tracerbullet
Skilled
This is a story I wrote, not for TOI or any other paper, but for myself. Let me know what you guys think of it.
Great White Death
I’ve gotten into a sudden, manic funk these days: weekends must be taken advantage of, to such an extent, so as to nullify the negative effect that humdrum city life has on my being. It’s my personal adage. And I follow it with an intensity that only gets fiercer. It was on this note that I decided to scale Kalsubai, the highest peak in Maharashtra.
Kalsubai is also the tallest mountain of the Sahyadris. It’s all of 5,500 feet; and looking at its intimidating, cloudy head makes you wonder whether you’ve been transplanted upward to the north, where the younger mountain ranges grow taller each year even as their holy waters wash through the country. Quite perfect, if you ask me, for those who can’t make time for the real stuff. Though, Kalsubai itself is pretty real stuff.
Naturally, I had to go there. I had to conquer it. For lofty peaks and tall aspirations go together especially well. Not that there would have been anything to gain other than a wider view of the countryside, a deluded sense of superiority, and a few incidental bolts from the blue which, wasn’t quite blue to begin with – not when there’s an ominous thunderstorm rearing its head over the undulating landscape. Incidental yes, but certainly not unforeseen: uncalculated would be a much better word to explain the event.
The beauty about something being uncalculated is that it turns into the most obvious and rationally fathomable piece of information when you do your revisions; but you simply cannot think along those lines prior to that – the self-aware piece of organic jelly between your ears is already engaged in other affairs like, calculating the reaction of your peers when you tell them of your thrilling expedition, or in conceited self-admiration of its unrelenting anima.
It’s understood you make the usual preparations when you climb a mountain: an adequate amount of sleep the night before; a good breakfast before commencing; water supply in plentiful; a couple of tidbits to eat during the journey; appropriate gear; and mental preparation.
And so it was that the three of us, Sagar, Fabio and myself, left on the wrong foot. No sleep, empty stomachs, a bottle of water between us (which works out to a glass each), and an underestimation of the hike or more possibly, an overestimation of the self.
To make matters worse, the weather was downright abominable: the sweltering sun burned right through my skin, and in the course of a week preceding our coming, dried every trickling stream – whose hope might have been to embrace the ground and flow out to caress the sea, to finally meet the great ocean that’s living and breathing with activity; the great body of water that was billions of years ago the very source of life itself. Fruitless it must have been for the stream: it met its maker instead.
We made it to the summit nonetheless. There, on the highest point of the land, an eyrie in the sky, was a temple dedicated to the local deity Kalsubai. After overcoming several obstacles, I was there. Decidedly though, the worst was yet to come.
At the summit, the sun had disappeared. The clouds had hearkened to our pleas and the sky was overcast and solemn even as we were wont to receive it. The low but distant rumbling of thunder had already begun, and across the darkling plains you could even catch an occasional flash of lightning cascade across the grey – momentarily illuminating the brooding countryside and murky waters in its wake. And it began to rain.
It didn’t take long to be shaken out of my serene setting. We had better get going I thought, for the mountainside would be treacherous when wet. Yeah right. As if slipping off a wet rock was the most dangerous thing that could happen to me; naïve yet arrogant in my supposition that I had no dues to settle. A few minutes into the journey downward, I had presently stopped for a bit to check whether my bag was tightly closed, waterproofed, and its contents dry when the next thing I heard was a deafening crack quite similar to a large concert speaker tearing at full volume. The sky’s rage had boiled over and bore down on a point barely hundred feet from where I stood. I didn’t need to comprehend what had come to pass; it happened again, save this time the thunder only boomed louder.
It’s almost ironic how the most natural of things appears completely unnatural when magnified. Take something as ordinary as an ant. There’re millions of them, scurrying about while we conduct our daily chores. It's no big shakes when you see an ant; in fact, you probably unknowingly squash a hundred everyday. But when you focus on an ant in its entirety, to the extent that it fills your frame of reference, you witness a warped perspective. Suddenly the ant changes into a monstrous arthropod; with huge, compound eyes, furry legs and an incapacitating bite. Or have a look at the simple night sky. Those twinkling white dots enveloping you in a blanket of darkness, turn out to be gigantic balls of fire almost incalculably far away.
Discovering for the first time this sudden change of perspective is unsettling to say the least. It’s just the same with lightning. Up in the sky it’s a beautiful white streak that shows you how wondrous nature can be. When it hits the ground near you, it’s a blinding bolt whose terrifying sound echoes through your bones. The hills were alive with the sound of thunder that day. I could almost feel the charge in the air as lightning smote the land, which so nonchalantly seemed to receive it.
There’s no better way to understand helplessness than this: you’re on high ground and at least two hours from safety; there’s no significant cover other than for the odd, huge piece of stone; and lightning is striking all around you. You can’t make a dash for it as the descent is steep and strewn with jagged rock ensuring broken bones if you miss a footing. On the other hand, remaining where you are isn’t any better, for standing on open, high ground is beckoning to be struck.
Years of studying logic, science, reason in school suddenly fail to prove their worth. You might as well have been institutionalised – you’re incapable of acting rationally to the event. Not that your actions are irrational; rationalism itself merely relies on reason to explain causality; which of course, doesn’t help a bit when the atmosphere’s pregnant with a million volts of electricity, whose intent is bent upon meeting the ground using the shortest way possible. And may god help if that shortest route is you.
Needless to say, I did what I must. I took the way down, ever so carefully, first crouching in anticipation, then dashing over precarious rock. This went on for the next half hour. Two village boys also darting downward joined us mid way. No mercy was shown to these kids who watched over the temple everyday. They had both been struck at the peak though were miraculously unhurt. But that stopped their tears not. From the ravings of these two I learned the fate of the seven other tourists at the top. They had been hit as well, but were all alive.
We did not get hit that day.
Even as the fury subsided, we resolutely made our way down the mountain to the awaiting village below, where such accidents are mere incidents for its hopeless residents, who must continue to go about their work in a matter-of-factly way, so that we can sit safe in our big cities and reap the benefit of their efforts and bother not for the casualties that occur far, far away from us.
But nature has its parting shots. In a twist of fate, two days later, I awoke to find out that a bunch of seven college kids couldn’t escape the seething sky in the prime of our city. One was electrocuted to death the papers raved. I was back in the city, but not safe and sound. The message was conveyed.
©2006, Nikhil Hemrajani.
Great White Death
I’ve gotten into a sudden, manic funk these days: weekends must be taken advantage of, to such an extent, so as to nullify the negative effect that humdrum city life has on my being. It’s my personal adage. And I follow it with an intensity that only gets fiercer. It was on this note that I decided to scale Kalsubai, the highest peak in Maharashtra.
Kalsubai is also the tallest mountain of the Sahyadris. It’s all of 5,500 feet; and looking at its intimidating, cloudy head makes you wonder whether you’ve been transplanted upward to the north, where the younger mountain ranges grow taller each year even as their holy waters wash through the country. Quite perfect, if you ask me, for those who can’t make time for the real stuff. Though, Kalsubai itself is pretty real stuff.
Naturally, I had to go there. I had to conquer it. For lofty peaks and tall aspirations go together especially well. Not that there would have been anything to gain other than a wider view of the countryside, a deluded sense of superiority, and a few incidental bolts from the blue which, wasn’t quite blue to begin with – not when there’s an ominous thunderstorm rearing its head over the undulating landscape. Incidental yes, but certainly not unforeseen: uncalculated would be a much better word to explain the event.
The beauty about something being uncalculated is that it turns into the most obvious and rationally fathomable piece of information when you do your revisions; but you simply cannot think along those lines prior to that – the self-aware piece of organic jelly between your ears is already engaged in other affairs like, calculating the reaction of your peers when you tell them of your thrilling expedition, or in conceited self-admiration of its unrelenting anima.
It’s understood you make the usual preparations when you climb a mountain: an adequate amount of sleep the night before; a good breakfast before commencing; water supply in plentiful; a couple of tidbits to eat during the journey; appropriate gear; and mental preparation.
And so it was that the three of us, Sagar, Fabio and myself, left on the wrong foot. No sleep, empty stomachs, a bottle of water between us (which works out to a glass each), and an underestimation of the hike or more possibly, an overestimation of the self.
To make matters worse, the weather was downright abominable: the sweltering sun burned right through my skin, and in the course of a week preceding our coming, dried every trickling stream – whose hope might have been to embrace the ground and flow out to caress the sea, to finally meet the great ocean that’s living and breathing with activity; the great body of water that was billions of years ago the very source of life itself. Fruitless it must have been for the stream: it met its maker instead.
We made it to the summit nonetheless. There, on the highest point of the land, an eyrie in the sky, was a temple dedicated to the local deity Kalsubai. After overcoming several obstacles, I was there. Decidedly though, the worst was yet to come.
At the summit, the sun had disappeared. The clouds had hearkened to our pleas and the sky was overcast and solemn even as we were wont to receive it. The low but distant rumbling of thunder had already begun, and across the darkling plains you could even catch an occasional flash of lightning cascade across the grey – momentarily illuminating the brooding countryside and murky waters in its wake. And it began to rain.
It didn’t take long to be shaken out of my serene setting. We had better get going I thought, for the mountainside would be treacherous when wet. Yeah right. As if slipping off a wet rock was the most dangerous thing that could happen to me; naïve yet arrogant in my supposition that I had no dues to settle. A few minutes into the journey downward, I had presently stopped for a bit to check whether my bag was tightly closed, waterproofed, and its contents dry when the next thing I heard was a deafening crack quite similar to a large concert speaker tearing at full volume. The sky’s rage had boiled over and bore down on a point barely hundred feet from where I stood. I didn’t need to comprehend what had come to pass; it happened again, save this time the thunder only boomed louder.
It’s almost ironic how the most natural of things appears completely unnatural when magnified. Take something as ordinary as an ant. There’re millions of them, scurrying about while we conduct our daily chores. It's no big shakes when you see an ant; in fact, you probably unknowingly squash a hundred everyday. But when you focus on an ant in its entirety, to the extent that it fills your frame of reference, you witness a warped perspective. Suddenly the ant changes into a monstrous arthropod; with huge, compound eyes, furry legs and an incapacitating bite. Or have a look at the simple night sky. Those twinkling white dots enveloping you in a blanket of darkness, turn out to be gigantic balls of fire almost incalculably far away.
Discovering for the first time this sudden change of perspective is unsettling to say the least. It’s just the same with lightning. Up in the sky it’s a beautiful white streak that shows you how wondrous nature can be. When it hits the ground near you, it’s a blinding bolt whose terrifying sound echoes through your bones. The hills were alive with the sound of thunder that day. I could almost feel the charge in the air as lightning smote the land, which so nonchalantly seemed to receive it.
There’s no better way to understand helplessness than this: you’re on high ground and at least two hours from safety; there’s no significant cover other than for the odd, huge piece of stone; and lightning is striking all around you. You can’t make a dash for it as the descent is steep and strewn with jagged rock ensuring broken bones if you miss a footing. On the other hand, remaining where you are isn’t any better, for standing on open, high ground is beckoning to be struck.
Years of studying logic, science, reason in school suddenly fail to prove their worth. You might as well have been institutionalised – you’re incapable of acting rationally to the event. Not that your actions are irrational; rationalism itself merely relies on reason to explain causality; which of course, doesn’t help a bit when the atmosphere’s pregnant with a million volts of electricity, whose intent is bent upon meeting the ground using the shortest way possible. And may god help if that shortest route is you.
Needless to say, I did what I must. I took the way down, ever so carefully, first crouching in anticipation, then dashing over precarious rock. This went on for the next half hour. Two village boys also darting downward joined us mid way. No mercy was shown to these kids who watched over the temple everyday. They had both been struck at the peak though were miraculously unhurt. But that stopped their tears not. From the ravings of these two I learned the fate of the seven other tourists at the top. They had been hit as well, but were all alive.
We did not get hit that day.
Even as the fury subsided, we resolutely made our way down the mountain to the awaiting village below, where such accidents are mere incidents for its hopeless residents, who must continue to go about their work in a matter-of-factly way, so that we can sit safe in our big cities and reap the benefit of their efforts and bother not for the casualties that occur far, far away from us.
But nature has its parting shots. In a twist of fate, two days later, I awoke to find out that a bunch of seven college kids couldn’t escape the seething sky in the prime of our city. One was electrocuted to death the papers raved. I was back in the city, but not safe and sound. The message was conveyed.
©2006, Nikhil Hemrajani.
..... Is it really true ?? I know you have titled it "Firsthand experience with lightning" but still....just wondering. 
