Travel Diaries

Life in a cable car

Before this, the last time I sat in a cable car was when I said ‘Monto’ instead of ‘Mountain’.

Mom said I was so petrified that I peed in my pants and she had to wipe me clean and then sing a song to shut me up. I remember when I was small, we had been to Mahableshwar and I shat in my pants. She had to abandon her evening snack and find an innovative way to wipe me clean in the jungle. She took a plastic bag, filled in water, pricked a hole and cleaned me up. I have to say, she has patiently endeavored through each and every difficulty I caused. Wish I could get even a quarter of her patience; I would have been a happy man by now. My boss says I am the most restless person on earth. And I say, ‘Ok what else.’

So by now I took good care of my bowels and my mom peacefully enjoyed the scenery outside the cable car. We were 500 feet above ground level and everything looked like the Lilliputian empire. The tiny river bed was bordered with grayish white rocks and the Devdhar trees seemed like algae around the bed. The cable car tourist guide was a friendly chap and proudly gave a running commentary of the whole region. He spoke so fast that his words overlapped one another. And similar to our fear of heights the tourist couple in the car feared losing out on his content. They took active interest in his details. They were quite throughout the journey just like my mother’s unopened bhakti geet cds.

We were on our way to the Timber trail hotel in Simla which was located on the top of the hill. And the cable car was halfway there. Inside the car we were five of us, excluding the guide who was so thin that, if he hid behind the pole he would disappear. Through the window the setting sun looked beautiful and there was a constant breeze that brought the smell of wild berries. The birds flew below our car and were colorful. The whole experience was peaceful. By now even my dad was calm and loosened his hold of the handlebar.

Suddenly the cable car jerked, the honeymooners clasped each other, my dad’s temples flexed and my mom screamed. In shock I abruptly remembered the AXN reality show in which accident videos from around the globe were played. I could relate myself to them. Was I about to feature on it? And be a part of the causality Celebes? Would I come on TV and tell my audience about this horrific accident I visited and how I lost my arms and legs? But then I had no handy-cam, I only carried a digi-camera without the battery. My life was about to be hell.

But then like a god sent flash of light I saw a smile flash on the guide’s face. He stood up and asked us to calm down, to relax. He said there was nothing to be afraid of and it was only the ice being crushed on the rope under the wheels. He said that the temperature had fallen down so there was a light snow fall. There was a big sigh of relief.

We reached the hotel on top. The cable car door opened wide and everybody got off impatiently. I was the last one to get off; as I stepped out I thanked the guide and tipped him with a tener. He came close to me and said softly, ice can never stay on the rope, it wasn’t a snowfall.

I was quiet.

Travel Diaries

The happening in Manali

It was 5 degrees and I was not wearing a sweater. The only warmth I received was from the Ipod in my pocket, which had heated up due to 6 hours of non-stop play. We reached Manali, after checking out of Simla. The hotel we checked in once belonged to the English, and looked very much like the sets of an old British film. Quite relative, the place had been a British bank once upon a time, and now a 5 star inn by the Mahindras. Nothing new, everything comes under the real estate banner these days. You give them a chance and they’ll turn the Amazon forest into a resort with ayurvedic massage parlor and spa. And their advert headline would read ‘We have no branches’ (pun intended).

Speaking of which, there was an ancient ad poster on the lobby wall. In which a fair lady draped in a wedding gown stood raising her whiskey glass and the headline above her read, ‘Top class whiskey’. The Snow Mountain in the background made the poster picturesque. Later, on close observation realized the mountain top appeared over the glass, now was it supposed to replace the ice cubes or was it the visual play of the ‘top’? I had no clue

Meanwhile in the lobby, my mom was busy reading the activity board and my dad was finishing the room’s paper work. So, I lifted my ass to take a self help tour of the hotel. I reached the first floor and I walked through the aisle. The place seemed very familiar, like a past life regression. I felt I knew this place and I had seen everything around here before. I quite liked my new mental detour; it detached me from my previous thoughts of the ad campaign which I had to discuss with my art partner after returning back to Bombay. The ad campaign which was just a pain, a shit pile which fucked our heads since the time we sat down to brainstorm. The only thing under its alleged reason we did was have more alcohol and talk nonsense. So I continued walking into the black hole of my previous life regression. Both sides of the aisle were covered in blood red wallpaper. And a thick red carpet was spread out on the floor, so thick that it completely muted the footsteps. Even if someone sprinted towards me from behind I would not have budged.

As I walked past an open door, a light breeze blew at me. I looked inside and I saw a fat man watching TV. The memories poured in and I remembered this place. It was not previous birth nostalgia, but the same place where Barton Fink stayed, in the movie Barton Fink. The wallpapers were similar to the ones in the movie, so much that even the flowery design was the same. I had seen the movie twice in the office. And off course, I had come back home tired after work.

The events that followed in the next 3 days at Manali in my hotel were shocking. It had never happened before and whatever occurred was all true. In the night, I got up to pee; when I came back, my sleep was lost to the wallpaper in my room; it had peeled off from a corner. I got up and stuck it back. The same thing had happened with Barton in the movie. The next day I got up to get ready for our sight seeing program. Behind the bathroom door, there was a picture of a man skiing. Even in Barton Fink there was a poster in his room of a girl sitting on the beach and facing the sun. And in the final scene of the film, Barton meets an identical looking lady on an identical looking beach striking an identical pose.

We reached Rohtang pass and the snow had turned almost brown. Lots of people had flocked in and the place was filled with honeymooners and a few Marathi speaking tourist groups. For sure, Mumbaikars are everywhere and we make it a point to reach all heights.

A local chap came up to me and convinced me to put on the skiing gear. He then gave me a crash course, but I only kept crashing. So before I gave up, I allowed my mom to click my photograph. Unknowingly, I posed just like the man in the bathroom.

Random Diaries

We are attached to brothers and sisters

I couldn’t stop watching his face talk upside down on the glass table. The waiter had sprayed Colin and had shined the glass table. I could spot every detail of my friend’s face reflect on it, and had no attention left towards his career talks. The only thing I kept doing was, “Phuck”- the sound you make with your tongue kissing the upper jaw, to signify regret or discomfort. And again “Phuck”.

I am almost there, in making the greatest discovery of all times, the greatest invention ever made- revealing to all the hidden face of mankind- the face that showed up, and stayed along in what so ever. The face that lives buried under facial hair, under thick beard and even behind folded handkerchiefs and scarves at times. It still remains, and will continue to, from birth till death.

It’s called as ‘reversofaciodisorder’, the word I just coined. Its name can be worked out later by experts, but for the time being it’s just fine. You can even call it as foetus, or conjoined shit. But the point is everybody has one. It’s the less- than- half face we carry under our nose. It shares the same mouth and our chin is its nose. It hangs upside down from below nose to the chin. Ever seen your brother or sister hang in there? Go check it out in the mirror, or watch someone from a tilted angle. It surely would seem like one hell of a shocker (funny too).

When I saw this little freak on my friend’s face, I got zapped. I dint know, if I should tell him then. Was worried it could lose importance with a wrong timing. But I so wanted to inform him that, dude it’s not just us both in here, there’s someone else too. But I only said, “Phuck”.

So, what could be the reason behind this half thing, let’s call it ‘The Weird Half’. If you observe, it only has a fully formed mouth with intact lips and teeth, its nose is flattened and deformed (its nose means the reverse of our chin) and there is no face over it.

If you need help-

Maybe it could have been the way we were supposed to look, but god got a better design and so twisted, turned and molded it. But now that its half done up, you could as well try making it complete. Hang a pair of plastic eyes and forehead below your chin, click photos and see how it looks. Or just paint a moustache below your lower lip and give it a new look. Do whatever.

So, from now on you see a dead foetus, or a foetus face, no need to go, “Yuck” or “Awee”, simply remember you have someone hanging in there as well. Also the next time you say, “Just leave me alone”. You won’t be.

For now it’s simply, “Phuck”.

Random Diaries

Thank God for what? It’s a Sunday!

I have never enjoyed a Sunday morning. There is nothing that interests me and neither do I expect. The usual things that add to my hate list - sleep disturbance caused by emergency bladder release, The Mummy switching off the fan, and global warming heating up the room through open window. In spite of these I am pasted to my bed, trying to recall my unfinished dream, which is supposed to be that interesting bit we wait for, the climax, the part you could modify and then imagine. But unfortunately I don’t remember. And neither can we bookmark.

Just another irritation on a Sunday morning. Many a times, I get the Monday morning blues from Sundays itself. Just like how I get my Sunday deep sleep on Mondays.

Sunday facts- Today, Google celebrates the 40^th anniversary of Sesame Street- a well known TV show that had lots of entertainment and education for children. It used to come on TV every Sunday morning and was a super hit among kids and adults seeking change,

Very similar to our ‘Vikram aur Betaal’ and the “Jungle Book’ series with decades of public love attached. I can still connect to the joy of watching these shows and remember clapping my tiny hands whenever I saw Betaal fly off his back.

Speaking of which, we know that it’s very much human to move on and to get bored pretty soon. That’s why we have evolution, to escape getting bored of the same old stuff. Like how we get sick of old video game cartridges and G-I-Joes, we got bored of these TV shows as well. We then had new games, new hobbies, new channels, new friends and so on, so we waved a goodbye to these shows.

In that case why don’t we get over Sundays as well? It’s been centuries since we had a change. Why not have a new day now. Add one more day to the week that can assist Sundays and fulfill the cause of weekly offs. An eight day week sounds nice. A new day called Funday, which is the second half of a Sunday, so that we get extra hours to while away on weekends. And then no Mommy will ever off the fan and no dreams will ever shut shop. Also this would help against global warming and reduce pollution by a day.

The icing on the cake is. The government can get rich, so can I. The patents will be mine. So whatever the state earns in the second half, I’ll get my share. And henceforth I’ll never hate a Sunday again. Lest alone Mondays.