Tosh, October 2015: A Village in the Clouds

The smell of dung pervades the air in Tosh. The rickety suspension bridge that connects to this mountainside village is laden with dung cakes of pack animals and cattle. There are no motorable roads here. The village is a warren of narrow pathways – most are unpaved and uneven, while some are cobblestoned and a few are even set in concrete – mostly covered in dung. Walking down these alleyways, I get a sense of what the towns and villages of ancient times, such as those of the Sakas, Huns, or Mongols, would have smelled like.

The Maya Shiv Shakti cafe at the mouth of Tosh.
The bridge in the foreground is caked in dung.

Unkempt as it might seem, Tosh is still a quaint, colourful and pretty village. And all is forgotten the moment you look out East and see the snow-capped mountains and pine forests, the view that the village wakes up to every day. The mountains received snowfall twelve days ago, said our companion on the local bus, a native of Dharamsala who works at the hydroelectricity project in Barshaini. That morning, my friend from Delhi, Davneet Singh, who was my co-passenger on the overnight Himachal Road Transport Volvo bus from Delhi to Manali, and I set out from Kasol in a local bus to Barshaini village. There are only a few bus services to Barshaini; most of them stop at Manikaran and turn back to Bhunter. From Manikaran, Barshaini is roughly 20 kilometres further up in the hills, a nondescript village that has little else other than a few eateries, the hydroelectricity project site and the base for Tosh and Kheerganga, a glade with a hot-water spring high up in the mountains. 

View of the hills from Tosh

By the end of November, Tosh receives heavy snowfall, he said. Then, the village gets cut off from the mainland and the local buses ply only up to Manikaran. Even Barshaini receives a fair amount of snow, because of which the road from Manikaran is closed during winters. Still, ‘foreign’ tourists, mainly Israelis and a few Russians, trudge through the snow and come to Tosh, he said. Then, Tosh becomes a mini-Israeli settlement. There are few guesthouses here, and so, some of the homes of the locals become homestays. Rave parties are held in the woods often. Even after I entered Tosh at around 11 am, soaked in sweat because the three kilometre uphill and winding road does not have enough tree cover, and sat in the café at the mouth of the village, there was trance music playing nonstop.

Inside the cafe

Tosh is not the highest or remotest mountain village in India. There are several remote settlements in Himachal Pradesh alone, especially in the Lahaul and Spiti region and, closer here, Malana: The Eden from where you get the most popular, ostensibly highest-quality dope called Malana Cream. People told me that even in Tosh if I asked around, I’d get a decent amount of Malana Cream to last me for a nightlong stay. But I was not interested. No, I’m not a self-righteous person; it’s just that I don’t know how to smoke!

One of the many pathways of Tosh

Like in Kasol, the colourful wooden houses are covered with Hebrew signboards or with advertisements of Momos, Chowmein (spelled differently on different signboards), Hummus or Laffa. I think every other house in Tosh is a guesthouse, with psychedelic graffiti or retro murals of Shiva who resembles Bob Marley. Or the other way round perhaps. I wonder how will these people sustain themselves through the winter months after snow cuts the village off from the rest of the world. Then, I see part of the answer on the rooftops.

Corn cobs left on the roof to dry

There are corn cobs spread out on several rooftops, left there to dry in the last bright rays of the sun. Then, there are apple orchards. I’m certain the villagers have stocked up already, bringing goods from Kasol or Bhunter by bus and then bringing it into Tosh on the backs of mules and ponies. Besides, there’s enough dope for everybody. What more does one need!

After roaming around in the village for a little while, I returned to Kasol that evening by bus. My friend Davneet had taken another route. He headed up to Kheerganga with other hikers where he planned to camp for the night. The next day in Kasol, he told me about the wonderful trek through the woods, the hot water springs in Kheerganga, the jamming session all night, and the stay in a dormitory. Just when I was beginning to feel a little envious, he added, “There were huge rats in the dormitory, running over our legs as we slept. They kept us company all night.”

I was glad I didn’t make it to Kheerganga!

After a Hiatus, Back on the Road

Like David Coverdale sang:

Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday
An' I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time
Here I go again.

Bike Trip to Mahabaleshwar: The Victoria Secrets ride (Oct 2004)

(The photographs in this post are mobile-phone captures of printed photographs; hence the lack of clarity.)

Disclaimer

Let me state this upfront: Not a single one of us in this group is a pervert, even though we are a disparate bunch of individuals with some very esoteric interests, given to bouts of eccentricity every now and then, but never perversion! The thing is, the hotel that we stayed in had only one functional cable-television channel: Fashion TV. Do not ask me how that is possible; sadly, it was so for the whole duration of our two-night stay in Mahabaleshwar.

Helmets on the outdoor breakfast table at Karnala: Abhishek's Bieffe, Kaushal's MPA, my doomed MPA, Madhav's Studds, and Victor's cap :P

Now we spent most of the two days riding our motorcycles in the western ghats, even going to the boarding-school town of Panchgani about 20 kilometres away. So when we returned each evening to the hotel, we needed something - anything - to serve as background music. So, FTV stubbornly stayed on the TV to regale us. Invariably, we all stole a glance or two, sighed at the sight of a few of those skinny, lingerie-clad models, and continued with our banter about motorcycles, rock artists, stand-up comedians, and other things. But FTV persisted in its depravity and decided to make almost all its shows lingerie themed. As though they had to ensure that the brand, Victoria's Secrets, registered in our ride-weary heads.

Bandannas, Balaclava masks, Bikes, and Babes

An ideal motorcycle ride should have had Ducatis and Harley Davidsons, with us handsome, able-bodied riders in leather overalls, with "biker chiks" riding pillion. Instead, we all had bikes of not more than 180cc and with Kaushal hopping from bike to bike as pillion rider. So much for the biker chiks! And the motorcycles, in turn, included a 100cc and a 150cc Hero Honda, a 150cc and a 180cc Bajaj Pulsar, and...a Hayabusa! At least the owner of this 150cc Bajaj Boxer, Victor Rodrigues, made his motorcycle seem like one. For instance, at the point where one turns onto the Mumbai-Goa highway, Victor sped off so fast in the wrong direction, towards Alibag, that biker Abhishek could not catch up with him despite putting up a chase at 120 kmph! It was only after Victor slowed down when he realized that he was on the wrong road that Abhishek caught up with him.

Zen and the Art of Mis-motorcycling

There were other minor mishaps before we reached Mahabaleshwar. Perhaps it was the outcome of the slight arrogance we guys had developed, after our successful and hassle-free ride to Kashid Beach a few seasons ago. A little after the Hayabusa incident, Madhav's Hero Honda CBZ's clutch cable snapped. But the ingenious Maddy had a spare cable and could fix it all by himself! Then, at a pitstop near Indapur, my brand new helmet decided to jump off the rearview mirror on which I'd left it dangling. The visor cracked and so did something in my head. I ripped off the remains of the visor and even flung my helmet back on the road. Er...those were days when I was a bit of an impatient chap; let's just say only so much and leave it at that!

Finally, before reaching Mahad, Victor's bike keys popped out and locked the handlebar, while he was still riding the motorcycle! Fortunately, he managed to slow the bike down without any mishaps and pick up the keys from the roadside. The remainder of the ride, up the lovely winding road to Mahabaleshwar, was uneventful and charming at the same time.

On the road to Panchgani

'Lucky' by Chance in Mahabaleshwar

It is said that this hill town of Mahabaleshwar receives the highest or second-highest rainfall outside of the Himalayas and the Cherrapunji region. During the rains, most hotels shut down, literally cloaking themselves whole in plastic sheets! The dampness gets to you after a while, when the heavy, lashing rain does not relent, and the fog reduces visibility to a few feet. But in autumn, just after monsoon, the hill town is clad in various hues of green with only a sweet nip in the air. We rode around and went as far as Panchgani (Where Victor fell off a horse and hurt his back; thankfully, not too grievously), had two meals at Lucky restaurant - famous for their delicious paaya soup and boti kebabs - indulged in what we do best: gather in the room, eat, drink, chatter away, and of course, endure FTV.

All the bikes neatly lined up at Table Top, Panchgani

Of Reckless Minds and Rides

On the third day, it was time to return home. Our group had split into Puneites and Mumbaiites, and so, the Puneris would ride back to Panchgani from where the Pune-Bangalore highway would take them to Pune, while we Mumbaiites had to return to the Mumbai-Goa highway. All those bewitching ramp models parading up and down in Victoria Secrets lingerie loomed in my head as we rode down the ghats. After we descended and stopped for a quick snack, I realized that the rest of the lot also had VS on their heads. We could have well had pennants in the livery of Victoria Secrets attached to our motorcycles.

Even after we descended from the hills to the plains, I wondered what it would be like to have a rendezvous with one of them svelte models. Doe-eyed beauties, the fragrance of rainwashed earth, the satin caress of their dark skins, their almost barenaked, beckoning bodies. The imagery was as clear as the blue skies and green earth that sprawled ahead of us. It was like a PowerPoint slideshow in the skies, the images of those lovely women flashing one after the other on the blue celestial canvas.

Just before reaching Mahad, it was as though the fantasy magically changed to reality. Quite unabashedly, and literally, I ran into this dark-skinned belle. I remember vividly, even now, how I was hurled at her, how my hands and my face pressed into her belly, and how she moaned aloud. And surely, there was the scent of fresh earth on her, this earthly dusky beauty.

Only after I tumbled over her and landed on my butt did I realize that hers was not the scent of earth but that of fresh dung. I was still lying on my back on the tarred road in a cloud of dust. The dark skinned belle let out another moan, a bellow actually, and returned to the roadside to take a look at what had hit her. At a distance, I saw my friends pull up their bikes to the roadside and a pair of denim-clad legs running towards me. Help was on the way, I thought and smiled, but the pair of legs ran past me and stopped next to my fallen bike. He lifted the bike up, propped it on its stand, and then came running back to me. Somewhere in the shrubbery nearby, I am sure I heard the mocking twitter of a lapwing.

"You're all right?" Abhishek asked. A pair of hands dug into my armpits from behind me and helped me stand up. Victor was clicking his tongue all the while that he helped me up. Fortunately, I was not hurt, thanks to the denim jacket and gloves and helmet and other such paraphernalia. Even the bike was mostly okay, except for the shattered headlight and its visor. The handlebar was slightly bent, but I rode it a little to check if I could manage the remainder of the ride on the bike, and I could. So Victor and I ripped off the headlight, and we decided we had to ride as fast and safely as possible in order to reach Mumbai before nightfall. I waved at the little crowd that had gathered around us and at the buffalo I had run into. Thankfully, she didn't register any  further complaints. Her tail swished twice and she turned around and walked away, quite steadily. I was happy to know that she had also escaped unhurt, if only a little shaken.

Shaken but not stirred

Later, when we stopped for lunch, my friends described the scene. I was riding in front of them, and it was a fairly straight, flat road for a long distance. A herd of buffaloes crossed the road fairly ahead of us, but we had still slowed down a little. Before the last buffalo could cross to the other side of the road, a state-transport bus came flying down, blowing its shrill horn. The last buffalo panicked. Instead of crossing the road quickly, she turned around and ran, once again, across our side of the road. Now the rest of the bikes had disc brakes; my poor Hero Honda Splendour did not. My friends saw me disappear in a cloud of dust and realized that I'd run into the buffalo. The impact threw me over the handlebar, made me somersault over the buffalo and land on my back.

Great 'Un'expectations

I was nicknamed Buffalo Soldier, and for the rest of the ride home, the gang found two reasons to make me the butt of all their rejoinders. First, of course, there was the buffalo incident. Then, after lunch, I called home called home to tell wife dearest that I'll be a little late, but I could hear her weep and snort. I thought one of these chaps called home and reported the incident, but that was not the case.

"I'm pregnant!" she declared and wept again. "What are we going to do now?"

At that point of time in life, neither wifey dearest nor I was expecting a baby. She was looking to join Qatar Airways as airhostess. I was considering moving to Doha and looking for a job for myself, so that I could join her in Qatar. There was also some talk about relocating to Pune where I'd procured an instructional designer's job in the same organization that the Puneite-gang worked in. And then, I hear this.

That 'accident' had me more shaken than this one. I hung up with a few futile attempts at placation, and told my friends, in a daze" "I think I'm going to be daddy."

The laughter that broke out in the biker ranks was deafening.

Mission Kashmir Part One: A Wazwan welcome

Ramban appeared like a ghost in a cloud of construction dust, in a crook on National Highway 1A. My eyes were feasting on the green-blue waters of the Chenab, coursing through the valley way below us, a respite for the eyes after miles and miles of hard, undulating terrain. For the umpteenth time, I cursed myself for not doing a thorough homework. Normally, before I set out on a trip, I scrutinize a dozen maps, guides, review sites, and other such things, so that once I hit the road, at every step I know exactly where I am and how much of the road is left. Of course, the signboards and milestones exist for that very purpose, but still it is a comforting feeling when you know you can associate those names on the signboards with those pinpoints on the map that you memorize.

Before this trip, we - my brother-in-law, who is becoming a veteran member of my backpacking trips to anywhere, and I - had ruled out Kashmir because of the arduous travel it entailed. When I set out from Pune on board a Volvo to Mumbai Central, and when we left Mumbai Central for New Delhi on a Duronto Express, we were talking about taking a bus from the Interstate Bus Terminus (ISBT) at Kashmiri gate and heading out to Hrishikesh or MacLeodganj or Joshimath-Auli, but not Kashmir. Then, a lanky co-passenger, a techie from Wipro in Hinjewadi, got talking. Like a monk who had communed with his God, he reminisced about his trips across India and concluded rather smugly that the best place he had ever been to was Kashmir. "It has two shades in a year," he said with his eyes pinched shut and his hands flailing, "In summer, it is greeeen," he said, emphasizing on that 'green', "and in winter, it is whiiite. But, any time of the year, it is beeyoutiful!" The glee on his face was of one who had just wolfed down a wazwan course. Now I'd first heard about the Kashmiri 36-course meal, rather read about it, in Salman Rushdie's "Shalimar the Clown". I remembered how it had made my belly growl with an aching for that opulent meat treat. Besides, the whole world had sang glories about the paradise on earth, so Kashmir should have been an obvious choice right from the beginning.

A view of the banks of the Tavi in Jammu

But for my generation, which had grown up hearing only nightmarish stories about this 'lost paradise' and had also seen a war over there, the very notion of traveling to Kashmir, that too as a backpacker, was marred with apprehension. The travel guides forbade western citizens from venturing into this state. The news channels almost always had a story of doom or two to report from here, this paradise as Prince Jehangir so touted. And then, there was the painful prospect of trudging up the road all the way from Delhi to Srinagar. But still, the lure of seeing paradise, white paradise as the co-traveler had described Kashmir, was too strong to resist. 

Before the train crossed from Rajasthan into the fringes of UP, we decided Kashmir was where we were headed. Already, a day had passed since I'd hit the road. The sullen agent at the Punbus Corporation window in ISBT told us about the bus that was due to leave for Jammu at 6 pm. Earnestly, we boarded the bus, which turned out to be quite a comfortable one unlike the wretch who manned the counter. But by the time it was close to midnight and when the bus stopped at a 'haveli' dhaba somewhere near Patiala, we realized that enduring the same journey on the return route would be torturous. The next morning, after reaching a frigid Jammu at 6 am and boarding a shared taxi at 8 am bound for Srinagar 300 kilometers away, bro-in-law sought the assistance of a colleague back in Mumbai to book Srinagar to Delhi flight tickets for us five days later. That was a wise thing to do because as our shared taxi wound up and down again the ghats from Jammu to Kashmir, our bones ached, our behinds were beginning to turn sore, and the cold began to seep into our marrows. My toes were numb in my sneakers - another mistake on this trip; I thought I'd lose a few toes to frostbite by the time the trip was over. 

The inn that overlooked the Chenab river

In the shared taxi, a Scorpio or a Tavera I don't remember now, we were the only non-Kashmiris, looking about dumbfounded as the rest of the passengers chattered with and passed cigarettes to each other. Occasionally, they turned around to smile at us, ask us where we were from, and look immensely pleased to know that we were from Mumbai. Mid-morning, we stopped for tea at some place near Patnitop, where an old chap gave us two cupfulls of salted tea, something we were not accustomed to. "Can we get sugar tea?" I asked apprehensively, and the man nodded. Within five minutes, two cups of treakle-like tea was delivered to our table. Then the jeep ambled on, climbed several ghats, descended some others, and climbed again. The dust that rose from construction and roadwork sites fought with the fresh mountain air of the Himalayas, but thankfully we rode in a jeep that had all its windows rolled up, and so we did not have to inhale that familiar messed up air of the cities that we were running away from. And then, just before we began to tire, the Chenab revealed itself.

The river was icy blue in some parts and an emerald green in others. Whatever its real color was, it was an enthralling sight because this was the first mountain river I'd seen in India after six or seven years, the last being the Beas in HP. We were exhausted from continuous traveling. Hunger had begun to voice its protests quite vehemently. That was when the ghost of Ramban town loomed in front of us.

The inn we stopped at was a humble structure balancing itself on a ledge that overlooked a chasm and the river in it. On the other side of the mountain was nestled a village and a construction site, where a hydroelectric project was taking shape. The inn was full of local travelers mostly and the menu was limited: kashmiri mutton curry and plain rice. I beamed, even recollected some sections of 'Shalimar the Clown', but then I remembered that my bro-in-law did not eat lamb. The waiter suggested rajma (kidney beans) curry and rice and the matter was settled. In no time, I was gorging down large morsels of rice and spicy, brown, tender lamb. Bro-in-law was satisfied with the rajma-chawal, and soon we were muttering our yum-yums and humming in glee.

Perhaps we were too loud or too silly, or it must have been my gluttonous gorging, because two tables away, two adult gentlemen were watching us and exchanging a joke or two at our expense. It was pretty obvious that we were their subjects of mockery for they both kept turning back every now and then, and chuckling. Then, they finished their meal and rose to leave. The second old gentleman stopped by our table and put down a bowl that had curry and a sort of spherical meatball in it. Try this with your rice," he said in a heavily accented Hindi. "It is a specialty of Kashmir and my gift to you. Do not pay the waiter for this. It is my way of welcoming you to our land."

Perhaps it was their ceaseless chortle that made me skeptical. Was this sphere of meat really food or was it a ram's testicle? I was not too sure, so I did not dive into the dish and decided to leave it aside. But the man was watching from the counter before he paid and left, so it would have been rude to not have tried it. So i dug my fork into the meatball and took a piece. Bro-in-law had this look of incredulity in his eyes, but then I took the chance. I put the piece and some rice into my mouth and chewed. It was the most tender piece of meat, nicely spiced, that I'd ever eaten. Had to be testicles, I thought and told bro-in-law. It does not matter now, I said. And it does not taste too bad after all.

Google to the rescue! On the mobile phone I looked up "Meatball Kashmiri cuisine", and the resulting display made me smile. This was a bowl full of 'Ristae', a meatball curry - not testicles though - that was one of the courses of the Kashmiri Wazwan cuisine. I turned around to look whether the old gentleman had left. He was outside with his friend, still glancing inside every now and then to see if I'd tried the curry, puffing curls of cigarette smoke from his mouth. I smiled at him when he looked in our direction and he waved at us, put out his cigarette, and walked away with his friend.

The USA Series Part 2: Gluttony, "purely non-vegetarian" style!

On the first weekend in February, a feeble sun made a futile attempt of warming Arlington. Winter still ruled over the commonwealth of Virginia. The air was still frigid. The biting cold singed exposed earlobes and finger tips. With nothing to do at home and nowhere to go that Sunday, comfortably warm in my oversized black jacket and skull cap, I took a metro ride to the Woodley Park Zoo. It was not the most exciting place to be at. Like all zoos, this one was also depressing. The clichéd gilded cage couldn't do much to placate the poor creatures living within them, or behind glass panels in air-conditioned rooms! That is not where they belonged.

I made a hasty exit, ate a sandwich at a deli, and walked back to Adams Morgan metro station, after spending some time listening to a street guitarist called Carlos, playing Santana-like lead on his electric guitar. For a dollar, he played what he called his best piece and also showed me the CD jacket of his latest release, which he said I could pick up from a certain store in the area. After exchanging a few pleasantries, I went down the long escalator into Adams Morgan metro station, which was not as deep down as Rosslyn's escalator, I think.

Carlos, a brilliant street guitarist outside Adams Morgan metro station

At Crystal City's basement shopping center, just above the metro station, some uninspiring music played in the corridors; not the usual "With or without you" by U2 that usually welcomed me on weekday evenings. My mind was not so much on the music as it was on dinner plans. There was nothing at home in the refrigerator, except for a Budweiser six-pack. With just a sandwich in my belly and all that walking around, I was hungry by the time I got back to Crystal City. Surprisingly, the Sbarro outlet was closed, so I could not pick up my usual beef stroganoff sandwich from there. The Sushi store was open, but I did not feel up to it. The salad take-out store next to CVS Pharmacy had run out of most of its servings. I was not in a mood to cook that evening, so the only option left was to order a pizza or a chicken teriyaki rice from the Asian restaurant.

The lobby of the Marriott next to my apartment building had its usual throng of pretty teenagers and their boyfriends at the Starbucks outlet. In comparison, the lobby of Oakwood, my apartment building, looked deserted. However, as I walked into the lobby, I saw a row of large suitcases neatly lined up against the lobby wall. The usually animated, Morgan-Freeman-esque receptionist was even more animated that evening, flailing his arms and shouting out orders to his much younger subordinates. As I reached the elevators, I saw faces I recognized, and these faces were not those of Mr. Freeman's duplicate or his subordinates. These were faces from back home, only that they were much more haggard and pale than I remembered them from home town. And those faces caught sight of me and brightened, as if they had seen a messiah.

The two ladies were my colleagues from the Human Resources team. Back home in the Chennai office, my team and theirs shared the same floor space and, much to the chagrin of both teams, the same pantry and lunch table. But here, on foreign soil, in an alien place - alien as yet at least for them - there was no animosity. We shook hands and talked about the weather and their flight across so many continents.

"Oh it was horrible!" one of them exclaimed, pushing back the loose strands of hair from her forehead. Indeed, she did look like she took a state-transport bus from Chennai to Washington DC. Wasn't all operational travel at the World Bank supposed to be Business class? My own Lufthansa experience was something I was going to talk about forever, making it a fable for my daughter and perhaps her children and grandchildren.

"Yes it was business class," the other lady volunteered this time as the first one relapsed into the state of asthmatic breathing that she was in when I saw her only a minute ago.

"But what, pah! 15 hours from Doha! And the food was horrible!"

Now that got me a little worried because I was planning to book my wife's ticket on Qatar Airways, because that was the cheapest option that season. She had already sent her passport to the Consulate in Chennai for her visa. Surely there must have been a mistake. From what I'd read about Qatar Airways on Airliners.net and elsewhere, it seemed to be a very good airline. Nevertheless, I asked them if I could be of any help.

"I've got phone numbers of restaurants that could bring you some food," I said and gave them those numbers. I wished them a 'Welcome to the States' as if I'd been living there since I was born. Then I retired to my apartment, filled the bathtub with soap suds, grabbed two Budweisers, topped up a bowl with nachos, and threw myself into the tub, still wondering what I could order for the night. I'd forgotten to withdraw cash from the ATM, so I was left with only 10 dollars in my wallet. The bathroom door I left open, so that some of the classic rock from Pandora.com could drift into the bathroom. I hardly watched TV. There was no cable, only free channels, which telecast rubbish like "Keeping up with the Kardashians" and "Love Bus". Bah!

The kitchen of my apartment

The loud ding-dong of the doorbell startled me. Nobody in the US came to your doorstep uninvited, so I guessed it must have been the newly arrived guests from World Bank Chennai. I quickly toweled myself and got into a t-shirt and shorts, and answered the door after the bell rang once again. Sure enough, the two ladies, still haggard, stood with a large pizza in their hands. Yes, their hands, for they were carrying it between them as if they were carrying a piece of furniture.

"Hi, we are so sorry to disturb you, but would you like to have a pizza?"

A pizza! Sure, I had no idea what to do for dinner anyway. But why were they ordering pizza for me? It should have been the other way round.

"You eat non-veg, by the way?"

"Sure I do, but why did you take the trouble..."

"Oh you know, we ordered a large pizza and THIS came for us."

The held out the pizza box and I read the label on it. Pepperoni with extra pepperoni toppings, it said, next to the red-dot sign indicating that this was a meat-pizza. And these ladies were, as they like to call themselves in India, pure vegetarians!

"Well, I'd love to have this pizza," I said, already salivating. "But why did you order a non-veg pizza?"

"Oh we ordered pepper ronny! The pizza says pepper ronny but it is full of meat! We don't see any pepper or capsicum on it. Just meat!"

As much as I wanted to laugh out, I didn't, out of pity for these two ladies.

"You surely don't mind us giving you this, do you?"

Why would I! One large pepperoni pizza would last me for two good days. I accepted it, even offered to pay for it, but they vehemently declined the offer. I even volunteered to give them some of the potato-peas curry I'd made earlier, but they said they had brought their rice, sambar powder, and other condiments from home. They said that the sambar was already cooking on the stove.

I thanked them profusely for the pizza, they thanked me even more profusely for accepting the pizza, and I went to bed after a hearty meal and enough beer to go with it. For once, I thanked the Universe for "pure vegetarian" brethren!

The USA Series, Part 1: The Flight of Fancy to the Land of Dreams

"Isn't that a coyote on the runway?" said the black-suited, bespectacled, tall gentleman seated next to me, pointing a long index finger at the creature running along the edge of 07C/25C, Runway North, Frankfurt am Main (I noticed the markings). "He might just take off before we do...uh...you do speak English, don't you?"

I turned towards the gentleman and my foggy brain said: Smile! So, I smiled. Beamed at him, in fact. "Yes that does look like a coyote," I said. "And I've heard of flying foxes, but those creatures never looked like this!" With a guffaw and a warm handshake, the introductions were completed, and I turned back to the runway as our Boeing 747 lined up on it. A hazy view of the terminal building danced outside the window. An air hostess hurriedly picked up the empty wrappers of Macademia nuts from our trays, which we folded and put into a little container in the armrest. Within a minute, the Lufthansa Boeing 747 gunned down the runway and took to the skies, turning westwards towards the land of dreams that all of us desis at least fantasize about with a sigh.

The first leg of my flight had indeed gone by like a fantasy ride, although I would have liked to have taken off from Mumbai international instead of Chennai, but what the heck. I was flying to the US of A, to the most powerful capital city in the world. On a G4 (United Nations issue) visa. By Lufthansa. Business class. Yessir, operational travel at the Bank meant Business class tickets!

I began living the dream as soon as I walked into the Business class section. Seats ensconced in little cubicles, complete with an inbuilt massage thing and a 170-degree recline, which moved without affecting the neighbor's seat. A pillow and a wrapping sheet neatly kept under the seat. A pouch containing a pair of socks, eye-blinds, earplugs, and toiletries on the seat. Wine, champagne, and Macademia nuts served to welcome you to Business class. What more could I have asked for! Well, I was hoping to see the Hindukush ranges, the Iranian snow-capped peaks, and the Turkish Anatolian mountains from the aircraft but so stupid of me; it was still night in these parts. I had to contend with the endless servings of Baileys Irish Cream, hors d'oeuvres, and hot meals, and "Transsiberian" and "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", which lulled me to sleep.

A funny, unusual thing happened that early morning in Frankfurt. The fog clearance system or something at the airport failed, because of which our flight was diverted to Leipzig. Just as it touched down in Leipzig, the captain announced that the system in Frankfurt was operational again. So we turned around at the end of the runway and took to the dark skies again.

It was still dark when the aircraft landed in Frankfurt, but there was a feeble promise of daylight. Fog blanketed the airport and its surroundings making visibility zero. All I saw as the Airbus A340-600 touched down was a highway and an astonishingly sleek black truck roll down that fantastically paved road. The aircraft took 25 minutes to taxi to the terminal building, before a faint glimpse of the glass facade of the airport terminal appeared. Aerobridges, like legs of a bug, in the livery of the Royal Bank of Scotland, protruded from the terminal building. At a signal from the air hostess, First and Business class passengers exited first. I was the fourth or fifth passenger to exit the aircraft. At the mouth of the aerobridge stood three police officers in complete German police overalls. One of them was much shorter than the other two, shorter than me too, and had a similar complexion as mine.
 
"Excuse me please, your passport and boarding pass?"
I was taken aback. The white, German cops or even this chap did not stop the rest of the passengers, so why me? I handed him my passport and boarding pass, watched him as he studied it, saw his brow raise - I'm sure it was the G4 stamp in the passport - and then took back the passport and boarding pass from him, which he handed with a "Sorry, have a good day!" whisper. I did not accept his apology. Bloody bugger, desi-origin fella! Only me he had to stop and ask for credentials! Only I looked like a terror suspect simply because I was as brown-skinned as he was? As I walked down the aerobridge and reached the terminal building, I muttered to myself through grinding teeth: Bhainchod!

The rest of my five hours in transit were beautiful, although there was that 35 minute walk from Terminal C to Terminal A, including a sky train ride. The automatic sky train is a two- or three-cart vehicle mounted on top of the terminal buildings. You don't even realize when you walk into it that it is a train, for during that 35-minute walk, you enter and exit several automatically swiveling glass-doors, and use several walkalators as well.

I spend five wondrous hours in Lufthansa's business lounge at Frankfurt International airport, chatting with my wife online for an hour, gorging on the breakfast spread that was easily any gastronome's delight, and downing endless amounts of vodka and tonic water. All this for free, and "free" anything for us Indians is a Heaven-sent. My head buzzed as I floated towards the gate area to board the next aircraft for the second haul of my journey, with a stupid smile plastered on my face. I was seated third from the nose of the gleaming Boeing 747 under the first class section, with a glass of champagne already waiting for me.

As we flew out of Germany came the drinks again. I refused but the pretty, Oriental air hostess insisted that I sample the Riesling Kabinett Trocken or the Champagne Jacquart Brut Mosaique. Who could ever decline such a pretty request! Both the middle-aged gentleman next to me and I reached out for the champagne, and the air hostess brought more before the last sip was downed. Akshay Kumar's antics in "Singh is King" kept me in splits, just like my father-in-law's comment did, to our neighbour in Chennai the previous night.

"My son-in-law is going to Amerikya! The World Bank is calling him there!" he said, and I could not help laughing out. Had my manager heard this, he would have fallen out of his high-back chair, laughing.

The hors d'oeuvres followed; I chose Thai Salad with fried Breast of Quail and Tamarind Sauce and a Soup of Parmigiano Reggiano with toasted Croutons. The route map on the common screen in the Business class section showed that our aircraft was flying over some-town-upon-Tyne, while Katrina Kaif sashayed across the Australian outback in a song sequence. Little did I realize then that this song was going to play upon my mind, and on my favorites playlist, for a long time.

I really do not remember when the food plates and the champagne glass was cleared, for I passed out just as the aircraft flew towards the Atlantic. When I woke up, we were flying over Canada close to the US border. A white carpet spread out below, polka-dotted by patches of brown. There was a live recording of Queen's tribute to Freddie Mercury that played on one of the channels. Luciano Pavarotti did an Italian cover of "Too Much Love Will Kill You" while I lunched on Fried Filet of Salmon with Sauce Hollandaise, Almond Broccoli and Parsley Potatoes. I chose the white Reisling as accompaniment. Just when I thought my stomach would erupt, the same Oriental air hostess brought us the final round of food: an assortment of cheese and dessert. Now I had no idea about different types of cheese. The only kinds I had eaten until then were Britannia sandwich cheese slices, Amul cheese spread, and Kraft cheese triangular cubes that my father brought from his various overseas trips. And none of these were present in the assortment: Bleu d’Auvergne, Le Coutances, Banon Goat Cheese wrapped in Chestnut Leaf, Reblochon, Rahmberg Cheese, a savory Cream Cheese, Grapes, Gouda, and toasted Pecan Nuts and Fig Mustard Sauce. Gouda? Did it have anything to do with the Gowda dynasty of Karnataka? You never know with these rich families in India. They could own anything anywhere and give it their name!

Ignoring the cheese, I settled for a dessert, a chocolate cake with cherry brandy Parfait and aged balsamic vinegar. It tasted like nothing I had had ever before. The end of my nonstop eating ever since I was airborne in Chennai was not the most fascinating, but every thing else until then definitely was. By the time I cleaned up that plate of dessert, the 747 began its descent into Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C.

After touchdown, as the aircraft taxied towards the terminal, I saw a British Airways Boeing land behind us on the runway. Again, the gentleman next to me broke the silence:
"So, your journey ends in DC or you are going elsewhere?"
Turned out that both of us were stopping in DC.
"Great! I've just returned home," he said. "Always feels great to be back home!"
"I've just left home behind," I said. "In India."
"I hope DC proves to be worth leaving home behind. You'll be studying at U of George Washington?"
Again, I let that impish smile return to my face. With slant eyes, I looked up at the suit-donned gentleman and said:
"No, I work for the World Bank. I'm going to work on a project over here for a few months." While his jaw remained dropped, I reached out to my wallet, pulled out my visiting card, and handed it over to him.
"It has my India office numbers listed, but there's my email address. Do write to me if you feel like it."

I opened the overhead storage rack, pulled out my backpack, and walked towards the exit, leaving the stupefied gentleman still holding my visiting card with both hands, reading my credentials on it: Knowledge Management Analyst, The World Bank.

The Song of the Lapwing

The twittering of the lapwing first caught my attention in the uncanniest of places. I had definitely heard its twittering before, but at places where one would quite naturally expect to hear such melodies. At that particular moment, however, on that brooding evening inside a meeting room, when I heard this bird sing, I suddenly began to perceive a certain correlation that the song had with something in my life. Something that I could not instantly put a finger on. It felt as if this melody was not just a common birdsong, which usually played out as the sun completed its task for the day and made way for night. It fel more like a clarion call of some sort. As if it were a reminder that there was something else that had to be done, to be accomplished. It was like Pavlov's theory of conditioning; after repetitions of an exercise of ringing a bell and feeding a dog after each ring, when the bell rang again, the dog would begin to salivate thinking food was on its way.

Then, I was working for a mid-sized, over-ambitious e-learning organization. I was seated in a meeting room by the glass window that overlooked the Western Express highway. I had been sitting there for quite sometime that evening, in silence, with the muffled drone of the air-conditioner and the constant grumble of highway traffic, which adamantly percolated through the tightly shut glass panes and concrete walls. Outside, across the highway, sprawled a patch of green foliage that had managed to trick a flock of birds into believing that this was a forested haven in the concrete jungle. While the sounds of air draft and highway-traffic filled up the silence of the meeting room, and as the anxiety and stuffiness of the room began to smother, the song of the lapwing wafted into my ears and lodged itself in my head.

Didhedoit?
Didhedoit?

That was what it seemed to ask: Did he do it? That is what it always sounds like, the constant grumble of an old friend who always manages to keep me company whenever I, or my mind, travel. Then, I began recollecting the numerous places, and in some cases numerous times,  that I had heard the lapwing's song. Kanha's meadows. Fields and noontime beaches in Goa. The paddy fields in front of our ancestral home in Kerala. Outside decrepit railway stations and at interstate trains' signal halts in the hinterland. The vast open mangroves behind my housing colony in remotest Virar, where the last local train went to roost every night, before it set out to do its duties once again early next morning. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, in a spaced-out state of mind, I made the correlation between the song of the lapwing and the need to travel. Physical or metaphorical, whatever the trip was, the lapwing's song became a reminder, an alarm call, that it was time for me to travel.

Then, in that meeting room, this song was a welcome respite from the thick fog of silence that smothered the room. The people all around me, team mates on a certain project, sat without uttering a word. Feet shuffled. Chairs screeched, making nervous eyes and heads swivel in the direction of the culprit. Once the silent admonishment was administered, all eyes flitted back towards the project manager, who sat perched on the back of his chair, his head hanging down as if he had kettle bells dangling from his nose. Opposite him, across the oval table around which we, the lesser mortals called content writers, huddled, sat his minion, a senior instructional designer, with her head also hanging down, index fingers of both hands twirling around the edge of her dupatta. She was more like a personal assistant and accomplice to the project manager, and both of them equally obnoxious, overwhelmingly boring, and completely clueless about how to conduct a simple, daily status meeting.

Nerves were on edge. I even noticed goosebumps on the hands of a senior writer. The suspense in that meeting room, concerning a certain announcement that the project manager should have made 2 hours ago, bogged down the already weary team of writers. The sense of uncertainty was murderous. A gloomy future, like the exploding dusk outside, was what the team's future looked like. Or was made out to be. Every evening.

Probably in my mind alone, there were only two things playing: the local-train time-table, where as the stifling minutes passed by, I lamented the departure of each train; 6.17 pm...gone; 6.29 pm...gone; 6.51 next, but that too mostly gone; and so on. That, and the distant, comforting, and at times - especially now as each dreary minute ticked away - annoying, song of the lapwing.

The project manager peered from under his brow and let his gaze skim across each one of us. He had a grin plastered on his face, an idiotic grin that every body in the team hated him for. That was just one of the things, the least significant thing, that he was despised for.
Then, he let out a long, noisy sigh. We heard a muffled sniff follow immediately and all eyes turned in that direction. It was his minion who sat across him, perched on a book cupboard, weeping and daubing her nose and eyes with a handkerchief.

"Well..." he, the despicable project manager, finally said. A word was finally uttered, I thought, but then I think I thought too soon. The grin, which was supposed to be a wan smile, returned to the manager's face.

"What do I say...Really..." He called out to his minion. "You...want to say something?"

No she did not. Instead, her muffled sob changed to a whine, a low-pitched, excruciatingly painful sound like chalk skidding on the blackboard. One would weep like that if there were a death in the family, or if the person failed a university exam, or lost a limb in an accident.

"What will she say!" he answered for her, and again, fretful eyes turned back from minion to Master. "What do you guys do over here....really, I...I don't know how to...You know, you know, you have any idea what the client said..." he continued, his hands flailing like the Italian What-the-fuck gesture. Gradually, after two hours of being held hostage in a meeting room, it finally dawned upon us - after dusk - that the client reported a few bugs in the courseware that we uploaded. That was it. That was what all there was to this melodrama.

For two or three months, this had been the story of our lives. Every evening when it was time to head home, Master and minion called for a meeting and did this. For a particular meeting, the HR manager was asked to join and play ring master while these two characters doubled up as buffoons. That circus began at 5 pm and went on till 11 that night. That was supposed to be a taking-stock and pepping-up meeting. What it did instead was flatten us to the ground.

Maybe the lapwing's call on that particular evening was a beckoning for all of us to break out of the corporate shackles and head out, quite literally, to the great outdoors. Which we did, a few weeks later when we could not endure any more of those histrionics. That call culminated into the first bike trip of the trippy tipplers to a beach town called Kashid. More about that later.