tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-364233582024-03-07T23:25:06.234+05:30Hill GoatI'm on my way, with dust in my shoesHill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-35412835070796979052020-10-13T21:50:00.000+05:302020-10-13T21:50:00.289+05:30My Heart Health Checkup: Calling Out The Greedy<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I recently
had a bad experience with a greedy doctor, something all of us must have faced at
some point of time. But I feel such experiences need to be told over and over by
all of us individually, in different medical situations, to call out the black
sheep in white coats. I will try to make my encounter interesting; if you can bear
with the boring background.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So, around
World Health Day, I notice an Advt on newspapers about a </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">₹</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">999/- complete heart
health checkup at a Devi Shetty (top notch doctor of our times) chain of
Narayana hospitals. This unit is close to my house, so it looks like an affordable
and comfortable quick visit. At wife’s insistence, I book an appointment. My experience
are as under, in a dialogue format</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Good morning. I have come for a heart checkup package<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Staff</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Sure, sir. Are you on fasting for
last eight hours? And would you like to add any other tests besides the regular
package?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Fasting, yes. And may I have an LFT (Liver Function Test) added
to this?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Staff</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> (smiling): No problem sir. That
will be an extra </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">₹</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">1400/-</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(I am pushed to a blood sampling
unit first. Then to a separate room for ECG. Drama begins now)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Hullo. May I know why you have
added LFT to your heart checkup?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: I am a regular drinker, so…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: How long have you been drinking?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Humm, about 20 years roughly…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Daily?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Well, almost<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: And how much, daily?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: About five to six pegs, I would say<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Five to six? 30 ml peg?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: I am afraid, yes, doc, but the peg measure is 60 ml.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(ECG starts. Machine stutters and
stops. Technician comes, knocks a few buttons. It starts and stops again. Page
roll is changed. But it still stutters, stops, whirrs.., finally it delivers)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Please lie down for a chest
ultrasound. Yes, turn to your left a bit<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(He rolls a device on my ribs, I
hear throbbing sounds of my heart pumping)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Have you ever had a heart attack,
even a minor one?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Bloody no, doc! Why do you ask? I have always felt fit
like a fiddle<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Do you take any medicine related to
heart condition?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: No, doc. None<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Can you climb a staircase without
breathing heavily?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Boss, I can race through six flights of stairs in under 2
minutes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Three storey or four storey
stairs, sir?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: I just told you I can zip through six flights, doc<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> (after a long pause): I have some
doubts about your echo reports. I guess you should go for a a TMT (treadmill
test, or stress test with ECG)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: All right, if you ask. How much will it cost?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Do you have an attendant? The
charges need to be paid at the billing counter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(An assistant informs my wife to go
and pay the charges. I later found it cost </span></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">₹</span><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2,600/-)</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Please tell us if you feel any
discomfort during the Treadmill run<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(For 12 minutes, I walk through a
treadmill, barely breaking into sweat)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Any discomfort? Breathlessness?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: None, doc. Are you done?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Are you a sportsman?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: (I am getting irritated now) Not for three decades, doc<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: My name is ***Nayak. You can note
down my room number for any future consultation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Is the Treadmill Test done? Are your doubts cleared?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(No Answer. I am told to collect the
reports in an hour and be ready for medical consultations based on the reports.
I report two hours later)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Staff</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: The senior cardiologist will see
you here, sir. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(I am ushred into a room where the
same doctor who attended me at the Treadmill Test is sitting)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: (Flipping through the reports):
Humm, you have been drinking too much. Your liver enzymes are high.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: I told you about my drinking, doc. Is there anything
worrisome? Was the treadmill test ok?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: I have some doubts. You must
monitor your BP for ten days then return. You may need to go for an angiography.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Is my BP okay? Anything wrong with the treadmill tests?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: All reports are fine. But your ECG
report is giving me doubts. Go for an abdomen ultrasound too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Doc, your ECG machine also needs a test. It stopped twice
during the run, btw. And how much the Ultrasound cost?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Please ask the billing counter.
And see me after ten days<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(Here, I felt I had had enough. I
moved out, and sent a phone camera shot of my reports to a doctor friend for a
second opinion.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Friend Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: All fine, dear. Avoid that doctor.
But no harm in going for an Ultrasound, since you have been a heavy drinker,
bugger.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(I go for an ultrasound in a couple
of days, and forward the report to the doctor friend. Response is immediate)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Friend Doc</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Bastard, have you got a steel
liver? All well, but Pankaj, I still advise you to cut down on the amount;
enjoy sustainable drinking…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> (Teasingly): And angiography?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Friend</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: Pankaj, medical profession also
have its share of black sheep. Don’t judge. Are all journalists fair players?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: All right, all right! You got me there, man. I owe you a
drink at Press Club soon, bloody sermonizing priest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-19724977587511141662016-02-11T01:17:00.000+05:302016-02-11T01:43:52.256+05:30How a City-bred Turned Into a Trekker—A Narcissistic trip<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Given my well-broadcast lineage to Uttarakhand hills,
through writings and verbal diarrhea that may border on regional chauvinism, it
is natural for my friends, and co-trekkers, to believe that I was born and
brought up in the hills. How else such adaptability to cold climate or rabble-walking
could come from, they have wondered aloud many a time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I’m afraid I have to belie their scrutiny. If being born,
studying or working one’s life were a parameter, I would be a true-blue
Delhiite. I am in love with this ancient city and its chronicled history as
much as its modern makeover and recent regime changes (Kejriwal, for instance).
Yet, I do regret sometimes that I did not study at some non-descript school in
Kumaon hinterland or could not become a part of Nainital theatre group. Small
towns have their own charms, also challenges.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
So, how did I take up to trekking as if it were in my bones?
Was it a search for my roots that took me to highlands in Uttarakhand off and
on? Or was it plain masochism? I do not know the answer but here go the facts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
From as far back as I can recall, my first informal trek
came when I was a college student in late 1980s. This was my first “conscious”
trip to my native land, prompted by my father's insistence. A temple for Goddess
Kali was being built at a sacred hilltop about four-five km from our ancestral house
and each twig of our family tree was funding the cost, besides what can loosely
be called <i>kaar-seva</i> (a term for physical
service to religious deeds, made famous by Golden Temple disaster).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I am not a religious person (save for the times when I am
in deep shit) but since I had a thing for my father, I obliged. College was off
for summer vacations and it made sense to cool one's heels at the Shivalik
range that nested my village.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
In the sweltering Delhi, when I told my friends that I was
off to a Ranikhet-Corbett jaunt, which was not untrue since my village is spot in
the middle of these two summer getaways, there was a tinge of envy in their
eyes. Little did then I know that the village life was going to be a punch on
my nose. The first morning, I realised there was no private place to relieve oneself
for morning ablution. On inquiry, I was handed a mug of water and asked to find
a suitable place in the step-farms to let off the pressure. My choice of place
had a couple of neighbors in splits (I will spare you the funny details).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I went light on food thereto, which was not difficult
since I found the servings UNAPPETISING. Milk tasted thicker, and smelly. <i>Chapatis</i> (sorry, <i>rotis</i>) were too thick for my liking and chilies in the vegetables
brought tears to my eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The worst part was public humiliation. Everyone seemed to
be taking pleasure in the plight of my city-bred weaknesses. Though I never
complained about the food or the chores, my discomfort was not hidden. Yet,
there was little empathy. I found those men and women cruel initially. As days
wore on, I realised the <i>Pahari</i> way to deal with trials – adapt and laugh over
the cynics.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I had barely got used to this <i>Pahari</i> way when a harder drill
arrived. The migrants were pouring in home from different parts of the country
to contribute to the temple-building (a sheer waste of money and labour, I still
believe) and they needed young men to carry the load from the main road bus
stop to their houses at the village, a bit uphill. I was pressed into service,
like other village bums, each time the twice-a-day bus arrived. Thankfully, I
would always be given the lighter bags to carry. Twice a day of walking down
and up wasn't my idea of a summer vacation, but I held fort. My frustration was
often let off at poor little pets coming my way. As the village was a
small place, I soon earned myself the reputation of a rogue who wrings the
tails of innocent goats, hurts innocent cows and even scares buffaloes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br />
More rigorous tests were to follow. The temple building
required carrying of the essentials uphill, including food and water besides
the building material. The privileged ones were to carry logs, food and water.
Being a smartass, and a novice, I judged carrying water a safe option. The
stream was halfway from the village to the delivery point which meant you cut the
labour by half. So I judged.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">What I didn’t realise were the travails of
carrying a full bucket uphill. It is one thing to carry a log or a sack on up
the ascent but to balance a water bucket requires additional effort of expertise.
I realised that the half-way distance was soon negated by the loss of water
during transportation. I would summarily deliver almost one third of what I had
started with. I realised that the <i>Pahari</i>
smirks at my plight would just not end. However, my humiliation went
proportionally down as days and weeks passed and the modest temple came apiece.</span><br />
<br />
All miseries come to an appropriate rewarding
end. When my father announced the date of our return to Delhi, a city of joy to
me by then, there was still a week to prepare for the college to reopen and
indulge in the local cricket. I seriously looked forward to the commode
comforts and Sunday matinees.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">What I didn’t notice was the change in my
own behaviour. I would no longer complain about a power cut; TV wasn’t my
preoccupation; I wouldn’t be finicky about the food at my table (in fact mother
complained of over-eating) and the 5-km morning jog failed to sweat me.
Clearly, I was a fitter and more tolerant person than I was a few weeks back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-IN">The colleges reopened and I heard my classmates
talking about the manly tan on my forearms. The college Physical Training Instructor, a beefcake of a Jaat, was the first to mention it correctly: “You are looking like a mountaineer, Sharma,” Dr Malik said (Did I ever mention that </span>I headed the college badminton team). I told the PTI that I did belong to the hills and was back from a trip to my native lands. Inside,
I kept wondering about the tribulations I had gone through.<br />
<br />
A few weeks down the line, though, I began to get
what seasoned mountaineers refer to as a “call of the mountains”. I wished I
were in the hills again, scaling my way up amid cold winds, lungs puffing heavily,
but limbs carrying on.... There, I tell you my friends, a trekker in me was
born.</div>
</div>
Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-14827793042152168262014-06-05T23:34:00.001+05:302014-06-05T23:34:55.737+05:30POLL DIARIES: Safe Lodging in Rai Bareli<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i>Travelogues from Uttar Pradesh Heartland</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">THERE are few decent lodging options for a visitor to Rae Bareli, the constituency of Congress president Sonia Gandhi. The one most preferred option is state tourism dept’s Saras on the outskirts of the town. And during election time, there is a rush for bookings by visiting politicos from Delhi and Lucknow, as well as journos of various media organizations. Its resident bar is an added attraction and a time saver for the guests. However, the limited accommodation is difficult to keep up the demands as the date for filing nomination draws near. And the front desk staff is swarmed by VIP requests for all over. The lucky ones who find a room, without being a VIP guest, are often offered a word of advise by the staff. “Sir, please do not leave the room keys with us when you go out for the day’s work,” said one staff at Saras. Reason: There have been instances when a state legislator or a political strongman entered the hotel, and solved the non-availability of rooms by forcing the staff to open a hired room, and packing off the belongings of a guest in his absence. “Keeping the keys with you will ensure you spend the night in your room than the dormitory,” advised the good Samaritan.</span></div>
Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-9077453469598979712014-05-28T18:51:00.000+05:302014-05-28T18:51:22.813+05:30POLL DIARIES: Secular Guts & Mardana Kamjori<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i>Travelogues from Uttar Pradesh Heartland</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Mukesh Pandey (Name NOT Changed) is a local media <i>dabang</i> in the Faizabad district. Young journalists, and even fresh political entrants, touch his feet at every press meeting that he chooses to attend. An expert on Brahmin gotras, as he himself belongs to one of the elite Shashilk gotra (one of the 26 direct descendants of Lord Brhama), Pandey is a revered figure among his tribe. However, the journo swears by his secular mindset. "Every festival of Eid, be it bakr-e-Eid (Eid-ul Adha) or Meethi Eid (Eid-ul fitr), I visit my dear friends in the city to enjoy the festivities and dine with them," he tells ET. But! Are there no problems with regards to his strict vegan routine? "I go there with a stone's heart," Pandey responds. "Upon my return, I take out a lukewarm bucket of water and add five table-spoon salt in it. I keep drinking it and keep throwing up till every lace of my gut is cleaned." But why such extreme measure when you eat only vegetarian food? Pandey quenstions back: "Have you seen the utensils that the food is served in? It reeks of meat preparations. No Brahmin worth his salt will eat out of it." </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>Below the Belt</b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Editor and column writer Shekhar Gupta once wrote that if a reporter needs to judge the sociological changes in a region, he must read the graffiti in and around the area. Going by the learned adage, it will appear that Uttar Pradesh heartland is going through a male virility crisis. Large rural swathes of western and cenrtal UP fields are flushed with advertisements of Hakims (from Iqbal, Usmani and Zafar) claiming sure-shot cure for diseases likes <i>swapna dosh, shighra-patan </i>and <i>mardana kamjori (</i>night discharge, premature ejaculation and erectile dysfunction). Another disease which comes a close second in the graffiti--falling in the same belt though--is that of Bawaseer (piles). When pointed out about it, a travelling colleague's advice was: "Next time, a political opponent of the Samajwadi Party government tells you the state is bleeding, don't ask him to elaborate."</div>
</div>
Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-71571753522793026752014-05-25T21:08:00.000+05:302014-05-25T21:08:19.994+05:30POLL DIARIES: Chew On It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">(My Observtions During 2014 General Elections)</span><br />
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Raibareily</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">: Most UP denizens across
the economic or social (read caste) bearings are given to chewing various
brands (or combinations) of pouched tobacco from the local taxi driver adapt
at opening his running car door to spit out, to a hotel owner keeping with a bin
close to his seat. Although there are ample options for a 'high' here, starting
from recognised govt vends for <i>bhang</i> (a form of cannabis),
country liquor and Indian made foreign liquor, all these other 'highs' pale
before the wooden kiosks strewn across the state with rows of hanging gutkha
pouches. A desi liquor vend, named <i>Madhushala</i> (named after
famed work of poet Harivansh Rai Bachchan) in Jagdishpur of Raebareli Lok Sabah
seat although looked like an apology to the Hindi poet, the vend owner offered
some insight against the state excise department. "When you can get a
24-hour high at less than Rs 20 daily by gutaka, why will you spend Rs 100/-
for the evening tipple?" he posed. "And to mock us, the state has
raised the excise charges by more than 65% as against Delhi. Who is going to
set up breweries vends in this state?"</span></div>
Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-55922876919557073322014-05-24T00:22:00.000+05:302014-05-24T00:22:39.873+05:30POLL DIARIES: Toilets Before Temples<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
(My Observations During 2014 General Elections)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><b>Ayodhya</b>: A brief visit to the Babri Masjid-Ramjanmabhoomi site can be a harrowing
experience for a city-bred agnostic. The lane to the site is hardly a 200-metre
expanse from the narrow road that a taxi can take you down, but the moment one
gets down from the vehicle, swarms of touts offering better views and parking
slots descend upon oneself. As one manages to dissuade the pesky guides,
sweetmeat agents, and others to advance on, one would come across a paid
toilet-cum-washroom for the devout visitors. A visit inside can be an olfactory
nightmare. The focus of the facility is more on the <i>daan-patra (</i>collection-box)
than to flush out its excretionary refuse. A few metres down the path, there is
an open (and free) urinal that can teach you a trick or two in breath control
(without Baba Ramdev's tips). Next time, the BJP's prime ministerial candidate
speaks about "<i>Pahle Shauchalya, fir Devalaya (</i>Toilets first,
Temples later)", this reporter swears by his job to cheer for him.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">pd: This post sounds the revival of this blog</span></div>
</div>
Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-81393528973834054932010-01-28T19:33:00.004+05:302010-02-05T00:46:52.718+05:30Revival of sortsIt has been some time when I last wrote for this blog. A little more than two years, I gather, from the date atop my last post on Kanvashram. Much has changed in these two years. I have two little delinquents at home; job responsibilities have grown; my rum-adventures have scaled down; I have not been able to go on a trek (the last I wore my rugged woodlands was in 2007 — or was it 2006? — from Munsiyari to Nanda Devi base camp); and, saving the worst for the last, my waist ring carries more weight now, an ugly rotund mass of thick skin, jeering at me at a time when the SRK six-pack is in vogue.<br /><br />But the itch to push in words is alive. So is the itch to walk up the hills. And the latter itch is growing. In fact, winter chill brings with it a homely, familiar evening smell. Each night, when I come out of the centrally — and often unbearably — heated office building after work, the cold winds bring a nostalgic shiver. I feel at home. I feel surrounded with hills. And I can’t help smiling. I also can’t help feeling sad a few minutes later. Thankfully, there is rum.<br /><br />This nibbling itch to hike is often followed by surfing the internet for a suitable week-long trek, and almost every time checking out blogs and information on Roopkund and Ladakh. These two destinations have been on my radar for as long as I first came to know about them from personal accounts. So it feels kind of silly why I haven't gone there. I know I will, eventually. The question is WHEN. My leaves quota in office has swelled to make it past 100 days and I can afford a leisure journey till the beginning of trek on foot. So?<br /><br />Incidentally, there have been many other olden days trips that I would want to write about here. But I guess it will happen only after I am back from a punishing trek in uncertain weather; city life comforts are cherished only after such trips. The cushioned bed, warm soups, piping mutton qorma… their worth is multiplied. Thus here goes my resolution for the year 2010: One weeklong trek and one rafting trip before December 31. Wish me luck.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-54223729408650241132007-11-05T03:17:00.000+05:302007-11-08T02:12:27.661+05:30Slippery Ascent... And The Twist<strong>(Group trip to Kanvashram-4 )</strong><br /><br />The GMVN guesthouse at Kanvashram faces the east and has two exit points – one towards the north, another to the south. The waterfall and the small barrage at river Malini are reached from the northern gate; the southern gate, much less used, takes one to a nature trail, and if you are slightly adventurous, to a steep and slippery height nearby. The GMVN caretaker discouraged us, for, he believed the hillock would take us to a place used by wild elephants for their rest-ground. Why would a pachyderm want to tire itself to the hilltop when it can get enough food and privacy without heaving its heart, I argued and moved on. But I must say the caretaker's words added to the fear element in the pack.<br /><br />The slant as we began to negotiate was full of loose earth and round pebbles (it must have been a downstream during rainy days). There was some vegetation on the flanks, to provide for a respite and rescue channel. Nisha and Geetanjali moved the fastest while I played a referee — moving back and forth, to keep the herd as much together as possible. As the height ascended, the enthusiasm descended. Sabari and Jaichandran were the first to stop by. They just lighted their peace pipe with nature and took swipe at others who were moving up. I know the withdrawal symptoms when I see them.<br /><br />I had to call it quits, the trip wasn't for the exclusively might of Geetu and Nisha. I told everyone to call it quits and come down slowly. "Please do announce loudly to the folks “under” you as you step on loose stones. Or watch me," I shouted. Then, in split second, I jumped down from one hard place to another small boulder, so as not to disturb any loose ground, and to show my friends the way along. The amateur lot came down, proverbially, like a ton of boulders, bringing along rounds of dust and tons of pebbles. Laughing and dusting, we all got into the Voyager and bid adieu to Kanvashram. Premji said his prayers once again.<br /><br />I have an allergy to return journeys, particularly when leaving the hills behind. The van too showed similar signs when it stopped soon after with a flat tyre. While Premji moved on the jack, I helped along by loosening the screws. The new spunky tyre fitted to place, I stepped inside the Voyager. Jai(chandran) greeted me with a rum-cola inside the van for the wages. I accepted the first gladly, then asked for the second... third… and finally asked Sabari if I could pass out. Sabari’s gentle tap on my shoulder made things easier…<br /><br />I don't know how long I slept but when I woke up, it was dark and we were a few miles from Delhi. I smiled sheepishly when my colleagues went on to tell me what had happened along the route. I was happy that the sleeping hours saved me from Sudipta's tantrums and fixing up the dinner tables for the city-soul adventurists. As the van touched the Delhi border from Seemapuri entrance to the capital, I bid friends goodbye. My house at Dilshad Garden was mere two km from the border and I badly needed a walk to wake up.<br /><br />I cherished the grateful looks on my colleagues' face as I waved and felt fulfilled.<br /><br /><strong>PS</strong>: Like most mornings, I reached the office next day groggy-eyed and froggy-voiced (rum does tricks to my vocal chords). My work station looked as boring as ever. Unhappy. I switched the CPU and pulled out the keyboard to punch in my password. And... phew — a greeting card came out smiling at me. I tore it open anxiously to read out the contents. Though I cannot recall the exact words, the soul of the card read: “Thanks a lot for giving us a time of our lifetime. I had a rocking time and I think the same holds true for others too. Thanks, once again (a few more of such words of gratitude).”<br /><br />Much as I would want to let it be who had signed that card, I must give the devil its due. That pleasant postcard came from… SUDIPTA CHANDA.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-26509092064580622662007-09-26T03:16:00.000+05:302007-09-27T18:37:59.632+05:30Windfall and a Waterfall<strong>(Group trip to Kanvashram-3)</strong><br /><br />The GMVN guesthouse at Kanvashram offers an ideal spot to enjoy a cold evening with bonfire, friends, music and toxics. Rafting camps ahead of Rishikesh offer some competition but they fall short on safety — imagine a doped-out friend walking straight into the Ganges and sailing his way to higher hunting grounds!! Kanvashram is safe. The spacious lawns at <a href="http://www.gmvnl.com/newgmvn/">GMVN</a> bungalow offer a view of flashbulbs downstream and a starry blanket in the evening, with a valid iron fencing to protect an erratic moron from rolling down.<br /><br />Thankfully the alcoholic tolerance level was high in our gang, save for ShikhaP, whose Baptisation was long due. It turned out to be another adventure. Barely half hour after Ms P had downed her peg, war cries rang the compound. Normally, under alcoholic influence, men and women tend to pour out their love lives or hatred for the Ex, but Shikha’s distress calls surprised even the GMVN caretaker. “Mummmmmyyyy” was the violent uttering that cringed the rest of our 30+ crowd with guilt. Finally, after infinite loving pats and warm hugs from Sukriti, Shikha fell under the blanket and the party resumed<br /><br />Next distraction came from the lyrical dialogues from a distant loudspeaker. Some Ram Lila was being staged nearby (??). Sabari murmured in unchaste English that we should take a hike to the spot and a small band rose to the occasion. I was not keen for several reasons: one, the village dogs would not take kindly to an excursion in the dark; two, the path suggested by the sound waves was pitch dark (mind you, elephants and leopards were understood to stalk the place); and finally, late night folk dramas are a family affair, separated in two for men and women. Jeans-clad girls smelling of alcohol, would only fancy the wicked menfolk. I strapped a <a href="http://www.m4040.com/Survival/Ghurka/History%20of%20the%20Ghurka%20Kukri.htm">khukri</a> to my jeans and escorted the lot till the adventure fizzled out; the spot thankfully remained elusive for the drunken monks. Half and hour of running in circles and a few scrubs with the dusty path later, we all took recourse in a hasty dinner and the sleep goddess.<br /><br />A good sleep is the best cure for hangovers and fatigue. No wonder, the EBites looked fresh as Kanvashram itself in the morning. Nine ultra-stomachs and only one frail cook, to quote <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amjad_Khan">Gabbar Singh</a>, was “<em>bahut na-insaafi</em>” (grave inequity). I offered to play the attendant, fetching the paranthas from kitchen to the dining table, while the poor cook kept rolling aloo-filled dough. The butter-laden stuff remained short in supply as more hungry characters entered the dining room. Each <em>parantha </em>would be split into fours and disappear without a burp. This remained the drill for more than an hour until Shikha entered the room rubbing her eyes and was greeted with a loud applause. The poor girl had no memory of the past evening and looked a little flushed at the grand welcome.<br /><br />Half hour more of the drill, and all of us looked contended with the breakfast and the cook exhausted. The warm day signaled a fresh start. Ordering a lunch on similar appetite programme, I led the pack to a three-kilometre walk (calling it a trek would be injustice) along the hillside. After passing by a dried Sahashradhara (milky water stream) we reached the desired waterfall in less than two hours. On our way we found large pounds of elephant dung to our excitement.<br /><br />The Kanvashram waterfall was certainly no <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Niagara_Falls">Niagara</a> but it had a few pools and recurring flows for a delightful moment. Some of us just lunged into the splash, without taking out shoes, watches or belts. One by another deliberate one slipped into the waters till most were in to celebrate a Holi. My favourite co-excursionist was perhaps the only one who kept out, for women-only reasons.<br /><br />Nobody felt the need for dry the clothes as the sun took the call. And it kept the word as we walked back into the dining hall that we had left a few hours back, we were all dried to perfectin. At the table, green salad had already been spread out and the simmering <em>daal, chaawal </em>and <em>rotis </em>were waiting for our footfalls (The cook had surely learned from his morning experience).<br /><br />The heavy and gratifying lunch followed by a siesta and the evening tea did wonders to our spirits. While other waited for the rum caps to open, I took Sabari to visit a close relative nearby. I was most amused when my relatives began taxing Sabari on the joys of a married life, in the hope that he would pressurize me to this end. Sabari, a true blue Malayali who could not tell “this” from “that” in Hindi, nodded sagely during the monologue. Finally, when my relatives looked at him for a reaction, he uttered the few words he knew in Hindi: “<em>Theek hai. Bilkul theek hai </em>(That's right. Absolutely right).” I choked from a restrained laughter. My relative had done their duty.<br /><br />On our way back to the camp, between the gusts of laughter, I asked Sabari if he ever did realize what my relatives had been trying to impress upon him. It was my turn to be stunned when Sabari spoke out in a serious tone: “Molekhi, I guess, you should get married.”<br /><br /><strong><em>(Our attempts at climbing a slippery mountain and the journey back home in the concluding part)</em></strong>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-37973974262712980832007-09-21T03:29:00.000+05:302007-09-21T03:34:36.563+05:30A Dream Run & Lottsa Rum<strong>(Group trip to Kanvashram-2)</strong><br /><br />The nine adventurists were to gather at Encyclopaedia Britannica’s Gole Market office on the designated Friday at 9 pm. Measuring the timescale, I reached the travel agent, surveyed the Voyager, which looked well maintained, and then moved toward the venue. On our way, while Premji serviced the fuel tank, I arranged the Coke-Limca, chips, plastic glasses et al to spice up our ride. Bang at 9, our sturdy carriage braked at Brits office. A few had arrived; some more were yet to join us. I chatted up with Sabarinath while surveying the attendance.<br /><br />Groupism is unavoidable in a nine-pack jaunt from office: Kavita and Sudipta bonded at one side; Sukriti and Shikha bitched at the other; Jai held on to booze and an SLR camera while Shabarinath felt comfortable with a vibrant Geetanjali. Nisha and I ran around to maintain a façade of unity.<br /><br />Nevertheless, the larger picture was perfect. The flock resembled a smart bunch of seasoned tourists, with proper travel gadgets, backpacks and other vitamins. I had a rough seating plan ready in my mind — knowing the group, their sizes and preferences. But like all advance plans, this one too bombed. Barely had Premji adjusted the luggage in the boot section, Sukriti dived inside the Voyager like a penguin. She wanted a triple-seat with Shikha & Nisha; nothing less would do. Premji looked askance at me with what-is-this expression. I held him by shoulder and told him not to worry; a few of them were NRIs who didn’t know about Hindustani etiquettes (“look the way they all speak in English with each other,” I consoled him). Sabari and I were the only one who stuck to the original seating plan — Sabari alongside the driver and I with the sack of rum, chips, Coke and water bottles.<br /><br />Premji didn’t have to wait long for his second shock. The moment he turned the ignition key, Shikha, who I had pointed as the real Angrez among the lot, shouted at the top of her voice: “Jai Maata di”. I nearly died of embarrassment.<br /><br />And when Premji shifted the initial gear, there was a cluck of rum bottle cap. Jaichandran got down to work without losing a minute. In no time, there was a plastic glass in everybody’s hand and the car began to buzz. A few kilometers down, after Premji had heard Sabari speaking in Hindi, he was assured he was ferrying a group of NRIs indeed.<br /><br />To reach Kanvashram from Delhi, one needs to take the Delhi-Meerut road (not the bypass); flip to Meerut-Najibabad route and from Najibabad <a href="http://pankajmolekhi.blogspot.com/2007/03/footloose-in-foothills.html">Kotdwar</a> is about half hour. Kanvashram is yet another half hour from the town. This makes a total journey of about six hour.<br /><br />As Premji continued with his haul, without bothering the occupants, the car remained abuzz. Jai pulled a few fast ones at Sudipta, who had always pulled ranks over her juniors but with a Mitsubishi full of delinquents, she had only laughters for sympathies.<br /><br />A quick dinner break ahead of Meerut put an end to the hoopla. Some were took over by sleep and some, like me, went into a somber mood. I generally get charged after the darkness falls (alcoholic symptoms, probably) but that day I gave way to a melancholic flavour. As the majority dozed, I found solace in a slow number by ‘Sufi singer’ Hans Raj Hans — <em>Sili Sili andi hai Hawa</em>. We touched Kotdwar around 4.30 in the morning with a thud.<br /><br />After organizing a sugary tea session at Tourist Hotel, we set out to a place called Nimbu-chorh. Although the tarred road can take one direct to out destination, the GMVN guest house, I wanted my pack to have a feel of nature walk. For this one needed to take an on-foot detour at Nimbu-chorh. Leaving the baggage inside the van, I asked Premji to follow the road and reach “tourist bungalow”, and the nine pins set out to walk Himalayan foothills.<br /><br />Jai defied the amount of rum he had consumed and focused on his lens. Sabari, Nisha and Shikha looked the most reluctant walker. Surprisingly, Geetanjali kept pace with me. Surprising because I have always prided myself as a fast-footer. The energy source was revealed by Sabari: Geetu was a gymnast in her school days (now, now, no wonder she had an enviable… err, stamina).<br /><br />This route was an amateur trekker’s delight. There were mild uphill walks; a knee-deep river crossing opportunity, and; views of greens to die for. Jaichandran put his camera rolling while others tried to negotiate the easiest of curves. Crossing the Malini River was the most exciting part. Some took off shoes; others just rode off the knee-high water, yet others rolled up jeans and shrieked at every false step as if it were full of crocodiles…<br /><br />The happiness didn’t last long. Upon our arrival at the GMVN guest house, we were told that although the rooms were empty, there was little water in the washrooms thanks to a pipeline burst a day before. Now, to a Himalayan traveler, regular water supply is of no consequence. He/she knows how to survive in far, far harsher condition; sometimes with no food and little oxygen too. But to an armchair excursionist, regular water supply in his/her commode is the minimum benchmark.<br /><br />To their credit, the majority of our pack was happy with a room to crash. But expect Sudipta with her tantrums (I am sure a few more were just as much keen on the water supply but why make a noise when you have a Sudipta around?). I had to firmly reason with her that the place she had “chosen” to come was not a picnic spot nor a luxury boarding; it was a mild adventure trip and she should be happy if she got her two meals in time. Fireworks fizzled as soon as they had started.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Premji had restored the interiors of Voyager. There was no trace of chips on the floor; mats had been washed and hung around to dry; and plastic bottles, crushed glasses had been consigned to the large GMVN waste bin outdoors.<br /><br />I ordered the food at the canteen, finished the paperwork and set out with a local to oversee the repair work of water supply. A lot of things in our country don’t move unless somebody shakes them up. And so was it. By the time I was back in time for lunch and two rums on the sly, the water connection had been restored. The storage tank had kept up the supply for commode in the meantime.<br /><br />After a warm vegetarian lunch, with lots of green salads and hundreds of chapattis, our team retired to their multiple rooms for a well-deserved siesta. I asked the caretaker if he could arrange for some deadwood to fire up our evening and he told me it was possible for a small amount of greenery for the boy who would arrange the bonfire. The prices were shamelessly low considering the big logs which our boy appeared with in less than 15 minutes. What better way to enjoy an October evening in the hills with fire outside and firewater inside. Our evening was made…<br /><br /><strong><em>(The late night drama and visit to waterfall in the next post)</em></strong>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-9480556021732183542007-09-11T03:39:00.000+05:302007-09-11T03:55:33.331+05:30Why I chose not to be Raju Guide<strong>(Group trip to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kanvashram</span>-I)</strong><br /><br />At regular intervals, a few of my friends have suggested that I should give up journalism and start some independent setup for adventure tourism. This would mean that I organize trekking, river-rafting and other such adventure excursions, which I love so much, along with some amateur enthusiasts and make my two ends meet as well. On the face of it, the advice seems reasonably fair and economically sound. All of us would like to choose a vocation where one could mix business with his or her personal passion. Consider, for example, a movie buff who has chosen to be a film critic for a media group. Or a foodie who became a chef and other such fairy tale stories.<br /><br />Now, wake up to look at it the other way. Since you love trekking or nature excursions, on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">bona</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fide</span> advice you start a small venture on the dotted line. First, where do you find a bunch of enthusiasts who will pay for a guided trip and other such related services? Especially when all the entry routes to Himalayan getaways are dotted with such "expert" tour agencies? Taking an initiative, you go to various corporate houses, sell them your idea, haggle over the prices (feeling like a sales executive all the time) and finally secure a contract to win your seasonal bread.<br /><br />But the worst part begins hereto: Half of your “corporate bunch” has never been out on an adventure trip and hence considers it a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">laid back</span> holiday tour. Which means, ordering Coke-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Pepsi</span> at will in high altitudes, throwing tantrums for morning tea and nag about living in a tent, or the sand in his slippers. If you thought you have chosen a profession that suited your interests, good luck.<br /><br />Instead of doing what I love, I shall opt for loving what I do – as far as making money is concerned. Pray, why I am sharing this with my friends! Well, I have been at the receiving end of such a bunch more than once when I thought it prudent to inject some fresh air into armchair intellectuals. I know better now: If one has a spark for adventure, he or she won’t need to show the light. Fire will catch up on its own. I have already described one of my hard-learnt lessons in <a href="http://pankajmolekhi.blogspot.com/2006/11/when-it-rained-shit.html">this post</a>. Here is a relatively milder one:<br /><br />Circa 2000: I was working in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Encyclopaedia</span> Britannica and had already taken a brief trek with one of my colleagues. The stories, which <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Sukriti</span> (my co-trekker) must have recounted to the vibrant women at Britannica, repaired my reputation at office. Some of the colleagues who arched their brows at my shabby jeans began to see an Edmund Hillary in me.<br /><br />After being badgered on my mailbox about the next brief outing, I flashed a long-weekend plan to go to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Kanvashram</span>. For the interested, there is enough material about the historical relevance of Sage <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Kanva</span> who, as folklore has it, set up an ashram there. I had chosen the place merely because I had organized, along with Wilson John, a similar trip for a bunch of wannabe trekkers in The Pioneer (a morning daily I worked for six years) earlier. All the thrilling elements were there around the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Garhwal</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Mandal</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Nigam</span> tourist lodge to lure a would-be trekker into the Nature’s trap – a mini waterfall stream; a small river barrage; barricaded lawns to discourage a drunken fall and a small but slippery uphill route. It would never be a disappointing outing for an amateur.<br /><br />As was the case in other things <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Britannican</span>, women exceeded the male participants (this was a comforting thought since I was then wedded to the bottle alone). In all, there were nine heads to beat the October humidity and head for Himalayan foothills. However, the final list had me in splits; there were too many violent eggs in one basket, from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Geetanjali</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Chauhan</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Sabarinath</span>, to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Jaichandran</span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Kavita</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Sudipta</span>. The only three worry-not souls I relied would be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Shikha</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Sukriti</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Nisha</span>. I thought and thought for the right kind of vehicle to suit this kind of “close-knit” group and decided it had to be a Mitsubishi Voyager.<br /><br />Voyager is a sturdy nine-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">seater</span> carriage, most suited for a gang of under-ten highway riders. There are no ooh-aah-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">ouchs</span> from the backbenchers (something which deters me from hiring a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Tata</span> Sumo or Toyota <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Qualis</span>) and its low suspension makes it a safe highway carriage. I also knew a travel agent who had this safe vehicle and a similarly safe driver, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Premji</span>. When I say safe, it does not limit the virtues road negotiations. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Premji</span> had proved himself to be the kind of person who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">wouldn</span>’t look at a girl twice, whatever her attributes were. Nor would he ever think ill of a mini-skirted dame inhaling a poison stick. He believed in “to each its own” principle and bothered more about his van than its occupants. Fiercely possessive of his Voyager, he winced every time he saw the vehicle being used roughshod. Trust Britannica Babes, therefore, to spoil his day from the word GO.<br /><br /><em>(The journey and the problems begin in the next post)</em>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-45684848229118699842007-07-18T01:45:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:42:55.839+05:30A Musical Retreat<strong>Nag Tibba (Part-IV)</strong><br /><br />September-October is considered the best period for trekking in the Himalayan region. During this period, most routes are open and the skies are clear of clouds and mist. The foamy, thick clouds may look beautiful on parched deserts or canvas paintings but they are a great hindrance to scenic views in the hills.<br /><br />On that bright April morning at Nag Devta temple, humbled by our false adventure the previous night, Gautam, Sukriti and I decided it would be a waste of half-hour to reach Nag Tibba if all we were to see was a misty surrounding. A slushy route, thanks to incessant rains whole of last night, and unrewarding prospects drove us back to Devalsari. However, to bring some novelty, we decided to tread the longer route down this time. In hindsight, it was a good decision.<br /><br />It appeared that we were the first lot to have entered the route in the season. For, as we tumbled in a rush, carefully balancing the speed with nimble feet, we faced large cobwebs every now and then. It was the first time in my life outside TV screens that I came across human-size webs. I felt guilty of spoiling the bacon for laborious spiders (especially when I know one of their species was behind Peter Parker's powers and Sony’s fortunes). The downslide meanwhile kept on. Only that this time, there was no competition to stay ahead. Everybody looked disinterested in negotiating the cobwebs. Gautam the tortoise would be all smiles everytime he saw me peeling off skins of fishnets from my arms and face. My backpack was pushing me down faster than others and I would stop only when it became unbearable to carry on with a sticky nose. Such speedy down-stepping took a toll on Sukriti’s feet too. Either her shoe was not properly fitted or she had discarded thick cotton socks, as her limps grew with every lap. Thankfully, she didn’t complain.<br /><br />It was a musical echo which slowed me down. Some woman was singing (not humming) a Garhwali song in close vicinity. The melodious voice pitched high and low, almost like a mountainscape and would pause for a long breath. Wordsworth's <em>Solitary Reaper</em> appeared in my vision but soon I realized there was not one but two voices — one slightly untrained but no less melodious. It was like a <em>jugalbandi</em> composition. One would leave on the spur of a note and the other voice would pick it up, take it to another unfinished note and leave it for the other. I was so lost that I didn’t realize when Sukriti had sat beside me and was also engrossed in the musical mood. Her eyes showed the same appreciation and admiration which must be glowing in mine too. I still can’t recount how long it lasted.<br /><br />Gautam has quite often showed me an ear for good old Bollywood beats, but to expect him understand the nuances of a spontaneous folk song would be too much. He arrived on the scene and stopped in his tracks — completely deaf to the music around him — and looked wide-eyed at us sitting motionless. The commotion which followed silenced the music. I got up with Sukriti and looked around. A few paces down to our left, I could see two womanly figures, cutting grass at a slope, standing about 40 meters from each other. Their musical notes bound them with each other, and briefly us too, through an unseen thread. Those two musical voices were part of the many delights that nature performs unseen and unheard from the humankind. Even today when I am writing these words, that undecipherable song still rings in my ears; its low and lofty notes soothing my heart.<br /><br />Thereto it was another speedy rundown. After a small break at Devalsari, with some free buttermilk which was so thick that it satiated our hunger pangs, we sped off again to Thatyur. With some haggling at a lodge, we secured ourselves a neat room with extra bedding for 200 bucks. I fished out the leftover rum from my sack and polished it off amid the three. This was followed by forcing a few old Hindi songs on my trek partners and a drunken argument with Gautam. I have no idea what was the reason for our disagreement when I hit the sack.<br /><br />The next morning was another familiar round of rush-rush. We jumped into a jeep going Dehradun at the last minute, deposited the rented equipment to Upendra Arora, who refused to accept the money and to add insult loaded us with <em>paranthas</em>. The bus to Delhi was leaving the terminus and stuck in a small jam when we boarded it. The first thing Sukriti did after finding a seat was to kick off her shoes. Her feet were a sight, showing mangled skin and raw sores. I jumped out of the bus and quickly got back with some band-aids, while the driver argued with fellow road-users. By the time the sleepy trio got down at Delhi ISBT, a lot had changed in our lives in past 96 hours. We were never going to complain about a broken footpath, a long walk, or a half-cooked meal again.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-19652474823507727072007-06-19T02:00:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:42:15.738+05:30Shivers And Scares Before Nag Devta<strong>Nag Tibba (Part-III)</strong><br /><br />There are three nomadic tribes in the Indian Himalayas: The Bhots, who are concentrated near passes to Indo-Tibet borders (in Sanskrit <em>Bhot</em> means Tibet); the Gaddis who roam Himachal highlands and; the Gurjars who are spread out from J&K and Himachal to Uttarakhand. While the first two communities rear sheep herds and trade in wool, the Gurjars tend buffalos and sell milk products. Being a Himalayan hiker, I have enjoyed the hospitality of the three communities and rate Gurjars as roughest of the lot; Gaddis are the gentlest — as different as a buffalo is from a goat.<br /><br />The Gurjar abode (called <em>channi</em>) at Nag Devta was five minutes from where I had raised our tent (selected after finding an even ground, sweeping the stones and crafting an east-facing entry to work as an alarm clock in the morning). Nag Tibba is a another half-hour walk from Nag Devta Temple. A breathtaking view of Himalayan peaks was possible at Nag Devta spot too but a cloudy weather didn’t permit it.<br /><br />Sweaty and worked-out we didn't mind the moist air. It washed off Sukriti and my fatigue (Gautam was irredeemable) and we decided to roam about the surroundings. Walking a carpet of tiny fresh flowers, we reached the Gurjar abode and were greeted by loud barks of a thick-set Tibetan mastiff. Two women came out of the hutment and after exchanging pleasantries, I took up the dinner opportunity. They agreed to cook for us but were not too happy about the camp. "<em>Tent kahan lagaya hai? Yahan baagh aata hai</em>, (Is this where you have pitched the tent? A tiger stalks this place)," the elderly one tried to scare us. Both Suku and I laughed it off. We were too happy to find some warm food.<br /><br />Gautam forgot his fatigue when we asked him to join us for the Gurjar invite. Poor hungry soul... little did he know he would remember that dinner for the rest of his life. Inside the <em>channi</em>, the elderly lady told us that their menfolk were expected home in the evening but unpredictable weather in the mountains must have held them back. Possibly it was the absence of menfolk which had triggered this disinterest in the dinner. The fare — a blackish <em>aloo-jhol</em> & thick <em>rotis </em>(potato curry & coarse bread) — looked severly unappetising. I dabbed my <em>roti </em>into the curry to confirm my fears and cringed. There was so much dust in the curry that we had to crunch it down. <em>Rotis </em>were half-cooked and I gave up after the second. I have had rough & rustic dinners one too many in the hills before. But the provisions at the Gurjar <em>channi </em>beat them hollow. We left behind a humble appreciation in currency notes and were too happy to be back in our tents. Gautam looked the happiest, in spite of being the hungriest.<br /><br />No longer did Gautam took off his shoes and entered the tent then the clouds burst into a furious crackle. Loud canons burned the skies, the temperature dipped and we hurriedly bundled into our sleeping bags. I still remember that loud snores were ringing inside our tent before I too dozed off... with little knowledge of what was in store for us.<br /><br />Almost all of us woke up in a shock. Ghrrrrrr…ghurrrrrr… ghurrrrrr… there was a creature prowling around the camp, sniffing around the boundaries, moving slowly but swiftly. We went numb with fear. None of us spoke a word or dared look into each other’s eyes. The rain had stopped and a slice of moonlight outside the tent made things semi-visible. In that part-darkness, my trembling palm slipped into the rucksack and groped for the Gurkha knife I carry in every trek. I know that no knife can help against a Himalayan tiger but, since childhood, I had been told by my hill folks that a <em>khukri </em>under your pillow can ward off all evil. Imagine my frightened self when I realised that the knife had been left behind at Dewalsari. It looked like a pre-destined omen. For a few seconds, which felt like hours, I smelt the sweat and tension in our tent. Thankfully, the numbness paid off: the growling got distant slowly, and finally melted into the night. Life returned to the tent just as slowly. Without exchanging a word, all of us slipped inside our bags and tried to sleep off the fear. It is difficult to get forty winks after such experiences but, thankfully, it did.<br /><br />It all turned out to be an anti-climax of sorts the next morning. I can still feel the embarrassment when I remember that the source of all that night growl & sniffing was neither a Himalayan bear nor the stalking tiger... but the Tibetan Mastiff dog which we had patted at the Gurjar's <em>channi </em>last night. I kicked my shin at the discovery, for, I should have known by experience that all shepherd dogs are let loose after the darkness falls.<br /><br /><em>(A musical retreat and mangled feet next — Nag Tibba trek comes to an end) </em>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-80912972814398980872007-06-05T03:03:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:41:37.760+05:30Amazon forests in Uttarakhand???<strong>Nag Tibba (Part-II)</strong><br /><br />If you drink to your gills, fill up your foodpipe to its end, and then crash without remembering when you actually did… a hangover is sure to ring your doorbell the next morning. Yet, there were no signs of a heavy head, or a parched throat when I opened my eyes around 7 am at Dewalsari (probably because there was neither door nor bell in our tent). I rubbed my eyes against a bright sun. Sunil, who I gradually remembered from the previous day to be our guardian angel and the guide to Nag Tibba, was waiting for us at a wooden bench, swinging his legs relentlessly, with a bored look on his face. I slipped a 100-rupee note into Sunil’s palm for the tastiest dinner in recent memory that he served us last night. In return, Sunil blushed a feeble thank-you.<br /><br />I kicked the other two bums out of bed for the final leg to Nag Tibba and also decided that a few belongings could be left at the school's custody. Sunil had warned us of a steep climb and I wanted no casualties. Only necessary gadgets (including the tent) were forced into one rucksack and the rest was left behind to be collected upon our return trip.<br /><br />I strapped the sack on my sagging shoulders, while the co-trekkers colgated the rum from their breaths. I found it a bit unusual when both Gau and Suku looked too happy in starting the march (normally, the second day in a trek begins with groans). I soon realized the trigger to their joy: I was the only one carrying a rucksack (a formidable one at that) while the two ambled in muftis. However, as always, after a few initial grunts the rucksack became a part of my body. As Sunil had promised, the path got steeper with every quarter of an hour; the surroundings ever so breathtaking. It got often get a bit dark, thanks to the thick cover of hill vegetation. A roaring stream passed downward. The whole atmosphere felt so moist that I thought Gau and Sukriti had applied gel on their hair. My own thinning hair made a pathetic skin show to others.<br /><br />Such Amazonian beauty came with a price though. Sukriti and I, who had chosen khaki shorts like hip trekkers, invited blood-leeches in droves. Every now and then, we would see the blood trickling down our legs in sharp lines; stop to pull out the parasite; clean the marks and; move on. Sunil, no surprises there, was the fastest of us. The only person I managed to beat, despite the load pulling back, was Gautam, the weakest link in our chain. The ascent only became worse. The worst part was lack of any plateau kind of route in sight for the break. The angle of our trek kept moving to the worrying side. The trickling dew drops, thick green forests and an almost musical flow of the stream close by… soon lost their charms and we craved for some Jhandu Chinese Balm for our aching knees.<br /><br />The pain was made worse by Sunil’s constant requests to borrow my rucksack for the trip. I found it an insulting proposition. How can I, specially in front of two amateur witnesses who looked up to me as a seasoned trekker, pass on the load to a frail school boy? Unthinkable! A quick lunch midway was organized with what we had brought from Devalsari. I can safely swear in the name of God that for the three of us, it was more a time to rest our bones than fill our bellies. Sunil merely took it as an irritable delay to his return home.<br /><br />Fatigue defeated my ego in the next round of uphill-walk. I gave up barely two hours after lunch. The moment Sunil renewed his request to carry the load… plop I dumped the sack before him. I hadn’t named him our "guardian angel" for nothing. Sunil’s frail frame belied my apprehensions. Even with the 20 kg sack on his shoulder, he walked just as fast as without it. More humiliation came when I realised that only half hour of swift ascent had reached us to the Nag Devta Temple. Dammmmnnnn it! If I had continued for another mile with my feeble pace, I would have got my gold medal. Could I? I asked myself doubtingly before crashing over the moist grass at the meadow near the small 4x4 feet temple where Sunil bowed down to pay obeisance.<br /><br />Frankly, hill temples, including the popular chaar-dhaam ones, are never an architectural marvel. Save for the Jageshwar set of structures (near Almorha) in Uttarakhand, most others are a small ensemble of stones and mortar. It is the devilish route to reach the abode that makes them a holy pilgrim for penance and not the grandiose, as in other ancient temples or other places of worship in other parts of India.<br /><br />After showing us a Gurjar dera nearby, where we could get warm food and other hospitability, Sunil turned away with his princely wages for the day. I raised the Swiss tent and after laying down sleeping mats inside with the large sack, walked about with Suks to savour the beauty. Gautam held his fort, lying spread eagle, not moving a muscle.<br /><br /><b>(The night of growls and a musical rundown comes next)</b>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-10966555382672919062007-05-25T02:00:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:40:47.884+05:30Snaking Up In Garwhal Himalayas<b>Delhi-Mussoorie-Thatyur-Dewalsari-Nag Tibba</b> <strong>(Part-I)</strong><br /><br />After a point of time, all travel pieces begin to sound the same. More so if you have limited your destinations to highlands only. I confess this blog has to live with this handicap. Although I like to travel far and wide, backwater and uphill… the muse sings only for the mountains. Please bear with me. Here comes another experience which could be of use for those who like short two/three-day beautiful trek.<br /><br />Nag Tibba. I stumbled upon this three-day trek route in a thin booklet on excursions near Dehra-Mussoorie region. The name sounded exotic and it fitted well into a long weekend. My new job (at Encyclopaedia Britannica) allowed me only that much. To lure a few partners, I mailed an attractive-sounding itinerary to about two dozen of my friends who I thought could be interested in exercising their limbs. The confirmation was 100% (probably due to the three-day stab) which unnerved me. But, mail confirmations seldom get real. On the final count, on that late summer evening, Gautam, Sukriti and I (yes, only 1/8th of the promised lot) boarded the bus from ISBT Delhi, with light backpacks and rum-cokes. The year was 2000.<br /><br />Being in close reach from Mussoorie and Dhanaulty, Nag Tibba is a famous hiking trip among school students in the Doon Valley. From Dhanaulty, the trek takes one more day but is regarded as more picturesque. We had to choose the Mussoorie-Thatyur route, given our time constraints. For Nag Tima from Delhi, one can take an overnight bus/train to Dehradun; then take a jeep or bus to Mussoorie and; then take another passenger jeep to Thatyur. The trek begins thereto. From Thatyur too, there are two ways to reach Nag Tibba. One is faster, tougher and can remind of you Amazon forests (as seen in Discovery channel) but you would probably need a guide. Another one is a “cosy” gradual ascent through a mule trek, but it takes a tad longer.<br /><br />The dawn was yet to break when we landed at Dehradun. We needed to pick up a four-man tent — one must exceed the man-count by one if one wants to keep the sacks inside the tent — from Upendra Arora (of Natraj Publishers). Having divided parts of the tent in our sacks, we boarded a bus to the queen of hills Mussoorie — a one-hour journey, shorn of any great recount. Equally boring and bouncy was the two-hour jeep trip to Thatyur. A small hill town, Thatyur had all basic amenities in for a trekker (except a booze shop). A few residences cum lodges fed the stream of budget travelers during season.<br /><br />A quarter of the first day was lost to getting buckled up for the foot-march ahead. For a moment, I felt that we the city-breds were weary of taking up to mountains. But then, with a loud click of heels, the three pair of legs came into motion. The well laid-out road, for the first one or two kilometer, barely looked like a trek; the bright sun being our only sweat. However, once we reached a small cast-iron bridge atop the frothy Aglar River, better views beckoned us from a height. Sukriti proved to be quite a walker, as she moved swiftly even when the path got angular. "She appears to be the only man among us," Gautam commented from behind sarcastically. He had already begun to huff. His words brought some pace to my feet but all in vain. Soon, I had to rest on a boulder in the sidewalk for exceeding my strength. Meanwhile, Sukriti kept her flight on. "Is she a girl or a boy?" Gautam spoke in broken breaths.<br /><br />The first day of a trek is always the most painful. The bone-joints remind you of the rust that has gathered in your body. And your breath curses at every two hundred steps. But movement is the only medicine in such a situation. Restoring our breath, we got up to move again — even slower than the last stretch. Our halts got longer each time we stopped. And by the time it was 3 in the afternoon (about four hours after we had set about), hunger began to wring our bellies. We had been counting on the ghee-laden paranthas to keep us moving till Dewalsari, a small village on the way where we had thought to camp for the night. But each time we asked a soul coming from the opposite direction about the village, he would say, "Just ten minutes from here". Yet, one hour of the fragmented walking could not reach us to Dewalsari.<br /><br />And then appeared our guardian angel — Sunil. A class 9 student who studied in Thatyur, Sunil was on his way home to Dewalsari and took away our fatigue with light banter about his village and the Nag Devta ka mandir. Seeing an opportunity, I politely enquired whether his family can arrange our food for the night at a reasonable price. "And do tell us a safe place to pitch the tent too," I smiled at him.<br /><br />It worked. In less than ten minutes, village Dewalsari arrived. An empty school verandah was chosen for the campsite. Rice and daal were duly purchased from the solitary shop in the village and given to Sunil household for dinner. And Sunil (weekend helped) told us he would be showing us the shorter route to Nag Devta the day after. Hard labour pays.<br /><br />As we settled our wares, I found one big irritant to our privacy was a group of young children who had hovered around our camp site and kept giggling at everything we did. Sukriti, dying for a well-earned smoke, suffered the most since she didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention. I hated to be rude to the kids but had to shout and shoo them off to be myself for a short while. As darkness descended, around 6 pm that is, we realized a mini-celebration was indeed called for. Out came the Old Monk bottle and the party continued till 9 (late by hill standards) when the dinner arrived in clean vessels. The frugal meal tasted as divine as it should to a starving stomach. Tired, drunk and fed, none of us remembers how and when we hit the sack; also who fell first. What we still remember is that after a long, long time the sleep took over us at 9 pm.<br /><br /><i>(to be continued…)</i>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-32210110843035966392007-04-25T03:41:00.001+05:302007-09-11T02:38:57.985+05:30Fast, Not Furious<strong>Meeting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Pindari</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Baba</span> & a whirlwind return</strong> <strong>(Pindari Part-III) </strong><br /><br />Cold weather, a shoddily pitched tent and insufficient dinner ensured that I woke up when it was still dark. Since there was nothing else on hand, I made use of wee hours by wrapping my sleeping bag and the tent in place, and was all buckled up to leave when the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">dhaba</span>-owner advised me to wait for light. “<em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Aage</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Bhotia</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ke</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">kutte</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">buka</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">denge</span> </em>(<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Bhotia</span> dogs ahead will tear you down),” he said and began to light his hearth for the day. I waited on my haunches, rubbing my hands for some warmth and got up as soon as the morning cracked. Soon enough I came across the small camp of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Bhotias</span> (a nomadic tribe in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Uttarakhand</span> who rear sheep and goats) being guarded by two large, ferocious-looking Tibetan mastiffs. The ferocity was doubled with loud barks and their collars made of a thorny jumble (akin to a studded restrain). The smiling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Bhotia</span> told me that such a collar saves them from a tiger attack on their neck. The dogs are unleashed in the night to keep his herd safe and the surroundings unsafe. I cringed at the thought of meeting those <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Bhotia</span> canines when they were not chained.<br /><br />The ascent was easy and in a few hours I reached <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Pindari</span> <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">baba</span></em>. His youthful looks, black hair and athletic frame belied the title. I had conjured an imaginary portrait of a wrinkled face, knotty hair and other spiritual <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">USPs</span> but... <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Baba</span></em>, in his early thirties, lived alone in a small well-built stone ashram and loved to chat about his pursuits, living and recent past. “<em>Devi (</em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Nanda</span><em>) ma <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">ki</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">kripa</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">hai</span></em>,” he said with folded hands when I asked if loneliness or weather never bothered him. After listening to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Baba</span>’s benign stories, and a plateful of <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">dal</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">chawal</span> </em>(there was a <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">dhaba</span> </em>nearby which sold the same for Rs 50/-, so I kept a similar amount before the small temple inside <em>ashram</em>). Time was scarce and I had to reach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Dwali</span> by evening so seeking <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">baba's</span> </em>blessings (lest there were more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Bhotia</span> guards on way) I moved on to Zero Point.<br /><br />Frankly, I was disappointed by the Zero Point. This was a poor culmination of a beautiful trek. Clouds made it worse as there was no view. I waited only to catch some breath then turned back. At <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Dwali</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Gau</span> looked vindicated when I told the duo about the Zero Point. “Let’s skip <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Kafni</span> glacier and just go home," <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Gau</span> said, already home-sick. I knew they had made up their mind in my absence but I had also made up to go to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Kafni</span>. “What if I give a flying visit to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Kafni</span> and return here by the time you leave. The route is a plain walk of about 3 km; there is no uphill climb and; I shall be without a sack, thus doubly faster,” I placed my argument.<br /><br />Finally, it was decided that the team should begin downward at 11 am. If I could manage to return by then, fine. If not, they shall leave my sack to the caretaker and move on; I could catch them on the way. Fair enough. I got up by 6, when it was fairly bright and raced to the other fork of the confluence. It was an easy run, without the weights or waits. A scattered group of Gujarati schoolchildren had been on their way to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Kafni</span> with their trainer ahead of me. I made friends with them and marveled at their school authorities’ decision.<br /><br />The route to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Kafni</span> glacier — which is not 3 km as the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">KMVN</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">brouchure</span> says, but solid 5 km run — is far more enjoyable than <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Pindari</span>. Large snowy views of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Nanda</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Ghunti</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Nanda</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Kot</span> look like made of frozen ice-creams at times. I wondered all along why <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Pindari</span>, and not <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Kafni</span>, was the more popular trek for all (for religious reasons, maybe). Too bad that I could not spend much time at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Kafni</span>. Having clicked the views in my memory for ever, I switched back, meeting the huff-puff of young guns trying to negotiate the bends and slippery land.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Gau</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Rachs</span> were surprised no end, when I reached half hour before the deadline. Both were still massaging their calves for the journey ahead. After devouring several <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">paranthas</span> </em>and <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">dahi</span> </em>at throwaway prices, I burped with satisfaction and padded my shoulder for the day. On your marks…<br /><br />We had barely run down (the descent is largely fun, if you know how to regulate your speed) to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Khati</span>, when <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Rachs</span> complained of lower backache. Now, women readers would know what a lower-back pain is often associated with!! And since I have had a few intimate female friends, I knew this could not be taken lightly. I haggled with a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">ponywallah</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Rachna</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Gau</span> were mounted on strong <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">mulebacks</span> to shuttle downward (I refused the ride for either false ego, masochism or plain pigheadedness but I agreed to part with the sack). The three of us landed at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Loharkhet</span> around 4 o’clock, collected out sack and were pleased to meet a jeep-driver who agreed to take us to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Bageshwar</span> in time for the last bus to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">Almorah</span>. I calculated my chances: If we could reach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Almorah</span> before 10 and board the night bus to Delhi, I would shame the Dimension Equipment (who scoffed at us for thinking that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Pindari</span> can be wound up in seven days). The price was fixed and off we began to wheel on the jeep track.<br /><br />En route <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Bageshwar</span> I saw large dish antennas. Since there was no power connection in the area, I wanted to know what the antennas were doing. “<em>Jab India-Pakistan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">ka</span> match <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">hota</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">hai</span>, generator <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">se</span> TV <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">chalta</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">hai</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">aur</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">sab</span> mil <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">kar</span> match <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_72">dekhte</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_73">hain</span> </em>(When there is a cricket match, we use a generator to run the TV and watch it).” I recounted <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_74">Ramchandra</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_75">Guha's</span> words that India had only two religions: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_76">Bollywood</span> and cricket. Power and political power be damned. I was woken up from my thoughts by sudden brakes. “The bus to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_77">Almorha</span> has left, but the commander will drop you there earlier than the bus,” our driver pointed at a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_78">Mahindra</span> Commander.<br /><br />True to a <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_79">pahari</span> </em>word, the jeep was doubly faster and as much unsafe. The daredevil driver took barely five hours to touch <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_80">Almorha</span>. All this while, I dared not look in the front, ignored the screech of tyres at sharp bends and many of the narrow escapes with traffic from the opposite side. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_81">Gau</span> too held on to a latch, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_82">murmuring</span> prayers while <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_83">Rach</span> was fast asleep. Everything fell in place when we caught the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_84">Almorha</span>-Delhi bus by the whisker. For the first time in the week I looked at myself in a mirror. Burnt with snow, my nose was redder than a tomato and chips of dark skin had come off near the cheek bones and ears.<br /><br />The three of us crashed over one another in a pile at our allotted seats and woke up only when the sun showed us hints of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_85">Ghaziabad</span>-Delhi border. Around 7, looking slightly off-scene in my winter clothing, I got down at GT Road near <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_86">Dilshad</span> Garden and, telling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_87">Rachs</span> to return the hired wares, moved towards home for a cosy bath and homely food. The nose and ears were sore but the heart pumped better and Delhi grind promised to be bearable.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-90873755335606199502007-03-31T03:38:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:35:20.599+05:30Gladiator on the Glacier<strong>Curse of the black tongue (Pindari Part-II)</strong><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Khati</span> is the last village in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Pindari</span> trek route. Although there is still <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">atleast</span> one wooden lodge available at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Dwali</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Phurkia</span>, the amenities are minimal. It is thus advisable to reload yourself with the essentials like batteries, emergency food items <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">et</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">al</span>, during the brief stay at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">KMVN</span> guesthouse. Most of the youths in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Khati</span> work as porters, carrying grain sacks to higher points for tourists and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">KMVN</span> guesthouses. Some own mules or horses and provide assistance to tired travelers. Money-order economy works as well, with a good lot of the young employed either in the plains or with Indian Army.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Pitamber</span>, a porter by profession, walked up to us and solicited his services for the road ahead. Though we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">didn</span>’t need his services, I chatted up with him to find more about the place as well as for the drinking company you require at such heights. The ‘ENGLISH’ rum was a worthy lure. Displaying muscular shins the size of my thighs, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Pitamber</span> squatted before the steel glass and narrated us many a tale about his carrying loads for various <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">firangi</span> teams. “<em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Mein</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">ek</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">quintal</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">uttha</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">kar</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">ek</span> kilometer <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">bina</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">rukay</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">huay</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">chalta</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">hun</span></em> (I can walk with a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">quintal</span>-load for one km, without a break),” he said. Thick veins and huge meatballs bobbing out of his arms, it was easy to believe. Thankfully, the angelic devil refused to drink after half a glass of rum. “<em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Ghar</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">jaana</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">hai</span></em> (got to go home),” he said with a wink.<br /><br />The day next we were well <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">preapred</span> for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Dwali</span>, thanks to a comfy sleep. While the trip from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Dhakuri</span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Khati</span> is like walking on a friendly plateau, with a few tea-stalls and trickle-streams thrown in to making it easier, the journey to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Dwali</span> was filled with surprises. The first one was a makeshift bridge (the real rope-bridge had been destroyed with the heavy snowfall last winter) and we had to straddle a thick, moss-laden lodge to inch our way to the other end. Often, uncleared debris from landslides (we were early in the season to avoid the rush and this was a just price) made us alter routes briefly. Besides, unbeaten paths posed directional dilemmas occasionally. However, at the end of the day, it was still a bargain. The path was devoid of human activity and doted by birds of unknown hues. Quietly, the valley sang.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Dwali</span> is a an oasis for the tired soul. One full day can be spent here without moving as much as an eyebrow. This is the confluence point for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Pinder</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Kafni</span> rivers, both gushing forth and creating a large sum-froth under a wooden bridge. Our team enjoyed the confluence only till my limbs revived; soon, I began to nudge others for, we had made <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Phurkia</span> the target for the day. Blame either the scenic surroundings or their sluggish attitude but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Rachs</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Gau</span> refused to budge ahead. “I come to a trek to enjoy and not punish myself,” <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Gau</span> taunted. “Go ahead if you must. I am here. We shall not hinder your pace.”<br /><br />If <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Gau</span> (or anyone else) expected me to stop after this valid logic, I should apologize. A trek is as much an enjoying experience for me as it is a penance trip or a keep-fit regime. So alone I went ahead to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Phurkia</span>, with a heavy footfall and an increased load. Little did I know about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Gau's</span> black tongue.<br /><br />I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">infact</span> a bit enthusiastic when a frozen track appeared on the way. The small glacier-like crossing before <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Phurkia</span> was about 30-meter long, and I followed the footprints on the slippery slant. A big mistake that was since the original footmarks had melted out of shape, and the new deceptive marks betrayed me. I slipped down for about two meter viciously, before I stuck a bare hand into the ice to restrain the downward movement. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Necessiity</span> is the mother of all inventions. Hanging from a freezing hand, I began to hit my toe severely into the snow and made a foot rest. Before the first footrest began to slide, I hit the other toe and made another footrest of sort. After making 20 such rests and hitting my boot more than 200 times in the snow, I crossed the stretch. If I were not wearing a leather jacket, I would have bruises on my chest as war medals. I had to discard the sliced jacket after that trip (such is the sharpness of a icy sleet).<br /><br />Muttering curses, I moved on and reached <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Phurkia</span> a tad late than usual. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Gautam</span>’s curse <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">wasn</span>’t over yet. The lone <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">dhaba</span>-owner there had already put off his log fire and reluctantly agreed to provide me with part of his own food. More sweet talks made him help me with raising my tent. The whole night was spent shivering, thanks to the shoddily raised camp and a sudden fall in mercury — a worthy lesson for choosing my ego before friends.<br /><br /><strong><em>(Meeting with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Pindari</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Baba</span> and our race back to Delhi in the next post)</em></strong>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-79469889863704819082007-03-17T01:36:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:36:20.686+05:30On a Song to Pindari glacier<strong>Friendly people, unfriendly terrain</strong> <strong>(Pindari Part-I)</strong><br /><br />I have mentioned in an earlier <a href="http://pankajmolekhi.blogspot.com/2006/11/its-windy-on-top.html">post</a> how Rachna, Gautam and I traveled atop a UP roadways bus to reach Haldwani on our way to Pindari. Here is how the journey progressed:<br /><br />Sleepy and tired, we boarded a bus to Bageshwar from the noisy Haldwani station. That 200 km journey was so slow, so tortuous and so very torturous that it was difficult not to fall asleep. Often, we banged our heads on one another and, when really unlucky, hit the iron handrest in front of us. It was thus a sore trio which got down at Bageshwar. Though we had targetted to reach the last motorable point, Song, on that very day, there was neither rhyme nor rhythm to reach it. Hiring a small room at Bageshwar, we massaged our limbs for the drill ahead and... sloppppppped.<br /><br />Getting up early the following day and reaching Song, the birth point of our trek, in time was not a problem. Troubles began soon thereto, when, after a few steep paces, Rachs decided her rucksack was TOO loaded. Chivalry becomes thinner during a trek, but since it was just the beginning Gautam and I decided that one person’s sack can be left behind. And her essentials can be distributed between the two of us. We deposited her belongings at the first KMVN lodge at Loharkhet, on the condition that she will share the load whenever either of us felt too pressured (the male ego didn't let such a situation arise, of course).<br /><br />An ideal trek is considered one where the ascent goes tougher by the day. By this I mean, the first day should be an easier advance, the second can test your strength a bit more and so on; this way, the body becomes conditioned to fatigue and drudgery. But Pindari trek follows a reverse logic: The first day is, arguably, the toughest of all, and thereto the path becomes a plateau — up and down, down and up. The matters on the first day were made worse with our immobile limbs, frozen by city life and cramped by bus journeys. It took some calling to measure the uphill distances and, not surprisingly, we fell well short of our target for day one — Dhakuri. As we threw down our rucksacks on the earth, I saw nobody was willing to hammer the nails or even spread out the tent base. With a heavy heart and heavier knees, your truly went about a predictable exercise with a dome-shape tent, borrowed from Wilson John. Occasionaly when it would be impossible for me to sew up the dwelling only from one end, Rachs would help out and look for gratitude. The tent laid out, I ran errand to trace the nearby water source (had heard the trickle before choosing the spot) and filled the bottles for night. All this while my co-trekkers (damn you Gautam) joked and smoked 'pure' nicotine.<br /><br />Dinner would have been easier to find had we come a bit later in April, when seasonal dhabas are dotted along the route. Early in the season, most of them were yet to open and since we didn’t have the cooking utensils, the only chocolates, biscuits and rum were on the menue (I hate chocolates, so I devoured a pack of glucose biscuits soaked in, what else, rum).<br /><br />The next day brought worse trials through an icy rain and cold winds. Many a time, the three of had to squat under one polythene sheet. Waters receded around 9 o’clock and a trickle of smoke up ahead promised hot breakfast. Our legs revived momentum and following a bhotia dog (Tibetan mastiff) we were at the small makeshift dhaba in about 20 minutes. "<em>Dajjyu, teen chai aur 6 ando ka </em>omlette (Brother, three tea and six-egg omlette),” I smiled at him. He had just poured the water for tea when Rachs saw a coffee pouch on display. “<em>Bhaiya chai nahi, coffee bana dena</em> (leave tea, make coffee).” The moment the patient man put milk to boil, I discovered a tetrapack of mango juice in his stock. “Dajjyu<em>, ek coffee cancel, jara yeh mango juice dena </em>(cancel one coffee and pass this mango juice)". Considering that he must have been sick of us fickle-minded by then, I took out a glass of steel from his wares and dug my hand into the rucksack for the rum. Half the glass was filled with dark fluid and the rest with mango juice and, ignoring the disapproving looks from Rachs, I gulped my medicine for the cold and fatigue. Dhakuri was reached a little before lunch time (a good six hours behind the schedule) and we feasted on hot dal-chawal, served Rs 25/- a plate, like hungry Ethiopians (find no racism here). With a few green chilis used to good effect, the food tasted divine. In no time, we were rearing to touch Khati before dusk. And, paddling though it required, we did it in the nick of time for dinner…<br /><br /><strong>(Next post will describe our stay at Dhakuri and trek to Dwali, the confluence point of Pinder and Kafni rivers)</strong>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-2581892478723184012007-03-13T17:58:00.000+05:302007-03-22T02:11:14.717+05:30Footloose In Foothills<strong>How I Discovered Kotdwar</strong><br /><br />Why must your travel plans be always immaculately laid out — pre-decided destinations, pre-paid accommodation and a pre-decided stretch? Why can it not be a way of exploring new corners by traveling at random alone, for once atleast? I know, even I can ill-afford it today, tied as I am to domestic chores and the money-spinning wheel. But once in a long while…<br /><br />Well, the foremost thing is not to make up your mind about the destination. Nor prepare oneself all too well (a pair of denims and limited money should do). Have no fixed idea of the duration either. Just arrange your backpack, slip into a pair of jeans & sandals, and land up at your local Inter State Bus Terminus early evening. The place would resemble a fish market, I am sure, with an array of destinations being shouted loudly. Browse through the destinations painted on the State transport buses. Choose any place whose name you fancy the most. This could be Baagpat, Bageshwar, Ajmer, Sonoli, Eta, Hissar, Hastinapur, Kalka… anything. Just let your instincts drive you on, in your own re-discovery of India.<br /><br />That was how I once discovered Kotdwar, a sleepy township in the Himalayan foothills, some 12 years back. I just liked the name, and after a few inquiries boarded the bus, and landed at Kotdwar at 3 in the morning. I got down with a small borrowed backpack, dusted myself, and surveyed the scene. Even in early June, there was a nip in the air and I needed some sleep. After three cups of tea at various places, I managed to persuade a restaurant-owner near the bus station to give me a charpoy and a blanket for Rs 10. The back-pack as my pillow, I crashed.<br /><br />I woke up to the hustle-bustle around 7 am. Creaky kiosks selling audiocassettes were playing incomprehensible pahari numbers with off-key orchestra. All around us, bus/matador/jeep conductors were helping travelers load and unload. Occasionally, altercation would ensue over the positioning of their vehicles. Another cup of tea, and I dug out that Kotdwar was an alternate gateway to Hindu pilgrimages in the Himalayas.<br /><br />I expected to roam around the township full day, but it was so small that it barely took me five hours of walking and rickshaw-rides to do the job. While the heart of the township was too chaotic, noisy and boisterous, with mandis of various wares, the peripheries offered faint hill-lines, tubewells, and large tracts of greenry.<br /><br />I ate whatever looked good to me: aaloo tikkis from a cycle-borne vendor, soda lemon from a dilapidated shack, and milk cake at Tourist Hotel… In the evening, I re-appeared before my host, Shamsher Singh Bisht. This Garhwali Rajput insisted that I visit Siddbali temple nearby and also Durga devi mandir in Dogadda. Another place of interest was Kanvashram about 10 km from Kotdwar, and a waterfall nearby, Sahashrdhara (it later turned out to be just a line of trickle from mossy mountains). I decided to trek down to Kanvashram the following day, got the same charpoy again, and crashed without a wink.<br /><br />I had barely crossed the township next day when things began to brighten up. Following a stream of icy blue river, I reached Kanvashram around lunchtime. The route was dotted with hutments, irrigation pumps, mini-canals and great landscapes, also an ancient banyan tree. Golden wheat crop was ready for the reap. A ‘gurukul’ denizen in the area got friendly with me and narrated the story of Kanva sage (Vishwamitra is the more popular name) who had made this place his ashram for meditation, and was wooed by Maneka the seductress, sent by Hindu heaven lord Indra. Daytime was slightly warm but evenings required a thin blanket. The dorm at a tourist bungalow charged a princely sum and I was too happy to roam about whole day in the hills.<br /><br />I overstayed at Kanvashram, soaking my days near a small water barrage, and counting the stars at night. My calculations told me that I had spent a total of Rs 570 for four days of traveling, the largest of which was spent only on the state transport fare. It was a big sum for a fresh graduate, but I didn’t mind. I had got more than I had bargained for…<br /><br />Looking back today, I have traveled farther and wider, twice on a Mitsubishi canter. There have been quite a few trips that I would rather not remember but that is all part of the game. Now I have a set of rules too. Sample a few: Listen to everybody, pay heed to a few and trust no one blindly. Make your precarious financial position known in the first place. Advertise your indulgence barriers and limited buying capacity. Look for a dharmshala (charity lodge), or a dormitory. Take interest in people around you, while away at chowks, mandis, fields, mosques, temples and marketplaces. If you have a taste for the rustic and the unknown, India will not disappoint you.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-63661561446723731972007-03-08T18:34:00.001+05:302007-03-12T18:07:54.049+05:30Midnight oily fare near Jama Masjid<strong>A late evening stroll</strong><br /><br />It is seven o'clock in the evening. A time when shopkeepers in Delhi have begun to pull down shutters. When treetops are abuzz with homeward-bound birds. And Blueline buses are packed to capacity, ferrying sweaty human bodies home. In short, nearly everybody has called it a day. Nearly everybody!<br /><br />The Jama Masjid area in the Walled City, at this hour, is warming up to the long evening ahead. Mainly it is the Urdu Bazaar facing Gate No 1 of Jama Masjid and a side street called Matia Mahal where the activity concentrates. Although most publishers and calligraphers of the Urdu Bazaar have shut shops, myriad makeshift eateries have switched on large 300 watt bulbs to illuminate their wares. The smell of fresh fish, fuming kebabs and fried chicken is in the air. There are sweetmeat experts too, setting up jumbo paraphernalia for <em>jalebi </em>and <em>phirni </em>to meet the onslaught of late evening customers. By eight pm, many vendors have descended on the side street Matia Mahal, and are busy unbundling their sacks of electronic gadgets and fancy toys, decorating them in near rows on the pavement. There is a long queue of the underprivileged outside Yasin Hotel, looking forward to a free dinner. In short, the day has just begun for a few.<br /><br />Once here, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer numerical strength of human heads around you. Space is sacred. From the rickshaw-puller to the Esteem-owner, and from a cart-pusher to the pedestrian, everybody is crying for room and elbow space - truly representative of India's one billion-strong population. But all said and done, there is a method in this madness. The traffic momentum never stops even for a second.<br /><br />Raise your head from the human sea, and the towering domes of Jama Masjid catch your eye. It is impossible to roam about in this area and not feel dwarfed by the three awesome domes of this 17th century mosque — India's largest. The mosque has a courtyard that can accommodate nearly 25,000 namazis in one go. Broad staircases lead from three sides, through various arched gateways, to the main prayer hall facing west (where Mecca is). The four minarets in each corner are worth visiting till the top, if you are game to steal a bird's eye view of the Old Delhi. But much more pleasurable would be watching devout Muslims paying obeisance to Allah during namaz. Neat lines of heads would bow in a rhythm and roll sideways in unison. After namaz, as hoards of similar looking men sporting bowl-caps and goatees come out of the masjid, the crowd of beggars sitting outside various restaurants on the main side street (Matia Mahal) facing the Masjid look at them expectantly. A few devout deviate and pay for the food of a select number of beggars. In a jiffy, the hotel staff gets going by folding big tandoori rotis and distributing it to the needy, with liberal doles of bada (buffalo's meat curry). Allah provides for all.<br /><br />For the privileged, this is party time. Tempting aromas are wafting from every second shop. Large banners outside the shops boast of chicken changezi, mutton korma, biryani, kebab, tikka and ishtu. The crowd is swelling by each passing hour and by dinnertime, the business is brisk at nearly all shops.<br /><br />There is food for every taste and pocket. There are several handcarts that have set up a tandoor and a bar-be-que. They are selling seekh kebab and tikkas (made of buffalo meat) with rumali roti (paper thin bread). The prices are very competitive: Rs 2 for one kebab stick and Re 1 for the roti. The spicy chutney and onions are complimentary. The kebabs are delicious and well done, and for a Rs 10 note, one can have a bellyful. One meaty leg of fried chicken costs around Rs 20, while biryani and korma range between Rs 25-50. Matia Mahal also houses the famous Mughlai restaurant, Karim's. If you can bear the shoddy service, the food will more than make up for the trouble.<br /><br />One end of Matia Mahal street leads you to a forked route to Chitli Qabr on one side and Turkman Gate on another, while Jama Masjid end of the street may lead you to Chawari Bazaar or Balli Maran. This street also boasts of a few madrasas, where even at this hour, young children come to study Persian script and Koranic verses. I take a sneak at one such madarsas, which is slightly off the street. There is a sizeable pond near the entrance, where children wash their hands before touching their books. The method of learning is by rote — a site made too familiar by post-9/11 documentaries on Taliban and Muslim fundamentalism.<br /><br />Turning back to the noisy and the boisterous market area, one is pleased to find a good many old men sitting in various groups and exchanging notes of the day. Some of them have earthen glasses of warm milk in hand. Their younger counterparts too have gathered around for a night stroll and eyeing up the burqa-clad womenfolk on the sly. Despite a very conservative surrounding, romance has found its way into the citadel. But it is the middle-aged which is a majority here. Most of them have burly physiques and look tall in pathani suits and skull caps. Banners of all sizes and same colour (green) across the street, have announcements in Urdu scribbled over them. Jumble of wires around shaky buildings have denied the wheels of modernism here. At several old houses, Persian window-patterns are all too visible. Easily, one may as well be in Lahore.<br /><br />It is well past 12 o'clock now. But the hustle-bustle refuses to thin out. Bade Miyan who is selling phirni (rice-milk pudding) in earthen bowls for a paltry Rs 8, discloses how long the marketplace will remain abuzz — 2 in the morning, he makes a victory sign (mouth is full of paan)! Bade Miyan should know, for he is in business here for donkey's years. Not a minute passes when he does not wave at one or the other local walking the street. And true to his word, the place remains dotted with men and women of all age groups till 1.30 in the night. From here, the tide begins to ebb down.<br /><br />The road offers more space now. The shouting of street-users has also reduced. And shopkeepers suddenly look keen on calling it a day. But in a few minutes, the noisy scene will return, with a battery of delivery vehicles carrying fresh stock to the market. And till the crack of dawn, the offloading will continue and the Urdu Bazaar will look like a fish market. This shall be followed by the <em>azaan </em>from the <em>muezzin </em>for early morn namaaz. And the wheel will come a full circle. With so much activity under His nose, I wonder if Allah ever gets a restful moment.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-34539034506474734222007-03-02T00:47:00.000+05:302007-03-02T01:19:51.639+05:30A moving moment on wheelsIt was a job interview that took me to Mumbai for the first time. I had been unemployed for about three months, after "leaving" Encyclopaedia Britannica, and any interview call with travel reimbursement was welcome. The cool & crampy AC-3 coach, provided by my prospective employers, appeared a bit loud for a restful sleep in the first view. Everybody seemed to be either chatting or arguing — <strong>LOUDLY</strong>. The highest decibel-level belonged to a group of young boys and girls — a small group of budget travelers, much like the adventure clubs I had started at Britannica or The Pioneer, destined to Bharatpur. The music they played in their section was loud, giggles louder, but they tap-toed in rhythm; and spilled soft drinks all over the place. That whole small block smelt of life, noise and human sweat mixed with deodorants.<br /><br />I lay close to this frolicking crowd, dipping my gaze into and out of Icon (a Forsythe thriller) every now and then. I cherished the interludes provided by their disturbances, and remembered about my own 300-day stint in Britannica, spent with a bunch of similar friends; of frequent mails to ALL; prompt replies; the boisterous lunch hour; mild office flirtations; day-time boozing sessions with Yusuf and; above all, our adventure club. The Britannica Adventure Club, as we had Christened it. How nice it would be — I trailed in my thoughts — to sit around a campfire once again with my adventurist friends, surrounded by moist night air and hill silhouettes, then clobber the silence with peels of laughter and Bollywood songs…<br /><br />A sharp crack of noise, followed by a heavy tap on my shoulder, woke me out of the reverie. “<em>Aaapka ticket, bhai saab</em>.” The tie-clad ticket-checker asked politely. I brought out my papers mechanically. After the ticket-checker, there was the dinnerwallah, then the tea seller, the waterbottle wallah, and so on. I was kept from being myself for a long time. I had already folded the thriller now into a corner.<br /><br />It was only when even the boisterous crowd had settled for the night, I slipped back into my thoughts again. On that hard berth, I relived my smooth 11 months in the Britannica office, day by day, while hours ticked by. I was smiling from ear to ear. “…around a campfire in the moist night air,” I mused loudly, causing my neighbour to squirm. This would never happen again, I told myself. Britannica Club had folded, Britannica had almost folded and, the straws were no longer held together to the broomstick.<br /><br />Grudgingly, I decided to consign myself to sleep. As always before sleep, I went to the basin and washed my face. There, while placing cupped palms under the tap, I looked closely at the mirror. Claw-lines had begun to draw around my eyes and cheekbones, reflecting my true age. The lines became sharper each time I smiled.<br /><br />“Any regrets in life, Molekhi?” I asked myself. In a brief second, I quickly scanned my life for possible regrets, ambitions and failures. Then I witnessed, in the mirror, a strange softness appear on my face. “Life has been kind to me,” I told myself, scratching my beard, “very kind infact….”The smile was still playing on my face when I buried it into the Indian Railways pillow.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-43888210772857226822007-02-27T00:28:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:33:38.771+05:30Flowery route to Gurudwara<strong>(To Hemkunt, Valley Of Flowers & Auli-III)</strong><br /><br />Ghangaria is the point from where our trek forked into two destinations — on our right was a steep ascent to Hemkunt, claimed to be the highest-altitude Gurudwara, and on the left it would lead us to the legendary Valley of Flowers (VoF, if you may excuse). There is no rest-house or food joint on way to the VoF and camping overnight is not permitted by forest officials.<br /><br />For a long time, VoF was high on our radar, so we dumped our sacks and camping equipment at a Maggie-special dhaba and walked light-footed to the flowery vale. Rusty iron bridges, lactating glaciers and foamy rivers made the walk worth its while. Crossing a glacier can be a tricky business, when the slope is deep and steep. A stick may help, but it is best to use the heel-first approach. This means you hit the heel fist on the snowy path, dig a footrest of sorts, and then move ahead, repeating similar digging by the other shoe-heel. Do not trust the previous footmarks, which may get deformed over time and deceive you into a slippery zone. Both Sup and Bub learned the trick fast and tiptoed over a large obstacle while the veterans Vip & Suk needed no guide to walk the treacherous crossing — at their own pace.<br /><br />We were a few step early to witness the bloom season. Yet, the buds were on way and we could jump on a ‘buddy’ bed (deforming their uniformity though) and get intoxicated by faint, heady smells in the air. After moving about a bit there and here, we realized that nearly the whole day had been spent; the retreat began, repenting a late start on a cloudy misty weather. In record time — dodging another pesky group of overfriendly Sikhs — we were back to Ghangaria, with a brief photo-shoot. The bazaar at Ghangaria came alive to take care of our needs, from foot massage to various eateries; only rum was missing. We made do with creamy milk and <em>jalebis </em>to induce sleep.<br /><br />Cramped limbs never find a tent comfortable enough. So we began to haggle again, this time with the lonely forest check-post official to let our group sleep inside the concrete dwelling. After placing a sick-looking Bubble in front of him, we could garner some sympathy and laid out our sleeping bags inside the small post; no hammering of camp rods and nails for the second day too. Since this was a minus-luggage trip and not-so tiresome day, the dreams were preceded by a round of old Bollywood songs, muffled by sleeping bags.<br /><br />Early morning after we had paid the forest guard a token amount for gratitude, and rolled our sleeping bags, the uphill trek ahead stared at us threateningly. The quick footfalls on previous day, along with skipping the lunch, grounded Bubbles for first half of the day. As we buckled our laces, she looked like as sullen as a Sikh denied the Hemkunt pilgrim. Ten minutes on that steep rise, Supriya decided she would better hire a pony or give Bubbles company. She decided to haggle for a shiny colt and bolted to the destination.<br /><br />About 35-minute of non-stop, leg-busting ascent, when I stopped over for a cup of tea, I realized I had no money on my person. But as usual, I only had to tell the chaiwallah that a man and woman of certain outlook were behind me and they will pay. He waved his hand reassuringly. Later, I confirmed that Vip-Suk did pay for it. I moved on to reach the Gurudwara in time for the sermon and an advice to return back before weather played tricks. Fair sex is treated more fairly at religious places. When Supriya and I spread out our hands before a <em>prasad</em>-distributing Nihang, only one palm was greased. A visit to the nearby Laxman temple (perhaps the only temple in world exclusively for the younger prince of Ayodhya), and a grand view of Haathi Parvat, we began the downward march.<br /><br />By 3 o’clock our flock was strapped with our back-packs to go down to Ghangaria. There were a few knick-knacks to be tied up, which I volunteered to do and gift others a comfortable lead. Our target was to reach Govind Ghat before the last bus left for Joshimath. After half hour of others leaving Ghangaria, when I set myself in motion, en route, I realized that I was the only one who took the target seriously; some whiled time on a poison stick while others were too slow to make it on time. Humming Bollywood songs, I galloped downward, straining my knees a bit, and managed to reach the bus-stop — about 15 minutes after the last passenger vehicle had left. The dhaba owner at the stop told me not to worry since there would be a steady line of empty trucks which I could hitch-hike for Joshimath. Presuming that others too would thus make it to Joshimath, I jumped on a truck loaded with babas and reached Joshimath a little before dusk. But perhaps I expected too much from them.<br /><br />The hotel boy was a bit disappointed when he saw the friendly ‘madams’ had stayed behind. But I was too happy to find some rest. My frail alcoholic body had done a great job and it longed for some celebrations. I asked him to lead me to a liquor shop and though my trek mates failed to join me, I let out my worries through a punctured bladder.<br /><br />The day next, when the reunion of sorts happened, we took a detour to Auli (sans-snow) where, while trying to be adventurous, I scrapped through a tiger roar and proverbially peed in my pants. That night, we had to borrow from Sup’s reserve purse to celebrate – which means buying some booze after two days of abstain. Next morning (I remember it turned out to be Sukriti’s birthday) I was too keen to straddle my bike, after a few adjustments on the oxygen nob, and drove home. I sped downhill through mudslush, landslide debris (which delayed fellow mates by a few hours) and a bit of slosh again. Sukriti would not forget this penniless birthday of hers but thankfully at Rishikesh Deva was kind enough to take our word on un-used tents and not charge for the same.<br /><br />Down to Delhi on the bike, we had to push Bubs in the bus while Sup pillioned with me. The routes were tricky and at a check-point when I asked for the Delhi route (NH-24 was closed for trouble-monger Kanvarias) the khaki-clad was crestfallen: “<em>Aap kya madam ke saath suicide karne aaye ho</em>? (he said something to this effect)”. Thankfully, a red beacon ambassador car took on that route and as soon as the policeman looked at us, I knew the cue to follow. A few dark hours later, I was inside my Dilshad Garden home, splattered on the floor — tired to bones and contented to soul.<br /><br />Visions of the highest gurudwara flashed in my sleep and I heard myself murmuring — perhaps praying Guru Nanak for more such trips in future — then falling prey to a temporary death called sleep.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-64239534810006965762007-02-16T03:05:00.000+05:302007-09-11T02:32:34.892+05:30Up, ahead the world is a high!<strong>(To Hemkunt, Valley Of Flowers & Auli-II)</strong><br /><br />Nothing rejuvenates me fuller than a sound sleep. And if this is succeeded by a healthy breakfast, I will shame a mule for the day's work. At Joshimath, the sleep in our cramped, smelly room worked as a natural steroid. I woke up so fresh that when it came to walk up, for the first time in my trekking career, a concretized trek (Sikh devotees had made smart pathways to Hemkunt), I was leading the pack by several paces. Right from the onset, when we posed before a hanging bridge, I beat my co-walkers by yards. Quite a solace since four years back, Sukriti (nine years younger to me) had kept Gautam and I at a lengthy bay while climbing up to Nag Tibba .<br /><br />My will to keep ahead worked well for other tired souls too. I fixed a place for our lunch, spelled out a menu and moved backward to see how far behind were my trek-mates. It tickled my ego that inspite of being the eldest in the pack, I was ready to run to and fro to keep the flock like a shepherd.<br /><br />Irritants were many. Sukriti like always was fussy about the menu. In the plains, she wants nothing except muttar-mushroom and in the hills she would sift tomato skins in her plate and make a pile of wrinkled refuse. An ideal pupil for Bubbles who can work her appetite at whatever she could find — from Maggie to dal-chawal.<br /><br />Weather became the next irritant. While till lunch, it had been a cool uphill walk, thereto the weather began to whistle… in no time the drizzle turned into a chilly rainstorm. We covered ourselves with the Rs10-rainsheet, a plastic sack with one-side slit, and ploughed on. I still led the pack, with a 500-ml coke spiked with rum for instant energy and warmth. A young wolf-pack from Punjab stayed on my tail, badgering me, like the drizzle, about my co-trekkers. Some of them thought Supriya to be a German (where else may a 5’10” fair woman belong to?) and Suku an American (I am sure they meant a Latino). If rum weren’t there, I could have... grrrr.<br /><br />Late afternoon, it was Bubbles' turn to cause pain. Inspite of being tired and hungry (more hungry than tired) she refused to ride a pony, delaying in turn the whole five. It was only after a few harsh words on her hassled being that Damyanti Ji agreed to mount a horseback; her business skills still trying to steal my larger sack on the horse.<br /><br />Being on four legs, Bubbles was the first to reach the spot, a Helipad before Ghangaria, where we had decided to camp. However, considering the lack of dry clothes and firewood, we decided to stay at a dhaba, where we could dry our clothes and get a meal without doing the chores. The bottle of rum came out and all five of shooed off the cold and fatigue.<br /><br />Either for the rum or a roof, our bunch was fit as fiddle in the morning to deal with the rest of our journey.<br /><strong>(The trip to Valley of Flowers & Hemkunt plus our race to Joshimath-Delhi is next)</strong>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-65490214593731546762007-02-12T02:46:00.001+05:302007-09-11T02:31:41.903+05:30Himalayas, on two wheels<strong>(To Hemkunt, Valley Of Flowers & Auli-I)</strong><br /><br />The sudden winter rains this Feb (which lasted more than 48 hours) brought back memories of my Hemkunt/Valley of Flowers trek a few years back. It happened in 2002 — an year of transition for me. I had moved out to a better start: leaving a hectic Aaj Tak to join a sparkling & slower <strong>ET</strong>… had given up an affordable maruti for a spanking motor bike (LML Energy coz dream machine Bullet could not pass the budget). And I was itching to race those wheel on the hills.<br /><br />Such opportunities come aplenty when you work for <strong>ET</strong>. With a week-long holiday, bracketed by weekly offs, I revved up to Joshimath on an August night. It wasn't an easy drive, considering the moody truck drivers on national highway 24, and the fact that I was carrying a female pillion (Bubbles) who loved lecturing, along with two rucksacks strapped to a lean engine.<br /><br />Most of the time en route I was at the receiving end of either the co-drivers or my own pillion. Every time, I reached out for my ready-mix rum-coke tucked near a shiney Gurkha knife, disturbing noises came from close behind. I realised soon that if I ignore them and pull a large swig, the journey becomes bearable. With various such lessons and learnings, I reached Rishikesh a little before dawn. My watch told me that I had about an hour before three more friends joined in and Glacier Tour’s shop opened to lend us a tent. I decided to tank up some energy and with rucksack as a pillow, I spreaded myself outside a shop and crashed for a cat nap.<br /><br />An hour and a half later, I was on a tortuous hilly road to Joshimath, about 280 km from Rishikesh. Everytime I stopped for coke, breakfast or rest, <em>pahari </em>kids hovered around my skinny bike (which I didn’t mind at all) and some times non-<em>pahari</em> tourists tried to chat up about my travel plans and my skinny pillion (which I certainly minded). But the curvy roads made me a biker maxima. The only shortfall was not to be able to see the Alaknanda valley view sideways; yet the pleasures of negotiating the turns on two precarious wheels were heady enough.<br /><br />A fresh set of lecture was in store when I braked for a late lunch past Nand-Prayag. Each bite of warm roti, laced with hot dal or sabzi, had to be swallowed with the bitter pill on vices of alcoholism. Llittle did the lecturer know that I had adultrated my steel (or steal!!) glass of water with rum and each time I feigned of choking, the water eased my sufferings.<br /><br />By 5 in the evening, after a few scraps with mishaps, I touched Joshimath. The notorious hill drivers were still to catch up with the wily mobike couple. While looking for a campsite, a friendly hotel boy offered help with an irrefusable offer – Rs 150 for a room overnight with two beds and quilts (extra quilts to cost Rs 50 each). Drunk to my gullet, I accepted. Supriya, Vipul & Sukriti who arrived later, appreciated the decision and fell wherever they could find space in that 10 ftX10 ft room.<br /><br /><strong>(The trek begins tomorrow (read next post…)</strong>Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36423358.post-57698805707692557922007-02-05T02:42:00.000+05:302007-02-05T22:32:13.593+05:30Go-Wow!<strong>(Grazing the Western Ghats)</strong><br /><br />Goa doesn’t belong to India; it belongs to hedonism. The ragged Oxford on my desk defines hedonism as ‘Devotion to or pursuit of pleasure’. Goa defines it better: <em>Piyo, khao aur aish karo </em>(Drink, eat and be merry), without busting your shoestrings.<br /><br />My penchant for heights have brought me to seashores only twice in my 37 years of existence — once to the Bay of Bengal and once the Bosporus. I therefore found it necessary to consult the Net and friends who had been to Goa recently. Vidya, a walking manual on cost-effective trips, and Shalini, a shoe-shopper given to cleanliness & comfort, passed strong recommendations for Arambol beach in Goa. Few revellers, relatively speaking, opt for Arambol, an extreme-north Goan beach, which helps in keeping the place unspoilt and spacious — also within the reach of budget travellers. I hate five-star resorts because I can’t afford them, so Arambol was a natural choice.<br /><br /><strong>God’s Gift for shelter</strong><br /><br />It takes about a thousand bucks to reach Arambol from the airport in a taxi (with Nidhi complaining about the sun and infant Manila lugged on my back, I decided not to try the local bus). In hindsight, the taxi fare remained the biggest one-time expense in our whole trip. As Arambol, local name Harmal, surfaced, I spent no time in taking an eyeful of the area. Once a fishermen village, Arambol now is a long, pristine beach, with a row of budget hotels running parallel to the shore. The waters and the hotels are separated by an uneven line of straw shacks (with elaborate menus and beach couches).<br /><br />I was lucky to have found advanced bookings for a room attached with kitchen, bath and sea-facing balcony, at a paltry 500/- per night in God’s Gift, suggested online by Dr Funkenstein (called Jim off-line). The d’Souza family who runs God’s Gift treats their guests as blood brothers, Jim had vouched.<br /><br />Jim, Shalini, Vidya all proved true to their last letters. The beach looked slow and divine; surroundings serene; music distant and it never strained the wallet…<br /><br /><strong>Fireball and firewater</strong><br /><br />Since we had landed in Arambol early evening after about four hours of journey, Nidhi got busied in fixing up her kitchenware in the hotel room to prepare milk. I decided to take a recee of the area, after removing a soiled diaper from Manila’s baby bums. I kept walking and discovered, down further north, a shock of coral reefs and a fresh water lake bang opposite the sea. For the adventurist, 20-minute para-gliding trips were on offer, for Rs 1,400 (ouch!). The triplet of Western Ghats, lake and sea made a perfect sand-bed. I promised to come back the next day.<br /><br />The only thing I couldn’t postpone was the beer on beach. Light on the head, I walked and watch the scenic beaches, flushed with a colourful combo: copper-plated bods, amber sky, blue tides, rusty fishermen and dusty feet. It would be a waste of key-pushing to describe the travel brochure stuff! Our dinner was a pleasant choice of fish, prawns and vegetables, smoothened by large doses of rum (I was yet to discover the king of beers in Goa)<br /><br />King’s rules the beer stable in Arambol. A brand exclusive to Goa, this 300 ml barley brew, served in small barrel-shape bottles, beats all its premium cousins in smoothness and effect, easily making it the first choice of the frequent visitor; the novice makes do with Kingfisher. The price list of hard liquors was another big relief — Rs 15/- for a 60ml Old Monk rum!! (Defence Mess & Press Club, wake up!!). Before you think alcohol can’t get cheaper than that, try the coconut or cashew fenis.<br /><br />As promised, I returned to the lake the other day with family. Having jogged on the beach early morning, I chose to play the lethargic whale and flopped on a couch. Periodically, I would gulp a beer, splash into the sea, dry myself and the leftover of the beer, then make a few laps in the lake.<br /><br />Manila was the only pimple (adjusting the switch between Delhi cold and Goan warmth) but in one long day, her mountain blood acclimatised to coastal climate. That made a happy family and happier (hic!!) father. Each time, I lifted my 11-kg devil and walked the loose sands, I could feel the hint of paunch making things more difficult. I toiled while Manila enjoyed the ride.<br /><br /><strong>Chomp Chomp...</strong><br /><br />If Arambol gets ten out of ten in booze and beauty, it gets 11 on the platter front. Even the smallest of shack here lays out a thorough-fare, comparable to five-star speciality restaurants. And that is no mean competition. From Continental & Near East to Western, the menus in Goa are a battery of laminated flips. And before the doubt gets the better of you, run your finger with eyes shut on the card and order. Of my weekly stay in Arambol, I barely had to repeat my orders or eat at the same place twice (save for God’s Gift restaurant).<br /><br />The breakfast came from museli-milk, tuna sandwiches, a choice of toasted breads, poached eggs, bacon slices... (am already watering in mouth) and the lunch-dinner from a line-up of steaks (in pastes as varied as basil, bean sauce, mushroom sauce & cheese), sizzlers, pastas, spaghetti, prawn curry, Goan fish curry, grilled pomfret, red snapper, kingfish fillet, shark, lobsters, crabs and — huff, huff... — what else. Nidhi (my teetotaller, vegetable-loving wife) feasted all this while on a pick of vegetarian delights, sandwiched between fresh fruit juices to good effects.<br /><br />No wonder the brief trip changed us in colour, shape and spirits. The skin acquired a darker hue, the body gained a few extra kilos, the soul lifted a trifle.Hill Goathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17602386756415628453noreply@blogger.com0