First trek of a 30+ obese (cont'd)

The people on hills also remind us how in cities, we have distanced ourselves from simple solutions. For example, instead of relying on medicines, the first treatment of mountain sickness in those areas is drinking little water frequently. Or, walking in the forest, stack flat pieces of rock to make your very own GPS. Govind was prompt to show us such stacks that are frequently used by locals and trekkers to find a way back to the starting point if they feel waylaid by the forest. 

Marking the trail to avoid getting lost in the jungle

The locals have unique ways of cohabiting with animals. If a grizzly bear runs towards us, we might look for a firearm or may be at our wits end for a solution, but the simplest way is running down the hill. Why? Because running down will bring the bear’s hair on his face, and eyes, and when he cannot see you, he’ll stop running. Or best, travel with a woman. Bears (I hope irrespective of sex) do not attack a woman, so during winters when bears come down to localities, it is the ladies of the houses who open the doors in the morning. Stories of a bear walking out of courtyard under such circumstances are common and amusing, needless to say.

It is intriguing to see how spending one night on the banks of that jungle-shored lake could make people immensely creative. During the morning tea, one of our teammates said that a bear was rubbing its weight on his tent’s rope and when he crackled an empty plastic water bottle, it ran away. Well, I heard some sound at night (my limbs had rebelled for making them walk equaling a year in a day and I just couldn’t sleep) but it can be a jackal or a dog as well, for locality is not much far. To validate that it was indeed a bear and no less, he showed us marks on the extra food away from the kitchen tent. And then there was Govind, with his tale of tiger and how he and his fellow guide laid breathless as the tiger tiptoed a group of students sleeping outside their tents.

Setting up the campsite at Chopta

The next day we were in Chopta, camping on an open knoll, surrounded by winding roads to Tunganath temple, and valley at a distance. When the tents were being set, I saw a stone-wall and a few local people and herds of animal beyond it. After lunch and a nap, when other team members went for a ‘conditioning’ walk, I tagged along with my husband to explore the stone-walled settlement. 

We met Rajnath Singh (not our Union Home Minister), who owns the biggest herd of goats, lambs, and buffalos in the three-room ‘village’ (if you call it so). Every year, they come up in summers from villages downhill to get better grazing ground for the cattle, until winter sets in. So, why do you go down in winters, because of snow? Not the snow, he says, the snow leopard.

Singhji and his herd: Time to go home babies!

Whoa! So they exist, I glanced at my husband, who was busy taking his shoe-lace out from the mouth of one of the goats, ‘the lazy rouge’ we had named it. The snow leopards, largely elusive, also hunt the dogs on guard and so, unlike a fancy belt as we use in cities, dogs here have a solid metallic roundel around their neck with sharp projections, enough to injure the leopard if not kill it.

“Winters are approaching; this is the time when the leopards come down looking for food. We will leave for our village next week,” Singh said, almost presciently.

Entering world's highest Shiva temple

Mighty Himalayas from Tunganath temple

We were heading to Tunganath and Chandrashila next morning at 5:30am when the sun had just started snoozing its alarm. I looked at homes where preparations were going on to bring out the animals of their sheds. It was a long walk today, so Govind suggested I take a pony up to the temple. My legs had still not recovered and the schedule was time-bound, and as the only lady in the team, I can take some advantage, so I obliged.

Tunganath was a comfortable ride and the view on the way was mesmerizing – the peeking Nanda Devi, Kedar dome and Meru-Sumeru had lined up to allow us bask in their glory. We sipped tea at a stall owned by a local fluent in Bengali, and just before the temple, a local guest house has advertised in Bengali. Since childhood I was taught to feel proud being a Bengali, a travel-freak clan; at 12,000+ feet above sea level, I realised what it means.

On the edge of fact and fiction

I had thought to talk a little more to Mr. Singh and his family as our team readies to leave Chopta. But to my surprise, that settlement was empty, as if they’ve vanished overnight. The rooms were barren, doors ajar, the animals gone, and the dogs’ cuffs were off. I looked for one person who could tell me why these people went away, but couldn’t find any. I was sad not only because it was the last day of an arduous ‘task’ but I’m leaving behind stories unheard.

Couldn't say "Goodbye" to the rogue

The sudden disappearance of the settlers had confused both of us; there could be no possible reason, except for… I stopped short of uttering it, but I remember last night’s relay barking of dogs, the sound moving far and near in a circle, and the sound of an animal chomping, just outside our tent, even in half-dazed sleep. It could be a bear, but it could be, yes, a snow leopard; I can never be sure of what it was because I cautiously followed the safety rules. In the mountains, they say, you should always obey its rules and this was one time I cannot but regret doing so.

At leisure: two senior most team members

Are you wondering what happened to Ranveer Singh and Chandrataal? Let’s save it for another day.

First trek of a 30+ obese

I love movies, I swear by them and despite their compelling make-believe world, cinema’s semblance to reality often leave an impression on me. I was desperate to marry Arvind Swami (even as a minor, oblivious of the repercussions of marriage, of course) and a chance to watch him on screen was similar to travelling to moon and back. Like million other girls across the world, my heart too skipped a few beats when Shahrukh waved his hands at Kajol or Amir Khan crooned ‘Pehla Nasha’. So, no wonder when a suave Ranveer Singh in Lootera mentioned witnessing Chandrataal as Varun’s last wish, I hardly realised my fingers had started moving on the phone’s keypad.

What I saw left me dumbstruck..!! The sight of a huge lake filled with crystal water reflecting the sky, surrounded by rugged mountains was alluring. At once, I felt drawn towards it, as if answering to its summons. The next few days I looked for the best travel options. What emerged was exhilarating to my husband, but is it really possible for an ‘obese’ like me to ‘trek’ all the way up to 14,000+ feet? He never told me whether it was askance or misery manifested on my face that prompted him (a certified rock climber and experienced trekker, mind you) to argue that trekking is definitely the best way.

And so the next obvious task was to scout for an affordable group. I was happy, for the first time I’m watching this commotion called ‘planning’ from a safe distance – I don’t know a single alphabet of trekking other than the names Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary, who conquered the Mount Everest in the 1950s. At the same time, I was worried of a damp squib as his trekking partner. I tried to convince him that travelling by car from Manali is a more feasible option for his better half, whom he is adamant to make walk for god knows how many days! All my persuasions fell to deaf ears, for he had already contacted some group and bookings had been ‘confirmed’ of sorts.

At that instance, all I felt was a wreathing pain and anxiety – what if I can’t walk for so many days, what if I lag behind other members, what if ‘this’, what if ‘that’ – the list was quite long. I’ve always been a sloth, more interested in story books than sports (once I participated in annual sports and in the preliminary rounds of 100 metres race I came ‘first, counting from last’). My BMI is a few decimals away from that ‘diabolic 30’ and I was struck by the mother of all nightmares – what if I die en route Chandrataal? “I’ll die virgin, for the best of popular mountains – Swiss Alps, Ladakh Himalayas, and many more, will be out of bounds forever. And in my next birth if I’m born as a tree in the Amazon rainforest or a snail in some sea, my hopes are irrevocably dashed.”

Gosh..!! That’s scary. Fortunately, I successfully permeated that fear into the more enthusiastic partner. For time being, the trek was cancelled only to be replaced by an easier one, touted as my ‘conditioning camp’.

That Dussera, we were all set for the ‘easier’ trek (suitable for beginners, as defined by most of the trekking companies) to Deoriataal and Chandrashila, touching Tungnath en route. A short trek of 3-4 days and a small, cozy team of 6 trekkers (excluding the guide and other members for cooking, logistics etc.), we drove from Haridwar for an excruciating 9 hours; the passengers were seemingly drugged, no one spoke to anyone because they’ve dozed off to negotiate the spiraling roads up.

The night shelter at Kund

The next day we started walking from Ukhimath, the winter seat of the Kedarnath deity. Our guide, Govind, was all charged up – we will not follow the established trail but rather create one for us, and so it might take us couple of hours more, he announced. The team was like “ye!”. “Doesn’t make any difference, it’s all the same,” I thought.

Had I known the adversities of ‘exploring a trail’, I would have certainly walked down the hills. The next half-a-day walk from Ukhimath to Deoriataal was on a gradient of 45 degree through small villages and jungle, and as expected my break for replenishment were more than metres I walked. While rest of the team was mostly in sync, I was absolutely off track. My legs ached badly, water was not able to treat my dry throat and apparently, all tried and tested formulae for first-timers proved futile. My husband and Govind shared the burden of my rucksack along with their own so that I could move myself. Poor Govind, running up and down the hills so no one is lost as the sun had started going down. And I felt that’s the end of it, I will watch Deoriataal from up there.

The first glimpse of Deoriataal

I was finally made to manage reaching Deoriataal before darkness fell, panting like a dog. The tents were set, the fire was lit, tea was being served, and sitting near the bonfire I thanked Govind for taking all the pain. I came first, again, according to my unique counting system. While the team took a little more than the stipulated 5 hours, I took a whopping 7 hours, but as Govind said, I didn’t give up despite everything going against me. Looking at the majestic Chaukhamba peak playing hide-n-seek on a well-lit night, I tried recalling the key takeaways of the day. Firstly, the amazing jungle – steep, luscious and full of unknown but interesting sounds. I’m no birdwatcher, or else could have introduced myself to those lovely little avian creatures. The nudging trees did not have their scientific names etched on the trunk, but Govind was prompt in pointing out which of those are helpful in case we get a bruise or cut.

I was thinking about the mythology of Deoriataal (Yaksha testing knowledge of Pandav brothers, no one except eldest Yudhisthir could pass and brought back his brothers to life) when just before the meadow, a sound of a helicopter startled me (how on earth someone knows I need to be rescued..!!). The copter was taking pilgrims to Kedarnath; Govind said, and I was pleasantly surprised to see myself standing at a greater height than the one at which the helicopter was flying!

The wonderful people I met ever since I left Haridwar were inspiring. Simple people, leading a life ‘tough’ by our city standards, but always have a smile on their face. The stewards at the lodge where we stayed overnight or the porters travelling with us now, all of them can give you serious life ‘goals’! If I ever contemplate suicide, I’ll surely trek to the Himalayas before committing one; people around you in those tiny hamlets have something really nice and infectious about them. Children with runny nose or old people with their wrinkled faces, each of them tell a story of human endurance and resilience.

Little replica of Kedarnath Temple at Sari village 

(To be continued...)

The fading echo of silence

Ever since I was born, it looks as if I’m destined to travel. I don’t remember a sight from my maiden trip to Betla and Netarhat forests as a 6-month old. Years later, finding me in the blurred pictures of the album was no less than getting lost in that jungle. I’m sure my parents have harrowing memories of a clinging, crying baby, nagging for food, sleep or attention, or all three at that instant, haunted by the cries of animals at night and the plight of travel in the day.

I cannot really tell why I started travelling or accepted it as a ritual in my life. May be it compensated for the family time I lost as a residential student or as a welcome break from the monotony of routine. Though destinations were hardly discussed beforehand, family trips were a delight, always. I was particularly interested in historical places, and mountains, of course.

Imagine the awkward dilemma when my then-boyfriend-now-husband disclosed that he likes sea and beaches. “But I don’t like them!”, my heart ached bitterly but silently. I wondered if we can mutually accept a destination for the ‘Honeymoon’ on the cards. Fortunately, amid hectic work schedule, and settling a new home and a partner, it took a backseat. As we started planning our maiden trip as man and wife, the struggle was not between mountain and sea, but available leaves and distance from Delhi.

  

A few weeks before our journey, one of my cousins had been to Dhanaulti. “He has all good things to say and the distance too fits within the weekend (means no extra leaves wasted, phew!),” we thought. While boarding the overnight Volvo from ISBT, little did I know about the moments of adventure ahead. Reaching Dehradun in the wee hours without an inkling of where to get the next bus from was as thrilling as feeling the first cool breeze on my face once we started on the mountains. I had bet my hopes too high and after 3-and-a-half hours journey in a local, government bus, we were virtually dumped on the road at 2,200m+ above the sea level – yes, that is the ‘bus stand’ simply because buses find enough space there to stand on an otherwise narrow but plain road.

Once the bus moved on to its destination, I wondered if I’ve become deaf at once. For there was no sound (or noise should I say), except for a few people talking in local dialect, chirping birds and swaying deodars. Dhanaulti was a genuine village of the Garhwal hills, simple people, lofty greens and absolute quiet, especially after sundown. It was so quiet that even our hyperventilating mobiles decided to take a vacation. We had chosen a destination ideal for nurturing a nascent relation – long walks on meandering roads through apple orchards and grassy slopes, soothed by an undisrupted silence in which even whispering seemed sacrilegious.

At night, the sky looked like a large plate filled with diamonds of all sizes and cuts. Standing on the terrace, we refreshed our geography lessons (you read it right) and took delight in pulling the laggard’s leg. We could only imagine how the snow-capped peaks would look on a full moon night and whether the stray dog sleeping on the stairs will ever understand the beauty of what he sees every day. I told my husband how helpless and worried I felt to learn his preference for sea. “Hmm, but this is more practical choice,” he remarked.

Our only contact to the big, bad cities was through the PCO/STD booth across the hotel from where we called our parents to tell “we’re there”. The old man managing the store told us how he treks a few kilometers everyday to this place; I can’t tell if he was happy about that. He asked if we would like to taste the juice of rhododendron (burans as they call it locally) he prepared at home using age-old techniques. With a child-like amazement, I sipped the 1:10 concoction of juice and water, trying hard to relate the taste with something known. Difficult it was; the rhododendron’s sweet taste and flower-like aroma was something I’ve never experienced. Looking back, I regret the decision to buy only one bottle for Rs. 100; a few years later, the bottle cost me Rs. 200 and the taste was hardly close to the previous purchase.

Both of us fell in love with Dhanaulti and any discussion on a weekend trip would invariably start with it. But much has changed now – it has better mobile signals, more eating joints blaring recent Bollywood songs and well-appointed hotels attracting larger number of tourists. It would be unjust to imply that such a trend is counterproductive, for it gave fillip to the local tourism and better earning opportunities to the people. But as the steward in our hotel said, “Ganda bahut ho gaya hai (it has become very dirty these days)”, it looked the hamlet graduated into adolescence, and in the process lost some of its innocence.

Some exiles are irreversible

It was the last day of the year 2016, work-wise at least. So, the part of almanac-abiding me was in two minds if it is ‘auspicious’ to begin something new.

I pushed against it, for the last day brings an extraordinary chance to reflect on the past.

Many winters ago, soaking in the sun, I wondered if my school and the lodging would remain the same if I come back say, after many many years. My imaginative innocence loved to believe that I will become one of the vestiges of the heritage and culture my school shares and that after those ‘many many years’ I will enter the dilapidated buildings, on the verge of ruins, through rusty gates and creaky doors and windows.

A couple of years back, when I visited my school after a gap of 11 years, I found myself blissfully mistaken. The bunch of friends hanging out on the corridors got a good scolding from a teacher even on a festive day, 14 years after some of them stepped out as ‘students’, only to be reminded by the grey hair of my favorite teacher that unlike the epic, this exile is permanent.

Some exiles are indeed irreversible, whether imposed by oneself or by circumstances. Circumstances, some would argue, is the natural course while some would think it as a ploy to attain selfish goals and it is difficult to tell which of it is more valid.

These were the thoughts going on in my mind as I traveled across the once-lavish and famed cities of Shekhawati in Rajasthan. Effectively named by joining the words 'Sekha' (from the name of Rao Sekha who formed this kingdom) and 'wati' (means garden in local dialect), the region is often regarded as the largest open air gallery in the world, thanks to the grand frescoes and murals painted on the mighty havelis (mansions) belonging to the Marwari (business class) families; many of its descendants shine bright on the adverts or magazine covers now.

Mandawa city view atop Sinhasan Haveli 

Beyond the grandeur lies the incoherence of irony. The three courts of havelis – forecourt, zenana (female) court and noura (for housing animals) – are dusty with patches off here and there. The gaddi (rooms where business and meetings were conducted) of seth (businessman) wait for rare visitors, especially during summer months when the heat becomes unbearable. The rooms where sethani (wife of seth) and her personal entourage spent their days discharging household duties and may be some free time are now barren, more than the surrounding desert where the sight of a cactus or a scorpion breaks the monotony occasionally.

The havelis tell the tale of lost glory as the Marwari community migrated to Bengal and Bombay to trade with the British. The guides will tell you that they are the signs of the Marwaris’ flourishing businesses in the cities and how they brought those distant cities close to the people back home. The English men and women, portrait of the Jesus, paintings of trains and cars brought the cities and its people close to Shekhawatis. The painters came initially from Jaipur and even Gulf region, depending on how prosperous the seth was, and employed distinct methods to draw the frescoes. The unique blend of limestone and grounded seashell sieved through finest mulmul gives a marble-like finish that also works in favor of enhancing the apparently dull vegetable dye.

Tijori: out of use since ages

To me, the havelis tell more than what meets the eye. It is difficult to be sure whether the artist of Modi Haveli (Jhunjhunu) in his imagination perceived the angels, modelled after Mughal princesses, as a sign of contempt or reverence, for the Delhi rulers were engaged in persecution of Hindus. The varying degree of finesse tells a lot not only about the craftsmanship but the patron as well. The havelis also tell about the mercenary mind of these wealthy people, for their progress made no difference to the place they belonged to. The villages are there where they were when these were made, though some seths donated money and property to establish educational institutions for both boys and girls, respectively. And despite foreign tourists flocking in, the infrastructure to support tourism is lacking.

Fresco ceiling, Modi Haveli (Jhunjhunu)

Sekhawati looms like a foreboding to Kolkata, my hometown, although the magnitude is much low, so far. The rampant migration of qualified youth to other parts of India is largely unaddressed – when I’m home on vacations, I get to meet a handful of my schoolmates. Most of them live in other cities and countries, and back home it is only the uncles and aunties who wait all day for those few minutes over phone or Skype. My parents are no exception, nor was my mother-in-law, who peacefully passed away with the hope buried in heart that some day her son will find a job worth taking up in Kolkata. I’m aware of being secretly accused of abandoning my duties for my dreams as many others, but no one takes the cudgels up to probe the ‘why’, forget a remedy.

I submit to the fact that Kolkata has managed to retain much of its legacy – the biryani, the Ganges (Hoogly River to be precise), the Durga Pujo, heritage buildings (though many are crumbling) and the intelligentsia (irrespective of their calibre). However, it needs to create opportunities for the coming generations so that those taking ‘special trains’ to south Indian education centres can settle where they belong to. Or else, I’m afraid my home may also become one of the ornate ruins like the havelis of Shekhawati.