Journey through the Ghats

A little piece I wrote in the train en route to Udupi from Goa a few weeks back

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An early morning or late evening ride on the Konkan route is truly magical. The clock is soon to strike 7pm and I shall soon arrive at my destination, the temple town of Udupi.
The sun has set. Dusk shall fall soon. The pines stand tall and motionless but for the occasional gust of wind. The sky appears to be overcast but isn't. The expanse neither a shade of blue, nor one of red but falls somewhere conveniently in between. The hills yonder are no more than an outline. The mist averts the eye from beholding its details. They appear a dull shade of grey.

Lush open fields here are sporadic and few. The track is abounded by evergreen forests of the Western Ghats; but this land is not unconquered, but respected and preserved.
The train crosses over the occasional meandering stream. The ocean is not distant, though invisible. The rivers unite with the sea soon after. The union is unwinessed by our eye, to which the streams disappear behind the foliage.


We cross over a stream. The water us a dark mossy green. A strong wind blows. The leaves and branches of the trees bend towards us, as if bowing in salute.

The train runs past a station. The stations here are small comprising no more than two, commonly a single platform. None can boast of much life or activity, contrasting their northern counterparts in every way.

Darkness has now fallen. The trees are now mere contours against the dark blue sky. Another stream. The water mirrors the dark blue. Every passing second brings me closer to my destination.

We enter a tunnel. We are made concious of the artificial lighting within the carrige, that had been 'over-shadowed' by the daylight all along. One feels as if one is underground. That the clock is past midnight.
We emerge. The mountain rocks are a glaring red. But the wall gradually plummets and the pines emerge and envelope the landscape yet again.




My station approaches from a distance. Soon, I shall conclude this voyage and leave behind the tranquillity one experiences in this enchanting ride.
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Another new.....

I was having breakfast with Keerti yesterday by the basketball court and as we were talking at length after weeks, we delved into a lot that had elapsed in the recent days.
In the course, we exchanged many thoughts which I found profound and intriguing but felt sure neither would remember too long into the future and that they would be lost with the moment.

I realised how often such thoughts cross our minds and are forgotten for we do not treasure them enough to pen them down. Otherwise, there are views that are known to all but scarcely thought or spoken off that too fade with time and generation. And I didn't want to let go of these thoughts....

Thus was born, Reflections....

On Reservations in College and unfinished biscuits…

No, I plan not to preach either in favour or against an issue which has been debated not less than Sharukh Khan’s sexuality.

I speak of the reservation system followed in the Individual Study Hall (ISH) situated within the premises of my college Library. As people are many and seats are few (a commonplace peculiarity in this country), disciples of this establishment (the ISH) have a tendency to reserve for themselves a seat by leaving behind a bag or some books.

During exam-time, the practice catches steam, as does the anti-reservation movement, the clique of which takes the liberty of removing any belongings left behind in an attempt to reserve, in order to occupy that seat. Both the contrasting practices have worsened since the air-conditioning of the hall.

Not over an hour ago, an acquaintance who is a student of a sister-college, and is knee-deep in preparations for his ongoing sessional examinations, vacated a seat adjacent to mine. As our common friend is a strong anti-reservationist (not unlike myself), he removed from that seat all his belongings save for a packet of biscuits that I suppose he couldn’t find within himself to consume in entirety.

That packet of biscuits, in itself, found the capacity to brew quite an ordeal.

Through the first half hour, I observed many brainless gits who approached the table with the objective of occupying it, withdraw from the same on being confronted by the half-eaten packet of cookies that bore an ominous look. That was until one enterprising chap dared to brush the packet aside and occupy the seat. He began his (pretension of) study. Ten minutes elapsed.

A passing acquaintance (of his) happened to glance upon the packet that lay on his table. Her greed over-powered her principles. And before the average person could say “Boo!”….

*slow motion sequence begins*

Her arm extends towards the biscuits as she chirps in a deep yet mocking voice, “You’ll always be an unending supply of biscuits.”

The fellow, quick in his response yet abiding by the motion of the sequence, lets out a slow and painful moan “Nnnooo…”, thrusting his arm in order to impede hers as it extends towards the cookies, all the while bearing a look of sheer horror on his visage.

She withdraws her arm. The packet remains untouched. The fellow saves the day by preventing a most lethal grenade from being set off… err, or at least an untouched packet of biscuits from being touched.

*slow motion sequence ends*

“They’re not mine…. They were lying here from before” he laughed, cognisant of how embarrassing the incident could have been for his victim.

She blushed. First a light red, then a crimson followed by brown, purple and crimson again, all the while giggling in an attempt to camouflage her absolute humiliation.

The next 3 minutes elapse with him mocking at her naive exploit. She brushes off her taunts, but daren’t leave his side lest she give herself away and accede to his victory.

Eventually, he moves on to his theories on how the packet of biscuits could have found its way on that table, confirming every suspicion I had of his devotion towards his books through his last 15 minutes or so on that table. He concludes that it was someone’s innovative endeavour at reserving a seat.

The poor girl, his first victim, eventually retires to her seat and dissolves into deep meditation, seeking within herself a retaliation to his jibes.

More victims pass, some stopping for a biscuit, some not so greedy. To all unsuspecting twerps, he dishes out his theory on how some inventive boy could have attempted to save himself a seat using a packet of biscuits as the object of reservation. One wonders if this is how he passes his time here.

Finally, the first victim attains enlightenment. She slowly rises from her seat and trudges towards her victimiser with a look of utter triumph on her face, who has been joined by yet another passing friend.

He cajoles his first, lifting the packet and offering her a biscuit. She is unperturbed. She turns to the recent addition to the group and exclaims in a rehearsed tone, “It’s ironical how in the entire study hall, he chose the very seat that came with a packet of biscuits.”

He’s caught unaware and defends himself to no avail.

The packet of biscuits and I laugh, but neither too loudly.

She wins.

Shanky Row : A Tribute

Today, I revive an activity in which I had lost all interest, a calling for which I had lost all passion because I, have been Inspired.

I sit presently in my English Public-Speaking class. Our assignment for the day is to introduce a famous personality. To that effect, I introduce to you a revered personage, a pioneer of Idiocy, Imperfection and Perversion, Ess Row.


Ess Row is one of the oldest members of the faculty at the Manipal Institute of Technology (The Other MIT) and most obviously so. Owing to what I can imagine would "never" qualify as one of Humanity's Top 100 Blunders of All Time, he has ended up in the Faculty of English of this esteemed institution.
As is known the world over, Indian engineers have held a reputation for their numerous deficiencies in the English Language and it is only due to the unending commitment of personalities such as our very own Mr. Row that this has been made possible. His endeavours continue in full spirit to this very day.

The Genre of English that Mr. Row "specialises" in may be classified as either old-fashioned (such as that of American Indians) or highly progressive (such as that of the very first talking buffalo.) Either way, his command on it is commendable.

The only ground on which his magnanimity suffers is a lack of sophistication for Sophistication in itself exists neither in his style, nor his vocabulary. Do not get me wrong. What I straightforwardly want to convey is that "Sophistication" does not exist in his vocabulary, as do not many other 5-10 letter words and more. But come now. Surely that is all secondary.

As far as physical appearances go, there is a striking connection between his brain and his head. While his braincells almost a similar shade of grey as that of his hair, his brain is as deficient of the former as his head is of the latter. It is truly uncanny and is perhaps symbolic of his ingenuity.

Ess Row is a charismatic speaker. Whilst before an audience, he exudes charm through his captivating mannerisms, vivid gestures (pronounced "Guess-chers") and posture, highly reminiscent of a Bronze Statue (and the finest of all, at that). As he stands there, rooted to his spot like a banyan tree, with his arms fastened to his sides (with what appears to be Superior Quality Glue), talking endlessly for hours to an end, the audience listens mesmerised (and/or snoring very very softly.)

This tribute would be incomplete without a mention of his spotless diction. Row feels that our youth is regrettably adopting the American manner if talking, a most undesirable trait. He is of the firm opinion that we should instead follow the British as our linguistic role-models. For example, when we say "What", "When", "Where" and "Why" we fall short of stressing on the 'h'. Instead, we should pronounce the same words as "fHought", "fHen", "fHair" and "fHy". Sure the "W" sounds closer to an "F" than to itself but that is how, he alleges, the british pronounce it and that is how we, i beg your pardon, fHe should too.

He is also a strict and intelligent disciplinarian. In today's class, as I approached him for permission to slip down to the men's room, he firmly said 'No' as I went to the restroom in EVERY English class and knowing that I was up to no good. How it could slip from my that I had already exhausted my Quota for Trips-To-The-Bathroom in the 2-Hour-Long English class, I fail to understand.
It didn't end there. When he asked us to volunteer to come forth and present our assignments and I stepped forward, he declined saying that I would probably deliver my bit and run away.

How, I ask, HOW did he see right through my plan? Was it so transparent after all?
My entire strategy of first, waiting for one hour of the class to get over, then requesting for permission to slip down to the loo (JUST to throw him off-track), then volunteering to deliver my speech and, having done so, before his very eyes, grabbing my bag, books and running out the door, while he sat there looking passively and feeling helpless in the entire affair for surely it was beyond his power to cancel my attendance or deduct marks from my internals, had I the audacity to simply run away.
What a smart fellow!

This brings us to the culmination of a glowing tribute to a person who truly deserves every word of praise (for Acclamation and Commendation are very big words).... Mr. Ess Row!