Kashmir

Music in my head: Sigur Rós - Glósóli
Today's weather: The damp after the storm.

Round and round the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ran. As for us, we spiralled our way up from the barren valley that is Leh, through precarious roads and endless hairpin bends to Fotula pass, before we wound our way back down to Kargil.


It was an eight hour ride, and by the time we reached Kargil, I was full of dust, pins-and-needles and insightful thoughts resulting partially from multiple power-naps and a few conversations. I am not going to describe how picturesque the scenery was, I just don't have the words for it. I'm just putting up a few thousand below, just so you get an idea.

I'll put up the rest of the pictures on picasa soon. For now, I'll share some of the more interesting thoughts, perhaps epiphanies, I had during the eight hour road trip.

The common Kashmiri man is a closed box. He is cut off from the rest of the world by about ten hours in time and 400 kilometers in space. He gets yesterday's newspaper, and all he reads is the bollywood section. He survives without cable TV, heck, without power, twelve hours a day. But he is hard as a rock (not what you're thinking, you perv). He can brave icy winds in spite of just one layer of clothing, as opposed to the four or five layers we have on our backs. Hence, one can safely summarise that he is a strong, ignorant brute. I made these inferences from the two drivers in our little convoy. The clincher was the following conversation I had with one of them:

Driver: Bahut thand hai na? (It's really cold, isn't it?)
Me: Haan Bhaiya, Bahut Thand hai. (Yes, it is really cold)
Driver: Toh, tum kaha rehte ho? (So, where do you live?)
Me: Hum log Dilli mein rehte hai. (We live in Delhi)
Driver: Accha. Par proper gaon kaha hai? (Ok, but where is your hometown?)
Me: Voh to Kerala mein hain. (That's in Kerala)
Driver: Accha. Kerala kaha hain? (Ok. But where's Kerala?)
Me: Voh to kaafi neeche hai, kaafi south mein hai. (It's way down south.)
Driver: Oh, accha accha, Jammu side mein hain kya? (Oh right, it's near Jammu, is it?)
Me: (with a startled smile) Nahin, nahin bhaiya, bahut south mein hai. Samundar ke paas. (No no, its really way down south, near the sea.)
Driver: Accha, accha.
Me: (To break the awkard silence) Toh aap kahan ke ho? (So, where are you from?)
Driver: Kya, karein. Kargil mein janam ho gaya. To vahin pe rehna pada. (What can I do? I was born in Kargil. So I have to live my life there.)

My dad later told me that he's met a teacher in Kargil who couldn't name the President, didn't know how many states there were in India and couldn't even name five of them. I can't change anything. I'm just listing the facts.
Hence proved.
Now, coming to the women. Leh is predominantly a Tibetan community, so the women there are like the women you see in Darjeeling- dressed in the latest fashion, sporting shades and weird hairdos- the works. But in Kargil, you couldn't spot a single woman who wasn't wearing a hijab (a scarf that covers the head and the neck). And they're all really fair and well proportioned to boot. So, initially I cursed the Gods for denying me the enormous amount of eye candy that Kargil has hidden away under layers of wool.

But as time passed, and I started observing more carefully, I remembered a discussion I had with a friend back in college. The conclusion was that if a woman wears skimpy clothes, revealing all she has- her cards are on the table. That's it. Take it or leave it. But when a woman is hidden away under a burkha or a hijab, you can let your imagination run wild. You don't know what she's holding. Could be a pair, two pairs, maybe a straight, maybe a full-house, maybe even a flush. Whatever she bets, you'll call. As you get used to it, you can conjure up a straight flush every time you see a wrapped up woman. So ever since I had that awakening, my whole stay at Kargil just filled up with light.

So that's all about the men and women of Kashmir. I might continue my travelogue later, or I might not. Delhi's humid and I'm lazy. So in case the Universe doesn't conspire to create another such creative moment for me, I leave you with my sum-up of Kashmir- it's like being in the music video of a soaring post-rock song. Look up the song that I've been looping for a while now- Glósóli by Sigur Rós. Close your eyes. Turn on the Air-conditioner. You're in pseudo-Kashmir now. Enjoy your stay.

But Brutus is an honourable man

Music in my head: The Mayfield Four - Eden
Today's weather: Slushy

My friend next door became an Indian Oil Baabu yesterday. A year from now he'll chewing paan and pushing papers, just like the esteemed administration at our own institute.
Although, of course, I'm very happy for my friend (whose butt in about twice its original size from a veritable artillery barrage of myriad shoe sizes), my lack of a really firmly fixed future leaves me, like the rest of us, a hardened cynic. Thus, now, I will bitch about our administration and their impressive inefficiency.
Starting with the Academic Department. I wanted to have my transcript and grade cards printed out. I went to bear man.
1 pm, July 23, Bear Man: Come at 2:30.
2:30 pm, July 23, Bear Man : Come at 4:30.
4:30 pm, July 23, Bear Man : Come tomorrow.
9 am, July 24, Bear Man : What, you did not inform me yesterday. Come at 2:30.
Pattern of July 23 repeats.
Pattern of July 23 repeats again on July 26.
I get my grade cards at 4:30 on July 26.
Pattern of July 23 repeats again on July 27, for the transcript.
In my frustration, I decided not go go again for two days. I'll go tomorrow, and you can guess what's going to happen.

Moving on to the computer support group. I was trying to access the Xilinx website, and I got a huge red flashing warning which informed me that I was being a naughty boy and trying to watch download pornography. I half expected a hand to magically spring out of the computer and spank me.
Au Contraire, the following was proudly splashed along with other notices at the most happening place in college, the juice shop (go ahead, laugh at us).
That is, of course, 'educational', but Brutus is an honourable man.

And while I was stranded at the juice stall, in the pouring rain, this is what I saw.
A T-shirt that says 'Hard and Dirty, Extremely Furny'. Furny brownies to anyone who can tell me what it means. A walking testament of the lack of real pornography, and the abundance of 'hot mallu aunties in red sari' on youtube, which, of course, is again a testament to our Brutus' honour.

Another furny guy lost his pen drive. This is how he appeals to the masses for help.
And one more year to go. It is certainly not 'a great pleasure to me'.
But then again...