The plunge

A grand video caught my attention during this morning's mundane scrolling of Instagram. It was that of a magnificent humpback whale coming out of the surface of the ocean and taking a beautiful plunge while displaying a grace not easily associable with that big a being.

When it went back in the ocean, its home, is when my craving rose from that spot and surfaced again. The craving to swim in the sea. To relive that experience of being in the water, rhythmically breathing, feeling minute in the vastness of the water body, a bit tense by acknowledging the unknown entities below the surface of the water, and slowly being as close a part of them as possible. 

It took me back to that suddenness when you are running from the beach and entering the ocean, feeling the first baby waves, and then further to when you realize that your hands are moving and your legs do not feel the sand or the beach shelf anymore. You're not breathing properly, the nerves are flared up, mind and body are both not at ease. Maybe the body is with its own memory of slight practice, but the mind...

Slowly as you swim towards the ocean, some people who started swimming with you go ahead, while some are left behind. Slowly you are on your own, moving swiftly, trying to get into a rhythm. Your breath calms down a bit, the mind is now listening to the body. Now your eyes truly open (behind the swimming goggles) and soak in the vastness of the ocean. The horizon beckons. Far away you see a boat, anchored at the point where you need to reach and turn back.

Hands and legs move in a ballet-like coordination and suddenly you realize, your speed is not matching up with the pace of your movements. The realization hits that the tide is following its daily routine. You feel it against you. Maybe telling you that you don't belong here in the ocean. Not anymore. You have evolved. There is still that vestigial spirit though that pushes you to go on. Now the mind takes over the body. You swim at your own pace and soon reach the turning point. 

At this point, the fellow swimmers have spread out. You are on your own. You turn around and then the tide slowly nudges you back towards the beach. You smile or rather your mind does. Now the sun is shining on your face. You see the beach and the small hill far away. Swimming goggles have become a bit foggy, but you can still see. Moreover, now you are feeling the distance than actually gauging it. You want to stop, stay afloat, soak it all in. The nothingness that you are. A speck of dust in the temporal universe. Absorb the music of the lapping waves. Rock yourself to the movement that feels like a baby's cradle swaying back and forth. Maybe you want to back to that unknown place.

And you move on. The tide reads your mind and pushes you faster towards the beach. Taking care of you. You continue swimming and closer to the beach you try touching the ground for the familiar sand. You feel it slowly, you try to walk, but it feels strange. You catch your balance, steady yourself and take a deep breath. 

You are back. Maybe a bit more alive than before.

This feeling. I need to be a bit more alive than before. I need to get back. Take the plunge.

Of awards and hearts!

“Woman sitting near bike photo”, by Nam Hoang, @puonqnam217

It was one of those lovely Gangtok mornings with that slight chill in the air and a promise of an adventure. She and I had taken our rented bikes and we headed out to explore the lovely by lanes of the town.

After about an hour of cycling uphill and downhill, the rolling roads got us tired and we looked around for a refreshing beverage and noticed a juice seller. We parked our bikes and took a breather when we noticed this beautiful old lady selling colourful handheld fans. The vibrant colours of the fans seemed like a rainbow on the monochrome background of the footpath.

As we leisurely sipped our juice, we realized that the old lady was earnestly looking at us as if she wanted us to approach her and talk to her. We realized her hesitation to directly call us but her slight hint of a smile broke the ice. We gave in and moved closer to her. She hurriedly removed a piece of paper from her bag and muttered in broken Hindi. She mentioned that a foreigner lady gave her the note and some significant amount of money. Her expressions were very confused at that moment. She wanted us to read the note and translate.

Thank you! On my last visit here, I had taken your picture and submitted it to a magazine and that had won me an award. This is a small token of my appreciation.
Keep smiling,
Love, Agnes

We returned the note and she held that in her hand and actually gave us that smile. One of the most beautiful, content smiles.

Helping to win awards and win hearts.

-

This story was written in a storytelling workshop where we were shown these images and given 10 odd minutes to write the story.

Em and The Big Hoom by Jerry Pinto - A Book Review

Em and The Big Hoom by Jerry Pinto
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

How would you classify this novel? How would you describe it? My first throwaway line was "It is about a dysfunctional family... Erm, a dysfunctional mother..."

It made me wonder before I realized that I was wrong. I questioned just like the book puts it, "What is normal?" Who defines these blurred lines? How does love, affection, or hate makes these lines very subjective?

What pushes you across these lines? Is it the external forces? Is it the internal defeat? Is it the submission to the ashes to ashes, dust to dust eventuality? Just ride the train till you can and are allowed to. Smile, joke, and act normal.

View all my reviews

A God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy - Book Review

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A pair of actors trapped in a recondite play with no hint of a plot or narrative. Stumbling through their parts, nursing someone else's sorry. Grieving some else's grief.
Theater. Actors.
Roles. Fate.
Marionettes.

And here I am, trying to find a meaning in every line when I should rather be feeling every line. Of a book that first slowly, diligently, metaphorically dug a hole and then filled that book-shaped hole by silently creeping in. With soft steps while treading on the Love Laws.
That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.

For me, this book is a beautiful, haunting symphony, composed by people bringing their own instruments, playing their own tunes through all that rigid background noise and making a soulful, sad, arresting, comic, tragic, and vividly evocative music.

Maybe I will read it again. I will read it again. And love it a little more.

View all my reviews

Lone Fox Dancing: My Autobiography by Ruskin Bond - Book Review

Lone Fox Dancing by Ruskin Bond
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Towards the end of Lone Fox Dancing (LFD), Mr. Bond writes about the severe storm that ravages his Ivy Cottage home. How the natural yet merciless powers shake up the house and sweep the roof away, and then the snow falls and freezes the fear. Mr. Bond finds beauty in the midst of this all. It is almost an analogy to his past with events that swept his life and carved his future, and all the while he hung on to the things he loved. The man whose pen rains wonderful words on paper and writes beautifully about the life that he has had, the different people he met and loved, and the immovable mountains that sheltered the writer in him.

I missed being among strangers without feeling like an outsider; I missed everything that made it all right to be sentimental and emotional.

This is only my second book by Mr. Bond. I haven't read any of his fiction, but I feel that when I pick up his other books to read, LFD will help me recall his memory-rich past life that might have triggered a particular anecdote, story, events, or characters in the books. As Mr. Bond himself explains so well:

I suppose most writers, to a greater or lesser extent, base their fictional characters upon real people. Mine come very close to the reality. It is my own response to them that varies. The most fictional of all my characters is myself.

I love his writing. It gave me a warm and cozy feeling. The journey from childhood to adulthood and further was sprinkled with giggles, smiles, a bit of sadness, hope, and continuously moving on to the next phase of life. It is evident in the writing how, as a child, he absorbed the happenings around him, let the most memorable things carry him forth, and recalled the quick flashes of history. Then the mountains took over and then the words became one with nature. Birds sing, trees rustle, raindrops pitter-patter, snowflakes mesmerize, the lone fox dances, and the brave leopard leaves with indigestion.

I was fortunate in that I ventured into the literary world with a certain wide-eyed innocence, and managed to maintain that innocence for most of my life.

On the "evening of Mr. Bond's long and fairly fulfilling life," I certainly think that I will be revisiting Dehra, Delhi, Mussoorie, the mountains and the valleys, the birds and their songs, the people and their stories through your writing, Mr. Bond.

I hope to learn a thing or two about "how much I still needed to learn about contentment."

So here I am, a young boy, an old writer, without regrets.

So long!

It seems strange
How we used to wait for letters to arrive
But what's stranger still
Is how something so small can keep you alive
We used to wait
We used to waste hours just walkin' around
We used to wait
All those wasted lives in the wilderness downtown

We Used To Wait by Arcade Fire.

View all my reviews

Roads to Mussoorie by Ruskin Bond - Book Review

Roads To Mussoorie by Ruskin Bond
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I have been really slow with reading books from last year or two. The pile of abandoned books feeds the volume of guilt that I kept feeling from time to time. Guilt for having given way to easy and non-committed wanderings on the social media instead of diving in a book. This year, I would like to change a few things to reduce that volume of guilt. But can I? Ah, I digress, rather I've not started with the matter at hand...

A month back, I picked up a friendly Wodehouse (My 24th) and proceeded to read it during my trip to the lovely place called Landour in Mussoorie. Yes, I loved the place and everything it stood for. Early morning runs around Char Dukan > Nag Tibba > Kellogg's Church, getting worried about big monkeys on the road instead of the usual dogs, breathing copious amounts of fresh, pristine air, eating scrumptious food, sleeping cozily inside a fleece blanket while thinking about the 40 degrees back home, was a fantastic way to spend time with the family.

Even when you read a bit and hear stories about Landour, you know this place has seen some incredible history. Or at least history that will make up for good and interesting stories. I was really sure this is one reason why Ruskin Bond stuck around there. I would do that too if given a choice (and a lot of money). Roads to Mussoorie confirmed part of my theory. (Part of it might be unraveled by his upcoming autobiography Lone Fox Dancing.) It was my first Ruskin Bond book. I had bought his collection of stories a few years back but somehow didn't read them. (Like many, many other books.) The recent visit to Landour, Mussoorie, and around made me pick this book up. I wanted to meet the man himself, but he visits the mall road only on Saturdays and sadly we couldn't have a free Saturday in our itinerary.

Roads to Mussoorie is a fun little book filled with lovely anecdotes (and some unruly spelling mistakes that Rupa Publications should really work on!). In fact, just because of the vivid stories and interesting characters painted by Ruskin Bond, and his lucid style of writing, I could look beyond the typos. I wish this book was a bit longer though, and wish that Mr. Bond lingered on with his words, but I think that will make me read a lot more of his work. It is rare that a writer can make you feel warm about humanity, make you laugh at life, and make you wonder about the beautiful nature that is around us. All things we seem to easily take for granted.

I have made a list of Ruskin Bonds books that I would like to read next, but foremost, I am glad that his autobiography will be out in the next 15 days or so. I am looking forward to that! Maybe on my next trip to Landour, I hope I meet Mr. Bond and get a signed copy from him.

View all my reviews

New Bike Day

It's been a while I wrote. I guess I need to revive the art of reflection. Even if it is for a personal use.

-

I am part of this recreational athletes group that discusses all things under the sky that are related to running, cycling, or swimming. The other day someone got a new bike from a brand that is known to produce good quality goods at an affordable price. This brand is not considered as "elite" or "super good" by many cyclists or runners, so a few of the comments that this person received weren't motivating. Some of us did try to cheer up, but that somehow led me to a tangential line of thought. I wanted to type it in the group itself, but it's not like all of them are my bum chums. So here it goes:

I don't know about you, but for me, bicycles are a type of time machines (alcohol being a major one). It somehow rings the bell of the innocent times from the school days of yore and plays the subtle notes of nostalgia. I remember fighting with my dad to fix gears to my BSA SLR Photon (the one with the alloy wheels!). I eventually got them after persisting to the cause, but then I grew old and dad sold the bike. Then just over a year back I got a new bicycle, albeit for different reasons. I did not go for the costliest bike I could buy, but my budget did double up eventually! I have had a good time riding this bike (Cannondale Quick 6), and I hope I continue to do so!

Dejection

I failed to reach my goal.

I had put in considerable practice that included both physical and mental conditioning to reach a goal of sub 2:20 hr timing for a half marathon.

I couldn't reach it. In fact I overshot it by 10 minutes 43 seconds.

Those 10 minutes 43 seconds meant that I cannot use this timing as a qualification for #SCMM2016.

Till the 10-11K mark, I was on target. After that, my mind started giving up. It started taking control and convincing me that an additional minute won't matter 2:25 is still OK, within the qualification criteria. I started walking more after 15K. 2:28 is still OK. Somehow I just gave up. One runner came along and tried to motivate me. I tried, but I couldn't gather myself. Towards the end, I sprinted, but still reached a bit late. By 43 seconds.

I ran 21.1K in 2:30:43. (Chip time was different than what my GPS watch collected.) I couldn't even shave off those 43 seconds.

What if it was my personal best in a half marathon? Does it matter?

How do I strengthen and condition my mind further?

The search continues...