Today, I was in a squishy line (what line actually?). Kids all over. A horde in front of the snack counter in a movie theatre. Only one man was taking orders for four or five auditoriums.

A greying man, short and soft, with jeans upto his chest was rotating on spot to pass popcorn to his troupe. Eye contact. I raised eyebrows reflexively; as if to say ”Yeah, yeah, I know; what can one do? It’s a messy crowd and bad management here”.

And he turned away looking like I was hitting on him! Like "Alarming girl. No, of course I am not going to respond to her indecent overtures." Yeeesh man. Yeeesssssssssssh!

No more eyebrow stunts.

Reminded me of Shakespeare`s words:

``There are a sort of men whose visages

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,

And do a willful stillness entertain

With purpose to be dressed in an opinion

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit``

But those guys are dangerous inside!

Here I am, trying to keep blood off my elbows and my parents absolutely insist that I use sunscreen. A moment ago, this guy suddenly decided to cross the road, without a backward glance. And I banged into him, squeezing my forward brakes instead of the rear ones, like a moron. Remember what they told you in Ladakh “Back brakes, Back brakes” I tell myself as my bike somersaults and I leapfrog over the handle bar. And wham.. I land on my chest and elbows, bottom up. Chin up and out so that my face remained clear. Wham in the dust. And the imbecile who decided to take a casual stroll across the road looks at me, a little scared and quickly preparing his defense in his head. I think how stupid he is; just as stupid as so many others taking wrong turns on the roads of Delhi. How dangerous stupidity can be. Stupid views too.. like the Ram Sena’s. “Kill the cynicism” I tell myself. Anyway, the fall was a masterly one. Enjoyable even. I am left with smarting elbows and slightly injured pride. The junta is confused and wondering who to blame – the hands-free cyclist or the artistically absent-minded pedestrian. Back brakes, back brakes, remember. Off I go to buy sunscreen.

And in Banglore.. when I came..
It rained every night, every day of the year
And in the morning it was fresh!

In Dehradun, my uncle would bring us down the forest road by car and we would invariably see a leopard or tiger.

Chhaaya: Have you seen the neelikurunji.. It blooms once in twelve years?

K Rajput: Once in ten years, once in twelve years only.. the whole area turns violet!

Armyman: I remember the coffee blossoms.. But even in Assam, the bamboo blooms only once in twelve years

Neera: When I was a child I used to love reading Biggles!

Floating. Can't cycle. So no flying. My knee is busted coz of stress and Ronny says `Teri akal tere ghutnon mein hai!`(Tee hee hee hee hee ha he goes).

The guy behind the counter of the very very old classic cinema hall was not in uniform like the PVR guys. He was not business-like. He did not have to ask us if we preferred ‘Gold’ seats. He was an uncle who sweetly told us that they weren’t sure if they would screen the movie “Luck by Chance” at all, since only Prasun and I had bought the tickets. (The film is supposed to be doing well over India.)

So, we killed time until 9:30 pm. Amir Khan told me my weight at a super-cool weighing machine - the kind which has lights in all colors and you have to wait for a red and white spiralling disc to stop. Then you insert a 1 rupee coin.

The lobby of Regal had sweeping staircases, a nautical vintage wall-clock, posters pinned with thumb-pins on soft-boards and sepia-toned photos of Madhubala and Raj Kapoor. Apart from Balcony seats, there is the entry to the ‘Box’.

The hall itself was lined with big electric fans. The seat numbers had been imperfectly painted in large digits behind the seats. And as the movie started and I could put up my feet on the seats in front and somebody clapped from the back row, the lights dimmed. The beginning of the movie was the best part – a tribute of sorts to the film industry; to the stuntmen, the dancers, the sound-recording assistant, the make-up man; the many people who go to Bombay with stardust in their eyes.

We awaited Deva, the guide who would take us to our campsite in Rishikesh. It was night. Suddenly a dark man appeared and introduced himself. Next moment, we were tripling on his bike – Deva, my bf and a precariously accommodated Malvika in a skirt riding high. Chills down the spine. Meandering roads. Goosebumps on my legs in the cold night air. Abandon all around.

A dip in the Ganga rapids as the raft nose-dived into a whirlpool. Gasping for breath when the raft went down again, dunking us again before we recovered from the first dunk! Back above the surface, water in my eyes, twinkling sun, a sunny warmth on the back before another swell of water crashed rudely in my face.

Then that comical truck hitchhike with Twitchy n Puck. Twitchy the truck driver with a bristly beard and moustache. And doll eyes. His assistant Puck, a nimble boy…pixie like. A short cough and splutter later, the truck decided to take a break and stalled. In the blink of an eye all you could see of Puck n Twitchy were their compact arses and Vistory sign ‘V’ legs poking outta the heavy engulfing engine, beneath the bonnet. Next moment Twitchy was trying to revvvv up the engine from behind the wheel with Puck still in it. I believe they were violating some safety norms but they trusted the truck as a large but gentle elephant.

Pondicherry

Ran into Australians making a documentary film – Farside MC. They were touring South India on Enfield motorbikes (Runs like a gun!), had helped tsunami victims, stayed in cheap motels, fought over travel-strategies, stopped at many mechanic workshops.

“Welcome to Indiaaaaahh!!(hic)” announced a drunk hospitable waiter to us. We were taken by surprise as he sweetly accosted us on the roof of Hotel de France where my bf and I had pulled a table for a romantic private dinner on New Year eve. Weirdly, the roof was deserted except for a nice open-air bar with high stools and a cabinet full of the correct glasses for wine, beer, whisky. And out popped this man deciding that anyone who was not Tamilian was French!

Typical South Indian food everywhere. No rotis anywhere. Italian food at places. We went bonkers over murukkam, which is an orange, crunchy, spiral snack to eat. It’s available in greasy, large glass jars in every one of the small shops from Chennai to Pondy.

Got washed to the shore by the sea, my T shirt to the chin. I stood up to find all the sporty young guys standing in the waves stock still, full of admiration for my fantastic lingerie.

I remember sitting on the windy, rocky beach on new Year eve, watching fireworks bursting and sparkling in the sky. Continuously. All the while, as we pointed out faraway ships from mist from imagined shapes. All the while, as we went and got coffee. And it continued as we got bored and left.

Auli

We went to Auli off-season and enjoyed a lot of solitude and attention and discount. Ski-ed for about 4 hours the first day. Finally, my bf and I sat down abandoning our skis. Suddenly we realised that in the vast white expanse, from distant peaks to our feet, we were the only two humans in sight. I knew then how Neil Armstrong must have felt.

The sight of 3 furry black wolf-dogs cavorting in the spotless snow, kicking snowflakes about themselves.

The stories of cannibal Aghori yogis and of massive cadaver-munching fish found in the hereabouts, testified personally by a fellow passenger in the Sumo taxi. “Bhagwaan Kasam (God Swear)!” he pinched his throat.

The stardust in the eyes of the youngster who descended the 9 hours from Joshimath to the plains each time a John Abraham played in the movie halls.

Last night my friends and I went to Rashtrapati Bhavan. The building is so huge and so intimidating that even though people are allowed to drive up to it, you will find very few souls in the area; just the guards.

Rashtrapati Bhavan is the Indian President’s residence and the biggest palace in the world. Although it was built for the British chief in India – the Viceroy, he hardly had the opportunity to live in it as the Brits were kicked out of the country soon after the palace was built.

We headed towards the palace from India Gate on Rajpath road. It was night and the area was bathed in twinkling orange light. The palace was completely invisible in the mist until we came close to it and its form emerged slowly. A lone ice-cream man sat at requisite distance from the President’s house. His customer’s came, made their purchase quickly and drove off. In the sky, we could see the moon swimming in vast, vast space. Maybe it’s the only place in Delhi where one can look from horizon to horizon.

We drove upto the gates very carefully; hoping that no one would mistake us for terrorists and shoot us DeAd. On reaching, we were told by the guards that if we had visited from 10 am to 8 pm, we could have gone even further (and perhaps given the President a tip or two!). Phillip destroyed me when we raced on the wide road. What a Maurice Greene! And then, we turned and went, happy to be living in the capital of India, the seat of POWer.