Putting things into perspective...

“Traveling- it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller"- Ibn Battuta
Let me tell you some stories.
 

Mustafa

It was the first day of our Ladakh ride, so to speak. We had just barely managed to spill ourselves over the Zoji-La Pass. We had waited for the army to blast a road through the mountains, when that hadn’t worked, we took a small, military only road that would help us bypass the blasting work. We ploughed through slush, tiptoed over needle sharp rocks and even ‘made our own roads’ on the way. By the time we reached the pass the weather took a turn for the worse. Rain, sleet and wind. Not a good combination!
So, cold and miserable, somehow we spilled into the valley that lay beyond. It is a pity that we couldn’t truly appreciate the beauty of the place because of our misery. Such magnificent desolation. Pillars of mountains on both sides and a lush green carpet connecting them.
The army-men who gave us shelter from the rain confirmed that Drass had no rain, so we decided to push on as soon as there was a break in the rain. We set out on the winding road again, but the rain caught up again in less than a couple of kilometers. We spotted a lonely stall on the side of the road. Across the road was the ruin of what looked like a village.
The owner of the stall waved us in. He made us take of our gloves and put them over the stove to dry them off. He then gave us piping hot tea, some puri and watery, but hot Maggi. The only way I can describe that serving is that it was the best supper I ever had. Nothing has ever come close to it. Ever.
When we finally came back to our senses, recovered from the cold chill, Mustafa, the stall owner started telling us his story. The place we were standing at was the ground zero for the Kargil war. When the war began, the army asked them to pack a bedroll and get on the truck that would take them to Sonmarg. When the war ended, the army put them back in the truck with a new bedroll and stove and dropped them back to what remained of their village.
And here he is now, piecing together every rupee so that he can re-build his home that he will never be able to build again.

 

The Inedible Dosa

When we set out towards Manali after a week’s stay at Leh, we decided to stop at an army canteen that is famous for making the best Dosa at the highest altitude. So we rode into the camp, parked our bikes and walked into the canteen, or restaurant? The place is run by army-men, so it’s a strange feeling. It’s not the usual Shanti-Sagar experience. Once we took our place, a man in the army greens came to take our orders. This. This is one of the most unsettling experiences you can ever go through. These men give up every comfort of life and family to serve the nation’s borders and then they are taking Dosa orders from us. I just sat squirming in the seat as the Dosa was prepared. The Dosa came in the hands of the same ‘waiter’. Forcing the Dosa down my throat was an ordeal, there was a constant churning in the stomach making me feel sick. And then came the bill, in the hands of the same person. Do you pay, do you tip? Do you understand what I am saying?

Two Puris and a Potato

The shaming for the day wasn’t completed yet. Riding out, we reached Tanglang-la. A magnificent mountain pass. Pity that the pass roads were still under construction. So we had to ascend and descend on non-existent roads or ride on the first base layers of what will become future roads. While rumbling on the half made roads we came across tents of the workers. The Workers were holding to puri’s and some potatoes in their hands. That was lunch. Further ahead they were bathing in the melting glacier water. This was at 14000 ft. Where we barely wanted to stop because of the lack of oxygen. And here we were complaining about the quality of the roads, or the lack of them…

Travelling does leave you speechless, then it does turn you into a storyteller. But most importantly, it brings perspective. Mustafa is rebuilding his life by feeding travelers, cheerfully. Army men are serving us Dosa’s. And laborers are threading together an existence in the harshest of terrains to build roads for us. All of this – why? So that people like us can ride through the ‘toughest terrains in the world’ and pompously declare it as the achievement of a lifetime.
So I guess what I am saying is that, the world is what it is. The social stratification is unjust. But it is what it is. If a man can be cheerful about his life after being devastated by war, rest assured, you can live through the 'mountains' of work you have. If an army man can serve you Dosa’s and if people can work in the harshest of conditions so that people can enjoy an adventure in the same place, you can drop  the air of entitlement you carry. Appreciate the small things in life and respect the opportunities given to you. You might have no idea what some people must have given up to get you into this comfortable place.
 

I think I am ...... pretentious ?

Internet meme’s have been a rage for a while now and not without reason. They tend to be outright stupid, yet hilarious. And for some reason… you relate to them. Remember those – ‘Am I the only one…’ memes?

All those embarrassing childhood thoughts, weird remembrances embodied in those anonymous ‘Am I the only one’s.

But then you see, I am not that general John Doe. I have been living alone for a little too long and the limited number of people close to me (who know me?) will testify to the fact that I am weird. Self-centered and in general, colossally moody.

Now that I am introspecting/ retrospecting, I realize that as part of becoming ‘me’ I have been a major copy-cat. I learn that American sitcoms are the new rage – I watch everything from Seinfeld to Burn Notice to the latest gamut of superhero line-ups. I see someone reading Salman Rushdie – how am I not reading him! I see someone playing Crysis – how am I not running that on my laptop! Someone is listening to Pink Floyd in the room next – why am I not listening to them. And why stop there! Read Salman Rushdie, read Charles Dickens, read Fyodor Dostoyevsky (Yes, I read Chetan Bhagat as well)! And then again, why just Crysis, buy the console and play all the PS3 classics – borderlands, unchartered, the last of us, GTA (Yes, I have played Zoo Tycoon as well). And why only Pink Floyd – listen to everything from Albert King to The Cardigans – I don’t want to be cornered when talking about music. Heck I have even heard Yo Yo Honey Singh – just so that I don’t get cornered about anything.

And in some ways that has panned out. I have spent more time on sitcoms than most you. I have read more books than most of you. I have played more video games than most of you. I have listened to more music than most of you. I probably have seen more movies than most of you (IMDB top 250? Please...) Heck I even joined a riding club – and not to be outshined – I rode to more destinations than most of you. The most popular of destinations and the most unknown of destinations (I recently saw a StoryPick clickbait claiming to tell 10 places that even the most seasoned travelers didn’t know about – I clicked the checkbox on 6 of them). I spent a ludicrous amount of time and money and fuel on these vagaries.

Now by this time you must be wondering that I truly am a pretentious prick, just showing off. In part that is true, I like doing that. But then who doesn’t. A study somewhere shows that Facebook users are true narcissists.  But hear me out.

I think I have been a quiet boy, with a tendency to remain aloof – a person whom everyone knows but who knows no one; for far too long. The moulding forces of family and close knit circles of friends didn’t really act on me. But in order to hold your own, you need to be…well…you! So I started picking up pretty much everything and miraculously I found time for all of them. Though in hindsight I realize that I could have devoted that time towards family and close knit circle of friends as well.

Now that I am introspecting, at the edge of a big ‘life event’ – the big question rises. Am I a true person or just a collection of imitations? But then, I also believe that we are all, in the end, a sum of our individual experiences. I was a dull introvert up to the end of my college days. All my ‘experience’ was tantamount to being a loner who was forced by some good friends into socializing. Someone who ‘didn’t actually give a single f***’. I was even found taste with the shitty hostel food when no one else did (Sure I was lost sleep over my grade in Math-I once, and I did go all Romeo on, well someone not worth it, but…)

But when the realization finally sunk in that I am truly nobody, I started forcing experiences on myself.

And this is where it gets tricky. I tend get a bit high minded about stuff. I have become highly opinionated, much like Jeremy Clarkson (that didn’t turn out very well…did it?) Idealizing things to a fault. Realizing the practicalities of things yet idolizing the idealizations.  Getting into arguments on subjects that I just learnt about and expressing my opinions - as if I my opinion is supreme. Something that most of the people knowing me will testify to J

What’s wrong with that? And coming back to the ‘Am I the only one’ meme – am I the only one who thinks he has been imitating all this time, or is it that everyone of us here is in the same boat.

Whatever the answer to that maybe, I don’t think that I mind how I shaped up. Sure I am a bit moody, quirky and self-centered but surely you won’t hold that against me anymore?!

Somewhere in the midst of all the imitations and perfecting the imitations, exceeding the imitations, I think I found my personality. Traits. I know the kind of books I like; I know the genres of music that work for me. The video games that get me worked up and the sitcoms that deserve my attention.

Which when I think about it....is not so bad. And I think I will continue this imitation game. Experiences forced on me, or experiences forced on me by myself – how does it matter. That’s how you find new things – avoid getting into a rut of routines.(See… I am idealizing things again!) Sure I have a few process chinks to crease out and I should start idolizing things a little lesser, but then hey, as I said a while back, it’s the journey, not the destination that matters J

*BTW all being said and written, I think I am only setting myself to be called a narcissist. I am proclaiming myself to be pretentious…. How self-centered is that!)

Mahabs, My Love. Gokarna, My Mistress.

So, the sun is finally setting on my Bangalore days. And I am trying hard to figure out if I will miss the place or not. I have seen enough friends and mates leave this city, for various reasons. Some folks miss it for a while, swear by the invisible emotion that city invokes, and then forget about it. There are some who are about to call it home and then there are some of loathe it right from the start and simply want to pack up and get out.

Now, in all fairness, I have spent a better part of a decade in this city, seen it transform from the utopian cantonment, where evening showers were a norm and the weather demanded that air conditioners be chucked to a city choked with people, where the roads, or the lack of them, are choked with vehicles and people – no space to even cycle! And the weather has turned brutal, standstill traffic, scorching sun.

Sure, the brewery scene is attractive and the food scene is brilliant, but that’s just a Saturday in a painful week. Not a good case for my affections then. Nope.

So what is it that thing creating a pit in my stomach at the very thought of leaving this city? At this point, don’t go all ‘you getting the jitters before a big move!’, ‘you are getting cold feet’. It’s none of those.

Come to think about it, the reason for that pit it is that Bangalore has made me what I am. From a scared, fat village boy from Ranchi with no real world skills to the person I am today. I think myself to be a serious tourer. Traveller.  

Travelling around Bangalore is what made me. I think I have explored every place worth exploring, not to mention my love affair with Tamil Nadu. And through all this, I have developed special relations with some places, places that define me.

The first time I went to Mahabalipuram was Christmas time, peak season. It’s an unlikely place; the epitome of juxtaposition. The place is a UNESCO heritage site, some really impressive architecture and sculpture that has been dug up, defiled by Akshay Kumar’s pelvic thrusts ‘tandao daon daon daon…..’. But that’s getting off the point, as I was saying; it is an epitome of juxtaposition. There is the main street that divides the neo from orthodox. Branching from the main street is Ottavadai Street, the happening place for Mahabalipuram, where the world comes to visit, where the kids know skating and surfing and where the usually orthodox folks mingle with women in skimpy bikinis, comfortably ignoring us desi's, trying to hawk their pendants and necklaces. And then there is the other side of the road where the same people cleanse themselves of all the sins of the west at the central temple.

The sculptures, the Panch-Ratha’s, the shore temple – sure they are attractions, but it is this opportunity to witness this juxtaposition that keeps bringing me back to this small shore side town. Where u can peacefully sip on an ‘illegal’ beer on the wrong beach, gazing into the endless ocean starting at the feet of the shore temple, where people still go prostate in devotion to the God who has long forsaken the temple ravaged by the salty ocean in search of more comfortable thrones.

And then look back at the ever-twinkling Ottavadai street, where a French woman found love and life with a local; and where you can be comfortably be in trance in the trance of weed; enjoying the fresh catch of the day. The juxtaposition of modernity (if I may call it that) and relics.

The East Coast Road where any left turn takes you to a virgin beach, the Ottavadai Street, the timeless sculptures, the sea of humanity – Mahabalipuram. My true love.

But then I am a guy, I can’t stick to one ;) My travels took me to my mistress – Gokarna. Poor man’s Goa in common lingo. But not for me. The approach is a contrast to Mahabs. A winding country road through the Karnataka countryside as compared to the arrow straight 6 lane NH4 to Mahabs. Of course she is not easy to get – you have to wake up early, move through the foggy countryside – concentrating on the road counting down to the magnificent sunrise behind some hill on the way. Then brave the scorching heat of the way – sneak across landmarks like the Jog falls, the Western Ghats!

And then reach the peninsula – a conglomerate of 5 beaches – known to the world for its hippie ways – emanating from the religious temple town of Gokarna (All roads lead from Rome). There is the beach for the masses – a drive-in beach where you can find the common Indian mass. Peeing, pooping and picnicking on the beach.

Then comes the Kudle beach, next to a cliff, the proxy Goa where the water is calm, the beer is plenty, the crowd is varied – firangs contorting in the name of Yoga, Desis ogling at the elasticity and there is me, floating in the water, saying to myself – WTF, I don’t belong here.

This drives me to the Om Beach. Where cultures clash, the lower loop of the Om, where the common masses come to feel equal to the foreign crowd, where big bellied uncles sleep on the beach in their Rupa’s. Next is the upper loop of the Om, the land of Shiva, beyond the Parvati Rocks, where weed is easier than beer and where the more courageous arrive, differentiating themselves from the common masses, trying hard to pretend that they are not ogling at the white skin on display while ogling at the white skin at display with contorted eyes. And where all the ‘hip’ places including the Nirvana Café reside. And before you get all judgmental, I am sitting on the Parvati Rocks, trying to figure out which side of the loop I belong to, trying to use my flimsy camera phone to capture the chameleon like sunset – taking a different form every evening(before heading to the Nirvana café for the night, ogling at the white skin on display).

Next morning, I try to figure out my place in Gokarna, I trek beyond the Om Beach, still trying to get the ‘Om’ shape with every step of the hike (unsuccessful. Period.) I reach to another cliff, jutting out of the landmass, a solitary palm tree adorns the drop of the cliff.

This. This is the place. Where I spend my mornings, waiting for the sun to rise behind me and warm the water below and where I spend my evenings looking at the sun going down, contemplating what I saw through the day. The chameleon sunset displaying its skills again.

So what about the day? I use it to hike to the half-moon beach. If I may call it that – my apartment’s swimming pool feels about the same size, But there is something different about it, the green hills rising behind it, a few scanty shacks on the beach and the few people, some in transition to the Paradise Beach, and some like me, who like the solitude. Bathe. SunBathe. Bathe. That’s all – sure you can read a book in the while or sip on a cold one. But be warned, there will be tourists from India, on boats, looking at you like animals on display thinking – why can’t they be normal and swim in the abundance of the Om-Beach :/

The palm-adorned cliff and the Half-Moon beach – that is Gokarna for me. A state of transition, yet a state of desired permanence. My mistress. That sinful feeling. Away from all the worries in the world, how can I be so peaceful here when there is so much chaos in my life? The lust for solitude. Where there is nothing else. Me and her. Mahabs sulking with her overflowing masses somewhere as an afterthought.

But.

There was someone else. A secret love affair. An unfinished business. Something hidden from both Mahabs and Gokarna. Something wonderful happened.

Hampi.

It was a chance visit, might I call it a forced visit in an unlikely time. The roads to Hampi are beautiful and bad. Potholes the size of moon-craters and twice as frequent amidst the beautiful North Karnataka countryside. The road to Hospet seems to be forsaken. But the inconvenience of the road is actually a build up to the place itself. An unlikely ode to the place of places – where the rocks are plenty, the roads are none and the beauty is unbound. The juxtaposition of modernity and relics is to be found along with the solitude strewn amongst the rocks and monuments. Like the narrow stretch of untouched tarmac between the potholes on the approach road.

The juxtaposition. The village and the island are separated by the Tungabhadra, meandering around stubborn rocks and connected by a lonely ferry piloted by a captain of many languages.  The village has the central temple that dictates the purity of the place, uttering the word ‘meat’ itself feels foul. Across the multilingual ferry is the island – Veerupapura Gaddi. The island of decadence, the dream of Caligula. Whatever is your vice, you name it, and you will get it, grown in the fields, or plucked from the huts of Anegudi. But yet I love it. 

Come evening, you can sit on one of the rocky outcrops on the sandy shores of the island and gaze into the sunset, pondering over the meaning of existence and then once the sun sets, squander the existential crisis in the haze of the hookah – exchanging stories with unknown people across the table and tapping into the rhythm of trance music in the background.

But that is not all. No sir! Hampi after all is the land of boulders and architecture. Days can be spent exploring every nook and cranny of the place. Looking at the same temple from arm’s distance and marveling it from atop a hill reward you with different experiences.

Hampi to me is transcendent. There is a piece of home here. She is complete – there is a constant display of the rigors of daily life in the agriculture of Anegudi, yet there is the comforting embrace of the island at the end of a tiring day. A representation of...many things. Where you can be and cannot be…

Yes. This is it. This is why I love Bangalore. The ‘emotion’ that people talk about when referring to Bangalore is a very personal thing. Bangalore can give you anything you want. It might not be in the core of the city, but surely there is someplace close-by that she will guide you to.

For me, it is and always has been riding and exploring, and Bangalore never disappointed. You don’t choose the destination here, and you choose the direction. Rest assured, you will land in a place that you like.  This is what is creating that pit in my stomach. The fear of losing the place that I have explored, that has revealed me, yet there is so much to be revealed.

But then, that is the secret of long lasting love – leave something more to explore. That urges you to know more, learn more, and love more. Make you come back for more.

Which, someday will bring me back to Bangalore. The city that made me.

P.S. I know it’s sad that I am actually romanticizing places rather than women.

P.P.S.  Pardon my love analogies. I whole heartedly endorse monogamy.

Pic Credits :
Suteja Kanuri
Udayaditya Kashyap Photography

The Kanyakumari Conundrum....

It’s been a tough past 6 months for me. Too many revelations like I need to get a move on in life - make some plans, that I can indeed travel alone, that solitude is a two-edged sword and the big one - Song lyrics have meanings!

I am by no means a musical sort of fella. Music to me once was Himesh Reshamiya trying to blow his nose in agony. So you know where I am coming from. But a lot’s changed since then; my sonic journey has taken me through a lot different soundscapes, pretty much every genre possible. My playlist even contains something called ‘Ambient Music for airports’ by Brian Eno. Beat That!

Through all this though, one thing remained constant - my inability to concentrate on the lyrics. Sure some catchy rhymes caught my fancy, but I never tried piecing all the words to collective whole, the soundscape was what mattered. Then Pink Floyd ambled into my life which changed a lot of things, the scarcity of words in their music made their words celebrities in their own right and demanded I understand the lyrics.

In a recent U2 album, Bono starts off with recursive function – ‘Every breaking wave on the shore
Tells the next one there'll be one more’ and then arrives at a mundanely philosophical verse –

‘..If you go?
If you go your way and I go mine
Are we so?
Are we so helpless against the tide?
Baby every dog on the street
Knows that we're in love with defeat
Are we ready to be swept off our feet
And stop chasing
Every breaking wave’

Now, even though this song often pops up in my shuffle, I never paid much heed to it, until a couple of recent rides to Kanyakumari and Mahabalipuram.

I have been known to ride ludicrous distances. 500, 600, 700 kms in a day. But I never managed to do overnight trips all by myself, somehow the thought scared me. And with good reason too as well. Sure, everyday a StoryPick or ScoopWhoop article tells us 15 reasons why we need to travel alone. Well, it isn’t as simple as that but more on that later J

Kanyakumari holds a truly special place in my life. The first real ‘road-trip’ on my bike (No, a ride to Nandi Hills isn’t a road-trip. Please.) . On the road with my closest friends. So when finally months of early morning gymming, all-consuming office work and late night studying finally got the better of me I realized I need a weekend away. But wait, its 2 in the a.m., I am not going to find anyone to ride out with me. But once it sank in that I need this, and its 2 a.m. it was a no-brainer. Just grow a pair and ride out!

The road to Kanyakumari, is well, a boring one to be honest. Reach Silk Board, open the throttle and start counting down the kilometers. Krishnagiri came and went; Salem came and went in the wee hours of the morning. As the sun rose, I found my comfort zone, comfortably cruising at 120, my dynamic solitude (Yes there are two types, one is the solitude while riding and one when you are stationary). I finally found the time to look back and feel good about the things I accomplished in the madness of the previous months. The usual grin in the face when I leaned into the gently sweeping bends came back. Yep. My Happy Place.

10 a.m. Madurai Bypass, time for brunch. A Dosa, 2 Milkshakes (Come on, I am on vacation) and another couple of hours I was outside Tirunelveli. Maybe I should try the famous Halva here, but damn, the bypass never let me close to the city !  

Another hour and the wind-farms started. And the landscape is a sight to behold. The green Western Ghats signing off in splendor. The blue sky above streaked with white wisps and the lowlands dotted with endless windmills slowly acknowledging the breeze. There was even a train track amidst all this. Sights like these, they give you hope. Hope that we can still live in harmony with nature.

Anyways. 12 in the noon.  Kanyakumari. The road unfortunately ends here.(Sorry for the lame pun).  Hotel check-in. A Shudh Desi Meal at Baba Ramdev ka dhaba and an hour’s nap later it finally sunk in. I am here for the weekend. Alone!

Now being alone in a new place (read solitude) isn’t so bad when you have things to do. It’s when you run out of things to do, when you are left totally alone with your thoughts that solitude gets you.

Kanyakumari is a good touristy place.  But it’s the places around that are really spell-binding. From the virgin sands of Sanguthurai Beach, the seaside hamlets of Kheezamanakudi to the groves near the Mathur aqueduct.

Let me rephrase, Kanyakumari is a good place for ‘tourist watching’. It’s the places around Kanyakumari, the offbeat ones that are really the ‘tourism spots’.

After a good bout of offbeat tourism, as the sun started to say farewell, I strolled down to the beach and got into the water, trying to recreate in my mind, the magical evening I spent with my friends 2 years ago. How we frolicked in the rising tide. As I  felt the waves lapping at me, I saw it all. One of us trying desperately to hold on to our room keys. Two of them, perched on a slimy rock suddenly being toppled over by a sneaky wave, only to re-emerge and laughing uncontrollably. Oh, their laughter.

Flashes like these, they are triggers. The flashes of that evening didn’t stop; they triggered a whole cascade of emotions. Here I was, stripped to the bare minimums in the water looking around at people. There were groups of friends, like the ones I pined for, throwing each other into the waves, hooting in innocent ecstasy. There were also families – dads and uncles supervising, yet still trying to act cool and frolicking in the waves. The moms and aunts resisting being dragged into the water, yet enjoying every bit of it. The cool ‘grown up kids’ posing for the camera with ‘yo’ signs and finding weird ways to enjoy the water. The brothers trying to mimic each other in how they enjoy the waves. The hoots, the shouts, the exclamations of joy and here I was sitting pathetically in the water, alone.

Now I am not much for symbolism or philosophy, but situations like these, they really mess you up.

‘..If you go?
If you go your way and I go mine
Are we so?
Are we so helpless against the tide?
Baby every dog on the street
Knows that we're in love with defeat
Are we ready to be swept off our feet
And stop chasing
Every breaking wave’

This verse kept looping in my head. Am I really this helpless against the tide of time? So desperately trying to cling on to those last memories of friends, even though I know that they are gone, the beautiful memories obscured behind the veils of careers and ambitions. Those pure moments we shared. Such cruel dilemmas – try to keep them alive to cherish them or bury them in a recess of my mind to avoid the pain of reminiscing about them. Should I stop chasing these memories or just get swept by the tides of time, see where they take me.

And it’s not just friends that came back to haunt me. The images of other families enjoying, they conjure up images of a childhood I never had. The cheesy moments that families share – the stiff family photographs against the setting sun, posing in front of the temples, everyone say cheese! Waiting for Mom to select something to buy from the beach side stalls and then imploring Dad to just pay up and stop haggling. Playing hide and seek with the cousins as moms shout out not to go out too far. Getting our names written on a rice seeds. Struggling to decide what to order at the local dhaba for dinner so that everyone is satisfied.

I am indeed this helpless against the tide. Years and years of being away from a family setting has turned me against these clichéd displays of family bonding. I grimace every time I have to pose for a click with the family during vacations and try every family outing seems to drag on for ages, but yet when I am here alone, I pathetically yearn for those cheesy displays. I want to get those pose for those clichéd clicks and yet I want to detest them at the same time. Is it true that I am really ‘in love with defeat’? This mental torment which I know I am bound to lose? Those waves are gone and new ones will keep coming. When will I stop chasing them?               

I had finally relented to the bonds of friendship, come out of my shell so to say, found a pseudo family with whom I could share those ‘cheesy’ moments. But they are gone as well, and the real family seems like a distant dream. A family, which I am unable to spend time with, duties to which I can’t execute, moral obligations to which I can’t fulfill. Friends, whom I cherish as friends, but can’t even bring myself to talk to. It’s all gone. I am here standstill, hoping that time will freeze, while everyone else is running. Reminds me of a Pink Floyd song – ‘Time’:

‘..Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again..’

Sometimes I wonder, if I am indeed trying to catch up with the proverbial ‘Sun’  - reliving those moments with friends, trying to imagine those moments I wanted with my family but I never had, trying to find solace in watching other people living my dreams.

These ‘waves’. I don’t know if they want me to move on or they want to me to cling on those memories. I can’t make sense of my actions, these trips alone, are they an act of rebellion? Proving to myself that friendship is highly overrated and family is just a figment of imagination in our world or are they my last desperate attempts to hold on to the principles of friendship and family. Am I the solitary rock breaking these unrelenting waves or am I the one eroding with every lash of the waves, giving in to the illusion of being with my friends, my family again.

Whatever the ultimate truth may be, I can see I am not ready to realize it. I enjoy these schizophrenic moments of ambiguity. They give me purpose, letting me to live in sanity until the next ride.

Maybe it’s really me speaking out or maybe it’s just the couple of pints I just downed speaking for me, the reality remains that

‘Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say..'

Anyways,   i guess you learnt that travelling alone and solitude ain't as glamorous as Scoopwhoop or StoryPick claim it to be. 

All I can say is - Pink Floyd. Damn You. 

An incomplete pilgrimage

I was never one for religion, never was, maybe never will be, religious at convenience at the most.

So, when I got an offer to accompany a couple who of friends on a pilgrimage, i wondered, why ?

The most obvious attraction for me was climbing up the 3300 odd stairs up to Tirumala, the humble (?) abode of Lord Venkateshwara, also known as Balaji, and visit one of the biggest tourist attractions Andhra Pradesh has to offer.

So, the intent decided, i signed up for it. And as it turned out, even though I didn't get a chance to say Hi to the One himself, i did meet some interesting people and dug up some questions, the answers to which I will be searching for a while.

We had to catch our bus from Shantinagar bus stand at 10 pm. Signaled an auto rickshaw and told him the destination and got a ridiculous fare estimate. ' I hate these auto's ' , i muttered to myself and let him go.

Another auto i signaled, told him the destination, and with a vigorous nod, he signaled me in. just to be sure, i asked him if he would be charging meter fare. His answer amused me as much as my question amused him.

Bemused, he replied, yes of-course! Why do u ask ? I said that the previous auto guy had asked a ridiculous amount. He then just smiled and said 'Kuch log milke sabka naam kharab kar dete hain'. There was a certain civility in his response and manner that I find wanting in most auto drivers' in Bangalore. I sensed he was different. How different , i was about to find out.

My friend and I started chatting about the itinerary and the route when the driver interrupted us to,ask if we were going to Tirupati, we replied in the affirmative and he began a friendly and all knowing banter about Tirupati, the places to see, what timeline to aim for, how he used to go there twice a,month and how to obtain your fix of nicotine there, if  u need it.

Then, he veered to the subject of our employment, which was strange, but given the friendly nature of his, we answered. In our endeavor to answer him, we slowly went about pronouncing the names of our employers and when we were done, he just nodded knowingly and nonchalantly, he said, ‘Yeah, I work at IndusInd bank’ .

Wait. Did you just say you work at a bank?! My friend and I just stared at each other. Our expressions – ‘Say what?!’

Finally, getting a grip, I asked, (there is no way you could ask this without feeling stupid), ‘Then why are you driving an auto!?’

‘ I got a 3.5L package from the bank, being a vehicle loan executive, itne me Bangalore me kya hota hai?’. Wait, that sounds like me. No, like all of us in the IT industry. ‘That’s why I work at the office from 10 – 5 and then drive an auto from 5 – 11.

It was just plain mockery. Here we were, complaining about the peanuts that we earn, even though our earning is enough to keep us pampered and here is this man, who is working to shifts, in entirely different jobs, making his ends meet and still happy.

Meeting people like these, it changes you, you look at life differently, and suddenly our lives don’t seem to be that bad as we complained, suddenly things were in perspective – people with bigger troubles than ours are more contended. Life isn’t just about CBRs, PS3s, B-twins and a 2BHK, it is about appreciating what you have and being contended with it, not to undermine ambitions, but still living life to the fullest as it comes.

But my embarrassment didn’t end there. When we reached the bus stand, I handed him a 100 rupee note. There was the question of a 3 rupee change; I just wanted to waive it off. Not a good move that, after talking to him for that long, he made sure, our exchange was exact to the rupee. Not only that, he gave me back 11 rupees that he asked me to put in the Hundi at Tirupati, at his behest.

I knew, I had a sleepless night ahead of me, the stiff bus ride was a factor to it, but the chance encounter with Vishwajeet was going to be the real culprit.

We reached Tirupati at 4 a.m. and decided to start the climb while it was still cool, and of course ‘Shubh kaam me deri kaisi J ‘

The climb to Tirumala is on paper a daunting one, 3300 odd steps, never easy. But we were pleasantly surprised, after getting freshened up at the pilgrim center, we started our climb. The first step contains a holy fire from which we took our blessings. Also, we took off our shoes, I had read it somewhere - the climb is best done barefoot.

It isn’t really difficult, the steps are designed for an easy walk, after every 15-20 steps comes flat platform which allows the muscles to relax, and so we powered through.

The interesting thing that I saw was a backbreaking ritual, two women smeared every step on the way in vermillion and the man of the house lighting up camphor cakes on each of the steps. The trio would do this for all the steps. One step at a time.

What kind of belief is this? What faith powers these men and women? Grandma’s and Granddad’s ignoring their throbbing knees and aching backs taking every step with a smile on their faces as vital young men like us catch our breath on the side.  Maybe God really resides here, here in the steps, not up there draped in gold.

As I climb up the vermillion caked steps I notice another group of men, saying they will be climbing the stairs in one go. This got me thinking. The multitude that was climbing the stairs, some climbing out of devout passion to the One, some climbing because their parents said so, some climbing out of habit and some like me, just trying to prove themselves, they are capable to climb 3000 steps.

Which brings me to the question of faith, a question of belief, a question that haunted me as I stood in line to meet the One, the question that tortured me as I left the queue saying it just wasn’t worth it?

I am puzzled behind the motive of it all. Why do people climb those steps when they could have easily reached the temple on a bus, in a car, why do they brave standing day and night in a sea of sweat in the sweltering heat, constantly being battered by waves and waves of humanity (?) trying to force the queue ahead when they know people with wads of money will be allowed to meet Him first.

Most of these people don’t make enough to live properly yet they still believe, yet they still brave all the discomfiture to pay HIM their respects. What do they have to pay HIM respect for? They lead an uncomfortable life, barely managing to piece the bare amenities of life, the lowest rung of our society.

While I was standing in the Queue, I saw VIP cars and people with tourist packages go in and come out after their moments with God while elderly people get pushed around.

This is entirely illogical. I have always been told that the whole point of a pilgrimage was to show God that we are willing to suffer; we understand the pains that we need to go through to obtain the Promised Land.

Then how come money changes it all?  How come people in AC cars get to go ahead and meet him ahead of the people who climb the stairs braving all sweat and sore muscles, and blistered feet, and wait for 16 hours straight after the climb to get a fleeting chance to get to see Him.

As I walked back from the line another line of thought opened up. Maybe these people brave all this inhumanity because it gives them a sense of purpose, a push to go on with their mundane lives, a reason to overlook the difficulty of their existence.

Another reason I heard was, ‘God didn’t want to meet you, so you left the line’. Another old wives tale in my mind. This is a question I will be grappling for a long time; I cannot fathom the logic behind all of this. Maybe I am trying to justify my lack of faith or maybe I am finding excuses, but I believe that if He created me, it shouldn’t be so hard for me to go and meet him. That would just make him a terrible, terrible parent. Not that I claim to be his favorite child or anything.

War and Peace

9^th June, 2012

Paradise Lost. It’s really difficult to ride out, so I had a discussion with Ani, we can’t in good conscience ride to Kargil today. So, much to Ani’s dismay, we had to spend the day in Srinagar. Not a bad idea after all, it is after all paradise on earth. So we decided to check out Gulmarg.

I can’t stop writing this, but it is paradise on earth, over yonder I saw, for the first time in my life, snowcapped peaks, the lower altitudes being covered in pine forests, a glacier snaking its way to the foothill. I wonder if the water gurgling next to the road in the small aqueduct is coming from that glacier.

Climbing up to Gulmarg is a slow affair, being a tourist hotspot, but that leaves you with more time to ogle at the rolling green meadows speckled with the coniferous flora under a bright blue sky…. Stuff out of an artist’s imagination.

Gulmarg, I suppose I would have enjoyed a little more if I would have stayed there for a couple of days, just camp out, and roam around aimlessly in the meadows. It is, in fact, God’s garden, desecrated by mere mortals like us.

Back in Srinagar, we feasted on sumptuous Wazwan. A must have, I simply can’t describe the heavenly feeling of having succulent mutton with rice. This is what I call a vacation. We also bought some wollen gloves and other supplies for the next day.

A big regret that I have is not being able to spend a day in a shikara on the Dal lake, I have grander plans of doing that, some day with that special someone.

One truly interesting thing we did at Srinagar was hunting ‘Rosa Bal’. It is said that the remains of Jesus Christ are buried in a tomb there. But it is a very hush affair and people do not like anyone snooping around for that place for obvious reasons.

Nonetheless Ani’s curiosity led us on a treasure hunt in the back alleys of Srinagar. When we finally found the place, we were kind of scared, people REALLY don’t like strangers in that location and couple of guys walked up to us asking what we were doing, I tried to bluff my way out of it, but they were wise to the act. They let us go with a strong warning ;) Fun Times.

10^th June, 2012

7 a.m. The mountains beckon. We start out for Kargil. On the menu was a delicious ride through Sonmarg and a cold desert in the form of the first mountain pass on the way – the might Zoji La.

Leaving Srinagar, while I am circling the Dal lake en-route to NH1D, there is a building surge of anticipation and urgency that builds up inside. Today’s route will be the first foray into the Himalaya’s, Zoji La Pass and then a descent into Drass and finally Kargil, places of immense significance in our history.

Riding on the road to Sonmarg is both easy and difficult at the same time. The roads are in pristine condition but the beauty of the valley makes me stop and stare every 100 meters. There is not a single vista I want to miss out, wanting to capture every single landscape.

The road snakes through the valley, a white river gurgling by side. Beyond the river are the foothills of continuous chains of mountains towering high above everything else. On the other side are meadows that gradually turn into a continuous green wall of mountains.

The small hamlets that we passed filled me with envy; it is, truly, the stuff of dreams. No modern age distractions just nature. Small green aqueducts, flowing by the side of the road, carrying pristine water straight from the glaciers. A far cry from the water carrying tankers in Bangalore. And this is what aggravates the envy within me, people living, not people trying to make a living. They have a heritage of their own, songs of their own and what people do is for themselves and the society, unlike the life I lead, making money for someone else.

But enough of introspection, riding forward, I anxiously note the location of the last hamlet I passed, the last mechanic I saw, it’s part of riding, that ‘just in case’ element. Soon we reached Sonmarg and after a couple of minutes of swearing at the beauty of the place we halt for breakfast. The mountains around seem to be protecting the small valley, hugging it tight, protecting its beauty from the harsh mountains that lay beyond. Sonmarg has become commercial, but still enchants.

After Sonmarg, the Zoji La starts. And it does announce its presence majestically. We were still riding through green valleys when suddenly after a left turn we are greeted by a wall, white and gray mountains, the sun and greenery suddenly turn into ominous clouds, snow and slush filled trails passing for a road.

The fun begins then, we are greeted by a jam at a bottleneck turn, moving forward we found that there was some blasting work in progress to clear the roads and traffic will be allowed only post 3 pm, this was not good. Zoji La was in a bad mood, dark clouds were already announcing the pain ahead.

Luckliy the soldiers posted there came to aid, during a casual chit chat, they mentioned that there is a small trail that we could take that bypasses the blasting work and hence make good time. Thanking them, we started the trek and man o man, it was true offroading, there was no road, only boulders. Big and small, razor sharp rocks on the road, residues from blasting work which soon turned into heavy slush, ankle deep as soon as we ascended higher into the mountain pass. At one point the entire road was blocked and we literally had to remove rocks and make a path for ourselves.

The top of Zoji La was a nightmare come true, very low visibility thanks to the fog, the rain precipitating all around us and the thin mountain air, riding through ice cold water inside puddles on the road. 

                                      

 But it was beautiful too, there were white glaciers all around us, we were in the mountains! The Himalayas!

Somehow still holding to our senses, we descended from Zoji La, the weather didn’t ease up though so we halted at an army outpost, no warm tea, the head officer said, but we welcomed the opportunity to stay warm for a while and change our dripping socks and gloves. The army men also gave us the information that Drass had clear weather, we had to push through the bad weather then.

Heading out again was a failure, we had to stop at a small shop again just 2 kms from the outpost because of heavy rain. This stop was a life saver though. The owner, a jolly man named Muzzafar had us feast on piping hot maggi, tea and puri’s while telling his ordeal during the Kargil war.

Listening to men tell their war tales, that can’t be described, he told us how he and his family had to flee the village of which only a skeleton remained, to Sonmarg, how everything he had was lost and that when he returned, all he was given was a blanket and a stove to feed himself, and yet he endured, building himself a fine little shop, saving the lives of weary travelers. Heart wrenching. We thanked him profusely and then headed out towards Drass.

Day light was waning, so couldn’t really admire the landscape, but then there isint much to ogle at either, it was just endless mountains of myriad shapes, sizes, colors, playing with clouds, feeding rivers from their glaciers, but then we are going to be seeing this for the rest of the ride, so we powered through to Drass.

A small tea break here and we headed out to Kargil, our stop for the day. Much to our dismay, the road started to deteriorate and to add to our woes, all tourist cabs were scurrying to reach Kargil with no respect for the fact that they constantly trying to run is into the gorge running next to the road!

There was one particular cab that irked me a little too much, so I decided to irk him as well, always blocking the way, however much he honked ;) That was fun!

We reached Kargil around 8, and just crashed into the first hotel we saw, it had been a tough day of riding.

 Some vistas on the way..