My one trek mind

I am not much of a cards guy but this particular day I was killing it. I was among seasoned seasonal gamblers and yet I had more counters than I could count. And let me tell you, I am so bad at cards that I used to think a trail of colour meant three red cards or three black ones. In all this excitement which stretched till 3 in the night, I almost forgot I had to leave in 3 hours for a trek to Kalsubai Peak - the highest natural point in Maharashtra.

So after finally encashing the counters and bidding a groggy goodbye to the people I won money off, I was off to bed, dreading the sound of the alarm I have truly come to hate. So with unmistakable six-sigma certified irritation, my alarm went off at 6. Followed by equally irritating sounds of friends who were already on their way to Dadar station. I must admit, I came really really close to calling off the trek in exchange for a few hours of sleep. But adrenalin prevailed over laziness, and so did better sense.

I met Sudeep and Nishant at Dadar station and in true mumbai fashion was greeted with well disguised inadvertent pushes and shoves at 7 am even on a Dussehra holiday. Sudeep was wearing a United jersey ( good man!) while Nishant was dressed as if he was about to hop across the whole Himalayan range just to show that he can. Anyhow, amidst commotion, confusion and lack of coordination we saw the 7:30 Local to Kasara leave the platform right before our eyes. We then had no option but to wait for the 8:50 Local now, which meant more morning mumbai maniacs to share the seats with. So we got into the train and managed to wrestle three seats from the morning mumbai maniacs. While perched on cold steel seats with our soft overfed asses, my part gujju genes helped me decode a discussion amongst a gujju group about our destination being two hours away. But I'm guessing they weren't true gujju's because in those two freaking hours they never once took out Dhokla, Khandvi or any other awesome gujju snack.

We got down at Kasara to the relief of our clenched butt cheeks. But a bigger pain in the ass awaited us in the form of taxi drivers waiting to rip us off. Which they did. We spend 550 bucks on a ride that the locals paid 80 for. That moment I felt deep sympathy for the foreign tourists who pay 250 rupees to see Qutub Minar, while our home-grown love birds pay only 10 to see the back of a 14th century medieval wall. Needless to say, we were the foreigners this time. Dresses in our touristy clothes, armed with Nishant's tripod stand, cameras and god knows how many lenses. That man was a walking photo studio willing to click anything from a dumb sleeping crab in the mud to camera friendly semi-naked men bathing in their undies. Our man with the lens saw beauty in everything except for the climb.

On our way we met a friend. A four legged one who kept following us. From now on, he( i saw his balls, plus no bitch would do what he did for us) shall be addressed as Tommy. Only because I haven't met any dog named tommy,ever since that dog name went out of fashion in the early 16th century.He walked when we walked. He ran when we ran. He eased off when we eased off. And he stopped when Nishant stopped. To be honest, our man with the photographic eye had the stamina of a chain smoking chihuahua. He stopped times to catch his breath in only the first 100 meters of the trek. Although I must say that Tommy displayed amazing patience to stick with him, for I would have just bitten the fuck out of him and carried on.
Not only was he a patient guide, Tommy was a courageous fighter as well. You know how people say that your whole life flashes before you when you are about to die? Well, its all horsepiss. When a bull comes thundering down a mud path that is big enough for only one of you, you don't see shit from the life you've been living. All you see is the bull and the fact that you will be mince meat even before you can spell it. I went through the horror of staring a rampaging bull and the only reason I am alive to tell this tale is because of Tommy. He leaped forward to my rescue by barking his guts out at the bull. The bull suddenly stopped, kicked Tommy and then changed its path. I stopped trembling after 10 minutes or so I guess, but more importantly I was alive.

One passing couple spotted the dog trailing us and very proudly boasted with their puffed up chests and sparkling eyes that the dog was a local celebrity of sorts who had even made it to a local paper for being a guide to all the non-locals.

Meanwhile me and Sudeep had already charted out pattern for our climb, which was fairly simple. Walk for 5 minutes, stop, and then bitch about Nishant while he catches up. Our plan worked well for a bit and then eventually a visibly fucked up Nishant gave up his adventurous streak in order to continue the great journey called life. Normally, we don't leave a man behind, but when the man himself wants to be left behind, its always better to scamper off before he changes his mind.

This climb to the top was the most conflicting in terms of emotions. It made me feel great on one hand, as with each step I surprised myself for making it this far. But deeply embarrassing and shame inducing on the other, as I wtinessed women in chappals and gallivanting geriatrics going about the trek at half the distress it was causing us. Now I am no fitness freak, in fact as a punju-gujju who loves overeating I am right at other end of the fitness stick.
But seeing all those locals looking at their puffing and panting city cousins with mocking eyes was a rude wake up call. But we did it. We made it to the fucking top and I am fucking proud of it. Fucking yeah! One more time. Fucking Yeah!

We made it down in almost half the time and ass breaking as it took us to ascend. We even caught up with Nishant who looked fresh as a flower in a flower shop sprayed with water every two minutes. Tommy followed us all the way till the bus stop from where we took seat in a tempo normally used to ferry goods. We perched our aching city bottoms on a tiny little plank of wood where even a rabbit would complain of discomfort. But we slugged it out like brave people who have no other option.

After 5 hours, a congested auto trip, a relatively comfortable train journey in the general compartment we finally made it to our patch. The brightly lit up city, with no trees but buildings. With cars to replace stones we dodged on the trek. The place where the closest I come to a trek is the walk to my apartment.

The three of us then wrapped up the day with a sumptuous meal to fill up spaces vacated by all the calories we burnt on our little expedition earlier. We had plentiful servings of prawn chilli, stuffed bombil fry, tandoori chicken, mushroom tikka, palak rice and dal khichdi. Along with copious amounts of beer for the other two adrenalin junkies and orange juice for me.

One final word - this trek guarantees to rip your butt cheeks apart if you're a couch potato. Which is why I had to tape mine together to wear jeans today.

You don't get it that I get it.

' You don't have to be shot to know that a bullet kills'

The first time I uttered these words, I knew I had hit upon a fabulous insight capable of bringing down all the pointing fingers belonging to the Naysayers. It was like a neatly devised counter-attack at all claims that attempted to undermine my capability of 'getting it' just because I wasn't in the same situation as the person supposedly 'getting it'.

These words when used collectively perform admirably as one giant middle finger to every 'chuck it, you won't get it' ever thrown your way.

No, I would never know how it feels on the first day of chumming. Probably not even on the second or third. Fuck how many are there? Probably equal to the times a boyfriend needs to say sorry for doing nothing. I digress. So, coming back to the point -If girls chum then I have been kicked in the nuts. That too with several different objects of differing weight, sharpness and force. Which qualifies me to sympathise with the pain, if not the reason behind it.

I would also fail to shed a tear or two for the loss of your beloved pug, but my condolences will be real. I have lost toys too. Lost them to fires and sometimes even the depths of the commode. And they were precious to me. Precious because I have always been an above average student. Something my folks never quite came to terms with. For them I was Einstein reincarnated with a callous approach and normal hair. So basically, with grades like mine, new toys were as rare to come by as spotting a semi naked lady with a broken down car on a rainy afternoon, while you good sir are her only hope. Not only of a ride but also accommodation for the night.

So don't look at me with soggy eyes, a lump in the throat and mildly suppressed anger if I don't understand your loss just because I haven't picked up dog poop in parks, or in some cases secretly kicked it in the bushes after the business was done.

Because I can't take a bullet to prove that it kills. But hand me a gun and I will be more than willing to prove my theory.