Chapter 8: Into the White

This specially modified Bombardier snowmobile could hit 160 kilometres per hour.

It looked like something straight out of a Rajnikanth movie—sleek, powerful, painted with the Indian tricolour. Amit patted the seat, winking, “Imported hai, boss. Handle with care.”

Loaded down with equipment, I clung to the back seat, terrified Amit would throw me off.

As the snowmobile roared to life, I almost lost my grip. “Arey, dhyan se!” I yelled, clutching his jacket. Amit just laughed and gunned the throttle.

Luckily, his driving skills were solid—so the ride was thrilling, but safe.

We zipped across the frozen wasteland, ice crystals stinging our faces. My heart pounded, a wild mix of fear and excitement. In moments like these, I remembered every road trip back home—the wind, the thrill, the feeling of being alive.

Our mission: penetrate as deep as possible into the Antarctic continent, find granite exposed by the quake, collect rock samples, and assess the quake’s impact on the Antarctic Plate.

Amit shouted over the engine, “Arey, Rohan bhai, pehli baar Antarctica, aur humko hi mazdoori mil gayi!” I snorted and replied, “Karma hai, boss.”

After a few hours, Amit stopped the snowmobile and told me we were down to half a tank; if we went any farther, we might not make it back.

He tapped the gauge, lips pursed. “Accha, boss. Yahan se sample lete hain. Agar zinda bache toh HQ ko bolenge, plane bhej do, nahi toh waapas laut jaayenge.”

I patted the oversized fuel tank and said:

"Alright, let’s sample here. Afterwards, we’ll ask HQ whether to send a plane with fuel, or if we should turn back."

Amit grinned, “Full-on jugaad, Rohan bhai. Chalo, kaam shuru karte hain.”

Ahead of us was a cracked, collapsed ice sheet, with a crevice three metres wide and over twenty metres deep.

Looking at the terrain, both of us groaned.

Both sides of the crevice were ice; the only way to get rock samples was to rappel down with ropes.

“This is way too high. What a pain.”

“What else can we do? Down we go.”

We exchanged that classic Indian look—eyebrows raised, shoulders shrugged, what choice did we have? Work is work, after all.

Cursing, we set snow anchors on the flat ground, hammered ice screws into the ice wall, and fixed the ropes.

It took more than an hour, but we finally made it to the bottom of the crevice.

Amit took photos and mapped the cracks in the ice.

I assembled the portable core drill, getting ready to start.

Suddenly, Amit stopped and asked, puzzled:

“Rohan, do you hear something?”

His voice sounded odd, almost muffled by the thick silence that pressed around us.