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.