Yours Whimsically - Part 16: 'A Century Is Not Enough'

It is not possible to talk about Indian cricket without talking of Sourav Ganguly. Being a 90s kid, my earliest recollection of watching the game begins roughly at the turn of the millennium. History says this was a tumultuous time in world cricket, what with Hansie Cronje’s match-fixing scandal and a shadow cast even on Indian cricket. It was in such circumstances that a certain Sourav Ganguly was asked to lead the Indian team. The rest, as they say, is history. The turn-around in Indian cricket can largely be attributed to one personality. As a fan, I pre-ordered his autobiography, and read it – at record speed – the day, rather the afternoon, it arrived. (The previous book I read in a day was Chetan Bhagat’s ‘2 States’.)

Ganguly played at the same time as Tendulkar and Dravid. While Tendulkar was already a household name, Dravid and Ganguly started their careers simultaneously. Sachin was a statesman and Dravid, a gentleman, Ganguly chose aggression and attitude, thus defining the character of the team he led and more importantly, built. Much is written these days about Kohli’s raw aggression, which rubs off on the team. This mindset of taking the attack to the opposition is perhaps Ganguly’s greatest legacy to Indian cricket.

When Tendulkar’s autobiography “Playing It My Way” was released, there was much hype, primarily because for many, it was the ‘word of God’. Personally, I was disappointed with the book. It was like reading match-report after match-report, except for the fact that they were written in first person. Moreover, Tendulkar seemed ‘destined’ to succeed. A child prodigy from the famed ‘Mumbai School of batting’, he piled success after success. While the country celebrated those successes, they do not make a great story to tell. Even more so because much of what is said in the book was already public knowledge. Apart from brief insights into Sachin – the family man, the book had little new to offer.

With this at the back of my mind, I expected Ganguly’s “A Century Is Not Enough” to be a lot more candid and colorful, like his character and career.

Many would want to believe that Dada’s career began with a century at Lord’s. However, it was four years earlier in Australia that Ganguly made his disastrous ODI debut. Having scored only 3, it was almost curtains down on his career. Ganguly fought back, making runs in the domestic circuit, forcing his way into the Test team. This ‘never say die’ attitude, which defined his career, forms the core of this book.

For most readers, Ganguly’s view on the Greg Chappell era would be the most awaited part of the book. And Dada does not disappoint. What is a revelation, however, is that it was Ganguly who suggested Chappell’s name for the job, having briefly interacted with him before the 2003-04 tour of Australia. In fact, it was perhaps this stint which proved instrumental in the successful tour Down Under. Unfortunately, for Dada and Indian cricket, this phase proved to be the lowest phase. A winning captain was sacked from captaincy and dropped from the team. Even a century in the previous series was not enough to earn him a place in the playing eleven. Team India’s most successful captain had to fight for his spot in the team and prove himself by playing domestic tournaments. Despite suggestions from his father to hang his boots up, it was Ganguly’s attitude and pride which kept him going, having the last laugh in the “Ganguly – Guru Greg” saga.

Ganguly interweaves the narration of his struggles and successes with tidbits of philosophy, relevant not only to sportspersons but to anybody else as well. It is this which makes it an enriching experience. His pride is evident when he talks of the team he built, talents he helped nurture or when he discusses his contributions/performances. He is very candid and does not hesitate to share that when he was dropped, he felt an increasing sense of pessimism at every Indian victory. Or for that matter, his expectations soared high when Tendulkar resigned as captain. It is this forthrightness which adds flavor to the book.

The otherwise candid Dada, however, does not delve deep into the “Monkeygate” Test or the controversial Multan declaration, with Sachin on 194*. We will perhaps have to wait for Dravid’s autobiography to know the entire saga. Also, Ganguly deals with cricket and cricket only, giving very little insight into Ganguly the person, off the field. Another aspect which I feel is a drawback is he falls short on details – even while describing the historical 2001 Eden Gardens Test, the 2003-04 tour of Australia or the 2003 World Cup. A little more depth into his approach to the game as captain and the team as a unit would have made the book more rounded.

For a cricket fan, Ganguly infused the team with raw energy and passion, backing his team mates – giving up his opening slot to promote Viru into the destructive batsman he became, for instance. In short, he redefined captaincy and leadership. Sourav Ganguly went from being just another guy from a middle-class Bengali family to captaining Team India, “the most coveted job after the Indian Prime Minister”. More importantly, he struggled. He had his share of demons – internal and external – to vanquish on his path to success. It is unfortunate that the World Cup eluded him. It is this ‘humanness’ which makes the Ganguly-story endearing, prompting us to turn the pages of "A Century Is Not Enough".

Yours Whimsically - Part 15: A Sunday Siesta

Of all the little things I enjoy, nothing compares to the joy and tranquility of a nap on a Sunday afternoon. Frankly, it need not be a Sunday. The title is given simply because it sounds better than a ‘Monday siesta’ or a ‘Thursday siesta’. All you need in order to enjoy one is the ‘art of doing nothing’. You cannot enjoy a siesta when you have work either prior to or following it. It is akin to meditation. You need to zero in on your objective and let it take over. (The zero is an interesting concept. Zero or Shoonya means ‘nothing’. However, it can also mean the all-encompassing. Shoonya can be none and whole at the same time!) A siesta is best enjoyed when you have nothing to do, allowing it to engulf you entirely.

Living in a hostel teaches you many life skills. Of the few I have learnt, I surely count appreciating the beauty of a siesta to be one. Prior to being a hostelite, I used to scorn those who lazed their way through Sunday afternoons. The tables have turned and I now absolutely appreciate the value of sleep, surrendering to it as and when it demands, especially in those golden moments on beautiful afternoons.

Having been a hostelite for more than four years now, Sundays at home and in the hostel move along similar trajectories; the only difference being, perhaps, the food. At home, a Sunday usually opens with the false alarm of the maid having arrived, forcing my brother and me to wake up. Such honour is not bestowed even upon guests who arrive not so frequently. With a cup of coffee, the next couple of hours are spent reading the newspapers, which switch hands between Dad, brother and me, while Mom is busy making breakfast. Dad is an ace at taking his afternoon naps in the morning, especially with the TV switched on!

A heavy lunch on a Sunday is just the right prelude to a siesta. If it is ragi mudde, need I say more? Wash the lunch down with a glass of buttermilk and the stage is set. Eyes droop, mental activity decreases while voices on the TV become a drone. I unroll a mat, place my head on the pillow, wrap myself in a blanket and ever so slowly, slip into blissful oblivion. Unless there are pressing commitments or (unwelcome) visitors, this siesta can stretch upto three hours. Nobody is complaining about it, is there?

In the hostel, since Saturday ends late – or even if it doesn’t – dawn does not break until near-noon on Sunday. Having missed breakfast, lunch is the first meal of the day (like most other days!). Often, conversations at the table are spicier than the food itself. Having downed a fresh lime soda, we friends disperse along separate ways. I return with my copy of The Hindu. 

A warm breeze blows through the window as I settle down to read the paper. It does take a lot of time to read the elaborately structured Sunday edition. Lying down to read the last few pages of the paper, I already sense my eyes becoming a little heavy. There is a buzz as a stray housefly flits around the room, looking for an exit. I spread a thin blanket over myself and pick up the book placed next to my pillow. A beautiful line forces me to stop reading and reflect upon it. I look up at the fan which has been gently whirring all this while. Spotlessly clean. I thank the housekeeping for having done a good job. There’s a myna at the window, chirping away, piercing the silence of an otherwise still afternoon. A few seconds later, it flies away and everything is static once more. The housefly is no longer in the room. The line has just triggered an insight. I sense it bubbling upwards. However, much before it reaches the surface, sleep takes over. The book is on my chest, in a loving embrace. The spectacles remain perched on the nose.

Siesta and I exchange pleasantries. I still perceive the world outside, though faintly. Steadily, Siesta overpowers me. One by one, the senses shut off. At the height of our communion, I do not realise the incessant howling of dogs below the window. I am oblivious to the vibration of my phone. It takes a very brief power cut to break the spell. Siesta has lost her magic. I feel my senses returning and yet, I find myself resisting their return. It is my friend’s knock on the door which finally wakes me up in time for the evening coffee.

Despite knowing that we'll meet again in a week's time or perhaps even before that, I bid farewell to Siesta with a heavy heart. Siesta disappears through the door as caffeine enters the system, leaving memories and expectations in her wake. 

Yours Whimsically – Part 14: All for an experience

If anybody asks me about my outlook towards life (not that anybody would care, though), I say it is a constant search for new experiences. It is akin to catching a butterfly. You see it and approach closer to grab it. Ultimately, all you are left with is a smear of the color, until you wash it off. Spiritual people try gaining new experiences, new highs by meditation; some even try weed and other hallucinogens. Normal men and women try different things – art, music, books, travel; some even try weed and other hallucinogens.

Since I have decided not to continue in academia and/or research, a certificate from participating in a scientific conference does little to better my profile, or so I believe. However, my search for new experiences (and some peer pressure) resulted in my friend and I travelling all the way to Gujarat. This gave me a chance to see vikas as well and I jumped in.

Let’s get the boring bit out of the way. The conference was a good learning experience. I had never attended one before, apart from those which happen in our institute where the main incentive is food. I felt I was able to appreciate this conference, on ecology, better. There were a few eminent speakers. Food was good too, except that a south Indian like me found it blasphemous to eat sweet sambar! However, a trip to the Lakshmi Vilas Palace, where parts of Grand Masti were filmed, remained unfulfilled on the wish list.

Events took an interesting turn towards the end when we decided to return by train. Given that the journey was over thirty hours, we made a sensible enough decision of booking 3AC tickets, for which we were waitlisted. Having received no confirmation even on the day previous to the journey, we tried our luck booking ‘Tatkal’ tickets. And we failed. On the day of the journey, we tried again for tickets in the ‘Sleeper’ class for a train which was, technically, the next day. Only, we were waitlisted – even on Tatkal bookings. It was in this situation that we decided to tour Champaner, where Lagaan was shot. (The roads are good, I must say.) All through the journey, we were anxiously checking the app to see if either of the bookings – 3AC and Sleeper – was confirmed.

Luck seemed to be on our side, with us climbing ranks in the waiting list. Not for long. We ran out of luck just when our names were listed 1 and 2 on the 3AC waiting list. The sleeper was hopeless as well, with us listed near 20. I wondered if we had woken up on the right side of the bed that day.

It was a leap of faith that evening when we decided to check-out of the hotel. The train stopped for less than 10 minutes at the station. We would get atleast one seat in the AC coach, surely? If not, we would ‘plead’ with the TTE to make some arrangement. We could play the 'helpless student' card, having a thirty-plus hour journey on the cards. Sadly, none of it worked. However, the TTE suggested that we could board the sleeper coach, provided we paid a penalty. Having very less time to weigh our decision, we emptied our wallets and boarded the train, with two pieces of luggage each. 

Aboard the sleeper coach, for the first time in recent memory, I was at the receiving end of judgmental looks! ‘Look at these people. How brazenly they step into the coach with such luggage even when they have no tickets. There is so much wrong with this generation’ those looks said. Some even went to the extent of saying it aloud. People were reluctant to even allow us space for the heavy luggage, while we decided to spend the journey standing by the toilets. I almost lost faith in humanity!

The toilets stank, their stench wafting into our faces everytime one of the passengers opened the door. The shoulders ached from the weight of the bags. If this was the condition at the beginning of the journey, what would our plight be at the end of thirty-odd hours? Besides, there was little or no money left with either of us. Could we sustain ourselves? Would we sleep in turns? Would we be able to sleep at all? Panic seemed to be overtaking the thought process by the minute. Yet, there was a part of the brain which kept happily recording these events, knowing it would make a story worth sharing. 

Forty-five minutes into this journey, I already felt my mental resources being sapped. It seemed less of a train journey and more like a Bigg Boss task. That was when luck embraced us. A message on my friend’s phone said our ‘Tatkal’ tickets were confirmed. The next station was ten minutes away. We decided to get down at the station and wait to board the train when it passed through. A messenger from above (I saw a halo around his head) in the form of a TTE advised us to return to the station from where we had booked our journey, to prevent losing our seats. We received a jolt when the ATM at the station was out of cash. After rummaging through the bag, my friend found just enough money to buy us return tickets.

When we finally boarded our train back to college, there was nobody to look down upon us. More so because we had both upper berths and most of the other passengers were fast asleep! We walked with pride - and relief - to claim what was rightfully ours. It was now our turn to judge people who came in as passengers on an unreserved ticket. The toilets were bad here too, though we didn’t have to face the brunt every other minute. I spent the greater part of the journey sleeping, thinking of how to put this story across.

Just when the story seemed to be heading towards a happy ending, our train, in all likelihood, ran over a person on the track. There’s nothing to confirm this story apart from circumstantial screams from onlookers and the fact that my friend saw something very close to the track, from the window.

It is not my intention to end this piece on such a shocking note. However, that’s how this ‘search for experience’ ended.

P.S: I don’t seem to run out of adventures. Just when life was getting back to normalcy, there’s a rat in the room. I tried playing Bond to drive it away from wherever it’s hiding. I don’t know if I’ve been successful. 

Yours Whimsically - Part 13: An exercise in character building

Woah! Have I started writing about personality development? Not at all. I detest those self-help books: “How to make friends and influence people”, “7 Habits of highly effective people”, “The Secret” and the like. Quite a few of those are best-sellers, no doubt. You see them everywhere – from the roadside second-hand bookstore to the overpriced bookshop at airports. If you cannot teach yourself to be successful, no other book can. At least, that’s what I believe. I will not sermonize on character building. What do I know of it? So, do not let the title mislead you.

I belong to a Kannada-speaking Brahmin family from Bengaluru. No. I do not speak English in the exaggerated, stereotypical ‘Madrasi’ accent portrayed in Bollywood movies. However, there are other aspects of the South Indian stereotype I adhere to: I relish my sambar/rasam – rice and curd – rice meals. Because I am from Karnataka (“Kaveri is ours!”), I relish ragi mudde as well. I savor my filter coffee. Call me elitist for all I care, I appreciate Carnatic classical music. I delight in reading The Hindu and – very pertinent to this article – I enjoy watching Test cricket.

Among the people I closely interact, I have seen only a few who take delight in watching a Test match. ‘Who plays and who watches a game spread over five days when you have ODIs and T20s?’ they ask. Off-late, specially India have been playing a lot of cricket and all of it in the subcontinent. So, the result was known even before the match started. An Indian loss was an upset. That wasn’t good advertisement for the five-day game, I agree. However, now that India are travelling to South Africa, the game is bound to be engrossing. So, why wouldn’t one watch? At least for the next one-and-a-half to two years, the Indian cricket calendar looks interesting with a lot of ‘away’ series, though the result might not be to the liking of a die-hard Indian supporter.

I strongly feel we need to build up a case for Test cricket. The longer version of the game fails to be merely between bat and ball. It is played more on the minds of the players than on the greens. There is immense planning involved in setting up a batsman for a dismissal, say by placing a short-leg and constantly bouncing him for a few deliveries before rapping him on the pads or yorking him. You continue to persist in a certain line of attack until you get a dismissal. You foil the batsman’s game plan by standing up to the stumps and curtail his movement, frustrating him. There is a sense of beauty in Ravi Ashwin’s off-spinners to the left handers, with a couple of slips and a silly mid-off in position, before he unleashes a carrom ball. While ODIs and T20s are heavily skewed in favor of batsmen and brute force (with judicious amounts of skill), I find Tests more evenly balanced. It relies much more on skill than the other two. 

I look at Test cricket as an exercise in character building, offering invaluable life lessons. You cannot win a Test by having just one proverbial good day in office. It is the cumulative effort over five days which ultimately bears fruit. That said, the match can swing from one team to the other over sessions. You cannot win the war by disregarding the battles, can you? More importantly, there is always a chance of reviving your fortunes, only if you believe in yourself. The 2001 Eden Gardens Test between India and Australia is perhaps the greatest example of this. More importantly, that five full days of cricket can end in a draw is itself an illustration of the fact that our actions do not always lead to tangible results. Isn’t this in line with the philosophy of the Gita where Krishna asks Arjuna to do his work, irrespective of what the result is going to be?

A player like Dravid had immense mental reserves to draw from while he batted session after session, facing hostile bowling attacks, earning him the sobriquet ‘The Wall’. Not only do you need to concentrate on every delivery, you also need to push yourself physically in not-always-friendly conditions.  Very often, you bat patiently for that one loose delivery every now and then, tiring out the bowlers, before you gain momentum. It is a real treat to watch a batsman defend himself, putting a price on his wicket against an aggressive opposition. It is a classic case of who blinks first. Though clichéd, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. This is a luxury limited overs cricket does not offer.  

In this recently concluded Test against South Africa, there was another character on display by A B de Villiers. An explosive batsman in the shorter formats, A B played a subdued innings, quite unlike himself, waiting for the conditions to get better. In fact, his innings of trying to stonewall the Indian bowling in a valiant attempt to save the test on their last tour of India is still fresh in memory. It is this adaptability and temperament as a player which makes A B indispensable to the team.

Despite so much on offer in five full days of Test cricket, there is clamor to reduce it to four days – for purely commercial and monetary reasons. In that case, a lot of games would end up in draws despite there being a strong possibility of a result. It takes lot more grit and character to bat on a fifth day wicket, saving the Test, than in any four-day game. It is unfortunate that travelling teams are not competitive enough anymore. But then, that doesn’t take away from the charm of a Test match. This series, where the Indian bowlers have risen to the occasion might just be early signs of revival of quality Test cricket (I am being hopeful). There is no need to tweak the format.

In the days of e-mail, WhatsApp and instant gratification on social media, a Test match is like the romantic idea of a hand-written letter. Let Test cricket be. 

Yours Whimsically - Part 12: 2017: A Retrospect

At a loss for ideas, I sit before the laptop thinking of what I should write. ‘This is not new’ I tell myself. I have always oscillated between periods of high output (in terms of quantity, if not always quality!) and writer’s block. The first couple of times I was hit by such a block, I didn’t know how to react. Now, I greet it like an old friend or an uninvited guest. I am happy to meet it because I know it will only do me good at the end of it. I draw comfort from the fact that it won’t stay forever.

This time, however, I decided to try out a different strategy. I would just write. Maybe once I am get rid of all the garbage, all the rust, ideas and words would flow freely. I thought of this as a process similar to the therapy of ‘talking out’. It helps unclutter thoughts, I’ve heard. In fact, sometimes, when I seem to be heading nowhere, I have seen that just writing down my thoughts on a sheet of paper or my journal, as and when they arise helps me organize myself better. I wanted to see if it would help with my writing too. So here I am.

I’ve decided I would write about the year that went by. That should be easiest – not much of a strain on the already-strained creative reserves. 2017 has left me with a lot of experiences, memories. It has given me much food for thought. However, I will write about the one thing that I did over the last one year with utmost sincerity – watching movies. If my count is right, I have watched no less than fifteen movies in the theatres last year, along with quite a few on the laptop, thanks to Amazon Prime.

‘Kehte hai ki agar kisi ko sachche dil se chaho toh puri kayanat usey tumse milane ki koshish main lag jaati hai’.

Into the final year of my college life, I have next-to-nothing in terms of coursework. Looking out for ways to utilize the time available, one fine day, I sat down to look at the Wiki page with the list of Bollywood movies releasing in 2017. I noted down the names of movies I would love to watch – predominantly based on the star cast: If the movie had SRK, Nawaz or Vidya, I had to watch it. Then, there was SLB’s visual treat ‘Padmavati’. Also, Amitabh’s ‘102 Not Out’ seemed interesting from the title. ‘Lipstick Under my Burkha’ seemed bold. Akshay Kumar’s ‘Toilet: Ek Prem Katha’s trailer was funny. It seemed like Bollywood had slated the release of these movies that year because I had a lot of time to spare. What’s more? There is a two-screen cinema hall – no less than a multiplex, in my opinion – very close to our campus, with tickets priced Rs. 80. Mr. Modi’s demonetization had opened the market for mobile wallets and they came up with amazing offers (cashbacks, mainly) to attract users (I am not sure if this is the achche din which was promised, though!). The universe did seem to be conspiring. Dutifully, I stuck the note with the titles on my study table – to serve as a constant reminder of my goals.

The first half of the year, when I still had to deal with coursework, resulted in me watching only three movies. The year began with ‘Raees’. It was double the fun because of SRK and Nawaz. Wisdom, in hindsight, says it was a regrettable decision. In fact, Wisdom had said so in foresight as well! However, low priced tickets didn’t pinch us hard. The other movie in the first half was ‘Begum Jaan’. That didn’t go down well either. The final movie was ‘Baahubali 2’. I don’t regret that, despite the movie being bad, because the essence of that plan was the company than the movie itself. However, I was faced with doubts. Had the universe conspired to foil my plans?

‘Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost’.

In the second half, a few friends and I watched a movie almost every other weekend. It became so regular an affair that we created a WhatsApp group titled, unimaginatively, ‘Movie Club’, where we shared trailers of prospective movies. At one point of time, I almost expected Book My Show to call me up on a Friday to ask if I needed tickets for the movie that weekend!

Funnily, among the seven of us on that group, it has only been me who has been to all movies; others missing out on one or the other, due to some reason. We watched ‘Mom’, ‘Jagga Jasoos’, ‘Bareilly ki Barfi’. We even watched ‘Jab Harry Met Sejal’ (and wished he hadn’t) as well as ‘Babumoshai Bandookbaaz’ and ‘Shubh Mangal Savdhan’. We aren’t intolerant. We watch movies of all kinds. Towards the end of the year, ‘Tumhari Sulu’ and ‘Qarib Qarib Singlle’ impressed us, while ‘Newton’ was perhaps the only thought provoking movie (and hence, rightly made the official entry to the Oscars). Sadly, ‘Padmavati’ couldn’t release in 2017. (Now, that’s intolerance for you.)

Into the final semester now, I am yet to sit down to make a similar list of must watch movies. Atleast the line-up for January seems clear – ‘Mukkabaaz’, ‘Padmaavat’ and ‘Padman’.

Back home, I will miss this freedom to watch movies and regret them if required, without feeling the pinch. Perhaps, one of the very few things I will be missing. Or so I would like to convince myself.

P.S: Don’t tell anyone. I watched ‘Tiger Zinda Hai’ as well! Shh!

Yours Whimsically - Part 11: A Personal Five-Year Plan

Do not go by the title, for what I am writing about wasn’t exactly planned, not unlike most events in life. At the end of four-and-a-half years of study at a premier educational institute in the country, I think there is no better time than now for reflection. If the writing seems like a conversation with myself, do not blame me. I am thinking out loud. The title says ‘whimsically’, after all!

Four and a half years is not a short time. Just to gain perspective: Tendulkar was still playing, Obama was President of the US, ISIS had not yet gained global prominence, Dhinchak Pooja was unheard of, humans were more important than cows and the Rs.1000 note was in transaction. (More locally, the hostel in which I am now did not exist!) I was at that crucial juncture in my life: choosing a career. I had just turned 18. Old enough to vote in elections, I was supposed to know what I wanted in life, wasn’t I? Armed now with the wisdom of hindsight, I can say that not many of us know for sure. Rather, let me speak for myself than making sweeping generalizations. I thought I knew the destination but I did not know how to get there.

I had a rough outline of what to do. IITs and NITs – those haloed institutions – had never been my target. My rankings in state entrance exams would not allow me to get into medical. Like every other eighteen year old in the country, I would get into engineering in one of the colleges in Bengaluru, get a degree at the end of four years and then decide on the course of life. Not many people from middle-class Indian families get into engineering because they are passionate about it. I had not considered basic sciences as an option and was not even aware of the existence of IISERs. A keen uncle and a design of fate combined to land me in IISER – Kolkata. Having fared badly in JEE mains (a formality), I was so confident of not clearing the IISER aptitude test that I did not bother thinking through the order of preference of IISERs during the document verification before the test. Perhaps, the only reason I chose this was because it was not mainstream and I had always wanted to stay in a hostel for some years (five years is a little too much, though); or if you believe some accounts in the familial circle, because I wanted to go visit Sourav Ganguly’s house!

Back home, my elder brother and I had studied in the same school and pre-university college, because of which recognition came without much effort. ‘Sustaining the recognition and creating my identity were because of my efforts’ I would convince myself. Now, here I was – in an institution a couple of thousand kilometers away, with a large chunk of population speaking a different language and having a different cuisine. I had always depended on my linguistic abilities, especially Kannada, in a quest for identity. Would it be of any help here? Or was my identity dependent on my brother? Though funny in hindsight, it was one of the earliest challenges I faced within myself in that transition from boyhood to being an adult.  

This is a science institute. There were people who said physics and football were their passions – two things I never got a complete hang of! People were haggling over a couple of marks in some exam. ‘It is a matter of principle, not marks’ they justified. Yet there I was, hovering around an eight-point, at peace with myself. Was I being laid back? Or was I losing my ‘competitive edge’? Or was it all I was capable of? In a batch of nearly hundred and fifty, I would be an ‘also ran’ at the end of five years, at that rate. This quest for identity and search for safe spaces prompted me to join the Dramatics and Literary Clubs, which have given me wonderful friendships. One thing led to another and I made an identity for myself over the years and stepped back before I could unmake it (hopefully!).

My first year made me feel that a career in science was my life’s calling, pointers aside. I would be the first PhD recipient in my family. Meanwhile, people around me were making frantic attempts to get into summer internships. I gave into peer pressure and took up internships in my first two summers. It was then I decided that I did not want to build a life in academia or research. A PhD has become mainstream (or is this a case of ‘sour grapes’?). One should not get into a PhD simply because there seems to be no other option in sight at the end of graduation. My strengths, I believe, are different. Having given it some thought, I now have a clearer picture of where I want to see myself. While knowing what you want is important, knowing what you don’t want is equally, if not more, important.

During my stay here, I have seen the institute transform, in terms of infrastructure and ambience. Perhaps the only plan I have had is to gain new experiences. I tried serving in some capacity on the fest organizing committee and the student body. It was not entirely out of a sense of giving back to the institute. It was in part because of an attempt at understanding myself and creating my own space. This search led me to sign up for being a teaching assistant for the incoming batch this year. I thoroughly enjoyed it (though I am not sure if they did). I studied more than perhaps what I had studied in my first year, in my attempt to teach. It was this search for variety which made me take up the project I am pursuing for my thesis.

I have made friends, lost them and moved on.  There have been people who have taught valuable life lessons; moments that I cherish. I have met people who seem to have clearly chalked out plans of where they want to intern in which year – a clear roadmap. I only wish I had that much clarity in the beginning. Sadly, I have also seen people who are over-competitive; people to who person to person relationships are transactional. I have seen discussions turning into fights and personal attacks. I have seen people isolating themselves in pockets, with people who echo their opinions and no space for difference. There is what I perceive to be a general decline in enthusiasm to contribute to anything in the institute. Are we losing a sense of community or is this overthinking? Are the priorities changing? Is it just a reflection of the increasing individualism in society, fueled by growing trends of instant gratification on social media? Am I attempting to make connections between two unrelated phenomena? How do we change the trend? These are questions to which I have no answer.

Five years in a hostel and we are equipped with a basic survival tool box, comprising of independence, responsibility and confidence (or so I would like to believe). However, will we be able to successfully put it into use while facing the real world? Will our degree actually show us the way? Will we actually realize what we desire? Only time will tell. When we finally step out of the institute a semester from now (hopefully!), will there be a sigh of relief? Or will it be a farewell with a heavy heart? The countdown has begun. 

The Spirit of Sandakphu - Part 3

This part of the narrative is dedicated to all those people who asked at different points of time why I had stopped writing this travelogue. I only hope that I take the narrative to its conclusion without much breaks in between.

Along with a few others, I had clearly strategized that we would walk a little ahead of the rest of the team while we were inside the Singalila National Park. That way, we would have an edge in spotting the red-panda, fate permitting. I started off quite well. However, owing perhaps to the strain of the previous day (and of course, my neglected fitness routine – a theme which shall repeat several times in this account), I conceded my lead within the first hour.

As fate would have it, we did not spot any red panda. Our success was limited to an odd hare here and a bird there. While we rested at one of our pit-stops in the middle of the trail, we could hear a bird call. As we strained ourselves to try and spot it, our attempt was disrupted by another group singing one of those Bollywood party songs as loud as possible while they walked. With them, went our chance of actually spotting any wildlife. Having had tasty momos upon exiting the national park, we continued on our trail. To be frank, this part of the trek was perhaps the most uneventful – except for those few moments in which I enjoyed the music of silence, in solitude. In the words of one of my co-trekkers, we were attempting to “capture silence” to carry with us forever.

Our destination, Kalipokhri/Kalapokhri, was a small village with a lake of the same name. It is named because of the black (kali) water found in the lake (pokhri, Nepali). Legend has it that the lake was formed from the imprint of Shiva’s right foot. It was evening when we reached there and a heavy fog blanketed the lake, reducing visibility. This gave an aura of mystery to the lake.

We spent the evening sitting around charcoal listening to stories. It was here that Sushant told us of a hilarious incident which had happened at the Sandakphu campsite. In one of the earlier groups Sushant had led, there was an Australian gentleman as well (the country has no significance with respect to the narrative, though). At the campsite, there are two types of tents. One for sleeping and the other is a toilet tent. The structure of the toilet tent is simple. It is merely a cloth covering the four sides around a pit, a couple of feet across and a few feet deep. (Using water in such cold climates is, perhaps, best avoided. Forget nationalism!) However, the skeleton of the tent is very fragile. Any excess pressure on any of the pillars propping the tent up can dislodge it. Our gentleman had to attend to his business in the middle of the night. Despite all warnings to the contrary, he held on to the poles heavily, causing the tent to fly away. Exposed to the winds at the wrong place and time, he dirtied the place around the pit, rather than easing his business into the pit! The tent was found a few feet away the next morning, fortunately.

The night sky at Kalipokhri (and at Sandakphu the next night) was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. My attempts at capturing them on my phone failed, telling me that it was more important to live the moment than collecting it for an unknown, unseen future. I recharged my powerbank so that I could sustain the phone – the camera – for the next two-and-a-half days until we descended to Gorkhey, after two nights in a tent. The idea of sleeping in a tent looked exciting. The toilet tents - even more so!

The next morning, the first thing on our agenda was to look at the Kalipokhri Lake. It turned out be a huge disappointment. All there was to the lake was some mass of water, with colourful Buddhist prayer flags crisscrossing it. From our makeshift viewpoint – on top of a half-constructed house – we could see our trail for the day. There was hint of snow along the road. We were told that that day’s trail – from Kalipokhri to Sandakphu – despite being the shortest (at around 7 kms), was the toughest part of the trek. Once we exited Kalipokhri after breakfast, our lunch would be served only after we reached Sandakphu. Were we up for the challenge?