Dragonslayers Anonymous

God bless the American roadways!!!

I thought I'd seen it all in GA-75 and GA-348. The five hour impulse drive on that lazy Sunday afternoon was no match to what I discovered on the bumper sticker of a beat up Dodge Ram on I-85. "I slayed the Tail of the Dragon", it claimed, with the emblem of US highway 129 beside a fire-breathing beast of lore. Search results revealed an international rider's paradise just one mountain hop away. Tennessee.


Not going would be a sin knowingly committed. No penance would liberate me.

Deals Gap was three hours away, and the eleven-mile stretch would be a twenty minute drive. I needed to do more. Perpendicular to the Tail of the Dragon extending from Nantahala National Forest into Cherokee National Forest was the mile-high Cherohala skyway. I packed my compass, a bottle of Gatorade and the Zen.

All said and done, I was late! I had wanted to leave by 5 in the morning so I can stay out of the way of cruisers, speeders and roadsters. The map showed quite a gradation in the altitude through the stretch, there was no way I would not have a line chasing me. And now I wouldn't reach the course until 10. Hopefully everybody was still at church.

Getting there was monotonous. Somebody airlift me across NC, please. Floyd wasn't helping, I needed some pumping long-drive anthems. A gentle drizzle was starting to hint the mood of the day. After what seemed like a day shorter than eternity, I started seeing the dragon insignia on souvenir shops. I soon realised Deals Gap wasn't exactly a township, no post office, no police station, just a stop along route 129. It was a resort in itself. A creek flowed to the left, and slowly turned into rapids and rocky white water. Trucks lined the banks and rafters set into their gear to tumble against/with the current. I sighed, but I had more important things to do. I was looking for the 'start line'. There was none.

Turn 1: WHAT THE... Oh, so that was turn 1.
Turn 2: Ay, Caramba!
Turn 6: Aaaaaaaa...
Turn lost-count: O...k...
Turn 318: Let's do that again!!!

So I took a big U-turn and did it all over again, this time with the windows down, Maiden blaring, and stopping to take in whatever little of the view available in an otherwise shielded mountain route.




The rest of the ride was easy. I did, however, miss wheeling some dirt onto a photographer who raised and immediately lowered his camera (as he had done on the onward drive) when he realised that not only were there four wheels, there were four doors to this toy.

Nobody insults the Civic!


This was one road where I religiously followed the speed limit. They weren't kidding when they set it to 30 (Driving to the previous limit of 55, maintained until 1992, looks arduous now). Checking the official site, I see it wasn't too long ago when riders met their end at the very place.

Reaching Robbinsville beyond Deals Gap, route 143 led into Cherohala. What I missed with the Dragon, the skyway made up for in view and speed. For this stretch, it was best to get the Led out.


There was definitely more traffic on the skyway than I'd seen at the Dragon. I realised I had to pull over and take a break just so I would stop tailing the slower drivers. Meddling with the camera was a perfect breather.


The day wasn't without its black mark. When all the fun driving was done and I was back in the plains on my way home, I had to make a blind 150-degree left turn. Only midway through the turn did I realise it was a blind intersection to the oncoming traffic as well. The other driver looked horrified, but we managed to stay off each other's way. Whatever caused me to be two seconds ahead of him in the whole day saved both of us from ricocheting off each other. Call it God, call it destiny, call it probability, call it coincidence. I worship all of them.

I had to refuel. I made it back to the same fuel station in my neighbourhood ten hours after my earlier refill the same day. The Zen died out when I pulled in at the pump - it had been playing since I left there in the morning. Now that's what I call a one-tank trip.

No comments

I decided that "no comments" would be my response to watching Yarukku Yaro Step Nee, before I even ventured to watch it. I was prepared to roll on the floor hysterically, having already seen brilliant excerpts of Joe Stanley's direction of Sam Anderson blushing, dancing, falling in love, healing from a heartbreak.

I wanted to laugh at his dilemma of choosing between being a brain drain to Canada and staying true to his roots and working to improve the comforts of the middle class Indian family. I wanted to stare in disbelief at his facial expressions (or the lack of them). I wanted to have a fit of giggles at the dialogue riddled with simile-metaphor-poetry-whatever. I wanted to curse the fickle minded women who hate him one moment and promise to live their lives together the next. I wanted to be awed all the more by him proposing marriage to one girl after being turned down by the other. I wanted to tell my friends about how ultimately low budget the whole project was, that they couldn't afford to put a roof over their service station, which ended up looking like a four-car parking shed.

Oh I was awed alright... he bowled me over.

He made a girl sing that we have one God, nameless, formless, kind, benevolent.

Five minutes later, she was singing a bhajan on Krishna (was that his take on secularism?).

Ten minutes later, she said God resided in his cross (seriously, can Joe Stanley make up his mind about Jesus being God or the son of God?), and she wanted his God. Apparently, her beauty and boldness - mind you, we are talking about the boldness of a girl who screamed for help for two whole minutes when her jewelry was snatched in broad daylight - were magnified by the cross hanging on her neck.

Thirty minutes later, she was by his side, head covered and bowed, complaining that her Gods were tormenting her, and she wanted to pray to Jesus instead.

After (supposedly) rescuing the damsel in distress from a gang of low lives, he presented the cross to each of them, saying they were touched by Christ, and hence will live a liberated life (church bells ringing in the background).

I tried to tell myself - no, don't think so much. That is the only way of spirituality he knows, hence that is the only spirituality he can share with the world. Then again, we are not talking about the everyday ignorant American. We are talking about an Indian. Seriously, the average Indian cannot be that unaware of the existence of other religions around him. Not especially when he shows the mother of the girl to be a devout Hindu.

The one for me

There lives a man for me
A man, I'm sure, not a woman.

The one for me, my one and only
The stars have aligned to unite our paths.

But will he love me?
Doesn't matter. As long as his parents like me.

Is there a place for me in his heart?
Doesn't matter. There is a place for me in his house.

Will he let me wear black?
Doesn't matter. It's ominous. (Lace excluded.)

Will he be a good person?
Doesn't matter. His parents are the best people in the world, just like mine.

Will he charm me with his humour?
Doesn't matter. He will be taller than me.

Will he respect me and my ideas?
Doesn't matter. He will be Stanford educated.

Will he treat me as an equal?
He better. I'm giving him a hundred kilograms of gold.

Will he headbang with me?
Doesn't matter. He can afford the speakers.

Will no mean no?
Like it matters. Ha!

Will I serve him with love?
Doesn't matter. I will serve him dinner every night.

Will he let me work?
Of course. As long as I am the wife in this marriage.

Will he make my parents happy?
Of course. What kind of question is this?

Will he make me happy?
Of course. Refer star alignment.

Will he make the whole world proud?
Of course. Refer Stanford education, speaker affordability.

Will our children be good people?
Of course. Refer lineage of best people.

Will I forget my days of depression?
Of cou... Wait... nobody said anything about depression!

Will I think of killing myself again?
Woah... woah... wait a minute there!

Will I erase the whole era of silent pain?
I... I... But it's a new life now.

Will I snap and disappear for a week?
Listen... there are duties. As a wife, as a daughter-in-law.

Will I get to speak my mind?
Of course. As long as nobody is offended.

Will I think and act different from others?
Now... why not just be normal for once, like everybody else?

Ok. Come, let's get married.

Silence mistaken

I had opened my blog, and was redirected to a page that affirmed the verses of the Bible and reinstated the word of God and his son. A quick phone call to a friend helped me understand what happened.

I couldn't fathom how I had offended anyone of any community, and tried to identify older posts with sensitive or controversial material.

Here's what I had done:

I had posted a copy of a journalist's article on the attacks on India and the threat to the coexistence of a multitude of religions, not to mention their sects, and the impact that communal violence had on the country and on the Hindus, who had remained a silent majority.

That is one post (which wasn't even my own writing) on religion compared to forty attempts on humourously whining about my surroundings.

Here's what I hadn't done:

I hadn't written that Christianity started with the church, rather than with Christ.

I hadn't written that I had issues with the church, not with Christians. Most Christians I have met are Christ-like, they pray, they work in honest jobs, they do not teach sin, they are responsible citizens of the nations they serve. Not the church. The church has power that transcends national and corporate boundaries, and is not afraid to use it.

I hadn't written that Hinduism is so diverse that it encompasses the underlying foundation of every other belief, however paradoxical it may sound: theistic, atheistic, gnostic, agnostic, monism, dualism (everything but vanquishing non-Brahmins or scaring people into worship-or-burn-in-hell). In Hinduism, anything goes as long as it arises out of purity in thought and action. Beat that.

I hadn't written that I studied in a class full of Hindus, yet none preached the virtues of the Vedas. I studied with a Muslim boy who was transferred to a Muslim school and then a Muslim college. I studied with a Christian boy who started doing missionary work amongst his college mates. Yet, I did not generalise, or speak against the whole community.

I hadn't written that I politely refused an old gentleman's invitation to church because I was not a Christian. A similar response had been given to the Mormons. I wonder why I've never been asked by non-Christians (apart from my Hindu parents) to join them for worship.

I hadn't written that I had doubts about my own religion, and was in the process of digging in deeper to understand if the ceremonies and seemingly meaningless practices had risen only in the last 500 years.

I hadn't written that I found the answers to some of them already. Doubt does not imply abandonment. Doubt means ignorance. Ignorance can be removed only by knowledge, not ego-wars with the doubter. Learn the difference between the question and the questioner.

I hadn't written that I do not hesitate to question the scriptures of my own religion. I question castes, I question rituals, I question sacrifices, I question women's duties, I question astrology, I question anything I want. And I search for the answers because I seek truth, not closure.

I hadn't written that I understand the need for religion. And also the need for independent thinking, because religion is often in the hands of humans; humans susceptible to corruption from purity and distraction from purpose.

I hadn't written that I belong to no religious faction for the same reason. My visits to the temple are indicative of my allegiance to God (and my love for vegetarian delicacies). No different from a vast majority of human beings who turn to their own faiths for inner strength.

I hadn't written that I plan to donate to what can make people's lives better, not what can globalise the Hindu footprint.

I hadn't written that conversion is hogwash. It is out of mere respect to your independent thinking that I continue to state: you don't get in my way, I don't get in yours. Unfortunately, you do not have a mind of your own. Know who you submit to.

I didn't written that I do not submit to saffron-robed saints or all-knowing preachers. I submit to the Absolute. And I know the meaning of the Absolute, who should not be personified or characterised as having emotions to be appeased.

I hadn't written that I was raised to be a Hindu, but did not consciously practice Sanatana Dharma until I found the purpose of life and the law of karma.

I hadn't written that I use my faith as nothing more than a path to the Absolute. It is not my means to prove the futility of others' path. You are no different from a driver pulling up at the traffic light, challenging me to a race on green. We all get from A to B, in ways that work best for us.

I hadn't written that I never belittled any version of non-Hinduism, despite what I found out about them and their followers. I was silent, I was not ignorant.

Grow a brain. Learn to think. Learn to respect.

Above all else, know what you stand for before you dare to speak, you spineless, self righteous, ignorant, asinine virgin-mother-fucker.

In search of a sibling

I've been in a lifelong search for a sibling. A brother, sister, someone, anyone. Scores of people I've met, made acquaintances, gained friends, held some close to the heart, found a soulmate. But never a sibling. There have been a handful of young men who feel very sisterly about me, but I wish I could reciprocate the feeling. There were some women who I looked upto as an older sister, then they proved to be the wrong people to hold high. Got me thinking… what exactly am I looking for?

I glare with envy at those having close ties with their family. I could never understand how it just happens to be a part of them. Like their sibling is a clone of themselves with a different maturity level. That they would do so much for each other asking nothing in return. Not for true love, not for eternal happiness, just fraternal bond. Has there been anyone in my life I would do that for? So far, none.

I was born with one, but that was the equivalent of being born with a defect. You grow with it, live with it, plan your life around it, since no medical advancement can rid you off it.

Perhaps it is the young man at work who protects me from the office politics. Perhaps it is the close friend who calls up just to check on me. Perhaps it is the girl who kept me sane in a faraway land. Perhaps the tenth cousin who expects no niceties.

I do not wish to call a friend "brother" simply to insist the absence of any inter-gender emotions. I do not wish to call anyone "sister" since I have such few female companions and even fewer know the real me. Back to square one: what exactly am I looking for?

Growing up, I had no true friend but my conscience. I wanted to talk to someone, tell them my troubles, be mentored, have a role model who didn’t come from a Victorian era, share stories of short-lived crushes, be consoled over heartbreaks, stand up for me against the world, tell me I was normal. Every girl gossiped with me and then behind my back. Every boy stayed away from me or was kept at bay by me. Over the years, it grew to a point where I gave up hope on finding one, ever. Every person had two sides, and I grew to like neither of them. Nobody fit in that special pedestal.

My conscience still overrides every human relationship I have made. The pedestal still remains empty. Of course I could get all spiritual and say nothingness = ether, and ether = all pervading, and all pervading = omnipresent almighty. I'm damn sure that won't be reciprocated... not for someone like me.

The Hindu Rate of Wrath

The following article is not my own writing. I wish I could calm myself down enough to be able to organize my thoughts into legible expressions. It hasn't happened... yet. It hasn't sunk in that it was my country, and not me, that was brutally violated.

In the meanwhile, I resort to borrowing from Francois Gautier of Le Journal de Geneve.


http://francoisgautier.wordpress.com/2008/11/01/the-hindu-rate-of-wrath/

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When the Mahatma’s cowards erupt in fury, it hurts. It isn’t terror.

Is there such a thing as ‘Hindu terrorism’, as the arrest of Sadhvi Pragya Singh Thakur for the recent Malegaon blasts may tend to prove? Well, I guess I was asked to write this column because I am one of that rare breed of foreign correspondents—a lover of Hindus! A born Frenchman, Catholic-educated and non-Hindu, I do hope I’ll be given some credit for my opinions, which are not the product of my parents’ ideas, my education or my atavism, but garnered from 25 years of reporting in South Asia (for Le Journal de Geneve and Le Figaro).

In the early 1980s, when I started freelancing in south India, doing photo features on kalaripayattu, the Ayyappa festival, or the Ayyanars, I slowly realised that the genius of this country lies in its Hindu ethos, in the true spirituality behind Hinduism. The average Hindu you meet in a million villages possesses this simple, innate spirituality and accepts your diversity, whether you are Christian or Muslim, Jain or Arab, French or Chinese. It is this Hinduness that makes the Indian Christian different from, say, a French Christian, or the Indian Muslim unlike a Saudi Muslim. I also learnt that Hindus not only believed that the divine could manifest itself at different times, under different names, using different scriptures (not to mention the wonderful avatar concept, the perfect answer to 21st century religious strife) but that they had also given refuge to persecuted minorities from across the world—Syrian Christians, Parsis, Jews, Armenians, and today, Tibetans. In 3,500 years of existence, Hindus have never militarily invaded another country, never tried to impose their religion on others by force or induced conversions.

You cannot find anybody less fundamentalist than a Hindu in the world and it saddens me when I see the Indian and western press equating terrorist groups like simi, which blow up innocent civilians, with ordinary, angry Hindus who burn churches without killing anybody. We know also that most of these communal incidents often involve persons from the same groups—often Dalits and tribals—some of who have converted to Christianity and others not.

However reprehensible the destruction of Babri Masjid, no Muslim was killed in the process; compare this to the ‘vengeance’ bombings of 1993 in Bombay, which wiped out hundreds of innocents, mostly Hindus. Yet the Babri Masjid destruction is often described by journalists as the more horrible act of the two. We also remember how Sharad Pawar, when he was chief minister of Maharashtra in 1993, lied about a bomb that was supposed to have gone off in a Muslim locality of Bombay.

I have never been politically correct, but have always written what I have discovered while reporting. Let me then be straightforward about this so-called Hindu terror. Hindus, since the first Arab invasions, have been at the receiving end of terrorism, whether it was by Timur, who killed 1,00,000 Hindus in a single day in 1399, or by the Portuguese Inquisition which crucified Brahmins in Goa. Today, Hindus are still being targeted: there were one million Hindus in the Kashmir valley in 1900; only a few hundred remain, the rest having fled in terror. Blasts after blasts have killed hundreds of innocent Hindus all over India in the last four years. Hindus, the overwhelming majority community of this country, are being made fun of, are despised, are deprived of the most basic facilities for one of their most sacred pilgrimages in Amarnath while their government heavily sponsors the Haj. They see their brothers and sisters converted to Christianity through inducements and financial traps, see a harmless 84-year-old swami and a sadhvi brutally murdered. Their gods are blasphemed.

So sometimes, enough is enough.At some point, after years or even centuries of submitting like sheep to slaughter, Hindus—whom the Mahatma once gently called cowards—erupt in uncontrolled fury. And it hurts badly. It happened in Gujarat. It happened in Jammu, then in Kandhamal, Mangalore, and Malegaon. It may happen again elsewhere. What should be understood is that this is a spontaneous revolution on the ground, by ordinary Hindus, without any planning from the political leadership. Therefore, the BJP, instead of acting embarrassed, should not disown those who choose other means to let their anguished voices be heard.

There are about a billion Hindus, one in every six persons on this planet. They form one of the most successful, law-abiding and integrated communities in the world today. Can you call them terrorists?

I don't hate Greyhound

I swore I would take back everything I said about Greyhound if this happened. And it did. So I keep up my word.

I was scheduled to leave at 11:30 at night to another city in order to take a flight for the Thanksgiving holiday. The flight was early in the morning, but this was the latest I could leave in order to minimize my wait time at the airport. And then a friend told me: The train you have to take from the bus terminal to the airport runs only at these times... and the terminal isn't open at the hour you reach.

I decided to pay the additional $15 for changing my bus schedule to an earlier time: 8.20pm. The change was done; the bus was delayed.

I waited. Scenarios and solutions ran wild in my head. Greyhound. It had led me down. Again. I shouldn't have been surprised, I guess it had been a while since I relied on public transport to get around. If only airport parking fees weren't higher than my train and bus tickets combined...

The bus was to leave at 9.30pm. Scheduled time of arrival 11.35pm. The last train to the airport was at 11.25pm. This is not happening. No, this is just not happening.

Option 1: Wait at the bus terminal. Take the first train in the morning to the airport.

Option 2: Wait at the train terminal. Take the first train in the morning to the airport.

Option 3: If both bus and train terminals are closed, take a local bus to the airport.

Option 4: Call 911. Cry like a baby.

And then it happened. I heard something... Was I hallucinating? Did I inhale some bus fumes? Is it really...? YES! The bus driver honked. He overtook half a dozen cars. I shook out of my state of panic and looked out the window to estimate that he must have been travelling at about 70mph when I've always seen buses on highways keep to 5 below the limit.

It was as though he knew...

My destination was the second of a two-stop journey. The first stop was to be reached at 11pm; he made it there at 10.55. I cursed the people who took more than 10 seconds to get their bags out. I cursed even more the girl who stopped the driver to ask him something. I stopped myself from cursing the driver for closing the baggage compartment too slowly. I needed him to be curse-free for the next 30 minutes.

Should I make a desperate plea to him? Perhaps he might consider my situation and make an informed attempt to reach the final stop before it is too late. I was almost about to get off my seat when he slammed the door, hit the lights, and stepped on it.

And then I swore... if this happens, I will take back everything I ever said about Greyhound. This one man's action is reason enough for me.

11.15pm. I can see the skyline. We are close. But the midnight traffic is surprisingly high.

11.17pm. Screeeeeeeech. The bus steers to the left lane and brakes to a halt. I had just then heard metal crumble and glass shatter to my right. The SUV that was ahead of us had collided head on into a pick-up truck at high speed. The bus driver had avoided getting into the mess in a split second.

11.22pm. The bus terminal. We had reached. But the passengers in the seats ahead of me were slow in alighting. Curses.

I got off the bus. I ran into the terminal and out through the front door. The chill hit me. I ran down the flight of stairs at the entrance. "Damn... you so fine..." I felt his breath on my cheek. I didn't stop to look at his face. The train station was across the street. I prayed that the doors not be locked. I smiled in gratitude as I pulled them open. I ran down the escalator in search of tracks, listening hard for chugging wheels, looking here and there for train schedules.

11.25pm. The train was a minute late. As I ran down to the track, I heard it coming. I saw it coming. I saw it not slowing down. I was on the wrong track.

I ran upstairs to the information booth, and was told to head in the opposite direction.

I ran down the correct stairs. The train had stopped a while, and was starting to move. No, no, no.

The conductor saw me. "Airport?"
"Yes."
"Hop on."
"Thank you!"
YES !!!!!!!!

I reached the airport and called the host of my holiday visit to update. "Hey! What are you doing at this late hour? Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

Hmmm.

Inner workings of a certified loser

Many a general matter-of-conversation questions from those aged 25 to 50 with different social backgrounds have led me into 2-minute soul searching trances on multiple occasions.

"So, what do you do for fun?"
"I…"
What DO I do? Listen to music. Everybody does that. Come up with something else. I listen to classics on vinyl. Heck, 20 records of a random assortment from The Kinks to Tchaikovsky do not count for being an audiophile. Well, I do have 30 gigs of mp3. That is low even by my standards… I'm not going to talk about it. Perhaps I should say I play the guitar. Reality check: can't hold down an F chord. What else do I do? Photography. Ownership of a canon S5 and a handful of foliage shots do not qualify for photography. Read. No… don't ever say that. One, you aren't a bookworm, you picked up your first book hardly 3 years ago. Two, you read world history, science and religion. Don't want people to think you are linked to a terror network now, do you? Comics. Graphic novels. No, haven't read enough. I could say I like to hike. But thought has not manifested into action. My last hike was ages ago. Hmmm… oh yes, I like to drive. But driving an automatic means nothing. The better phrase would be I like to go on long drives. But those drives have had destinations: places, people. Rephrase: I like to meet up with friends. Everybody does that. Back to square one.

"Hello?"
"I… well, not much, the usual…"

"You stay downtown… you must like the nightlife!"
"Actually, no…"
I don't drink, I don't gyrate, I can't headbang to hip hop. So that rules out the stereotypical nightlife you expect me to enjoy. I live where I live simply because I cannot live in a neighbourhood which believes that street lighting leads to environmental imbalance, and that sleeping amidst trees gets one spiritually closer to nature. Neither do I believe that watching little children learn to ride their bicycle is a sign of hope for the joy and progress of mankind.

"Oh you should try the restaurant row, it's quite good!"
"Yes, but I'm a vegetarian."
And I found half a dozen places to eat incredible food outside the city.
"No wonder you are so thin."
The two are very unrelated, and no I'm not a diet.
"But what kind of nutrition can you get?!"
"I can get everything I need."

And I don't have to kill an animal for it.

"So are you vegan?"
"No."
I'm a Hindu, not a hippie.
"Why don't you try some of…"
"Sorry, I must decline today. It's my fortnightly fast."
"You fast ?!"
"Yes. Scientific and religious."
My way of trying to tell my hunger who's the boss.

"Movies?"
"Offbeat."
"Like?"
Blanked out… oh no not now! Come up with something, anything… what's the name of that movie I saw last night?!

"Watch any TV?"
"No, don't have one."
I needn't have said that. I still watch everything I want to, online.
"No TV?! You've got to be kidding me!"
"Done with TV. Wasted enough time in school and college."
Not to mention the fact that nowadays reality shows dominate every network, have made the dumb even dumber, made everyone self-righteous and judgmental, when the central characters were chosen on their immoral inappropriateness and a regression of the number of Google hits against the money to be paid for being on the show. News channels will die out unless Americans are at war with something. They fail to identify, among other things, that fuel prices have gone down. And of course, USA loves all and nobody returns the favour. I watch… Anime? Negative. Five full series only. Not enough.

"Damn, you don't have any fun at all, do you?"
"Guess so."
Guess again. Your point of reference to measure the value of my lighter side has just been proven to be from a different domain.

Working woman!

The first day of work. It was 7:30 in the morning.

"Hey, Joe? Um... I'm lost."

My boss picked me up and drove me to the office. What a start! It so happened that I was lost on a stretch of road thinking there was nothing beyond the barricade, when in fact the office was a 10 minute walk further down.

The usual orientation: cafeteria, mailroom, restroom (which literally was for resting: it had a couch!) and my very own cubicle. Right next to the boss'. And of course, plenty of brochures and other material to read. 4 hours I sat inside a box. Rather, I couldn't. Kept pacing around like a dog chasing its tail.

Lunch time, at last. Followed boss. Ran back, brought ID to be able to swipe back in. Then realized I didn't bring my wallet. Ran back, brought cardholder. Then realized cash only. Ran back, brought cash. Did not want to make eye contact with anyone after that, but still had half a day to go!!!

Spices, apparently, are unheard of in vegetarian cooking here. I was served pasta with no sauce and salted corn when I asked for veggie helpings. Thank god they at least had onion rings :) General discussions about work ensued.

Another 4 hours, walking in circles. At least I got some thinking work done when at it. But by the time it was 4.50, i was counting the seconds...

Met a whole lot of people, didn't remember anyone's names at the end of the day. It was like the first day at a new school, only this time, I'll have the embarassing details for life.

Highlight of the day, though:
After I clarify the project details (which turns out to be a major cross-functional problem that has to be modelled and analysed)
"So, are there any more interns to come?"
"No, you're the only intern in the project."
"Who is the team, the four of us?"
"No, just you."
"Err..."
"And me of course, I'm your manager."
Seriously, Joe, we gotta talk about my compensation.

The tale of the eternal bus misser

Huff...
Puff...
Huff...
Puff...
Nooooooooo.........

I would be running uphill out of my apartment, and there would be the bus, whizzing past in front of my eyes. Then I would walk 20 minutes to get to my department. What could have been done in 2 minutes by the bus.

I have a knack for missing buses. There are times when I would be a minute late, and the bus would have left. There are times when I would be there on dot, and the bus would have still left, early. There are times when I leave early (in my defence, early enough...), and the bus would have been earlier still! I have a bad luck with buses.

I was so afraid, that when I left NYC after thanksgiving, I reached the bus stop 1 hour in advance so I wouldn't miss it. For the rest of the journey, I was hungry. When I left home during the break, I reached the bus stop 30 minutes in advance. But in my anxiety, I forgot to bring my passport. When we stopped in Harrisburg, I missed the bus because it was overbooked. I had to wait 2 hours for the next one. I was in half a mind to go back home.

I had to call my roommate and ask her to bring my passport to Philadelphia, and meet her when she gets there to take a flight. Sad part was, I had to take a bus to go to Philadelphia. And this time, I missed it. I missed it big.

It was that morning when I left Greenbelt, and Kiran came to Washington to send me off. After we got out of the train station, we were searching for I Street. Rather, we thought it was First Street, and later someone corrected us that it wasn't the Roman numeral '1', it was upper case 'i'. So the entire time, we had to have looked for 'i' street.

We ran.

I called the bus service when I was on the way. Some chink service. Chink guy tried hard to understand what I said, and I tried hard to drain out the traffic noise and get what he was saying. He told his address alright, but not the directions. I told him I was on my way, just 5 minutes, please hold the bus.

5 minutes later, I was almost there. We found H street, K street, there was no I street in between. There was a Manhattan St in its place! This can't be right... We ran. More. I called them up again, nobody answered. Poor Kiran. My little trolley suitcase was too heavy to lift and run, but too short to drag and run. I took it from him, gave him my phone, asked him to keep calling them. Finally someone did answer, and the bus had left. I was still searching for their office.

When I did get there, they went on and on in some accented English that I didn't understand a word of. What I did get, was that they had no more buses running, but there was another bus service around the corner, with a bus to Philadelphia leaving any minute!

We ran. Again.

That bus had already left too. At least they had another bus, but that was at 4 in the evening, reaching at 6 45. My roommate had to be in the airport by that time, so bye-bye passport!

Dejected, we stood outside the bus office. Kiran suggested we get back to the train station, since that is the only other fast way to Philadelphia. (Don't even start about taking a flight... I don't have my passport... catch-22 here)

We got there, and the next train to Philly was in 5 minutes!
Put me on it pleeeeez!
Sure, do you have some ID?
Er... Student ID ok?
Sure!
Oh thank you thank you thank you!
Thank god I did not bring a big suitcase, I couldn't have checked it in!

After a quick goodbye hug and more running, I got into the train, collapsed into the seat, unable to bear the week-overdue cramps, not to mention the fact that I had run enough to counter a month's consumption of choc chip cookies.

I reached Philly in time to meet my roomie, took my passport from her. At the end of the day, all was well... and I was $68 short :(