round, looking for monasteries, particularly the one he’d read about that directly overlooked the runway. The mountains took up all 360 degrees of his view and were now not quite as intimidating as it had looked in that terrifying first instance of the descent. He nonetheless remembered the layer after layer of mountains over hundreds of kilometres that he'd crossed to get there and so was left in no doubt that he was now marooned in the land of monks, stupas and snow leopards… on the roof of the world, without a stairway in sight. 

Monday, March 10, 2014

Why It's OK To Hate Mondays

Aren't we supposed to love what we do? At least, that's what all the ads and the motivational speeches and the strength-of-the-human-spirit lobbies seem to advocate. No one should ever dread Mondays but instead look forward to them: "Ah, another glorious week of achievement coming right up ahead!"

Every second is precious and none should ever be wasted earning a living. Rather, live your life, do what you love, and the rewards you're entitled to will come. Life is too short to spend 8 hours everyday doing mundane stuff you hate.

As this song elegantly puts it (or maybe it's putting something else, but I'm mentioning it anyway)

Oh, when you were young
Did you question all the answers
Did you envy all the dancers who had all the nerve

Look around you now
You must go for what you wanted
Look at all my friends who did and got what they deserved

So much time to make up everywhere you turn
Time we have wasted on the way
So much water moving underneath the bridge
Let the water come and carry us away

But then again, as this other song puts it much more succinctly

Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive
Trying not to confuse it with what you do to survive
In sixty-nine I was twenty-one and I called the road my own
I don't know when that road turned into the road I'm on

The latter's the way of the world: so many things to do, many of them tedious or unpleasant, just to survive. We can't all be dancers, story tellers or Thought Leaders. We just don't have the skills, so we settle for what pays the bills. Most of us aren't cut out for anything other than the ordinary (if we were, the word wouldn't exist): and if you disagree, you should watch "Inside Llewyn Davis." It's the mundane, the bricks in the wall, that keeps life ticking. But this world-view does not lend itself to dramatic cinematography or music with rocks in or words brimming with fire and steel*: it sort of trudges muddy and sad like a river near the sea. Which is also why the movie I referenced didn't exactly run to packed halls or scoop in the awards by the dozen; that was left to the more "meaningful" films.

To put it in perspective, hark back to a less complicated time. I'm sure if you asked the ordinary caveman, he'd have preferred to sit all day by the pond, an improvised-from-hay bag of chicken by his side, watching the grass grow. But the truth of the matter is, the chicken wouldn't get in the bag by itself, and he wouldn't even live to see the sunrise if he didn't take turns with the other plebs to stand guard against jaguars (or whatever) outside the cave every night.

Sure, he'd spend hours listening to the grunts of the Thought Leader on the stone ledge, exhorting him to live the life less ordinary, to "howl at the moon and follow his dreams." He'd gaze enviously at the chap who patented fire and was now paid a chicken leg for every flame lit in the community; the artist with the long, graceful locks, who spent his day in the safety and comfort of his cave, doodling stuff on the walls with deer blood and the newly-invented Tapering Rock With Sharp Edge, who had all the cavegirls flocking to him of their own accord and who didn't even have to spend his evenings raiding nearby caves and dragging them out by the hair...

While all these people presented ideals to aspire to, the truth of the matter is that there was always a small voice in his head which said that he just wasn't cut out for that sort of thing, that he didn't have the vision or the talent. And an even smaller voice which told him that it is he and the multitudes like him who kept the world running - after all, if everyone were a CTO or an artist or a Thought Leader, starvation would set in soon enough and someone would have to relinquish their titles and do the stuff that needs doing. Or the only thing outside their caves one morning would be a huge pile of bones.

Has the world really changed all that much in the millennia since?

*Would even Robin Williams, saddled with, "Let the day be, boys; make your lives very ordinary" manage to get the cash registers ringing?

Monday, February 3, 2014

Thought Leadership Mondays

Just because I'll soon be takin' it easy, enjoying home-cooked meals and long walks in the land of my birth, it doesn't mean that I've forgotten my brothers and sisters - siblings, if you prefer - who work.

Here's a devil's dozen ways (and another few for the road) to creatively employ "thought leadership" in your next meeting, thereby expediting that climb up the corporate ladder:

  • Could you thought leadership me the salt, please?
  • Now, just where is my thought leadership? I can never find the darn thing when I need it!
  • If I thought leadershipped this unauthorized charge onto the expense report, d'ya think anyone'd notice?
  • I'll have some thought leadership with the chips, please.
  • Do you have change for a 100 thought leadership note?
  • You threw the baby out with the bathwater?! What were you thought leadershipping?!!
  • Did yesterday's thought leadership taste a bit off to you? This is my fourth trip to the loo.
  • How many programmers does it take to thought leadership a light bulb?
  • You see, when Beethoven thought leadershipped the Ninth...
  • What we've got here is failure to thought leadership.
  • Brother, can you spare a thought leadership?
  • That thought leadership on your nose doesn't look too good. Have you shown it to a doctor?
  • Does this thought leadership go well with my Lederhosen?
  • I'll take my thought leadership to go.
  • Watch out! There's a thought leadership coming right at us!
  • That was one heavy lunch... Time to grab 40 thought leaderships.
  • Thought leadership me up, Scotty!

Friday, January 17, 2014

Inside Llewyn Davis

I've whinged before about the frustrations of the unappreciated artist. Whether he's unappreciated because he has too much integrity or simply because he's mediocre is not really the point - the pain is just as real either way. There are posts I've sweated over for days on end, only to garner two-and-a-half "likes" on FB - the half because that click was really meant for the picture of the cat adjacent. The cat, meanwhile, has 2700 likes and 550 comments, as opposed to the one "lolz" on my post.

But this post isn't a whinge; it's just a tip of the hat to the Coens. These are guys who've never really known failure - apart from "The Ladykillers" I can't think of a bad film they've made. You'd think they'd be the last to know what it's like to stare through the cage at success - of watching the geniuses as well as the truly god-awful fly high above them. And yet, here's this pitch-perfect film about a struggling singer.

How they manage to do this film after film, I don't know. "Miller's Crossing," "The Big Lebowski," "The Man Who Wasn't There," "No Country for Old Men," and now "Inside Llewyn Davis;" what do they have in common? I don't know. Definitely not tone. And much as I love their earlier films, I can't help feel that they keep on improving as film-makers. Their plotting and characters have always been top-notch - as is their ability to write great dialogue without being showy, fitting their characters to a T - but this one and "A Serious Man" have something else about them, some magic dust in between the frames. With these two very understated films, there aren't as many individual stand-out scenes or violence or overt humour... or even a clever plot... and yet they're utterly riveting start to finish.

All that said, in this city of 9.6 million people, there's just one cinema screening the film (and only one show per day) - and that in the very first week of its release here. It's a fucking disgrace, that's what it is. Maybe the Coens do know what it's like to be on the fringes - I bet they're gazing at the makers of "Dhoom 3" with unconcealed jealousy.