Silence

Words have left me,

In their place is silence,

Omniscient of all that's broken.

Greys

Try as you might -

The greys won't be undone

In your wounded black & white.

The Sopranos sleeps with the fishes now

That's my Sicilian message after nearly a month of watching all the six seasons of The Sopranos, the great gangster TV series. Nothing else can perhaps convey my sense of relief as the last few minutes of the 21st episode of the sixth season rolled on. Relief that finally there were no more episodes to watch, that the story finally ends after much blood, gore and misogyny. Yet, I watched. I stayed fascinated with this violent story of a mob family that plundered through the lives of people, killed and slaughtered.

I can say I was obsessed. Every day as I came back from work, it was always to the next episode of The Sopranos. Coupled with a beer or two, I was like an addict writhing for my next shot of heroin. After hours of watching episode after episode, I went to bed with a strange sense of nothingness, as if everything that was in my head had emptied itself out. In more ways than I can comprehend, I felt relief over that emptiness too. I no longer had to think about anything that was bothering me.

Which brings me to the question about The Sopranos. What made this TV series such a landmark in the world of entertainment? Of course, it was a deep commentary on the American society. But what was it trying to achieve in its narratives of some wiseguys who were often robin-hoodesque? They were ruthless in their business dealings and unforgiving of betraying associates. Yet, they gave their money and time generously to all who they loved. They were deeply sentimental often yet grotesquely unintuitive to the pain caused by their sociopathic ways.

Vanity Fair's Peter Biskind gives an incisive critique of the series in An American Family

Disrepair

Hush, this toilet seat is falling off;

I hide but the yellowed curtain is reproachful.

Look at the sink, you cunt,

There are holes you can't repair,

Because teeth that shine can't see ever,

Including your tobacco blighted ones.

That raspy curtain voice came to me again

When in a single windowed study-bedroom,

I wished upon a music-less kite.

It haunted me in ragged dreams,

In snide voices by the cafe,

While I lfited my feet to a winded window,

In the footfalls of my flatmates,

In aunty's toothless grin,

By shrubs of wooded side walks,

In the friendliness of the society dogs.

Apparently, there is something to be said

On the state of disrepair.

On this note I leave

We are playing dear -

It's the game of love,

You said. Silly me

To think you wouldn't

Cheat, change the rules

And jeer on my losing.

On a sleepy weekday afternoon of my Psychology class in the summer of 1998 (or was it 1999?), I decided to write an ode my friend who was leaving Bangalore to work in Dubai. It was heartbreaking & nothing less than a poem could fully express what our friendship meant to me. It was he who taught me the importance of "thinking through", and it was his single minded devotion to understanding the truth of our world that motivated me to do the same. But it was his always restrained, gentle and quietly mischievous manner that influenced me the most.

After many years, I am re-visiting the poem and it's reassuring to know that despite all the blows and cynicism of adult life, I have managed to keep my passion and humour alive.

Inebriated on life

Should we, lil bird,
Under the bright blue sky
Roam into the corners of eternity
Sigh at the intensity of the splendous lines
Twirl within the spaces of our minds
Waltz on the undulating waves of time
Stare at the autumn vibrant butterfly
Toe onto the vertigo of infinity
Seek if for a moment to be blown
To die, to annihilate ourselves
Phoenix-like rise, smile,
Hold hands and walk on dusk-dappled beaches,
Weeping within ourselves
Singing aloud the life-song.

Balderdash

Time's punching me senseless

'Coz I, spud, plonked

My big arse on indecision,

Under-evaluation,

And other such self-flagellation.

Really, self-indulgence is such -

Pleasant occupation for suckers.

Kargi & his gloating

Had fun interpreting this image of my cousin Hysen outside the Colloseum.

Image courtesy Hysen & Oneida

Once upon a time, me Khargi, a wanderer of many names, took to walking past every broken monument in the dark in celebration of inconsistency. You see, incoherent habits such as these are really a way of cocking a snook at the world and its greats who are no different from the dead-and-gone aggrandized, narcissist builders of these egoistic monuments. I come here to laugh at the slowly corroding facade, and at the damp corners where dogs surreptitiously pee and lizards mate. You see, I might be a nobody and will leave behind no legacy, but at least I don't have to continue pretending centuries after I am dead. Or roll over in my grave because a dumb-fuck of an historian wrote that the old apple orchard was abundant because I was impotent.

Frothing Self-Love

Why I say -

Does it bother you so,

To leave the long courtship

Of a generous mercurial lover,

While standing on one foot

Is the piqued dream

Of your amorous hunger.

Was it your restlessness,

Was it your baseness,

Or was it you -

An unreliable self-righteous closet-chaser?

Whatever.

Just good to know,

At the core,

You are a narcissist,

Packaged like an aged-toothpaste,

Frothing the new-age mantra -

"Love thy self".

and death came calling

to the gods of inspiration,

you are a bleating,

noise, bleeding,

to the repressed soul.

Poems by Eunice De Souza

Eunice De Souza's poetry is a sculpture carved in words. Such measured words, such incisive breaks, so much feeling and emotion. As if the smallest of movement in her life or around is acutely scrutinized for meanings one cannot see with the naked eye (you know what I mean, right?). Yet, there's never a moment of self-indulgence. There's always humour, and a readiness to laugh at everything absurd that's called life.

Don't Look for My Life in These Poems

Poems have order, sanity

aesthetic distance from debris.

All I've learnt from pain

I always knew,

but could not do.

-----

Eunice

Eunice, Embroidery Sister said

this petticoat you've cut

these seams

are worthy of an elephant

my dear

Silly bra-less bitch

Eunice is writing bad words sister

she's sewing up her head

for the third time sister

the limbs keep flopping

the sawdust keeps popping

out of the gaps

sister.

-----

Bequest

In every Catholic home there's a picture

of Christ holding his bleeding heart

in his hand.

I used to think, ugh.

the only person with whom

I have not exchanged confidences

is my hairdresser.

Some recommend stern standards,

others say float along.

He says, take it as it comes,

meaning, of course, as he hands it out.

I wish I could be a

Wise Woman

smiling endlessly, vacuously

like a plastic flower,

saying Child, learn from me.

It's time to perform an act of charity

to myself,

bequeath the heart, like a

spare kidney-

preferably to an enemy.

What Dreams Told Me Before I Lost Them

My dreams said -

Do not worry
About money
Or snob values.
You'll still have
Your bylines
To flaunt in dungy bars
while drinking
Piss for beer.

Expect the pinch,
They told me,
Shrinking wallets do that.
Just buy smart.
See, Garnier or Loreal,
Both will dye your greys
Just the same.

Apparently
The sacrifice will be sharp
But its after taste, better
Than the bitterness
Of my envy.

Homeopath Dr. Ramdas' Clinic, Bugle Rock Road

Electric-Elephants go Violently Blue

There’s an eerily joyful tone to Electric President’s third electro indie-pop album The Violent Blue. Funny thing is despite the dark, somber lyrics, you’d want to sing along. Perfectly charming. Vampirish.

Which means, if you are exploring original sounds, try The Violent Blue. Best in the track list is ‘Safe and Sound’ with its drum beats and claps, and acoustic strumming - Very professional improv triumphant stuff. Check out also ‘The Violent Blue’, ‘The Ocean Floor’, in fact, the whole album. Each track has an sound of its own, connected by Ben Cooper’s haunting voice.

Album at Spinner’s Listening Party – Electric President, The Violent Blue.

The Grill House

On a lighter note, had a fabulous dinner at The Grill House (the one next to The Park) and broke my resolution of staying away from red meat. It was all done for the greater good of my friend who had a sudden craving for steak. Alright, just before you judge me, let me add that my friend is a beef hating, non-steak person. Therefore, this sudden craving had to be given it due attention. Besides, we had to head towards town to drop off our rent cheques. Dang! that's the only unhappy blip on the radar right now.

Nevertheless, I suggest the Grill House for the perfect steak. A grill house can't do a steak wrong (or so we thought) and besides the restaurant seemed to have some good reviews. So off we went.

The restaurant sits down the road from Taj Residency and The Park just before the turn towards Ulsoor lake. It's smallish inside and can get quickly crowded, so I suggest you reserve a table in advance. It's cosy inside and the service is friendly. Despite reaching the restaurant late and being the only women customers didn't make it uncomfortable for us at all. We marvelled at that since our only-women experiences have been without some mishaps. TGIF anyone?

The food was everything and more than we expected. I must admit that I have not eaten better steaks in Bangalore than at The Grill House. Succulent meat perfectly marinated

I ordered the Pepper Garlic Steak, medium rare while my friend order the Mexican Mardi Gras Steak, medium well done. We ordered Lemon and Peach Iced Teas to go with it, though instead of the lemon they brought the strawberry.

‘The Good Wife’ – Who said engineering complex emotions in TV makes for boring shows?

Yes, we know the “platitude” of ‘sex sells’. In fact, most people know that. It doesn’t take a lot of insight to know that most programming on TV is cleverly disguised sex, skin and violence. They are all very entertaining; enthralling the audiences with stories of others. Throw in a bit sex to spice up the mood, tragedy to unite audiences in empathy and a wedding to celebrate the blessing of love. You have a slice of life animated with great aesthetic finesse to meet TRP ratings. However, these formulaic renderings do not take away from the cleverness of the show or its writers. Some of them ARE good.



But, it becomes very hard not to judge these clever disguises when a show like ‘The Good Wife’ comes along. ‘The Good Wife’ takes entertainment to the ranks of art with its quiet, enigmatic characters and brilliant actors. The storylines themselves are simple. Legal drama interspersed with the personal drama of its protagonist Alicia Florrick (Julianna Margulies). The genius lies in writing of the characters and Julianna’s portrayal of the forceful yet fragile Alicia.

Creators Michelle and Robert King’s “The Good Wife” comes in the wake of high profile sex scandals of powerful politicians, famously Bill Clinton and more recently Eliot Spitzer. Gratefully, we are spared more psychoanalysis of the red-faced politician and are taken to the privations of the humiliated wife. The wife here is no wilting lily but the very intelligent, strong and conflicted Alicia Florrick. When her husband Peter Florrick (Chris Noth) is forced to resign as State’s Attorney and sent to prison on charges of abuse of office and corruption, Alicia is left alone to front and support her family. Six months into the scandal, she has already found a place as a junior litigator in a prestigious law firm.

It's all been done before - legal drama, the underdog vs. the powerful, the victimised vs. the system etc. In those circumstances, Alicia’s character could have wilted under yet another “Superman” complex, had it not been for the impossibility of categorizing her. Who is Alicia Florrick? Is she the exacting, ruthlessly no-nonsense witness who can cut down the cross-examining lawyer to pieces in defense of her husband? Is she is the wronged wife? Is she the lawyer who is sensitive and thoughtful towards her clients? Is she the loving, practical mother who can be impervious to emotional blackmail? It’s the mark of very good writing when a fictional character cannot be assigned to adjectives.

But the credit of making it all real goes to Julianna Margulies, who effortlessly brings Alicia to life with measured talk, gentle lifts of her perfectly shaped brows and hard glints in her much suffered eyes. When asked to describe her character, Julianna says Alicia is a “cerebral” person, who thinks before she acts or talks. She adds, “I think she realises it is sink or swim and she has to take care of her children and put a roof over their heads. That's what matters and she's been at the worst, now it can only go up. I think it gives her a lot of strength that in a lot of ways she doesn't care what people think anymore because she already knows they think the worst.”

As the show progresses (it's a 23 episode season), we can’t wait to see what’s in store for Alicia in the finale and second season. On the personal front, there is the long legal battle of her husband who appears to have been set up. Will the courts release Peter out on bail? Is Alicia ready to have Peter back? Though she is very clear about the rules – stay in the maid’s room and no more cheating.

Professionally, she is already making a name for being a very clear headed, tough lawyer who will even to take on a judge to protect the right. She continues to surprise her peers and adversaries with her intelligence. Her hard nosed ethical stands have already pissed off some powerful people. That she will be successful is given. But how will she evolve? Will loyalty to her current employers trump her discomfort with the grey zones of her law firm? Or will she head off to start her own practice?

It’s gratifying to see more powerful and older women like Alicia or Anna Torv’s Olivia Dunham in television today, where the protagonist is not defined by her sexuality or wardrobe. In times of neurotic, frazzled and disillusioned women, comes Alicia Florrick who has won the admiration of audiences for her grace and stoicism even in the face of acute humiliation and defeat. And for that she has already won the battle.

Day Six, Zanskar Trek - Stayang to Lingshed

Stayang Chai Shop. C0urtesy Ani

It's day six of our trek and fatigue has finally set in. I can’t seem to be able to even get up or eat. Yesterday’s ‘Lion’s Pass’ really made a meal out of me. Incidentally, Sengge La means ‘Lion’s Head,’ and is usually impassable before June because of snow. Even yesterday, there are was a thick line of snow over the pass though mercifully our path had none. By the by, we walked only 31 mountain kilometres yesterday. One mountain kilometre, if it gently undulates, is two and a half plain kilometres. So, yeah, do the math.

Rajesh (our guide) and team are amused at our fatigued faces (what’s new about that), and tell us to hold up our chins. Today will be a “relatively” easy day and we won’t have to walk much though there are two passes to climb. I am really straining my intellect to understand which part of “climb” is supposed to be easy!

Climbing towards KiupaLa (14,600 ft)

Nevertheless, we fill our bottles from a mountain stream and are on our way. The other campers have already left and we follow the haphazard footprints of their mules. The path begins to climb only to go down and an hour later we can see the first pass of the day, KiupaLa (14,600 ft) looming ahead. Rajesh was right, the climb isn’t too difficult and we reach the chorten at the pass fairly soon. It’s really windy up there and I can barely stand straight, but the prayer flags look beautiful. I quickly chant the Tibetian-Buddhist mantra “Om Mani Padme Hum” and pray for the safety of the team. The climb down starts gently but we have been warned, it will be a steep descent. And it is! I have to force my body to resist the sheer momentum of the scree slope and hug the mountainside whenever mules coming down behind us. The narrow trail holds no place for two people let alone a loaded mule and a person. These mules incidentally are a mean lot and given a chance will insist on throwing me off the trail. Gah!

Chorten at KiupaLa

It gets worse when Rajesh insists Naveen and I take the shortcut to catch up with the android (Ani) who as usual has taken off. I reluctantly accept but ten steps into the path I start wailing and cursing Rajesh. “Why this trail? There is no path! It’s slippery! Am gonna fall! Are you mad? Are you trying to kill me?” And other such hysterical exclamations. Poor Naveen has to bear with me and tries to instil some confidence by praising my trekking boots. Their soles apparently have good traction. Apparently, I won’t keel over. Sigh!

I am not exaggerating. The descent is quite precarious and exposed at many points. The scree path is quite unlike any we have come across so far and it takes effort not to lose footing. I even slip at one point and fall on my arse. Luckily Ani, who is right behind me, helps me up. It takes us hour and a half to reach the bottom of a narrow valley where two streams meet. There’s a tea tent there though it is shut today.

Steep, scree slope coming down from KiupaLa. Courtesy Ani

The path from here starts climbing and it is quite steep though not as bad as our descent. Also, the trail is solid, though rocky in parts. I stuff my face with some Snickers bars and start climbing. A kilometre later, we come to another chorten and a tea stall. A huge group of firangs are coming from the opposite direction who, like the many we met on our trek, seem very fit and cheerful.

We continue to climb and the slope gets steeper though after an hour the path levels off, bends and drops before the final climb to the day’s second pass MargunLa Pass (14,370 ft). We are given a breathtaking view of the Lingshed village and its terraced fields nestled within the bowl of the mountains. The sight isn’t too different from my imagination of The Shire in Middle Earth. Did Tolkien ever come here?

Panoramic view of Lingshed village

The descent takes us another hour and it’s very dry and dusty. The sun beats on our backs though Ani and I make quick of the walk, making plans for future, more luxurious trips. Anything that will not involve walking!

Soon we reach the town of Lingshed looking like dusty-Yetis. Every part of my being is covered in thick layers of dust. There are dirt cakes under my nails and no amount of washing has helped so far. Our rucksacs look like they have been transporting dust. Our shoes are unrecognisable. Despite being on the mountains, I feel as if I have been trudging across the Thar or Sahara.

We plonk our dusty arses outside the bench of a closed shop, relieved over the day’s shortish walk. It’s barely 3 pm in the afternoon and is quite hot. The cook and his assistant are setting up the kitchen tent. I decide to take advantage of the sunny afternoon to wash six days worth of dirty laundry – a track pant & my mountain-hiking socks. Life’s so simple up on the mountains! Though the cold mountain stream stings!

Our tents are set. I have managed to take a semblance of a bath, though my dirt streaked thighs did make me shudder. Rolling out my sleeping bag, I am out in a lark. Ani meanwhile decides to accompany Rajesh to the nearby monastery. Incidentally, Lingshed is one of the ancient Buddhist centres of India, and the village is so remote that it takes four days of walk to reach a tarred road.

The day passes quickly. We can see the next day’s walk far near the horizon and I have started quaking in my boots already. The climb looks formidable. Rajesh tells us that it will take only three hours to get to the top from the base of the mountain. “Only”?! Sigh, tomorrow is another day. For now, I plan to pig on the delicious momos the cook has made for us.

Day Five: Photaksar to Stayang via SenggeLa Pass

Rajesh has already warned us. Today will be a very long and tough day. We’ll climb up to the highest altitude on this trek today and then quickly climb down. In short all the altitude variations could hit us despite taking medication. It was Ani’s brainwave to take Diamox which helps counter altitude sickness. Altitude can really create havoc on your system. Headache, mood swings, fatigue… you’ll want to be a teenager instead.

Nevertheless, after a trip to the loo wading which involved walking through ankle deep muck I am ready to take off. We walk past verdant barley fields of Photaksar and its village perched on the plateau above the river. There cannot be a more serendipitous moment. The village sits prettily at the bottom of the Photang valley surrounded by snow capped mountains and the feeling is of walking within a bowl of choc sundae topped with cream frosting. The sun’s still climbing the skies and as light filters through the crags of the mountains, I feel like Alice in Wonderland.

The path here on starts climbing and continues till after two hours we are on top of BumitseLa Pass at 14,430 ft. From here we can see the snowline of SenggeLa Pass. Rajesh wickedly lets us know that it will take only six hours to get there. Groan. The path climbs, levels off, descends, climbs up again; goes past charming mountain streams,lazily grazing yaks, marshy slushes and towering snow capped mountains. The sky is a brazen cobalt blue.

Ah if only I can continue in the same vein. It’s getting mind numbingly tiring. We have been walking for six hours now and there’s no sight of the basecamp of the pass even. The altitude is making things worse. Every step is an effort. Gah@%^@! It takes us an hour more to reach basecamp. Ani’s reached already but the three of us are exhausted and irritated, minor unmentionable skirmishes follow. Luckily, we remember it with laughter later.

The climb starts again and Rajesh decides to accompany me. Can’t complain, it’s actually reassuring. Traverse the mountains on sane-zig zag paths while Naveen follows Ani’s lead to take the insane-zig zag path. It’s shorter and steeper. It takes an hour more but we are there and the view is breathtaking. We can see all the way to SirsirLa. Hugs and congratulations follow. Ta da!

The day’s walk is not done yet. We have three more hours to go. Down we go. It’s precarious in phases, though shrubs of violet keep us company. In a while, we spot the campsite. But why is Rajesh standing past it and waving his hands. My stomach falls to my knees. That’s not our campsite is what he’s trying to tell us and more importantly to hurry. It’s already four and getting chilly. We need to reach our camp by six latest.

Ani and I are leading. We set a brisk pace; the well-laid out path traverses high over the mountains, almost near the ridge which means a panoramic view of the valleys & terraced fields of the Yulchung village. Is that where we camp for the night? If so, we have a long, long way to go! Think my numbed legs cannot comprehend that but they seem to have a life of their own. They are on auto mode, even if I were to stop them, they may not. Help!!! I am grateful for the wide, stone paved path though the wind is beginning to pick up and it isn’t warm. I pull on my gloves.

It’s six and just when I despair aloud about a non-existent camp, we spot it just across the bend sheltered within the curve of a mountain wall. I carry my frozen self straight to the kitchen tent. I haven’t been happier to reach our camp. Warm noodle soup makes me feel human again.

Boy, today was some day.

Day four, Zanskar Trek: Hanupatha to Photaksar (again)

Today we start early, having set into our schedules comfortably. The path starts climbing, we pass our little rock beds (yesterday they had served us well) and start traversing across the mountains, following the river down in the valley. We are walking upstream; despite our climb, the valley narrows out, the river levels up to our path and we can see the pass looming ahead of us.

It is going to be a steep climb but before we do that there’s a small bridge to cross. The river has narrowed down to a forceful stream, and the bridge across it is nothing but a few planks nailed together. A fall in the stream won’t be a good idea at all. But it still is the sturdiest one that we have come across so far. Rajesh asks if I need any help. Nada.

Climb to SirsiLa

I progress slowly over the sharp climb; Ani & Naveen are little ahead of me. It’s getting chillier as we scale the altitude and there are sharp drops along our path. Suddenly the path levels out on a plateau and there’s a small chai shop ahead. It just so bizarre to see a chai shop whose roof is an old, discarded parachute but the cheerful face of the stall owner tells me it’s not so insane after all. Apparently this is the ‘basecamp,’ but we are not to stop. The climb continues; I can see our cook, his assistant and mules climbing on the steep, muddy path snaking up the mountainside. It’s a short climb and in an hour we are on top of SirsiLa at 15,615 ft. Whoopeee! I just can’t stop myself from breaking into a small jig, whoop and run around! Neither can Naveen! It just feels unbelievable that after all my nervousness, we made it past a pass.

On top of SirsiLa (15,615 ft)

Before the climb down, Rajesh warns, “Thoda steep hai”. Argh, I didn’t realise how steep until I am on the 60 degree decline. Takes us an hour to get down and it’s almost 2 in the afternoon. Lunch boxes out, munch on sandwich, a bite of the staple hard-boiled egg, boiled potato and watch the marmots scamp from hole to hole.



Back on our feet, it takes us another two hours to reach camp. We hop over a smallish canal of a mountain stream when we see a mountain in the backdrop. The peak looks like its flicking the middle finger and we burst our laughing. Ani portends it’s an ominous sign from the mountains, especially since I made light of the day’s trek and said it was rather easy. Ha, ha.



It’s only four but already getting chilly though the hot soup waiting for us in the kitchen tent made up for it. Mmmm! To top that the cook tells us that dinner will be a surprise. Can’t wait! Meanwhile, back in the tent, we freshen up. I continue with the story of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows. We have been entertaining ourselves over the past few evenings with stories of Harry Potter. Don’t ask why.

We are in for a treat for dinner. They baked pizzas and a cake for us! Brilliant! At 13,610 ft in Photaksar, a pizza and cake was more than food.

Pizza & Mashed Potatoes. Feast for the kings here. Pic by Aniruddha Das

Day three, Zanskar Trek: Hanupatha to Photaksar

We wake up to the sing-song voice of Yash saying - “SIRJI, CHAI”. After our tent-chai, everything goes like clockwork. Brush, loo, fold sleeping bags, pack the day pack, fill water bottles, pull down the tent, breakfast, pack the lunch box and we are off. We have already started climbing, the path is steep and narrow, and I can feel my t-shirt soaking up my sweat. But in an hour and a half, we have stopped, Rajesh looks worried. We are to wait for the mules to catch up again. Apparently, the horseman was still searching for his mules when we left camp.



An hour goes by while we perch on rocks which overlook the valley. It’s a beautiful sight – undulating mountains ahead, a greenish valley below and a river flowing in between. Ani comments about how in Bangalore we would have been attending yet another weekly meeting time in coopy conference rooms. We feel sorry for our colleagues slaving away indoors while here we are – basking in the sun, high up on a mountain with a gentle breeze almost lulling us into sleep.

We want to see more, but Rajesh does not want to go yet. If the horseman does not find his mules before two in the afternoon, we will have to abort the day. Oh no, I don’t want to climb down and climb back up tomorrow. What a waste. But it’s safer to do so. If we reach the next camp and the mules don’t, we will have to camp under the stars. Without food and temperatures reaching sub-zero in the nights, we might as well call a heli-lift for three almost dying trekkers. So we wait and another hour goes by, yet no sign of the horseman.

Naveen & I, as we wait for the ponies to show up. Pic by Aniruddha Das

Meanwhile, we see a lone walker coming from the opposite direction who when asked tells that two aimless mules were seen at the next camp. Rajesh’s on his feet, tells us to wait there for the horseman and sets off to find the mules. Ani suggests going up the ridge of the mountain behind us to see if we can spot the horseman. I opt stay back claiming to guard our bags (while really I don’t want to trek more than already what awaits us. Ahem, I am reserving my energies). Naveen & Ani get back in an hour though there’s no sight of the horseman yet.

It’s almost one in the afternoon and looks like we might have to abort the day. Dang! As we are having our lunch, the horseman turns up. We tell him about the mules and Rajesh, and he’s off too. We snooze for a while on the rocks. Wake up and still no sight of Rajesh, horseman or the mules. It’s getting a bit chilly up there; Ani suggests we make a bonfire. We go about looking for dry brushwood and soon we have a small fire going.

It’s nearly three in the afternoon now and we spot Rajesh walking towards us. The horseman has found the mules but it’s too late to continue with the trek, even if we are to camp at the base of the next pass. Rajesh leads us back to our Hanupatha camp, disheartened we follow.

Peaks on fire at the Hanupatha camp

The aborted day though ended in the firing up of the peaks… kidding. I meant the sunset was so spectacular that the orange tinge of its descent gave the surrounding peaks a surreal look of being on fire. Nice!