My father's shoes

My father’s shoes We all have a story to tell. But unless you’ve already set yourself up for greatness where others will tell your story, you better start writing out your own :). Writing has been therapeutic, even if badly written or expressed. I am not prone to having deep or prolonged conversations with most people, so the opacity of the internet has always been reassuring when I go into monologues and rants of personal accounts :) It’s almost weird what reminds me of him. It mostly is small, worn-out, badly (rather hurriedly) chosen shoes on a middle aged man. He had small feet and he wore shoes like that. Uncaring and apathetic to brands, fashion, style and disrepair. It was a ritual in the home, for Aai to force him into buying moderately expensive, well-fitted shoes and it always led to an argument about how he was made to splurge money. Never mind that we, the kids, spent more money on movies and eating out in a week than he had to on those shoes. It was spending on himself that always made him act like a debt-ridden man :). He never cared about appearances anyway. Any grooming apart from the daily shower was more of a social and professional compulsion for him. That haircut happened when it became too evident and the hair took more than 3 seconds to obey combing commands and fall in place. Shirts & trousers were selected inside of 2 seconds. The only vanity he allowed himself was a regimented, daily shave. Even in his days of prolonged hospitalization, he craved that shave and felt embarrassed when the doctors saw him with a little scruff on his face. He was after all, till his last breath a dignified doctor. I remember one exasperating occasion when having had another in a series of brushes with death, the first thing he asked me when I came down from Ghaziabad to the hospital was to help him shave. But that isn’t what reminded me of him today. It was a father son pair at the barbershop that made me long for him today. Growing up as a cripplingly shy kid, I never had mustered enough courage to get a haircut myself till very late in school life. (Now don’t go diagnosing me with one of those new age conditions that are in vogue. We Indian kids born in the 80s were immune to those ‘foreign’ afflictions like ADHD, autism, dyslexia and all. We were just shy, or stupid or just plain brats). The daunting task of walking up to a grown man, looking him in the eye, telling him what I wanted and then course correction in between was just beyond me. Most barbers tend to be too boisterous for my taste anyway, compulsively talking and socializing as if they sat, snipping with their scissors on every branch of my family tree. So for me, he was the communicator and the handler of tough situations like asking the barber to make it shorter than what had been done. But ironically, I loved keeping my hair minimal, so every 10 days, I would drag him along to sit and twiddle his thumbs while I looked at him and signaled him to intervene every now and then. Time passed and my shyness abated a little, the barber issue was resolved when teenage hit like a tornado and our haircut philosophies no longer matched. But till the end, he remained firmly in-charge of the house. So even though throughout my teenage, I continuously battled him for the alpha male position at home, demanding to be trusted, brandishing my bravado of having well connected friends and my ‘knowledge of the system’ (he remained too naïve and tended to get things done straightway, as per regulations, which I thought was boring), I was never really required to take any responsibility of doing menial tasks like paper work, government filings, etc. I still don’t. Living away from home meant Aai had to take up the baton, something she has done so well. Seeing that kid and his father at the barber today made me truly reminisce on the presence that he had in the home. An anchor, that was drawn up in January this year, and our lives took a sudden, unexpected course that none of us had imagined. Like every kid is of his/her father, I was in awe of him. The reverence with which people spoke to him, his uninterrupted sense of duty which made him treat patients who had come home even at 3 AM in the morning, the way he had built whatever we had right from scratch, getting no handouts from anyone and through a sheer sincerity of effort. It’s now I realize how little he enjoyed any of what he earned, but I do not remember a time now when I had to really give up anything because of finances. Yes, there was the one odd really expensive toy I wanted that he refused to buy, but then I was just being a brat. For what it counted, education, lifestyle, books, things that truly enriched us, we were never short. The only grudge I still hold against him today is never buying me an RC Helicopter. And I will never buy it on my own, just to hold up his end of that argument :). I digress. So what happens to kids who are in awe of the parent? One word. Teenage. For us, it unleashed a demon that unraveled the very fabric of our relationship. When I rebelled, I didn’t do it halfheartedly. And for his part, he was too consumed of worries about my future, my academics, etc. for us to sit down and talk. I would anyway have fought my way through, even if we had sat down to talk. But for whatever reasons, we never talked about it. Even later, there were no apologies. Maybe apologies weren’t needed and this was a rite of passage, a testing of boundaries, so to speak. And we never hugged it out because in our dictionary, that was just plain weird. I am still perplexed with these new kids, hugging their fathers and what not. All bad influence of western culture and aping of Hollywood movies :). What broke the ice between us was the realization of mortality of a human being. News of his cardiac surgery and the complications therein mediated an unspoken truce between us. At the same time, the quarter life crisis hit me, and in the hangover of that turbulent teenage, the smoke screen began to dissolve. Partly out of guilt for having done and said the things I had (and having not done and not said the things I should have) the thought of his mortality jolted us back into a time where I was almost sub-servient to him. And he deserved to be revered like that. Things seemed happy after the successful surgery. But that was short-lived. A couple of years down the line, all hell broke loose. I won’t go into the details of it. It’s unnerving to recount the horrors and moreover, now that it’s all over, the everyday details that I then thought were terrorizing have lost their sharp edges. Now, they seem more like a movie we all watched while in a deep state of exhaustion, floating through the days, deeply connected emotionally but somehow physically removed from the scene of the crime. What those three years did is more important now. It changed the meaning of a lot of things. It changed the meaning of Aai. From being a mother and a wife, she went on to be a selfless organ donor, never even questioning why she was doing it. From being a sister and her extended family, Renu, her husband and her in-laws went on to be generous, large hearted care takers that we shall forever be emotionally indebted to. For me, it changed the meaning of going home. Now in my vacations, I didn’t go home, I went to the hospital. Flying down from Ghaziabad stopped being a happy occasion and started being one long, tensed time-out. A phone call from Aai even a minute off from the usual time sent the heart leaping out of the throat and “Hello” changed to a panicked “What happened now?” The only place that felt eerily safe was the hospital premises, because having hospitalized him twice in an emergency, seeing his life almost ebb out in the car had left driving with him an unpleasant and scary suggestion. The hospital became our new home. The chores of sending home cooked food to the hospital and giving medicines and checking vitals every few hours almost became a routine. Again, had it not been for the sister, her husband and her in-laws, who turned their entire household machinery to suit our schedules, none of this would have happened. And what changed most was him. From being a fit, active man who bordered almost on an anxious restlessness, he waned away physically. He still remained mentally sharp, checking his own medical reports even while on a ventilator, but that flock of thick, dark black hair (that had survived at an age when most of his contemporaries had submitted to alopecia) went away. From being a man who sprang to his feet at the slightest sound even while in deep sleep, he had to be held while walking. And the displeasure of having to accept these physical changes was apparent on his face. After all, he still wanted to hold on to his position as head of the family. More than the condition that afflicts them, I think patients are more terrified with the prospect of being dependent on others. And for people who had built their life from ground up, it seemed almost like a cruel, insulting defeat at the hands of fate. Three years of running in and out of hospitals, misdiagnosis and mismanagement at Nagpur, shift to Pune, panicking, continuous and compulsively worrying, a transplant, almost made it. Wait. Something went wrong. No, ok, it’s treatable. Yay! Happy Diwali! Wait, again somethings not right. Uh oh, this might be serious. Ok, serious but treatable. Yaaay. Wait. Fracture. Ok healing well. Yaay again. We will pull through. Things will be back to normal. Let’s plan what all of us will do after Diwali. Go on a trip, start your practice again. Cough cough. Tch, damn cough. Let’s just be a normal family and start arguing again. Baba, you’ve lost it. You are immune compromised, can’t be around sick people anymore. Ok fine, but only 10 patients a day just to keep you busy. Cough cough. Wait. Doctor doesn’t look happy. Shit. Oh ok, not that serious, I read the report wrong. Doctor says it’s negative. Yaaaaay ok so back to planning. What the hell is partial lung resection? Honestly? Phew. Ok fine, doctor says it’s a pretty routine surgery. Ok, bye baba, I’ll wait here in the, well, waiting room LOL. Be back soon. Ah, all doctors are going in. Surgery must be over. But too soon, no? Why am I being called in? I know what a Myocardial Infraction is. I’ve become half a Wikipedia doctor myself. May pull through? Ok. He’s pulled through before. He will again. I’m confident. Heart stopped? Ok, restarted after 20 min? Yaaay? Ok. He’s unconscious, but can listen to me? Ok. Baba, got a good job, just like you always wanted. Will you come to my convocation? Baba? Ok I’ll wait. Wait. Wait. Wait………. Silence. So he didn’t pull through after all. I will never be able to faithfully express everything that happened and that we felt in those years, but then maybe some things aren’t meant to be faithfully expressed. Some thoughts, some moments of laughter, tears, anxiety, are best preserved in the mind as mementos given by those who left us. With him, our lives too set sail. Never had we thought that Nagpur will stop being our ‘home town’. It was a city where our lives happened. It was a city where I knew most of the lanes and where I had spent all of my formative years. It was a city, where even random shops on the road had a memory to share. It was a city where he raised his family. Tearing away from the hometown, with the collateral damage of a much loved dog has been the hardest decision to deal with after him. What I do vividly remember of Baba now is how in those few moments of remission, he never stopped putting up a brave face. He had been our go to guy for all medical queries. Now that he was on the other side, he had to hold the fort even now. And he still smiled. Worried as he always was, listening to stories of Nagpur and how stupid some people are, he gave his usual, easy laugh that came so naturally to him. I’ve kept a secret in this telling. That one person who provided us unending and untarnished amusement and warm cuddly happiness. Kabir. He beautifully completed the circle of life. The only thing that sends a wince through the heart is that Baba never got to fully enjoy being a grandpa. He would have been so good at it. Those shoes that I so nostalgically mentioned, had a metaphor in them too. We grow up with our idols. We try to be them, we fail, we shun them, we see them in a different light, then we try again. So we try to be a mutated version of them. I wear better shoes than what he did, but then, I can never fill his shoes anyway. They may have been small, odd, and in bad fashion, but in what they represented, a life lived for others and in worry of other, they were just too big for a man of my stature. Phew. So, kid at the barber shop. Be a brat. Love every moment of being a brat while your father caters to you. It’s how things happen. You too will grow up, you too will be at loggerheads with him. You too, will come back to him. I can tell you to be nice to him you will regret it later and blah blah blah, but the thing is, you won’t understand. I didn’t either. Maybe guilt isn’t a bad thing after all, if it ends up making you a better person than what you were yesterday. But don’t be too hard on yourself. Forgive yourself. Your baba will too. And hope the same for me. A slightly edited version of this appeared here: http://mommygolightly.com/2015/11/19/my-fathers-shoes/ . It was humbling to know that your thoughts can resonate with more people than you know.

Laika (1998 -2005)

Laika (1998 - 2005) First things first. If you don't love dogs, browse along, nothing to see here :). Not that I'm judging you, but you'll only scoff and jeer at things I speak about here.   On a writing spree today, dug this out from the archieves. Wrote it in 2007, the first long format I ever wrote, the amateurishness of the language was nostalgic. But nevertheless, as the first article that I wrote, and about someone unforgettable, its still one closest to my heart.   ________________________________________________________________________________________   Laika   I remember I had fallen asleep after an elongated tantrum. This wasn’t the first time. Neither was it the last. What my parents had written off as just a fondness for puppies, had grown into a full blown obsession. Ultimately, after countless tantrums and promises of performing well at school, they finally caved in. This is how Laika entered our lives. Don’t know why suddenly today I am writing about her. It’s been years since she passed away. But I had been carrying baggage from her death for a long time and finally decided to set it free and find some closure. Laika came to our family as a shabby little one month old pup who couldn’t even climb a flight of stairs without tumbling down a couple of times. Lapping up her milk was even messier. For a week, the house smelt like a dairy. Seeing her transform from this awkward, clumsy pup into a graceful German Shepherd was like a parenting experience. Right from cleaning her crap to staying up all night when she fell sick. And she bore into all our hearts. Even Aaji was not spared.   She became the constant companion to all of us. Every time you turned around, she was there, staring at you, tail wagging, and a strange anticipation in her eyes. It was her eyes that always caught my fancy. Maybe it was the fact that she was brought up with love and care, but her eyes never resembled those of other dogs. That fierce, guarding gaze was absent. It was a look of total submission. Sometimes it made me wonder, if by domesticating her, we had killed her wild spirit. Maybe what we thought of as obedience was actually a corroboration of the fact that she was absolutely dependent on us. But we never heard her complain.   That constant companionship was soon upgraded to a family membership. And a privileged one!! She became the undisputed queen of the house. Anyone who came in through the door had to meet her first. Then the rest of us. And not just meet, but shower a minimum of 5 minutes of admiration. It was always heartwarming to come back home even after just 10 minutes and be greeted like you just came back from prison after serving a life sentence. And with her, you always knew it was sheer love. No ulterior motives. Even Aaji, who dint particularly appreciate pets, came around. Usually Laika stayed out of Aaji's way. But when Aaji was alone at home, Laika took up the duty of not letting her feel alone. As if she knew that Aaji is old and may need help. Aaji later confessed that even just by hovering around her and following her around, Laika was a big moral support. The lupine instincts of protecting the pack had endeared Laika to a non-believer.   3 years later, we decided that her genes ought to be passed on. Laika became the proud mother of 7 pups. 3 boys, 4 girls. It was chaotic, to say the least. A team of 7 rambunctious pups, combined with a protective mother, and 4 family members, at the end of their nerves. The simple act of answering the doorbell started resembling a military exercise. It took clever strategizing to open the door, when at the sound of the doorbell, one big German Shepherd and 7 pups jolted towards it. Put 3 of them in the room and go out to gather the rest, and halfway to the room, you’d run into the aforementioned 3 pups who’d somehow figured out how to escape from their box. Their appetite was a no holds barred contest. One whole pack of Cerelac a day, with table manners taking a serious hit. Their motto: if you can’t get enough from standing outside the bowl, jump right in the bowl and eat around you. Add to that a mother who insisted that her pups remain spotlessly clean (by licking them in the position they were in) and dinner time became savage tumbling contest. So we had 7 pups, smothered in Cerelac running around trying to eat each others' limbs while being thrown around by a fastidious mother.   Soon, time came to bid them farewell as they all went to their new homes to start a life, like their mother did 3 years ago. However troublesome, giving away that last pup was awful. It was like we had betrayed Laika. She started gathering toys and placing them in the bed where the litter had been. I guess she was trying to fill the void. But that’s a dog’s fate. To be born to a mother. And then to be reborn as someone’s pet. I just hope all those little Laikas are keeping up their mothers reputation.   A couple of years later, Laika’s health started degrading. She suffered from stomach blockages and was operated twice. The third time, she kind of gave up. I saw her; motionless, lying on the operating table with her stomach being stitched, and saw the gleam in her eyes fade. She felt no pain even without an anesthetic. Or maybe she did, but dint show. Laika never complained. The decision had to be taken. What is termed as humane death, or "putting her to sleep". No matter how much you round the edges off the name, it still stings. And it stung badly. A decision about letting someone live in pain or die in peace is never easy. Because nobody asked Laika what she wanted. In the end, it was her pain filled whine that tipped me to make my decision. I decided to let her go. I could not keep her in pain for my personal gratification of making the right decision. A tearful goodbye later, Laika drifted off to sleep. Everyone feared going back home, knowing the fact that there will be no greetings at the door now. No wagging tail drumming the door. No playing fetch till your hand hurt. No wet nose searching bags for goodies. No muddy paw prints anymore. No Laika anymore.   I still doubt whether I did right. Just by being their human, do we get a veto over their lives? What if she would have made it through? I guess these are questions Laika should have answered. But I guess it is in their muteness, their silent companionship, that dog’s leave such matters of conscience to us lesser mortals. A dog’s emotions may be governed by baser instincts, but in what they leave us with, an intense feeling of ownership, that they teach us the philosophies of life. I buried her favorite tennis ball in her grave. I hope wherever she is, somebody’s playing fetch with her. Because she loved it when you threw something, and she brought it back. I had to throw her life away. Laika, fetch.   Her shattering four-legged silence finally made us move on and bring a new life into the house. Sarah. Once you’ve lived with a dog, the house feels empty without one. I won’t tell you if Sarah’s better or worse than Laika. That would be unfair to both of them. But I do hope that Laika, wherever she is, doesn’t get too jealous of Sarah. But as I said, Laika never complained.     Photo taken in simpler times :)

Sar Pass Trek

Sar Pass Trek, 2013 - A very brief travelogue “… Most of us exist for most of the time in worlds which are humanly arranged, themed and controlled. One forgets that there are environments which do not respond to the flick of a switch or the twist of a dial, and which have their own rhythms and orders of existence. Mountains correct this amnesia.” ― Robert Macfarlane The ‘cheese’ in the rat race, is a comfort zone. A climate controlled, ergonomically designed life that runs like clockwork. To abandon it, even for a short while, and lay yourself bare to the whims of nature, seems like such a non-sequitur. But, as Robert Macfarlane puts it, “mountains refute our excessive trust in the man-made. They pose profound questions about our durability and the importance of our schemes. They induce, I suppose, a modesty in us.” And this test of durability for us started in the oppressive heat of Delhi. Day 1 & 2 Delhi to Kasol Bruised by heat strokes in Delhi, and a less than co-operative AC in the bus ride from there, the sight of the Parvati River gushing through the mountains is a soothing balm. Kasol, or mini-Israel, as it is sometimes called, was the perfect destination to start our journey up the back of the mighty Himalayas. With the week ahead promising nothing more than Maggi, oats and preserved foods, the tourist friendly food in Kasol is something every trekker should bulk up on. Travel checklist: Hope? Check. Day 3 Kasol to Grahan A late start, but under a canopy of deciduous forests, our ascent towards Sar Pass began. There are few things more taunting to an out-of-breath, exhausted man in his late-20’s than the sight of a 50+ year old man (our guide) scurrying up trails with the swiftness of a rabbit. Travel checklist: Modesty? Check. A couple of hours of trekking in the dark, and we were at camp 1: Grahan. Altitude gained: 2300 feet Day 4 Grahan to Mingthatch With the last glimpses of civilization en route behind us, our trail winds up a thinning forest. A realization that dawns on every trekker in the Himalayas, is how it is more a test of your mental strength, rather than physical. High peaks and far away camps that are within the visual range, are easier to reach, while destinations hidden from view, but known only in absolutes of altitude and kilometers, seem unattainable. But stop every once in a while to take in the breath-taking panoramas around you, and a new verve sets in. Travel checklist: Motivation? Check. Altitude gained: 3000 feet Day 5 Grahan to Nagaru The first glimpses of snow at reachable distances come in. With the tree line left behind at 10000 feet, every step starts exerting more and more effort. Tip: never ask people from the mountains how far the campsite is. Or ask, but be ready for replies like “just nearby, behind that big mountain”. For them, a mountain has the same geographical standing that an apartment complex has for us city-dwellers. Snow line breached! The meadows and shrubs blend into the snowline, as if demarcating both, a finish and a start line. The finish line, of a world covered permanently with dust and mud, and the start, of a new world, where the face of the very surface you walk on changes every hour. An unpredictable environment, that compels you to keep all your senses together, all the time. Travel checklist: Being observant? Check. Altitude gained: 2000 feet Day 6 Nagaru to Sarpass, then climb down to Biskheri Waking up to a 360 degree panorama of snow capped mountains drizzled with golden sunlight. It is overwhelming pleasures like this that makes climbing mountains addictive. And this is one addiction that no one will advise you against! With clear skies giving the go ahead, the longest day of trekking commenced, and 4 hours later, we reached Sar Pass. Standing atop the Pass is a feeling best described as conflicting. Yes, there is an overwhelming sense of achievement. But at the same time, looking back at the journey, the petty troubles and muscle aches, the times you almost gave up to exhaustion and the sheer size of the peaks around you makes you feel small, modest. It’s as if the Himalayas taunt you, that you may think you’ve reached the summit, but there are several others higher than that. It taunts you to conquer, to push your limits, to test the boundaries of physical and mental abilities. And at 14000 feet, you make them a promise to return. Higher, stronger and better than you are today. These are moments of clarity and pensiveness that probably surpass the reach of meditation. The mysticism of these majestic mountains rarely escapes anyone who attempts them. Time to put a leash on the thoughts. The mountains have rules, and they are ruthless with anyone who disobeys them. The snow patch had to be covered before the ice started melting in late afternoon. The descent, punctuated by merry glissading down snow covered slopes, kept its promise of being fulfilling. When your heart is so full of snapshots from the top, every step comes to life. Travel checklist: Memories of a lifetime? Check. Double check. Final altitude: 14000 feet. They say the mountains are mercurial, unpredictable. Bright sunshine one moment and a thunderstorm brews while you blink. But it is in these sudden, passionate dances of nature, that we learn to adapt, to be prepared, and most importantly, we learn to understand. Understand, that there is a joy in the suddenness, a joy in being freed of control over events, and a culminating sense of peace in acceptance. Yes, the mountains also instill a sense of profundity that is better experienced than narrated. **P.S: A very abridged version of this appeared in Sakaal Times ( http://epaper.sakaaltimes.com/SakaalTimes/16Jun2013/Enlarge/page14.htm ). This is the full article.

Laika

I remember I had fallen asleep after an elongated tantrum. This wasn’t the first time. Neither was it the last. What my parents had written off as just a fondness for puppies, had grown into a full blown obsession. Ultimately, after countless tantrums and promises of standing first in class, they finally caved in. This is how Laika entered our lives. Don’t know why suddenly today I am writing about her. It’s been 2 years since she passed away. But I had been carrying baggage from her death for a long time and finally decided to set it free on the web now and find some closure. Laika came to our family as a shabby little one month old pup who couldn’t even climb a flight of stairs without tumbling down a couple of times. Lapping up her milk was even messier. For a week, the house smelt like a dairy. Seeing her transform from this awkward, clumsy pup into a graceful German Shepherd was like a parenting experience for me. Right from cleaning her crap to staying up all night when she fell sick. And she bore into all our hearts. Even aaji was not spared. She became the constant companion to all of us. Every time you turned around, she was there, staring at you, tail wagging, and a strange anticipation in her eyes. It was her eyes that always caught my fancy. Maybe it was the fact that she was brought up in love and care, but her eyes never resembled those of other dogs. That fierce, guarding gaze was absent. It was a look of total submission. Sometimes it made me wonder, if by domesticating her, we had accidentally killed that wild spirit. Maybe what we thought of as obedience was actually a corroboration of the fact that she was absolutely dependent on us. Or maybe she always held the pain of separation from her mother, which we brought about. But we never heard her complain. That constant companionship was soon upgraded to a family membership. And a privileged one!! She became the queen of the house. Anyone who came in through the door first had to meet her. Then the rest of us. And not just meet, but shower a minimum of 5 minutes of admiration. Her welcome ritual became as much a part of homecoming as the quintessential "gajar ka halwa" that the hero’s mom always has ready. It was always heart warming to come back home after the day and be greeted like you just came back from prison after 20 years. And with her, you always knew it was sheer love. No ulterior motives. Even aaji, who dint particularly appreciate the concept of pets, came around. Laika proved her part too. Usually she stayed out of aaji's way. But when aaji was alone at home, Laika took up the duty of not letting her feel alone. As if she knew that aaji is old and may need help. Aaji later confessed that it was a big moral support for her. The lupine instincts of protecting the pack had endeared Laika to a non-believer.
3 years later, we decided that her genes ought to be passed on. Laika became the proud mother of 7 pups. 3 boys, 4 girls. It was chaotic, to say the least. A team of 7 rambunctious pups, combined with a protective mother, and 4 family members, at the end of their nerves. Their appetite was a no holds barred contest. One whole pack of Cerelac a day. Table manners were taking a serious hit. Their motto: if you can’t get enough from standing outside the bowl, jump right in the bowl and eat around you. So we had 7 pups, smothered in Cerelac running around trying to eat each others' limbs. Soon, time came to bid them farewell as they all went to their new homes to start a life, like their mother did 3 years ago. However troublesome, giving away that last pup was awful. It was like we had betrayed Laika. She started gathering toys and placing them in the bed where the litter had been. I guess she was trying to fill the void. But that’s a dog’s fate. To be born to a mother. And then to be reborn as someone’s pet. I just hope all those little Laika's are keeping up their mothers reputation.
A couple of years later, Laika’s health started degrading. She suffered from stomach blockages and was operated twice. The third time, she kind of gave up. I saw her; motionless, lying on the operating table with her stomach being stitched, and saw the gleam in her eyes fade. She felt no pain even without an anesthetic. Or maybe she did, but dint show. Laika never complained. The decision had to be taken. What is termed as humane death, or "putting her to sleep". No matter how much you round the edges off the name, it still stings. And it stung badly. A decision about letting someone live in pain or die in peace is never easy. Because nobody asked Laika what she wanted. In the end, it was her pain filled whine that tipped me to make my decision. I decided to let her go. I could not keep her in pain for my personal gratification in making the right decision. A tearful goodbye later, Laika drifted off to sleep. Everyone feared going back home, knowing the fact that there will be no greetings at the door now. No wagging tail drumming the door. No playing fetch till you got bored of throwing the ball. No wet nose searching bags for goodies. No muddy paw prints anymore. No Laika anymore.
I still sit and doubt whether I did right. That just by being her owner, did I have the right to end her life? What if she would have made it through? I guess these are questions Laika should have answered.
I buried her favorite tennis ball in her grave. I hope wherever she is, somebody’s playing fetch with her. Because she loved it when you threw something, and she brought it back. I had to throw her life away. Laika, fetch.
It doesn’t end here. We finally mustered up the courage to move on and bring a new life into the house. Sarah. I won’t tell you if she's better or worse than Laika. My only prayer is that she doesn’t give me a chance to write such a blog for a long long long time. And another thing I hope is that Laika, wherever she is, doesn’t get too jealous of Sarah. But as I said, Laika never complains.

Kindered Soul

okay, first the background for the uninitiated. Kandi (*names changed for privacy and to avoid public humiliation) is being harassed incessantly by mosquitoes (we call them Macchar to avoid eco activists' ire). Mani (* repeated ) has a rare medical condition called Spontaneous Disclosure Syndrome. The condition makes him instantaneously belch out various theories that would make Newton and Einstein not only turn in their grave but do somersaults. So the theory today is that if you simply ignore the macchar, he wont bite. this was a revelation to us all as we were unaware of the fact that macchar has pride and wont bite anyone who refuses to be irritated by it. so this is an eulogy of that fallen macchar.

there once was a macchar,
happily he buzzed around,
till one day his self esteem,
was brutally crushed to ground.

odomos dint kill him,
neither did good night,
but then Mani found out the one thing,
that the macchar couldn't fight.

"ignore him" ,commanded he,
to kandi on his side,
for he knew to hurt a macchar,
you need to hurt his pride.

how dare you ignore me,
the macchar screamed in ire,
i shall now sting you,
even on your pyre.

so assault on assault he laid,
to poor kandis dismay,
and Mani won the title
"Scientist of The Day".

but kandi still persisted,
and ignored the macchar's litany,
and refused to be irritated,
by him, or by Mani.

"may be something is wrong with me,
maybe im not doing this right"
and to answer these questions,
macchar went to his mom for advice.

who are these people ? she said,
come lets go and see.
and together they buzzed away,
to see you and me.

"you can never harass them, son"
not when cloudy not when sunny,
for these brave souls are accustomed,
to being with Mani.

Kanha

Urban living is hip. Contingents of people leave behind the throes of poverty and migrate from rural areas to these urban jungles. Definitions of comfort and luxury are being rewritten and luxury is fast becoming necessity. However, from time to time, nature comes calling back. An urge to return to the wild existence of our ancestors manifests itself. To experience what their nights might have seemed like, and to hear that piercing sound silence that a city dweller rarely experiences except in states of unconsciousness. And when this call of the wild comes, it is best to throw caution to wind and submit to it. We got the call, and we answered a positive!!! So began our journey into that untamed world called Kanha National Park. To digress a little, the planning of a journey is sometimes just as exciting as the journey itself. You take a group of 9 testosterone filled 22 year olds, and throw them into a discussion bout an upcoming journey, and then sit back and watch the show. Tempers flaring, irrational suggestions, earth shattering attempts at humor, arguments on time of departure and then finally that discussion on the budget. Even the Finance Minister would have been frazzled. Coming back to the topic, after reaching consensus on budget, transport, shelter etc, we finally set off on the trip.

7 hours can pass by like a snap. That is, unless you cram 9 people in a car meant for 7!! And, unless you are the butt of every joke. I’m sure a couple of them had a nightmare ride. But it was a reunion of friends, and what’s a little discomfort between friends?? ITC laughed all way to the bank. Reaching there at night, we all changed into our comfort clothes (300 km away from city, anything is comfort clothing). Once again the nostalgia and reminiscing of time spent together begins. Nights in the forest seem to be pleasant always, no matter the season. That smell of foliage, shrill noises of insects in heat, a lonely bird keeping watch, even a bristle in the undergrowth become pleasant music. The sky seems flush with stars; the moon seems brighter and bigger. Living in a miasma of sound and sight in the city, we become practically immune to these background noises. But here, in this wilderness, suppressed senses come alive. And along with that, suppressed feelings and emotions come alive. The loner aches for a mate, the heartbroken aches for his lost love, the happy ache for company of loved one, and the distraught aches for closure. Slowly, under the watchful eyes of the stars and the moon, 9 starry eyed boys drift off into dreams. Big day tomorrow.

4 o’ clock the alarm rings. Even the clock is surprised to be set off at such an ungodly hour. It joins in the amusement and screams with more fervor than it would at 9 o’clock. All are dressed, some of them by the use of brute force. 5 o’clock gates open and we venture out into Kanha. We feel the excitement that Kipling must have felt while writing The Jungle Book in the same place. An hour passes by with small rewards of rare birds and herds of deer. The guide tells us about the forest and trees and other species that live there. But nobody is really listening. Everybody is fixated on seeing just one thing. And that Big Cat remains elusive. Eager eyes inspect every movement in the forest for that ultimate prize. We award the second prize to the Bison. 500 kilos of sheer muscle power on 4 feet. And an attitude to suit the built. The alpha male does not appreciate the attention from tourists and charges at a Gypsy, as a warning. We all have pelted stones at cows and buffaloes at some point in our lives. This one charge by the Bison seems like a revenge for that. Everyone holds their breaths as we slowly slither past the herd. Phew! At Elephant Point, we are told that two tigers have been spotted. We see excited tourists shrieking in ecstasy as we near the spot on elephant back. And there they are… we approach a grassy stream, and suddenly as we turn a corner we see two magnificent tigers wallowing in a stream. We all have seen this many times on National Geographic Channel, but nothing can compare coming face to face with a tiger. True to its name, the Royal Bengal Tiger is royal in every sense of the word. Every muscle built to specification, a gleaming coat and that stealth characteristic of a cat. But most captivating are the eyes. That pride in them, that feeling of power, which can only come from a sense of invincibility. He is the king of the jungle, and he knows it very well. Unperturbed by people, the two tigers enjoy their cooling bath. Our guide motions the mahout to return. But we just can’t peel our eyes off this creature of beauty. But its closing time and we reluctantly leave the spot. An eerie silence settles as we leave in our Gypsy. Nobody talks to each other. We have just experienced raw nature and it is humbling, almost surreal. We realize our powerlessness. We may be highest up in the food chain, but we have reached their based on tools and weapons. Take them away and we are helpless.

Exhausted from the excitement, we head back to our hotel for rest. Everyone is looking forward to the evening tour. One more, just one more look at the tiger again please. Our evening tour begins with a promise. Tiger sightings are reported. As we are hurrying on, our Gypsy breaks down. Prospects of getting a lift are nil. So our guide decides to take us walking back to the gate. Nothing can be scarier than this. Still, bolstered by our guide, we start walking. Our guide tells us what to do in case a tiger crosses our paths. It does more harm than good. Because now, we are all thinking of that eventuality!! Possibility of a tiger lurking behind the grass suddenly becomes real. The shades of the forest however offset that thought for a while. The fading sun paints the sky a deep orange. Tall trees draw out shapes in their shadows. Beyond, a hill rising out of nowhere beckons us like a guardian of the forest. A bunch of Gypsies distracts us from these thoughts and then the gravity of the situation dawns upon us. A tiger. With never before seen athletic zeal, we clamber up one of the Gypsies for safety, and sure enough, about 100 meters away sits a tiger. A concoction of fear and absolute awe ensues. We gaze and click the beast admiringly, till he decides that it was enough exposure for a day. He vanishes into the cover. Still heady with the sight, we head back too. Rest of the trip goes in contemplating what would have happened if we, on foot, would have spotted the tiger. It gives rise to nervous laughs and jokes. We are lucky to have seen 3 tigers in a single day and that too in such an adventurous way. We are, and will be, one of the very few tourists who will ever walk on foot inside Kanha. We head back to our hotel with a head full of memories, and moments forever captured in our hearts.

Some celebrations never change. We crack open our drinks and ease up into the day’s happenings. We recount the day’s events. How scared we were, how beautiful the forest was. But etched deep into our psyche is still those two eyes burning like the sun. Kudos to the creator!

Outward Bound

Nothing has romanticized populace more than freedom. Yes, that shining beacon of civilization. And then, nothing quite has been subjected mutinies and tyranny as that same freedom. Want for freedom is that universal emotion that transgresses boundaries. Physical, political and mental. That pendulum trying to swing past its projected path, defying its stated purpose of periodic rise and fall. That child on the swing, taunting the pusher to go higher, and higher. Sky bound. "We are often too afraid to become, what we envision ourselves to be in our finest moments" said somebody. That hero of our day-dreams is more of a possibility in just dreams. For, to realize that hero in real life would mean changing direction, and being somewhat of a renegade. That’s just too much damn work. This cocoon of familiarity is just too cozy. So, that hero revels in our psyche and we smother him with material possessions and self-defined victories. But the calling never fails. For this same hero inside you, raises its head above water for one last gasp of survival, and manifests itself as the Oprah-publicized 'Mid Life Crisis'. Its time to let that hero free. In an increasingly permissive world, he can survive. Time to break free from the shackles of predictability. Freedom is after all, a state of mind. It is not granted and it does not just come about. It has to be affected into being by individuals. You and me. We are simply guinea pigs in this light-year old experiment of Evolution, creatures to test the effects of life in order to improve future generation. And, as with any experiment, results are not found without testing under various conditions... And, as with any experiment, results may vary!!