Skylark

Dear reader,

Are you are surprised to see this post? So am I.

Paragliding in Kamshet

 

Every new year, more so over the past few, I wonder if the blog will finally receive a dignified funeral. January whizzed by and I did not have the slightest hankering to write. Is there a point to inflicting drab, unoriginal observations upon you? After all, we likely don't lead radically different lives. 

You can thank (or curse) the weekend for triggering my first post of 2024. I went paragliding in Kamshet. It was a chance conversation, an "ah fuck it, let's do this" moment, which led to me being strapped to the sail (in tandem with the instructor) for a 20-minute flight on Saturday evening. Yes, people eagerly swapped ghastly stories about previous flying experiences right up to the actual jump, but I did my best to ignore it all. 

If we listen to and believe everything we hear, we'd never go anywhere, somewhat like those poor sods living in anodized, monolithic apartment complexes, getting every little thing delivered home.

First impression: How peaceful it was up there! Between watching the shifting horizon and marveling at the terrain far below, I slipped into a meditative space almost instantly, as if escaping gravity also allowed me to magically leave behind all humdrum cares and worries. The pictures and video of my flight have me grinning like an idiot from the get-go, and I really could not wipe the smile off my face. I could have stayed up there for an hour if permitted, but these days, life is all about being brought back down to earth, so I might as well be thankful it was a gentle landing.

The hotel? resort? guesthouse? we stayed in oozed charm. Clean, well-maintained and convivial, it is a magnet for bohemians. A mix of the young, middle-aged and old. People who usually dabble in art or 'content creation', work in tech, or made a killing in business years ago and now indulge themselves pursuing pleasures. Obsessed with small-batch coffees (I saw one guy, pierced nose and all, patiently grinding beans for his morning pick-me-ups), phones and air-pods, the smell of cigarette and other smoke wafting around nooks and crannies. They have an admirable ability to start conversations about anything with anyone and everyone looked fit, happy and relaxed. In short, the kind of place I would usually avoid like the plague.

I felt rather curmudgeonly but the feeling dissipated eventually. It would make for a nice weekend getaway.

Speaking of which, just prior to the weekend I went on my half-yearly retreat into the Twilight Zone, also called "the relatives' place" for a quick work-related trip. Just like last time, there were moments that led a close friend to ask why I do this to myself. I think about that too and the closest answer is an urge to be kind and accommodating, often going to ridiculous lengths. Take the coffee, for instance. 

I love coffee though I limit myself to about two cups a day. I drink it black because I'm lactose-intolerant, yet a well-made, strong filter coffee is the nectar of the gods. It was the only kind I grew up drinking so there are nostalgic associations with filter coffee, especially at 2:45pm in the afternoon, a conditioning trigger tied to a distant past with my grandparents in Bombay. 

My dear relatives (and they mean well, regardless of the shenanigans) know that I need a substantial amount of coffee, and that milk sets off an enthusiastic wind instrument orchestra in my tummy and posterior. However, that does not seem to deter them from offering up a weak, rather milky brew (it'd be milkier if I didn't insist so much) morning and afternoon. 

However, what really gets my goat is the quantity - they ration the stuff out like we live in a war zone. I glare balefully at the pitiful amount in the steel tumbler and quaff it off in 1-2 gulps, lie about how good it was and thank them.

Well aware of their enthusiasm for suffering needlessly, I was nonetheless surprised by another eccentricity this time around. They have some nice french windows in the living room and I've often suggested they get one mosquito netting frame done so that they'll have good air flow all night. Of course, they haven't got around to doing that and of course they're doing something more bizarre. Namely, leaving the window open in the evenings just when the mosquitoes are out and about. As expected, not one of those creatures will refuse the free buffet at my relatives' place, with your author served up as the dessert. 

It tries the soul.

Until next time, reader. Ciao.

Song for the moment: Kill or be kind - Samantha Fish