My friend Sagar, when he was jobless, used to be an enthusiastic rappeller. Rappeling, I found out from him, is the activity of scrabbling over huge rocks for no discernable reason.
My friend Kiran has discovered and unleashed the mountain biker in himself.Earlier, he restricted himself to football and the occasional clandestine fishing boat excursion off the coasts of his native Kerala. Now he saddles his bike and vrooms off to Leh from Delhi every other weekend. He also rafts and does various other scary things.
My jeej is an experienced para-glider/ bungee-jumper/ air-floater/ something of the sort that requires you to fall miles through the air. He is also tattoed all over.
My brother spent the previous month in a series of god-forsaken tiny villages in MP, voluntarily working for an NGO. He lived without electricity, toilets, phones/ network coverage, and in constant threat from naxalites, hostile tribals, and wild boars. On his way back, he bathed in the very dangerous Allahabad sangam, with half charred dead bodies from nearby cremation grounds floating past.
When I talk to these people, I hear them tell me how they nearly (always nearly) lost their lives, how they saved somebody else, how they enjoyed the most spectacular views, and how they are going back next week for more. Then they ask if I’ve done anything interesting lately, and I say “ I… ummm…. I…. oh, I’m reading a new book.”
If these people wrote blogs, such blogs would be full of cliff hanging, breath taking, soul chilling adventures, not boring home-office-friends posts. But of course they have much better things to do than write blogs. Go snorkeling for instance.
Actually, no. I do get my share of adventures sometimes. Some mornings, I accidentally get off my bus while it is still moving (!!). And once, not many weeks ago, a mad person chased me across the street a couple of yards with a brick in his hand (then he saw a foreigner and lost interest in me).
But there must be something wrong with me, because I do not tie ropes to myself and clamber over boulders, I don’t swim around in diving gear hoping to meet sharks, I do not jump into extremely unsafe looking rafts/ rope-cars/ skis, and I DO NOT jump out of airplanes, no way. Not only do I not do these things, I do not crave to do them. That must make me sub-normal. Maybe I am missing a hormone or an enzyme that drives these people to their insane hobbies. Yes, I would like the lovely views and stuff, but I’d rather spend my holiday in bed, thank you, and see the views on my computer when my friends send me the photos.
PS: What drove me to write all this in the first place? My colleague asked me this morning if I’d like to go rollerblading with her on Sunday(that’s tomorrow).
I said “ummmm, I’d love to but I have a book to finish.”
My friend Kiran has discovered and unleashed the mountain biker in himself.Earlier, he restricted himself to football and the occasional clandestine fishing boat excursion off the coasts of his native Kerala. Now he saddles his bike and vrooms off to Leh from Delhi every other weekend. He also rafts and does various other scary things.
My jeej is an experienced para-glider/ bungee-jumper/ air-floater/ something of the sort that requires you to fall miles through the air. He is also tattoed all over.
My brother spent the previous month in a series of god-forsaken tiny villages in MP, voluntarily working for an NGO. He lived without electricity, toilets, phones/ network coverage, and in constant threat from naxalites, hostile tribals, and wild boars. On his way back, he bathed in the very dangerous Allahabad sangam, with half charred dead bodies from nearby cremation grounds floating past.
When I talk to these people, I hear them tell me how they nearly (always nearly) lost their lives, how they saved somebody else, how they enjoyed the most spectacular views, and how they are going back next week for more. Then they ask if I’ve done anything interesting lately, and I say “ I… ummm…. I…. oh, I’m reading a new book.”
If these people wrote blogs, such blogs would be full of cliff hanging, breath taking, soul chilling adventures, not boring home-office-friends posts. But of course they have much better things to do than write blogs. Go snorkeling for instance.
Actually, no. I do get my share of adventures sometimes. Some mornings, I accidentally get off my bus while it is still moving (!!). And once, not many weeks ago, a mad person chased me across the street a couple of yards with a brick in his hand (then he saw a foreigner and lost interest in me).
But there must be something wrong with me, because I do not tie ropes to myself and clamber over boulders, I don’t swim around in diving gear hoping to meet sharks, I do not jump into extremely unsafe looking rafts/ rope-cars/ skis, and I DO NOT jump out of airplanes, no way. Not only do I not do these things, I do not crave to do them. That must make me sub-normal. Maybe I am missing a hormone or an enzyme that drives these people to their insane hobbies. Yes, I would like the lovely views and stuff, but I’d rather spend my holiday in bed, thank you, and see the views on my computer when my friends send me the photos.
PS: What drove me to write all this in the first place? My colleague asked me this morning if I’d like to go rollerblading with her on Sunday(that’s tomorrow).
I said “ummmm, I’d love to but I have a book to finish.”
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