Part 2, When the going gets tough, the tough get going..

So, where was I ? Yes, I'd made it to Rishikesh, all in one piece. That's where I finally caught up with the others. Sid, Baccha and Adrian, who had been slightly more fortunate than me as far as travelling logistics were concerned (only slightly though, for their version of events click here). From there we took a taxi, a fairly decent Ambassador all the way to Govindghat, our pitstop for that night. There are share taxis and buses to Joshimath, from where Govindhghat is just an hour away but we opted for the relative opulence of the clapped out Amby to save on time.


The taxi ride was fairly uneventful. There were a large number of rocks and boulders lying by the roadside, remnants of landslides from some days before. We were forewarned that July-August is landslide season in these parts, but the size of some of these boulders did get my heart rate up. The entire ride we followed the Alaknanda river, and we traced it as it cut through valleys, tracing it almost up to it's very origins. The scenery throughout was jaw-droppingly amazing. I enjoyed almost none of it though, with my head moving like a pendulum, as i drooled on one neighbouring shoulder and then the next. Occassionally I'd awake from this stupour and start clicking photos like a mad cockaroach with a bad case of the twitches before I reverted back to 'rest' mode as suddenly as I'd broken out of it. I followed this pattern for most of the entire ten hours our journey took. Even my driver was very sypathetic to my case and bore with a smile the frequent head butts he got on his shoulder as i nodded off to sleep in the front seat. The tip was definitely well spent on some jandu balm for his bruised shoulder.





I must say though, taxi drivers have the most bizarre taste in music! Mine was no different. Do they have music stores dedicated to cater to their eccentric tastes? I still remember one of the songs. The girl kept crooning about how she had lied at home about going to the temple but kept a romantic rendezvous instead while her lover reassured her she hadn't lied as she had come to the temple of love (pyar ki mandir or some such rot)! This one had us in splits and when it played again (and again, our driver's taste in music may have been eccentric but was limited to two tapes, which he played over and over) we were singing along with it too!


We were at Govindhghat by sunset and took up lodgings at the first in a long line of hotels, Kuber Guest House. Rooms were decent and bathrooms clean, so no hotel horror stories to report. We were there for just the night, as we had an early start the next day. The place was jam packed with pilgrims, Sikhs coming in from all parts of the globe to pay homage at Hemkund Sahib, the highest place of worship in the world! After visiting the local gurudwara, we had dinner at the restaurant getting the most foot traffic (Nano's, Nany's, or something like that). The food was standard Punjabi fare, with all it's desi ghee goodness. This was followed by gulab jamun and a glass of whole milk at the adjoining halwai (sweet shop). I could see my diet flying out of the window and rolling down the grassy slopes of the Garwhal mountains.


The next day we started out at 5.30am so that we could get a headstart and not get stuck in the pilgrim traffic. A good head start meant we were at the next town Pulna at 7.00 am, by which time we were ravenous. We stopped at the last in a long line of shops that lined the route and sat down for some well earned Maggi and chai almost at the foot of the Pulna waterfall. As we resumed our journey, we saw our 'restaraunteur' following us with a plastic bottle in his hand. Upon enquiry he informed us that he was out to go behind the bushes to complete his morning ablutions. Only on further enquiries was it revealed that we'd actually woken the poor bugger up from his sleep to make us our breakfasts! I was amazed! I would have been breathing fire if four city slickers woke ME up early in the morning demanding plates of Maggi and cups of tea but this man seemed remarkably well composed. Incredibly nice of the fellow I thought. If I were British, I'd probably say, 'Jolly good, old chap'.



The trek up to Gangria was long and ardous. We were breaking our backs to complete the 14km. Our backpacks felt like bags of lead dragging us down. Frequent Maggi stops not withstanding we'd have collapsed on the side of the road and been killed by a stampede of mules, who would have then probably defecated on us in contempt for blocking their path with our corpses. So imagine to my consternation when we came across a septegenarian(at least) Sardar who was slowly but surely making his way up with what seeme like no great exertion on his part. On seeing our sorry state he felt it was his duty to give us some advice. 'Akke baar guru ke darshan karne nikal padde to phir guru apki kalai pakar ke neele ghode pe baithake le jaata hai. Aap jisse bhi bagwan maane chahhe wo ram ho ya rahim bas usko apne dil me baitha lo aur aap phir rukoge nai baas chalte challe jaoge aur apne manzil tak zaroor pahunchoge', he said. He went on to say much more. Very profound stuff. Only one problem, my Punjabi, at best, is atrocious. So most of it went way over my head(except for something about a blue horse). I wish I'd paid more attention. Apparently it made the trek a lot easier for the others, but I do remember this: The intense conviction and faith that some of the old-timers seemed to have blew my mind away (even with the flying blue horses still floating around my head). With chants of "So bole sohnihal" following which the entire valley would echo with a "Sasriyakaaale...." these people were making their way up at an age when their peers may find an evening walk a challenge. It was truly inspirational. To me it really showed the power of faith and made me question my own views on God and religion.





The scenic beauty was another real show stopper for me. As we trudged along we came across innumerable spots where we just HAD to stop and stare in wonder. The river powering down the valley in full force was another aspect of the trek I found quite soothing. The only real annoyance was the packs of mules and horses taking pilgrims up and down. The more trips they made, the more money the owners could make, which meant that they were made to hurry up and down the hill side as many times as possible, even if it meant barging into the pedestrians and pulverizing them on the rocks to one side or plunging them into the river on the other.



Many a waterfall, and many a cascade of horseshit later we were finally at Gangria. We flopped into one of the first hotels we could find and settled in. We went out exploring the small town, taking in the sights, and generally limbering up for our next stop, the Valley of Flowers....

Valley of Flowers, An Adventure in many parts

Part 1 - Going, going....... gone!

Ladakh downscaled to Valley of Flowers. Ten days to four! And after some earnest pleading and reasoning upgraded to five. My feet were itching to move. Get the hell out of hot, grimy Noida! I planned, and planned and planned some more. Things were set, tickets and co-travellers arranged and I was all ready to go. There was nothing to stop me now, or was there?

I anxiously awaited the 13th of August, when I could escape the confines of my drab cubicle to the wild outdoors. Usually dates come too soon (like exam dates!) or take too much time (like birthdays), but this one arrived with near perfect timing. I brought my backpack to work so that I could head straight from there to a friend's place for some chole batture before hopping on the bus to Rishikesh.

Somebody up there must have a wicked sense of humour because he decided to have some fun at my expense. By testing my resolve to travel. The first sign came straight after lunch. My boss comes up to me and asks me to join in on a site visit and before I could say ,'but...' he was off in a flash to get an early start on the long weekend! Since I have spent most of my time here rueing the fact that I don't really have much work I felt I shouldn't complain when I do. Anyway, it would take just two hours and I should be back by 5.00pm, enough time to make it for dinner at Sid's. Being the sticklers to punctuality we Indians are known to be, we left propmtly at 4.45, reducing significantly my chances of having a much awaited home-cooked meal. Still, my hopes were up.

First stop, Ghaziabad. The floor manager sat us down in his plush air-conditioned office and fed us tea and biscuits, which I proceeded to gulp down like a shot of tequila, scathing my tongue and palate in the process. It didn't help matters much that the rest of my party were treating the tea as if it were fine wine, sipping it at leisure while making all the approppriate appreciative noises. To cut a very long story short, it turned out that the part we had come to inspect was in a totally different factory all together, where we were plied with more tea and biscuits, most probably to ensure that those portions of my tongue which escaped being scathed the last time could get it's due retribution. The time was now 6.30pm, and my chole batture aspirations had all but evaporated. Frantic phone calls were received from friends. Reassurances were given as to the possibility of making it to the bus stop in time. Alternate plans were made for the chole and the batture to simulatneously reach their final destination, ie. my tummy. Due to further unavoidable delays (note the sarcasm), and the fact that Schumi hadn't come out of retirement to drive me to the bus stop I found myself stranded in god forsaken Ghaziabad with not a chance in hell to make it in time to Connaught Place.

Time for quick remedial action, and like Chacha Chaudhary, my brain works faster than a supercomputer at times of crisis ( the rest of the time it still works as fast as a supercomputer, but with the power plug pulled out). The driver was asked to drop me off at the railway station from where a general class ticket to Rishikesh was purchased. I got on the next train to Rishikesh, the aptly named Delhi-Rishikesh Passenger. So happy was I with myself that I was oblivious to the hordes of sweaty people I had to share the oven that was my railway compartment. The dreamy look and smile plastered all over my face as we rolled out of Ghaziabad made me look positively silly. I awoke from my stupor when I saw the brand name of the coolers which almost half my co-passengers were carrying : "Murphy's". Definitely a sign of things to come....

Murphy's Law !!!



Ingenuity, thy name is sleeping in general compartment!!!



Sure enough, at around two in the morning the train came to a standstill at Sahranpur and quickly emptied and soon it was just me and the cleaners. I smelt something fishy, despite being nowhere close to the coast and decided to investigate. I reached the engine just in time to see the engine driver packing his bags and hopping off! I blocked his path and said he better take the damn train to it's intended destination as mentioned in bold black one it's bright yellow board : "DELHI RISHIKESH PASSENGER". And here I was, a passenger who was neither in Delhi nor Rishikesh. Something had to give right? Wrong. Apparently the train doesn't go beyond Sahranpur after August 7th and I had the misfortune of travelling on the 13th. After that the train's name is just a ruse to trap innocent people like myself into visiting Sahranpur. 'But I have to go to Rishikesh', I squealed, and just like in the nursery rhyme, 'Oh!', said the engine driver, 'I don't care!'.



So, very relcutantly, I got off. It was half past two in the morning, and Sahranpur station was bustling eith activity for this ungodly hour. Yet, it felt like the site of some major tragedy. Scores of bodies lay motionless end upon end, the only sign of life being the slow guttural snores emnating from them, almost in symphony. I hop, skip and tripped my way to the exit from where I got a bus to Haridwar. Around this time I get a call from my friends who managed to catch the bus. The driver was taking his own sweet time getting to Rishikesh and had just stopped for 'lunch' at Meerut (if you want to compare I crossed Meerut at 8.30pm, before they'd even started!). They didn't expect to get to Rishikesh before nine in the morning. This left me in quite a fix, because I would be in Haridwar at 4.00 am!


Dead or Alive?


On reaching Haridwar I was mobbed by touts for hotels, motels, rooms,taxis and what not. I had a few hours to kill so I proceeded to 'Hari ki Pauri' , which is where devotees take a dip in the holy waters of the Ganga. The recent rains meant the river was flowing with tremendous force, free of all her inhbitions. There were plenty taking a dip in her ice cold, silt rich waters. There were plenty of sadhus , all decked in bright orange in ash ready to perform pujas for my redemption, all for a price which was quite aggressively advertised. The place was kept remarkably clean by normal standards and there were quite a few 'govt. officials' asking for donations for it's upkeep. One caught me and tried to extract as much as he could (they must have targets to meet). Asked for Rs.501, expected Rs.101, and got Rs.11. Imagine the stink eye he must have given me, triple it and raise to the power of ten and you will only get close to the look he gave me.


Haridwar, 4.00 am


Hari Ki Pauri




Daybreak


I spent daybreak loitering about here and was wondering where to visit next when my friends called again. The driver' suddent burst of energy post-Meerut meant that they had crossed Haridwar and almost reached Rishikesh. I quickly made by way back to town, rescuing a couple of Japanese tourists from the clutches of an evil auto driver enroute before catching a shared auto to Rishikesh, where I finally, finally, FINALLY caught up with my friends whom I was supposed to meet at 8.30pm the previous night. It was 8.30am....



The trip was on!!! Save a few landslides, there was nothing that could stop us now. Stay tuned for more adevntures.............................

An Interesting Day

aka Why I should never fall short of blogging material...



The day began well. Very well, infact. For one, the heat didn’t kill me. I had a song in my heart, and the same was emitted from my lips as completely indistinguishable cacaphony. ‘A Beautiful Day, ey ey, don’t let it get away’, my heart prompted but my karoke skills are only a shade better than Godzilla’s, and the sound that emnated went something like this : “Garble Bargeley, ey ey, garble some more dey”. No matter. It was indeed a ‘garble bargeley’ and my spirit was as light as a feather, a far cry from my actual self.

Now for those of you that don’t know, my means of transport to work and back are the ubiquitous public auto things fondly called Vikram (don’t ask me why). Autos on steroids is what I like to call them. They are also known as tempos, but they set no such thing, travelling at a snail’s pace, despite which they are more dangerous to pedestrians than a drunk Salman Khan in pursuit of a black buck. Usually they are driven by daredevils (read maniacs) in the eternal pursuit of the Guiness record for maximum number of bodies, preferably human, that they can pack into these dastardly machines. Bodies reaching their destination alive is fairly low on the list of priorities. Being that as it may, it still finds immense popularity as a mode of transport, as the only less lethal option is possibly a flying carpet, which in these recession ridden times are extremely hard to come by. Office timings are particularly bad as the drivers’ zeal for setting, breaking, and re-setting the record is the highest at this time. I usually end up hanging on to the sides, for dear life...

This day was going to be different. There was actually a seat for me! Ok, it was this stool that the driver had so graciously tied to the back of the vehicle, large enough to accommodate about half of a single Kate Moss butt cheek(the standard unit of butt cheek measurement), which roughly translates into about one-tenth of mine. As Bono kept telepathically telling me all morning, I wasn’t going to ‘let it get away’. I chased the auto down, got him to stop, hoisted my self onto the stool, taking the support of the cushioned seat in front to get my above average frame up. Only, the cushioned seat was actually the well padded shoulder of a lady with a much larger frame than me….

Dirty looks ensued and in my shock I let go of what little support I had (however unsupporting she was to my cause) but a few acrobatic moves and a near death experience later I had managed to plonk myself on the stool. The rest of the journey to work was uneventful, thankfully. I was scheduled to participate in some software orientation that day, which made me feel slightly more useful than before because upto that point my job description could at best be described as ‘professional web surfer’. So in I marched into the conference room with a single minded and dedicated purpose to master the software and prove to be a useful asset to my company. In one smooth motion I switched my screen on, swivelled myself into place and punched out my password. Staying true to form, my computer did what any self respecting machine working on any mechanism more complicated than a simple pulley would do when the user is feeling extremely productive. It crashed, gloriously, like it had been given a 'stunner' by Stone Cold Steve Austin.

Me and machines have never got on very well(Yes, I know… I am a mechanical engineer. It’s ironic. Don’t laugh). I think it all started back when I’d got a new CD player, from ‘Aunty in US’ (all of us Indians have at least one of those no?) , rendering my up to then faithful Philips Walkman redundant. A few CD buying sessions later (ok, who am I kidding, shameless downloading and burning sessions later) I figured I could try figuring out how my walkman actually worked. I ended up massacaring the poor thing. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I tried soldering the wires I cut with candle wax. I guess Electronics never forgave me.

The limit of my computer maintenance skills are switching on and off the system, which I religiously did, ten times, but to no avail. My computer screen was showing absolutely no change. In the background I heard one of the co-particpants remember his sister with some fervour. ‘Oh bahen, oh bahen’, he kept saying. ‘Must have missed her birthday’, I thought, ‘ Poor chap, she’ll give him such a tongue lashing now. No wonder he is so riled up’. It took me a while to realize that the reason for his sudden outburst was that the system I was fiddling around with was actually his.In fact I even remember the precise moment it dawned upon me. It was when he exclaimed ‘Oye bahen di fuddi, yeah kya ho gaya! Woah teri! Apne aap switch on-off ho raha hai bhai yeh….’. Silently I moved my fingers away from his sytem and spent another fifteen minutes surreptitously looking around for mine.

If that wasn’t enough to derail me, the incident in the evening was the final nail in the coffin! As many of you may know, I have been a loyal foot soldier in the Battle of the Bulge for aeons now. Loyal doesn’t imply I have never deserted the cause but I have always returned to the legions (on gaining 5kg or finding that my pants get stuck half way up my thighs, whichever comes first) in our aim to make the world a lighter place. Luckily for me, there’s a gym in the basement. After a rigorous workout, comprising of stretching , shaking hands with the trainer and making false promises to, and I quote ‘actually move my fat ass’ (in Hindi of course, which went like this : 'apni moti gaand tho hilao') the following day, I decided to weigh myself. Imagine my consternation when I got on the thing and it read ‘ERROR’ ! I know it’s wrong to be so unhealthy but who did this digital weighing scale think it was to give me health tips ?? I proceeded to get on and off it, so much so that some of the other new members at the gym thought it was a new piece of exercise equipment. The machine kept giving the same message though, until after about 50 reps it became ‘ERR’. So now it was mocking me! I persevered, and after what must have been my best wrk out in yeras the ‘ERR’ too began fading into nothingness until the screen went completely blank. Yes! Deepak 1, Evil Weighing Machine 0. And that, my friends is the end of my wonderful day. The fat lady (yes, that very same one I physically molested that morning) has sung.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise then that the following morning the song on my lips was ‘Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow’, with the ‘yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone’ sung with particular joy, happiness and relief. Of course, to you it would have still sounded like , ‘Garble bargling garblow’……..

Safety Policy

a song that will tug at you heart strings



'There comes a time, (ever so rarely)


When I heed a certain call,


When the world must come together as one, (and visit blissinswiss.blogspot.com)


There are people dying, ( to read my blog)


And it's time to lend a hand to life,


The greatest gift of all...'





....Ok, getting a little too conceited aren't we? It must be this 'God' status I have recently acquired. Power and fame has got to my head. As Spidey puts it, 'with great power, comes great responsibility' , so I suppose that means it's time for another blogpost... (now, now, squelching, screaming and retching not allowed)


There comes a time when the blogger likes to sing (usually in the shower). There also comes a time when the blogger likes to refer to himself in the third person, but more on that later (but don't bet on it). Anyway, most of my last few days have been spent being jobless and so, I took time off from my jam packed schedule (being jobless is hard work!) to come up with this song. Now, before you begin thinking that it's a full on major self-composition and all, like A R Rahman, let me assure you I belong, very much, to the Anu Malik school of song composition which believes in pilfering and ripping off any hit (or non-hit) western song, adding a smattering of pelvic thrusts liberally and voila, we have Filmfare Award winning material with minimum effort. Jai Ho!!!


(To be sung to the tune of Fool's Garden's Lemon Tree)

I'm sitting here in the boring room

It's just another sunny weekday afternoon

I'm wasting my timeI got nothing to do

I'm hanging aroundI'm waiting for you

But nothing ever happens and I wonder....

I'm surfing around on my comp

I'm surfing too fast

I'm surfing too far

I'd like to change my point of view

I feel so lonelyI'm waiting for you

But nothing ever happens and I wonder....

I wonder howI wonder why

Yesterday you told me 'bout the new project to fly

And all that I can see is just a stupid safety policy

I'm turning my head up and down

I'm turning turning turning turning turning around

(I have swivel chair at my desk you see)

And all that I can read is just the damn safety policy

I'm sitting here

I miss the power

I'd like to go and take a shower

But there's no water in my room

I feel so tired

Put myself into bed

Well, nothing ever happens and I wonder.......

Isolation is not good for me

Isolation I don't want to read the safety policy

I'm steppin' out into the desert outside

And maybe I'll get a sunstroke ‘nd die

And nothing will ever happen and you wonder...

I wonder howI wonder why

Yesterday you told me 'bout the new project to fly

And all that I can see is just the stupid safety policy

I'm turning my head up and down

I'm turning turning turning turning turning around

(Warning: swivelling=fun+giddines)

And all that I can read is just the damn safety policy

And I wonder, wonder

I wonder howI wonder why

Yesterday you told me 'bout the new project to fly

And all that I can see, and all that I can see, and all that I can see

Is just the damn safety policy.............

My New Life's Philosophy

Hello again ! I am back !! Now before all of you start jumping up and down in glee, and dislocating your knees (or jump off your high rise apartment to plummet to your deaths as the case maybe), let me assure you that I haven't the faintest idea if this lame attempt to recussitate my blog, which sadly has been in a comatose state for a while now will bear fruit. It will take a ginormous effort of Munnabhai MBBSeque proportions to get this thing back and running.

Anyway before I begin recounting the sorrowful trials and travails of my life for your enjoyment, let me, as promised thank a certain Ms.Divi Nair who implored, begged, bribed and threatened her way into getting me to 'write something'. This post would still be silently gestating (without causing much labour pain may i add) if I wasn't convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that Divya's very existence depends totally and entirely on the words that flow out of my 0.5 Staedtler MARS777 (doesn't say much for Divya does it?). And the words aren't really flowing out, they are spluttering out in stops and starts accompanied by constant head tilting and 'hmmming' and 'haawing' much like a cross between a badly maintained Bajaj Chetak from 1975 and an aged horse on it's last legs (which funnily would be the same legs it started out with as a strapping young pony, but you get my point. I hope.). So I write this not as Descorpio86, he who shares mundane drivel from his oh-so-normal life but in essence as a life-giver, as Brahma if you will. With this newly acquired status conferred upon me by none other than myself I have decided, as the first act of my glorious existence to anoint the aforememntioned Divi Nair as my 'Fan No.1'. Which is a pity, because what I need right now is not a fan, but an air conditioner.

Since moving to Noida (Yes, my dear sympathisers and point-your-finger-and-laughers, NOIDA. If you think that's bad here's more. Noida is not some cute name for the place. It actually stands for New Okhla Industrial Development Area. Yeah, that's right, I am not staying in a city, town or even a village, but in an 'area'), it's been a long, hard and energy sapping struggle against the heat. Heat here is not just a feeling (as in 'I can feel the heat'). Here, the heat is alive! It can kill, moving silently among us, much like the 'monster' in Lost (ok...too much drama you think?). I can still clearly recall my first encounter with the NCR heat, mostly because the memory was seared onto the side of my brain, the side that stores painful memories, as I stepped out of the Jet Lite flight S232. The heat came rushing up and gave me one huge sucker punch smack in the middle of my already distorted face, blowing me off my feet and set me tumbling face first down those unbelievably rickety stairs-on-wheels thingies which are deemed safe only at airports. The wind was blowing with full gusto, but it wasn't a cool or refreshing wind. It was hot, dry and very likely to cause a sunstroke. Appropriately enough, this dastardly phenomenon is called the 'Loo', because it does make you feel absolutely 'shitty'. The shuttle ride from the plane was funny in a tragic sort of way in that the seats were too hot to sit on and the plastic from the handles was (or is it 'were'? I am confused..) slowly but surely melting and forming little yellow puddles on the floor of the bus. There was no point opening the windows and the air con wasn't working. A little part of me just died, or evaporated.

After this initial 'warming up' to the situation I basked in the lap of luxury for the next two weeks. An air conditioned car would take me from an air conditioned guest house to a centrally air conditioned office and back. Enquiries regarding my well-being and my coping of the heat were met with cheerful responses, no doubt tempered by the air, which at 24 degrees had been cooled and dehumidified for my thermal comfort. I was oblivious to the fact the Sun had declared jihad upon me, indeed as it does so annually in this region between the months of May and September, and was quite intent on boiling me into oblivion.

Then I moved into a PG. For those who use the words 'my life is a living hell' way too often, I prescribe a short stay in Noida. It will shut you up, or kill you (which should in all probability shut you up as well). Residents of Noida visit Hell to cool off ! ( Thus, saying 'go to hell' to a Noidawalla results in much mirth and merriment for the latter) . The Uttar Pradesh Electricity Board obliged in giving me the 'fultu summer effect' by outing the power for the better part of the night. A severe case of shallow water drowning might have been registered with the Sector 56 police if I hadn't woken up just in the nick of time to find myself bubbling into a puddle of my own perspiration, smelling a lot like how I felt (kindly refer to earlier passages related to 'the toilet wind'). If this indeed had become a police matter, 'foul' play would definitely have been suspected. It gets so hot here that the air you breathe out is cooler than the air you take in, and post 6.00pm breathing feels more like eucalyptus steam inhalation therapy! With a tiny tweak. The eucalyptus is replaced by oil of the transformer variety. (Edit : So hot in fact, that my blood boils by the mere mentioning of it..hehe..)

A UP summer it is not without the almost suffocating prescence of the ubiquitous 'cooler'. You can buy one, rent one or lease one but steal one seems to be the preferred mode of acquiring possession. Names such as Polar, Icy, Artic, Snow, Freezy and MahaKool (yes, with a 'k') do the rounds, all of them conjuring up pictures of polar bears gracefully doing the ballet in slow motion on the Arctic Ice Cap while penguins gently serenade them. The name belies it's true purpose as an instrument of torture, and this indeed has confused very many UP bhayyas. What this 'thing' actually does is when filled with water (which has to be done every three minutes), heats this water up and then tries to fling it at your face hoping to cause at least Level 3 burns. So, now my room is not just hot, it is also humid. That does have it's positives. You know those television ads which ask you to 'feel' the experience? Well, thats exactly happened yesterday, while I watched some mindless Chuck Norris nonsense on HBO, Braddock : Avenge of The Some Shit or the Other (Part 3, no less). As Norris, sweated bullets to find his illegetimate son and wife and save them from the Vietnamese tyrants, all the while being chased by the CIA, I felt like I was in the trenches too searching for my own ba*&^rd child as my 'cooler' recreated to perfection the hot and humid climes of 'Nam, complete with an all pervading sense of death and decay.

Given these circumstances, can you be surprised that there's been a change in the philosophy by which I live my life ? It happens to all of us at some point or the other. A moment that makes us see the light. Such events act as a catalyst for a catharsis. I've seen this sea change in many of my fellow Paying Guests (unfortunately, you'll shortly find out just how unfortunate). This new outlook on life is best described by that great American poet, Nelly :

Its gettin hot in herre (so hot) { Note the 2 'R's}

So take off all your clothes (eh)
(Background voice: uh uh uh uh uh)
I am gettin too hot, I wanna take my clothes off

(repeat, many many times over, till the power comes back)

[Edit : There! I hope those words randomly strung together tickled your funny bone. Don't forget to leave comments with raves or rants!! ]

Crazy Night, Part Zwei -- The Craziness Continues

If you haven't read part one, you can do that here .


So, where was I? Aah yes, I had chills down my spine after my driver decided to go all 'filmy' on me. We proceeded to his car. I was offered the front seat but I politely declined. If I was going to have my mouth slit into a wide grin I was making sure I knew about it. No stabbing me behind my back, thank you very much. If I was going down, it was going to be with a fight. Why I didn't just not get into the taxi I'll never know.


If I wasn't tense enough to begin with, we began heading towards Luzern, where I had just returned from!The driver didn't seem overly concerned about the preservation of his own life either. He was racing along the highway, animatedly discussing something with my co-passenger, his arms flailing wildly in what seemed to be his best impression of an octopus writhing in pain on having six of it's eight tentacles cut off. I was fairly certain the end was near. When we entered a dark tunnel, I hoped against hope I'd survive to see the 'light' at the end of it. Maybe they were discussing how best to dispose my body? Being a fan of crime shows on TV didn't help me one bit. I thought of all the possible ways in which they could make my remains 'disappear'. I thought of the possible mistakes they could commit which would lead to the discovery of my body and how the Swiss police could trace it back to them. Yes, I had an episode of CSI running through my head, with my obliterated body as the show's centre-piece. In fact, I was so embroiled in my own macabre thoughts that if the driver did something stupid like spit on me I would have inadvertently berated him for his stupidity and carelessness. I would have then probably gone on to tell him how to do it right, how to make sure he wouldn't be caught.


My poor head, almost at bursting point, finally received some respite when we dropped the other guy at a seedy looking hotel. But Mr.Respite didn't stay for very long. I thought he would take me home next. Uncle Cabbie had other plans. Our next stop was this bar in G0d Knows Where. We waited for like forever , and just as I began getting the heebie-jeebies again, out stumbled our next two passengers. One was a waitress who worked there. The other was very drunk. We dropped off the drunk at God Forsaken Place and continued on the highway, now speeding towards Basel, another place that WAS NOT my home.


'Wow! Crazy night.' I thought to myself, and just as the thought left my head, things got a little crazier. We came across a girl, with her pants down to her knees sprawled across the side of the road surrounded by three fairly sinister looking guys. We felt obliged to stop and check if everything was alright, but Waitress, who turned out to be quite the firebrand jumped out of the moving car screaming, 'Damsel in distress! Damsel in distress!' in German. I suppose she felt morally responsible for all the drunks on the road. By the time me and driver reached the spot, Naked Girl's pants were back where pants rightfully should be and she was vomiting her guts out on the road. One of the 'sinister looking guys' happened to be her boyfriend, but the only part that rang true about that was the boy part. Letting the poor girl get so drunk that she developed a healthy disregard for clothes and think that jumping out of moving vehicles to fall face first on the curb to be a brilliant idea didn't strike me as being particularly 'friend'ly . The other two punks were helpful strangers like us.


Glad that things had been sorted out we began trudging back towards the car when Waitress decided to pick a fight with one of the Helpful Punks, and proceeded to practice her punches and slaps on his face. The driver on seeing this began seething, and foaming at the mouth. 'Oh this woman!! So aggressive she is. Always getting into trouble. Oh, this woman! Mmmmm....AAArghhh...' , exclaimed the driver in what I assume was an exasperated tone. All I could do was stand and stare in amazement at the scene that was unfolding before me. Why on Earth did the driver continue torturing himself by taking this crazy woman home every night if he knew that she was as mad as a hatter?! Helpful Punk, on the other hand seemed quite stoic about the whole thing after some initial resistance on his part. Quite chivalrous I thought. Not laying hands on the woman. What a noble thing to do. I would have thought otherwise had I known then that he planned to return the favour to the two men accompanying her, me and my new best friend, the man who I thought was out to murder me, the poor driver. It is indeed true that tough situations bring people together.


The punk inched his way slowly, towards us. 'Is this your girl ?' , he asked the driver in an ominous tone. The driver shook his head vehemently. The punk turned towards me next. ' No, of course not ! Do I look like I can handle a crazy, insane woman like her ?!' , is what I wanted to say, but my German wasn't good enough. The only German that was in my head right then were two words which would have ensured that I got beaten to pulp and got my head carved out like a Halloween pumpkin :'Genau' and 'Yahwol' (because both words meant 'yes, you are absolutely right'). I wanted to stick my head into the sand like an ostrich but I was surrounded by a sea of brick and concrete. I imitated the driver and we both did our best to pry the woman off the punk, stuff her into the back seat of the car. Then, just like in the cartoons, we sped away leaving behind a trail of smoke and dust.


Luckily the 'Patron Saint of the Drunks' didn't have to offer her services anymore that night. We managed to drop her back home in one piece, after which both me and the driver let out a collective sigh of relief. I was the only passenger left now. He had no choice but to drop me off next. I wistfully thought of the bed awaiting me at home. The driver was going on and on about old Swiss houses he was doing something to protect but I was too sleepy to care. I just wanted to get back.As we got closer and closer to the final destination for the evening, I got sleepier and sleepier. And then the car stopped.


I woke up to a blinding light pointed straight at my eyes. Felt like an alien abduction. It was just the police. First they asked for Pablo's ( see, now I know his name. I told you we were friends.) license. We had a mini archaeological dig inside the car as Pablo excavated through layers and layers of junk on his dashboard to finally come out, almost magically with his license. If you didn't know better, you would think he was David Copperfield performing his most astounding trick. The police seemed suitably impressed as well because they turned to me next. 'You don't seem Swiss. Where is your identification?'


It was at home of course. Who carries their passports to watch a movie? I thought buying a ticket would suffice. The only form of ID I had on me was my GA card, and guess what?! Your rail pass serves as an ID in Switzerland! So one of them took it to the squad car and began speaking into the police radio. I was visibly uncomfortable about the whole situation because not only were the police discussing me and my personal details,but I was also on the verge of dropping to sleep and I still had a bloody bright torch aimed straight at my face! Pablo tried his best to comfort me, in what I thought was his attempt at comedy. 'Don't worry. They are just checking if you are a murderer or rapper', he said. He obviously didn't think much of rap and he had a lame sense of humour as well. Wow, we had more in common than I initially thought. ' You don't do rap no?' , he continued, half jokingly. 'No, no', I said, half sniggering, half sleepily mumbling,' I listen to rock'. Now it was his turn to be confused. 'No, no, no', he said, ' You don't know rap? The having of the unwanted sex?!'. (In case some of you are reading this half asleep as well {well, my stories do serve as good bedtime stories..they are sure to put you to sleep} , he meant rape)


My response didn't change though. I don't rap, and I don't rape either. The light was finally focused somewhere other than my face and at long last, we were allowed to leave. Fortunately, there were no more adventures during the five minutes it took to get me home from there. I don't think my bird brain could have handled much more. So, if you are an adrenaline junkie with a thirst for adventure and find yourself stuck at Zurich railway station, call 079 669 33 18 and ask for Pablo.


Pheeew!!! Long post no? I hope it managed to capture your interest all the way through.....

Crazy Night, Part One -- Midnight at Haupbahnof

So, there I was at an 12.30 am, at an unusually empty and eerily quiet Bahnof,like one of the scenes from the Matrix trilogy. I awaited Agent Smith, to come crashing out from one of the tunnel walls and do his computer generated stunts on me. Confused? Feel like you have jumped into the middle of a narration with no idea what happened earlier? Right. Flashback time.


Flashback to a few hours before :

I had been to Luzern to watch the Dark Knight, a movie which leaves you all quiet and contemplative, unlike other superhero movies which make you want to wear your briefs over your spandex pants, tie a bedsheet around your neck and jump off the closest skyscraper hoping that you've been bitten by some hybrid spider species. I bid adieu to Sarah (the afore mentioned friend whose directorial debut was a resounding success) and caught the last train back to Zürich. From there I'd have trains to take me back home all night long, or so I thought.

If anybody working at SBB is reading this blog,' Dude/ Dudette, DO SOMETHING about the timetables to my place! The trains arrive Zurich just in time for me to make a full fledged Usain Bolt-like dash to my platform to see my connection slowly chug out. If not, I am going to start saying that my trains to Zurich are always 30-90 seconds late and you wouldn't want me to commit sacrilege like that which means eternal damnation for you now would you?' So anyway, I missed my train by fractions of milli seconds, AGAIN, but I was not worried. There would be one more in less than an hour. I just needed to buy a night pass. The station though was unbelievably empty.


Back to the present :

I knew something weird was up. Usually there are more people at the Zurich main station than there are in all of New Zealand! But today, there were just 7-8 people other than me, all equally lost and looking dazed. The time tables showed no trains. What happened? What was wrong? Was there a nuclear holocaust? Had zombies taken over Zurich? I sighted a solitary ticket checker in the distance, on her way back home. I accosted her and enquired why the time table for the night trains were not displayed, rather haughtily I must say because now that I am Swiss I expect everything to be in near-perfect order. She obviously didn't like my tone or think much of my 'Swissness' because she took great pleasure in responding that the night trains don't operate on weeknights and ended with a half-snigger and half evil laugh which basically meant,' Your F***ED'.


Resigned to the fact of having to spend the night at the station I scouted for benches to sleep on. The stone bench could definitely freeze the balls off a brass monkey (oh, 12th std. English lessons with Poo memories full full coming). The metal one left a pattern of checks on my cheek which on the next day might inspire someone to solve the sudoku or crossword on my face. Draw one or two cartoons (Garfield and Calvin and Hobbes if I had the choice) on my other cheek and put in a gossip headline on my forehead and I'd become the most popular tabloid around. If you know me, you know that I have this amazing capacity to sleep. I can beat Rip Van Vinkle to pulp if I wanted to. I've slept through earthquakes, slept standing and once, even in mid-sentence! So, I figured it's best I sleep on the platform on which my first train back is. I didn't want to miss it as I was in the middle of a marathon test to determine whether I would be offered a long term position at my company.


On my way to the time table to check and re-check a hundred and one times (for want of nothing better to do) when my train was, I was ambushed by a man who proceeded to assault me with a slew of German words, of which I understood not a single one. When he finally realised I understood as much German as the Queen, he switched to English (I wont use the Queen's name in vain here as his English was definitely not the Queen's English). 'You miss train ?', he asked. I answered in the affirmative. 'Where you stay? You want taxi back home?' The idea of a bed seemed very inviting right then and so I said yes, if the price was reasonable. He offered me a 50% discount as I was a student. That reduced the fare to 'just' 60CHF (about 2400INR).

He then proceeded to ask other fellow stranded folk if they wanted a ride back home. He got one new customer. He offered to reduce my fare by five franks if he could drop off the other chap first. Being the scrooge I am, I readily agreed, little knowing of the epic proportions of the journey I was about to undertake. What did strike me as unusual was that the two of them got quite pally, regaling each other with what seemed to be extremely funny recounts of their lives. Swiss strangers are polite and distant. They don't even like sitting next to each other on the train, going so far as to plonk their bags and belongings on all the surrunding seats, just in case, God forbid, someone sat beside them. What they are not, are chummy like these two were. Just returning from a screening of the Dark Knight didn't help. Scenes of chaos and anarchy were running through my head. Were these, two crooks out to get me? Would they just take me somewhere deserted and run away with all my money and leave me for dead? My face puckered up, my brain was lost in a sea of morbid thoughts. What brought me joltingly back to the present was a question the driver posed, and although he didn't say it with the same raspy tone or with any of the blood curdling lip smacking in Heath Ledger's performance, those three words almost terrified the living daylights out of me. ' Why so serious?'

To be continued.....