Wintry Train Trippings

Let's face it, most of our trains are dirty, most of our train travelers are opportunists intent on getting the most out of their berths, everyone treats the bathrooms and vestibules (at the very best as their colony's garbage heap and yet...and yet...there is that mystique to traveling by train.

Especially if it is winter and you don't feel being slow-cooked into Biryani by that most Indian of seasons -- summer.

Then again there is the affordability -- a Sleeper Class railway ticket to Delhi costs less than what a cab to the Airport does, in fact costs so much lesser than you can treat yourself to Beer and Biryani with what you have saved.

And, as I had already mentioned here earlier, train journeys are a nice way to unwind with nothing much but a book (or the prospects of a snack) to occupy your mind :-)

***


This time (I was headed for Delhi and then onto Chandigarh, from where I was to ride down for Rider Mania) my train was from Kacheguda and that meant taking an early morning Auto that cost almost half what the train ticket itself did. The incongruity of "urbanization" and "development" is it not?

This time (unlike the trip during September) I had a reservation, and the train was an early morning one (and post the launchitis of Ink Dries), so I started my unwinding with a long snooze that finally broke when the smell of Samosas -- that divine cocktail of a smell, of masala-laced potatoes and fried oil broke through my languor, latched into my olfactory sensors and summoned me into wakefulness.

And I do love Samosas, so it meant one or two did not suffice, but three did. I will also be shameless enough to mention that these were big and pretty hard) Samosas, but then I will also remind you that I had had no breakfast.

This was in January of what was a very very cold (especially by Deccani standards) and the weather was still mild so I enjoyed the fortune of gazing out at and drinking in from an un-ending cinemascope of bright blue skies and verdant greens, passing through what was once the Kakatiya kingdom, fertile expanses irrigated by the plenty of irrigation tanks -- the landscapes I have seen so often on my motorcycle wanderings through the lovely Deccan, on interior roads without name...rice fields sparkling with the liquid green-gold glint of growing rice, like giant bird eyes and the dark massifs of stone too, at least one in every sweep of my eye -- the Kondas I know not the names
of -- as a reminder of the aridity of this land.

Then I did nothing much till Ballarshah which (if as all the readers of my blog know) is where one comes across those famous and sinfully inexpensive Puris. And no, ravenous though I was, I did not order the lunch from the pantry car, such was the memory of familiarity and trust of those Puris.

Ballarshah comes but seems to have been wiped clean of all the hawkers. Absolutely wiped clean, so no Puris for me. But then, I scour the platform (the trains stop here for a fair amount of time, in fact, many get a cleaning / scrubbing here) and luck it out by finding a chap selling warm-to-the-touch meal packets out of a shoulder borne carton and get one. Open sesame -- there's a brick sized lump of rustic small-grained and unpolished rice, like what I have eaten across many a hostel mess in Orissa, along with small packets -- of green peas and potato curry, what looked and smelt like lentil soup (Dal), watery buttermilk and even mango pickle.

All this for 30 INR only, simple, wholesome and honest food that doesn't pretend to be anything else.

Please do remember that I don't claim to be a foodie, before you blame me for having forgotten what I did for dinner. Maybe I did do something unique but honestly, I don't remember. What I do remember is sleeping a bit early and then tossing and turning all night, feeling more and more frozen --I had forgotten to pack any blanket -- with ever kilometre of the train's progress into the cold of the north. And yes, it was really cold, the kind when you want to draw you feet into your legs and your fingers into your hands, the kind when you try that part foetus like, part dog like curl to conserve body warmth.

But then whoever designed the berths of the Indian Railways did not account for somebody as big as me, so the curling wasn't that effective either. Yes, my self-inflicted travails are legion but what matters is that somehow I survive them all, so the long cold night passed and I lived.

To wake (late) and find the train slowly making its way through heavy fog all the way into Delhi with splashes of sunlight here and there, as infrequent as butterfly sightings in December. Catnapping, I spent most of the time in a sleepy reading, of the meanings revealed in the mingling of my frosty breath with the vapours rising out of hot tea.

***

I had arrived at Hazrat Nizamuddin (and since I was prepared for the deluge of taxi-drivers and hotel touts) did not have much issues getting out of it. Or rather, since I was looking for a place to "refresh" myself (or to use the motorcycle tourer / outdoors types equivalent -- go behind the bushes) and move on to New Delhi Railway Station to catch the Una Jan Shatabdi, probably most of the touts did not find me a potential prospect.

I managed to "refresh" myself at much effort (and with a leap of faith that involved leaving my luggage unguarded right outside the loo) breakfasted on some delicious roadside Chana Kulchas and then got into a bus headed for New Delhi Railway station with the vague idea of buying woolens somewhere near it, if time permitted.

Did I not tell in an earlier blogpost that I have developed an eye for birds, that I see them everywhere, even in very humdrum urban settings? What I forgot to say is that every such sighting, even of very "common" birds leaves me with a soul-soaring of joy, something that is simply indescribable in prosaic terms. So here I was groggy after a night lacking in warm sleep -- the ideal thing for me was to ask a co-passenger (there were quite a few good looking ones wearing bright sweaters and scarves and what nots) where I should go (near NDLS) to buy some decent woolens. Instead I was looking all around and marveling at the Black Kites of New Delhi, the sheer multitudes of them, as common as me and literally everywhere and flying in unhurried nonchalance all over early morning barricaded-for-Republic-Day New Delhi.

In fact, I almost pulled out my camera (it was not in a backpack, but a suitcase rather) and almost got down from the bus and almost...but better sense prevailed and I reached New Delhi Railway Station.

And oh yes, I did not find any good woolens but I found some "okay" Chole Batore to tuck into. And then I was onto another platform, ready for another train journey. And then, there was the "foodie" discovery of the day -- on P.F. No. 10 -- a packet marked " Indian Railways Puri Sabzi, Rs. 10" surprisingly mine for 10 INR only. The contents weren't hot air either, 6 odd small (but thick) reddish, coarse-grained (hence immensely flavoursome) Puris, Potato curry and (just a dash of) pickle too!

Discovery isn't exactly the right word, I had a feeling of deja vu, have I found (and gorged on) such packets before?

Then I was again in a train bound for the greenness of Punjab and the bonhomie and paranthas (and butter) of the Panjab, in the Una Jan Shatabdi.

The Jan Shatabdi is "not" a bad way to go to Chandigarh, its in fact convenient, clean and middling "fast", but its also a "populist" train which means it is cheap and totally a "seater"( I could of course be wrong about the AC section) with barely more than enough leg room with three seats on either side of the aisle, seats that are again not meant for 6 feet types like me. Especially if the passenger besides happens to be equally big as me and intent on sitting "chaati phaad ke". But I was sure that I will somehow survive it all and reach Chandigarh and be in a position (even if fairly late) write this up :-)

The mild discomfort of being a bit closely packed apart it was yet another cinemascope of green fields and blue skies all around (rather when viewd from one side of the train -- the other had a weak, benign sun flaring into my eye and then fading into a blood red sunset while the train passed through what our history tells us were once battlefields red with blood -- Kurukshetra and Panipat and the quaintly evocative ones like Diwana and Aman. And to boot, the quaintness got heightened even further because my co-passenger (for a bit of the journey) all of nineteen years and a very charming kid with immaculate manners was reading Jane Eyre. Ha, reading and that too Jane Eyre!

Ambala arrived and I ate some more Kulchas, but I will not mention the rest, I am sure I have written about it somewhere on this blog itself recounting my earlier trip to Chandigarh by this very train...

But I must make mention of the Black Kites, again in large multitudes silhouetted against the flaring skies, which meant I again had that urge, of pulling out the camera and getting off the train, etc, etc.

Of course I didn't; and reached Chandigarh, surviving the cold getting colder with the evening. To be received at the station by K revving his Bullet and asking me to hop onto it with suitcase and all. He had even considerately brought along a helmet for me.

All that K and I did in Chandigarh (starting then on) deserves a dedicated blogpost and maybe I get around to missing Chandigarh a lot and will do it soon too.

Delhi -- Vignettes of this and that

The Autorickshaws here in Hyderabad are bug like, bright yellow
and black and thanks to the cussedness and perspicacity of their
drivers -- when it comes to getting the most out of every
passenger (especially with no other dependable means of public
transport), downright infamous. In Delhi, they are a eco-friendly
green -- run as they do only on CNG -- and their drivers
are positively chatty, if in a so what "let's show this
tourist the ropes of the capital" way. And not exactly looking
at stringing you for a million bucks, either.

Must be the effect of working in the shadow of the metro, or
the fact that migrants and movers (most of the auto drivers are
from Bihar and U.P., the archetypal Bhhaiyas) aren't exactly
there in the same league with local hicks when it comes to driving
a hard bargain. Or, for all I know, considering the volumes of
Autorickshaw users in Delhi, they get enough bakras and fight shy
of tangling with a Ray Ban wearing south Indian looking fellow
speaking in unaccented Hindi.


#$#@&^

The Delhi Metro is surprisingly seductive and far more efficient
and user-friendly (with amazingly polite and courteous staff) than I
expected it to be. Cameras cannot be used on the platforms (I
did not know and was merrily clicking away in one of the entrance
tunnels, but all that an armed policeman -- security is tight but
more or less non-invasive -- did was to wave at me in a minor
reprimand, no tongue-lashing, no checking, etc.) but it would be
fun to do some slow shutter speed photography on one of those
"junction" platforms when the passengers are moving from one
train to another, or running up or down, indistinct motion blurs
of a city's constituents on the move.

Getting buffeted by the slipstreams of all the moving humanity
is of course part of being the city's.

Yes, I traveled quite a bit on the metro and would say that
its easy enough to use. Also, evidently it is okay to be confused
and unaware of which train you should catch to get to your
destination. A lot of passengers around me were in the same
predicament. But then, there are enough staff (and police) around
to point in the right direction, so one learns and catches yet
another metro train.

#$#@&^

Sadar Road -- which passed through what seems like a continuous
village of two and three storied, un-plastered brick houses ill
at ease with the cheek-by-jowl sprawl of being part of a
city -- was where my hotel was at. And since it was a budget
hotel (but surprisingly clean and comfortable) not that stand-out or
hat ke from the environs all
around, either.

All of which meant that I had the proverbial room with a
view -- of a two laned road (with one under repairs), vegetable and
fruit hawkers (most of them in the middle of that road, under the
shade of bright yellow and green polythenes) the "one old teak chair
and a mirror is all it takes to be a saloon" barber shops. So many
rickshaws and tongas too, itinerantly at work all through the
heat and dust, going and coming.

Then there were the Black Kites in the skies above; along with
swarms of pigeons flying in formation -- probably from one coop
to another. Surprisingly, I did not take any photographs, the
atmosphere of impersonal strangeness in the hotel room helped
along my procrastination and the angles I could mentally
compose did not seem wide and encompassing enough as that
of a narrative. And the heat and dust didn't help either.


#%$@&

I am artless, unsophisticated and very, very middle class. So
I have no compunctions about eating anywhere as long as the place
is clean and the food promises an adventure for the palate. My
lunch and dinner was right on Sadar Road in two hotels that were
more or less holes in the wall. The food was rustic, honest and
right in tune with the in-your-face character of Sadar Road
(okay, I know it leads to Paharganj which has a reputation for being
seedy, but I never ventured that side). Paranthas (and curd) for two
(A ate with me on the first day, after helping me move in and settle
down in the hotel) as brunch and then Paranthas for one as a late
lunch. The hotel was run by a Sikh who surprisingly welcomed us
with a very salesman like Namaste (totally A's doing and his
Delhiness, I said or did nothing much but pronounce Parantha
the right way). The other culinary adventure (again in Sadar Road)
was at another hole in the wall type of eatery where I had
Rajma Masala (surprisingly hot) that came with grated cheese and
Matar Paneer (served with a big blob of butter) and Rotis (small
and saucer sized and served right out of the Tandoor) at Rs. 2
each. Nice and filling and the bill wasn't even in three figures
which was a welcome salve to my middle class wallet.

And yes, I ate elsewhere too. Like near the metro stations. While
watching the rickshaws queue up in neat orderly rows. I ate food
that was as inexpensive as a rickshaw fare -- Chole Bhatureys and
Channa Kulchas -- and as simple and unpretentious.

BTW, no Delhi Belly to report.

Come Again (Shit, What Did I Miss) ?

You know how it is with the Phantom -- that inimitable
super hero who wears his underwear over his trunks (or
tights), is married to the gorgeous Diana Palmer and has
a pet wolf (no, its not a dog) called Devil and a white
stallion called Hero.

You know how it is even with this superhero, the ghost who
walks, the lord of the Bandar and the protector of peace in
the jungle; however loath he be, even he has to go to the city,
from time to time.

And go he does, by simply becoming Mr. Walker, by donning a hat,
a coat and a pair of dark glasses.

I am no ghost who walks (with a loyal retinue of pygmies)
ruling the dark woods, but when it comes to interacting with
the dynamic character and the "news and events" section
of my corporate website called the city my trips are as
rare as the Phantom's.

And no, I am not saying my trips to the city -- I stay in a
part of Secunderabad that is still, out and out "suburbia" -- are
limited because of my current fascination with the photography
of birds, butterflies and wide open spaces. Or because (for more
or less, the last two months) I don't sally forth into it to earn
a living.

Nor because I am a recluse living in a tree house.

It's just so that when it comes to engaging with the
amplification of the city's vibrancy and cultural spirit -- be
it theatre, dance, a book release, an art exhibition, or any
other "happening" or it's collective pulse / voice -- a private
party, an evening at a pub, and so on; when it comes to engaging
with the auditory element in all of these, when it comes to
hearing to the city, what registers on me is cacophony and chaos.

Because, my ears (hearing aids, in fact) can't do a lot of things
yours can. Because, though they are sophisticated and sexy (who
says size matters -- when it comes to hearing aids) when new and
used in controlled environments (like the audiologist's
sound-proofed cabin or programming / audiology) lab,
my hearing aids just suck --

http://www.wired.com/culture/culturereviews/magazine/16-02/su_hearing_aids.

And, though I was told (I have been using these for more than a
year now)otherwise, my hearing aids seem to be incapable of
dealing with the loudness of voices, like that arising
out of recruitment --

http://www.hearinglosshelp.com/articles/recruitment.htm

And since every environment is different, with its own ambient
and unique sound fingerprint and since every new voice is
different, there is no way for me to know how much of my next
interaction with the "city" will be chaos and cacophony.

And how much of it will be a blessed voice that makes meaning.

But (though I am not into wearing underwear on top or flying
around in a cape, or interested in comparisons with super
heroes and their ilk) while I am not chicken, I do wish that
there are more places in the city where I can go and luxuriate
without getting assailed through the ears.

I also wish there were more spaces where I could be like a
gunman in an alien saloon -- in a wild west setting -- who
can sit with his back to a wall and watch the batwing doors
and not bother about anything because he can deal with
whatever he can see coming at him.

But then, if wishes could be horses, I would carry an
audiologist's sound-proof cabin with me everywhere. Or
everyone would carry a notepad (and not be stressed)
to write notes for me.

P.S. -- Written largely for no reason but for still thinking
in terms of "shit, what all did I miss?" after having
had some fairly cacophonic interactions with the "city"
on my 10 days of tripping. Two Cafe Coffee Day outlets
(and one upscale bar), metro and railway stations in Delhi,
the market, Vishwanath Galli and crowded bathing Ghats and a
boat on the Ganga (with a boatman called Rajan whose voice was
as high pitched as a child's; who typed the name of a
Ghat -- Vacchadraj -- on his cellphone for me).

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.

Delhi Diary

I am no wide-ranging traveler -- and no, I am not comparing
myself to an Ibn Batuta, a Periplaeus, a Marco Polo, a
Huein T'sang or even many of my motorcycling brethren who
have been to more "places" in this country (and world) than
me. In fact, when I say I am no wide-ranging traveler, I mean
to say that the average salesman of medical prescriptions,
software, etcetera must have been to more Indian (and oh yes,
foreign too) cities than me. It's not that I find it tough to
travel or am demanding when it comes to arrangements, etc. It's
just that most of my "chosen" traveling, as in the traveling that
comes from an urge to see the world, or is fueled by footlooseness,
has been on my motorcycle. And somehow, from the very beginning
of my days as a motorcycle tourer, the heavily laden, thumpingly
noticeable motorcycle has comes across more as an encumbrance
than a facilitator of traveling through the "city".

Which brings me to the time I had ridden from Karol Bagh to
Noida on the Bullet, with the Ladakh carriers (bulky Doodhwala
type of panniers meant to carry "survival gear" for man and
machine and other odds and ends up through the snow and slush
of Nallahs and mountain passes) freshy fixed to spend the night
at a friend's place. And how I had survived Delhi's chaotic
traffic and gaalibaazi (I did let loose a lot of gaalis too,
nobody seemed to mind much) and a couple of hits to the
Ladakh carriers in order to reach Noida.

If this wasn't enough of a thumbs down to the
motorcyclist-traveler in me, what happened two days after
totally swore me off from thinking of Delhi as a place to
go see, visit, feel, ride through and experience.

Oh well, nothing much happened. I was to set out for
Chandigarh (and Manali), so to say set out on the road
to Ladakh; but I started late (from Ghaziabad) and hence
was well and truly stuck in the traffic for well near 4 hours
in order to just get out of Delhi. Unless you have done this
yourself -- sleepless, hungover and on a (heavily laden) heavy
bike, cursing into your helmet, sweating into your jacket and
motorcycling shoes -- you can never really understand the pain
and the scarring of the psyche that it results in.

As such, my motorcycle has been parked more on beach sand and
highway verges and turf and the good earth, than it has been
in a "city".

Okay, I do exaggerate a bit, the traffic in Delhi is not the
only reason I have not ridden from Red Fort to Qutub Minar or
wherever else to wherever else, after all Hyderabad is at least
3 days of hard riding away. But then, first impressions are
first impressions and most of us don't change our impressions,
do we? We do lie a lot, but in my case I don't have to do that.
So there, as -- I have outlined in my ramble up above -- my
first impression of Delhi was "loud, pretentious, horrid traffic".

Or maybe I was exposed to the underbelly of the city, it's
road rage, it's concrete and claustrophobia and anyway never had
the luxury of spending time in it -- on my first visit or later --
to get a feel of its character.

But then, compared to seven years ago -- these are different
times, I am progressively realizing that there are times when
travel doesn't have to mean the Bullet, space that lets my mind
trip doesn't have to be an open sky and wide expanses -- the
impersonality of a hotel room is not that bad in terms of
spaciousness...

So who knows, maybe I will come again to Delhi, and -- like
this time -- again check into an obscure hotel in a not well
known road / street / bylane. And watch the throng of endless
Rickshaws (my hotel was on Sadar Road) and Tongas go by, unaware
or unconcerned by the note-taking of my writerly eyes.

And eat -- like this time -- deliciously fresh and totally
unpretentious food -- kulchas, bhaturas, paranthas,
samosas... -- from quaint roadside thelas and shacks and -- a
little more permanent -- hole-in-the-wall hotels.

And -- like this time -- travel in the Metro, again.

Thank you Delhi.

Post Script -- You know how it is, I grow old and forget things;
or there is so much to tell that even a long ramble like this
doesn't tell it properly or that since most of my writing on
this blog is more or less like a conversation with myself and
as such, there is a lot that has been said earlier, written
earlier, elsewhere...

Whatever.

I forgot to mention in the blogpost up above that one of the
warmest persons I have ever met in my life has been a
Delhite -- on the road to Chandigarh (on that historic ride
to Ladakh in 2005). I forgot to mention that this nice guy
(who incidentally was a Bulleteer who has been to Ladakh
numerous times) struck a conversation with me (on his own)
gave me a lot of tips on riding in Ladakh, nazar uttaroed me
(in a very bikerly way) for being crazy enough to set out
all alone at the end of the season and then also asked
me to look him up on the way back, saying he would like
to know how my ride was.

Surprisingly enough I remembered and called him up
when I was near Delhi (way back from Ladakh and
Chandigarh) and then this gent sent someone to
meet me and guide me to his factory and then
literally sat on my head until I agreed to stay
with him at his place.

Yes, you read that right, I rode through most of Delhi's
traffic to stay over at a perfect stranger's place. Blame
it on his large-heartedness and warmth. Or blame it on my
once-in-a-while-ability to be gregarious.

Either way, as you can see Delhi has been warm to me
for quite some time.

Thank you (again) Delhi.

A train to Delhi and Varanasi -- my gullibility travels (again)

A couple of days back, I have had the most peculiar dream;
that I am in a truck (or some kind of a cargo carrier, anyway)
wearing an expression of absolute tiredness, totally beat
and sweat-drenched and evidently in shock. Shock on
discovering that though I have my rucksack with me, I have
forgotten quite a lot of stuff behind -- namely my sleeping
bag, my tent, my camera tripod, a diary and so on...

Thankfully it was just a dream and I woke up to reality and
the fact that its been long since I have tripped in a way that
needed a sleeping bag and a tent.

But yeah, if you dig dreams the way I do -- this dream tells you
two things (or at least that's what I think);

i.) I have been planning a major trip and been thinking of
roughing it out too.
ii.) I am a bad traveler; at least in terms of losing things
while on the road.

And if you thought so, you would be right. Because I have been
contemplating a long trip up north -- starting from Kullu and
heading to Kedarnath and Badrinath and a bit of a bigger hike
into the snowy expanses all around. And yes, I am a bad traveler
and have lost quite a bit of stuff on the road. A list that
includes 2 pairs of hawai chappals, one set of gum boots
(this was in Ladakh in 2005 when my gear was bungeed down in a
fashion that would have made any tinker go green with envy), a
pair of Bermudas (this was somewhere after Pune when I was
returning back from a ride to Gujurat; I had the Bermudas spread
on the seat for some more comfort to my sore but and then they
just took wing somewhere), a Lonely Planet, a diary with detailed
trip logs (somewhere near Gira waterfalls in Dangs way back from
Ladakh in 2005), a tripod and a sleeping bag (at Barr in Rajasthan,
on way back from Ladakh in 2005 -- stolen while I was making a
STD call) and more helmets than I can remember...

Got to do with either the strain of being on the road, or not having
anyone watching my back or to do with my continued gullibility, but
then there you are, yes I have lost my fair share of this and that
on the road.

Oh well, while I am at it, I need to also make a clean breast of a
fact that would be downright criminal for any self-respecting
photographer (arguably also a traveler). I have also managed to
lose the lens hoods; of both the 18-105 and the 55-300 (Nikon
AF-VR) lenses I currently have. One was on the highway while I
was still getting used to the D-90 and the other was again on
the road (on a dirt track near my place, while I was on the
cycle -- way back from shooting nesting weaver birds).

So...ummm...well, hota hai yaar. Joke's on me and my gullibility,
you see.

So...ummm...well, it travels again, this time in the relative comfort
and order of a train. Heading out to Delhi (to meet a schoolmate whom
I haven't seen in more than 18 years) and thereafter to Varanasi and
the trip called Om Namaha Shivaya. And since a part of the journey
is unreserved, this should be fun :-)

No, for once I don't anticipate losing anything; but yes I look
forward to finding some poetry!

Tripping -- travels and travails

Coincidentally enough -- as I have been procrastinating a
blog post about an amazing road trip being undertaken by two
friends -- Prabha and Harsha Koda, I have been beset by a set
of related travails; the Enfield needs a new Carburetor (and the
type I want seems to be out of stock)starter coils and some other
TLC, the Schwinn is getting either its front or back wheel
punctured more or less with as much periodicity as the moon's
waxing and waning. If that was not incapacitating enough --
in between the Enfield being unable to keep up with the 100 CC
commuters and the Schwinn making serious holes in my pocket,
I also managed to go ahead and puncture the sole of my foot.

Which (naturally) led to a poem and a lot of wonder(even more
naturally)on my part -- that of seeing my blood dropping and
drying on a decrepit and sizzling hot (and rain-washed and
spanking clean) road and that of finding that the tear in the
"leather" of my sole more or less mended itself in barely 4-5
days. How's that for being well-worn, eh?

But then, this blog post is meant to be about Prabha and
Harsha Koda's trip all along the border of India, starting
from Mumbai and ending at Mumbai.
And yes, as of now they are in Leh, eating up the miles
steadily in their beloved Scorpio


And yes, in keeping with the confessions I routinely make
on this blog, here's another -- I was invited by these nice
people -- to be part of their trip and be with them from Srinagar
to Leh.

But I am here in the Deccan itself.

#$@%!!

Coincidentally again, I got around to finally cleaning my room today.
And found a bunch of receipts, visiting cards, bills, etc. from
a road trip that I had undertaken in January 2009 on
the Enfield -- down to Kanyakumari (and Rameshwaram) and then
up along the West Coast. Didn't have the heart to throw them,
maybe I will try and find some poetry in those bills, receipts,
et al...

The Road to Medhchal

(For Adrian)

We spreadeagled and pinned down
half a summer night
into conversations
-- soaring noon high --
of you and I, the roads in and out of life,
of you and I and throttle-fulls of speed and smoke.

We spreadeagled and pinned down
questions for time
-- the need to just ride, the need to just be --
mirroring the soul in the machine,
the engine in the being, agreeing
-- we write even as we ride --

In throttle-fulls of speed and smoke
book, chapter and verse
stories of metre and mile
the metre of miles....

Travel, Tentativeness and other Travails

In the eight odd months since I quit my job (that means, technically for the last eight odd months, I didn't need to apply for leave "to go on a ride"), I have been on probably three rides.

One was to the forests near Narsapur (where incidentally M and I lost our way in lush, monsoon-replenished trees, grasses and nullahs and ended up trekking /stumbling our way for something like 5 hours before we found our Bullets), a invigoratingly good and relaxing time, but for all purposes a "small" ride.

One was to a Dhaba around 35 kms on the Nagpur highway. I was alone, just wanted to eat and drink in the sights, smells and slipstreams of an authentic trucker's Dhaba, (and also belt) so did just that. I remember this so well because I hadn't put on a jacket (this was in end November) and it was really, really cold getting back home at almost midnight. Going by the cold it was as freezing as the stretch from Kargil to Dras (no I don't mean in terms of temperatures) but still.....

One was to a friend's farm on the Shameerpet stretch for the New Year.

Apart from these three (alleged rides), zilch.

Three rides (even if we remove the "alleged" tag) in eight months would be a bit of a shame for any rider / motorcyclist / biker.

And a real big shame for me.

So let me clarify.

I did want to ride down to Jaipur for the Literature Festival. Didn't happen for a variety of reasons, along with the usual waves of (post poetry-writing) tentativeness attacking me.

I missed out on Rider Mania too, (this time near Mumbai of all places), which means I will need to wait another year before I get to see, feel and experience the magic of 500+ Royal Enfields parked (or burning rubber) together.

It didn't help at all that the Lit Fest at Jaipur and the Bullet Fest at Vikramgarh (near Mumbai) clashed, so I couldn't prioritize and choose one over the other till the last minute and ended up going to neither.

It now looks like I will be missing the Kala Ghoda Festival too (folks are traveling from today and someone has to be home and secure it for them to enjoy their travels in peace).

What this means is that in all probability, I will seriously get around to doing some (long overdue in its own way) road-related ramblings :-)

And probably some quick (ride-out-in-the-morning, ride-back-in-the-evening types) trips where hopefully all this tentativeness will fall off me, blow off me, vanish away...

One thing is for sure. I will do some cycling again, since I got the cycle repaired yesterday and rode out on it today morning. The skies were almost like those I talk of in "Unslept", but I wasn't thirsting for it to rain today and I also ventured out on a stretch that is different from that mentioned in the poem.

I was unslept though. :-)

Dragonflies

If I could go back 25 years in time, around 3.00 in the afternoon today, I would have been besides some Pokhuri in Rourkela, watching the buffaloes from the Khatals all around it wading into the dull emerald green (rich in spirogyra) waters, marveling at the recalcitrance of the egrets - blobs of sun-splashed white on the dark bovine hides - most of them waiting till their feet are wet before kicking off and flying around....

I would have been chewing on a stem of grass, the sun would have been hot on my back and I would have had thousands and thousands of dragonflies all around, transparent winged specks of yellow, red, black and green, there but still not there, as whimsical in their flight and direction as the kapok parachuted seeds floating out of a Bombax fruit that has ripened and burst.....

I didn't go back 25 years in time today (I did go for cycle ride sometime back, charmed out by the moonlight, more about that later) but I have been seeing quite a few dragonflies here in Alwal (a locality in Hyderabad) too (quite notably above the Football ground near Loyola Academy, that becomes almost a mini-pond every year after the rains), so well, I wikied (yes, its now as much of a word as googled is) and apart from coming to know that the Samurai identify themselves with the dragonfly and so many other things that I don't want to bore you with, came across this beautiful Vietnamese saying -

"Chuồn chuồn bay thấp thì mưa, bay cao thì nắng, bay vừa thì râm"

What does it mean?

If Wikipedia is to be believed, "Vietnamese people have a traditional way to forecast rain by seeing dragonflies: "Chuồn chuồn bay thấp thì mưa, bay cao thì nắng, bay vừa thì râm" (Dragonflies fly at low level, it is rainy; dragonflies fly at high level, it is sunny; dragonflies fly at medium level, it is shadowy)."

Well, I think I need to get away soon and go farther than the Football Ground near Loyola Academy (or Shameerpet Lake, for that matter).

And find a lake / wetland where the dragonflies float around in thousands.....

Deadline Drass

Draas is the last major speck on the map before the mighty Zozi La and the spectacular run into the vale of Kashmir, through honeymoonsy, touristy and picturesque Sonamarg. Draas is also the world's second most cold inhabited place, yet another one-road village of Dardis and other nomadic tribes with Henna dyed beards, vacant looks and duplicitous smiles that would put Bollywood villains to shame.

Riding out of Ladakh into Kashmir, my initial plan was just to pass through Draas in time to make it through the Military check post at Meeramarg. I was however, a bit at sea about the deadline to pass Meeramarg. At Manali, I was told I will be allowed through till 8.30, at Leh, 6.30 and finally at Kargil, I was scared sleepless when told that it closes down at 5.00!

Naturally, I was out of my relatively warm hotel bed in Kargil, at the uncivilized hour of 2.00 in the morning and the temperature was of course anything but warm. I get the fully laden Bullet off its main stand, three odd kicks and nothing happens, I put the choke on and kick again and the bike sputters, starts, misses, sputters and then bursts into its reassuring song.

Kargil's economy is largely dependent on the brave souls who hike from here into Zanskar and God only knows wherever else, and of course the Great Indian Army. And as with most frontier towns, it’s not a place for early morning somnambulism. It was this or the intense cold, but either way I did not have to contend with man's best friend (great shaggy creatures with fangs a shade more Yellow than mine) chasing me as I rode around in circles before finding the road to Draas.

I had heard a lot about this road. It twists and turns with the LOC and there are signboards all along the road, dryly announcing, "Beware, you are under enemy observation". Moreover, since our well-meaning neighbor watches down from behind strategically placed guns, there are no lights anywhere.

The cold was growing every minute and I was not using my gloves, considering that the blasted things were impeding clutching and braking. And I was in thin canvas boots, with just a simple set of woolen socks underneath, the Gum Boots I had picked up at Manali bungeed down, as I wasn’t expecting any water-crossings.

5 minutes out of Kargil, I was frozen to the bone and cursing away to glory, my neck numb and my legs hugging the bike for whatever warmth its petrol-fired heart could gift me.

Usually, I would have just hunkered down and belted away, getting to my destination faster, but that was impossible here, with the narrow road twisting and turning, the stars for most part blocked out by the dark brooding ridges all around and my headlight’s glimmer just a bit more than that of a guttering candle.

There was no traffic on the road that I could tail and when I would slow down to pass through the military camps, all I could usually see was a milestone indicating that I am on the right road, or when a bit more luckier, some friendly sentry’s hand going up in the instinctive greeting only a biker gets.

Then, it happens; I take a curve too fast, the road straightens on to a bridge, I hit a speed breaker I can’t see, the bike’s angle and the heavily laden carrier don’t help and its really touch and go as I head towards the stanchions and the dark waters below.

I have never been good at reconstructing such scrapes on the road, but it was either my momentum or my riding instinct that saved me. I had cut across the bridge diagonally, finally braking inches from the end of the road.

Whew!

Before I can get off the bike, a torch shines into my face. It’s a brave Jawan of the Great Indian Army, firm and solicitous at the same time, wanting to know who I am, why I am out at this time of the morning and where I am headed. My tone is equally firm and polite as he checks my papers, jots down my details and then waves me on, with a smile that only the sane can bestow on the cerebrally challenged.

For now I am just intent on hanging on and counting the milestones till I get to Draas. There is no way I could have sped on this stretch; the road was just a bit more than a patch of gravel with water flowing over it.

The last 15 odd kms to Draas are still frozen in my being, my hands were bereft of feeling, forcing me to put them one by one on the cylinder head, wait till the engine burnt through the numbness, then ride a bit and then repeat it all over again. Time to time, I would swivel my head to get whatever bearings I could, see the ridges on my right illuminated by big yellow splotches of moving light and wonder grimly if it was the Pakistanis getting ready to shell. And somewhere here, my bike hit reserve.

Finally, the road sloped down and became a street with water flowing through it and I was in Draas before I realized it. I made a beeline for the only street-side eatery that was open; managed to mouth the word “Chhai” and practically thrust my hands into the welcome blue and golden flames of a Kerosene stove.

It was just 4.45 AM, I had met my deadline with Draas, though Meeramarg was still relatively far and I was now out of petrol. I also got to know that there is no petrol bunk in Draas and I may have to go back to Kargil to get it.

But I wasn’t greatly worried, I was just riding through, and the mountain had been kind to me all along, as it is to those who "believe". For now, it was time to let the warmth seep into me, time to savor yet another glass of Tea, besides the road, in yet another one-street outpost…………

The Motorcyclist

At its zenith, a full and bodacious moon whitened the heavens above as a lone Bullet snaked up through the Mothugudem Ghats. The night was typical of the summer, tropical interiors and the forests of the Deccan, the air warm and thinned out for most part - with pockets that smelled of swamp, rice-fields and water-holes - redolent with the heat of the day already 6 hours past.

Sitting straight and alert, his Denim Jacket and Denim pants comfortably draped over his road-limbered body, the motorcyclist looked as if he could ride till the proverbial end of the world, just on and on.

The night had always been his element and the remoteness anyway meant that there was not much incentive to stop for anything apart from a hurried smoke or an urgent leak behind the bushes.

His scalp itching under the battered, dust covered helmet, he luxuriated in the feel of the moving night air balmily caressing his face - through the open visor - the hair of his beard and moustache fluttering with every turn as he ascended up on a road he knew not much about.

His thoughts went back 200 kms and 6 hours, to Junglepally and the small Forest Check Post where he had decided to turn off from N.H. 211, after 3 hours of riding non-stop - at speeds averaging 100kmph - bored by the monotony and thirsting for a mystery road. The village wit who bummed a smoke from him wanted to know why he was headed on a road that "did not go anywhere". Usually, he would have laughed it off as something typical of the inanities of the road and forgotten it forever.

But tonight, somehow that question was fluttering and flying in his head, like a tetchy bat in a dark cavern; awaking another thousand questions he had always assumed to be permanently asleep.

Am I truly yet another average Joe?

Is this riding - usually with absolutely no real destination in mind - truly indicative of my aimlessness in life?

Or is it my way of giving the finger to a world that is all about stereotypes, my way of proclaiming my independence?

Even as one unwelcome question led to yet another unwelcome question in the depth of his being, he suddenly seemed to have ridden into a spellbinding world of luminescence, suddenly it seemed it was day.

The Ghat stretch ended and to his left, for as far as his trail-weary and crow-feeted eyes could see, there were the rolling, limpidly lit expanses of the Sabari's highland catchment area. Almost out of no volition, as if guided by a power and reason without, he eased off on the throttle, geared down to neutral and then braked to a smooth stop at the very edge of the drop. Stretched out below him and beneath the Bullet's front wheel, the reservoir glinted at its middle like it was of beaten silver, the troughs of the small ripples dribbling with a glint like fool's gold and the gentle waves coursing landwards liquidly like mercury.

Almost as suddenly, as if born out a Cherub's breath or a Nightjar's fluttering wings, a breeze started blowing, carrying the cold air that sat on the reservoir's waters, upwards to his sweat-soaked body and still-hot Bullet, cooling things only the way something truly wild can.

With rapidity reminiscent of the changing of weather on a high-altitude pass, the breeze strengthened into a gale and clouds started scudding across the till-now empty skies, their dark shadows flitting across the reservoir and dappling the waters. The air no longer just smelled of the wilds and the still waters, overlaid on everything else now was the fragrant smell of a summer-baked earth soaking in the first drops of rain - somewhere just around him, even though beyond his immediate sight - satiating his entire being through his nostrils.

Outwardly looking the same, the motorcyclist was now at inner peace. The reverie was now broken and though he still couldn't remember those thousand questions; he realized that he finally had the answer to why he was the way he was. Mentally congratulating his instinct - something that had led him to packing the raincoat and plastic sheets - he wheeled the Bullet below a massive Neem tree with a Choupal that could be a welcome bed for the night.

Bike parked, he again walked to the rim of the reservoir, lit up a smoke and gazed across what was uncontestedly his own kingdom. His and his alone, at least for that one moment when the first drops of rain would raise a toast to the mystique of a Full Moon shining on deep waters in wilds criss-crossed by mystery roads.

He was already thinking forward to riding through the rain-blessed forests on the morrow as the first fat, bodaciously big raindrop hit him in the face; a face split in a grin that was sheer happiness.

Srisailam

Shiva.

The God with the third eye, who destroys and then creates.
The dusky, ash-covered lord of the celestial, snow-covered and craggy heights of Kailash.
The most feared (and yet, limpid eyed) of the Hindu triumvirate.
And so on, and so forth.
But all these descriptions of him are middle-path acknowledgements, all these are the ways he is deified in the politically correct form within the Hindu pantheon. And also, how he is discussed in the drawing rooms of the prim and proper.

For those who understand and accept creation and life in its very basic form, be it the ash-smeared bhakta or the bedraggled, "who cares if I bathe or not", matty haired, chillum smoking Babas and Sadhus, he's basically a piece of stone.

A cylindrically perfect piece of stone, a Phallic symbol if you will, a symbol of male virility thrusting into and limited by female acceptance, a symbol of lively zest and of course, the pure, raw power that creates and multiplies, come what may.

I am talking of the sacred stone, the Lingam. When you go to most temples, Shiva, the Shiva of yore, the original rebel God of the Hindu pantheon, does seem tamed at last, bound by temple rituals, seperated from his (equally bound) devotees, yet another God in yet another temple.

Unless the temple in question happens to be in thick forests or lofty heights. Unless, the Lingam in question happens to be a Jyotirlingam, a manifestation of Shiva himself. As it is in Srisailam.

Around 8 hours from Hyderabad by bus, the last three of them through the fabled Srisailam Tiger Reserve [including a heart popping, edge of the seat (assuming you are awake or bus-sick) descent and ascent of the bridged gorge on the River Krishna] is Andhra Pradesh's only Jyotirlingam. And one of the twelve in India. Located upriver of the massive Srisailam Hydel project, the temple town seems to hark back to the very days of Shiva. Surrounded as it is by green hills and deep waters, both as silent and mysterious as Shiva himself and almost as wild. And fittingly, the temple town doesn't have too many of the consumerist or market-driven bric-a-brac; making do with a couple of choultries and the ubiquitous souvenir shops.

The actual temple complex is a fort that you can enter by buying a ticket that costs all of Rs.2. You do need to queue up with all those who can afford that Rs. 2. But the darshan is quick and very, very simple when compared to that at places like Tirumala. Also, if you there when the Nalla Malla hills are could-swathed or when its winter, the cold flags seem burning hot to your bare feet.

For all purposes reminiscent of how it would be if you were a pilgrim going up a glacier on the icy heights of Mount Kailash. Almost.

If you are lucky enough to be the type woken up early by faith or if you had planned your darshan right, you can be party to an awesome occassion. The priests and the temple musicians wake up the Lord in the early hours of the morning, around 5.00 to be exact. To the strains of Nadaswarams, drums and Vedic chants that seem to reverberate from each and every stone in the temple.

This is a once in a lifetime experience, for the profoundly devout, the fearfully pious and the "culturally here" agnostic. Give your imagination a bit of rope and you will feel that you are wee bit closer to the cosmic power source, the vitality that makes you alive, the lifeblood that throbs through you, the positive charge in you that searches for, unites with and then procreates along with the negative.

You feel a bit closer to understanding and accepting the basic meaning of Shiva.

The actual Darshan is no less magical. You are at one of India's 12 Jyotirlingams in a day and age when pilgrimages are no longer backbreaking affairs. Yet, immaterial of the crowds or the time of the day, there are no temple attendees shooing you away when you are in the Sanctum.

Allow me to digress here, if you will. I have always wondered about the ritualistic, even repetititve element in Hinduism, specifically when it comes to temples. People (most of them at least), queue up for darshan, silently, even meekly like they are cattle. They move along again, for the most part, in silent order, as if getting herded along. And then, once they are in the Sanctum, all of a sudden religious fervour grabs them! As if the charmed ghosts of all the saint-poets and mendicant-singers associated with the deity in question have collectively entered into their beings! So you witness a hitherto meek person suddenly transformed into a devotee in a trance, enthralled in "Darshan". Making you wonder at the almost choreographed nature of the devotion, the stagey prostations, off-key chants and what not's.

Well, you will see none of this in Srisailam. Because, here a very important, nay integral part of Darshan is touching the Lingam with both hands! While the priest on duty recites hymns and blessings for you. Which means here you get a one-on-one that makes even the most irrational realize the needlessness of being stagey.

Temple visit done, after you have gone around figuring out which entrance to the temple was built by Shivaji and tried to understand what the carvings on the fort walls mean, you could also put your feet to work. Real work if I may say so; by going down to Patalganga Ghat on irregular steps where many Sadhus sit doing what Sadhus do best. Modern day Patalganga Ghat is nothing but the edge of the man-made reservoir that stretches in front of you and you can even see the huge dam from here. Immaterial of the amount of water in the reservoir, you can try and discover how close your heart gets to your mouth when you are in a Coracle on the waters.

If you are a bit more excitement minded than most (and your boatman is amenable) you could also row over to one of the islands that dot the reservoir and contemplate a trek through what looks impenetrable jungle. The rare chance of coming face to face with one of the tigers of Srisailam shouldn't scare you.

After all, Shiva does reside in you too, does He not?

P.S - This is the first travelogue (for want of a better word) that I had written; after my very first visit to Srisailam, way back in 1999 or so. Srisailam has changed a bit since then, and my own understanding of Shiva has changed a lot since then :-)

Matsyagundem

Somewhere in the watershed of my dusty hair, a bead of sweat gathers and then flows down the bridge of my nose, converting the full-stop of the Vermillion Bottu into a dynamic comma, as I set out with the SLR for the stream bed of River Machkund.

I am at Matsyagundem, a little known place reached by negotiating 12 kms of an atrocious bullock cart track from the road that leads to Paderu in the Araku Valley. Mythology wise, this is Dandakaranya, geography wise, this is Andhra Pradesh, ethnography wise, this is deep tribal hinterland.

Funnily enough, though its spectacular photography weather now, I had reached Matsyagundem with my jacket drenched and my helmet beaded with rain. Very much a throwback to the Araku Valley of yore, when torrential rainfall was the norm here, all year through.

Matsyagundem is a spot where the river Machkund had a natural obstruction of stone in its course, creating a natural lagoon that used to be full of tame fish. At this moment however, the river itself is very, very dry and there is a concrete monstrosity all along the river's breadth and of course a view-point bang above it.

I naturally avoided the view-point and rode to the small shrine just besides, flanked by huge mango trees and was met by a smiling priest clad in a Gamcha, unshaven and stubbled like me and equally sunburnt too.

The temple turned out to be one of Shiva (incidentally my favorite God, so I got anointed by the Bottu) and the priest turned out to be lacking in any airs whatever, so naturally I decided to rest my back against a pillar and chat him up.

In five minutes, we are surrounded by a gaggle of wide eyed children (most in blue shorts and white shirts), obviously playing hooky from school and household chores and even as I am asking about the state of the rains and the success of the view-point, I am being cajoled to go and see the fish, of course under local guidance.

A flight of steep stairs winds down to the Machkund, and as I gingerly make my way down behind my carefree guides, the priest locks the temple for the day and follows me too. The stairs are flanked by huge brown boulders on which I can spot Elephants sketched in white paint, and I am about to take a picture before I peer closer and see that its just the BSP election symbol.

The Machkund is atrociously dry and there are not many pools where I can see even tadpoles, what to speak of huge tame fish! The priest is with us by now and tells me in evident pain that some people up stream had poisoned the waters and most of the fish had died. But this man of God knows his parish pretty well, and leads me over and across half of the stony stream bed and then finally we are at a deep crevice amongst the boulders. Everybody amongst my smiling clique points down into the slippery crevice, some speaking Oriya, some speaking Telugu and some speaking Hindi.

The descent does look fishy and I am scared of being stuck if I fall, but I still go down on a knee and then realize that this will require me shooting with the flash, something I am not very good at.

But then I can make out some fairly huge and scaly things churning the waters in the crevice and mostly in order to please everyone around, light up the hollow with the brilliant Vivitar flash.

And then the priest decides to jump into the act, with half a coconut in his hand, descending onto the same ledge where I am carefully standing. There isn't room enough for his temple-treading bare feet and my size 11 Nikes, so he stands on mine, banging the coconut against the rock and then throwing the white meat into the waters, while intoning, "Aa Re, Aaa Rey!"

And man, oh man, the fishes do decide to come, roiling the waters in a feeding frenzy, with at least a couple of them at least as big as my arm!

I am again painfully aware of being stared at, so this time, I bend down into the hollow while the priest scampers out of the way and when again we do the same thing, this time in better synchronization.

The flash goes off and a couple of tame fishes are finally recorded for posterity.

Cramped and shaking in the knees, I decide to call it a day and we all make it back to the temple. The priest invites me to stay the night there itself with him, but I am intent on making it to Jagdalpur by nightfall, so I quiz him about the road, even as I pack the camera into its carrying case.

A wave of the hand all around and then I am out of Matsyagundem, headed for Jalaput and the Orissa border, even as the young rogues who should have been in school chase me out of the temple complex.

And in fitting with the clime, its throwback time again, as a fine frieze of rain starts falling.

May it rain, I pray, may that concrete monstrosity get washed away, I pray.