Crap

I like sketching trees. Bare ones.

Maybe because i find it much too difficult to draw foliage. Or maybe because bare trees carry with them emotions that mean much to me.

However: The number of sketches of such trees that i have made, can be counted off the back of my hand. The number that i have preserved with me, presently stands at two. And they’ve all been mostly average (or worse), and nothing i can brag about. Yet, they all carry with them, stories that i seldom think of, and yet, often thrive on in my subconcious.

This sketch (refer: image) is from the last diary i made an entry in. The diaries, themselves, are liabilities, and although near-invaluable, are almost no-longer used as record-keepers by me now. The depicted sketch, meanwhile, finds it’s roots in a diary entry on May 12, 2008, as part of an incomplete attempt at documenting the trek up the Everest-and-Gokyo valleys, in the Summer of 2008.

I’ll pull out some paragraphs from it,
[Describing the view from Tengboche]

Looking forward, there is a pretty valley (barren, even so) that terminates in the formidable pair of Sagarmatha and Lhotse. Behind us, is an entire range of mountains that are no-less charming. Also within view (forward, and to the right) is Ama-Dablam, sacred mountain to the Sherpas. Bang opposite our lodge is the famous Tengboche Monastary, which although rebuilt (post a fire), has lost none of its importance in the region. Visitors can attend a puja in the Gompa [loosely, a monastary], and that is exactly what Daddy, Mama and Debu did at 4 pm. I chose to opt out, for i had wanted to sketch a particularly inviting tree, nearby.

I spent well over an hour making that sketch, stopping post-sunset only because it had become so cold that my hands were shivering in the cold and dark, and i was unable to hold a pencil without it shaking uncontrollably. In-all, the tree had kept me rooted to the spot, till Daddy saw my state and physically paraded me off the place, into the warmth of the lodge. The sky had been overcast, and we had only gotten glimpses of the famed mountains on that day, in between the clouds. It was the middle of May, and very much near the end of the trekking-season, and although Tengboche was not as splendid as it was normed to be, the tree had mesmerised me completely.

It spoke of death replacing the undead. And also of a promise and of a flicker of life, from within a decaying body. It also uttered of a resolute will to weather storms, in face of uncertainty, whilst in promise of hope. Yes, i romanticised it. For, the surroundings were full of green trees, and yet, this one, stood at the edge of a wood, almost bare, as though in anticipation, and in distinction. It wanted to be drawn, uncaring about the lacking deftness in my hands.

That trek (especially the leg that took us up the Gokyo valley) presented several opportunities for me to sit down at a spot and draw. Sadly, we were running a tight schedule, and everytime i sat down at a quiet spot to draw, someone’d come along and whisk me away, for a destination awaited, and could not be reached any later than planned. I like to think of this as an excuse for me to go back there, someday, maybe alone, and spend days at select spots like the slopes of Gokyo Ri, and sketch my heart out.

Trees that brave the treeline. Those fairytale lakes that reflect some of the world’s tallest mountains in the purest of waters. The Himalayan birds that played between my feet when i sat down for a break, as the clouds rushed in from below me, hugging the steep slope that i’d just run up, trying in vain to outrun them. The 4am race against time, towards the top of 5000 metre high peaks, only to catch the sunrise reflect in orange on Sagarmatha’s head, and photograph the mountain for my sister. The tales about the Yeti that murdered 3 yaks in one swift motion. My first AMS attack. The pathetic despise for over-crowding by trekkers in the Everest valley and the blatant murder of nature at the behest of adventure tourism. The silent attempts at reafforestation. The snowfall at the crack of dawn. The 200 rupees we spent on boiled water. And most of all, the experience, that for any traveller, is beyond words.

Someday, i’ll head back up the route to the Gokyo lakes, with a sketchbook strapped-in, and time in my hands..

Tablet. First Sketch

I bought a simple Tablet – a 6″x8″ iBall one, that cost me INR 3000 – about a year back. And only today, did i finally sit down and unpack the baby. It’s quite a pain, i’ve got to admit. Even so, it’s a new experience, and it’s f.u.n !

So i’m uploading the first thing i drew.

Hopeless, na?! [:D]
I’ve got to admit, i still can’t get a fluid stroke moving (i think i can credibliy blame the hardware for that!), and my old habit of uneasy and multi-stroked lines, just won’t die easy. Still, i-like [:P]. Cerainly do have a long way to go!

This post is part of a reproduction of my diary entries during my trip to Everest BC and the Gokyo Valley, in Nepal, over May 2008.

May 25 : Monjo to Lukla

We were understandably lax in departing from Monjo, given that this would be the last day of walking for us. A late breakfast was followed by the four of us splitting up – Raju mama and me retraced our steps towards Jorsale, up to the Entrance to Sagarmatha National Park, to drop the feedback forms for our stay within the park, in exchange for mementos from the security officials there. We returned and joined up with Daddy and Debu, to move on towards Phakding and ultimately, Lukla.

Walking on, given the interluding 20 days, i’d barely remembered this as a route already followed. It all seemed new, and only a very few places had actually managed to stay on in memory, even though we’d taken the same route (albeit in the opposite direction) on our way onwards from Lukla, towards Namche Bazar.

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he bid them farewell.. they had been pleasant company; it had been a pleasant stroll. company, yes, but, enforced. he’d just witnessed the end of a gruelling week, one exam after the other. exasperations, desperations, nights awake, and content. or disappointment. all bundled into 7 days. that flew by.

what is this life if, full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare
[wh davies]

and now, he was free. free from books, free from people tagging along with him. all by himself, as he always wanted to be. he left the road, and climbed onto the lush pavement. soft grass, cushioned every step he took. a hop over the narrow nullah, and he passed onto the muddy path that led to the back-entrance of his hostel. all-the-while, he continued to fiddle with the gadget he held, and unwound the wires of the headfones he held betwixt his palms.

he stepped off the mud, and onto the concrete that lay spread wherein the ramparts of his hostel had once crumbled. the headfones had been plugged into his ears, and the gadget gave into his wish. someone had once warned him of the damage loud music caused to hearing – he couldn’t care less. he smiled at the thought, and set his gaze at the puddle of water that blocked his path ahead.

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A qaurter to five. Stars still shimmer about. The tiniest bit of blue has begun to creep its way up the horizon. I stand on my balcony; the clothes i’d hung out to dry, moist with dew. The new hostel coming up in front of my own, lies silent. The vibrancy, muted, in slumber. A mynah cries out, shrieks literally. Dawn has broken. September will soon wane out, and IIT Guwahati will transform, yet again. Hazy mists have begun to settle in, on some evenings. Ducks have begun to fly in. Sporadically, showers still try persist. I no longer have my cycle, yet, walking seems none-the-less fulfilling. Some friendships are beginning to get tested, and some, well, seem pleasurable. And i’ve only recently gone through another PR debacle. Now, the blue in the sky has stripped the dark of its reign. A drongo flies in, and settles on the tall grass before my balcony. Black, forked tail, surely the prettiest thing i’ll see today. Unless the kingfisher chooses to light up my morn, and show up uninvited.

And to think that i have my mid-semester examinations staring at me, point blank.

I don’t care. ‘coz i’m in love.

In love, with the orange, that follows the blue, sluggishly, darting from cloud to cloud, and racing across the corridors of my hostel. In love, with the cool wind, and the drongo that calls out to me. I wish it a pleasant morning, and return back to my room. It’s 5am already. Good morning, world.

Daybreak. The pic failes to convey even a fraction of the beauty that unfurled before my eyes. Blame the cellfone-cam, blame the inept photographer. I say, blame the fact that you weren’t standing beside me [ :D ]

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This piece appeared in the Sans Frontiers magazine published by Umang, a festival organised by the NM College of Commerce and Economics, Bombay, in August 2009.

~

We had a movie marathon today (more like, yesternight). A bunch’o friends. Doing nothing. And everything. It’s just beautiful the way you can watch a perfectly hopeless movie, and even laugh at completely bland humour, jus ‘coz the guy sitting beside you laughs.

Everyone’s clustered onto a tiny bed, no matter the fact that some of them might not have bathed for a period that spanned a fair bit more than a couple’o days. The way their bodies intertwine to accommodate both, the multitude of people, and the magnitude of the people, onto the dimensions of the bed, is just remarkable. I figure that’s what sets us apart as IITians – finding a perfect solution in times of dire need. :)

One guy has seen the movie before, so it’s pretty obvious why some of us have brought along scotch-tape. Only once he’s secured, does the movie begin. A 17″ Sony Vaio, supplemented with the tiniest of speakers, turned onto full volume in a 10×10 room, and all doors, windows sealed into complete darkness (room fresheners kept at hand).

Well, i must admit, a description of the comments passed during the screening (even though the movies were – in my opinion – perfectly U-rated), might cause this blog to get flagged.

Aa well…

Preceding any scene of note, the guy who’s gagged whimpers, (and trust me, we take due pleasure in making sure he doesn’t whimper again!) and then everyone begins to go into what i call ‘the mood’. Even the smallest scenes of note leading up to the climax draw immense adulation, and the littlest of humour results in a communal uproar.

The whole time, the screening is provided a background score, which is pretty simple really, but amazingly apt – an otherwise monotonous slow repetition of b*@&^!$od, with the term spanning exactly 1.2 seconds, with 3.6 seconds until the next recitation.

Yes, i don’t enjoy swears, but you gotta admit, when you’re with a bunch’o people, and if the guy can perform the recitation right, it really does add to the mood. All in good humour, eh?

O ya, then comes the climax. Well, the expressions of that moment are strictly censored. But yes, it still is amazing how everyone twists and turns and essentially ‘rolls in laughter’ and then the whole assembly falls back into place in the exact same configuration as before. I figure that’s an IIT-thing again; devise an arrangement in stable equilibrium, so that it returns to its virgin state no matter how much the turbulence.

Yes, there’s also the thing that the gagged-guy has been made to disappear completely in the intermittent span of uninhibited chaos : Given his magnitude, that goes a long way in aiding the return to stability.

I wonder what they did to him…

O yes, popcorn is a little hard to come by, but an assembly of maggi, cold coffee, biscuits, chocolates and sandwiches, more than makes up for it. And as i said, even the most hopeless of humour draws out laughs, simply because someone passes a witty comment. And the deathly silence that greets mushy scenes just goes to show how much we love good cinema.

Anyway, as the marathon draws to a close, and the weariness brought on by 4 movies end-to-end begins to express itself, everyone slugs off to their respective rooms; some are incapable of doing that, and we let them sleep. Ya, we make sure that we’ve clicked enough pictures of them, ‘coz they were sleeping in postures that’d put Gaylord Focker’s mother to shame.

Yes, Meet the Fockers was one of the movies. It’s prequel was one too. I’m sorry, i’m too intoxicated with the sandman’s stuff to recollect the other names.

I know my feeble words will never do justice to all my emotions from today morning. Yet, i try..