My Heart Health Checkup: Calling Out The Greedy

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.

So, around World Health Day, I notice an Advt on newspapers about a ₹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

Me: Good morning. I have come for a heart checkup package

Staff: Sure, sir. Are you on fasting for last eight hours? And would you like to add any other tests besides the regular package?

Me: Fasting, yes. And may I have an LFT (Liver Function Test) added to this?

Staff (smiling): No problem sir. That will be an extra ₹1400/-

(I am pushed to a blood sampling unit first. Then to a separate room for ECG. Drama begins now)

Doc: Hullo. May I know why you have added LFT to your heart checkup?

Me: I am a regular drinker, so…

Doc: How long have you been drinking?

Me: Humm, about 20 years roughly…

Doc: Daily?

Me: Well, almost

Doc: And how much, daily?

Me: About five to six pegs, I would say

Doc: Five to six? 30 ml peg?

Me: I am afraid, yes, doc, but the peg measure is 60 ml.

(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)

Doc: Please lie down for a chest ultrasound. Yes, turn to your left a bit

(He rolls a device on my ribs, I hear throbbing sounds of my heart pumping)

Doc: Have you ever had a heart attack, even a minor one?

Me: Bloody no, doc! Why do you ask? I have always felt fit like a fiddle

Doc: Do you take any medicine related to heart condition?

Me: No, doc. None

Doc: Can you climb a staircase without breathing heavily?

Me: Boss, I can race through six flights of stairs in under 2 minutes

Doc: Three storey or four storey stairs, sir?

Me: I just told you I can zip through six flights, doc

Doc (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)

Me: All right, if you ask. How much will it cost?

Doc: Do you have an attendant? The charges need to be paid at the billing counter.

(An assistant informs my wife to go and pay the charges. I later found it cost ₹2,600/-)

Doc: Please tell us if you feel any discomfort during the Treadmill run

(For 12 minutes, I walk through a treadmill, barely breaking into sweat)

Doc: Any discomfort? Breathlessness?

Me: None, doc. Are you done?

Doc: Are you a sportsman?

Me: (I am getting irritated now) Not for three decades, doc

Doc: My name is ***Nayak. You can note down my room number for any future consultation.

Me: Is the Treadmill Test done? Are your doubts cleared?

(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)

Staff: The senior cardiologist will see you here, sir.

(I am ushred into a room where the same doctor who attended me at the Treadmill Test is sitting)

Doc: (Flipping through the reports): Humm, you have been drinking too much. Your liver enzymes are high.

Me: I told you about my drinking, doc. Is there anything worrisome? Was the treadmill test ok?

Doc: I have some doubts. You must monitor your BP for ten days then return. You may need to go for an angiography.

Me: Is my BP okay? Anything wrong with the treadmill tests?

Doc: All reports are fine. But your ECG report is giving me doubts. Go for an abdomen ultrasound too.

Me: Doc, your ECG machine also needs a test. It stopped twice during the run, btw. And how much the Ultrasound cost?

Doc: Please ask the billing counter. And see me after ten days

(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.)

Friend Doc: All fine, dear. Avoid that doctor. But no harm in going for an Ultrasound, since you have been a heavy drinker, bugger.

(I go for an ultrasound in a couple of days, and forward the report to the doctor friend. Response is immediate)

Friend Doc: Bastard, have you got a steel liver? All well, but Pankaj, I still advise you to cut down on the amount; enjoy sustainable drinking…

Me (Teasingly): And angiography?

Friend: Pankaj, medical profession also have its share of black sheep. Don’t judge. Are all journalists fair players?

Me: All right, all right! You got me there, man. I owe you a drink at Press Club soon, bloody sermonizing priest.

 

How a City-bred Turned Into a Trekker—A Narcissistic trip

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.

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.

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.

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 kaar-seva (a term for physical service to religious deeds, made famous by Golden Temple disaster).

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.

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).

I went light on food thereto, which was not difficult since I found the servings UNAPPETISING. Milk tasted thicker, and smelly. Chapatis (sorry, rotis) were too thick for my liking and chilies in the vegetables brought tears to my eyes.

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 Pahari way to deal with trials – adapt and laugh over the cynics.

I had barely got used to this Pahari 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.

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.

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 Pahari 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

POLL DIARIES: Safe Lodging in Rai Bareli

Travelogues from Uttar Pradesh Heartland

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.

POLL DIARIES: Secular Guts & Mardana Kamjori

Travelogues from Uttar Pradesh Heartland

Mukesh Pandey (Name NOT Changed) is a local media dabang 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."  

Below the Belt

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 swapna dosh, shighra-patan and mardana kamjori (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."

POLL DIARIES: Chew On It

(My Observtions During 2014 General Elections)

Raibareily: 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 bhang (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 Madhushala (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?"

POLL DIARIES: Toilets Before Temples

(My Observations During 2014 General Elections)

Ayodhya: 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 daan-patra (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 "Pahle Shauchalya, fir Devalaya (Toilets first, Temples later)", this reporter swears by his job to cheer for him.

pd: This post sounds the revival of this blog

Revival of sorts

It 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.

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.

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?

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.

Slippery Ascent... And The Twist

(Group trip to Kanvashram-4 )

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

I cherished the grateful looks on my colleagues' face as I waved and felt fulfilled.

PS: 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).”

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.

Windfall and a Waterfall

(Group trip to Kanvashram-3)

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 GMVN 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.

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

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 khukri 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.

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 Gabbar Singh, was “bahut na-insaafi” (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 parantha 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.

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.

The Kanvashram waterfall was certainly no Niagara 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.

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 daal, chaawal and rotis were waiting for our footfalls (The cook had surely learned from his morning experience).

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: “Theek hai. Bilkul theek hai (That's right. Absolutely right).” I choked from a restrained laughter. My relative had done their duty.

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.”

(Our attempts at climbing a slippery mountain and the journey back home in the concluding part)

A Dream Run & Lottsa Rum

(Group trip to Kanvashram-2)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

To reach Kanvashram from Delhi, one needs to take the Delhi-Meerut road (not the bypass); flip to Meerut-Najibabad route and from Najibabad Kotdwar is about half hour. Kanvashram is yet another half hour from the town. This makes a total journey of about six hour.

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.

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 — Sili Sili andi hai Hawa. We touched Kotdwar around 4.30 in the morning with a thud.

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.

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).

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

(The late night drama and visit to waterfall in the next post)

Why I chose not to be Raju Guide

(Group trip to Kanvashram-I)

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.

Now, wake up to look at it the other way. Since you love trekking or nature excursions, on bona fide 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.

But the worst part begins hereto: Half of your “corporate bunch” has never been out on an adventure trip and hence considers it a laid back holiday tour. Which means, ordering Coke-Pepsi 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.

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 this post. Here is a relatively milder one:

Circa 2000: I was working in Encyclopaedia Britannica and had already taken a brief trek with one of my colleagues. The stories, which Sukriti (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.

After being badgered on my mailbox about the next brief outing, I flashed a long-weekend plan to go to Kanvashram. For the interested, there is enough material about the historical relevance of Sage Kanva 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 Garhwal Mandal Nigam 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.

As was the case in other things Britannican, 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 Geetanjali Chauhan and Sabarinath, to Jaichandran to Kavita and Sudipta. The only three worry-not souls I relied would be Shikha, Sukriti and Nisha. 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.

Voyager is a sturdy nine-seater carriage, most suited for a gang of under-ten highway riders. There are no ooh-aah-ouchs from the backbenchers (something which deters me from hiring a Tata Sumo or Toyota Qualis) 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, Premji. When I say safe, it does not limit the virtues road negotiations. Premji had proved himself to be the kind of person who wouldn’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.

(The journey and the problems begin in the next post)

A Musical Retreat

Nag Tibba (Part-IV)

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.

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.

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.

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 Solitary Reaper 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 jugalbandi 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.

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.

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.

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 paranthas. 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.

Shivers And Scares Before Nag Devta

Nag Tibba (Part-III)

There are three nomadic tribes in the Indian Himalayas: The Bhots, who are concentrated near passes to Indo-Tibet borders (in Sanskrit Bhot 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.

The Gurjar abode (called channi) 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.

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. "Tent kahan lagaya hai? Yahan baagh aata hai, (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.

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 channi, 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 aloo-jhol & thick rotis (potato curry & coarse bread) — looked severly unappetising. I dabbed my roti into the curry to confirm my fears and cringed. There was so much dust in the curry that we had to crunch it down. Rotis 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 channi 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.

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.

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 khukri 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.

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 channi 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.

(A musical retreat and mangled feet next — Nag Tibba trek comes to an end)

Amazon forests in Uttarakhand???

Nag Tibba (Part-II)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(The night of growls and a musical rundown comes next)

Snaking Up In Garwhal Himalayas

Delhi-Mussoorie-Thatyur-Dewalsari-Nag Tibba (Part-I)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(to be continued…)

Fast, Not Furious

Meeting Pindari Baba & a whirlwind return (Pindari Part-III)

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 dhaba-owner advised me to wait for light. “Aage Bhotia ke kutte buka denge (Bhotia 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 Bhotias (a nomadic tribe in Uttarakhand 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 Bhotia 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 Bhotia canines when they were not chained.

The ascent was easy and in a few hours I reached Pindari baba. 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 USPs but... Baba, in his early thirties, lived alone in a small well-built stone ashram and loved to chat about his pursuits, living and recent past. “Devi (Nanda) ma ki kripa hai,” he said with folded hands when I asked if loneliness or weather never bothered him. After listening to the Baba’s benign stories, and a plateful of dal-chawal (there was a dhaba nearby which sold the same for Rs 50/-, so I kept a similar amount before the small temple inside ashram). Time was scarce and I had to reach Dwali by evening so seeking baba's blessings (lest there were more Bhotia guards on way) I moved on to Zero Point.

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 Dwali, Gau looked vindicated when I told the duo about the Zero Point. “Let’s skip Kafni glacier and just go home," Gau said, already home-sick. I knew they had made up their mind in my absence but I had also made up to go to Kafni. “What if I give a flying visit to Kafni 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.

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 Kafni with their trainer ahead of me. I made friends with them and marveled at their school authorities’ decision.

The route to Kafni glacier — which is not 3 km as the KMVN brouchure says, but solid 5 km run — is far more enjoyable than Pindari. Large snowy views of Nanda Ghunti and Nanda Kot look like made of frozen ice-creams at times. I wondered all along why Pindari, and not Kafni, was the more popular trek for all (for religious reasons, maybe). Too bad that I could not spend much time at Kafni. 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.

Gau-Rachs 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 paranthas and dahi at throwaway prices, I burped with satisfaction and padded my shoulder for the day. On your marks…

We had barely run down (the descent is largely fun, if you know how to regulate your speed) to Khati, when Rachs 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 ponywallah and Rachna-Gau were mounted on strong mulebacks 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 Loharkhet around 4 o’clock, collected out sack and were pleased to meet a jeep-driver who agreed to take us to Bageshwar in time for the last bus to Almorah. I calculated my chances: If we could reach Almorah before 10 and board the night bus to Delhi, I would shame the Dimension Equipment (who scoffed at us for thinking that Pindari can be wound up in seven days). The price was fixed and off we began to wheel on the jeep track.

En route Bageshwar I saw large dish antennas. Since there was no power connection in the area, I wanted to know what the antennas were doing. “Jab India-Pakistan ka match hota hai, generator se TV chalta hai aur sab mil kar match dekhte hain (When there is a cricket match, we use a generator to run the TV and watch it).” I recounted Ramchandra Guha's words that India had only two religions: Bollywood and cricket. Power and political power be damned. I was woken up from my thoughts by sudden brakes. “The bus to Almorha has left, but the commander will drop you there earlier than the bus,” our driver pointed at a Mahindra Commander.

True to a pahari word, the jeep was doubly faster and as much unsafe. The daredevil driver took barely five hours to touch Almorha. 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. Gau too held on to a latch, murmuring prayers while Rach was fast asleep. Everything fell in place when we caught the Almorha-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.

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 Ghaziabad-Delhi border. Around 7, looking slightly off-scene in my winter clothing, I got down at GT Road near Dilshad Garden and, telling Rachs 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.