Shots in the Dark

It seems unfair, indeed confusing, to see the number of hits owing to one word in my post, Helmet. A blog that had a following of 3, including me and the afore mentioned person, suddenly gets atleast 8 hits in a day!!! I mean, what is this?? Why are you people stepping into my personal space all of a sudden? Go get a life!! This is between me and a man, a clown, a pastafarian even, Helmet.

To be entirely honest, I don't know Helmet all that well. However, we hit it off (asexually) when we were dumped in the same room in Oberoi Towers when attending the AB Scholarhip interviews in our first year. We both realised that we were a little, um to use a euphemism, disturbed, mentally that is. These fears were justified when we realised that we were both in love with the same game - Heroes of Might and Magic. One might ask, What in God's green earth is that?? Precisely. It's not every sane person in this world who goes about HOMM, as its called by its fan following. You need that little streak of masochism to actually sit in front of your computer (mine' s called Ol' Betsy btw) and play a turn-by-turn strategy game that takes ages to complete.

Next time we really meet is during the Mck interview. I was in one of my more ebullient moods, talking about the company which I've always proposed to start. It's called Fish And. Yes that's it, just Fish And. The more obtuse among you, my dear and suddenly thriving readers, must be racking your brains wondering what it all means. But Helmet see, he gets it, and shouts out, almost immediately, Chips. Oh well, if that doesn't make you running for your hanky to wipe away your tears, nothing will. Go ahead, my dear audience, cry your heart out at this tale of humanity that goes beyond our cynical and little selves, a tale of a genius, a country bumpkin, a person who only grows countrier the more you get to know him, the lovable, teasable-for-ever-more: Helmet!!!

As I was saying yesterday, we reached the banks of the Ganga without much incident. The only thing worth mentioning (since this is my blog after all) is that I had a sip of jaljeera and learnt about a game called Mafia. Apart from that I also realised that I knew a remarkable number of Hindi songs. How degrading!!! We arrived at Snow Leopard base camp, well into the night, around 10pm I think and were welcomed with garlands of marigold and a warm campfire. Without much ado, drinks were served. Wine bottles were opened, if I'm not mistaken, a Sula red - Cabernet Shiraz, followed by two Champagne bottles - popped open with froth and fizz by two birthday boys, one bday fictional at that. While I was on my second glass of alcohol, Mr. H as he so endearingly refers to himself, was on his 4th, or was it 5th. Ah well, who's counting.

A couple of minutes and a number of vodka and rum shots later, Helmet was trying, pretty verbosely and peremptorily, to prove that he wasn't drunk.
"Let me shpeeeak. Shut up. Lishen to me, I will prooof to you that I am not drunk!" he slobbered on with his finger wagging in our faces. "Let me state Fermat's last theorem:
x power n + y power n - z power n cannot be equal to 0 for n greater than or equal to 2!"
Well, I'm no math whizz but if you ask me, 8 squared and 6 squared make 10 squared and, thus, braving the winds and speaking up for the love of science and remarked as much.
"Shut up! Shut! I'm cleverer than you. What do you know" cried our boisterous and intrepid friend and went off looking for the next shot of vodka after repeating his own version of Fermat
again. After having scared off most of the people, Helmet sunk into his seat after a lot of coaxing from yours truly. There he was given some advice by a caring and friendly alum and sent to his tent.

Detour - my story: This is the first time I have had to take care of people when drunk. First Helmet and then another who goes by the name of ______ (ask me. I'll tell you. Or if you really want to know, I'll add it in the comments later). While the pandemonium surrounding Helmet finally died down, ____ decided to empty his innards onto the pristine shores of the Ganges. So doggy style, the two of us dug up some sand and ____ cleaned his gut, upwards of course. So, for all you people playing Ganga Panga the next day, who found something squishy on your feet, you know whom to blame (again, ask me. I'm just dying to tell).

Cut to 8am next morn. Everyone is awake or waking up to the Suprabatham of the instructor, who wishes to see all us landlubbers playing Ganga Panga like we cared for nothing else. Helmet's tent mates wake to find him nowhere in sight. While trying to get off their bed, the look down to find two feet stricking out from under one of their beds. They wake the possessor of these two left feet and throw him back onto his bed. Minutes later, another group of people find the same creature swaggering back and forth on his way, presumably, to the dry bogs. They soon find themselves mistaken. They find the amphora of alcohol lying on his stomach above some rocks in some bushes by the Ganga. The good samaritans carry him back to his tent on their shoulder. This is when they also discover something fishy in their own tent. There is human faeces lying just inside the tent. Whatever in God's name could that mean? Who in their right mind would actually strip down to their Bday clothes and defaecate in someone else's tent? And in the tent, by Toutatis???

Helmet finally wakes up around 12 to find his body aching all over. There are deep scratches on his arms, his back and some scars on his face, his glasses missing, his cell dead. He can't find a contact lens and thinks that its in the same eye as the one he knows he's wearing. Helmet begins to feel like an ostrich and wonders where he might find a hole big enough to bury his soaked head in. What if word gets round? he thinks. I can count on the discretion of my friends can't I? I mean, there was shit in some tent, for God's sake!!! Sure you can, Helmet, sure you can.

Moral of the story, folks. Taking a shot in the dark is all very good. But play too many guessing games and the gun's going to be pointed to your head - Russian Roulette style...