My Dream Jobs…………..

Date: June 10th 2002
Place: Trivandrum, Kerala, India
Time: 09:00 hours

I was wearing a deep blue full sleeve formal shirt with a silverish-grey colored formal trousers and a chic silver tie. My hairs were neat with a healthy bounce, thanks to the shampoo and my boots had a high shine. I needed to look good. After all who does not want to look good on the first day of your work life?

I wanted to be a software engineer from way back in 8th standard in 1993 when I discovered I was good in programming. On that summer day of 2002 my dream turned into a reality. The next few years were a great ride and it still continues. No, I have not won a Nobel Prize yet, not even filed for a patent yet; but the work keeps me interested and I guess I feel I am very much at the right place.

But then this blog is not about boring you with the details of what I do day in and day out. I am changed from a kid of standard 8th and today if I were to dream about choosing a profession, what will I pick?

Presenting to you, a one of kind countdown! A countdown of my dream jobs….. (Spoiler Alert: If you are already tired of your job, I suggest this is the time you quit reading….)

Rank #3: Wild Life Conservationist

I peer down from the helicopter window. Through the shallow cloud layers I see the river Mara. A great drama is being enacted. The river is muddy and has a sharp current. I look closely and I see numerous Wildebeests at the bank. Among the Wildebeests are many Zebras and Thomson Gazelles.

All the animals are piling on top of each other and their cries and grunts are growing louder and louder. The annual migration of 2 million strong mega herd has reached its last leg. Surely it is the most dramatic phase of the migration and I am in the planes of Kenya and Tanzania in East Africa where the herd of 1.5 million Wildebeests, 500,000 Zebras and 300,000 Thomson Gazelles would cross the mighty Mara River to reach the safe heaven of the Savannah grasslands. But the animals are scared. And there is a real reason for the scare.

As soon as the first Wildebeest jumps into the water the rest make a mad dash for it. From the Helicopter window I see the herd start its spectacular river crossing that happens each year. The heroic herbivores who have partaken in this marathon of over 800 km are now doing the final lap. But not before they get tested.

In blink of an eye a huge group of Nile Crocodiles appear from their watery camouflage. The herd is attacked from all sides by these powerful predators who have been patiently waiting for their turn to sink their dagger like teeth in to the herd’s flesh. As the crocs take a few victims, drown them, tear their bodies apart and chew on the flesh, the mega herd crosses by. The muddy river is now a full continuous line of thousands of animals crossing with their new born calves, mothers, alpha males and other members in search of greener grass. What a sight……

Welcome to Serengeti National Park, Tanzania. I work here as a wild life conservationist looking after this annual mega herd migration and seeing the biggest drama in the animal kingdom unfold in front of my eyes. I deal with lions, hippos, elephants, crocs, cape buffaloes and many herbivores and ensure that the planet never sees a day when these magnificent animals don’t roam it.

The world is full of amazing bio diversity. The outrageous Okavango Delta, the amazing Amazon Rain Forests, the eerie Gobi Desert, the fabulous Gangetic Delta of Sunderbans, the harsh Russian Siberia, the frigid Arctic…. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I don’t just sit and write stupid blogs about it, I strive to keep them in pristine conditions. I love my job!

Rank #2: Mountaineer

It is -17 degrees outside. The weather looks good. The group leader gets off the radio. It is a go from the Abruzzi Spur base camp! The team gathers around for one last time together. It is 05:00 hours and we may have full 14 hours of daylight to complete the ascent to the summit. We are 600 meters shy of the magic 8611 meter mark of the summit of K2.

The team is an experienced lot. We have 14 climbers from different parts of the world with one mission, to climb the toughest mountain on the face of the planet. The same team did the other extremely challenging climb of Mount Annapurna and the spirits are high. I am not marked a summiteer, which means I am not designated to reach the summit. I would be playing my part in the team so that the earmarked climbers can summit and the mission meets its objective.
Not every climber summits in a challenging climb like these. The team rallies around the most efficient climbers who are the chosen summiteers. You have to respect a mountain which claims one out of every four who try to climb it. You have to respect a mountain which has not let anyone conquer it in the winter months till date, a fate shared by only one more mountain- Mount Annapurna which this team has tamed in the past.

We work with extreme caution. We are at the final hurdle of the climb, the “Bottleneck”. It is an extremely narrow gully (couloirs) with major overhangs of ice columns (serac) that intersect the crevasses of the glaciers. One false step and the whole group’s safety would be compromised. We are now very much in the death zone, which means altitude in excess of 8000 meters, a dizzying altitude!

The view from here is surreal. The sun is bright and I can see white cotton cumulus clouds below me. Also below me is the rugged south face of K2 which goes right down to the Godwin Austin glacier. White snow and blue sky, the vastness of each just mesmerizes the beholder. Around me are the various Karakoram peaks, all wearing white coats of snow.

“We did it. We did it.” The radio shrieked. The voice was shrill and everyone in the team pumps their fists. We climbed K2. 6 of our team summit and finally we retrace our path to the camp. The feeling of achieving the summit is awesome. The dedication and the effort that we undertook dotted with courage and amazing sense of team spirit which made this possible fills me with deep satisfaction.

What next? There are so many above 8000 meter peaks to choose from; Makalu, Dhavalgiri, Kunchenjunga…. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I don’t just sit and write stupid blogs about it, I strive to summit them. I love my job!

Rank #1: International Cyclist

The team meeting was tense. I come out of the team tent and check my bike. It is a state of the art carbon fiber made one mean machine. I take a final sip of the energy drink and line my bike up with my team. We are in the final stage of the Tour-de-France. Today we are riding from Longjumeau to Paris over a distance of 105 km.

Our team has 16 riders; each one with a mission. Our number one rider is the one with the Yellow jersey, which means he is still the overall leader of the tour. However, he holds a wafer-thin margin over his closest competitor. Our team’s job is to ensure he protects his lead and reaches Paris as the winner of the tour. We have to put a good show against our closest opponent.

Our opponent team starts in great pace. 4 of their riders storm out and start at a brisk pace. Some of our riders go on hot pursuit of them. I continue in the peloton (the large group of riders riding together) riding just ahead of our number one guy. This ensures that I take the wind resistance and he rides with relatively less wind resistance. This is called drafting and it helps our number one conserve his energy for the final showdown in Paris’ cobblestones and tarmac.
We are cranking a decent pace and overall there is nothing to choose between us and our competition. I and my team take turns in staying just ahead of our guy giving him the benefit of drafting all the time. As we near Paris, the rural France is eaten up by the bustling metropolis’ suburbs. 20 km to finish!

The tempo rises steadily. Some teams drop behind. We are riding strong and fast. The race is reaching its finale. Finally at 2 km to finish line, our number one launches his final assault. He darts from the peloton towards the finish line. I along with a few more sprinters join him to protect him from the sides. Our opponents immediately launch their counter attack.

Everything becomes a blur. We ride like wind with the pilot car blaring its siren just ahead of us. The last 500 meters are hellish. Our number one torpedoes ahead of us and a one on one fight ensues with his rival. A huge crowd has gathered at the finishing line but all I see is a haze of colors.

As I cross the line and get off the bike I hear the cruelest words. “He lost it.” The words hit me like a sharp blow. But amazingly the man is smiling. He must be aching inside. After years’ training, laboring through 21 days and over 2500 km and coming so close and yet remaining so far…. But the man is still smiling, congratulating the victor, sharing a few light hearted words with people, thanking and crediting his team….. That is sportsmanship! You lose some, but you never lose to lose.

International Sports is amazing. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I don’t just sit and write stupid blogs about it, I strive to compete and learn the spirit. I love my job!

The Reality

By this time, I am sure I have lost a lot of readers.
“This is a rant of a real procrastinator”.
“This is stupid”.
“This is not a blog but a teenager’s fantasy.”
“This is one pathetic attempt of mixing dreams with words”…blah blah……

I am sure I can never ever measure up to what I have put down as my dream jobs; that is why they are DREAM jobs at the first place.
Sure I can not do anything to get these jobs. For a few I don’t have enough knowledge, enough mental and physical fitness and for most due to abject lack of talent. But can I do something to make my job look a little better? I think, yes I can.

For the start, I can definitely take over the leaf of understanding the environment better from the dream of being a wildlife conservationist. I can surely connect to people better and try making the lives for all better by abstaining from petty issues and keeping the focus on bigger goals. I can surely strive to conserve the bests for everyone around me.

From the Mountaineer’s dream I can surely learn to respect the adversaries and prepare myself for them. I can learn to be a great team man and keep my team interest ahead of personal ones. I may not summit, but as a team we must!

From the International Cyclist’s dream I can learn how to lose. Life is not a one way traffic and losses are commonplace. Learning to lose is a great art and being gracious in defeats is the hallmark of the best.

Since you are still with me, let me tell you I do not believe in “Dream Jobs”. Just the way I don’t believe in the fairies and daemons. I think there is nothing as a dream job. Every job has its shares of good and bad, potentials and pitfalls. It is how we absorb them makes it a rich experience. How you will do that is purely onto you.

As far as I am concerned, I see there are numerous avenues to get better. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I DO sit and write stupid blogs about it. I love my job!

Shop….Shop….Shop….SHOCK!

So, my cousin arrives from a different town to attend a marriage.
She is a vivacious young lady, well read, well dressed, well pedicured-manicured, well mannered and well to do……
So, when she said if I would like to accompany her to the shopping mall for picking a few lipsticks for the marriage function, I said “Ummmmm….AAhhhh…Eeeehhhh….”

Soon I found myself in the parking lot of this uptown mall with my cousin beaming in the co-driver’s seat. I park my car, take the lift and come to this mega shop floor of Spencers.

Before I proceed any further let me make a very honest confession that I am not the kind who enjoys shopping at all. In fact I often fantasize about a great world where you could buy everything online and get them delivered at home. I defer my visit to market places and malls till the time a small trivial need has just started to metamorphose into a full blown panic situation, like if you don’t buy the toothpaste-tomorrow you won’t get to brush your teeth!

Then again, I always find that inside a mall your life seems to go into an algorithm.

Step1: Park your car
Step2: Get frisked and discover hidden wonders in your pockets/jacket linings
Step 3: Take the lift
Step 4: Reach the top floor
Step 5: Loiter around aimlessly at each floor
Step 6: Stop at PlanetM / Musicworld / Book Café etc (probability of a buy is 50%)
Step 7: Force your wife to try a few outfits knowing she won’t buy them
Step 8: Use the escalators for going to lower floors for maximum laze
Step 9: Finally arrive at McDonalds / Subway / Cookie Man / Juice Bar.
Step 10: Eat hastily as if a gun was pointed at your head
Step 11: Take the lift
Step 12: Take you car and go back home with happy memories

Therefore I am a real anti-mall person and my visits to the malls are strictly for three reasons.

Reason 1: Buying ration for the fortnight
Reason 2: Getting a hair cut (blame it on my long hairs which can not be cut in local barber shops)
Reason 3: Watching a movie

In fact none of my last 10 mall visits have been for more than 1 hour. Generally, Mausmi, my wife, and I always fan out at the shopping floor each one with our own agenda of procuring groceries independently. Years’ of experience has taught us about who has an eye for what and therefore we divide the labor and do it in parallel to save time. Thankfully Mausmi is not a mall person herself and we just rush through the ritual in an impressive timeline. So, when I entered the Spencers store with my cousin, I was gearing up for a short brisk stint.

Right at the entrance was this counter of some anti-ageing cream. She stops.

I: “Why stop here. Surely you don’t need these. You are just 26”.
She: “It is for mom.”
I: But we came here for lipstick.”
She: “So, if we buy anything else, will that be a sacrilege?”
I: “But then you can come with your mom. May be she will have a better idea.”
She: “I want to surprise her.”
I: “mmmmm…….”

The lady on the counter was quite attractive, so the 10 minute discussion did not seem too dull! Did we buy it? No.

So, we left that anti-ageing counter and were sucked into appliance section. There was everything on display. Refrigerators, televisions, mp3 players, microwave ovens, dvd players…. She stopped.

I: “Why stop here?”
She: “Are baba, we are in no hurry are we?”
I: “No. not really”
She: “Then let me look na.”

At this moment, a handsome bloke approaches us. He completely ignores me and says: “Good evening ma’am, are you looking for something…..”
She: “Ummmm actually we are looking for….ummmm….”
I: “We are looking for lipsticks”
My cousin turned to me with a look which said “#%$&%*%&*^*(“
The salesman was puzzled. “Ma’am lipsticks are that side.”
I: “Oh thanks a lot.”
Then I tucked at her arm and we left the appliance section.

They say a scorned woman is worth a thousand foes. And I was to learn that.
We stopped at the luggage section.
Soon there were three salesmen enthusiastically demonstrating the various sized trolley cases to her.

“No no no no…. this is not the right size.”
“That will never fit my jackets without folding them.”
“Who carries a black suitcase?”
“This handle will surely break in no time.”
“This will never get inside the trunk of my car…..”

Soon the three salesmen are panting as if they have been fielding the whole day without any success of catching a cricket ball.

Next victim was the grocery help.
She picked up a chocolate doughnut and demanded:” How many calories are in this?”
The saleswoman looked as if you had asked her the capital of Djbouti.

After repeatedly making mince meat of the utensils’ section, food section and clothes section, we finally arrived at the make up desk.

I: (trying to extend an olive branch) “I think this dark brown shade will look good on you; after all you are a fair lady.”
She: (curtly) “I am wearing a pink saree in the function. Brown with pink, how juvenile.”
I: ?????

She turned to the ladies in the counter (who were Northeastern girls) and said “Show me the pink shades please”.
In moments the counter was filled with all kinds of pink.
“Too light”
“Too dark”
“Not glowing”
“It is not water proof”

Then she turned to me and asked; “Dada, what do you say about this one? Isn’t it better than that one?”
To me, this one and that one and the one previous and the one next, all looked just pink and with every passing minute I could sense that I was not in the pink of my health despite being mobbed by chinks showing pinks (no racial abuse intended). I was about to sink.

I: “Ummmm yes it is nice, you know this pink.” I said with a wink.
She: “No, I don’t think so.”
She went back again to the ladies.

I excused myself and went to the men’s room and splashed my face with some water. The mirror reflection looked like a pale replica of my usual upbeat self.
So, finally I started my journey back to the lipstick counter hoping she has picked “her kind of pink”.

50 feet from the counter, my cousin saw me and started waving and king of jumping up and down.
I was relieved. “Looks like we got the stuff.”
I reached with a genuine broad smile.

She: “You know dada, I picked an amazing shade. This is just going to be fabulous. No one in the marriage function is ever going to come close to me…..”
I: “Wonderful.”
She: “Yes, this one has glitters on it, is water resistant, topped with moisturizing elements and the best part is that it offers sunscreen too.” She showed me the lipstick encased in a black sleek looking case.
I: “Wow that’s great. So what shade of pink is that?”
She: “Oh no, this is not pink. This is magenta. See…” She showed me the color.

By now I had started to get scared. A nagging doubt, a chilling suspicion was creeping up my spine.
I: “But your saree is pink right? Will this match?”
She: “Of course not. Are you crazy?”
I: “Then?”
She: “Now we need to pick a magenta saree.”
I: “*##^%*%&^(&^*&&()***&%%&^$”

“Manasij” vs “Monosheej”

Tintin was one my favorite cartoon characters during my childhood days.
I absolutely loved them and enjoyed flipping through the pictures much before I could actually read the English and comprehend the storylines.

Tintin’s talking dog Snowy was a very loveable character and time and again a situation would arrive when Snowy would have a critical choice to make.
Like the picture above, Snowy gets torn between two choices; one delivering the letter to Tintin and two enjoy nibbling the bone…..

The “good” Snowy (as denoted by the white fairy) and the “bad” Snowy (as denoted by the red devil) would wage a battle till one emerged as winner.
And, just in life, so in the comics, the battle of alter egos was really interesting.

This blog is dedicated to the battle of two identities within me.
“Manasij” is a cosmopolitan youth who believes sky is the limit where as the alter ego “Monosheej” (the real Bengali pronunciation of Manasij) is a more anchored to traditions guy- a little fastidious to accept new things, a little frightened of changes and wants to weigh down his alter ego “Manasij”.

Let the battle begin………….

I was born in Kolkata, brought up in Patna, did my engineering from BITS Mesra Ranchi, worked in Trivandrum, Kolkata, Delhi NCR and Indore. Being born as a bong, it was just a matter of time when I started speaking absolutely hilarious and sometimes outrageous Bengal-ised Hindi, like Mamta Bannerjee and Pranab Mukherjee do all the time.

However, my parents sent me to a Hindi medium school, for they wanted me to speak fluent Hindi and appreciate the linguistic richness of Hindi. I grew up reading Nagarjun, Nirala, Premchand, Dinkar and loved them. We used to get the Hindi literature magazine “Hans” at our home each month and that kept me glued to the new age Hindi writers like Azgar Wazahat, Rajendra Yadav et al.

Side by side, my mom was extremely particular about me learning Bengali. So I read all the contemporary and classical Bengali writers ranging from Ravindranath to Satyajeet Roy. And of course, I was reading Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie even before majority of my schoolmates ever new their names; blame it on the Hindi only medium of teaching and thanks to my mom’s English lessons at home.

This exposure to multiple languages paved way for the appreciation and respect for every language and their identities. Advantage to the cosmopolitan “Manasij”!

My childhood days saw the biggest shame of the free India enacted right in front of my eyes. On Dec 6th 1992, we pulled down the Babri Masjid. My family was politically aligned to the left ideology and therefore naturally I disliked it, as a direct result of home grown political beliefs. I would have long debates with my mates, who would defend the destruction and that would bewilder me. The fact that I was brought up in Patna, a deeply casteist society and equally fanatic and that I was swimming against the current, made me appreciate the “different” religions and their customs. Another advantage to “Manasij”.

I ended up marrying a girl after a long standing affair in Dec 2004. She is neither my caste, nor speaks Bengali. But I know you don’t need a linguistic pretext to connect to someone. Advantage “Manasij” once again.

By now, it seemed as “Manasij” was winning all battles hands down. But then on June 10th 2002, I entered a new phase of my life. I joined the beeline of the worker ants of the Indian Software market.

I had entered the software sector dreaming of creating bold software products hitherto unheard off. Soon, I realized that Indian software services scene is a tragedy than a heroic tale of success. Mediocre mundane tasks dominated the scene with ferocity. For the first 4 years of the journey, I largely surrendered to it. I quickly learned about the charms of going abroad, owning flat, driving cars, craving appraisals, anticipating hikes…… “Monosheej” was getting back on track.

If not for an unanticipated governmental dictum of January 2006, may be “Monosheej” would have crushed “Manasij” under its wheels. In Jan 2006, I did a land deal and “Monosheej” was smiling, for finally “Manasij” had succumbed to the peer pressure of buying a land/house/flat. However, a governmental decree sublimated that victory. A six lane highway was to be constructed where “Monosheej’s” kitchen would have been erected.

I don’t know why, but I was gripped by euphoria about this cancellation of the land allotment. I suddenly felt free and save one botched attempt of buying a flat- never again treaded the path!

By then I had moved to a new company, which made software products. Innovation, striving for inspiring ideas became a way of life. The next 3 years, I did some of my best works in the office and met people who seemed very satisfied. As the CTO of the company said: “the pull towards making more money is real, but not at the cost of sacrificing the innovation”. “Monosheej” was in trouble again!

Then, by a quirk of fate, I happen to pick up a mountain bike one day in Oct 2008. That changed the game for “Monosheej” for ever. Now “Manasij” was travelling all over the mountains on his mountain bike and meeting people who turned a mild infection of “zest for life” to a full blown pandemic. I met people who were travelling round the world, meeting people- seeing places- seeking diverse experiences- building friendships- not worrying about an uncertain future but living the present to its best.

Risks exist in life and surely exist in the future. But, the fear psychosis of risk is more paralyzing. Status quo is seductive and always attempts to capsize the voyage to the unknown. As far as I am concerned, “Monosheej” is dead for all he does is psyche “Manasij” about the uncertain future and pulls the strings to walk the path treaded by almost everyone.

Now, a career break for 3 months does not sound scary at all. It appears as an option to pursue an interest with vigor and return to work with more intensity. Neither does a decision that I will not buy a house puts me under any duress. The fascinations of going onsite are long dead and promotions and appraisals have started to look just as mundane as shaving and shampooing.

Life is a great journey and I am surely a very late starter. The fact that it took me so long to embark on it is itself atrocious but then when you have so many “Monosheejs” around you, it was just an imbibed pathogen.

So who wins the trophy “Manasij” or “Monosheej”?
My answer is simple.
I am “Manasij”.

Cycling To Mirik: The Toughest Ride So Far…………

Mirik: An idyllic hill station in Darjeeling Himalayas

I was getting desperate with every passing minute…….

The climb seemed like a never ending suffer fest and to make it worse, the sky had turned ominously grey with an imminent possibility of a spell of rain. And to add to the woes, it was well over three hours that I had eaten anything and I was fading in energy and was almost on verge of bonking out in the climb.

I probably looked like a despairing castaway hoping for a rescuer to extricate myself from the predicament, in this case- looking for a tea stall where I could sink my teeth on some food and refuel myself with some calories to complete the ride.

“Come on ….You don’t quit!” I egged myself on and to my immense relief; there was this shanty tea stall right at the middle of this booming switchback climb.

Tea and Wi-Wi Noodle joint. The place which threw us the lifeline needed to complete the climb.....

Relief……relief……relief………… It seemed like a lifeline and the moment the mongoloid looking governess of the tea stall nodded in affirmation to the query “Hot Noodles??” it seemed like seeing 777 in a slot machine. Hot tea and steaming Wi-Wi noodles felt like the best food one can lay one’s hands on. And, what a stroke of luck; the moment the noodles arrived, rains came down lashing the lush green tea estate infested mountain roads. Vinay and I gobbled up 2 plates of noodles each while the rains continued. Peace. It felt real peaceful.

So, where was I? Where was I going? Who were my mates?

I was cycling from New Jalpaiguri Railway Station, a major railhead in North Bengal  (incidentally the only station in the world with all three working gauge railway systems: the 1.69 meter Broad Gauge, the 1.00 meter Meter Gauge and the .68 meter Narrow Gauge). New Jalpaiguri acts as the gateway to Darjeeling Himalayas and Sikkim. Our destination was Mirik, an idyllic hill station at a modest altitude of 5800 feet having a breathtaking manmade lake. The overall cycling distance would be some 60 km and we were attempting a climb of nearly 5500 feet (at least that’s what I thought when setting off, only to be proved worng later).

It was Feb 27^th 2010 when we reached New Jalpaiguri station by an overnight train from Kolkata. We assembled our bikes, had our breakfast, picked up the most essential commodity- water and hired a cab for our luggage. Mausmi, my wife and Madhumita, Saibal’s wife, also travelled with us in the cab.

Saibal and I

We were the three torch bearers of the Kolkata Cycling Club (KCC). Saibal, was undoubtedly the leader. He had taken the lead role in arranging the entire logistics of the tour. At 45, he is fiercely fit and regularly puts younger riders to shame (which includes me) with his stamina and spirit. I always believed, he had a dynamo installed in his shoes, for he would ride like wind all the time!

VB and Saibal

Vinay Bhatia, was the second cyclist. I called him:  “A Vegetarian Blood Sucking Sindhi Lawyer”, but was everything else than what the phrase above makes you conjure up. A fabulous biker himself with an amazing zest for life and with a killer sense of humor, VB was a real livewire. And, of course there was yours truly!

We set off from the railway station with our hired cab, the luggage and the womenfolk at 11 am. The weather was nice to start off. The first 35 km of the route was fairly flat, climbing only 600 feet to Dudia, a small village in the foothills. However, the ride to Dudia was anything but eventless. We were continuously hounded by big heavy vehicles jostling for space on a highway which was at times only as wide as a seal. Add to that the constant honking, an ever accompanying feature of Indian highways and it was a pretty forgettable experience at times.

peaceful road finally......stretch between Siliguri and Dudia

We crossed the Mahananda River Bridge and then ditched the national highway and instantly landed into a peaceful road section. We could see the hilly contours at a distance and we knew pretty soon we would be riding up the majestic Darjeeling Himalayan section. There was a lot of headwind but mercifully the surface was good and we pretty much coasted to Garidhura, a small settlement on our way.  Soon, Dudia presented itself.  By now it was almost 1 pm and we had done the first 35 km of the ride. A little slow it may seem but I guess you can’t go any faster with 16 wheelers sniffing your tail and blazing their air horns!

Right, now the climb begins. We had 25 km to cover and climb up 4700 feet, at an average gradient of around 6.5% (which is quite steep). I had done these kinds of gradients in the past. Kalka-Kasauli was pretty near to a 6%. Khardungla is close to 7%. Gata Loops in the Manali-Leh Highway is a notch above 7%, so I thought this would not be that tough. However, Darjeeling Himalayan roads are special. As against almost every other mountain haul, this was not a monotonic climb. There were numerous intermediate downhill sections that would rob you the ascent you had labored on. Incidentally, the total climb from Dudia to Mitrik is close to 5000 feet with an average gradient of 8%! This was one very steep climb awaiting us!

Enough of mathematics……the climb began through some moderate intensity gradients and we all were enjoying ourselves. VB kept the mood upbeat with his funny comments and stories while Saibal was quick to introduce the concepts of lactic acid build up/ heart rate spikes/ correct gear combination vs cadence etc.  We were climbing well and enjoying ourselves.

Beautiful Tea Estates, fresh mountain air and a bike in my hand.......what else can you ask for?

At 2000 feet from the sea level, the majestic tea estates with its lush green plantations magically appeared. But with it came two troublesome environment variables. The gradient now changed its intensity from moderate to tough and the environs became murky as the sun disappeared behind the clouds.  We all put on our warm clothing and attacked the climb.

As we sailed deep into the tea estates flanked by tea gardens from both sides the ride started to live up to its expectation from the beauty perspective. However, the surface quality dropped dramatically and we could see signs of past landslides. Also, we started to hit those unexpected downhill sections. Now, I really don’t know how a cyclist climbing up should feel for a downhill in the middle. Whilst, it would be a welcome respite from fighting the gravity, I knew every inch I descend would have to be earned back with more hard labor. It is like the credit card interest, you don’t like them, but you can’t do anything about.

More Tea Estates....more climbing......

It was now well over three hours since we began riding and I knew I had to get some food to keep producing enough power. We were eating sugar laden energy bars but the body was craving for replenishment of salts. VB was feeling the same. So, we decided to keep our food searching radars functional. In the middle of this dreaming for food, Saibal told us stories of how making the “Poori” percolated to India from China. I could have given anything to get a “Poori-Tarkari” at that time.

Finally, when I was almost at the edge of my strength, we spotted a shanty tea stall. It felt like a discovery no less important than that of America by Columbus! Saibal, however, was not hungry and he cycled on and on and on while VB and I sipped 2 cups of tea and siphoned off 2 plates of noodles each.  And as soon as we had finished eating came the rains. It rained for some 15 minutes.

Salts replenished, jokes exchanged, rains seen off, VB and I set off again. We had 16 km to climb and it was 3 pm. More tea estates followed and the gradient changed its characteristics to become really steep. Now, I have cycled a lot in hills and generally I am quite comfortable ascending at a rate of 7-8 meters per minute (data given by my Suunto Vector watch, my companion for all climbs), but for the first time I was seeing the climb rate in double digits. It was incredibly steep and I was climbing at 12 meters per minute!

In fact, there was a section of the climb 10 kms long when I climbed up a whopping 2200 feet; almost 50% more than any normal mountain roads I had done thus far. But the nature came to compensate for the hardship. Now the alpine type vegetation dominated the landscape. The vast coniferous towering trees flanked the roads from both directions and the cool mountain breeze made it an amazing climb, albeit very tough physically.

Welcome to Alpine vegetation......One great thing about climbing a hill on a cycle is you can see the dramatic transition of vegetation up close and personal.....

There were quaint villages dotting the road. The local population seemed very different looking from the traditional Bengalis. Though we were still in Bengal, it was clear the people have their allegiance with the Gorkhaland. Not only the locals looked and spoke differently, they all displayed Gorkhaland support openly. I feel there is a definite case for their statehood and sooner or later it will happen.

Anyway, finally all the difficulty of the climb, the exhaustion of hauling up such a steep unrelenting-unforgiving inclines ended with a quick 150 feet descent to the Mirik town. I parked my bike in front of our hotel and it felt amazing. The fact that it seemed so tough made the feat special.

Sneak peek of Mirik....

Soon VB arrived and we all regrouped and celebrated our achievement with chilled beer. The hotel was a decent affair and we had a great goodnight sleep. You always sleep well with such an arduous climb behind you!

VB and I playing the proverbial camera wielding tourists at the Mirik Lake

The beautiful lake side promenade

The next day, we made a small trio to the Mirik Lake. This is a manmade lake with a nice 3.5 km promenade around it. We walked around soaking the beauty and clicking few pics. Finally at 1 pm, we again picked up our bikes and started the downhill. It was a fast and uneventful affair. But we stopped at the yesterday’s Wi-Wi noodles joint for memory’s sake.

Downhill time.....wide grins are expected as you have labored the uphill to earn a great pedal free downhill....

Wi-Wi noodles join revisited, this time with the whole gang. From Left: Saibal, Madhumita, Manasij, Mausmi and Vinay Bhatia (the vegetarian blood sucking Sindhi lawyer)

Once we descended from the hills we did a great sprint of almost 10 km at nearly 35-40 km/hr (courtesy our support vehicle’s speedometer). Then we rode along the Darjeeling toy train rail tracks when VB startled all passers by with his full volume “Mere Sapno ki Rani Kab Aayegi Tu…” Finally, at 5 pm we were back at the railway station.

Biking and singing "Mere Sapno ki Rani Kab Aayegi Tu".....

On VB’s insistence we did a bike salute and ended the bike tour with the widest grin on our faces. I was mobbed by a group of no less than a dozen locals who asked all sorts of questions about the bikes, about us..blah blah…. I answered them with 100% commitment and it was fun.

So, the figures for the ride were:

Total Distance: 120 km

Total Vertical Ascent: 5700 feet

Total Time on Saddle: 8 hours

Route Profile: New Jalpaiguri Railway Station to Mirik

Overall, I rated this as the toughest ride I have done so far, purely because of the steepness of the climb! Now I know why the Darjeeling Hills have this special status among all the riders and drivers. All these days, I believed that riding the mountains required skill, stamina, power, dedication and determination. I was taught of a very important lesson here. You need to respect the hills as well. My mom says, “Every time you think you are invincible, the nature will come back to impart the humility”. I will surely go back to the mountains with my bike, for there is no better place to learn the virtues than in the lap of Mother Nature herself.

-Manasij Ganguli

09874544003

manasij.ganguli@gmail.com

Yours Truly

Racially Fair and Lovely

My sister in law was supposed to be married and we were beginning the process of considering prospective grooms.
I was in charge of creating the “marriageable resume”; in English of course.
I thought I did a good job till the time my father in law (henceforth denoted as FIL) happened to review it.
My FIL went ballistic for the resume had a fatal flaw.
Following is the snapshot of the exchanges we had:

FIL (with a loud chuckle): What have you done? This is pathetic.

I (puzzled): What is wrong with it?

FIL: See you have put all statistics correct, except the complexion one.

I: Why? I have put “fair” as her complexion. (FYI, Rashmi, my sister in law, is quite fair for Indian standards)

FIL: You do not understand. Fair means, she is dusky and make up will make her fair.

I: Then do you want me to change it to “very fair”?

FIL (frustrated) : This is not an English grammar class, very fair and fair means the same. You write “gori” in the complexion.

I (flipping out) : “Gori”?

FIL (as if explaining elementary geometry to middle school kids) : Yes write “gori”. Fair, very fair, milky white these things do not convey the fact that she is fair. It is “gori” that would appeal to the imagination of people better.

I (speechless) : ???????

So, Rashmi’s marriage resume said her complexion was “gori”!
“Gori” when translated to English roughly means “Fair Caucasian female”.
Which means, without the façade of make up and beauty products’ induced effects, Rashmi is as fair as a Caucasian female.
Calling her fairness “fair” would be fairly unfair and would not fare well for the welfare of her marriageable prospects.

Alright, so why everyone seeking marriage alliances is looking for gori-s? Why it is a natural logic that “gora-pan” (fairness) is the panacea of all beauty? Isn’t it ironic that the country with one of the richest reserves of circulating black money, black market, black magic still holds everyone sway with its maniac quest of fairness in complexion? This deep, insightful, intelligent blog would uncover why. So sit back and enjoy the ride and for better understanding keep a tube of “Fair and Lovely” handy.

My thesis is very simple. We, the Indians are definitely a racist community as a whole. Therefore, we react to fairness of the skin in a nakedly racist manner. Whether the fascination of the fair skin is something we imbibed in a century of colonial rule or not is immaterial, what is for sure true that we have this fascination deeply etched into our culture. We are indeed racist.

I know we like to believe that Indians are not racist and we have always fought apartheid with passion, stood behind the nations suffering from racial discrimination, voiced our concern with fervor over ill treatments meted out to native settlers in the hands of imperialistic/colonialist iron fisted rules and blah blah…. I agree, when it comes to taking international stands, we have a reasonably respectable track record. But, when it comes to putting matters straight at home, we look the other way.

For generations, we have treated racism as a celebrated exponent of our culture. “Oh no, we just practice casteism, untouchability, communalism, marginalization, alienation….but when did we become racist?” This is what we say in our defense of not being racist. The truth is we are worse, as a society, than the ones adhering to apartheid. After all the color of the skin is on your face and you can distinguish between a fair skinned and a dark skinned. But the mass scale discrimination we show to each other as part our cultural excess baggage makes us the most racial community in the world. And, we have been quick to learn the apartheid as well.

I was married in Patna. The marriage venue was on a road which was called Gardener Road during the British Raj. It was an Indian free zone with markers erected that warned “Dogs and Indians” not allowed. The years of oppressive British rule left India its scars. Most important was the psychological scarring.

India was ruled by foreign forces in the past as well, but no community left an impact as lasting as the British. The Moghuls and Turks conquered by force and ruled by force. It never made the people have this awed image of Moghuls and Turks because they had nothing much to dazzle the natives except for their superior military might. British on the other hand, not only had that military might but captured the imagination because of their superlative administration, economics, advances in science and technology, education, governance and vision. Result was simple. The colonial India did believe that British were a better race. And then, as a by product of this inferior psyche germinated the fascination for the white skin.

So, today how big is this fascination?
According to latest reports the brand “Fair and Lovely” grossed some 500 crores (100 million USD) last year and the total Indian market for fairness products is nearly three times this value, which is a whopping 1500 crores (300 million USD). So, it is fair to assume that fairness is big buck business. So it is indeed a million dollar question!

The corporate India, which sells these “whitening” products have cashed in to this psychosis. In fact it has at times deliberately flamed it to sell more units and made more money.

So, as long as we are ready to accept “gori” brides only and dream of someday landing in the land of the “goras”, poor SRK will appear for Fair and Handsome and we continue to have this unreasonable fascination. If you ask me, it is not going to end soon as I believe that we are truly a racial community.

Let me end this blog with another real life experience.

One day, I got a call from an ex schoolmate of mine. I am not naming him so let’s call him A. Following is the excerpt of our call:

A: Hey Manasij. I am getting married.

I: Congrats A. That’s great news. So, what does the lucky one do?

A: She works in my office. So it is a love marriage.

I: Great. So where is she from?

A: She is a South Indian.

I: Great. I think you ………

A (cuts me in the middle hastily) : lekin wo kali nahi hai. (She is not dark).

I (speechless) : ??????

I Won’t Go Onsite…………..

I am a frequenter on the various social networks.
Yesterday, I happened to open my friend list which displays the friend’s name and their location.

Pages after pages were people with locations like Richmond, Akron, London, San Jose, NY, Irving, Sydney, Bonn, Cambridgeshire…….
In fact my resident Indian friends are right now a numeric minority.
There are more friends in Texas than in Tamilnadu!

When I joined TCS after my stint at engineering, the first reaction I got from my mates was “You lucky guy, you will be abroad in no time”.
Yet after almost 8 years of work in the sunshine software sector, my passport has no stamps. I have worked in Trivandrum, Kolkata, Delhi NCR and Indore but never out of India.

The interesting part is, when I say this to any of my colleagues that “I have never been onsite”, I get comments that range from hilarious to outrageous, crazy to disgusting, hurtful to astonished. Here is a small assortment:

“Oh you poor thing, try harder the next time and your manager will surely send you abroad”.
“It is not easy, there are many with no capabilities languishing in India and dreaming about it. You need to put your act together.”
“This is unbelievable….are you telling the truth?”
“Threaten your manager with resignation and ask him/her that only way you stay back is if they send you out.”
Blah…blah….blah…………

Then of course there is the “uncle” kinds; you know the landlords, your fathers’ friends etc – I mean the kind with grey hairs and therefore the bearers of profound wisdom who feel the moral obligation to enthusiastically hard sell their advice to you irrespective of the fact the you have no need for them. They give you even better reactions:
“You know my son ABC, the moment he joined the company XYZ, they realized his potential and he was beseeched to join the workforce at US. I tell you, these multinationals have an eye for talent.” (Which means, you are a complete idiot and such a loser that no one thinks you have any potential).

Yes, I guess I am definitely a loser. Otherwise how do you explain that being in the software business for as long as 8 years, I could never go onsite? Everyone is sure that I regularly have wet dreams of landing at the Heathrow or at JFK with a bag full of rice, dal, papad, pickle, Indian spices, chavanprash etc and a eye full of dreams of getting myself clicked at the Times Square, Niagara Falls, Vegas, Big Ben and put them for public consumption on the social networks.

Social networks are great places for advertising your “oh you know what, I have been there” image with aplomb.
In fact a friend of mine had put a traffic ticket’s scanned image that he had “earned” while driving in Nevada! Beat this for creativity.

At workplace I see so many colleagues squabbling regularly for the coveted onsite posting. Political plottings, cajoling managers, dire threatening, massaging client’s egos, citing amazing and sometimes jaw dropping excuses to earn the prized ticket seems a way of life. Some of the really amazing but true excuses are:

The beseeching the manager kind: “I have a huge loan owing to my sister’s marriage; I need to make some bucks.”
The threatening kind: “I have worked in this project for 2 years; I think it should be me this time or release me.”
The jaw dropping kind: “I am finding marriage proposals turned down for my lack of onsite experience, so……”

So, what is this collective mania of going onsite/abroad which grips almost everyone at our workplaces? Why is it so that going abroad is an “objective” that has to be achieved, rather than it being a natural by product of working in the globalized environs?

I believe, we have this incredible racial notion of considering the fair skinned world a better place which may have been implanted generations before as a result of the indelible hangover of colonial slavery and later on passed on to us. That’s why I see people eager to travel to US, Europe and Australia (all fair skinned worlds) whereas very little interest is available in travelling to say Brazil (which is far ahead of India but of course not as much as say Belgium). Trips to Africa are certainly humiliating, akin to a proud bellicose Delhite’s transfer to Chennai.

This inferiority is so deeply ingrained that when I see the pics posted by many of my friends, I always find them with the known circle of Indian friends. Despite being in a macrocosm of cosmopolitan plurality very few of us seem to inculcate the same in their lifestyle. After all, the must achieve “objective” was to land in the white skinned land, not to mix with them or the least adopt the cosmopolitan outlook.

Yes, I have been a loser; been not clever enough that any management would think that without me functioning from the West the company would just fall apart; been a non-cosmopolitan desi who is too scared to go off limits; and now a sure candidate to be labeled a racist after having written such a blog, but whatever may I seem, I simply don’t want to go onsite.

Let’s end this blog with another real life case. I was getting a transfer from TCS Kolkata to TCS Delhi (which is a big deal mind you, because of the geopolitics). A colleague of mine from TCS Kolkata was onsite. His father met me and gave me an authentic Bengali K C Paul umbrella (FYI, generations in Bengal have shielded themselves from rain using K C Paul’s legendary umbrella) and a sealed tiffin box.
I was supposed to give it to a guy in Delhi who was also supposed to fly to the same location where my friend was. I could never understand the rationale of shipping an umbrella to London (a city where rains are everyday phenomenon) but then I thought may be it was his favorite brand that was not available there. But, guess what was shipped in the sealed tiffin box? His favorite brand of underwear!

No Sports Please….We are Indians!

Let’s begin with a local proverb from my motherland, Bihar: “Padhoge-likhoge to banoge nawab, kheloge-kudoge to banoge kharab”….. (Study and become the respected best, but play if you want to waste).

The reason why I chose this as my opening line for this blog was to argue that we, the Indians, are generally apathetic towards sports. Any average Indian would struggle to name ten international sports’ names, let alone the names of sportspersons. Our International sporting identity hinges only on cricket, a sport only a handful nations play and which was until last week an unrecognized sports by the IOC (International Olympic Committee). So, technically speaking, cricket and “Chor-Sipahi” (thief and the police running game), were of the same league in IOC’s reckoning! Bottom-line, we are ignorant of the term called International sports. So much so, that the Vancouver Winter Olympics, which is happening right now, finds no place in newspapers.

The question is how and where this ignorance set in and then hardened into a total apathy towards sports? The answer, to my belief, lies not in our years’ of lackluster display on the field but in our education system.

I did my schooling from a respected institute run by the Jesuit missionaries of charity. It had a huge library, a great computer facility, big colonial styled class rooms and two huge playing fields. It also had a leased facility in another sports ground just a stone throw away. We had all the different balls (no pun intended) like the football, volleyball, basket ball, the cricket ball (of course) and also we had a big swimming pool. So, technically speaking, the school was well equipped to nurture sporting ambitions.

However, I could never understand, that despite all the facilities and equipments why we had just one 40 minute “period” of sports in the entire week’s schedule. Mind you there were 5 days of schooling, each day divided in 8 periods of 40 minutes each. There was a games teacher, who was all too interested in queuing up kids and teaching some mindless calisthenics and yoga. And during the rainy seasons, it would inevitably rain the day we had the sports period. Seemed like the heavens were also against our sports period.

Finally, by the time I went to high school (Standard 9 and 10) it was decreed that we had too much knowledge to acquire for the upcoming board examinations and it would be in the best interest of the students to sacrifice the sports period. That was the end of sports for many of my friends.

Yes, there was the legendary “Sports Day” when suddenly four houses would spring back to life after almost a year’s hibernation and compete in some 20 odd disciplines with one house emerging the victor. But then by that time, the unsuspecting hapless kids, who had no reason to doubt the education system, were made to believe that all that the sports may get you is a medal and nothing else. I think the only better way this message could have been hammered home would have been: if our principal would have thundered in the daily assembly everyday that “Sports is injurious to career building” and had this profound wisdom goldplated and kept at a prominent place so that all can see it and assimilate it.

After school, came college where an even stiffer climb to engineering/medical/accounting/management was awaiting and at that time indulging in sports suddenly seemed like a sin. Every minute was to be spent in the pursuit of the career. We were comprehensively browbeaten to believe about the negative impact of Sports in our prospective career. Sports would not figure in the top ten of the list of priorities. One evening of after exam cricket was the only dosage of sports available.

Then I entered the work-life and all of sudden sports were permanently out of life. I do not blame the employers for the lack of sporting interest and the overall miserable fitness level of young Indians let alone the pathetic showing of team spirit and sportsmanship, so rampant in the workplaces. I blame it on our education system which believes the Hindi proverb at the beginning of this write up.

Our educations system considers each individual as an island. You plant books, you grow marks. You reap degrees, you get jobs. There is no place for sports. Since the formative childhood days never receive a dosage of sports, we happily ignore them as if they never existed and pursue the career with great zeal. However, does this make us great professionals?

At workplaces, I see people with no concept of team spirit, a pivotal quality required to produce great results. Every office is awash with scenarios elucidating utter lack of sportsmanship in conflict scenarios. Then again, you can add the un-sportsmanlike behavior of politicizing the workplace and all the dark arts of gaming wizardry which we despise, yet carry out and even encourage. And lastly, add the misplaced concept of weighing competition ahead of co-operation.

Could this be prevented? I like to believe, it can be.

You don’t need to have a Harvard MBA to understand that a game of football is won by the team with best on field skill and team spirit. The objective of sports is to rely on your partners and help them so that all of you reach the common goal of victory. Team first, is a must have quality should you need to win. High performance teams co-operate more than compete within its own boundaries. Weaving sports tightly in the fabric of education imparts this valuable lesson which people badly need to carve out a meaningful and happy work life with colleagues.

Sports teach a great concept of being fair. Not many instances are available where prolonged sporting success is achieved compromising the fairness. Later on, this helps a great deal in respecting others’ qualities at workplace and also by recognizing solicitations of unfair nature and swiftly dousing them.

Sports are a great teacher of pursuit of excellence. A singles tennis player or a boxer has to train extremely hard to get to a level of repute. The road to progress is solitary but requires a lot of focus and determination let alone the dedication.

Lastly, sports teach the most important lesson of respecting others. All sportspersons reach a pinnacle and then the inevitable physical decay makes way for a new champion. You learn the most important art of losing yet not losing it all. As a sportsman, you take to this transition with grace and not like a greedy politician who tries to stick to the power by indulging in unfair means. Extrapolate it to workplace and you will respect your juniors and would credit them and believe them and let them grow.

If, we the Indians, had more sports in our curriculum and they were pursued with a little more earnestness or with as much as seriousness as trigonometry was pursued with, I would put my money in seeing a better generation of workers and professionals. The places to work would probably be a tad fairer and of course I would not see so many unfit, obese and physically weak individuals in their twenties and thirties.

So, tomorrow I am off riding my mountain bike for my daily 40 km ride and hope I see a change in the attitude of my in-laws who are almost sure that I have lost my mind, for no real reason exists which explains to them why would their son in law wants to cycle the whole Himalayas when one can as well drive. However, one small problem persists, my in laws are Indians and we do not believe in sports as a way of life. No sports please, we are Indians!

The “I” of the 3 Idiots

It was August 1988 when the whole of North India was jolted by a severe earthquake. I remember being woken up by the severe tremors in the middle of the night. I was a kid studying in standard 3 and it was my first experience of this intriguing natural phenomenon.

I was a curious kid, the kind who had a lot of questions and wanted answers for all. So, when my dad explained me the tectonic origins of the killer quakes, it was fascinating. I remember I was so excited to have gotten a reason for the last night’s nightmare that I blurted the plate tectonic stuff in the science class the next day.

What ensued was a complete downer. I was ridiculed and laughed upon not only by my classmates but also by my science teacher. The lesson was loud and clear; in standard 3, you are not taught about plate tectonics, so don’t try to be a smart jackass.

Fast forward to 1993. I was in standard 8 now and a few strands of moustaches were visible on my face. As a student, I was always the last minute kind; the one who would guess his way around as I never had enough time to complete the entire syllabus. So, I guessed that the Pie Charts were not important and went into the examination hall leaving it aside. And guess what, there was a 15 marks’ numerical staring at me in the question paper.

I finished my other questions and had some time in my hand. So it got me thinking. All I knew was: a Pie Chart meant representing the data in a circle, period. I had to represent a household budget of Rs. 250 in rent, 500 in groceries and 250 in miscellaneous expenses, a grand total of Rs. 1000 in a circle. The traditional style is to figure out the angles and draw them. So, the rent would subtend 250/1000 * 360 = 90 degrees and so on for others. Then you draw the angles and shade the regions and pocket the 15 marks! The problem was I did not know this.

So, instead I drew a circle with 7 cm radius. This meant that the circle’s perimeter was 2*pi*7 = 44 cm. So, I argued that these 1000 rupees were distributed in 44 cm. Then I used unitary method to figure out that the rent would need to cover 250/1000 * 44 = 11 cm and so on for others. I used the string supplied to us by the school to tie the answer sheets to measure the 11 cm on the circle’s perimeter and shaded them. Once I finished I felt like a crossbreed of Newton and Einstein. After all I had solved the problem without reading it in the book!

However, the day the answer sheets were distributed, I was shocked. I got a ZERO for my indigenous solution. By that time, I had learnt the traditional solution and also I knew my solution was absolutely correct. But, Mr. Sudhir Seraphim, our mathematics teacher gave me a zero, a dismissive look and the most clinching argument. “This solution is not in the book”. Lesson was again loud and clear: what is not in the book is a matter of a crook.

By now you may be having a smile on your face and the thought “The bast**d wants to pose as the Rancho of the 3 Idiots”. Well, I confess that my intention of writing this piece is to tell you that I do identify myself with one character of the movie 3 Idiots. But that is surely not of Aamir Khan’s Rancho.

No, I don’t have even a single patent in my name, leave aside Rancho’s 400. I do not have a high altitude laboratory in Ladakh though I have been there many times for tourism/trekking/cycling. I am neither like Chatur, though I would love to own his Lamborghini. I am not the Sharman Joshi/Virus/Madhavan… blah blah…. The character I identify with is Joy Fernandez, the kid who tried to invent the flying contraption with camera and then later on committed suicide. The only difference is I am still alive. So, why do I identify with Joy Fernandez? It is because I completely agree with his last words: I QUIT.

It is a good thing to quit at many places. Especially it is better to call it quits in the various race conditions that life subjects us to. When many of my friends were burning midnight oil to crack the IIT entrance chasing the dream of getting into the most premier engineering college, I was busy falling in love and called quits to the race. Result was expected. I did not get an engineering degree from IITs but from BITS Mesra, but ended up marrying my long time girlfriend. Would an IIT degree be more satisfying than spending the life with the woman you just could not be without, is for you to decide.

In my engineering college, the first mid-semester marks put me into the top 10 of my college. But when most of us were gearing for a long 4 year race, mine had ended. I spent my time as the “last minute kid” and making friends and polishing my hobbies and by sheer dumb luck passed out of my batch with 3^rd rank.

The engineering college proved to be just the tip of the iceberg of the many races that were to surface in the work life. There were races all around me. Race to get to the onsite/abroad. Race to own a flat. Race to drive the suave cars. Race to get the best appraisal. Race to become successful, a big corporate honcho or something like that. Silently your value was measured by the strangest numbers, like the square footage of your flat, the cubic capacity of your car, number of stamps on your passport, your CTC……. I have no medallions for any of these races.

In standard 3, a few months before the quake, our school curriculum added computers and quickly I realized I was good at it. By the time I had got a ZERO for my indigenous solution of pie chart, I had made up my mind to be a computer engineer and that’s what I am today. I like my job and that’s all I ever want from it; the fun at work. So, I silently slipped into the Olympics’ motto of “participation is more important than winning.” Races are not my cup of tea. Till date the only sports medal that I have won are for high jump/table tennis, not for races. I have quit them.

Now, this piece may well seem like a resignation of a loser trying to save his face from the damning indignation of defeats. Or it may seem like the case of the sour grapes. Well, I can’t help if it seems that way, but I guess all I have understood so far is that the life seems like an algorithm. You can forever be a part of the tailor made ones or you can break free and chart your own path. I guess I am just breaking free. I rate a cycling trip to Ladakh higher than a flat’s EMI. A half marathon run more rewarding than an eternity of servitude in dire bid for a promotion to the cabin in the corner of the office.

Life is not a spectator sports. But it is not a desperate race either. Before I commit to any race, any uneven comparisons, I would call it quits as I guess any gains elicited out of pawning the quality of life is a bad business deal.

I guess, I have said what I wanted to say. So, what do I do now? Simple, I quit!

Manali-Leh-KhardungLa Cycling: Aug-Sept 2009 – “The Prologue”

Snow on way to KhardungLa Pass- the highest motorable road on the planet

There was snow everywhere. All the mountains, valleys, roads…. were covered by snow. I was struggling with virtually everything around me. At this altitude, the air was thin; breathing was a struggle. The final gradient was steep, climbing was a struggle. Snow and hardened ice on the road had robbed me off my traction, biking was a struggle. I summed up my resources, another sip of water, another banana eaten and I was again pedaling. I saw a milepost, KhardungLa 5 km.

I heard the air horn and looked back. An army pickup truck was climbing. It was skidding madly on the hard ice and snow and the driver waved me to get off the road. I instantly knew the guy would not stop. On one side of the road was a sheer drop of 3000+ feet and I had no option but to jump right up to the edge in knee deep snow with my Trek 4300 bicycle.

It was becoming impossible to ride my bike now. There was no question of biking on the vehicle tire marks as it had turned the flaky snow to hard compacted ice which had no traction whatsoever. The option of biking on the snow mass was insane and finally half a km from the summit I just had to give up pedaling. I got down from the saddle and pushed my bike through a maze of stuck vehicles.

The point where I gave up biking and pushed it to the top- 500 meters from KhardungLa Top

I knew that the summit presents itself at the end of a right hand bend. All these days, I had dreamed of biking up the summit and seeing Mausmi, my wife, greeting me on completing the trip. This was not to be. As I took the final bend, I saw the prayer flags, the army outpost, the medical camp, the tea shop and the small shrine of all faiths. It was all covered with snow. But there was no Mausmi.

I was at the KhardungLa top; the highest motorable pass on planet Earth at 18380 feet. It was 5^th Sept 2009, 2 pm and I had reached the summit on my mountain bike.

I took a couple of photographs to record the feat and began the descent. It was a lonely descent from the world’s highest road. The pass was closed to vehicular traffic and all vehicles bound for KhardungLa were stuck at South Pullu, 14 km and 2500 feet below the pass. I was the only person allowed to go ahead as I was on a bike, but not before the army guys had given me an astronomical number of warnings and another astronomical number of wishes at the check post the same morning.

Reached the KhardungLa top 18380 feet- Dream of Manali-Leh-KhardungLa mountain biking fulfilled

As the downhill unfolded and I again negotiated the treacherous snow, ice, melted ice and water, exposed boulders and gravels I strangely felt a sense of loss than being jubilant. The dream that made me tick for last 11 months was now accomplished. I was there. I had been there, done that. As one switchback after another presented itself I looked back at how this amazing trip played out. It all began when I had a dream.

Part I: I had a Dream (Oct. 2008)

Global economic meltdown had made people alter their plans worldwide. I was no exception. My plans to do a month long European backpacking trip in summer of 2009 with Mausmi had bitten dust. The option to participate in a Himalayan car rally was open but was an expensive call. My plans to learn flying came crashing when I was told that I would need some recommendations from high ministerial berths. In short, I was looking for an avenue to do something.

That was when one day I chanced upon a blog in the internet which told about an amazing bicycle trip from Manali to Leh, the highest roads on the world and then from Leh to KhardungLa, the highest motorable pass on the world. I was immediately bought into it. I had been to Ladakh, Leh and KhardungLa before and knew it was an amazing land. The prospect of biking there was just exciting.

Next day, I announced this to my friends in my office and naturally drew quite a laugh. They were right in a way of course. It would be no child’s play. You have to be physically fit and in top form to be cycling around 600 km with around 300 km of uphill through some bad roads, treacherous weather and most of all at altitudes in excess of 15,000 feet with very little oxygen to breathe. Later I was to learn that one extremely important part was to be mentally fit to take up such a task.

Despite the seemingly tall odds, I went on and purchased my first mountain bike, a Trek 4300. It was a decent bike but most importantly a bike that I could afford.

Now I had a dream and had a bike to ride through the dream. It was autumn 2008 and I was up for a long haul through many Ups and Downs.

Part II: Ups and Downs (Feb 2009 – July 2009): Preparation Time

From October 2008 till Jan 2009 I used to ride my bike alternate days for some 15-20 km in the evening after the office. Somehow, I managed to forge a group of 4 guys all interested in biking and finally we all coalesced to do our first 50 km+ ride on Feb 1^st 2009.

We huffed and puffed to complete the 54 km ride in some 5 hours, all in flat terrain. I had a great doubt after this trip whether I had bitten more than I could chew. But one downer did not completely set me wobbly.

I continued my daily rides of 15-20 km on flat and good tarmacs and supplemented it with 50-70 km rides in weekends. I was the only guy who would show up for all the rides whilst someone or the other was always missing.

Then after one month of this routine, we embarked on our first long ride. We went to Nahan from Paonta Sahib (to and fro 96 km) with last 7 km of dramatic climb (climb 1500 feet in 7 km). We somehow clawed our way to the top and were completely spent. My doubts persisted about my state of preparedness for the big challenge.

Then we did some more hill work. We went to Kasauli from Kalka (read the blog here) which was an uphill climb of 4000 feet in 24 km. Then we attempted Chakrata (read the blog here) which was a 104 km ride with 5600 feet climbing.

Gradually, I saw my strength grow. I was now a better rider than what I used to be. The ups were encouraging. We all agreed on the final dates when we would attempt the Manali-Leh-KhardungLa circuit. I took care of all the logistics.

By June 2009 I was riding daily for some 40 km. If I felt good I would extend it by 10 km. I would complete my morning ride and then show up at my workplace. Weekends would see longer rides of 60-70 km. I concentrated on a constant pace biking and my legs became stronger and I became fitter on the bike.

The downers hit us again in July 2009. Suddenly everyone was gone and I was the only guy left standing up to take the challenge. I was undeterred and continued my conditioning rides. The last ride took me to Kasauli once again (read the blog here). This time I came back with a truckload of confidence. I was quick in the climb and was feeling perfect. As I kept losing people like chips in a poker game, the only person who hung with me all the time was the woman who has been in life for one and a half decade now, my wife Mausmi.

Finally, the D-Day arrived. On August 21^st 2009, a day when all hell broke loose in Central Delhi due to a thundershower that uprooted countless trees and threw the traffic off gear, I and Mausmi were on a Volvo bus to Manali with my Trek 4300 safely packed up in the luggage trunk.

I had varied messages from colleagues, friends and family. Many thought I was just crazy. Some were sure I was not going to complete it. Some wished me luck and I knew they were rooting for me. Some looked at it as a suicidal trip. The best comment came from a colleague of mine: “Why go to a place on bicycle where the planes can fly you?”

I wish I knew the answer. I knew the next 10 days would be tough. Very tough. But they also promise exceptional rewards. I knew I would be biking with some more guys, all from foreign lands who have come here exactly for the same reason, to cycle the highest roads of the planet.

I was eager to meet the gang.

Read on: The Mountain Biking Trip Begins from Manali- Day 1 – Manali to Marhi – “Meet the Gang”

All Links:

Prologue : Khardungla and My Conditioning

Day 1 (Manali to Marhi):  Meet the Gang

Day 2 (Marhi to Sissu):  The Big Climb up the Rohtang Pass

Day 3 (Sissu to Jispa):   The Cold Windy Day

Day 4 (Jispa to ZingzingBar):  Awww… Those 7 km…

Day 5 (ZingzingBar to Sarchu): The Box of Chololates

Day 6 (Sarchu to Whisky Nullah): The Beauty and the Beast

Day 7 (Whisky Nullah to Pang):  How Wrong Was I?

Day 8 (Pang to Lato): The Longest and the Best Day- Size Does Matter

Day 9 (Lato to Leh):   I Will Reach Leh

Day 10 (Leh to KhardungLa):  The Final Hurrah….

Manali-Leh-KhardungLa Cycling- Day 1 (Aug 24th 2009) : Manali to Marhi – “Meet the Gang”

I have never been a fan of waking up early and would laze on my bed as much as I can. But, the cycling business had taught me to get up early all these days. So, no problems in showing up at the meeting point with all stuff packed up at 8 am.

I had contacted Raju guide (http://www.magicmountains.com) for the trip and he was arranging all of the equipments, tents, food, vehicles etc. As I walked up the iron staircase to the office room I saw two familiar faces; Ian and Russell. We had had a practice ride the previous day till Palchan and knew them for last 24 hours.

From Left: Russell, I and Ian

Ian is a Brit with an accent that screams of Lancashire (those who pronounce every U as U, so “luck” is pronounced as “look” and so on). He and his wife Jean, are in India for decades together and they love India. He had been a sales executive and now he and Jean were starting their own venture (http://www.cyclemanali.com) . He was cycling with us to Leh whilst his wife Jean would join us at Leh directly. Ian was the favorite of all when it came to pinning jokes and he was some sport.

Russell was a colorful character. His bearings were complicated but I mostly figured out that he was an Australian with a dual citizenship of Israel. He was a marketing associate but had done everything from being a chef to an archaeological restorer and was now touring the world till he spends every dime he had once saved. He was a live wire and kept the mood upbeat with his constant pranks and jokes.

Sarrah

Sarrah was a city designer and another Brit. She had done a lot of international work in many African and Asian countries and was now planning to go hiking in Nepal post this cycling expedition.

from left: I and Tom

Tom was by far the most inspiring characters of all. He was, hold your breath, 70 years old. Yes, you read it right, 70 (as in 7 multiplied by 10). He is an American and an English teacher who knew many languages including Spanish, French etc. He has had a highly decorated career as a professional English teacher and had done a huge number of international duties in Europe, Africa and Asia.

Masusmi and I at Manali Mall before the ride began- could not have imagined doing this trip without her anyway...........

I bade goodbye to Mausmi who remained in Manali with the support group and we set off from Manali finally at 9:30 am. Our luggage and belongings were packed up in a support vehicle which would pick up the rations from Manali and join us en-route for lunch. It was a great day with clear sky and we went through the old Manali road, a detour of 6 km, just to treat us with some scenic routes.

Bautiful route from Old Manali to Palchan- See different colored vegetation at different heights on the mountains

And scenic it was. There was beautiful greenery everywhere with the river Beas all along with us. The tree shades were chilly whereas out in the sun it was warm. You could see the different shades of trees at different altitudes clearly on every mountainside.

Russell's attempt at getting high on marijuana

Then we found a place abundant with marijuana plants. These grow naturally here and Manali therefore has the dubious distinction of being one of the hot spots for addicts. In fact Malana, a little hamlet near Manali is famous for its potent “Charas” or purified hash. Russell could not resist the temptation and chewed on a few leaves but to no avail.

We kept on climbing and as we soared up the valley, the temperature soared too. Soon we were past Palchan, a small settlement at the bifurcation point of main highway to Rohtang and Solang valley. We could see many shops selling almost everything to tourists but predominantly warm clothing which looked fit for wearing on an expedition to Mount Everest. Not sure why the tourists rent them where all of us were sweating as the temperature was nearing 30 degree Celsius mark.

After Palchan the roads became very beautiful with green valleys and tall mountains. We could see an occasional para-glider too.

Junta resting in shade-just past Kothi on way to Gulaba

Finally the backup vehicle caught us up near Gulaba, some 25 km from Manali and we stopped for our first day lunch stop. Since it was our first day and the kitchen was not fully functional, we lunched on omelets, maggi noodles and paranthas.

Post lunch the climb seemed hot and more tiring. The temperature had soared to 35 degrees Celsius and it was very warm. The surface quality dropped hugely and all incoming trucks would smear us with powdery dust and thick black diesel fumes. Shortly we passed the 10,000 feet mark and I knew next time I see any altitude reading below 10,000 feet would be when I am back to Delhi a fortnight ahead.

Russell was having troubles with his bike. His rented bike has developed some snag and the last minute substitute was living up to its dubious distinction of being a Hobson’s choice. It made his troubles with heat and climb much more magnified.

On the road, a series of switchbacks took us quickly up around 600 feet in almost no time. I ran out of water here and had to flag down a vehicle from other side to beg for water.

Look closely- you should see 6 layers of roads below. Each layer climbs on the previous one through a switchback loop

Finally, I came through the Marhi Nullah to the first pit stop for the tour. The tents were pitched and our luggage neatly arranged inside the tents. Warm beverage at arrival felt like elixir.

The Tents: Our mobile homes for 10 days

The night sky was brilliant and you could see numerous stars and the entire Milky Way.

The day’s stats were not so bad either:

day's progress highlighted in red

day’s progress highlighted in red

day’s progress highlighted in red

Total Distance	46km
Total Climb	4300 feet
Total Time on Saddle	4 hours 30 min
Sleeping Height	10,900 feet
Oxygen	67.5% relative to MSL (mean sea level)

I knew our next day was a big one. We were slated to go over Rohtang pass known for its treacherous weather. Rohtang means the corpses in local dialect. I slept like a corpse the whole night for the big climb up the Rohtang Pass.

Read on: Day 2 Marhi to Sissu – “The Big Climb up the Rohtang Pass“

All Links:

Prologue : Khardungla and My Conditioning

Day 1 (Manali to Marhi):  Meet the Gang

Day 2 (Marhi to Sissu):  The Big Climb up the Rohtang Pass

Day 3 (Sissu to Jispa):   The Cold Windy Day

Day 4 (Jispa to ZingzingBar):  Awww… Those 7 km…

Day 5 (ZingzingBar to Sarchu): The Box of Chololates

Day 6 (Sarchu to Whisky Nullah): The Beauty and the Beast

Day 7 (Whisky Nullah to Pang):  How Wrong Was I?

Day 8 (Pang to Lato): The Longest and the Best Day- Size Does Matter

Day 9 (Lato to Leh):   I Will Reach Leh

Day 10 (Leh to KhardungLa):  The Final Hurrah….