A bit of the road and my first field birding trip

I am not a compulsive blogger and I am chronologically challenged
too. On top of it all, every time I post up here I am heavily spammed in
the form of comments by various bots. And I can tell you its a fucking
nuisance to have to repeatedly hit the "notify as spam" button and yet see
the same bots do the same thing down the line.

So you can say I have my reasons for being silent out here. But now that my
father has recovered (in fact, apart from the bypass surgery he had -- from
a very bad self-inflicted scalding because he poured hot water over himself
in a hotel bathroom at Tirumala) and the book moves on
as poetry does, I hope to blog more here on this online journal
of my days (for whatever it is worth).

And in time, I hope I will get used to the bots crapping here, I guess
the way I have got used to all and sundry Facebook comments and notifications.

How I digress, you will say!

**

If you like having the wind in your face, if you like the road (whatever
it means to you, there are a thousand and one "road" philosophies, and
then some) you would know that in India there is no better time to
ride than in the winter -- when the temperature is a bracing "not-even-warm"
in the day and the nights though chilly (and very much so, even around
Hyderabad,lately)are just right to gather around a fire or a Dhaba's tandoor,
when you have that gloriously golden evening light that gives chrome a
glint that is downright in-describable.

And most of the winter past I wasn't exactly in a position to ride, couldn't
get away, did not want to be far from home. But then, as all good things
happen in time, I did manage to be in a position to answer the call of the
road around the third week of January.

It so happens that my trusted (and much loved) Bullet will turn 10 years
this May; and though I still don't know what it amounts to, this extended
ownership of and loyalty to the same set of wheels, these highway miles
that we have shared together, I do know that (though there are the usual
pitfalls and worries) there is no better way to eat up the miles than on a
Royal Enfield.

And (since I have been part of four of them) I will also say, there is
no better biker event to ride to than the annual Rider Mania conducted
by the Bullet clubs every January.This year's event was held on the
outskirts of Delhi, by the Royal Beasts.

Most importantly, last year I had fallen en route to Rider Mania
(at Kolkata) so this time around it was important that I be there. If for
nothing else, just for the pure pleasure of calling myself a biker.

But then, I had goofed up and my Bullet was not exactly ready for the road
and I was a total "mixed pickle" in the head; all at ends and in no position
to plan for the road. At around the same time my good friend
Bikram of the Road Survivors Chandigarh offered to lend me his
Bullet. Which meant that I could take a train to Delhi and then
another to Chandigarh.

And then ride out in a group (and a fairly large one) to Manesar.

350 or so kms each way (I am just guessing, the Thunderbird Bikram lent
me had no functional odometer) through cold winds which felt like a wet
cloth touching the exposed parts of the skin (in the day) and made me
feel like a Bedouin would in Greenland (in the night) still isn't much of
a Rider Mania tour. But I will take it, riding as I was with a "recuperated"
collar bone, on a strange (the Thunderbird's brake and gear levers
are opposite to that of my Bullet) bike, wearing an open-faced helmet
without a proper retaining strap provided the rest of the edge.

As did the effort of reining myself in, not opening the throttle
wide open, after all one doesn't push a bike lent by a friend
to the limits, does one?

The ride from Chandigarh to Manesar apart, there was quite a bit
of riding that I did in Chandigarh itself. This was my fourth
visit to Chandigarh and I consider myself genuinely fortunate
to have friends in this lovely city of well planned Sectors
(reminiscent of the Sectors of Rourkela) as also the lovely
Paranthas, the wayside "spring rolls" and the roundabouts.

But my most enduring memory of Chandigarh will remain the number
of turbans and the number of brightly coloured groups -- of women
and men standing out in the sun and doing nothing much but basking,
like so many butterflies. Maybe its because, it is summer and getting
hotter by the day when I write this, and I am always looking forward
to the coming of the butterflies :-)

**

It has been more than a year since I have been seriously "birding".
And while I am no ornithologist or even someone with a Graduate level
of knowledge of zoology (and by inference or extension, of birds) I
am a bit surprised about how well I have taken to it. About how fast
my development has been, about how I delight in seeing birds everywhere,
even in humdrum urban situations -- like the Black Kites of Hyderabad,
Vizag,Delhi and Chandigarh; or the Sparrows, Munias, Prinias, Silverbills
and Starlings (and crows) all around my place; or the almost "blessed
sighting" of a Peacock / Hornbill crossing over from one patch of urban
forestry to another, right over the head of road-borne me; or seeing
very green Parakeets disappear into the dirty grey monotony of a
telephone pole and so on...

And I have been getting away from it all too, stalking waterbirds,
peacocks, kingfishers, sandpipers, rollers, koels, shrikes and the
like, identifying woodpeckers, hoopoes, barbets and the like, even
as the photography has become -- in conjunction with my increasing
levels of patience and application of field-craft -- better, day by
day. And through all these days, I have continually thought about
being out in a forest / sanctuary for much more than just a couple
of hours, continually thought about the "birding bliss" of coming
across a bird that I have come across online or read about in the
accounts of someone like Kenneth Anderson. Coming across it in
flesh and blood, perched in sight and holding me rapt in attention,
transfixed like a kid looking a gift horse in the face.

As such, way back from Chandigarh, it was but natural that I landed
up at Bharatpur (especially since my much anticipated trip to
Amritsar was not happening because of the freakish cold) considering
that it was almost directly on the way back home.

And I spent a blissful 4 days at Bharatpur, cycling into the park on
a daily basis shooting a bevy of "first sightings" -- as myriad as
Nightjars, White-tailed eagles, Sarus cranes and Treepies and as
common as Painted Storks and Common Coots.

Looking back, the best part of those four days was an encounter
with a Shikra (juvenile, me thinks) in a thicket. I did not
understand when I was clicking away -- why the Shikra wouldn't fly
away, but just hop within the thicket. I must have shot some 30-40
"keepers" of the guy and finally left bemused because I did
not want to spook him / her. Later on, I saw why the bird was
behaving that way, it had one claw badly wounded and probably
in no mood to do any flying away or gallivanting. From what little
I know of raptors being that close to one is "rare" and I will
certainly cherish this encounter. Who cares if the Shikra wasn't
"perfect"? Am I? Are you?

To (and fro) from the City Beautiful

If I ever changed my religion (though I wear my religion
very lightly and am pretty comfortable in my skin about
being a Hindu) I would convert to Sikhism and immediately
get down to learning how to tie a turban and growing
(and grooming) a beard.

And if I ever decided to swear citizenship or allegiance
or mentally get fixated and rooted to any state / province
in India (a remote possibility since I have grandiosely
believed myself to be equally belonging to the length
and breadth of ONE country called India) that state would
be Punjab.

For you see, I have immense respect (bordering the worshipful)
for the Sikh religion, creed, code of living and brotherhood
and just love most things Punjabi -- especially the food and
the Nishan Saheb marked "Panjabi Dhabas".

So, since I was to be in Delhi and was to wind up my trip
at the holiest city for Hinduism - Varanasi, I had tried
to pencil in a visit to Sikhism's holiest city, Amritsar
too.

But though my friends in Chandigarh did all they could,
to help with tickets etc. the Amritsar trip did not
happen. Largely because I did not want to arrive too
late in Varanasi (and also because I had my own
trepidations about traveling unreserved, weighed down
as I was with so much of gear).

But I did manage to get to Chandigarh, the city beautiful
for no reason but to meet some crazy, way out, madcap
(and absolutely solid and middle of the path) biker friends
whom I have surprisingly known and kept in touch with for
more than 7 years, (since that Ladakh trip).

Refreshingly enough, though we noted that most of us
were graying, the never-let-age-catch-up-with-your-biker-spirit
attitude was very much there, as was the genuine interest
and concern in each other. And though I spent barely a day
in Chandigarh and couldn't see anything much of the city
(or the sights around it)I did manage to "chill out with
the boys" over some draught and tuck into some awesome
Punjabi food for dinner (at Nagpal's Dhaba) and breakfast
the day after.

Fortunate indeed are they who live in (or have friends)
the city beautiful -- Chandigarh!

And oh yes, two more things. The train trip I took to
reach Chandigarh from Delhi must have been one of the
best "short" trips I have ever been on. You can say I am
being a bit too Pessoan with "descriptives" or just being
too romantic but I will still maintain that the grass,
wheat, sugarcane, parakeets, etc. look far greener
in Punjab. While the crows look far more gregarious
and the "Theka Desi Daaru" -- small, un-plastered,
one room affairs in the middle of endless acres of
fields worth of portraiture.

The second thing? Well, I discovered that it is possible
to get a bus (normal bus, non-Ac, non-Volvo) seat with
legroom. And also possible to write on a laptop while
bussing (though it was dusty most of the way -- and since
GT Road seems to be suffering road widening -- and
jarring). But most surprisingly, history was made
on that bus trip.

I slept.

Maybe it was the draught beer from the evening before.

Or it was the contentment of having met old friends.