Mcleodganj, November 2013, Part 1: Fighting the Blues and Filling the Belly

"The night is as still as a mural. Only a dog barking somewhere punctuates the silence. When I open the room door, the snow capped peaks glow in the moonlight like apparitions. A clear night, plenty of stars, and a chilly breeze blowing."

- My Facebook status while in Mcleodganj. 

Prayer wheels outside a temple on Temple road

There was a certain despair that I carried on my trip to Mcleodganj. I can say that that baggage was larger and heavier than my rucksack. I was nursing a broken heart, struggling to crawl out of a swamp of a disastrous relationship I had no business being in, in the first place. Ironically, instead of spending 'quality' time with the two most beloved - then, a little estranged - people in my life, I was running away from them, seeking some time off for myself in the hills. And yet, after I boarded the Duronto Express at Mumbai Central at night, a shrill, desperate cry pealed out in my head telling me to get off the train at that instant and return home. 

'Don't be stupid!' the wife said on the phone when I called her and told her how I felt. 'You've wanted to do this for a long time. You told me about some place over there near Dharamsala where you could go hiking. Just forget all your  worries and go. Have a good trip!'

Unedited photograph of the view from the veranda in front of my room
at Om Shanti Guest House. The Dhauldar peak in the background with
the Triund ridge in front of it.

Eventually, I went all right. But from the moment I reached Mcleodganj, I began to feel homesick! It was embarrassing and amusing at the same time. I admonished myself several times for feeling that way, for allowing that silly tug-of-war to ensue in my head. Never before had I ever felt like cutting short a trip like that and going back home. (It was a similar lone trip that led me to Kanha National Park many years ago.) Every morning in Mcleodganj, other than the day the I eventually hiked up to Triund, I hauled myself up the 264 steps from the guest house I was put up at in the valley to Jogiwara road where there were Internet cafes. I logged into the railway portal looking for tatkaal tickets back home to Mumbai.  

I didn't get any. Thankfully. 

Now that you know the state of mind that prevailed while I was on this trip, I'll try to keep the gloominess out and, as objectively as possible, try and describe my trip to the "neighbourhood of Sir Donald Friell McLeod, Lt. Governor of Punjab" during the Raj days, after whom Mcleodganj is named. 

The other side of the Kangra valley as seen from Temple road

Dharamsala and Mcleodganj are two distinct towns. The former is a sort of base town and the latter is where the Tsuglagkhang complex, the temple of the Dalai Lama, is at. An overnight ride on a Himachal Road Transport Volvo bus brought me to Dharamsala at 5:30 am, from where I had to take a local bus up to Mcleodganj. On the Volvo, a wiry, pleasant man from Kangra sat next to me, wearing a Himachali cap and pronouncing Kangra as Kangda. Early next morning, he got off at Jwalaji, but for most of the journey from ISBT, he slept. I, on the other hand, watched 'Ghulam E Mustafa' that they played on the bus. Still can't figure out from where on earth did they get a DVD of that Nana Patekar flick! One would have to go through a lot of trouble finding that movie, not because it was popular and always in demand. Quite the contrary actually. Anyway, the movie had its amusing moments and it also lulled me to sleep. 

View of McLo town from Naddi road

The caretaker of Om Shanti guest house, the always-smiling Mr. Surinder Singh, persuaded me to take a look at the room he had on offer. It was a clean room with a decent bathroom, plenty of light and grand views of the Dhauladhar mountains. The only daunting factor about Om Shanti was the descent of 264 unpaved, uneven steps (I counted later) into the valley from Jogiwara Road. For Rs. 350 a day, which he said he could reduce to Rs. 300 if I would stay for 3 nights or more, it was a reasonable deal. It was the panorama of the valley and the mountains surrounding it that was enthralling. 

'See that ridge in front of the snow-capped peak?' he said to me later. 'That's Triund. You can trek up to Triund, go beyond it even to Snowline cafe or Indrahar pass. Do let me know, sahib, if you want to go there. I take tourists, especially foreigners all the time. For now, you take a bath and relax. I'll get you tea.' Himachali hospitality had begun.

A monk savouring his Thukpa in Cholsum Cafe

I remembered the Rocky and Mayur Highway On My Plate episode of Mcleodganj in which they mentioned that McLo, as it is fondly called, is full of good eateries and cafes and bakeries that one should not miss. So I stepped out, huffed and puffed my way up the 264 steps and found Cholsum Cafe, a cosy little place with nice photo frames, posters of the Dalai Lama, some mandala wall hangings, 'Free Tibet' paraphernalia, and a lot of books. I have a lot of respect for a place that has bookshelves. Besides, I was so famished, and so awestruck by the menu, that I ordered a plate of Bombay toast and chicken sausages, another plate of pancakes and maple syrup, and a large cup of coffee. Then, belching and dragging my feet, I went to the primary attraction of Mcleodganj: The Tsuglakhang monastery, the temple of the Dalai Lama. 

Mandalas and other Tibetan paraphernalia, and of course, the smiling Lama

My first breakfast at Cholsum cafe

Mr. Tenzin Gyatso wasn't there, obviously. I hadn't sought an appointment because he had told me that wouldn't be in town. In my dreams of course. I first trawled through the exhibits focusing on the Chinese invasion of Tibet and the Tibetan exile and exodus from Lhasa. I didn't get round to entering the temple. There was a long queue of tourists, and where there are queues, especially at religious places, I don't go. So I dillydallied about the two arterial streets of McLo: Jogiwara and Temple road. Curio shops nudged each other and covered every inch of space they could find. Slight eyed men and women sold medallions and trinkets, clothes and scarves and satchels in the curio shops that line both roads. After an hour of walking around, I realised I was back at the temple. So I bought myself a plate of momos, dumplings; from a street vendor right outside the temple gate.

'Veg momos,' the matronly Tibetan woman said. I wondered what could veg momos contain and what it would taste like. I'd never had veg momos before and was looking forward to eating pork momos this time. But the vegetarian alternative was extremely satisfying. Each one of the six steaming and delightful momos in the plate had different fillings: potato, spinach, carrots and cauliflower, cottage cheese, and cabbage. 

Curio shops like this exist on all streets of McLo

Had a nice coffee while looking out to the street below, at Indique cafe. The
'backside' of Norling restaurant looks up at me.

By six in the evening, the sun had already hidden itself behind the hills leaving behind a kaleidoscope of colours around the snow peaks of the Dhauladhar range. I had to find my liquor for the night and so, once again, I trudged up the steps, stopping after every four or five steps to catch my breath, stepping aside for the monks and schoolchildren who ran up as if they were running downhill! Some of them were even skipping a step or two at times. Eventually, I got to the top and decided that I had to get local food, read Tibetan, for the night. Saw a little bakery en route - Tibet Quality Bakery - and made a mental note to buy one of the tarts or pies he had. 

You'll find placid woods like this all around Mcleodganj

At a liquor store, I bought a full bottle of Smirnoff wearing a bemused look all the time. It was much cheaper than it is in Mumbai, and with nobody to share the vodka with, I promised myself a night of much drunken revelry. I also bought spicy chicken wings, Indian style with a lot of chilli in it, and an apple pie from the bakery, before retiring to my room for the night. I didn't realise that I had turned on the television in full blast until somebody knocked on the door. I opened it to find a woman wearing a bandanna, a foreigner, standing there.

'Am sorry but uh could you uh please turn uh the volume down?' she said. 'The walls are thin and your TV is very loud.' I could tell she was European but from where exactly, I didn't know then. I promptly turned the TV off and apologised. The sounds of the hills should be more pleasant than a TV, I thought. 

The next evening, we spoke for a little while in the veranda. Her name was Gabriella and she was Spanish. Said, she was staying in McLo for a while to learn Tibetan. I wondered why, but didn't ask. Besides, Senorita Gabriella looked every bit like a crystal-ball gazer to me. She also had a way with  cats, a baffling, Murakami-esque affinity for them. Every night, all the cats of that locality would skitter in and out of her room, which was adjacent to mine. Later, the caretaker said that her room was much larger; a 1BHK apartment in fact. She did something mysterious with them. Like a witch doctor, I thought and chuckled, for I would hear her talking to them and hear the cats purring and mewing and moaning even, as though in heat. 

The trail leading to Bhagsu falls, and the thin cascade itself

The view of the trail from End of the World cafe

I awoke late the next morning with a throbbing headache from the last night's excesses of vodka. I also did not get railway tickets, and trekking to Triund in that mental and physical state was out of the question. So I found myself once again in Cholsum cafe, this time having a bowl of muesli only for breakfast. A monk walked in and smiled warmly at me. Then he devoured his bowl of vegetable Thukpa, washed it down with a glass of milk, rose, smiled again and walked away. That reminded me that I had to taste the Thukpa of McLo that night. 

 Once again, with nothing else to do, I walked around the two main streets of McLo, bought myself a pair of black ear studs, and stepped into Norling Restaurant for lunch. Then I walked to the Church of St. John in the Wilderness on Forsyth Ganj road. 

St. Johns in the Wilderness in b/w

The churchyard could serve as the perfect locale for a Stephen King novel. The place was largely deserted, save for a handful of curious tourists who took a peek into the church and left promptly. Kaleidoscopic light shone into the church through the stained glass windows. A grave memorial of James Bruce, the 8th Earl of Elgin and Viceroy of India once upon a time, stood in the churchyard.

That evening, I drank some more, a lot more in fact, but only after savouring a Styrofoam cup of hot chicken broth from a roadside vendor. And also, a plate of delectable chicken Momos. That night, I braved the chilly breeze and went up to the rooftop at night and updated my Facebook status with those lines at the beginning of this post. Although the night was largely quiet, my head was not. Along with the grunge music and guns that pealed out, I could also hear echoes of my last telephone conversation with her. 

'I won't meet you ever again, Sandy,' she said.

'Okay.'

'The last few months...I've been thinking about...the last few months I've...'

'Please don't make things worse by explaining,' I cut her.

'Yes...you always hated explanations. Well, goodbye and...'

I disconnected the call. That was the last time I'd heard her voice.

***

I eventually trekked up to Triund on the fourth day in Mcleodganj, but I shall write about the trek in another post. Apart from the many eateries, the Tsuglagkhang temple complex, Namgyal monastery, and St. Johns in the Wilderness, Mcleodganj also has a Bhagsu waterfall a couple of kilometres from town. As you drive up the road to Bhagsu, you arrive at a temple complex dedicated to Lord Bhagsunath I think. Walk down the path along the valleyside till you reach the falls, which has a little cafe called 'End of the World' cafe. Quite a misnomer, for above the cafe on the hill sits Shiva cafe, a hideout of sorts allegedly famous for their midnight rave parties. The caretaker told me that a week or two ago, the police raided the place and arrested a few stoned tourists and a local peddlar from the cafe. 

End of the World cafe in Bhagsu

The other deity at Shiva cafe

At Shiva Cafe

On the other side of Mcleodganj, near Forsyth Ganj I think, the road leads through pristine pine forests into a quiet village called Naddi. People told me that bears are sighted in the forest sometimes, though apart from monkeys, I didn't see any. There's a little lake there which is pompously called Dal lake, but it has none of the grandeur of its larger cousin up north in Srinagar. Apart from these 'sightseeing' options, there's nothing else in Mcleodganj. I, for one, hadn't gone to McLo to 'sight-see'. And I must confess that not leaving McLo in a hurry was, without exaggeration, the best thing that I had done that year! I rode back to Delhi on the overnight bus - they played an old Bollywood, Rajesh Khanna flick called Avatar this time; I really don't know where HRTC finds these gems! - on the fifth day and stayed overnight at Smyle Inn, a tiny hotel in Paharganj. I'll write another post about Delhi in which I'll collate all my Delhi experiences. This post is solely about enchantment for the soul (and the belly) that Mcleodganj had to offer. 

Dal lake at Naddi

Some of the restaurants I ate at:

Cholsum Cafe, which was my breakfast place every other morning in McLo

Norling Restaurant, where I had noodles and a nice chili chicken

Takhyil Peace Cafe and Restaurant, Had a coffee and some delicious pastries here

Illiterati cafe, where I had a coffee

Pastry Den, from where I bought pastries and tarts

Tibet kitchen, where I had momos and thukpa

Indique Cafe, where I had coffee and a sandwich after walking back from Naddi

Heard of or seen but not visited:

First Cafe on Jogiwara road

Oogo's Italian Cafe, where I wanted to have a pasta or lasagne but didn't

McLo Restaurant - Apparently Pierce Brosnan has visited this place

Namgyal Cafe

Jimmy's Italian Kitchen

Chocolate Log; kept this place for the last day and then forgot about it

   

Kasol, October 2015: A Hippie Town in the Himachali Hills

"Pani da rang vekh ke
 Akhiyaan jo hanju rul de"

Translated to English, the verse of this beautiful song means "Seeing the colour of water, tears roll down from my eyes." And that is what the turquoise waters of the Parbati river can do to you. In Kasol, you ought to be a worthless ignoramus to miss the Parbati. She is beautiful, she is cheerful and she gushes merrily through the valley town, singing all along through the pine forests. That, in fact, is another thing that one cannot miss in Kasol: the enchantment of pine woods surrounding this hippie hamlet. 

The Parbati river; photo taken from the suspension bridge.

Everything else in Kasol caters to the needs of the hippie hordes, both the Western (of which the majority is Israeli) and 'homegrown' variety. The latter try hard to fit the bill. In fact, there was a brown-skinned chap, complete with a huge pile of dreadlocks, grizzly beard and moustache, psychedelic harem pants, and medallions and trinkets, and then I overheard him saying, "Eda, ivide ee kade le ellam onde!" Until then, I'd seen Malayali Hindus (of course!), Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Communists; finally, I got to see Rastafarian Mallus too! 

I'd boarded a Manali-bound bus from ISBT Kashmiri Gate with no agenda, but changed plans on-board after I met Davneet Singh. He sat next to me, we got talking, and soon realized that both of us had really no plans other than our different destinations. He asked me whether I had hotel bookings in Manali; I didn't. So he proferred Kasol as an option and that to get there, we would have to get off the bus at Bhunter, near Kullu. A slightly bad road branched from there to Kasol, he said. 

"It's the town where you'll get the best Malana Cream."  

All the while, he sipped from his plastic bottle of Coke in which he had mixed Old Monk. From time to time, he offered me a swig and was puzzled when I declined. "Don't you drink?" he asked. I did - Old Monk and Coke is every Indian tippler's favourite! - but didn't want to drink while I was travelling on the overnight bus. Sure enough, the drink knocked him out by around 11 pm. When we woke in the morning at Kullu, Davneet complained of a headache. "Jyada ho gaya, menu lagda haan" he muttered, then translated for my benefit - Think I had too much - but that was not needed. I find Punjabi and Punjabis quite endearing and I do follow the language a little, definitely more than what Bollywood's sohni kudiyan and vella munde dole out. 

"Are you going to try smoking up?" I asked Davneet, as we drove with three others we met at the bus stop - two guys and a girl - in a cab that we jointly hired. Davneet, by virtue of being a sardar, wasn't a smoker but, "dunno bro," he said. "Once a few pegs go down, I might not realise that I'm smoking." That was fair. The three friends who joined us were from Mumbai, and one of the guys and I exchanged our customary 'Arre boss, Mumbai mein kidhar se? Aila, Kandivali? Apun Malad!" and handshakes and back-thumping. They got off a few kilometres before Kasol town and headed into the woods where, they assured us, there was a dorm, which is a "well-kept secret". 

In Kasol, after a few inspections, we finally settled for two separate rooms in Hotel Rainbow, right in the town square at the mouth of the trail that leads to the suspension bridge, at Rs. 350 each. Not bad, I thought. We left our rucksacks, took our cameras - Davneet had a bag full of lenses and filters and things - and went to a cafe for breakfast. I ordered a Spanish breakfast and got roasted potatoes, toasted bread, and an omlette. Davneet played safe and ordered a parantha platter.

First meal in Kasol: Spanish breakfast

"At night, bhaiyya, we'll eat some good tandoori and stuff, hai na?" he said. "We'll also have some good daaru and crisps, what say?" I happily agreed. 

We crossed a suspension bridge and trekked to a village called Chahal up in the woods. The Parvati river gurgled merrily downhill as we kept climbing up towards Chahal. The village is famous for its trance parties, we were told, but late morning, it was quite and peaceful. 

Davneet at the mouth of the bridge

Fantastic graffiti on the walls of the bridge

The bridge on the river Parbati

There was a little tea stall where a garrulous local spoke confidently with a stoned Russian, who cast an amused look at me when I took off my hat. I was definitely an oddity in Kasol with my clean-shaven head, in a town where even the naturally bald men sported dreadlocked, or at least long-haired, crescents. Back in Kasol town, we retired to our rooms and I fell asleep, watching 'Spiderman' dubbed in Hindi. 

The trek to Chahal with the river on the left, down below

The woods enroute to Chahal

My budget room with Spiderman in Hindi

Davneet was still asleep when I woke up that evening, so I set off to explore Kasol on my own. The streets were full of tourists, again both the desi and firang varieties. The flea market was open and the alleyways were a riot of colours. Shops sold everything from sweatshirts, harem pants, and t-shirts with glowing psychedelic graffiti, to chillums, filter papers, mixing pouches, and bongs, everything one needed to prepare their portions of Malana Cream. Most of the conversations were about trekking routes to Malana or Kheerganga, where they all 'knew someone' who could give them the purest Cream. I was quite tempted, I must admit, but sadly, I don't know to smoke, let alone smoke up! Is there a difference? Tsk tsk.

Graffiti at Freedom cafe

At the entrance to Kasol

I stuck to the basics. Kasol is full of restaurants that serve Tibetan and Israeli food. It was pretty early for dinner, but I was hungry (realising then that we had skipped lunch). I looked for Free Kasol cafe, which was in the news then for having removed Indians from the cafe. I didn't find it, so I stepped into another cafe called Freedom. Had a nice Ginger Honey Lemon Tea and some roast chicken, and continued walking about. 

Ginger honey lemon tea

In the meantime, Davneet had woken up and gone to Manikaran hot-water springs. Back in the hotel, the recreation area was open. A Russian chap called Nikolai was having a go at the pool table with some Delhi de munde, while a Tibetan chap played his guitar and sang some popular Pink Floyd, GnR, and Nirvana. 

Nikolai was pretty good at pool

As dusk unfurled, the air got colder. Davneet had returned, and we went to the rooftop where we lit candles and spread out our dinner and snacks, and rums and vodkas and sodas for the evening. At night, the gurgle of the Parbati became louder and the sky filled up with stars. The warm liquor in our bellies brought out the philosophers in us. Davneet took some fantastic photographs of the night sky, then began talking about his love interest and how he planned to go about propositioning her. 

I was 'in transit', I told him. Well, not from one love interest to another - there wasn't any alternatives in that phase of my life - but from one workplace to another. Was even about to move from my hometown to Bangalore. I was going to leave my beautiful girls behind in Mumbai, I told him, and even as we spoke, I could feel a gnawing in my gut. The song, "Pani da rang" from Vicky Donor was the flavour of the season for some reason, (Perhaps it was the Delhi link?) and every line of the song, coupled with the heady philosophy and poetry that oozed out of the cracks and crevices of my heart, alluded to the impending pain of separation. Later, as we began to slur, we bade goodnight and headed to our respective rooms. Who needed cannabis when the heart was full of longing.

As dusk grew over Kasol

I've another blog about the next day's trip to Tosh, while Davneet headed to Kheerganga and stayed there overnight. I returned to Kasol in the evening after a brief stop in Manikaran, where a landslide had torn through the buildings at the hot water springs only weeks ago. Back in Kasol, I had a meal at the popular Evergreen cafe and retired to my room to finish a small bottle of Smirnoff that I bought in the flea market. The next day, after breakfast and coffee at the Best Kasol cafe, which was attached  to our hotel, I trekked into the woods once again and then, settled down on a rock in a quiet spot in a glade and wrote about Tosh in my diary, which became the blog post later. Oh, I had steaming hot momos at Shambu Momo stall too.

The woods where I wrote my blog post in my black diary. See the horse's rump?
Somewhere behind it, by the stream, I sat on a rock and wrote.

Davneet returned at noon with wonderful stories about his Kheerganga trip. I regretted not having joined him till he got to the part about the overnight stay in a dormitory where, at night, there were rats running over their legs! 

We rode back to Kullu in a dusty local bus that evening and boarded the Volvo back to Delhi. We didn't talk much; each one lost in his private dream world. In the morning, Davneet got off near Rohini and I went to Kashmiri Gate, little knowing that a few weeks later, I'd be back in Delhi, celebrating Diwali with my girls, my bro-in-law and sweet sister-in-law, in her house in Rohini! 

Parbati river

The river song

A year has passed since then, but the gurgle of the Parvati river, which is especially clear and honeyed at night, still rings in my ears. 

Born to Run, Story 1: Why I Took Up Running

It's another tepid sunset, slowly staring across the sky...I was just a hired hand...

They arrive in droves every Monday morning. Lugging laptops and chargers and other gadgets on their backs, oversized lunchbox kits dangling from their limp hands, they drive or ride or trundle or waddle into the numerous IT parks that flank the dusty, traffic-clogged roads, where once orchards and farms adorned the landscape. For the next forty to eighty hours in the week, they’ll hammer away at their laptop keyboards, charge their gadgets and numb their senses with caffeine, paste their headphones to their ears, and listening to endless prattle about things that just won’t progress or take form till the final hour, ostentatiously called “the deadline”.  

I’m one of those faces in that drove of corporate slaves. Day after day, year after year, I’ve been labouring on things that make no sense to me. I don’t learn anything new or exciting, I’ve absolutely no interest – let alone passion – in learning about the things on which I spew reams of drivel, and I don’t “see myself five years from now” in an exciting place; no I don’t, Mr. HR or PMP-certified manager who "gets it off" by staring into a spreadsheet! The organisations change, the managers and directors change too, the “platform” and “machines” and “applications” bear new names and faces, but the monotony remains the same.

This is not the truth about the Indian IT industry alone. I’m certain that there are “management professionals”, bankers, S&M folks, and other corporate workers who feel the same way. But having spent some time in this industry now, I speak for myself and my cringe-and-bear-it relationship with the IT industry. I don’t mean to be condescending in my diatribe about IT. Not long ago, I had the opportunity of working with a startup and witnessing some really brilliant minds at work! These guys were a bunch of ingenious coders who were passionate about the stuff they developed and were pretty good at it too! That was a good way to expend skill and show passion for something that they were extremely fond of. But for people like me who, somehow, like falling into a blackhole, got dragged into this industry, we’re stuck! In a really bad place.

Do I mean to say that there are IT professionals who feel the same way as I do? Of course! Look at the sullen faces in the crowds that arrive in the IT parks on a Monday morning. You’ll find latent artists, athletes, historians, adventurers, politicians, diplomats, and philosophers in them. All of them stuck in their corporate prison cells only – and I repeat, only – for the money that they earn. More than 85% of them, I can safely say, endure the atrocities of corporate life only for the 30^th and 31^st of the month, when the salary-credit SMS pops up on their mobile phones.

That is a highly transient moment of happiness. The smiles fade within an hour of receiving the salary, because at the same time, out goes the EMIs, the rents, the bills, and insurance premiums. The fatter the paycheck, the higher the outgoings, and also the higher number of ailments. Along with your other incentives (which you've got to look for in the payslip with a magnifying glass), you also earn hypertension, diabetes, spondylitis, migraine, PCOD, cirrhosis, slip disc (I’m not talking about CDs skidding in the disk drive!), bipolar disorder, arthritis, erectile dysfunction, and worse things. In other words, another slice of 'unwritten' standard deductions from your salary.

The disheartening truth about all this is that, after making amends with life and coping with the burdens of modern lifestyle, when things go south, the same organisation doesn't think twice before unceremoniously booting you out. Then, the very thought of paying all your bills and rents and EMIs without the guarantee of a salary at the end of the next month eats into your mind, sucks the life out of you. The nightmares and the panic attacks then drive you to the next available avenue: another similar slave-driver that will, at first, make promises of fishing you out of your misery at whatever wage THEY decide is good for you in those circumstances (anyway, when did you ever get what you wanted in the first place!). And then, the same story begins once again. Software development lifecycle, do I hear you say?

W.H. Davies saw it coming long ago in 1911. In the end, what is it all worth, he asked. "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare." I’ve an eleven year old who will soon run her first rat race, the SSC examinations. I’ve spent my life doing stuff I’ve absolutely no love for, but I definitely don’t want her to end up doing the same thing: chase money, chase fat paychecks and compromise on things that she is passionate about. I hope at least she gets to do what she wants in life. I’m not going to be a burden on her by piling on her and making myself a liability when I grow old, if I live that long like my maternal grandparents. 

And that is why I took up running.

Just when I was looking to do something to keep myself hale and hearty, and did not burn a hole in my pocket, I discovered running. I came across Murakami's title "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" on Google for the first time, when I was sitting in my temporary cubicle that overlooked the atrium of the World Bank Headquarters in Washington DC. An excerpt was posted on one of the pages in the Search results, and for the first time, I began to mull over the prospects of taking up running. Then, I was an obese man in his early thirties, suffering from high cholesterol and blood pressure, who drank copious amounts of alcohol almost every evening and binged on fried foods. Short walks used to leave me breathless, and I carried an Asthalin inhaler everytime in my bag; used it often too. 

I'll write about my first disastrous running experience in a separate post. For now, seven years later, I can tell you that the ‘runner’s high’ that I experience after each run, long or short, is a good antidote for the depression pangs that assail my mind beginning Sunday evening. It keeps me feeling alive; it keeps “lifestyle diseases” at bay. Running is gradually ridding my system of the hypertension that I earned at the Bank along with a tax-free salary, and it makes me feel younger than I was when I was in my twenties. I know I’ve digressed outrageously in this post because I meant to talk about how I made running an integral part of my life, but ended up talking about the banes of our times. In another post, I’ll talk more pointedly about running, I promise. No more spiteful digressions. 

Motorcycle Diaries, Story 2: Monsoon Ride to Ooty in July 2016

My first long-distance ride in the south was also a test for my RS 200, whether I had made a wise investment in the motorcycle. Touring, more than commuting within the city, is my main draw when I choose a motorbike. This time round, I wanted one that: was modern-technology, had ABS, and was comfortable enough for day-long rides. The RS 200 promised to offer all that at least on paper and was also 75K cheaper than the KTM Duke 390, which was my first choice but could not afford. Our ride to Ooty was a bid to corroborate the purchase.

Day One: Getting out of Bangalore

With the Viaterra Claw saddled on the backseat, I rode out of my house on time on a Friday morning. A light rain fell, making the roads mucky and wet. A good time to test the ABS, I thought, deriving solace in the notion that rain at the beginning of anything was a good omen. 

At Gottigere, under the NICE road bridge

Met Jose at 7 am as promised under the NICE road bridge at Gottigere, and then we were off, speeding down the NICE road to the Kanakapura exit, not stopping till we reached the usual breakfast place (called Vinayaka or Vignesh or Ganesh; one of these Ganpati names), where they serve piping hot idlis and vadas, and tea. Met a couple riding KTMs to Kodaikanal; the chap looked every bit the quintessential biker, in his overalls and a KTM RC 390 (Must’ve been a back-breaking ride all the way to Kodaikanal!). The girl had a biker jacket and a hired KTM Duke.

Day One: Off the beaten track

We set off from Kanakapura and took the next tea-stop at the T-junction in Malavalli, another regular pitstop on the route. The KTM duo met us there too. Jose gave them directions and tips, and then we continued on our ride. 

At the tea-stall in Malavalli

Jose decided that we should take the scenic route, which traversed quaint villages and pretty farmlands, instead of barrelling down the highway. I agreed and must say, I wasn’t disappointed at all. Barring the many speed-breakers that appeared all of a sudden and the precarious villagers who strolled across the narrow roads as if they were walking in their backyards – well, we were actually riding through people’s backyards in some hamlets – the route was absolutely beautiful. 

"Pee" break near a village

Lush fields, the occasional spray of rain, the fresh countryside breeze, everything was almost surreal till we reached Nanjangud and encountered madcap traffic on the highway. Dodging cows and fiendish tourist taxis, we hurtled down to Gundlupet, my bike keeping up with Jose’s Duke 390 at a respectable 1-minute distance, running at an average of 105 kmph.

Sunflowers with their faces turned away from us, from the madness of the highway.
On the Nanjangud-Gundlupet stretch.

Day One: Bandipur-Masinagudi to Ooty

The main reason for riding to Ooty was that we would have to ride through a section of Bandipur National Park. Those who know me well would know how much I love wildlife! Only on one occasion many years ago, on a night ride through Chinar forests near Munnar in Kerala, we saw a lone elephant on the roadside. We could barely make out the outline of the mighty pachyderm at night, but even then we could tell when it began to walk towards our jeep! I barely remember that sighting, and after going through the many videos of elephant encounters in Bandipur on Youtube, I was looking forward to my own in the forest. We saw no elephants, but a lone bison made an appearance and a mongoose skittered across our path. Sadly the two-legged wildlife variety in their desperately honking, smoke spewing vehicles hurtling past as though they were on a race-track ensured that the noble pachyderms kept their distance from the madness of the road. The weather was fine, though. 

The wet roads on the Ooty-Gudalur stretch

After crossing the delirium of Masinagudi town, we began our ascent to Ooty. The winding roads, the mind-blowing hairpin bends definitely set an adrenalin rush in Jose who disappeared up the ghats, waiting for me midway somewhere to catch up. We had another tea, taking in the whiff of eucalyptus and tea from the tea-processing factories nearby. The air got cooler as we rode up. By the time we reached Ooty town, it was lunchtime. We had a nice meal at this restaurant called Place to Bee, which serves continental meals.

Nice lunch at "Place to Bee"

Then we checked into the hotel where we had booked a room for ourselves. Nothing to sing home about; it was a bare-bones, dingy room with a clean bathroom all right. The only time we spent in it was at night, leaving again at 7 am to ride back to Bangalore, this time via Gudalur.

Day Two: Ooty to Gudalur and Mudumalai-Bandipur

The exit from Ooty to Gudalur via Pykara and Naduvattom was daunting. There was some rain, the wind was chilly and formidable, and the roads were mucky and slippery. Thanks to the ABS, we didn’t skid a lot, but I did stop once or twice to catch my breath; I was a little shaken I must admit. Thankfully, nothing bad happened, other than a few branches of the shola trees falling on our heads! At Naduvattom, we stopped for tea and also bought some tea packets from the friendly chap. The sights and smells of tea-estates was refreshing. It allayed my apprehensions a little. 

Tea stall at Naduvattom

Mist settles over the tea estates at Naduvattom

The 52-km ride between Ooty and Gudalur took us more than 2.5 hours to cover, mainly because of my slowing down I think, and stopping to take pictures. The crosswinds ensured that I didn’t speed down the ghats. They even whistled their warnings!

By the time we reached Gudalur, it was 9:45 am, and I was ravenous! Jose found a nice Malayali restaurant, a little inn with a traditional kitchen – complete with a wood-fired stove, rattan tables and long, wooden benches against the wall, and wooden cupboards with glass facades – where they served excellent, succulent, spicy beef curry with Malabari porotta. With black tea, and dal vadas too! The chap who ran the place talked at length to Jose about his son who was a computer graduate I think and was looking for a job. The son emerged from their house behind the inn and took down Jose’s email, and also gave us his own. Wonder what happened to that promise of an IT job in Bangalore, Jose? :)

Spicy beef curry and porotta with black tea

The traditional kitchen at the inn in Gudalur

Once again, we entered the forest, this time from the Mudumalai side, but saw no elephants. Again the same honking, urban ignoramuses, and some deer, that’s all. Nevertheless, the weather again was beautiful and we emerged, once again, in Gundlupet and road towards Mandya.

Day Two: Via Mandya back home

On our return journey, we rode down the highway, flying down most of the stretch, especially the ring road at Mysore. For the first time in my life, I touched 130 kmph on a motorcycle. The speedometer hit the red line at this speed and I couldn’t go any faster, which was as well, for as we slowed down at an intersection, we saw traffic cops with speed guns on the highway :)

We stopped at Poojari's Fishland Restaurant outside Mandya where the owner had these vintage cars lined up as exhibits at the entrance. Jose settled for curd rice while I had a nice fish curry with rice. 

A Willys, Fiat Padmini, Morris Minor, an eyesore, and another Fiat.

A good meal, after which we rode once again all the way to NICE road in Bangalore, stopping once at a Café Coffee Day outlet in Ramanagara for a caffeine shot to keep us from falling asleep! Once on the NICE road, Jose turned off on the Bannerghatta road exit while I headed towards Hosur road, rode up to Silk Board, and reached home by about 4 pm.

At CCD in Ramanagara, the last coffee stop before reaching Bangalore

I did not get to see elephants but the ride, the first one in the south, was fantastic. My RS 200 proved to be a reasonably good tourer. Apart from the slight, general fatigue, I had no aches or pains anywhere. Woke up fresh the next morning and went for a run even. I’m happy with the investment I made in the RS 200. In September, it proved its mettle once again when we – Jose, Govind, and I – rode once again to the Nilgiris, covering 1040-odd kilometers in 3 days. More on that in another post. 

I'll See You When I Get There

Chittazhi Kamala Nair - My beloved grandmother

On the night that my grandmother fell, far away in Mumbai, I went to bed sullen, despite having run a wonderful half-marathon after two years that morning. I won’t claim to have had premonitions of my grandma’s illness, at least not that evening. After a few previous visits to Kerala, I had told my wife of those portents that my grandmother might pass away soon. Earlier this year, a certain bout of illness had caused her limbs to go numb and had confined her to bed. With my brother-in-law’s wedding coming up, we were all worried. My mother used to sound apprehensive when I used to call her.

Then I went to Kerala in March, a month before the wedding. As usual, I reached home early morning after riding on the overnight bus from Bangalore. My parents were at the door, but I kept looking into the dining area where the feeble light of dawn was slowly spreading on the floor. My grandmother’s room lay beyond the dining area. I was afraid I’d have to see her lying motionless in bed. But within the next few seconds, out she skittered, walking bent but without strain and without even a walking cane! My heart brightened, just like the unfolding morning. I threw my arm around her and she smiled brightly, as the morning sunlight flooded into the house. My grandmother not only attended the wedding, she also sat in the front row at the Sangeet ceremony and enjoyed the performances and the party that followed. After that, I forgot about the premonitions. I never thought her end would come so suddenly. Unfortunately, I never saw her alive after that. Perhaps, it was not in my good karma to do so.

She passed away four days after the fall. Like aftershocks of an earthquake, she suffered several strokes after the first one that Sunday night which caused her to fall in the bathroom. She was taken to the hospital then. She never returned home.  

Home. Words have a different meaning at different times and situations. For most of us, “home” is not just a brick-and-concrete structure, a villa or an apartment, a hovel or a palace. It is an emotion, a bond often stronger than the ties of blood. (Or is it the ties of blood that define home?) My grandmother lived in Mumbai for the most part of her life and, I can safely say, she loved it there. At least her Khar and Santacruz days, she relished. But her heart always belonged to Cheruthuruthy, the little town on the shores of the Bharathapuzha river. 

The house she grew up in, now a museum

The house she grew up in - now a government-owned museum dedicated to the Great Poet Vallathol Narayana Menon – the cousins, uncles and aunts, the great poet and her grandfather himself, the glass-paned vestibule on the top floor of the house – fondly called the ‘chillumuri’ – the endless laughter that resonated during vacations, the bath-trips to the river that she dreaded – she could not swim – and the Kathakali and Bharathanatyam performances at the Kalamandalam; Cheruthuruthy was what home meant to her. All she had to do, wherever she was, was to shut her eyes, and immediately, she used to get teleported to this home of hers, long after home ceased to exist.

She was cremated on the shores of the Bharathapuzha. As the flames consumed the pyre, the smoke rose and drifted towards the Vallathol Samadhi on the other side of the river. The bright sun hid for a moment and thunder gurgled, but it didn’t rain. It was a sign – how blessed she was, my grandma! – that her soul had transformed into the little girl she once was. She was happily running to her grandparents to sit on their laps.

As we performed the rituals at the river, we met another group that had also, similarly, conducted the funeral of their mother. The pyre was right next to my grandmother’s. We got talking and realised that their mother was my grandmother’s classmate in school! On further enquiries, we got to know that both girls sat next to each other in school. I looked up at the wafting smoke rising from both pyres and smiled. I could imagine her with her friend, in pigtails, giggling and soaring across the river to their school in Cheruthuruthy. 

My grandmother had truly returned home.

PS: My grandmother was the granddaughter of Mahakavi Vallathol Narayana Menon; the eldest daughter of his eldest daughter, Unnimaya. I'm my grandmother's elder daughter Yamuna's eldest son, but it's my sister Sanjana who, with her daughter Aradhya, is part of the four generations of my grandmother's lifetime :)