The day that never came

It wouldn't have been so tragic if we had been informed earlier. Money was not an issue, its value erodes when you are practically paid by the company to do nothing. Neither was time, although, at 3 pm, it was a bit odd; but then they could have fixed it at 3 a.m. and crowds would still have turned out in hordes. Even piss, sweat and thirst could have been excused, it was one of those rare occasions, when all three were bugging you simultaneously, but we tolerated it with a grit that would have put Spartans to shame. But you can't make short shrift of a 30000 strong crowd and hope to get away with it.

G told me about the Metallica concert when it was nothing more than a fledgling rumor, and although I was no big Metallica fan, I gladly chimed in, purely out of curiosity. 3 months later, unbelievably the concert materialized. G, who had too much faith in Demand-Supply law, had bought 5 tickets, in a hope that it would become a valuable commodity as the concert drew closer, and he would offload it at higher price. Everyone agreed that it was nice idea. What we forgot was that the ticket was little more than a glossed piece of paper that the organizers published by thousands, and were selling (and probably printing too)it even hours before the concert. You had to be an internet illiterate or a person of shoddy credit card history not to be able to buy it online. G, being the networking genius he was, found one of each. A couple of deadbeats, whom G identified as his friend's friend's friends were interested in the tickets. That they could only pay quarter of the ticket's price when it changed hands and promised to pay the balance later said a lot about their finances. I was lucky not to be a part of this scheme.

With the extra tickets taken care of we headed for the venue. Excluding myself and G, there were two of his office mates, all in all three chubby and one skinny fuck, looking more like kids skipping school for some mischief. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The show had attracted the most eclectic crowd from the region, people wearing tattoos for clothes, pierced dudes and dudettes,mohwaks, afros, all seemed to be a norm rather than exception. I have always wondered what do the caged animals in the zoos think of each other. Is it "Shit! Who let this thing inside..." Maybe. If it were humans, this thought would definitely cross their minds. Atleast their eyes were betraying these feelings, every person was scanning every other person head to toe, probably gauging if he/she was cool enough to be present there. Good thing that the guards overseeing the entry gate weren't employing this criterion. They just checked the tickets, frisked us twice and let us in. The four of us, who resemblance to school kids increased eerily with every passing moment, entered the stadium gleefully.

The stadium was divided into two sections, one for those who bought costlier tickets (Rs. 2700), and one way distant from the stage for those who paid less (Rs.1700). Poor sods. They didn't even have any screen serving them. The cost difference clearly didn't justify this step-motherly treatment. A barricade with bouncers posted every ten feet separated them from us. After musing on their situation (if musing means pointing at them and laughing), we fought our way to get as close to the stage as possible. With enough squeezing and excuse me's, we were able to settle our ass some 20 human rows from the stage. Organizers were continuously requesting the first rowers to take two or three steps back from the barricade. Apparently, even after the scheduled time of the concert, they were not able to set the barricades to their mind's satisfaction. Some event management. Whenever these announcements occurred, the first rowers, took a step back, but the subsequent rowers were too clever not to fill the void. Just like cards, it was simply a shuffle of feet. These waves of retreat came frequently, all we had to do was to stand askew, and the wave swept past us. Not a particularly brave way of standing your ground, but it paid its dues.

An hour passed, and still the technicians, organisers and a bouncer ,who wore a cowboy hat and seemed like a cross between an ox and a bison, were the only people roving about the stage. The crowd was definitely getting restless. Oldies like us hunkered on the floor to ease the bloodflow in the stiff joints. Those who were endowed with better energy levels vented their anger by screaming bullshit, thinking that their words would somehow bypass all the babel, reach the ears of Metallica, and goad them into action. If only they saved their energy for when they needed it the most...Eventually the zestful throats dried. Not completely though, a few frolickers would let their presence beknown every now and then, but not with the frequency that existed when the sun was high up in the sky. Evening brought along a chilling coolness and the crowd sobered up a bit. I think they were being irked by the same feeling that irked me - a feeling of massive amount of piss building up in your kidneys. I was resolute that I would piss in my pants if I had to. I wouldn't have been the only one.

Generally, lesser known local bands open the show, to warm up the crowd to the presence of the great one; but the stage was irritatingly empty. Doubts about the show began to creep up. One of the friends, who was more observant than the rest of us, rightly pointed that the audio equipment was being taken backstage. At that time, we didn't give much thought to his words, for us it was simply "technical stuff happening on stage that does not concern you." They could have been slaying dragons on the stage and we would have passed it
for technical jibberish, that was the level of disinterest we had developed.

At 6:15 P.M. (Two and a half hours of idleness), it was announced that the show was getting postponed by a day due to (Air Quote begin) Technical difficulties (Air Quote end). Apparently Metallica wasn't satisfied with the barricading near the stage (did they even bring their pious ass to the stage?? If they did, it escaped the scruitny of 30000 people). The audience was asked to evacuate the venue immediately. As if it was going to be that easy. I guess, this is the time I tell you that all hell broke loose. But it didn't, atleast not with such immediacy. Although the crowd started booing immediately, it was more of an auto-pilot response. The news was sinking in slowly. Ladies, escorted by men, were first to leave. Stags like us filled up the vacuum left behind. An intrepid soul (hats off to him) drew the first blood. He jumped over the barricade, rose over the stage, and threw a huge speaker down - these speakers aren't the garden variety speakers you have in your houses; they are almost as tall and as heavy as an adolescent child. And he did it when a few of the organisers were still on the stage. Might  be an exaggeration, but it's akin to storm a lion's den and take away his kill. This is when all hell broke loose. It was all the little impulse the crowd needed, the final neutron to the chain reaction. Rows upon rows of people started jumping the barricade and destroying whatever little property they could lay their hands upon. When you are a part of mob, questions about physical well being become almost episodic, the only thing everyone seemed to have on mind was to inflict as much damage on the stage in the shortest possible time. First, the barricade was taken apart. This barricade was being supported by a section of short (1/1.5 metres) iron pipes (dwarf versions of the ones that are used in setting up the marriage tents). So when everyone needed a weapon, it became the obvious choice. I too, had by this time hidden my face with a hankerchief, and started working upon prising out one of these rods. I was successful, but when it did come out, it hurled uncontrollably and hit a fellow rioter, who was trying to dig out his own weapon from the rubble. I lowered my head in apology, but he didn't seem to mind. With the weapon in hand, it seemed that a power engulfed me. My hands itched to try it on something. The first target was a desolate cardboard box, nestled between two speakers. I struck it with the rod as I would strike my worst enemy. Hundreds of sappy styrofoam cups flew out, contents were disappointing but I stomped them nonetheless. It was the time to use the weapon on a more formidable enemy. I singled out a speaker on which only one other rioter was working upon (There seemed to be a shortage of targets, the prescient organizers had already packed and moved the more valuable of their stuff). I got to that speaker, the incumbent rioter, gave me some space, and we started hitting the speaker in harmony. I arced my arms behind over my head, as far back as I could, and brought the rod down (sledge hammer motion). Pieces of plastics erupted. Incumbent rioter reciprocated the same motion. 4 hits later, the speaker was totalled. Clueless about what to do now, I hauled myself up the stage. The roof of the stage was flocked with a number of lights, which exploded as someone yanked the wire connected to those, or tinkered them in an unknown way. From the stage, the chaos was almost mesmerizing. Those who were still on ground, participated by throwing empty bottles of water (including the monstrous 20 litres one) on the stage. To my left, people had found a trove of musical instruments that was left behind; and they were busy pummelling it on the floor. I wondered then, why they weren't pilfering that stuff. I later realized that it would have been an extremely stupid thing to do. In this chaos, the rioters were nameless, faceless figures, effortlessly slipping into and out of the crowd, but once you are donning a musical instrument, you give up that anonymity. You would be spotted from a mile away, and there is no good excuse for that guitar you are carrying (Least of all the playing alongwith the band excuse.) I stood there like a slack jawed fool for a while before spotting another intact speaker. Despite all the clamour, this one was somehow missed by the crowd. I sat on the stage, my feet anchored on the edge of the speaker, one leg press and the speaker tilted and fell horizontally on the ground. I had found my very own dominion. From the stage, I jumped onto this speaker. Its face lay completely exposed to my rod; I didn't waste any moment and started grinding the rod onto its face, the rod went down effortlessly; deeper and deeper and deeper. When it seemed that the rod won't go any deeper I stomped it with my shoes. The kick was effective. A little too effective I guess. It broke the face of the speaker. When the hole was big enough, I tried to ram my shoe repeatedly, but it was a wasted effort. Everytime the shoe went inside the mouth of the speaker, it took me some effort to bring it out. After 3 kicks, it was clear that my shoe won't survive the splinters that were sticking out of the mouth of the speaker anyway I reckoned that damage was worth the cost of the ticket. Constables too had started appearing on a corner of the stage. Time to make a move.

From the speaker I jumped the barricade back into the crowd, joined G and his friends, and observed the thullas from a safe distance. They were doing absolutely nothing; standing with their arms crossed, leaning on their cudgels, rather than waving it. Just another day at work for them. From their number (four) and posture, it was easy to guess that they intended to stay that way. It is said that pride comes before fall. In my case it was the greed that preceded the fall. Before the devil in me could go back to sleep, the nonchalance of cops exhorted it for round two. Afterall how many times do you get to riot in your life. So before my friends could instil a better sense in me, I ran back towards the stage. As I surveyed it, it seemed that nothing worth destroying remained intact.

The thing about most of the seemingly random directional decisions in life is that they are not so much random as you expect them to be. Mostly, they depend on your hand orientation. If you find yourself lost in a forest, you are more likely to take left turns, if you are lefty and right ones, if you are righty. So, while all of the rioters were busy vandalizing the right section of the stage, I went towards a solitary left corner. A structure of planks supported a bunch of stretched curtains there. A long plank hung from a nail like a dead organ from the vestige of tissue, I yanked it out. I stepped back three or four paces and then badgered it into the curtain like a battering ram. The sweet sound of cloth ripping. As I went for a second strike a hand grabbed the back of my T shirt. My hands flailed as the hands dragged me towards the back of the stage. "Maaro saale ko, saala property damage karta hai." I was still on my feet when a punch hit me in the face. I learnt the meaning of the phrase 'stars exploding before your eyes' that night. My feet staggered to find balance as bouncers rained punches and kicks. There were four or five of them; which was actually a blessing, any fewer, and attacks would have been more concerted. Like a cornered animal, I was desperate to find an escape, more due to fear of being handed over to cops than of a beating. I was on all fours, my vision obscured by several legs that surrounded me. Kicks were mostly confined to the ribs. But one fucker got clever and stomped his foot on my right wrist with full force. In that quandary of pains, this one left a mark. This fucker seemed to be very intent on beating the crap out of me, as his next kick came, I wrapped my arm around his leg and threw him off balance. As his mates scuttled to help him get back on his feet, I tried to flee. There was a ramp connecting backstage to one of the exits; a good number of people were using this exit. It would have ensured anonymity if I made it to there. One of the quicker bouncers took a notice. While I was running down the ramp, his huge hands met my back. He wasn't trying to stop me; rather he wanted to push me down the ramp. Good strategy. It worked. I was thrown off balance. My hands thrashed about, trying to grab hold of some concrete support. All I caught was air. I stumled and rolled down the ramp, into the people. The bouncer had delivered his coup-de-grace. He went back upstage, looking forward to trap some other dumb-fuck like me.

I, glad not to be kicked into a riot van, ran from the venue like a dog with its tail between its legs. I was out of breath, but I still ran some 100 metres without looking back. Going back inside the venue was out of question. My T-shirt was torn underneath my arms, lips felt swollen, but there was no pain. Probably adrenaline was saving worse things for later. I sat down on a pavement, waiting for the heartbeat to slow down. A day ago, I had run with weights on, and found my heartbeat hovering around heart attack area. Now it felt that limit had already been surpassed. I took cognizance of my condition. Jaw seemed fine, it had taken its share of punches. Arms ok. Right wrist, a bit damaged, but moving without glitch. There was terrible shake in my knees that persisted as I walked towards an auto stand, guided by the metro line. As I passed the cars, and looked at my image in their windows, an image of a hobo stared back at me. Two important lessons struck me at that time. First: Don't get involved in shit unless you have got balls to face the consequesnce. I was lucky that it were the bouncers that caught me, had it been cops, I would have been in a situation so messy, that I won't have been so flippant about it. Second: Work-outs aren't half as futile as they seem to be. If not in offense, at least they help you in defense, let you take a few punches before you are splayed knocked out on the floor.

Aftermath:
I reached home before G and his friends. I had messaged him, not to worry about or wait for me. TV was replete with the Breaking news, I had just been part of. Metallica said that they were totally dissatisfied with the security measures at the venue. In all probability, they were not even going to perform the next day. Cops said that they had not been informed about estimates of the gathering, so they were helpless. Organisers bullshitted that they had lost equipment worth $200,000. Fuckers were not even through with one scam and  they were planning another. As G's observant friend had pointed, they had already cleared the valuable instruments before calling the show off, and now they were going to scam the Insurance companies.
G came back some half an hour later, and filled me up on the things I had missed. After I was thrown off from the venue, some rioters tried to set fire to the stage. The same curtain I was tearing before getting trapped. But it was made of a fire resistant material; no fun there. The merchandize section got completely looted, cops in this case were themselves partaking with some merchandize, so vandals were fearless about this loot. Even G's friend, who had been keeping his calm through the event, grabbed a bandana for a souvenir. DNA networks got a banishment order from organizing any concert in future. It remains to be seen how long it lasts. People in Bangalore were not disappointed. Their concert went as planned, masters of destruction kept their date with Bangalore, but missed the destruction by some 2000 miles.

Dreadfully yours, on this brief date.

I hate you, I hate you with all my heart,
I will fell trees if they are meant to break your back.
I will leave you rotting in hell to face devil's wrath.
But still, I want to fuck you before all that.
                                           -Jester of Sodomia

"Yes, I am wearing a grey T-shirt, can you see me?" I asked, panting like a dog in hot afternoon, wondering how much of the deodrant still remained in my pores. From the smell of it, not much was left.
"Yes, I think I see you, parking the bike in the mall. Cross the road, as soon as you are done with the parking, I am waiting there." She said and cut the phone without waiting for my reply, without considering that I still hadn't located her. But that is what cellphones are for, to waste your time and balance for frivolous ten second calls, that leave you guessing more often than providing an answer.

I sprinted across the road, more out of instinct than necessity. The other side of road presented me with a familiar reality; I was still unaware of her location. That offered just two alternatives. Call her and ask for her whereabouts, or keep scouting the length of this road, in the hope that I will see her eventually. Not that seeing her would have helped much. It had been three/four months since our last meeting, so I couldn't recollect her face. All I remembered about her physical appearance was that she had a short height, pouted lips and big titts; and this was true for every other girl roving on this road.
With heavy heart, I took out my cellphone and dialled her number. A ring, then another. A girl, some 20 paces from me, takes out her phone from her purse. She fits the small height, big titts description fully. Without another thought, I wave to her frantically. She doesn't wave back.
Meanwhile the phone is picked up.
"Hey what's up, where are you??"
"Right behind you, in a silver car, watching you wave to strangers."
Ouch. Strike1.

I got into the car. It's a silver coloured Suzuki Ritz. The dent on the passanger side door, and the big red 'L' on the windscreen brooded ominously at me. She put the car in gear, and started driving. I expected a few jerks, but there were none. Somehow, when you suck as a driver, you expect the whole world to follow the suit. Not here. It seemed that she had been driving for a while and was adept at it by now.

"Where do you want to go?" she asks, probably oblivious of the fact that it was she who was behind the wheel and not I.
"Wherever you want to, you are the one who specializes in this field," I said, no sarcasm intended.
She drove on, thinking out aloud, permuting all the possible locations this path had to offer. Awkward silence for a while. Then some small talk.

"How's your job?" she asked, looking towards me, probably to give weight to this prosaic question, flouting the most basic traffic rule : 'Eyes always on the road.'
'Barhiya (Good),' I blurted the only answer I ever knew (most guys for that matter).
"What about yours?"
"Very tiring, leaves me with very little time," she replied.
"Yeah, that shows; you really look very tired." I said, realizing the dumbness of my words only a second later. Strike 2.
"Really?" She suddenly became very conscious, adjusted the rear-view mirror to see if tireness showed on her face; all the while without taking her foot off the gas pedal. There goes 'eyes on the road' rule down the drain again.
My grip around the seatbelt tightened. If she continued to shower her attention on the mirror instead of the road, my mistake would cost me dearly. To assuage her uneasiness, I fed her lies.
"I didn't mean your face, you look fresh out of shower." I said, adding that her quivery voice gave away subtle signs of tiredness. I hoped that she believed it. Even if she didn't, she played along well.
She told me that she had more drinks than she could handle last night. It culminated in a bitter hangover in the morning which she just couldn't shake away.
A little while later, she asks me if I wanted to get drunk. I wondered if there was an irony involved.
"Sure, why not." I replied, not mentioning the fact that I am a lousy drinker and that most of my drinking sessions follow the same pattern: Start drinking -->drink mightily fast --> get rowdy and sentimental --> puke. Lately this pattern disgusted me so much, that I had shunned anything stronger than a beer. But I had no aversion to backslide, if it meant I had a chance to grab her thighs or grope her tits; and then there is a certain level of sexiness I associate with girls, who handle their drinks well (a quality I try hard to emulate).
She cruised her car through an upscale market, the one she had heard a lot about from her friends. After a good deal of effort, she managed to find a parking spot wide enough to suit her parking skills.

Once out of the car, I could manage to breathe easy. Her driving wasn't bad, but my anxiety was. We wandered in the market for a few minutes, looking for a restro-bar. None was open. In fact half the market was closed. One hookah bar was open, but I consciously avoided it, because smoke has consistently failed to give me any high. All it managed to do on a previous occasion was to dry my throat for full three days, and still confused about what I was supposed to expect. If there was a bar around, I was going to find it and get her drunk, come hell or high water. In my resolve, I made her walk with me up and down several flights of stairs. Her short stride and high heels meant that she had to literally jog to keep up the pace with me. And the fair amount of fat she was hiding under her Tshirt (how I was longing to squeeze it) didn't help much. Still panting, she asked me if we could make do without drinking.
"Yeah, right after we scan the last nook of the market, I am not that hungry you know, I just had my supper." I said, striding towards the corner where I thought some watering hole was present. Any trace of chivalry she might have noticed in me earlier was long dead and probably rotting by now.
After a bit more of prodding, I was satisfied that there was no serving bar in this shithole market.

Cursing my luck and suppressing my disappointment, I ask her to pick a place we could get some food. Her ass halted in front of the first restaurant she saw. Walking obviously was a task too hard on her legs. What she failed to notice was that this restaurant was not fully furnished, and its owner had decided to carry on the renovation while serving the patrons. She didn't seem to be bothered by this fact. Nor the fact that we were the only customers. Hell! her majesty was content as long as there was stuff going inside her belly. I really mean stuff, because she took almost perfunctory look into the menu and ordered Chop-suey. It was called Singaporean chop-suey, but they could have named it Kardashian's Titts, and it still would have tasted like animal fodder. She was also intent to wet her throat with cold black bubbly sugar water (aka cola), but all she got from me was a cold shoulder.

The next ten minutes till the order arrived, passed in serious discussion. By discussion, I mean monologue. She had a sacks of stories about her awesomeness. She told me how she had surpassed sales targets in her company, how she cracked tough interviews, how she shits rainbows in the morning and cherubs in the evening. Once every few minutes, when I had all but yawned in her face, she would narrate one of her slutty anecdotes to grab my attention back. When the order arrived she stuffed her plate with it, and then proceeded to stuff my plate too, when I interrupted her. I don't take kind to condescension. If you can't trust a person to be competitive enough to fill his own plate, you might as well write 'retard' on his forehead.

The meal continued, and so did her stories. By the time her plate was half empty, I knew more about her family and her addictions than I knew about my own. I kept on eating the stuff, punctuating with an insincere laugh and a cursory eye-contact whenever it seemed necessary. I toyed with the idea of grabbing her thighs from under the table, but ofcourse, that would have been too extreme. So instead, I squeeze my thigh against hers. If she reciprocated, good; if not, I could say that it was a mistake. Unluckily for me, she drew back her thigh, the second my knee touched it.
In the back of my head an aching knot was developing, partially due to her chirping, and partially due to the fact that this date was not going to get physical in any manner. If she meant to get physical, this deserted restaurant was as good as any shoddy bar.
My hypothesis about her being a 'Cock Juggler' was alas true.

Let me elaborate.
If you consider the whole species of men as an ocean of cocks, the desirable women are the vaginal islands that occur few and far between (Assumption = Most men are shallow like me, judging desirability on good face + full bosom/ass/both basis; women not possessing these features are as good as invisible zombies for us). These vaginal islands are still classified as further:

1. Bear trap emotion sucking cock teasing monster vaginal islands.
2. Beguile obliging pygmy vaginal islands.

All the vag islands I have seen till this point of time fall in category 1. So does, the girl in this story. I guess I should give her a name, after all there's a limit to which you can exploit pronouns. Call her Auto Girl, since I first met her in an auto-rikshaw.
Auto girl has a habit of calling me up every few months to meet me. The reasons for these meetings are still unknown to me, but now I suspect that there was some ego-raping involved. I treated each of these meetings as a possibility to get laid without having to pay for it. Now I know better. Free fucks are even bigger a myth than free lunches. You pay for your fucks either overtly or covertly. In this case, auto girl was simply brandishing her 'gal power,' feeding her ego with satisfaction of commanding several boy toys simultaneously. Cut her supply, and she will move over to newer prey. In a city sprawling with dicks, it is never too difficult for her to find one. Your phone number will keep on gathering dust in her contacts. That's until she is too lazy to prey in a 40 degree hot hunting ground. Then she will shake off dust from those old contacts and if you are alphabetically endowed like me (my name starts with 'A'), you get a call from her. The call will invariably be patterned along the lines "I am sorry, I couldn't give you a call since our last meeting. You see, I had a lot of stuff on my mind", which roughly translates to "My orifices and hands were busy dispensing oral sex to all the cocks except yours." Despite this epiphany, despite the predictable outcome, my balls will still drag me towards her. If there is a winner in this game, it's not me.

It's about the time we bid each other goodbye.
Her meal ended. I on the other hand, was busy munching the chopsuey. About half still remained in the bowl. It might have been snack for her, but it was dinner for me. Once you start cooking your meal, wastage of food is irreverence. Her sack of stories was empty by now. She might have been waiting for some follow-up questions. There were none. Now that catharsis was over, it was time to get rid off the sandbag. My hermit like calmness in finishing off food, was making her uncomfortable. She took out her mobile from her purse and started flubbing with it. Probably searching the next scapegoat. Restlessness had set in her legs. If she wanted to escape quickly, I won't let her have the pleasure of it. I get along with the food very well. In fact, eating is second only to jerking off, in my to-do list (This list is highly dubious, rankings change on ad-hoc basis). I keep on munching, taking eyes off my plate once a while to relish her unease, which is mounting every passing second. Payback time, bitch. This uneasiness was giving me a boner. I took another 20 minutes to finish the meal. Then I let her foot the bill. If she wanted to use me as her purgatorial whore, she might as well started paying for it.

We make our way to her car, she asked me if I enjoyed our meeting today. Not to risk getting deserted in this alien market, I told her that I did, not adding anything explicitly. She beamed, perhaps realizing the control she had on me in this situation. While driving, she told me how I was one of the most well mannered guys she had met. I guessed that her past dates didn't respond to cock teasing as passively as I did. That made me the most pliable sandbag. She dropped me to the place where I had parked my bike and bid me goodbye. I got out of the car, and made my way to the bike without looking back. Looking back would have translated to losing. She might have stayed, or she might have rushed to her home. Most probably latter. For me tryst was luckily over. She might call me up after another 4 months and bowing to my balls, I might end up being her sandbag once again. That only time will tell.
Till then I won't bother her, she won't bother me, and we will live happily ever after.

Gravitomania

Sleep won't last. Miles will.

Sorry if you couldn't find this term in any dictionary. I coined it on my way up a nameless slope. Consider this name a tribute to that slope. A tribute to the potential energy. Tribute to height. So how did I reach this slope? A coincidence might be the correct answer, but I would like to call myself lucky. You see, K and myself knocked on the hell's gate, but Satan turned us away, just after giving us a little glimpse of the feast we missed us that day. Told us 'Hell's full son, come back tomorrow.'

And the man said "Flashback"

Idling at office, can sometime lead to unexpected results. It was one of these dawdling sessions on the internet, that I came across Mohanchatti, a Rishikesh suburb, that promised stream, sand, and bungee. Perfect escape from the sweltering summer, which was getting unbearable by the day.
It was an April morning when we set out for the ordeal. I remember this because, Achiles' last stand was ringing in my head (one more instance aggrandizing my trivial shitty life). There were no plans made, no reservations sought, it was to be an open ended trip, right from the start. We boarded a rickety U.P. roadways bus for Haridwar, that took 8 hours to cover some 200 Kms. Another 40 Km journey, and we were in Rishikesh. Stepping out into a starry midnight, we found our way to a gurudwara. The good thing about gurudwaras are that they can't (or don't) turn you away, no matter how ass-fucked you look. The long journey had left our limbs shaky, and our appearance unkempt. But they still let us in and allowed us to decamp in their dormitory.


Mohanchatti map



And the man said "Insomnia"

It was well into the midnight, when the mattresses were laid and the mind, irritated by the long journey, screamed at the body to sleep. Excellent point. Just that the caretakers at the gurudwara lit a 100 watt bulb in the dormitory. Reason:  what if some hobo decides to wake up in the middle of the night, to take a dump, you don't want him to flub through the lines of people and still drop his pants in wrong place. Either that or it was to dissuade freeloaders like us from ever stepping on their hallowed grounds.
With the obtrusive bulb stinging my eyes, sleep wasn't to come easy.
No matter which way I contorted my body/face, light greeted me with open arms. Shut my eyes tight, the mental picture still remained. Lay face-down, ended up inhaling fistful of dust from the mattress. For a while, my elbows covered my eyes, but the position stiffened body too much to dispense any rest.
Ultimately, I had to swallow my self-respect, and cover my face with my tattered sweat stained vest. The stinging light was cut off, but for a price. Normally your stench never offends you the way it offends others. In fact it has an appeasing nostalgic quality, a mark of your presence (much like dog piss). I used to shrug off the constant objections of my flatmates/ colleagues about my stink, as a conspiracy to blemish my awesomeness. This illusion took seconds to shatter.
After defeating the bulb, I thought that I had won the war. I was wrong. The bulb occupied my mind long enough to keep the bugs out of equation. Now they came back to haunt me. The mosquito repellent cream, which I had smugly put in my bag, thinking that I was the smartest Homer Simpson alive, lost hands down. The fuckers bit me in places that I itched in the night indulgently, but couldn't quite dare to itch publicly next day.
Long story short, sleep eluded me on the night I required it urgently. The bitch, led me believe that she was just around the corner, and I ended up chasing her all the night. Like a striptease, she let me grab her once or twice, just long enough to create some ill formed dreams and nightmares. They were still there, when I woke up with a groggy head, in a room full of sunshine, cursing everything within my sight.

And the man said "Let there be food"

Drowsiness had sapped most of the energy in me. K, who can sleep through storms woke up an hour later than me, ready to conquer castles and throw gauntlet in world's face. The heaviness in my steps remained till we wandered the street (luckily, there is always just one in hills) to find a 'dhaba.' With a heavy thump, our asses fell on its woodden chairs, and stayed there till the point when we literally had to clamp our mouths shut to prevent food from falling out. This dhaba was totally non-descriptive, and chosen purely on the basis of laziness (closest to the detour we had to make to get to Lakshman Jhoola, one of the two famous bridges in Rishikesh, other being Ram Jhoola). The food turned out to be surprisingly good. The paranthas, despite being baked in tandoor, were soft, the chai was high sugar, high ginger masterpiece, typically associated with dhabas. Might be worthwhile to mention that this town is full of such exceptional food outlets, thronging both sides of Lakshman Jhoola. Despite tourism economy, they don't skin the customer alive. A bakery called 'German Bakery' served such a diverse range of pies, salads and milk-shakes that if you doze off there and wake up, you might consider that you are in some posh, uptown bakery. Another cafe called Namaste cafe, by a Nepali immigrant in his home, served more kind of teas than you could imagine. One shot of Ginger Lemon Honey, and your throat is ready to harangue for hours. That said, the non-veg food is banned here, so if you have spent your whole day trekking, with your guts are groaning louder than your throat, you might be disappointed for the lack of proteinous food. No alcohol too, although that's not a major problem. You don't want to be inebriated near hills and streams.

And the man said "Hyule"

With the stomachs' full, mood had taken a 180 degree turn, from dispiriting to exuberant. Through the meandering streets leading to Lakshman Jhoola, K managed to spot a tout who will rent us a bike for 500Rs a day. Not a bad deal, considering the shoddy public transport on the other side of the bridge. The clock had already struck 1300 hours by the time we got hold of the bike. This bike, a 125cc LML freedom, had its silencer tweaked to make it sound like a wildbeast on steroids. Thus, a lot of pedestrian hippies, turned their heads in the direction of the roar. What invariably followed, were heads shaking in disappointment. K, whose driving skills are infinitely better than mine, took rein of the bike initially. He drove on, skirting the mountainious highway, overlooking a scenic valley with Ganga carrying a bevy of rafters in its lap. Weekend meant that rafters had crowded the rapids; a file of rafts was formed, following one after the another in the rapids. Some 7 Kms uphill, a diversion came; one highway led to Neelkanth, and another to Mohanchatti (our destination). By this time ganga had deserted us, and its tributary, a narrow rivulet called 'Hyule' took its place. A welcome change, considering that this stream would be atleast swimmable. And with the high noon sun hovering right above our heads, this idea was on the top of our heads. So when a bridge came, we stopped the bike and trekked down for a dip into the 'Hyule.' To use the cliche, its water was crystal clear; mostly shallow (2-3 feet), deep only in certain pockets. The rocks and stones were clearly visible, depth or no depth; and the river flowed at a comfortable speed, so you never had to worry about getting washed away. If you stood stationary in water for long enough, the fries (young fish) would treat you like a rock and float past your legs, sometimes nibbling the hair on it. Lucky that they weren't piranhas.
It had been long since both of us had swum(a year for him and three for me), so there was a little hesitation initially; but it vanished away soon. We took to water naturally, displaced good deal of water while swimming, making it difficult for the fisherman to catchy any prey downstreams. After cursing us for a minute or two, they went far upstream, where we couldn't bother them. Nothing much worthwhile happened, except that once I was in the deep end, the sun shining on my back, created a huge shadow on the stream's floor. The illusion was disturbingly dreadful. I mistook it for some huge fish, waiting to disembowel me; fight or flight syndrome kicked in (it's invariably flight for me). I swum back frantically; realizing my folly some three or four strokes later. I reached the shore all limbs intact but with only shreds of self respect.

And the fool thought that the world had tilted.
In foreground: The Hyule.
In background: The fool.
Picture by: K

And the man said "Disappointment"

Water had cooled our engines good deal, and they were ready to be fired up again. K offered me keys to the bike, in case I wanted to try my hands on it, which I gleefully obliged. After a fuck-up or two, I got a grip on the bike. The major fuck-up was when I had encountered the first road that headed downhill, and the bike was soon hurtling, edging on the fine line between the control and lack of it. Mild shots of brakes ensured that the bike didn't skid into the ditch. Despite this fuck-up, K was unruffled, and imparted an important driving lesson to me; while driving downhill, put the bike in first gear, and you won't have to overuse clutch and brakes, also you can forget about providing race. The bike will maintain a control over itself, and the only thing your lazy ass needs to do is to provide a direction to it. The road towards the Mohanchatti (bungee destination), was progressively deteriorating. The last couple of kms. were worst. Narrow road, with more gravel than cemented potion and potholes of ungaguable depth (filled with water) marked this stretch. The bike had to snail through this patch to avoid skidding. We parked the bike outside 'Jumpin Heights' at half past two.
This brings us back to the begining. The precinct of Jumpin Heights was full of douche bags like us, who sought bunjee jump to pass their long weekend. The situation reminded me of a witty quote that I had read on a T-shirt once : "I am unique, just like all others who bought this T-shirt (or something on the same lines)." But I didn't think it was the appropriate time to utter it.
We were told to come back at 4 to confirm whether or not there were any slots available. More or less it meant, 'Fuck off till tomorrow.' Hopeless as situation was, optimism was a trait instilled ass first into us. Even if it meant waiting hour and a half.

And the man said "Gravitomania"

The thing about open-ended trips, is that there are more detours than the straight paths. So when one door closes on your face, another opens within a blink of an eye. Not an exaggeration, considering that we were heading towards the mountain just opposite to the gate.
"Want to climb to its top?" I asked K.
"Any reason not to?" He shrugged, classic case of insanity fueling insanity.
With a bottle of water and an energy bar between the two of us, we set out to slay the monster. The rule was simple "Don't follow the clean trail." The path was scattered with dead leaves, making it slippery. The only conceivable tactic was to jog up to a holdable bark, hold it for your life, take some deep breaths, and then run for the next bark. In no time, we had enough sweat between us to fill a bottle. There was a sharp drop some 3 feet from the path that we had taken, but it was forgotten after a brief mention.
Mountain tops can be deceivingly elusive. What our eyes made out to be the pinnacle, turned out to be a plateau, some farmland, that was nowhere near the mountaintop we had set forth to conquer. A bunch of cows, who were not much accustomed to see intruders, were staring malignantly at us, stomping hoofs to persuade us to leave. Good thing, the fuckers were tied, and empty threats were all they could deliver.
Meanwhile, the owner of the farm had seen us trolling on his farm, and asked us to leave. No trace of anger or frustraion. It turned out that we weren't the first turd balls to roll into his field. Every now and then, city boys like us, who acted as if they hadn't seen a mountain in their lives would trespass into his fields, stepping onto his crops with mindless impunity. By now he had accepted this as a fact of life. After giving us some water, he directed us to a downhill trail to Jumpin heights. That was a relief ; ascending a hill, howsoever enervating is under your control. Choose to descend on an untrodden path, and you are apt to tumble down, and the fall breaks only when you hit some tree or rock. Luckily, we survived that.

Breathlessness: The bitch doesn't appear in the image, but it 's there.

And the man said "Euphoria"

Our descent to Jumpin Heights greeted us with a predictable result. No more slots for bungee that day. That meant our stay was extended by another day. No worries, a few new equations needed to be worked out, and they would be in due time. What mattered then, was that no daylight should be wasted ruminating about lost bungee. So the bike was kicked, put into gear, and off we went on the same path, detouring only once, when we thought that the road towards Neelkanth might offer better surprises than the one we came from. We ventured a Km into that direction before a tea stall owner warned us that this path leads to just a fucked-up over hyped temple, nothing worth to waste your precious gasoline on. Point duly noted, we turned back to the direction we came from. The map we carried and some reconnaissance (the word I dearly wanted to use) from the locals told us that there is a waterfall called Garudchatti on the way. Since there was still two hours of daylight left to burn, no better way than a plunge in the water (yet again). The bike was parked, empty stomachs were filled with Maggi, and hike #2 began. The previous hiking experience had left jitters in my legs, so not a word escaped my mouth regarding taking the untrodden path this time. K seemed to still have plenty of fuel left in his tank, as his walk uphill, was brisk, almost effortless, while I plodded behind him, my head hung low, as if in some deep musing. Despite sipping water occasionally from the bottle, my mouth seemed to be always dry. The path that led up to the Garudchatti falls was narrow, the path surrounding it covered with tall trees and dense undergrowth. The first km or so had hardly any surprise. Pilgrims, who were familiar with the path were running in either directions, crowding the already narrow path. When we reached the place where most people flocked, we saw a pathetic pool. Such a struggle for so little shit. Not for us. There was supposed to be a good waterfall somewhere around, and we were damned if we couldn't wet our balls in it. So we trudged forward. The path seemed to diverge from the existing pool, but the soft croon of flowing water told us that water was never too far away.
Adjacent to this path was a mud hill, with loose protruding rocks, the whole structure kept intact by a bunch of trees that jutted out like cocks, curving from their horizontal base, to spurt out towards the sky. I can't remember the exact logic that led to the act, but shortly we were clawing these mud stones, disturbing this fragile structure. A lot of loose rocks became free and tumbled towards the ground, before K managed to grab hold of a branch, and climb his way onto the tree. I guess that this would be a good time to inform that we had a third partner with us on this trip, whom we were hiding in the bag for the last two days. Not anymore. The rope that we had casually packed in my bag, unsure about its utility, had finally found its purpose. I had passed it to K and he doubled it on a tall branch and abseiled his way down. Climb up, rappel down; climb up, rappel down. This cheered us up for a while. Upside of having a short attention span : more experiences, howsoever ephemeral fill up your knapsack.

Now the fool thinks that the world is upside down.

Shortly afterwards, we packed the rope, put the shoes back on. This little burst of activity had spurred the blood-flow in our limbs, and helped me shake off the previous exhaustion. So the next part of hike was covered without struggling for breath. It led us to a sight we beheld in awe. A rivulet, dropping some 15 feet down on a rock, the whole area covered with an undergrowth of moss, ferns and dense trees. Huge boulders, about hundred feet in height, dwarfed us. Crossing the rivulet on small stones, trying hard not to get the shoes wet, we scaled the rocks from where the water was falling. K had grabbed onto this rock; so water struck him before making way around his body. His clothes were drenched, and he hardly gave any damn about them. A brilliant idea spawned in his mind. He took the rope out again and tied it to the boulder. More rappelling ensued. It seemed like we couldn't get enough of the water. Twice it was decided to move forward, and twice this pact was broken when we grabbed the rope and drenched in that free flow. I guess images will better substantiate this idea.

Ecstasy.

After the dips, the rope was packed back for good, to be taken out only after reaching back to Gurgaon. The bitch had absorbed a good deal of water and weighed heavily on the shoulders now. But since the sight of  the fall was getting better with every yard we covered, the weight of the rope was forgotten. All that mattered was to go as far uphill until the light ditched us. That we did, we leapt over the slippery rocks, sometimes making it to the desired rock and sometimes slipping into the cool water. The higher we went, the greater the disconnect from humanity became. It was a place where, when you are silent for long enough, you can hear your own heartbeat, interrupted only by the cry of the cicadas. Each time a leap from one rock to another failed, our legs splashed in the motes disturbing the larvae of the yet to turn fishes. I wish that they died by 100s. No personal enmity there, just plain old schadenfreude.

Castles to conquer and larvae to squash.
P.S. This is a classic example, why mobile cameras are not suited to capture fast frames.

When the final rays of sunlight bid us adieu, we called it a day. We descended in dark, relying on our eyes, more than our feet, exchanging some past anecdotes, about getting lost in the woods, and the lost stakes.The ascent had pumped enough endorphins in our bloodstream. Brimming with happiness might sound cliched, but it fits. K was so happy that he wished that a bear appeared in the middle of the path and he could hug him and caress its soft fir. I on the other hand was content with a much smaller woman, and a quick fuck behind the bushes. In our banter, we inadvertently wandered at a point where trail seemed to split. The mistake was realized soon and corrected, we backtracked, and after a bit of confusion, came out on the main path without a hitch. The next couple of hours were uneventful. We had filled our empty stomachs with unusual (but delicious) food from German Bakery. While I was gorging on what was known as 'Israeli salad (perhaps in memory of junkies, who squat in Rishikesh, and let its economy prosper),' K was trying to evade the questions about his whereabouts from his parents on telephone (they are still unaware about this trip). The man who had lent us his bike was not much enthusiastic about having it back, considering the sweet time he took to have it back. All the while we squatted in the middle of the Laxman Jhoola, doing the thing that irritated us the most in the morning - not walking, and apparently blocking the way. The starry night and the humongous river down below led to some serious bits of conversations, most of which centred around the fact that 'how long will we be able to hold on to the cable in case the bridge collapsed.' Since we were immoderate about our volume, that earned us a lot of bewildered stares, while people hushed past with their kids tucked abnormally close to them, wondering if fools' fantasies could ever come true. Finally the bike man returned to take back his bike. Since we were tired to our bones by this time, and had no qualms about loosening our tight fists to get a comfortable room. The bike man obliged, and used his contacts to get us one, literally a stone throw away from the place we were standing. Talk about networking!
This time sleep didn't turn out to be the elusive bitch she had been a day ago, for just 800rs, we got an a/c room. We slept like stones, our sleep punctuated only in the morning, when the first rays of sun shone through the window.

And the man said "Jump asshole"

Flash forwarding the next day. Waking up, realizing that we are operating on shit low level of money. We had been instructed by the 'Jumpin Heights' staff to board the staff bus for Mohanchatti that departs at 9 AM, in case we wanted to avoid the same predicament that we faced a day ago. Despite our prudent planning that dealt in minutes, we woke up late and were running through cramped Rishikesh streets, like jackasses on steroids to get some cash from the ATM. Even with persistent jogging (something we hadn't done for a long time), we made it back only by 9:15; half expecting to be deserted by the bus. But it was there, and it took another sweet 15 minutes to depart. In all this quandary, the idea of breakfast was dropped, and we had to get by a couple of granola bars between us. Considering the way our stomachs were growling, this was definitely not the best idea. Not that anything could have been done about it. That day I learnt that body has a lot more energy than we give it credit for. It can dig in deep to salvage any shred of energy available to it and lets you do the things you previously thought that you were too tired to do.

The bus led us to the Jumpin Heights office, where we paid for the bungee and the flying fox. After this payment, we were weighed (The ropes are decided as per the weight of the person, they don't take any chance that a fat fuck bashes his head on a rock because of an over stretchy rope).
The first stop for us was the 'Flying fox.' This structure consists of a rope stretching from the top of the hill to the bottom of valley, spanning about a Km. The operator told us proudly that a person can touch the speed of 150-160Km/h, and since there is no windshield to protect, this speed is pretty much in your face. Hanging on this rope, dressed up in red tarpaulin sort of dress (making us look like retarded aliens), looking into the depth of valley had a sobering effect. If this position, where some stranger held the 'Release button' had the power to unnerve me, bungee would make me wet my pants. However looking down was the only high point this structure offered. When the operator released the brakes, we were hurtled forward, but not at a pace that we hoped to achieved. Merry go rounds offer more fun. The speed (as told by the operator later) hovered around 110-120, not much more than the speed K drives his bike on. The only consolation was that the view down (Hyule again, reflecting sunlight gloriously) below was ravishing. Overall, this ride was overhyped money squanderer. Not worth a try.

The pirate's plank. Don't strain your eyes too much in case you can't see it.

Disappointment was short-lived. Soon after we descended back to the bungee base, waiting for our turn to jump. I didn't have to wait for long. Shortly after I stepped on the base, I was told that the rope they had set, matched my weight, and I could go for the jump straight away. This undoubtedly raised a few eyebrows, from the people who were waiting in line longer than I was. One person was especially irate at this injustice meted at him, and took this up with the jumpmaster (call her JM#1). She didn't give much damn about his hysterics, and politely told him to shove his money up his ass in case he was too offended.

That settled, I was prepared for the jump. First a chest harness, then a leg harness, then the jump rope (which was so heavy that it required a counterweight of 17 Kg, so the jumpmasters could pull it up) was fit to the leg harness with the carbiners that could bear weights in tonnes. While I was at a safe distance from the jump podium, a PJ song 'Given to fly' was running through my mind (somehow I associate this song with suicidal jumps). My heartbeat was normal, and the conversation with the JM#1 was going naturally. She had been instructing these jumps for several years now, and had herself a good share of jumps. She had advised me to delink the mind, shut it altogether and jump at a whim.
Standing on the podium, all these well meant advises vanished without a trace. They were replaced by a burgeoning sense of self-doubt.
"What the fuck am I trying to prove??"
"Will I grow another set of balls if I accomplish this task?" These questions started bugging my mind.
Some people are naturally gifted, not to be afraid of height. K was one of them. But I wasn't. 83 metres down below, Hyule gleamed immaculately, so clean that even the colour of a few stones was discernible from this height. But I wasn't able to appreciate this beauty.

All I could say was 'Shit.' I remembered it distinctly because the jumpmaster (JM2), who stood behind me, told me that half of the people who stepped there uttered this word. The other half say 'Fuck.' In other circumstances, the hilarity of this joke would have me rolling on floor. Now, not even a ghost of a smile broke out on my face. It is said that fear is the most physical of all the emotions. It's dead correct. My heartbeat had soared, my legs had developed a shake. Had I been outside my body, I might even have seen colour disappear from my cheeks. The JM told me to look ahead and not down. But how could I? My gaze was transfixed at the depth, the depth that seemed to beckon me as well as repulse me. In the background, JM#2 yelled '1', '2', '3', 'Bungee'
Nothing happened. He might as well be yelling this to a rock. No response for me. I was still staring nonplussed into the depth. My brain, with whatever words it could muster in such situation, finally articulated to JM#2 that he didn't need to goad me into jumping, I would jump when ready. In a couple of seconds, I took a deep breath, filled my lungs with all the air I could, and jumped. I wished I knew how to dive, but I didn't at that time. But my body tilted nonetheless, and I was going head-first towards the ground. Hands wide open. Perhaps flailing, perhaps not. All I remember looking down, was that my head seemed to have gained weight, and so did my eyes. I guess too much blood had accumulated there. The phrase 'retching your heart out' didn't seem so impossible now. In a couple of second, a soft jerk. If it had been an orgasm, it was a very short one. After the first jerk, I got pulled back, and then fell back. Much like secondary squirts after the big load has been ejacuated. The show was over. Didn't even take 5-7 seconds from start to end. I was slowly descended. The staff down on the stream's edge, passed on a long stick for me to grab on. I was tugged towards a mattress where I was laid down to get the blood flow normally.
Sitting on a boulder beside the stream, waiting for K's turn to jump, I got the answer to the question I was pondering earlier. No, I didn't grow another ball after the jump. Much like thousands of assholes, who come here in pursuit of 'so called adventure,' which requires nothing more than a bundle of notes on their part, the jump was pretty much every-man's game. The only high you get out of all this is overcoming your instinct; convincing your body that the fall is non lethal, even though your brain already knows this. Stretched on a boulder, I enjoyed the jumps of other people gleefully. The person next to me took too long, and too much inciting to jump. The one next to him was so thrilled to jump, that he was howled all the way through it, and long after the jump. He waved his fist in air while running towards his mates as if he had found the best kept secret of life.
Watching him rejoicing, made me want to punch him in the face. Of course I didn't. These fantasies are best kept buried.
Then came K. As I squinted towards the platform, his black turban confirmed me that it was K indeed. Never the one too scared of heights, he too ignored JM#2's goads (he was adamant on jumping on his own terms). I am unsure of how much of diving experience K carries, but when he took up diver's pose on the platform (hand's raised up towards the sky, legs bent, body hunched forward), the dive was picture perfect. It was more like a meteor striking down towards the earth. Not even once, did the rope stagger from its straight path, not even when the rope pulled back after the first jerk. Unlike his predecessor, this jump was completely silent, no-nonsense. The jump didn't seem to have slightest effect on his composure. As the bungee staff pinned an 'I've got guts' medal on his chest, I thought he deserved two.

And the man said 'Hasta la vista, baby'

The jumps concluded our trip to the magicland. It was the time to head back to the sultry city we came from. After a parting dip in Hyule, and an uphill trek, we got back to Rishikesh. Then Haridwar. Then the most shitty journey back to Delhi. Word of advice for all the people taking a night journey on NH-58 (Roorkee, Muzaffarnagar, Meerut, Ghaziabad ). Don't take it. It won't do you any good. You will find yourself in 2-3 hour long jams, sniffing dust and fumes. If you don't die of monoxide poisoning, you will wish that you had, when you haggle with Delhi Autowalas at 1 in the morning. Even after you have haggled to your heart's content, you end up sharing the auto with a weirdo, who trusts the people he has just met to pour out his life's woes about shitty job and shitty bosses.
And then the auto driver still manages to trick you by taking the longest route and charging for 'night duty.' If this hasn't given you a migraine yet, you find the same douchebag with whom you dutched the auto, in your taxi-cab, whining out the stories he forgot to tell. Days of running, jumping, climbing and swimming couldn't exhaust us the way the return journey and the douchebag did. With gritted teeth, and clenhed fists, we tolerated the idiot till he debarked from the cab. Briefly afterwards, we did too. The adventure was over for good. 

Daredevil's elder sister

It's quite different without a harness, isn't it ?? Daredevil's elder sister (Let's call her DES) asked me. I nodded, still unsure, if the question was rhetorical. It was the first time I was bouldering in natural rocks, and I was yet to find the answer to her question.

The venue was 'Garden of five senses', a park notorious/noteworthy (depending on which side you belong) for romantic escapades. So much so that my auto ride from Saket station had the driver squinting into the rear view mirror, and asking "Sahab, wahan akele jayenge? (Sir, are you planning to go there alone?)", as if a bachelor stepping in the reverred garden would spoil its sancity.
"No I have a fuck-doll in my bag, which I plan to screw in the park," my mind retorted, words not quite escaping my mouth.
I made it there, half hour later than the designated time, almost sure to be deserted by the fellow climbers (in which case I had to locate them in a 20 acre rocky patch). After paying the modest entry fee, I entered the park, and to my surprise, they were waiting near its entrance.

Wow! these awesome people are waiting for me!!! This delusion shattered almost as soon as it sprang up. In terms of experience, my contribution to the group was almost at par (if not less) with the stray dogs wandering in the park. So the obvious reason was that the planners were still absent. That meant I had to spend a few awkward minutes sitting with people I didn't know anything about. Awkward silence invariably leads to awkward words, especially when strangers are involved. A murmur about weather being good, park being clean emanated (climbers are fucknig optimistic lot), which was thankfully cut-short because the planners (read the most professional amateurs amongst us) had arrived. There was AT (the last abbreviated name, I promise), who seemed to be carrying enough gear for all of us, and there was ever effervescent DES, gorging on an ice cream (a mango dolly), starkly devoid of any gear. The two brought the total number of people to 7, four guys and three girls.


EPISODE 1.
With the leaders in place, we trudged along towards the rocks. There were several winding pathways, merging and unmerging, with similar plants as markers. No wonder the second timers were reluctant to lead before the regulars came. And then, no one can actually give much thought to the path, when every plausible corner is occupied by couples enjoying various level of intimacy (boob grabbing followed by a rap on the neck was the best I saw). Finally, the regulars debarked their gear near two rocks, that were standing head to head, much like the cards in a house of cards. This was going to be the their challenge for the day. And it did turn out to be challenging. I am not talking about absolute beginners like me (there were 3 of us), who couldn't do much apart from hanging on to the holdable portion of the rock till our hands gave away, and then jumping down.

Besides the rookies, who were fumbling like fools with the stones, the regulars too were finding it difficult to hang on. And yet they dubbed it a beginner expedition. DES, a ballet dancer of rocks struggled to reach any protrusion that could hold her weight. All the good holds were atleast 7-8 feet high, reachable only if you jump high enough, a sure-shot recipe to hand laceration. I had jumped-grabbed-held-fell this hold a three times, appearing a foolisher every time. The others found it amusing for the first couple of times (much like monkey theatricals), then went away, trying their luck on other sections of the rock. With me panting with exhaustion (fucked up stamina) and kicking the rock in frustration, DES asked me if I could help her reach those holds. Without a second thought, I held her from waist and raised her up (bless her weight, another 20 pounds, and I would have slipped my disc in process). That soft waist wriggled in my grip. Something told me that I had caught the attention of the group again. With their stares weighing heavy on me and with DES's wriggling intensifying, I was apparently committing some blunder, and still unable to guess it. I did the only logical thing, I lowered her down.

Did my hands pressed her titts unknowingly when I hoisted her? No.
Did her sports top slipped along with my hands, exposing a fair amount of bare skin? No.
Was there a nip-slip that I just missed?? Not even that.

Then what accounted for the sudden silence and sharp stares.

Lesson 1 (Instilled in me by DES, in hushed voice) : When a rock climber (esp a female one), asks you to lift her up, she most probably means that you interlock your fingers and give her a step she could use to extend her reach. Or you can clutch the waist. That might exult you for a second or two, but then the embarrassment makes you wish that you could just sink in the ground.

New knowledge imbibed, I genuflected (as if about to kiss her hand in a royal manner), clasped my fingers, and presented the step she needed. A gentle tug on my hand and off she went, reaching one hold to another, with the enviable fluidity. Paradoxically, rock climbing is closer to chess than any other game. The movements that seemed effortless from the ground, were result of conscious decisions, most of which are obvious, but a good deal are deliberate and make all the difference between performers and spectators. It took her just 7 shifts of hand, and she was standing on the top of the rock, looking down with a brilliant smile. A feat well achieved.


EPISODE 2.
This was all the spectatorship us beginners could endure. Shitty our climbing might be, but climbing was what brought us there, so we went out to find any rocks that could sustain our dalliance without breaking our teeth. So the 3 amigos escaped the scene in their search. Not too far, we did find some. In my eagerness to boost my ego (which had taken a nasty beating, owing to people who had better skills than me), I started scaling a crack in a rock rather furiously. As I described earlier, climbing is more of a mental game than physical. You have to plan and climb, not climb and then plan (unless you are experienced, in which case you can do whatever you want).

It's said that if you fuck a maxim, the maxim fucks back twice as hard. I made my way up 8 feet through the crack, before the crack started disappearing, and rock started becoming smooth. My right hand, which hooked the crack sideways, started trembling furiously while my left groped for a good hold on that smooth surface. Although the height was not too much, and the fall would have been along rock's  surface (which meant a few lacerations) before I landed on my feet, it was difficult to convince my mind that the fall wouldn't be mortal.
Lesson 2: Don't be too proud to ask someone for spotting. It allays the fear of fall, lets you risk more than you were willing to risk alone. I was at my wits' ends before a soothing voice struck my ears, advising me to shift the weight more on the balls of my feet rather than its side. Apparently, she was concerned that we rookies, in our excitement may bite more than we can chew. Hail her for being so considerate. Heeding her advise, I shifted weight to my legs and relieved some tension from my right hand (and my mind too, knowing that someone will atleast try to absorb my fall). My left hand had now a few more seconds to grope around. I fumbled over and around a smooth rock to find  a hold that was rough enough to support my left hand. With the hands and feet secured, I pulled my body up (pure physicality, zero grace), managed to get on my feet on the horizontal surface of rock.

This surface was just large enough to accommodate my feet sideways, with the toe of right foot touching the heel of the left. With my open palms hugging the flat rock surface, I weighed my options. Go left, where after a hiccup or two, the rocks were scalable, literally in a step formation, and I could make it down one piece. Or go right, making it to another crack if I could stretch my body like Mr. Fantastic, hold on to the crack if the crack's surface was conducive. There were literally no footholds on that side, and whatever support your legs could provide depended upon how well your feet could use friction, not a forte of my canvas shoes. Or I could have jumped down, while pushing my body away from the rock, risking torn flesh if my hands touched the surface of rock in midst of fall.
The first seemed to be the sanest of three. Hugging the rock, I moved towards left in slow, deliberate steps. Whatever few obstructions that came in my way were overcome by pure survival instinct (I know this because, after my first tryst, I tried the same route thrice, and always took a path that had no resemblence with the previous). Finally I landed on solid ground, my hands callused (no blisters yet, that would be later), and my heart pumping as if I had clawed my way through hell. The episode must have taken no longer than 5 minutes, and we were not even on the sunny side of the rock, but still sweat blots covered my t-shirt. I grabbed the first water bottle that caught my sight, and doused the fire that had built up inside my chest.

Half the bottle gulped down, DES asks me to spot her. She was going to try the same route (as far as i could guess.)

"All right, let's do it."
Before she even started, I knew I was in for a treat. What I had made look like culling a chicken with a butter knife, she looked like a jedi killing a bunch of children with her light saber. In no time she was at the same crossroads I was, with the exception that she wasn't hanging for her life. She was confidently considering her options. She went for the option I dreaded the most, going towards the right crack. This crack was 3 feet above the current crack, taking her 11 feet above the ground. That made a spotter's utility highly limited. Any misstep and it would be a while before the spotter could intervene. Getting hold of this crack was not an easy task. She curled her body, brought her legs closer to her arms. Once she secured this position, she let go of her left arm, scouted the crevice's surface and upon finding it conducive, swiftly brought her right arm into the crevice too. What gave her guts and strength to perform this move is unknown to me. Even though I had resumed my spectatorship on the ground, this daredevillery was giving me a second hand high. This show was just for me, the rest were slugging out on other rocks, and missing a spectacle of their life. She hung in this position, hanging with one arm at a time, shaking the other arm, trying to get rid of the Pump (which can set the fatigue earlier than you intend to). After the blood resumed workable flow in the arms (not the normal flow, it takes atleast half an hour for that), she dabbed her palms with chalk to neutralize the sweat. There was not even a subtle hint of any awkwardness in these movements, they were as precise and as minimal as they could ever get. With her second wind setting in, she started traversing the second crack. Crossed the arms, uncrossed them, kept the ball of the feet pressed firmly onto the surface for friction. This motion led her to the end of crack#2, around 15 metres from its beginning and eclipsed from it by a curve in the rock. DES, who had taken this route more on a whim than deliberation was in for a surprise now. The crack had gradually thinned to a point that her fingers could no longer use it for sustaining herself (same situation I was in, albeit with much higher stakes). A descent was imminent, and the smooth rock meant that it would be bloody if performed with a vacillating mind.

There was a young Pipal tree, about a metre and a half from where the rock stood. A bit of luck after hard work. The bark of this tree was just this enough for her to place hands around it. Her back faced the tree. First she tried to reach it by freeing her right leg and right hand and ascertain her range. Even with her body fully stretching, it eluded her grasp by a foot. Then came a stunt that had my eyes bulging out and my jaw dropping. Keep in mind that her foot was atleast 11 feet from the ground, and rock climbing shoes are not made for hard landings. They are utterly tight, curve your foot in the shape of an arch to have the toe protrude out. If you are lucky then the landing would just sprain your foot, but there are better chances that you would be left with broken toes.

For most people the act I am going to describe might not seem much of a feat, but these 'most' have seen far too many kung-fu movies to find it banal in real life.

So hold your breath. This act is better if imagined in slow motion (and present tense). DES has brought her limbs back to the rock now, her legs are bent to give her enough thrust to jump away from the rock. My mind is weighing the possibilty about catching her mid-air (seems a joke now). She gives herself a push, while still air-borne, she rotates her body 180 degree, such that she faces the bark now. First her hands wrap around the bark, as if choking her worst enemy. Then her legs. Secured and steady. From down below it looked like a fox crossing a wide ravine.
Coming down the tree was not much of a challenge, and she seemed to actually relish it. All this drama had me panting for breath, she in comparison was unnaturally composed.
'Holy fuck!! How did you do that??' I asked, unable to conceal my excitement. She shrugged, gave me a nonchalant smile, and answered my question with one of her own.
"It was tricky, wasn't it?? I wasn't sure if I could have held on during the last 2-3 metres, and I was too scared to fall down. After that I guess a few hormones kicked on." She said, while pressing her forearms, and taking a cognizance of her body.
The only casuality was that the tip of her left index finger got punctured by a sharp rock. Blood was getting mixed with the chalk before droplets fell on ground. She instinctively sucked on to the finger, her spit cleaning off both blood and the chalk. "Tastes like childhood", she said. Must be one hell of a childhood, I thought. Calm as she seemed on the rocks, the ordeal left her limbs a bit shaky. Last one had pushed her over the edge. I guess that was what she was hoping to achieve. She drank her share of water, offered me her climbing shoes (my feet are girlie sized) in case I wanted to carry on. I did for a while before blisters cut all of my fingers (downside of climbing without technique). Tired or not, she was still slugging out with the rocks when I had left.

Hej och adjo.

DES - The queen of rocks. Photo : Dhauj

Side-note: Reconnaissance was the word I wanted to use in a couple of places, not because it added some special meaning, but just because it's an awesome word and should be used more often. I was stuck, unable to remember it for one whole day, till I got a good cue from J about searching for spy satellites. I did, and voila! it was there, smugly waiting for me in the third line. Few things (good shit and good jerk off being one of those) make your day, as salvaging a word buried deep down in your memory does. So here's an axiom, I am about to introduce, pass it down your generations : "When unable to recall Reconnaissance, wiki search for Spy Satellites."

Red bulb and mended hopes

"Daddy loves all his whores. Well he loves some more than others. But he still loves them all." - Jester of Sodomia

Return from office a few days back had a surprise in store for me, D was back. Even before we exchanged greetings, I popped the question "When are we going to the temple?"
"Do you really want to??"  he squirmed, recounting his last visit, that was forgettable at best and traumatic at worst.
Of course I do, it's almost 6 days since I have jerked off, and what better way to break the fast than to visit the temple. The temple was of course GB Road, our very own local redlight district, a place I was too gutless to venture alone. The fuck sessions there were always mechanical, but the girls were good looking and not few in number. And then, responsiveness carried a huge price tag. No hooker worth her salt would agree to come to your place for less than 6000 Rs. GB was dirt cheap in comparison, 250 Rs and you get to thrust for 5-10 minutes, eject your body fluids and get going. Could I live with a dejected face of hooker whose sombre eyes always seemed to ask "What's taking this long??" Hell yes!! But D, who had people banging his door and for some odd reason, had seen a goat in brothel's corridor, had renounced the temple altogether. Gutless renegade. After a good deal of pleading, we finally found a middle ground. He would spend the next day searching for the cheapest possible escort on the Internet, and if he couldn't find anything that fit our bill by that time, we would head for the plain old temple.

D killed the next day plodding the internet for cheap escorts, and filled my computer with adwares I still can't quite get rid off. But the gambit paid off. By the time I was back from office, he had zeroed in on two pimps, who were ready to cater to our needs for Rs 2000 a shot. Not too bad. I too called this pimp to get my queries (what kind of girls does he have, do they have any objection with any position, any chance to trim the price etcetra etcetra) answered. D made no bones of his dipleasure about my way of handling the pimp. He told me that my questions were too stupid to be discussed on phone, and my tone was unreasonably quarrelsome. Both his points, as I realized later were correct.

Finally, it was decided that we will go and see the hookers, D will fuck for sure and I will fuck if I liked the them (in my own words, whether or not both of us fucked was mutually exclusive). At 8 in the evening, when I got ready for the big night, and asked D if he knew the way to the pimp's place in Saket, he tells that we were going to the GB. What the fuck!!!, he couldn't seem to pin his mind on a single decision. Although this doused a better part of my enthusiasm, I kept a straight face. After all, any fuck is better than no fuck. I got rid of my debit card, stuffed 600 Rs (which would make me almost the richest client on GB) in my wallet and headed out for the GB. At this point it would be worthwhile to mention that D (who is the most sagacious person pimp handler I have ever seen), is a dumbfuck when it comes to distinguish between the perceptual and the literal. On way to the auto stand, when I asked him about his sudden change of mind, he said that my (mutually exclusive) remark indicated a half assed interest in pursuing the idea. My mind called him an asshole at the top of its voice and my words were only a bit kinder.

It took a bit of persuasion to put across the fact that I was not averse to go to Saket hookers. He asked me if I still wanted to go there. I nodded. But there was a major problem, we were collectively carrying 3650 Rs, not including the fare for the auto and the metro. I asked D if he carried any card, that we could use to get cash if required. He said he had. My tensions eased considerably and we embarked towards the new destination. Later I found that he was referring to 'Metro Card.' My mind was too confounded to react to such inaneness by now. It seemed that D will react to nothing less than absolutely literal. Meanwhile the pimp (honorable Mr Sanjay) had texted us his whereabouts. We were to deboard at Hauz Khas metro station and find a place called Katwaria Sarai, and Sanjay's errand boy was to meet us there.

The auto cost us another 30 Rs and we reached the meeting place at 9:45 PM with roughly 400 Rs shorter than the agreed amount. The tense 15 minutes that passed before Sanjay's minion arrived were spent assuaging each other. I had had a bad experience with a pimp once, and D was afraid that cops might raid the brothel the moment he disrobes (he carries a black cloud over his head wherever he goes). I used my loud mouth and half baked knowledge about immoral trafficking act to tell him that clients are never prosecuted as per law. He used his vast pimping experience to ease my doubts about being beaten and mugged by a pimp.

Finally the minion arrived. A kid barely out of his teens shook our hands and ordered us to follow him while keeping a good deal of distance. He was snaking through the crowded streets like a rat, but occasionally looking back to check whether we were still following. He led us to a two room ground floor apartment, quick to bolt the door from inside the moment we stepped in. Oh boy! It did bring up some memories. My first time at GB, had I and my friend being frisked and cheated by a pimp in a 6 ft * 4 ft kholi. In retrospect, it was mostly claustrophobia. This time the room was expansive enough to ward off the fear before it even sprang. The pimp Mr. Sanjay was a mild mannered, middle aged man, in a T-shirt and a payjama, sporting a pot that is characteristic to most of middle-aged indians. In the other room, the hookers were watching a hindi movie. He called both of them and displayed them like trophies. We were amazed. The hookers were actually good looking and wore a smile on their faces instead of the sorrowful expression I associated them with. There was a Punjabi housewife, long hair, olive complexion, sporting spectacles, polka tank top, and  a capri jean. The other was Sapna, a petite chinki, who seemed to have flown straight out of a porn movie. This one was short haired, wore a plaid mini skirt and knee long leather boots (thankfully without long heels).
Trophy display concluded. The hookers were sent back to their room. It was time for the deal. The pimp asked us to present 4000Rs that he had settled for. D, with his immensely innocent face and the pleading eyes (magnified by the huge glasses he wears) told the pimp that something urgent came up and we were short of 500 Rs. The pimp, either due to the D's guilelessness or his aversion to haggling settled for 3500.

Skip the next three paragraphs, if you don't want to be haunted by my dick for the rest of your life. You won't find some mystical sex position, everything described here is nothing you haven't read in any cheap sex story and it's just about as interesting as a fart in a commode. That said I still can't let it go for the sake of continuity
(and vanity). There might be dubious exaggerations, probably because the instances I am recounting get pleasanter every time the tape rolls back in my mind.

After a bit of dilly dallying, I was about to go for the Punjabi one (she seemed to have firmer and ampler breasts), when D interjected. He too wanted the same trophy, and since he was leading the expedition, I let him have his say. D left with the Punjabi chick to the other room, the connecting door between the two rooms was bolted from both sides. I and Sapna, were left behind in the other room. I asked Sapna if I could have some water. She pointed to a small refrigirator in the corner of the room. I picked out a bottle and was in the middle of the second gulp when a pair of hands grabbed my chest from behind and two soft lips kissed me on the back of my neck. Initiating sex can be awkward, luckily this was not one of those instances. I turned back, looked into her almond eyes and kissed her back on her succulent lips. Then my lips made way to her earlobes, and she let out a soft giggle. "It tickles", she said in a voice that was slightly hoarse due to her heavy heartbeat. I proceeded to kiss her neck, and she chuckled again. Might have been a genuine tickle, or an amusement at my inexperience, but it stimulated me all the same. Shortly I was kissing her frantically, all over her face and neck, and she was responding at the same pace. My hands (which had a mind of their own) lifted her mini-skirt were pressing her butt cheeks, my middle finger found her clit from behind and rubbed it, while she forced me towards the bed. My knees hinged on the edge of the bed and I fell back first on the bed. One of her arms wrapped around my neck and pulled my face closer to hers. Her other hand was squeezing the bulge in my pants. I pulled her shirt up, got rid off the black padded bra that she was wearing. Watching those lush breasts greet me redoubled the spit in my mouth. Not even my mouth could hold it wholly and a spit line drooled down my mouth. I rubbed the side of my mouth on her breast to get rid of it and went back to sucking.

Still lying on the bed, with her breast in my mouth, she asked me if she could switch the tubelight off. I hummed a nod and she complied, switched off a tubelight, but still kept a zero watt bulb on. Apparently, she didn't like to grope for body parts in dark. Kudos for practicality. When I got enough of her titts, I disrobed her from below. That is when surprise number one hit me. She was wet down below. Just to be sure, I inserted my middle finger in her puss, fully expecting to get slapped by her (that too has happened to me before). But no slap came. Infact she wriggled her ass about my finger to increase the insertion, raining wetty kisses and moans in same breath, telling me to get rid off the jean, which I immediately did. She tightened her grip around my dick and brought down her mouth towards it, gobbling it in one go (not that there was too much to gobble). This continued for a while. I told her to quit when I thought that I won't be able to hold on for another minute. She too understood my predicament and left my dick alone for a while, and got back to kisses, griniding her wet puss on my bare dick in this process. The clip that was holding her ponytail had slid way back, causing her hair to scatter on her face. The red light, the scattered hair and those almond eyes together made her look like the ghost from the movie Grudge. I started laughing. Inexplicably she too strarted laughing, without missing a beat in her grinding rhythm.

Finally she put a condom on my dick, and asked me to fuck her. There was no way I was going to dabble with missionary this time. If there was something about sex that I know for sure, it's that you can either fuck missionary or maintain an erection, but not both. It's messy and my gyrations are clumsy. So I have her do cowgirl on me, holding her waist to provide whatever little support she required in this movement. She found her rhythm eventually, and began to fucked fast to the point of exhaustion, that almost got me to the edge, but not quite there. As she lay her head on my chest, panting heavily, I quickly rolled her over, came on top and thrust for another 5 minutes to come. After a full one week I had come. I expected her to push me away, as hookers often do when what's desired is achieved, but she didn't. I thought that she didn't realize that I had come (what a shame). So trying my luck I continued to thrust, thinking about earning a second shot. She silently took my dick out, got rid of the old condom and  put a new one. Now that astounded me. Did she understand the proposition??? It was one shot, not multiple. Who was I to complain?? I fucked still remaining on top for as long as I could, then gestured her to come on top. A few more thrusts later, she tells me 'mera bhi paani nikal gaya (I have come too)!!!' Now she discarded my sloppy dick (as I was expecting her to do a bit earlier). Feeling sorry for me, she tried to jerk me off but unavailingly. I told her to quit, not wanting to make a mockery of myself after such a satisfying fuck. She obliged cheerfully. We got dressed up. Clothes covered most of the visible signs of what had transpired in the room, but not the smell of her cheap perfume reeking from me. I didn't mind. Cheap or classy, it was mesmerizing. She gave me a parting smooch, and unbolted the adjoining door in a swift movement. The show was over.

We meandered through the unfamiliar roads of Katwaria Sarai, getting lost twice before making it to the auto stand. D was unusually silent. Perhaps he was savouring the sweet taste of fuck, or wondering about some untried sex position. But that didn't stop me from shoving my experience down his throat. After the auto dropped us back to Hauz Khas, it was already 11:15 PM we had 80 Rs left between us, 70 with him and 10 with me. I had to grab a metro back to Gurgaon, and he had to rush to Noida (to his friends there who were planning to call a hooker to their place next day). The guard at metro station told D that he might still be able to make it there if he was lucky (which of course he had never been). While I swiped my metro card, and made my way to the platform. D tried his card, and found that his metro card was out of credit. And he had exhausted his mobile phone balance too, calling pimps and hookers whole day. If that was not enough, he couldn't even receive any calls, as he was on roaming.
My train had arrived. I took one look towards the platform, and another towards D, who was still trying the Metro card, hoping the balance to magically reappear. In a split second, a decision was made. I rushed towards the train, jumped through the door just a moment before it closed. As I searched for an empty seat, my mind was still trying to justify my selfishness, but after a perfunctory 'call me when you reach Noida' text, the feeling subsided. I made home by roughly midnight, without any cash in my wallet, but with a content mind.

Largo viva el slutdom!!!

Update (unrelated to story) : D somehow reached Noida by 1:30 in the night. There were several worry ridden calls from his friends waiting in Noida, who had tried to get his prepaid phone recharged and get in touch with him (he alleges that they got a wrong number recharged, but I suspect that he exhausted balance by talking to pimps enroute). His luck had deceived him again, and he had boarded wrong metro, but got an auto, and paid its expenses upon reaching his friend's place. It turned out that his screw that day was not very encouraging, and he went to screw Sapna next day.