c u on top - satyabrata dam

Every time I am told to list down my top fifty craziest enterprises—and I have been asked to do so innumerable times—I would be totally clueless since what would or could I term as crazy. Believe me, when I embark on something or think of embarking on something, I never imagine that it could be crazy or even remotely so. I never start with the presumption of being, or doing, or trying to be crazy. It always turns out to be one. Not to me perhaps, but to others, specially those unfortunate enough to accompany me. And what's really sad is that no one believes me at the end that it wasn't my intention at all to do something crazy, different yes, crazy certainly not. I was a hapless victim of circumstances as well. So what's crazy? Let's turn to that father of all dictionaries, Oxford, for the explanation, which lists four definitions: 1. insane or unbalanced, especially in a wild or aggressive way. 2. extremely enthusiastic about something. 3. absurdly unlikely 4. full of

If you care to notice then this is my fiftieth post. In the past 49, I have shared with you stories of my travels, climbs, crazy thoughts, friends, impossible dreams and one lame excuse of limericks. The golden jubilee post demanded something special, something unique something as fundamental to me as the air I breathe. And I decided to pay tribute to that one person who single handedly steered and shaped the course of my life from a stage where I did not even know if I had one. He is my uncle Fred and to him I owe all that I am today.  He arrived exactly a year after my father had departed. The only other person, to whom I owe more, is my mother. Here’s to you Uncle Fred, wherever you may be.  I was mid way to my thirteenth summer on the planet and a truly spirited truant that you can imagine. I spent more time kneeling outside my classroom than inside and hence learnt more. By this time, everyone who knew me, including my mother, had reaffirmed their belief that I was not one destine

I climb to travel and travel to climb. When I am not asked why I climb then people ask me several questions about my travel travails and I thought to pen a post on the topic before my memory fails. The questions that often come to me are as under: - Why do you Travel? Well, I have no definite answer to this except that I just love to travel and watch the roads or the continents go past by. Perhaps my post 'My Father's son' published earlier in April 2009 would offer some explanation. But most often than not I travel to climb in cold places. Therefore there are several countries; beautiful and exotic that I haven't been to since there is nothing credible enough to climb and let me remind you that I only like to climb natural protrusions. How do you travel? How do you get so much time to travel? When do you travel? How many countries have you visited? Which is the prettiest country / city / place you have seen? If you had a choice where would you like to live? Etc, etc. T

I am a great admirer of Khalil Gibran, have always been, and his book ‘The Prophet’ is one you will always find prominently displayed in my book rack. But that has got nothing to do with my friends often labeling me ‘The Prophet of Doom’. Since my early childhood I have been fascinated with disasters, both natural and manmade. Always wishing that one should or must befell me. When I used to travel by train—a tiny toddler with my parents for company—I would wish that the train would derail or crash into another or would be robbed by dacoits or hooligans, or a short circuit will cause it to erupt in flames. Even the fat snoring uncle toppling off from the upper berth; any excitement would do for me. Then when I started traveling by air, I wished that the aircraft would develop engine snag and fall off the air, or jam its hydraulics and get into a tail spin forever or a hijacker would take over the cockpit. Every disaster scene of Nat Geo air crash investigations series would flash in fro

The great bull shark hovered inches away from my face and looked at me with unblinking black beady eyes. It observed me with an abject indifference. I stared back hypnotized not daring to blink or to breathe lest the bubbles escaping from my diving set disturb the ruler of these waters. Commonly we fear sharks as hostile and a predator though they are gentle and loving creatures seldom attacking human beings; my friend and mentor in such sports, Pedro had assured me. Without moving a muscle I strained my eyes to the extreme left to find the idiot suspended in a vertically upright position without a single movement from any parts of his body staring with equal intent at another shark that reposed in front of him. They seemed to be kissing. I was completely out of my elements and shitting bricks in a manner of speaking. The enterprise at the beginning had seemed harmless enough. A peaceful dip in one of the finest and least explored coastal waters in the world and watch amazing marine li

There’s a good reason why I never repeat a climb or a route in my life with very few exceptions. It simply boils down to ‘fear’. Once back I would realize how tormenting and nigh terminating my endeavor had been and I would be afraid to let my body and mind undergo the ritual one more time. Therefore, always a new route, new summit and a new trail that would pull me into the world of maddening mountains. If I hadn’t experienced it, no matter how the guidebooks or someone else who had, described it, then it couldn’t be that difficult; my asinine belief always convinced my wayward mind thus. Though it can be added safely that nearly half of my adventures did not find an earlier mention in any guidebook nor had they been marred by any human presence prior to mine. Curses and expletives were certain to follow but then ignorance is indeed bliss. And if at a later stage (that always happened) I would feel that I had once again been duped into something nearly impossible, that stage often occ

As I stumbled into the gathering dusk, now thankful that the rain had finally lost its momentum, towards the cowherd’s hut that I had passed few days earlier, I observed that a solitary figure, dressed in white shirt and a rolled up dhoti stood outside gazing at my approaching form. I was tottering at the edge of my mental and physical limits. I reached the hut and crashed on the ground with a loud breath escaping my dry lips. The man came forward. ‘I was expecting you, Bhaiji,’ the man said through smiling eyes. ‘My humble home is yours. Please come inside, I will make food for you.’ He picked up my sack and entered the porch that doubled as the cow and buffalo shed as well. With such humble beginning I found Kasoori Lal, a cowherd of 50 years from the village of Juhul. He never bothered to explain how he knew of my arrival and I never bothered to ask. It just seemed natural that in that godforsaken place amidst the godforsaken weather I would appear before his hut at that godforsaken

Ok, I will start with a disclaimer; it’s not required though, but I will still, just to be on the safe side. There are few things in my life that I will never repeat; may I repeat, never repeat unless under a direct threat to my life or a million dollar offer dangling like that proverbial carrot within my grasp(which might prompt me to consider, if not do it actually). Over the last 10 days or so, as some of you already know, I have been incommunicado out of choice as I had gone off again into the lofty Dhauladhar in Kangra. The adventure that ensued, and which I am about to relate (in two episodes), is one, a part of which I would not repeat. As a matter of fact now that I am back in the safety zone of civilization I am wondering how on Earth I did it even once! Here’s the story. Any voyage can be made comfortable or otherwise by adding or subtracting the options available. For this particular adventure, I wished to make it improbably difficult by opting to be minimalistic. I h