The Force is okay with this one.

Nostalgia. Pure and simple. From the swelling opening score to right down to the holographic chessboard on the Millenium Falcon, nostalgia's what it was.
Abrams-saab lifts us from the drudgery of the three mildly disappointing prequels, to take us on a roller-coaster ride of intrigue, emotions and humour that, thankfully, does not look forced. The feeling the movie left in my gut was a lot like what I felt after watching Episode IV for the first time. The charm was not in the stunning tech and the staggering visuals of that galaxy so far, far away. I was riveted by the fact that it was a fairy tale set in space- complete with tales of astounding bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, and rife with struggles that were all too human.
Star Wars: The Force Awakens is packed with plenty of that human element. Take Kylo Ren of the First Order (A kind of galactic Third Reich.). Despite the fact that he's inherited Darth Vader's penchant for a menacing piece of headgear, and that his voice sounds all muffled, deep and darkly malevolent, AND that he carries a lethal-looking lightsabre, WHERE is that cold fury, that sheer sinisterness of the Sith lord that Vader had been? Young Kylo's a troubled and snotty teenager with severe tantrum issues. He's undeniably human, and a villain who's not exactly villainous.

           

But he's got some serious training coming his way, so maybe he'd bear the mantle of the dark lord of the Sith a little better next time.
Rey, on the other hand, with her pretty smile, the quaint British accent and feisty badassery, instantly became my newest crush. She carries the torch of the Jedi order well.
The man who completes the feeling of overwhelming nostalgia is Han Solo. The one and the only. I think this is the first time we see the real man underneath that glib smuggler- a man that leaves your heart heavy with emotions.
Fear not, dear reader, there will be no spoilers on this blog. I just had to scratch my writerly itch a bit. Go watch the movie. It leaves a pleasant aftertaste.

Old flame (Contd.)

 I was facebook-stalking a certain lady (10/10 would do it again. A fellow bookworm is a gem of a find! :) ) when I came across a conversation debating the relative merits of the smells of old books and new ones. And BLAM! My authorly itch was set off again! I would tend to agree completely with that certain lady, having grown up among shelf upon shelf of dusty volumes myself. A book is not just the squiggles, more squiggles and even more of the black squiggles; the texture of the pages on your fingers, the musty aroma wafting into your nostrils, the warm weight of it- all add up to complete the experience.
But what do you do when the cupboard of your tiny hostel room threatens to overflow? Do you remain a stubborn purist, and pray for the damned souls roving the Stygian darkness of the electronic world? Or do you take a deep breath, loosen your muscles and take the plunge?
Well I took the plunge a couple of months ago. I found the water inviting; in fact so much so that it was only today that I realised that I have not ranted here in forever.
Amazon could not have chosen a better name for their product. My old flame has been Kindle-d into a roaring blaze in the last two months.  It is light, it is sleek, handles really well, and the use of electronic ink  and electronic paper tech in the display gives you the illusion of turning the pages of an actual, physical book! Too bad the 160 books in my pocket all smell the same!
end rant

P.S. Would love a critique if I do manage to work up the courage to share this on facebag. Aaand a book-chat and a reading-list suggestion would not be too bad, either.
There are plans to baby-talk about some of the science I have been trying to do as well.

Superpower

"Oh, he speaks, too??"

"You're very quiet. Is something wrong?"

"He's one arrogant smart-ass."

As a man who is naturally shy and withdrawn, I get that a lot. One of the banes of existing in a society of boisterous extroverts in our brave new world, I suppose. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. They say the truth. 

I write for fun, not really expecting any appreciation or praise. I know I have a long way to go, and there are people out there whose command of the English language is a gazillion times better than mine. But my heart does do some impressive cartwheels and pirouettes when I see one or two +1's on the list of posts on my humble blog. "Ah, at least one person liked what I wrote!" Your +1, my friend, makes my day. :)

I could write a lot better if I received some criticism and comments, though. So, um, feel free, maybe? I have the rarest of the rare superpowers. I listen.

Old flame

I honestly have no idea how many books I have. I'm too lazy to count. Some books I hold very close to my heart (Yeah, I have one. Beats at the rate of 49 per minute!), some maybe I will pick up again some five years from this point of time, and some I have not the faintest idea how I could have bought, unless I had been intoxicated with alcohol or the blissful fumes of hashish! I'm joking about the hashish! And the alcohol.
      Well the bottom-line of this rant is: I own too *add expletive* many books! I'm not very sure they have worked their magic on me. As a grumpy grad schooler, I still have those terrible moments when I seriously believe my brain growth somehow stopped at the age of 13. And quite frequently, too. The number of books I possess has not ceased to grow, however. My 'wardrobe', if you would be polite enough to call it so, is at the point of starting to overflow. I am a poor student. I don't own a bookshelf.
     Apparently, there are quite a lot of people with fully and admirably functioning CPUs who have faced, and continue to face the "bookshelf dilemma" (I love the way this lady writes. Pity her blog has had no entries in over a year now.). So, um, why not do the smart thing for once in my life?
    My seniors say I looked like a lovesick idiot with that parcel from amazon.com. I suppose I might have.This would not be the first time; I am told that smile of mine lends me a rather unfocused and foolish look. The object it contained was, well, sleek.

   On came the 3G hotspot on my battered and sweat-stained Lumia 520, passkeys were entered, a connection to the swirling whirlpool of information promptly established. Aaaand I'm reading Bram Stoker's Dracula now. The original. I admit I miss the musty aroma of the old copy dad has at home, the fragile feel of its age-browned pages; but I never knew how I had missed those small, warm flips my stomach used to do at the thought of returning to an unfinished story when I was younger. Until now. The fire is re-Kindled. 

The memories...

Some time in late 1999...
This was just about how I felt as I extricated myself from the drain. The very next moment I was  hopping on one foot, trying my utmost to to swallow the lump in my throat as angry tears forced their way through. Aiming that kick at that old steel beast of a bicycle had not been a smart move. 

The next day...
The 'half-pedal' technique looked like a lot of fun, but apparently I had neither the talent nor any of the guts that these boys do! Attempting it on my Photon had given me a spectacular set of bruises.

"Alright, one last shot."
I clambered on to the saddle and tensed for the pain as my father gave the bike a push. I could almost taste the hard asphalt on my knee as I wobbled precariously towards the dirt path sloping down into the football ground on the right. If I HAD to land flat on my face, I would rather do it on the grass. I placed my feet firmly on the pedals and...
"Wheeeeee......" 
Words fail me here. How am I supposed to describe something as wonderful as that? It was something close to flying, the wind rushing in my ears, through my hair, over the throbbing welts on my knees and elbows; to an eight-year-old boy, it was nothing short of a miracle! I tried to turn the handlebar and... SPLAT! The grass rushed up to greet my face with all the grace of solid concrete. That stank, but I just could not stop grinning! The beast had been tamed. 

2000-2011
In the following eight years, I had graduated from the narrow, short lane our house overlooked to the  broader and busier roads that led to my school and to the homes of my various tutors at the various ends of the town. It had taken a considerable amount of ingenuity on my part to wheedle the permission out of my mother, mind you. (Weave your way through the traffic of Burdwan for eight years, and you would never need to work on your bike-handling skills again. You can take my word for it.) But despite the speed limit of 5 kilometers per hour and the distance limit of 4 kilometers imposed on me, I had sneaked to the outskirts of the town enough times and breathed in enough fresh air to sorely miss the bike during my three years in college... until when it came back to me at Bangalore.

January 2013
I huffed, puffed and heaved on the pedals of my Schwinn Sporterra. The three of us had managed to reach only the edge of Kanakpura after five hours of riding. The Bheemeswari fishing camp was still a mind-numbing 50 km away. The sun was merciless, the gradients unrelenting; the straps of my backpack were cutting into my shoulders. "Why was I doing this? I could be chilling at home playing video games or something!"

We took a pitstop just outside Kanakpura. That's me on the left. I definitely look happier than I felt. It was a dumb idea to carry such huge backpacks, as we found out to our cost!

I could barely move by the time we rolled into Kanakpura. My T-shirt clung to the front of my torso, the outline of a massive white crust just starting to make itself visible. I could see white streaks on the sun-browned faces of my two friends, and realised my own face could not have looked much better. We stopped at the first baker's we could find on the side of the road and shakily pointed at a couple of cakes and a large can of Red Bull energy drink. THAT-WAS-THE-BEST-MEAL-EVER!! Did it help? Hell yeah!

The Red Bull effect!

 I felt no pain in the following 40 kilometers, but only a numb sense of euphoria. The views helped, too!

 

Our second pitstop was 10 kilometers from our destination. How could we not take a moment to absorb the enormity of this stunning vista? I cannot recall exactly how I felt when we crawled into the fishing camp an hour later. The world was a haze; all I wanted to do was drop everything, go to sleep  and not wake up even if the apocalypse chose that day to arrive. But sleep had to wait.

My legs quivered like a newborn kitten as I lowered myself into the freezing current of the Kaveri. I relaxed and floated on my back, feeling the lively thrum of the river as it washed over me. I closed my eyes. Time stopped.

THIS, ladies and gentlemen, was what we had been carrying on our backs. It had been a proper demented murder on the shoulders, but it added the finishing touches to our great adventure. Sometimes even I have a hard time believing we had  managed to pull it off.

All the pains of the journey were forgotten when we woke up to this the following morning. Every bit of that suffering had been worth it, just to see the sun rise over the Kaveri. Four hours after this photo was taken, we hitched a lift on a Bangalore-bound truck at Kanakpura and came back, nursing severe sunburns and terribly aching legs. But we had realised that the limits lay only within our own minds. We had suffered like never before, but we would jump at the very next chance of doing it all over again!

The Bheemeswari sufferfest, as it turned out, was to be the first of our many adventures. The last two years have been rather eventful.

I fell in love with this beautiful machine the instant I set my eyes upon it! It has been a faithful companion through several brevets and numerous other century rides. And yes, the painful rite of skinning knees was duly performed when the shift was made to clipless pedals. This bike is the cause I am a Strava junkie now.

As someone who likes to spend a lot of time in the TT-tuck, I regularly smash up my mother's distance and speed limits these days (I don't tell her! I would much appreciate it if you did not, either!). I have lost count of  how many times I have struggled up that accursed hillock past Devanahalli with my mates. The BBCh races are next on the bucketlist.   

I also hold a record for having a higher number of flats than anyone I know! Could be plain bad luck, or something could be wrong with my tyres. Any advices?   

And to top it all, we IISc peeps even have our own jersey now!

Riding can become suffering in its purest form when done with a fitter and faster group of people. You can only marvel at how fast your childlike joy can mutate into paralysing horror when you are stuck with a swarm of gym rats and Peter Sagan wannabes. But what makes it all worth it, is the rare chance you are offered to find out how much pain you can actually take. (Remember the rules!!) And of course as side-benefits you get to take photos like these,

and show off your tan lines (a badge of honour) and have awesome recovery drinks aaand offer a legitimate excuse for shaving your legs!
I am really glad the bike came into my life when it did!

Pilgrimage on race day.

What's the best thing about road biking? The wind in the hair (What a load of baloney! Wear a  helmet for Heaven's sake!)? The thrill of the descent?  Parading around dressed like a vacuum packed sandwich despite your age and constitution?  Or is it simply the sadistic pleasure of dishing out some pain?
   Ask this of the 100-odd riders who showed up for the Nandi epic race on the 19th of July, and I am sure all of them would have a different thing to say. But I can tell you with all my supremely annoying self-assurance that they all have one thing in common-  they are gluttons for punishment down to the last weedy chap, intrepid hardasses that in spite of knowing in full what the last BBCh race of the season has in store for them, are capable of looking like children about to rip the wrappings off their birthday gifts.

 
7:15 a.m.
I noticed a tiny kid of six years take his position beside the MAMILs and YMILs and felt a sharp stab of regret at not having registered for the race. The look of focus on his face was identical to this little girl's. "Oh no you ain't getting away this time, Peter!" Priceless! :)

  "Maybe there is some hope for us after all..." I thought with a chuckle.

8:15 a.m.
  I leaned my bike against the Nandi arch, wiping sweat off my sunglasses and reaching for the banana in my pocket. It never gets easier, and I did not seem to be getting much faster either. However, the climb through the thick cloud cover over the last three kilometers had been something else!

"They would probably be past the U-turn by now."

8:45 a.m.
"Brrrrrr...."

9:15 a.m.
I regretted my decision the instant I hit Nandi 2 for the second time, but I was deliciously warm and sweaty again.
"Definitely better than freezing to death! "
I could hear a car coming up from behind.
"Faizan!"
Whoever was leading the race had to be on the climb right now! Anxious not to get in the way, I slowed down and veered to the side of the road.Sure enough, five minutes later, a scrawny and bespectacled boy from the Giant sponsored team from Chennai effortlessly danced past me. He would go on to win the race in the amateur category by over two minutes.
"Now where has Phani gotten himself to?"
There he was, with a minuscule U-18 fighting hard to hold on to his wheel. One look at his face, and I knew the whole story.
"Now THAT'S what I call a mask of pain."

Need I say more?
He would shake the U-18 off his tail at the last corner to take his third podium finish of the season, at second place behind the twig-man from Chennai. Well done, mate!

All of this, the blood, the sweat and the agony, the gritted teeth, the contorted faces, the fights through the red haze of pain, THE RULES, and above all the community of determined badasses- all embody the things that are amazing about racing a bike. Oh, and the outdoors, too! I mean, how can you not want to ride with the knowledge that you could be exploring places that look like this?

 Or even begin to appreciate Froomey putting the hammer down if you don't ride yourself?

And last but not least, Kapil saar, you're my main man! Thanks for the lift!! :)

P.S. The three best things about riding a bike, in my personal opinion-
1. Casually lifting the sleeves of my T-shirt and marvelling at how quickly people's eyes grow to the size of dinner plates on seeing my tan lines. It's ten times funnier when done at home.
2. The recovery drink (Fruit juice! Fruit juice!).
3. The license to shave my legs with impunity (Cold water running over bare skin= Heaven. You should try it.).