Himalayan Journey - II

My exceptionally established talent of sleeping in even the worst of conditions helped me to sail through to Lal Kuan. I discovered that I still had my last-bencher trait when almost like a robot I reached the end of the bus. Thanks to the innocently sleepless night in the train almost everyone dozed off. I wondered how a bus could score over a train in making people comfortable. After spending an hour over this oh-so-important thought, I decided to sleep over the issue and once again gave a splendid performance of my exceptionally established talent. When people woke up, it wasn’t the beautiful view of the valley that was the talking point. It was indeed hunger and breakfast. The leader advised on how it would be to our advantage to skip breakfast. “The more stops we make, more the chances of us being stuck in a landslide,” he said. ‘Certainly a proponent of the Chaos Theory,’ I thought, wondering if someone up on the hills was observing us – with a binocular in one hand and a huge spade in another. It wasn’t long before Puneri delicacies started making rounds in the bus along with the makers’ names - Chitale, Kelkar, Joshi and what not. That was it. With my monstrous diet, even the smell of food was enough to make me hungrier.

“Oh Dear Driver! Your drive’s becoming more and more painstaking,
With this smell and discussion of food the monster inside me is slowly waking.

Lekin is chalti bus mein main kaha se khaana laaunga?
Rok do bus warna iske cushions curtains hi kha jaaunga.”

At around one, I asked the Leader to halt for lunch. “We can have it after an hour, right?” he said. “Nah. See these things on my arm (Oh yes, the lipomas!)? They have begun to hurt and if I don’t have food soon enough, they may start rupturing,” I said with a grim face. In no time, we were silently enjoying the tastiest Chana masala. On behalf of everyone, I secretly patted the lipomas hoping they’d enjoyed their share.

We reached Almora late afternoon. My first shower in about two days of hardcore traveling gave me immense pleasure and privilege to taste, smell and see some of the most interesting things on the bath floor. I stared at the mirror, still wondering – ‘Waiter?’

We took a walk to the sunset point and the Sun took longer than ever to set.

Worse - once it set out to set, it set in no time. Without even discussing the view, we walked towards the seemingly most important feature of any town located on the hill – the Bazaar.

During the walk, one of the fifteen year olds finally asked me, “What’s with those tumors?”
Pretending not to listen, I began to think. ‘Let’s give him a new one,’ the lipomas seemed to be whispering. With nobody around us, it seemed pretty safe.
“Have you ever been to Nagpur?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“I have a rare allergy to Orange Oil,” I said.
“Orange oil? There’s nothing of that sort,” he said with a laugh.
“I know. Elsewhere people don’t even know about it. Orange oil comes from the stem of the orange tree. Come to Nagpur and I’ll take you to a place where they serve the finest corn cooked in orange oil.”
“We don’t have it in Pune. Never even heard of it.”
‘Great. Enjoy,’ I heard the lipomas talking again.
“It’s actually a skin allergy. I was at this corn joint a year ago. Got too close to the pan where he was frying the corn and as soon as he put the corn in the orange oil, some of it splashed all over my arm. It was all orange in no time. You know, the human skin just absorbs orange oil. Mine did too – with not the slightest hint of pain. But when I woke up the next morning….” I just pointed towards my arms and shrugged extravagantly.
“But didn’t you know you had allergy to orange oil when you ate that thing before?” he asked.
“No yaar! Told you na it’s a skin allergy. Thank god I didn’t get massage with orange oil when I was a baby, else….” I laughed and left him thinking.
I heard the lipomas ‘hi-five’ing.

The bazaar turned out to be a total dump and once again only food was on top of everyone’s (including the ladies’) wish-list. The peppy pahaadi food had changed everyone’s paapi pet into a peppy pet. The walk back to the hotel was boring with the jokes of my respectable co-travelers seemingly getting worse with each passing day. I toyed with the idea of telling a little Orange oil joke but decided to keep it to myself.

Early next morning, we left for Dharchula. I amused myself by coming up with alternate theories for the name:
1. A monster might have inhabited the place. Dracula’s cousin – Dharchula.
2. It’s a wrong spelling. It might be Chardhula. A sahib might have asked a dhobi, “Kitna kapda dhula?” “Char dhula.”
3. There might be a view of the mountains appearing like a sharp (Dhar) knife and an Indian stove (Chula).
4. A monster named Dharchula might have inhabited the place. He might have been near the river. Just then he heard a Sahib asking a dhobi “Kitna kapda dhula?” The Dhobi answered, “Char dhula.” Dharchula got angry hearing his name being mispronounced. He used his sharp (dhar) knife to kill them and roasted their bodies over a chula. The fable has materialized in the form of mountains shaped like a sharp knife and a chula.

It took us entire day to reach Dharchula. There wasn’t a view of the mountains in the shape of a knife or a chula. My other theories were just too stupid to even enquire about. Anyway, half of Dharchula is in India and half of it is in Nepal with the violent Kali River separating the two halves.

I was amazed to see pictures of OM Mountain in the hotel. The team leader boasted of the Nepal market as if he had set it up by himself. Once in Nepal, he introduced himself to the shopkeepers as a trader of bags but didn’t buy a single thing. Our trek was to begin next day.

After a hearty meal, I told myself another probable Dharchula monster story and slept.

Himalayan Journey - 1

Somewhere beyond Mathura: I was lying on the top berth (my favorite) of the train moving towards Lal Kuan – thinking about the day that it had been. Hush! What a journey! From Nagpur to where I was then, having traveled by six different means on the same day– car, airplane, auto rickshaw, bus, cycle rickshaw and now train. Nothing much had happened in the car and the airplane. (Car was in Nagpur and the airplane had started from Nagpur…no wonder nothing much happened!) The beginning of the auto journey in New Delhi had, as always, started with an argument. The rickshaw walla assured me he was taking me at far less than what others would have asked me. “xxxxxxx dusre autowaale to aisa muh faad ke paise maangte hai!” Nice language buddy! ‘Welcome to the Capital,’ I thought. “Thik Hai chalo,” I said, like Shantaram. (Shantaram brought in just to get your mind off my inability to bargain.)

The bus ride from ISBT was damn sweaty, jolty, itchy. Four hours to Mathura seemed like eight and the number of stops it took – umm, I stopped counting after thirteen in less than half an hour.

Besides the “Apna Jhola (my newly purchased super cool rucksack – Jhola?) seat ke upar ya neeche rakh! Baaki sawaariya kya tere upar baithegi? Fek du kya?” threat from the conductor, it was all cool!

Especially the demo about the 'Washing Machine mein bhi na fatne waala Chinese tablecloth', 'English eespeaking ki kitaabe', 'General Naalej ki kitaabe' [I was really tempted to buy this one. He said it had answers to questions like “In which country, do children cry if you cut vegetables?” etc. (But I explained myself “Mustn’t be in every country? Have you forgotten about mom’s yesterday’s baingan? Or day before yesterday's Bhindi?”)] Beedi seemed to be the order of the day.

One guy smoked so close to me, I felt like snatching it and asking him to smoke again - from the other end though (not other end of the beedi.. the other end of the guy).

Anyway, it felt like a miracle when I reached the hotel. For the first time, I had traveled so far - alone! The rest of the Yuvashakti (though it sounds like a political organization, it’s a trekking one) Group had gone to Agra without me and didn’t even care to leave the room’s keys. I was stranded in the lobby of the hotel. The manager said they have no spare rooms, no lights and no TV. The stage was set and I took this opportunity to indulge in a meeting with some local politicians. (I swear I was in the meeting. Though, just like all politicians in all meetings, I was snoring). “Utho! Light kab aayegi?” I was being woken up with violent shakes. I hate being woken up with shakes. “Utho! Humko Light chaahiye! Generator lagao!” Did I hear ‘Generator’? Am I imagining myself in an Electrical Engineering viva? But they don’t shake you up in vivas. But it’s my dream and so it’s very much possible. I felt like Bond’s Super martini. Super shaken! Damn! I had to wake up. It was a Marathi aunty mistaking me to be the hotel waiter! I was wondering if the bus had managed to make me look like a waiter out there! Or do I always look like a waiter? For the first time in my life I saw eyes of a person speaking, or rather, asking – her one eye asked, “Light?” and other one asked, “Generator?”

‘Have a close look at me, Aunty! I am rated positively sexy on orkut,’ I thought. Was this all a part of a test of my shakti?

Anyway, the rest of the group was kind enough to return by nightfall. I was so curious to meet them. Eventually, I was introduced to them – A guy almost my age, three 15-year olds, a family of four: a forty-something couple, their 10 year old chirpy son, their 14 year old daughter and (you’re done with four members so ‘not their’) fifty something lady. “Is that all?” I asked the Short Fat almost-fake-moustached team leader. “Yes. Small group; Happy group.” And since they’re all from in and around Pune, of course, it’s got to be a Pure Marathi Speaking Group as well. I was truly madly deeply disappointed. Fifteen days with these people? The interaction began. They were showing (off) their pictures of the Agra thingy. The Taj pictures - a wonderful paradox of sublime visual beauty coupled with some of the world’s most awful poses:

1. The guy’s one foot’s on a marble stool, the other one’s on the floor, his one hand is on his goggle, the other one’s on his (Bhartiya Mard Fat) waist.
2. If a guy’s got his wife by him, she has an extraordinarily exceptional expression on her face. Half of it is shyness – the typical Bhartiya Naari one. Half of it is pride – as if ‘Yippee! My hubby’s got the Taj built for me!’ The result – she seems to have had an overdose of a faulty flatulent.
   
3. If he’s got someone else’s wife by him, the picture will capture him and her completely and if it’s lucky, a part of Taj.
   
4. The couple’s hands making a stupid tomb on the beautiful Taj.
   
   While watching the pictures, I was mostly nodding, occasionally smiling and hardly watching.

We had a forgettable dinner at that hotel with a forgettable name, packed our bags (just to be in the herd, I opened mine up, took out a book, kept it back and packed the bag again) and left for Mathura Junction. I had a small lil interaction with the ladies. The younger lady turned out to be a Stats Prof at the coolest college of Pune. I told her that her kids are really bright (first of the many things I did on this tour which still I don’t know why I did). The older lady was a retired doc. Once at the platform, the kids teased each other in pure Marathi. I was waiting for the train (more importantly for the upper berth). She came. I boarded. I slept.