Kanha Diaries Part 3.3: First Night and Dorm-Alone

The shrill bark of a spotted deer (chital) made me freeze. I had a morsel of tandoori chapati and chole curry standing still an inch away from my mouth. By then, the guide had told me about "alarm calls" that various animals give out when they see or sense danger . Chital, for example, raise an alarm only when a predator such as a tiger, leopard, or a pack of red dogs called dholes in Hindi is close by. Fowls such as peacocks and jungle cocks raise an alarm when they spot smaller predators such as jackals or even snakes. These calls have a distinct sound, different from their regular calls. All this information was fascinating, but at that moment, as the solitary guest in the Kisli tourist hostel, I must admit that a chill went down my spine, and it was not only because of the end-November chill of the Central Indian plains.

Colours of sunset at Kisli, Kanha National Park

Colours of sunset at Kisli

The lone light bulb in the dormitory

Another bark echoed, followed by a third. The caretaker at the canteen casually strolled up to the doorstep and stood  with his hands tied behind his back. He casually looked in the direction of the alarm calls, which he told me came from the Kisli meadows not far away.

'Could it be...a tiger?' I asked, the morsel still waiting in my hand, curry dripping out of my fingers.
'Tiger, leopard...could be anything sahib,' he said, smiling brightly like most men in these parts did, I noticed. 'By the way, Kisli is largely leopard territory because they get driven out by the bigger cats from the core areas of the forests.'

Spooked and exhilarated at the same time, I wolfed down my dinner and joined him at the doorstep. We stood in the patio; I didn't dare to step out of the light zone that the fluorescent light. All of a sudden, in the surrounding darkness, I saw several gleaming eyes, like stunned fireflies, staring at us.

'Dholes?' I asked.
'No sahib, these are deer!' the caretaker said, pointing his flashlight at the shiny eyes. I could make out the spots of deer hide and relaxed. 'They are also scared and are looking in the direction of the alarm calls. Now sahib, you go to your bed in the dormitory. I've to close the canteen and go home.'

'You...going home? In this darkness?' He had a house in this wilderness? I simply assumed he slept in the canteen!

He pointed towards the mud houses behind the canteen and said that was where his house was.

'Hey, why don't you join me in the dormitory? There are so many beds and I'm the only one in that building!'

He smiled again and said that he was not allowed to do that.

'But who is going to know? There are no human beings around here in a radius of 3 kilometres!'

'No sahib,' he said. 'There are people here. This is Kisli village where many forest guards, mahouts, and their families live. Behind the dormitory is the Baghira Log Huts hotel. There are many guests over there. You don't worry sahib. I'll walk you to the dormitory and you lock the door once you get in. I'm sure you are going to sleep only now? There's nothing else to do. No TV, no phones.' Mobile phone networks were several miles away from Kanha National Park. Mobile data, 2G and 3G was the stuff of sci-fantasy fiction.

I didn't want to appear as a completely sissy fellow, so I took the offer and he walked me to the dormitory. He told me how I could find a seat in one of the jungle bound jeeps in the morning and that I should be there at the check post by 5:30 am. Then, he walked away, leaving me behind all alone in the dormitory, in the core area of a REAL jungle teeming with wildlife! When I asked for adventure, I didn't expect so much of it on the first day itself.

Earlier That Day

I'd reached Kisli after a 4-hour ride from Jabalpur in a rickety bus at noon, just in time for a sumptuous lunch. The food in the hostel canteen, I must mention, is simple but delectable vegetarian fare with an essence of deja-vu of home-cooked meals in it. If all vegetarian restaurants would serve meals like that, I would gladly hop from one vegetarian restaurant to another every weekend.

The caretaker took me to the dormitory building, a single-storey structure with a long, semi-circular veranda in front. There are three large rooms of eight beds each. There were two families in the first room in which I was given a bed. The middle-aged couple from Nagpur and the Majumdar family of four from West Bengal. Mr. Majumdar, a garrulous man in his late thirties, immediately signalled to his dusky and beautiful wife - in Bengali - to lock away all the cash and jewellery and hand him the keys. He also told his preteen daughter, whose bed was next to mine, to switch her bed with his. I don't speak Bengali but I do follow it, especially if the speaker isn't a fast talker. Majumdar babu wasn't one, and was excessively loud. I was amused, but didn't show it.

'You are phrom...?' he asked me.
'Mumbai,' I said. He shook hands vigorously and went on to tell me about his Madhya Pradesh trip in general and Kanha in particular.
'All lies they tell, okay?' he said. 'We hab done 3 safaris already but hab not see one tiger! Now we are doing evening safari. You are coming? Letsee if you is habing the good luck.'

The caretaker pointed out to a backdoor, where there was another corridor that had bathrooms and privies at both ends. As soon as we stepped into the corridor, a green tree snake fell out of the roof in front of us.

'Does this happen inside the dorm too?' I asked gingerly.
'Oh no no sahib. You can ask them. This is a very rare incident.'

Well, I'd wanted adventure and had chosen to live in the core area of Mowgli country, so I couldn't complain. This was what I'd wanted. So if an indoor snake rain is what I was up for, so be it.

I joined Majumdar babu and his family on the evening safari, my first in a forest and probably the worst, for Mr. Loudmouth wouldn't shut up. 'Why no tiger is there here? There? And there? On the trees? Behind the rocks? In our Jaldapara, we are seeing tiger and elephant always! This is a big conspiracy. There is no tiger in Kanha. All lies!' While we passed through some lovely woods and meadows, all we saw were deer and peacocks. And a gaur or Indian bison. After an exasperating drive, we returned to Kisli at sunset. That was when I noticed all the guests at the dormitory, including Mr. Majumdar's family, pack their bags. Cabs had arrived to pick them up.

'Y'all going? Does that mean I'll be alone in the dorm?'
'Nothing to worry Mr. Sandeep. There are no tigers here. Only lies!' said Mr. Majumdar.
'We're fed up of this man,' his old mother, wrapped in woollens of all sorts from head to toe, poked her wrinkled face out of her monkey cap, and said. 'I pleaded with him not to take me out in this cold to a forest, but he just wouldn't listen!'

The family from Nagpur offered to drive me out to Khatia gate where the private hotels and lodges were situated. 'If you feel safer outside the core forest, we can take you there. I can imagine how scary it would be to stay all alone in this place with all kinds of animals around.'

One by one, the jeeps drove off with the families, leaving me behind at the doorstep of the dormitory. I shook my head in disbelief, locked the dorm door, and hurried to canteen, about 300 metres away from the dorm building.

Fear of the Dark

Of course I had the constant fear that something's always near. Iron Maiden's guitar riffs in my head did nothing to allay the trepidation in my heart. To make matters worse, the biting cold was something I wasn't accustomed to. Every now and then, a thud on the corrugated-sheet rooftop made me jump in my bed, but I knew they were only langurs, monkeys, scampering about. The rich sounds of the jungle pierced through the cement walls and rang aloud in my ears. I kept my ears corked for a roar or growl, but heard none - fortunately! Thankfully, tired after the five-hour bus ride and also owing to the fact that I had been awake since 4 AM that morning, I fell asleep with the light in the dormitory room still on.

Jeeps arriving before dawn for the morning safari. Pic courtesy: Ankur Nagar

I survived the night. Early in the morning, armed with my flashlight and toilet paper, I slunk into the privies, piled on additional warm clothes on me, and stepped out as the first light of day touched the Eastern horizon above the canopy of sal trees. And, in the clearing right outside the dormitory, there were three gaurs looking back at me! I locked the door and, without directly looking at them again, marched towards Kisli gate in the hope of finding company for a trip into the jungle. That was where I met Jorge and Ricardo, two Costa Rican boys, who were to stay with me at the dormitory for the next couple of days. They arrived late the previous evening, which was why they weren't let into the core area of the forest. They spent the night in a lodge right outside Khatia Gate. Motel Chandan, Jorge said, and I remember the man who had handed me a brochure of Motel Chandan back in Mandla at the bus stop. A day later, Tim from Britain joined us. On day five when I was ready to leave on the afternoon bus to Jabalpur, Tim said to me: I'm going to be alone tonight, I reckon?

I smiled and wished him luck.

An Abstract Trip through the Warrens of Memory

There's this thing about places. They hold memories. Days, weeks, months, years, even decades go by, but the place remains freshly etched in your head. It gleams like a newly forged sword (not that I've held or seen a sword in my life; okay freshly polished brass ware should do.) Every detail, every conversation, every thought, the touch, the smells and sights and sounds. They stay forever. They do so only because they were special solely for you. And some of these places aren't even exotic locales. It's just that particular moment, that person or just that oneness you might have experienced, however brief or long, that makes it special. Some of these places, you'd never go back to - but never say never, eh? - and as time goes by, these places change. That nondescript building by the thoroughfare, that lone tree, that lake, that wall with bawdy graffiti on it; whatever it was, everything will have gone the next time you visit it, if you are fortunate enough to go back to it. But in your album of memories, the place remains just the way you'd last seen it. And cherished it. 

There's that view of the runway at Mumbai airport, with its landing lights on, staring straight into our apartment in Santacruz. My friend and I used to sit on the water tank on the rooftop of my apartment building and gawk at the Boeings that landed late at night from the West. 

There's that 'flashlight' dance we guys did at that Scouts and Guides campsite near Vihar lake. We switched off the lights, put on some Bollywood songs on a cassette player, took off our t-shirts and danced in shorts and underwear with our flashlights (torches) swarming like disco lights. 

That moment in a hotel room in Kodaikanal, when the rest of my schoolmates had gone 'sightseeing' in the cold rain and I chose to sit in the room and watch "Saajan" on Cable TV, remembering Dana. 

The song of the "banjaras" or gypsies in the night at Badnawar; the freshly baked "bhaati" and "dal"; watching the Venkatesh-horse-like Karishma Kapoor starrer "Anari" in a decrepit movie theatre, front bench, on the outskirts of Ujjain.

That marshy inlet in Agashi, Virar, a sleepy village north of Mumbai where I lived for 12 years. Where I kissed a girl for the first time in my life. I was seventeen then.

Cloud Nine cafe in Colaba. The seaside promenade in Navy Nagar at Cuffe Parade. International Fleet Review in 2001. Enough said.

The surf at the black Arnala beach. That forested hill crest overlooking the Vaitarna river in the middle of the afternoon. With her sitting next to me. A glint of anticipation in her eyes. Our hearts pounding louder than our vacuous conversations.

The point at Baga beach where the river meets the sea, especially after sunset when the lights in the beach shacks and restaurants come on. And UB40 croons Red Red Wine.

The mellow sun of Juhu Beach on a balmy January afternoon, when I went down on a knee and proposed.

Lying on a mattress in her apartment in 'Chandragupta' building, Raheja Township, Malad East. Long after midnight. With "Out of the Blue" by MLTR playing softly in the background. The midnight conversations, those sweet nothings. 

Morning mist in Gangtok drifting into our room in Hotel Asian Heights. And watching her sleep peacefully, buried in white sheets. While I listened to the sound prayer bells and drums from a monastery nearby.

The view from the Kisli gate at sunset. When the mating call of the Chital deer or the baying of the red dogs at night filled the air. And later, after dinner, sitting outside the canteen under a black velvet sky studded with stars. 

The fluttering Stars and Stripes outside the Marriott near my apartment in 300 Oakwood, 15th Street South, Crystal City, Arlington VA.

The little aircraft taking off at a nondescript Chesapeake Bay airstrip; the flurries in Maryland and in Corning, NY on our way to Niagara; the arresting, breathtaking unravelling of NYC as we emerged from the Lincoln tunnel on a lovely night in March. 

That one bike ride home from work in Pune, from Hinjewadi to Kothrud. When the world around us was awash in tender orange. When we rode on my 'Bluecephalus' the Avenger, in silence. With only her tingling sensation of her breath on my neck. 

Snowfall at Gulmarg; those cups of steaming hot Kahwa.

Those morning Bluecephalus rides back and forth between Mumbai and Pune; the 'poha aani chai' stops at Khandala.

Standing in front of India Gate at sunset, with an army band rehearsing for the Republic Day celebrations. 

Sunset at Bamhni Dadar, Kanha National Park. The local bus stop at Bamhni village outside Mandla; the smouldering lake near the dormitory; the view of the meadows from the Forest Officers' guest house; the open-air amphitheatre at Khatia Gate; the first time an adult male tiger crossed our path while descending the ghats in Kanha in the evening. 

The croaking of frogs at Vembanad lake, Kumarakom at night.

That lone tea stall near Pykara dam, Ooty, with the tea gardens around us.

The copious tears I shed in the Figo on the second morning of my drive from Mumbai to Kerala, outside Malpe by the sea.T

The vast expanse of nothingness somewhere near Rannebennur, when I rode my Avenger, the Bluecephalus, from Bangalore to Mumbai, and the battle that raged in my head.

The many runs over the Bandra-Worli sea link; I've run at least four times on this bridge and driven in a vehicle only once :)

So, so many more, but these have stayed with me. Fresh, untarnished. Don't know who I'm saying this to, but the thought just occurred out of nowhere: 

Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden. I will meet you there - Rumi

An Ode to Vishu

The light of oil lamps fills the sanctum sanctorum before daybreak. The abode of the Gods is infused with the fragrance of sandalwood, ash, and camphor. The tender pealing of the Idakka drum awakens the Gods and the surrounding households.

The morning breeze rustles through the paddy fields at dawn. The Golden Rain tree is set aflame, blazes in brilliant yellow. Its branches droop with the weight of the konna flower bunches. Women emerge from the houses in off-white kasavu saris, sandalwood and vermilion on their foreheads, flowers adorning their long and dark tresses, kohl lining their deep dark eyes, anklets and bangles jingling, and traverse the paddy fields making their way to the temple. They cross paths with the temple elephant, which merrily strides across the paddy fields to the river. The pachyderm wades into the churning waters like an excited child, swaying its mighty trunk and spraying water on the squealing children capering about and around it. In the distance, the express train on the railway bridge blows its horn, announcing the arrival of loved ones from faraway towns and cities. 

Ceaseless chatter, sounds of laughter and merriment, the cavorting of children, clangour of utensils, the aroma of jackfruit and coconut oil and jaggery, and whiff of fresh paddy waft out of houses. Plantain leaves are laid out, sadya meals are served. Banana chips, tamarind and mango pickles, crispy pappadoms, avial, pumpkin and gram and raw banana curries, red rice soaked in sambar and daal and ghee and yoghurt, and palada and jaggery payasams. 

It is this Kerala that I miss a lot. Happy Vishu everybody!

Writer's Block

FUCK.

It's been ages since I've heard the song of a lapwing. My feathered friend has probably flown off to other pastures. It must've thought its sweet song ceased to inspire me and so it flew away. I haven't written a single good story ever since.

**** 

Another night is here. I sit, all alone, in front of this office-issue laptop, watching silly videos on Youtube, trawling through the photo albums of friends on Facebook. Eddie Vedder sings Nothingman on loop. There's an unsaved, blank " New Document", whose bright scowl flusters me. When I opened it, I had wanted to fill it up with words. 1000 words at the least on a daily basis, Stephen King said. I can't write a single sentence. When the blank gaze gets too much to take, I push the blank page face down to the taskbar (meaning I minimize the window). 

This laptop and I don't get along one bit. There is no intimacy between us. There is absolutely nothing about it that I like. I don't like its touch. I hate its smell. It invokes no affection. It does not inspire me to write anything more than technical, embedded and non-embedded help content! It's like those barely functional marriages that some unfortunate souls find themselves fettered in. Not too far away, a train coos on its way out of this city. I wish I were on that train. I don't care where it is headed. Anywhere out of here would do me good. All I need is a little black book and a pen. Who knows, maybe the old fashioned routine will inspire me to write.

****

The night sky is bare. No moon, no stars. I remember those nights in the forest, outside the aircraft hangar-shaped cafeteria, where we sat and looked up open mouthed at the star-studded sky. The denizens of the forest sang lullabies for us. Each and every one of us felt like a poet then; I swear I could've finished a magnum opus under that sky. All I see now is a blaring television in each and every house in the neighbourhood. The night sky has its black cloak on, no doubt. But there are no stars. And I find myself staring at a blank page, unable to write. 

****

In my head runs a montage of the stories I had conceptualised. In my head, I flit between millennia, from story to story. One minute, I'm the star-struck Moriya boy who will someday be King; but am a student for now, in Takshashila, watching the armies of Alexander the Great as they cross the Sindhu river and advance towards the Hydaspes. The next minute, I become Russell Cabral, the godson of the Cabrals, sitting on the water tank of the terrace of the Cabral villa with his guitar, meeting Sarah's gaze, who stands at the window of her room in the Cabral Guest House.

I become Asok. Not the Mauryan Emperor; his humbler namesake. Who, in the moonlight, behind the walls that enclose the temple pond, makes love to Malli under the stars, as the war drums peal all night on the eve of the battle of Kalinga. And the same time, I become the laconic Comrade Balan, who awaits the arrival of the West Coast Express at the little railway station in his hometown, to flag off the train for the last time with tears in his eyes. 

I'm also Chandragupta II of the Guptas, with his knife on the nape of his brother Ramagupta's neck; as much as I am the journalist Aruna who, every time it rains, is reminded of her sister, the prostitute.

As Sultan Shamsuddin Iltutmish, I hear the curses of the bereaved mother in Gwalior; while as Jamaluddin Yaqut, the Habshi slave, I can't take my eyes off the Sultana, who I am infatuated with and whom I revere at the same time. 

Of all these tales, I have the first chapters. I've also completed a badly written first-draft of one of these. But not one of them is good enough to be continued with. And for the life of me, I just can't fuckin' write!

And so, like I've done countless times in the last twelve years, I switch off the laptop and go to bed.  

Yes. Twelve fuckin' years!

****

The USA Series Part 3: The Running Debacle

Wife dearest came a-visiting in March 2009. Those three weeks that she stayed with me - and we went to New York and Buffalo and Niagara, and gallivanted all over DC and Arlington and Maryland - were definitely the most exotic days of our life so far. By the time she returned to India, in that late winter/early spring weekend in March, I weighed 87 kilograms, ate red meat almost every other day, drank alcohol or Coca Cola almost everyday, and indulged in copious sugary snacks as if the sodas weren't enough. The only physical exercise I got was walking between Farragut West metro station and the World Bank office, and Crystal City metro to my apartment in Oakwood. On weekends I walked a little more, but not more than 4 kilometres a day. That year, after I returned to India, medical tests reported high blood pressure, hovering around 165/130, and high cholesterol at some 240+ units. 

From my apartment building to the Gravelly Point on the trail

Wife had balked when she first saw me after 2 months at Dulles airport. While she also gained some weight, what with all the hearty indulgence during her stay, she reprimanded me for my unhealthy lifestyle. The Monday after she left, I took a good look at the man in the mirror and saw a quintessential, Malayali tippler. Pot-bellied, slouching, balding head, bloodshot eyes, oafish grin. I said to myself: Buddy, you've gotta shape up if you want to stay alive. Saying that, I returned early from work that evening (by which time wife touched down in Chennai) and decided to go for a run. I wore my Reebok sports shoes that I'd bought from the store in the Crystal City shopping centre run by a pretty Eritrean woman, wore basketball shorts (because shorter ones looked like ugly hot-pants), and headed in all earnestness to the Mount Vernon trail. 

It was only after two months of stay in Crystal City that I learnt that a trail as beautiful as that existed right behind the apartment building! The scenic, paved hiking and cycling path extends for 27 kilometres from Mt. Vernon to Rosslyn, running along the bank of the Potomac and passing by the Reagan National Airport (again, right behind my apartment building). There's a place on the trail called Gravelly Point which faces the runway, offering fantastic views of the airport and planes taking off. 

A plane takes off from Reagan National; viewed from Gravelly Point

I exited the Crystal City shopping area, crossed the George Washington Memorial Pkwy, and reached the trail. The air was salubrious and the sight of cyclists, runners, and skateboarders was invigorating. Without warming up, I took off, sprinting, not jogging, as fast as I could. My knees lifted up to my jumping belly and my pectorals wiggled like jelly! In 500 metres, I hit an uphill path. No problemo, I said, and bounded up the trail where a couple of cyclists zoomed by. I continued my run for another 300 metres when my eyes began to pop out. I huffed and puffed like a steam engine. My jiggly wiggly torso began to ache and my legs cramped. A few steps later, I suffered shin splints and dropped to my knees on the trail, only a few metres before Gravelly Point. 

"Just another pinprick," David Gilmore said in my head, but along with it, there was a lot of "Aaaah" too. I couldn't stand up. My eyes smarted, my lungs felt as if they'd burst. With a lot of effort, I managed to stand up, but my legs felt as if iron balls dangled from them and some psychopath was sawing away at my shins. Even limping back home was unthinkable. 

A good Samaritan arrived on a bicycle. He was definitely in his high fifties if not older. He looked at me as he rode by, stopped and turned back. 
"You're all right?" he asked. "You don't look too good."
"I'm fine, thanks," I said valiantly, but I wasn't. 
"Nah, you aren't pal," he said and got off his bike. "Did you trip and fall or somethin'?"

I told him about the sharp pain in both shins. 

"Come on, I'll help you get back home. Do you live close by?"

I realised that, from where we were standing, I could actually see and point out Oakwood apartment building to him. He gently made me put my arm around his shoulder and threw his own around my waist. Pushing his bicycle with the other hand, he walked me back to my building. The jabs in my shins made my eyes smart again, but somehow - with this gentleman's help - I found the strength to limp back to the apartment building. He told me to seek medical help as soon as possible and suggested that I apply ice on my legs, which I did later in my apartment. I thanked him, remember doing a "Namaste". He smiled and proffered a namaste in return, and rode away.

View of Oakwood apartments and the USAF Memorial on the right, at dusk.
Photo taken on a later visit to Gravelly Point.

There was a voicemail on my phone in the bedroom, but I barely had the strength to plop into the couch in the living room. I didn't immediately answer the phone when it rang. By the time I rose with effort and limped to the bedroom, my wife called again to tell me that she had reached home in Chennai. I spoke to her for a little while, told her how much I missed her, and narrated the evening's botched attempt at running. After hanging up, I checked the voicemail; Samantha had left a message: "Bugger where are you men! Smitha's reached Chennai. She called you several times it seems, poor girl! Then she called us to check if you were at our place. Call as soon as you get home from wherever you are. Bugger, we're all worried!'

I called Sam and apologised. Then, after applying ice on my shins, I apologised to my own damned self for having wrecked my body so remorselessly. Only four years ago, in 2005, I had started drinking. In those four years, I'd turned into a binge eater and drinker, and also squandered away money in the process. Consider this simple calculation I'd done a few months ago:

A minimum of Rs. 2000 per month on booze, multiplied by 12 = Rs. 24,000. Multiply that into 11 years of drinking = Rs. 2,64,000! That's the minimum I've squandered on liquor! The real figure is much higher. 

That was my first lesson though, the next one occurring years later in 2015 at a rooftop office party in Bangalore, which I shall write about later sometime. I could not resume running immediately, but a year later, I ran my first full kilometre in Anna Nagar, Chennai. Since then, I haven't stopped. Cut to 2017; six days from now, after having successfully run several half-marathons, I will run the first marathon, the full 42 kilometres or 26.2 miles, of my life. Now when I tire after 25 kms, I recall the debacle of that evening at Gravelly Point and smile to myself. That deliberation seems to work because I carry on running after that, refreshed. A month ago, a medical checkup revealed the following stats:

Blood pressure: Normal (Still under medication though. Docs say I can't stop taking meds.)
Cholesterol: 141 units (whatever that is; should be below 200)
Blood sugar: Well within Normal limits
Liver, kidney etc: All good
Weight: 72.4 kgs

If I can, dear friends, you can too!

Mcleodganj Part 2: The Hike to Triund

Introduction

I’m a once-or-twice-a-year hiker who tries to include at least one trip to the Himalayas every year. Barring 2014, I've managed to achieve this since 2012. My write-up on the trek from Mcleodganj town to the Triund ridge might not appeal to seasoned trekkers. But for folks like me who are beginners, amateur trekkers, or simply contemplating a hike in the Himalayas – like my wife who accompanied me last Wednesday, Dec  21, 2016 – this might serve as a reasonable advisory. For quick facts about Triund, scroll down to the bottom of this post.

The Tibetan Institute for Performing Arts
on the way to Dharamkot

Points to Remember

Intensity and Duration: The Triund trek is categorised as a full-day, easy-to-moderate trek in most guidebooks and on websites. For first-timers, however, it is slightly more arduous. Having said that, if you start early enough, say by 7 am, you can reach the ridge by noon and climb down – which is more daunting than the climb, but definitely faster – and reach Mcleodganj before sunset. Some trekkers like to start late and camp at Triund for the night. Many hike further up to Snowline cafe the next day and onward to Indrahaar pass, which is not for amateurs I've heard. This write-up is only about a day-trek Triund and back. However, I repeat, start early, and don't plan to leave Mcleodganj in the evening after you descend from the ridge.

That trough-like formation right in front of the grey-white peak
is the Triund ridge; as viewed from Mcleodganj.

Food and Availability: There’s a makeshift café called Sunil’s Chai Shop on the ridge that sells basic food, chai, and water, and also provides tents on hire for a reasonable price. (This month, in Dec 2016, a tent for two cost Rs. 700). There are two or three other cafes too; they look like little Mongol tents with mostly blue plastic sheets for a roof. We spotted several blankets laid out within these shops as well. I think you can sleep in them if you don’t feel like braving the cold in a nylon tent.

Sunil's chai shop at Triund

There are several makeshift chai stalls along the way too, including Magic View, which boasts that it has provided refreshments to trekkers since 1984. All the stalls provide water, bottled and canned juices and sodas, and basic food such as Maggi noodles, rice and dal, and bread-egg-butter-jam; even Nutella. Of course they charge a lot more than normal shops do on the plains. A bowl of piping hot Maggi noodles, for instance, could set you back by Rs. 80. However, understand that these stalls have to haul these wares up the trail on the back of pack animals. As far as I know, there’s no rope way or helipad, no secret road or railway to ferry goods up the hill. Hence the premium on foodstuff. If you still think you’re being swindled, feel free to carry enough food and water to last you for a day at least. You could bring packed sandwiches or rolls, steamed momos or goodies from the many fantastic bakeries in Mcleodganj. You could ask the stalls for hot water, which you could pour into your Cup Noodles. Or buy Snickers and Bounty bars from the local stores in Mcleodganj at MRP. 

Another chai shop at Triund

Clothing: CARRY enough warm clothes; don’t WEAR them all. A nice rucksack is a good option, but strap it well to your shoulders and around your waist. Please don’t carry sling and hand bags; they’re a nuisance once the trail begins and when you might require your hands to climb. Only have strolleys? Please buy a nice backpack in Mcleodganj. There are several nice stores in town. And for your own good, don’t wear heels! You’re not going to a discotheque or a pub. (We spotted a girl in pencil heels in Triund!) Wear clothes that you’d be comfortable in. It becomes really sunny and you could get sunburnt, so apply a good sunblock cream, and wear hats and caps and sunglasses as needed.

Preliminaries: Even if you haven't climbed a hill ever, if you've had moderate exercise of some form or indulged in a sport, you'd be in good stead on this trek. Don’t drink alcohol the previous evening. I made this mistake in Nov 2013 and I took six hours to reach the top, severely dehydrated and exhausted. Whereas on this trek in 2016, we hiked up in four hours! Like all other endurance sports, alcohol dehydrates and debilitates you severely. And don’t carry a lot of booze up to Triund, if you plan to camp overnight. It's not as if the world is going to end and you’ll never descend to the plains again. 

Maggi noodles and chai

Stay hydrated, but don’t drink too much water. The same rule as in a marathon applies over here. Too much water will weigh you down and make your kidneys work overtime, which is not a nice thing for you while you’re on the move. Two mouthfuls of water every 30 minutes is good enough. Fruits and nuts are nice when you go trekking, but not watermelon and papaya! Why carry rocks in your bag? And don’t carry plastic bags! Even if you do - oh, you incorrigible, obstinate you! - bring them back with you!

Mcleodganj to Gallu Devi Temple

Mcleodganj square: Hotel Asian Plaza in Mcleodganj
at the mouth of Dharamkot road

The “road” to Triund begins at Mcleodganj square. You have to take the Dharamkot road at Pizza Hut and Hotel Asian Plaza, but the real “hill trail” begins only at Gallu Devi temple. Almost the entire stretch, from the mouth of Dharamkot road at Jimmy’s Breakfast Café to the top of the ridge, is an uphill climb; steep at several places with a few flat stretches. Even from Mcleodganj square, the road climbs sharply past the Tibetan performing arts institute, all the way up to Dharamkot. If you don’t want to exhaust yourself by walking all the way from town, you could hire a cab or a rickshaw to Gallu Devi temple, but I’m certain they charge a lot. (Though I don’t know how much; never asked.)

You know when you reach Dharamkot when you spot a water treatment facility with its huge concrete water tanks and a little eatery on the left. The road to Triund is on the right, behind the water tanks. As you go along, you’ll see graffiti on the walls: Way To Triund.

See the trail going right? That's the road to Triund.

At Dharamkot, the “good” road ends. From here, the unpaved and uneven mud-road, full of rocks and stones and mud, winds through the cedar and pine forests up to Gallu Devi temple. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself on the road deep inside a forest. You aren’t lost if you’ve stayed on the road and climbed the uphill bends. You’ll see the occasional pickup truck or SUV or auto rickshaw trundling up and down the mud-road kicking up dust and making you contemplate going back to your hotel room. Take heart and carry on. This is only the beginning.

There’s a little café and, well, a little shrine, at Gallu Devi temple. (I think the café is called Sun and Moon Café.) There’s also a cement cistern, like a miniature swimming pool or bathtub in front of the café. The trail begins here; you’ll see markings on some rocks indicating the direction to Triund. There are fantastic views of the Dhauladhar hills over here. 

Sun and Moon cafe and Gallu Devi temple behind which begins the Triund trail

Nice views behind Gallu Devi temple. My shadow as I click the pic.

A rock with a blue arrow indicating the beginning of the trail

Gallu Devi Temple to Magic View Cafe

From this place, the trail alternates between rocky stairs-like formations to leaf-and-mud mountain trails to no conspicuous path or trail at all, especially where you come across huge boulders that lie in the path of cascades, which certainly have streams running down during monsoon. The landscape changes from forests to rocky lees and cliff sides, but the trail keeps climbing all the time. At several places, you’ll encounter points where the trail narrows to the width of one burly man. It’s a sheer drop or at least a furious plummet at such places, although most of them offer a fantastic vista of the Kangra valley, of Mcleodganj itself, shrunken to the size of Lego blocks in the haze at this distance.  

Most of the trail is rocky and uphill

Mules coming down from Triund

Path to Triund

Along the lower reaches of the trail, they’ve now erected fences to prevent accidents. A marble plaque, dedicated to trekker Prag Bhasker Sahars Budhe, still exists, at the spot where I had photographed a kite soaring at close range in 2013, but it’s now chipping off at the edges.

We stopped at Magic View café where the wife bought a Gatorade and I had tea. The Triund ridge still hovers high above our heads. “Is the trail better now?” wife asked. “Oh yes,” I lied. The trail gets steeper and worse from here.

Plaque dedicated to a trekker who fell from here

Magic view cafe comes up

The view from Magic View cafe

The trail at Magic View cafe

Magic View Cafe to Triund

After a point, technically less than 700 meters from the ridge, the grey-white peaks behind the Triund ridge disappear. At this point, you also lose the will to live. You curse yourself for embarking on such stupid endeavours. You find yourself completely out of breath, but you find enough strength to curse the hills, curse the bludgeoning sun, curse the still air and the deafening silence. 

Can get really quiet and still and unnerving at the top

Can you spot a trail or path?

Okay, here it is!

But there’s no alternative other than climb to the top. (Obviously, you don’t want to climb down from here, after coming so close to the ridge.) Your knees scream, your thighs burn, your back and your backpack-bearing shoulders weep. It is at this point that you have to stop doing what is the most difficult thing to do: stop thinking. Offer yourself a promise, however fantasy-like or fake it might be, and pursue it, and keep going.

Lonely at the top

Some house-like structures just above Magic View Cafe

It’s when you see the grey-white peaks with the previous season’s snow streaks that you realise you’ve finally reached the top. In a far contrast to the surroundings, you also see the head of a bottle green signboard that reads: Appeal, followed by instructions to keep Triund clean. You’ve made it to Triund, probably your first trek in the Himalayas, maybe even the first trek of your life!

Finally!

View of the ridge at the ridge

When you earn your Maggi

Relaxing at Triund

Bidding goodbye to Triund and beginning the descent

Climbing Down

If you plan to return to Mcleodganj the same day, begin climbing down no later than 2 PM. Climbing down is tricky; remember not to run or gambol down the hill. You could inflict serious injury to your knees and end up limping or, worse, not be able to walk at all! There are no helicopter evacuations or rescue teams here, and not many people will have the strength to carry you back to town. At least when you descend the hill, you breathe normally unlike the climb up to the ridge, so pace yourself accordingly.

Look closely at the top of the hill, where there are no trees.
You'll spot a little white structure. That's a temple, and beyond it is Snowline cafe.

At a reasonable and safe cadence, you should be able to make it back to Mcleodganj in under 3 hours, arriving in town for a hot cappuccino or ginger honey lemon tea and lovely views of sunset. Don’t hit the bottle just yet. Take a good warm shower, eat good food, and then relax with a peg or two, just about enough to lull you to sleep. Your aching limbs will do the rest to ensure that you sleep well. 

Quick Facts about Triund

Height: 2842 metres or 9324 feet above sea level

Distance from Mcleodganj: Approximately 7.5 kilometers or 4.66 miles, almost entirely uphill.

Terrain: Rocky and unpaved; continuous climb while going up. 

Trek intensity: Easy to moderate with several steep inclines, especially in the last couple of kilometres.

Best time to go: I trekked both times in November and December at the onset of winter.

Climate: The air is clear at the start of winter. Definitely gets cold at night, and is colder and freezing from Jan to Mar. Summer months, the trek could be really hot. Monsoon might be fun, but you'll have to watch out for landslides.

Food and water: Available on the trek and on the ridge in little cafes. Bottled water, basic food such as packaged noodles, biscuits, canned and bottled sodas and juices, biscuits and chips, rice and dal, bread and jam and eggs, Nutella in some places, milk tea and coffee.

Accommodation: In tents mostly, available on rent at a reasonable price. No restrooms; the grand outdoors under the open sky (and preferably behind designated, isolated boulders and cliff faces). 

Goa Diaries, February 2012, Part 2: Valentine's, Tattoos and Other Tales

Amchem Goa

A boat ride in the Aguada bay

The two of us gifted ourselves our first, and so far the only, tattoos on Valentine's in 2012. Where else could've we got it at other than our family-favourite and oft-frequented destination: Goa. This was also our first stay in Cavala Resort at Baga and also the first time that we drove to Goa in our Ford Figo. Cavala is a charming little hotel about 400 metres from Britto's restaurant in Baga. The room we got was a comfortable, standard AC room at ground level. The resort's swimming pool and poolside bar are located across the road in the other plot that belongs to the resort. Later in October, we went back to Cavala without our daughter. I might write about that trip - which ended in disaster because of things that happened on this trip - in another post.

The inn section of Cavala

Get Over It

Of the 430-odd kilometres from Kothrud, Pune to Baga, the stretch of National Highway till Nipani is a fantastic, and sleep-inducing, national highway. At Nipani, you turn right and climb through hills, forests, and sugarcane fields on the Ajara-Amboli stretch, all the way to Sawantwadi on the Mumbai-Goa highway, about ten kilometres before the Goa state border. Daughter dearest insisted that the CD of her favourite songs should get maximum playtime, which it did. It also gave Wife and me time to talk and mull over things, a lot of them. Besides the three of us, there was, metaphorically speaking, a fourth traveller, and this person increasingly became the reason for the restiveness that occupied our minds and cast a pall of gloom on what would've otherwise been a pleasant and memorable trip. Well, a "memorable" trip this certainly was! 

Just after getting the tattoo

To draw her out of the gloom, I narrated the story of the novel - every painstaking detail about the characters and who from the movie industry I imagined for which character - I intended to write. A year and four months later, I even completed the first draft, then titled 'Feast of the Kings'. 

'So not you,' she said about the story, involving two female protagonists. 'I think you should write fantasy or historical fiction. At least, fiction involving espionage and war. Drama in contemporary settings, I personally think, is not typical of you.' 

The objective, however, to keep our minds off that fourth person we didn't want to think of. For the rest of the drive, the narration and discussion worked. But the distraction was only transient.  

Heartache Tonight

The mobile phone rang several times that evening, eventually leading to an altercation between Wife and me, after we reached Goa. Four calls from Mumbai International Airport the first evening, then a call from Frankfurt Airport the next morning, and once again, from Chicago that evening with a Valentine's greeting in advance.

'And wish her a happy birthday on my behalf,' she said, referring to Wife as "her" as always. It was always "her" or "she", never the name. 'Her birthday is on Valentine's day, isn't it? Wow, nice!'

A battery of text messages followed, which bespoke of despair and heartache. Not a single one indicated any joy about being in the USA or with her husband, whom she was meeting after many months. And why was I so affected by her going away? I'd hugged and congratulated her after she had joyously returned from the US Consulate with a confirmed visa in her passport. So what was the aching in the heart, in both our hearts, I wondered.

Daughter at the poolside bar

Daughter's favourite spot in a resort: The pool

'Isn't she going to the US to join her husband?' the wife asked, infuriated, ignoring the birthday wish. 'Shouldn't she be happy to be joining him, that too in the USA for god's sake!'

Yes, she should've been, and that inexplicable despair was my dilemma as well. Wife and I sulked and didn't talk for the most part of the next morning, after which we eventually made peace over cocktails and vodka, and went to Britto's for lunch. There, we found a tattoo studio with photographs of celebrities and sportsmen getting themselves tattooed in the studio. So we got our tattoos done over there: Wife, a vine in an S shape with two colourful butterflies; and I, the mantra "Om Mani Padme Hum" in Tibetan script.

The view of the beach from Britto's

By evening, the melancholy between us dissipated and we decided to focus only on the three of us and the purpose of this trip. As the sun sank into the Arabian see, the lights and reggae music emanated from the beach shacks. The tables and cane chairs were laid out on the beaches with Chinese lanterns hoisted along the makeshift pathway to these open-to-sky-and-sea lounging area. We sat at the table of one of the shacks and ordered our family-favourites: Calamari in butter garlic sauce, french fries, chicken wings, and Budweisers (Mango juice for the princess).

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

Another highlight of this trip, and subsequent ones, were the karaoke sessions at St. Anthony's. There were quite a few good singers: a Mangalorean Catholic choir singer with lovely long hair and a mesmerizing voice; a chap called Doug who stressed that he was from Wales, not England, all the while transfixed on Wifey Dearest, who returned his attention. I managed a decent rendition of "Time of your Life" by Greenday and also tried, the Bill Withers classic, Ain't No Sunshine. I screwed up on the "I know, I know..." segment and also earned the wife's scorn - not for screwing up but for singing such a pertinent number.

The beers and cocktails, however, allayed the tension between us. Also, the "dance-breaks" in between the karaoke sessions and the flirtatious glances thrown around helped. Wife found an admirer in Doug, who dedicated a karaoke number to her and one for our daughter even! I think Wife and he also danced. Meanwhile, there was this rather pretty Punjabi woman with her husband, with whom I exchanged furtive glances. Later, Wife said that she clapped the loudest after I sang "Crazy Little Thing Called Love", and she also put up a slow, sinuous, rather seductive hip-sway in front of me when the Indipop number "Amplifier" blared on the music system.

Grilled lobster

Eventually, Valentine's Day - also Wife's birthday - went off well. We celebrated with a seafood platter and a lobster for lunch, and Wife's favourite Blueberry Cheesecake. On Valentine's night, a band performed "live" in Cavala, so there was more dancing and drinking, which further cleared the air between us. I stopped reading messages on the phone and ignored all calls, even a couple from my parents. We drove back to Pune on the 15th in peace, promising ourselves another trip soon.

At the end of the trip before we began the drive back to Pune