Trip to Himachal

On the 19^th of December 2008, our family set off from Bangalore to Delhi on the Sampak Kranti Express. We were planning to travel by AC 3-tier but unfortunately our tickets remained waitlisted until after we got into the train. So we accepted the machinations of fate and parked our sorry selves in the 2^nd class coach, and making matters worse was the fact that we were in the seats that had a mean distance of about 4m from the toilettes.

 

Well, speaking for myself at least, I can say that I was not bogged down by this mildly irritating scheme of things. Among the number of perks and privileges provided to the AC passengers of the Indian Railways was the supply of pillows and bed linen. Since we were supposed to be one of the citizens of the Republic of India in the aforementioned category, we brought nothing but a pair of razor-thin blankets, which, obviously, were not enough to keep the body temperature undisturbed.

 

While we were getting settled in what was going to be our home for the next 34 hours, the train had finally begun to move, leaving me to wonder how a train in India could manage to leave the platform just 10 minutes behind schedule. I did not have to wonder long. Suddenly we heard a scream of “Chain Kheencho!” Somebody promptly pulled it, and we came to a screeching halt. We were left wondering what ill luck had befallen us, expecting firefighters and police officers to surge into the train. Anticlimax! The carriage was flooded with what looked like an entire squad of budding athletes and their support staff. As the train started moving again, the manager started issuing instructions to his protégés.

 

Before long, I entered the realm of dreams, slumber having got the better of me at last.

 

The next morning was uneventful, except the occasional short conversations with our co-passengers. Breakfast was a simple affair, with idlis being the sole form of sustenance. After breakfast, we had a game or two of cards.

 

I think I have covered all events of importance in the journey. As we reached Delhi, fog delayed us by a massive 3 hours. Again, we surrendered to the plots of Fate and looked for an alternative connecting train to Chandigarh. We booked ourselves on the next available train and had lunch at the Delhi station before going to our platform. Reaching a platform across the station in itself must be added as the 13^th Labour of Hercules. We braved a near stampede just to go across a few platforms. We got into the train and sat, or rather slept through the 4-hour journey to Chandigarh.

 

Once we were in the City Beautiful, as it is called, we were picked up by my father’s former colleague, classmate and longtime friend, Mr.Mohanraj. He gaped at my shorts and flip-flops, telling me that I was, indeed my father’s son. We reached the car parking and were loading all our stuff into his car by then. We then drove across Chandigarh to Parwanoo, his residence. Both my dad and Mr. Mohan were completely gaga about what was at spot x in 1985 and what was present there in 2008. My father, I must tell you, speaks Hindi about as well as a Red Indian speaking French. I’m no less, mind, but at least I don’t chatter about 24x7 in it.

 

As we trammeled over winding mountain roads where even a bungee jumper has chances of getting motion sick, the steady increase in the pitch of the old duo’s voices told me that we must be nearing Mr. Mohan’s place. I was right. Built on a rock at the edge of the steepest cliff I ever saw was the apartment in question. If the builders had any entrepreneur-ic sense, they would have rented the roof as a convenient suicide point. As we removed ourselves from the car to the cold dark outside world, an indescribable chill shook my lower body…no, it wasn’t a ghost or any other sort of creature invoked from the paranormal…it was just the fact that all I had worn to cover my legs were a pair of Bermudas…I was freezing!

 

I took out my knapsack and suitcase and ran down the corridor leading to the house, my mother close on my heels. We rang the bell, and rang it again. Finally, the Gates of Paradise openeth to us, a golden light emanating from within. What met us at the Sitting Room of Paradise was not St. Peter, as one would have expected, but Mrs. Sashi. She showed us where we were to sleep, and we threw our luggage there. I, being appointed CCO (Chief Camera Officer) had the extra responsibility of extricating the batteries and chargers from the bag and placed them appropriately in the power sockets. By the time we finished all this, the table was creaking under the weight of the inviting feast set on it. Well, for the sake of the table and our stomachs, we attacked the food with unparalleled vigour. By now well fed, we bantered about what we were supposed to do the next day. Since the vehicle we had hired was hit by a technical snag, we had to use the Santro for our Shimla trip. Also, we were handed the necessary winter clothing for our trip by the gracious hosts. Thus ended the first preparations to our Grand Himachal trip.

 

 

Day 1

 

The first day of our trip began at 8 AM, and we got ready by 8.45. As the job of putting our necessaries into the car fell to the men folk, we did so by around 9, ready for departure.

 

We were to go around Shimla for the next 2 days, complete with en route destinations. Our first stop for the day was at Solan, where Mrs. Sashi apparently taught the youth of the nation how to put circuits together and play with electricity. She had recently been transferred there and it was her opening day at the office. We waited outside the school as she completed all her joining formalities and told the kids that when she would be here the next time, the handbag would be replaced by a crisp danda and the smile on her face with the proverbial teacherly frown. As we waited, we got some chikki from the local store and we were still munching when the key was put into the ignition and turned, the accelerator given a sharp jab, and we were off I knew not where. About a couple of hours later, we ended up in some kind of palace in one of the lesser-known districts of the apple state of India. The place looked like it must have been inhabited by a British officer in the 1940s, his children in the ‘50s and the ‘60s and must have been abandoned till the ‘90s. The whole place must have been hastily restored to greet the new millennium. When I finally extricated myself from my reverie, I found myself face to face with a plump man, complete with glasses and a moustache, goggling at me as if I was something in a glass case. When he realized that my mental presence was finally with the gathering present, he showed us into the palace. The first thing that hit me as I entered the bungalow was not the dog licking my trousers, it was the overwhelming smell. And it was not a pleasant smell. It was the smell of Liquefied Petroleum Gas. When my dad apprised this friend of his about the situation at hand, he laughed airily and said that there was a leak in the kitchen. We were led into a cold dark room which might have been mistaken for a dungeon except for the fact that the carpeting was plush and the furniture…er…plush-er. We were then offered refreshments of all sorts imaginable, if the imaginer could imagine just tea and biscuits, that is. We nobly sacrificed the midday meal in view of the time lag suffered by the aforementioned social call. Our next destination was billed as Naldehra (which my Dad still confuses with Narkhanda). En route, we had the usual tea break, with masala chai giving us an unprecedented boost. When I grow up into the big shot that I want to grow up into, I will make the famous quote, “Masala Chai is the opium of the masses”. At Naldehra, we saw the golf club, an enviable stretch of grass, lawn and pond. We elected not to enter the premises and hit the road. Our next target was Kufri, one of the most scenic hills Himachal had to offer. On top of it was some kind of picnic spot, but on the way lay the main attraction: Fagu Valley. We stopped by the valley for a couple of minutes and got snappy with our cameras. We got back into the car and went up to Kufri. There was some a hotel and a restaurant of sorts, and we walked around a little. Our plan was to stay there for an hour or so, but the cold got the better of us, and we were walking to the car parking when we laid our eyes on a shop and the smell of hot masala chai and hotter pakoras hit us like a shell out of a Bofors howitzer. What we did next was nothing short of running into the shop and demanding a plate of pakoras and 4 steaming cups of chai. Thus refreshed, we continued towards Shimla, now but a few kilometers away. We reached Shimla at around half past seven in the p.m, going straight to the parking and dumping the vehicle there. We then took the elevator to the Mall Street. They say every good town has a heart (and the bad ones are heartless) and this walkway was Shimla’s. We walked the length of the street, did some shopping and went to the church, a formidable building that looked like something out of a medieval English folktale. Our stomachs then told us that they were ready for the third onslaught of the day, le diner. We went inside the first centrally heated building we laid our eyes on, and ordered only those foodstuffs, which were fit, for human consumption, viz. a very small spread. But I must admit, what we did order was delicious. We walked out of the place, but not after cleaning our tables, stripping it of even what little tissue paper we hadn’t used.

Our stomachs satisfied, we walked around a little more and retraced our steps through the street and to the lift. I believe there is a legend about the fact that one can never catch a cold on the streets of Shimla is one consumed that wonder of human taste: ice cream. So, being a guy with as much scientific temperament as I did (snigger), I decided to try it. All in the name of science, I said, before taking the plunge. We found ourselves in a place called ‘Honey Hut’, and, by Heavens, it was just that. Let me give you an extract from the menu.

 

 

Wild Honey

Honey Doughnut

Honey and Jam Sandwich

Honey Shake (Chocolate, Vanilla, Pistachio, Strawberry)

Fresh Fruit Juice with Honey

Coffee topped with Honey

Tea topped with Honey

Honey Chocolates

Honey Ice Creams (Chocolate, Vanilla, Pistachio, Strawberry)

 

These Himachalis get weirder by the minute, it seems…First came ice cream at a temperature of 7 degrees Celsius and now honey in ice cream…Well, being the tolerant creature that I am, I decided to have a chocolate ice cream. All in the name of science, I said to myself. And when I finally shoveled the thing in my mouth, it was like Paradise! It’s an experience in itself, when the temperature of it hurts like Sin and when your taste buds scream in delight…

 

After the wonderful dessert, we went to our roof for the night; the Himachal Pradesh Marketing Corporation guest house.

 

 

Day 2

 

We woke up at about 7 in the morning and I was left behind at the guesthouse to get ready for the day’s journey back when everyone else took a walk around the city. After I had finished, we walked to the parking and took out the vehicle. Just then, something caught our eyes. And, as you may have guessed by now, if something catches our eye, it invariably is something edible. What we beheld was a guy making hot tea and parathas outside the parking. We ran to him and demanded six of his best creations be packed neatly and with pickle. He promptly handed us a package and we rewarded his efforts with a purse of gold. Our breakfast ready, all we needed now was a place where we could eat and be one with Nature. We found that right behind the Himachal Pradesh Government Secretariat. We go off with the package and a bottle of water, ready to devour something and break the fast.

Having filled our stomachs, we clambered into the car and continued on our epic journey. On the way, my dad and Mohan uncle pointed to me the Jubbar Hatti Airport, and, with our impeccable timing, I was on a hilltop with a superb view of the runway when I spied a prop aircraft coming in from the east, landing nice and clean on the hilltop strip. We had the perfect side on view and could actually see the touchdown with the optical zoom of our cameras. After clicking some pictures of the strip, we continued towards Parwanoo, that is, until we made an impulse decision to go to the Tara Devi Mandir.

Little did we know that Mata Devi, along with a superb Darshan, was going to provide the midday meal as an add-on. After our Darshan, we went to the Langar hall just as lunch was being served, another example of our timing. This was a great opportunity for us to taste the local fare and savour some things that could never be tasted at home or even in Chandigarh. I ended up tasting not only the great variety, but also the potent species of chili that was grown in Himachal. We headed off homewards, and as per plan, we were to reach Kasauli by 4 in the afternoon and Parwanoo about a couple of hours later. Since we had a very early lunch, we decided to stop by at about 2 for a quick masala chai by the roadside.

Onward we marched, and by 3.30, we were at the gates of Air Force Station Kasauli, with the IAF flag flying high and the Chetak helos flying higher. After a rigorous security check, we went into the compound only to be greeted by a mock-up of an air force jeep, complete with .50 caliber machine gun on top of it.

The main attraction (for the non-aviation enthusiasts, of course) was the Man Ki Point (or Monkey Point, it has now become a case of disputed identity), which was basically a Hanuman temple on top of a hill, directly overlooking the Radio Communications tower. We paid our respects to the deity and climbed down the hill. We were about to leave when a fresh patrol of Chetaks over flew us. I must say, that made my day…

Our journey to Parwanoo was uneventful as the entire party was in the wonderful world of slumber.

At Parwanoo, we returned to the expedition GHQ, but the only thing we had time to do was to relieve ourselves, upload the pictures into the laptop and heave the luggage onto the verandah for the second leg of our journey. As we waited for our chariot of gold, a white Tavera zipped out from the narrow driveway with agility unnatural for an SUV. The engine breathed its last and out jumped a man, his hair shaven off and a budding French beard around his mouth. This short man, I divined, was going to be our driver and de facto guide for the next few days. He shook hands with us all and embraced Mohan uncle like a long lost twin. Apparently, he was the one who had enlightened Mohan uncle and Sashi Aunty about the beauty of the Apple State of India. He introduced himself as Harish, and vowed that we would be awestruck with the state by the time he had finished with us. He jumped onto the roof and bound our luggage with exceeding levels of professionalism. Jumping off, he gave the order to get in and started up the engine. And so we were off. The real trip had begun.

On the way, as usual, the cravings of that bag in our abdomen had to be satiated. Harish generously stopped by a Dhaba in Dharampur. This, he said, was not your usual roadside Dhaba, not one of the millions of roadside places, which dish up notoriously inedible slime, but this was Giani Da Dhaba. It was the best place around, and it was affordable and delicious. We had a sumptuous dinner, with a wide variety of oily foods. After dinner, we made some purchases at the store such as chewing gum, chocolates and other small-eats. Clambering into the car again, we set off at a good pace in the direction of Kullu.

It was all uneventful until about 11 PM, when my stomach gave a huge lurch and threatened to eject all that was in it in the upward way. A lesser man than me would have concluded that what I had was a tremendous case of motion sickness. Harish was doing either one of the following: driving too fast or flying too low. And we all know what happens when you fill your stomach with starchy foods and fly low. And on a hilly road, this was recipe for disaster. I presume Harish was accustomed to passengers traveling on empty stomachs and those who had a nice strong belly. That night he met someone with the proverbial Poirot tummy, one whose stomach lurches at every hairpin bend and gurgles at every ascent and forced the mouth to whisper the words, “Mon Estomac”.

 

So I was dumped in the back seat, wrapped in blankets like a Christmas present.

The hitch in this great scheme was the fact that Tavera back seats are nothing more than two metal benches propped up against the side of the body. The result: I realized that what I was suffering had the nasty habit of turning worse just when I thought it impossible. I voiced my thoughts, and I was immediately shifted like a sack of something bulky onto the middle row. Harish guided the chariot of fire to Kullu and we came to a halt in front of a building with what I presumed to be a vast sprawling lawn all around it (I say presume because I couldn’t see anything). We entered the bungalow and were guided to our rooms by the caretaker. Our rooms, incidentally, were at the basement. It made me feel extraordinarily like I was a prisoner at the Bastille going to the dungeons for a short stint before the guillotine met my head. On entering the room, however, all doubts about Parisian revolts were immediately dispelled. It was a plush room with, thank God, a heater. The first thing I always do in a room is to inspect the operational area (No, I'm not talking about runways and ATC towers…but you should know what kind of operational area I'm talking about). As everything was up to scratch, I popped off into bed to get my 8 hours.

 

 

 

Day 3

 

 

When I say 8 hours, I actually mean 4. I had gone to bed at half past 3 and woken up at half past 7. Finishing off my daily duties, I was ready at the vehicle with everyone else and Harish manned the cockpit, requested and got takeoff clearance from us and we were off once more. Our destination now was Manikarn, home of the hottest springs I have been in. On the way, we had to break the fast. Harish, this being his area of expertise, took us to Sanja Chulha, a resort of some kind just by the highway. The frost on the grass and the wind on our faces was a huge deterrent, but we braved the cold to get in. What we beheld inside was a completely different world. It was wonderfully warm, with the smell of fresh desi ghee wafting all around the place. We ordered breakfast and sat down next to the coal-fired burner, with the guy at the front desk rubbing oil on the heater. We ate and sat in the car. Harish joined us and we departed. Manikarn was just about an hour’s drive from there, so we reached comfortably. We went into the temple and ran into the bath. There we undressed and had a nice hot bath. We didn’t use any soap as the water was supposed to contain minerals that the skin liked. After bath, it was time for us to enter the sanctum sanctorum of the deity. On my father’s instructions, I had already visited the main temple. As the rest of the gang moved in to make the Lord busy, I wore my shoes. After this, we walked around the place a little, getting souvenirs and the likes. We then went in to the Gurudwara to pay homage to the other Omnipresent entities in the premises. As we had to cover our heads before entering the place, I had to wear my monkey cap (which looked positively hideous…). We were allowed to take pictures, provided we weren’t in the shot ourselves. After paying our respects and enjoying a few minutes of silence, we got down to what we really came for: the food. As you probably know by now, we do have a knack of being in Langar halls exactly when the plates are being laid out and the water poured into the tumblers. And we did it again. The first (and only, mind you) course was just being brought out of the kitchens when we walked in nonchalantly with a good deal of élan and grace towards the plates and glasses. As soon as we sat, a middle-aged man gave me a hard look and gazed south beyond my ears towards Sri Lanka or some place. As he was looking there, his practiced hand deftly dumped a blob of something apparently edible into my plate. The man then went to my neighbour and did the same thing all over again. The next soul over my plate was a young man, with a moustache and what not. He had a woven basket and was throwing chapattis into the hands of waiting devotees. I placed both my hands palms open over my head. All I heard the soft flump of the chapattis and felt the warmth of the Langar cooking, and the next thing I knew was something melting in my mouth, taste and heat unparalleled to anything I had ever tasted before. After that, my memory remained blank until the part where we were outside; making a donation for the generous Almighty for the daily bread he had blessed us with.

Harish was waiting at the nearest motorable point and we climbed into his chariot of gold. He then retraced our steps back to Kullu where we roamed into Harish’s residence. We looked into the nearby temple and then took off to grace Manali with our presence. On the way, we were lured by the Forces Beyond our Control into a wonderful multilevel temple. It was something like Forum Mall with shrines instead of any shops. It must have cost a fortune to build, I presume. We strolled about a bit and made our way back to the car, all set to zip across to Manali. We reached Manali by late evening, unpacked and settled down in the circuit house just as the crowds were gathering in the city centre. Along with the crowds, we shopped a little, then had dinner at some obscure little joint by the road and then continued shopping till we were a-dropping. I, for my part, had a 4 in 1 ice cream, which was typical of Himachal in the way that chocolate was combined with blackcurrant and pineapple, forming a cold delight, which was sweet all around and slightly bitter in the areas where the flavours mixed. Returning to the room at about eleven, we retired to bed.

 

Day 4

 

Our fourth day began with me waking up late and getting ready late and in the end delaying everyone. What a beginning to Christmas day. Our first destination was Vasisht, another hot water spring in the vicinity of Manali. We had bath there, went to the temple and then went to Solang Nala, to have our first experience with snow. On the way we rented out some snow gear. After that, it was smooth sailing until we reached the top. There, we entered the skiing academy. The snow was about a quarter foot deep, and we would have been better off skiing on our drawing room floor carpeted wall to wall. We then buzzed off to a place called Kothi (Kannadigas, don’t think of anything but a place name. I didn’t name it, you know). We played in the snow, had snowball fights and I got to see the crazy side of my dad (for those of my readers who say that all his sides are crazy, let me add the superlative suffix). We returned to Manali when it was too dark to see and packed up. We then visited the Hadimba Temple in the dark and set sail to Kullu for a little R&R before the big trip planned for the following day. Once in Kullu, we had just enough time to get our forty winks and behold, a new day had dawned.

 

 

 

Day 5

 

The fifth day of our trip was one filled with social calls and reunions, so readers interested only in my globetrotting adventures may take the dog for a walk, make a cup of chai or pass time any other way while I narrate the events of this day as I am dutifully bound to do.

The day began with the only exciting event, a 4-kilometer trek up and down a hill. The trek was en route to Bijli Mahadev, a temple shrouded in mysterious legends. For one, the shrine was supposed to be hit by lightning every year, disintegrating into a thousand odd pieces. The priest was supposedly informed about the coordinates of the shards via DNN (Dream News Network…LOL!).

Anther interesting legend was that the head priest (yes, the one affiliated with the DNN) had once got tired of life as it was and decided to run away. I believe he was half way down the hill when he was confronted with the Omnipotent, who punished him for his insolence by messing up his limbs. He now walks on all fours, as he can’t put all his weight on his weakened feet.

Now, away from the realm of legend, I move on to the real storytelling. We reached the foot of the hill at about quarter to nine, with plenty of room to go up and down the hill, get a good Darshan and return to Kullu in time for our lunchtime appointment with the who’s who of the Kullu civilization. We began our climb by taking the bottommost step (Duh!) and working our way upward (Double Duh!). The climb was a long, weary one, and we asked ourselves if any guy in his right mind would build a temple on top of a hill just because lightning had to strike the shrine and break it into a thousand odd pieces. Then again, we reasoned out, lightning rods were not invented until Benjamin Franklin was born, and we all know he wasn’t born in the early 14^th century AD. A dog followed us from the first step we took to the last, and it must have been His way of saying thank you for coming. The animal walked with us as if showing the way, and never left our side except to scare away a few monkeys that were in our way. Wow. He accompanied us right up to the temple complex, and then, realizing that his errand of mercy was done, settled down for a little nap. We met the priest, who asked us if we had a match and a pack of Four Squares, both of which, needless to say, we replied in the negative. He sighed long and hard, and we could see that he was pained at our lack of anticipation. On the other hand, though, who would have expected that the head priest of a temple would have liked nothing better than a cigarette pack in his Hundial ? We had a good Darshan, with the priest sitting on the porch with us and ordering that we all be served tea. He then looked at the binoculars on my lap and asked if he could use it to survey the natural beauty of the mountains and their snowy peaks one more time. As we gave him a no-objection certificate, he peered into the lenses. He rotated his head a good 270 degrees before returning it to its original state. The canine genius that had accompanied us up was still in the world of slumber, so we left it and began to descend. I made good time, getting back to the car in less than an hour and a half. It took a further forty-five minutes for the last person to return, and we had hit the road by noon. We headed back to Kullu for the first of our ports of call, a lunchtime appointment with one of the Captains of Industry in Kullu. We reached their house by 1.30 and had a nice heavy lunch, complete with the pleasant babble that accompanies a particularly delicious spread. We buzzed off after lunch, getting into overdrive in order to end the day at least a good 500 kilometers away from Kullu. Just as we were leaving Kullu, my father, with his impeccable eye for fruit shops, barked excitedly to Harish, to the effect that the car was stopped immediately. We stepped into some kind of makeshift shop, with a tarpaulin roof and no walls. Inside was an array of fruits, most of which I had never seen before, let alone taste. My father saw some particularly soft, red ones that looked like puffed up tomatoes, and he wanted a sample. We were informed by the proprietor that these were called Japani Phal. It tasted quite good, I must say, but the problem was, where do you put a bag of extremely tricky stuff that could behave like C4 plastic explosive if something was placed on it? We tried our level best to place the bomb in a safe area, the only example of this being the floor of the vehicle. But, as they say, the best plans made by man or God are only as strong as their weakest link. Our weakest link was the fact that Harish regularly threw caution to the wind when behind the wheel, and all around our safe zone were piles of rugs, bags, clothes and what not. And when your helmsman throws caution to the winds in a Himachali mountain road, luggage pieces often fall out of their places on top of piles, down to earth I know not where, as the wise guy said long ago. And once in a way, the variable ‘I know not where’ may rest on ‘Safe Zone’. When that happens, you know that you’re in for trouble. Which was what we were in for. On our way lay a temple of sorts, a really small, no-frills temple where truckers and devotees alike could have a quick glimpse of the Lord Almighty and leave at once to resume their long journeys. Outside this temple we noticed a couple of taps, so we resourcefully saw a light at the end of the tunnel, a way out of the crisis we had gotten into. The car screeched into a halt, we paid our respects to the Lord and took out the bag of Japani Phal, or rather the blast fragments of it. Removing the remains and evacuating the few fruits that survived the blasts, we quickly gave them a wash. Washed and sterilized, we, or rather everybody other than me and Mohan uncle, gouged on it. As they were digging into their feast of sorts, we took a couple of good pictures of them at it. We then got back into the vehicle and offered Harish one. Typical of him, he declined with a politically correct reply. The remains were thrown unceremoniously thrown into the River Beas. We set off to another of those boring social calls, and, having seen my father reunite with his colleague after 2 decades, we went on and on. Our aim for the day was to get as far as possible towards Chamba.

By eleven that night, we were completely exhausted and wanted to sleep more than anything. As we were just outside the temple town of Baijnath, we managed to find a hotel there by hook, or rather, by crook. Whichever it was, it meant we could get forty winks in peace and remove ourselves from the vicinity early the next morning after having a glimpse of the Lord Almighty in Baijnath. Which was what we did the next morning.

 

 

Day 6

 

We awoke early in the morning and buzzed off at the crack of dawn, with the cold biting us like some mad dog on the streets of Chandra Layout. As a popular ad goes, we were Wanderers, and the road was our home and we were completely at ease in the warm confines of the Tavera, snuggled together to keep our body temperatures warmer than a reptile. But the Lord Almighty would not let that happen…First, there were these great black bears in an enclosure just off the highway, which seemed so picture worthy that I found it worthwhile to open the door and step out of the car for a shot, leaving five poor souls to freeze in the cold, along with self. Then there was this temple, with a hundred steps, each as high as a foot. We climbed the stairs, every last one, only to see Harish and the car waiting for us at the summit. Why the hell, we asked, didn’t you drive us up the hill? Pat came the apologetic reply, “I didn’t know that there was a motorable road here…”

Already incensed, we got back in and continued.

We endured hours and hours of unending travel and, finally, we reached our next destination: Dharamsala, the holy abode of the 14^th Dalai Lama. We entered the temple and paid our respects to the Holy Buddha. As we came out, we realized that attached to the temple was the secretariat of the Tibetan Government in exile. After that, we got back to the roads and moved on. When I say ‘moved on’, I mean ‘moved for an eternity’. Our next stop came five hours later, near the town of Kangra. We stopped, got off the road and had a quick chai. 15 minutes later, we were back on. For another eternity, we rode on and on. Finally we reached Chamba at about eight. We had dinner at some obscure joint in the middle of the town and retired at the circuit house there. The odd thing about the place was that the washroom was as big as a football ground, and the rest of the room was about as big as a cricket pitch. Well, that was that in Chamba, our last night spent wandering in Himachal.

 

 

   

Day 7

 

 

The next day, we wandered around Chamba a good deal and, as is custom, hit the road hard. At about eleven, we felt the need for nourishment and stopped near a temple. First, we breakfasted at a Dhaba opposite the temple and then went in to the main area of interest. After spending some time there, we left. There was nothing more of note in this leg of the journey except for a short meeting with Sashi Auntie’s nephew, who was studying somewhere there. After that, we directly went to Pathankhot where we had a sumptuous dinner and spent the night at the Circuit House.

 

 

Day 8

 

 

The next day, we set off early, aiming to reach Vaishno Devi by noon. As we were traveling, the interior of the SUV was abuzz with activity, as we had to get tickets for the chopper ride up the mountain or walk up, something I did not want to do. As I was not part of the buzz, I started counting the Army vehicles on the road from Pathankhot to Jammu. As it turned out, that wasn’t too interesting, as within a hundred kilometers of leaving Pathankhot, I had crossed a hundred and fifty. They were of all types; command vehicles, trucks and even artillery pieces. If this was peacetime, I wondered, what would this road look like in war?

Security forces were omnipresent, and Big Brother, evidently, was not just watching, but glaring at every soul entering the state of Jammu and Kashmir.

A while later, we made it to Katra, the staging area of our trip. It was here that we were informed of the fact that arrangements had been made by I know not whom for five tickets on board the helo to the top. I was positively overjoyed, as traveling in a helicopter was not very far down in my list of things to do before Passing On.

At exactly half past four, we drove into the helipad, got security checked and waited. The service was on a first come-first serve basis, so we found ourselves waiting quite a long time. Then, at last, we were asked to remove ourselves from the terminal and onto the tarmac. The timing and the precision of it all amazed me. The guy flies in from the top, keeps the engine running and stays on the ground for just enough time for the passengers to get out, other people to get in and for him to sign something. And then he gives in some juice, opens her up and flies back on top to repeat the process there. The chopper was a Bell 407, and the pilot was a Sardar. We got in and strapped ourselves tightly and immediately the doors closed and the ground started going further and further below my feet. The view was positively breathtaking, but the problem was we had just eight minutes of it. All too soon, our feet were back to being firmly on the ground, and we had landed on the sacred mountain, 21^st century way. That evening, we stood in line for the Darshan, waiting for hours. It was like an international airport, what with three layers of security checking and a metal detector. At long last, we entered the sanctum sanctorum of the temple, and here, too, we were reminded of airports. Do you know what happens to your luggage after you check it in? If you are thirsty for knowledge, then visit this temple. You can be pushed around, thrown about and even dragged hither and dither, as you get your very own personalized 1.23 seconds of time with Him. By the time you set your eyes on the three stones ornamented with flowers and jewelry, you are flung into the depths of a passage where people dump dollops of Prasadam into your hands. Then you are pushed forward again, by the wave of people, to the mouth of the exit passage. This process inevitably reminds one of the conveyor belt that takes your suitcase from the aircraft to you at the destination airport…

And all through this process, you were flanked by uniformed men in khaki, with bayonet-tipped Kalashnikovs in their hands and their faces almost as unreadable as their badges.

After this, we returned to our dormitory, and after a quick dinner, went to sleep

 

 

Day 9

 

The ninth day of our trip was, by leaps and bounds, the longest one. It started at the ghastly hour of Five Thirty Alpha Mike and stretched through over four hundred kilometers and twenty-three hours. Everyone else woke up before me, and had another 1.25 seconds with the Lord Almighty in the morning, but I traded that off for a couple of hours of extra sleep, which turned out to be a boon. As soon as I woke up, I was rushed through the daily necessities of bath, brushing, et cetera.

First up for me was a five-klick climb to Bhairon, another temple located on the same mountain, something like a satellite temple, so to speak.

After the Darshan came the real test for me- a fifteen-klick trek back down the mountain. No chopper rides this time! We started off, retracing our steps back to Sanji Chhat, the helipad. Here we had something that my parents called breakfast, and I referred to as a light morning snack. It consisted of some bread pakoras, a cup of tea and some shundal, which, for the benefit of those who don’t know, is made of boiled pulses with coconut.

We continued and were halfway down by noon. Lunch was skipped in order to get down in time, and all we had time for in the half way mark was a short rest. We were then back on our feet. All through, we gazed longingly up to the skies, for every five minutes, on the dot, there was a chopper diving down from Sanji Chhat to Katra. What could have been done in 7 minutes was now taking us more than seven hours…

At long last, we got down to the last kilometer. The top and the bottom were in sharp contrast…

At the top, you were liable to freeze to death, while it was sweltering at the bottom. It reminded me of what I was going to face when I would visit Neyveli in May.

After that, it was all smooth sailing until we reached the Tavera, clambered in and buckled up.

Harish positively gunned the engine, and we were flying back towards Jammu. I was up front and only my mouthful of Orbit kept me awake in that stretch. After we had bypassed Jammu and crossed out of J&K, Harish relaxed a bit, loosening his hold on the pedal. We drove on and on. When a stop was suggested for the classic English beverage, Harish put his foot down. Not on the throttle, of course, I was speaking figuratively. We protested and revolted, huffed and puffed, but to no avail. He was firm in his resolve to get us home by dawn.

Dinner was the only thing that even he couldn’t deny us, so we went in for the kill at a roadside Dhaba, which, surprisingly, served up some superb food. By the thirtieth minute, though, Harish was at the wheel and was honking loudly as everyone got back into the car. Back on the road, we drove to the tunes of some guy screaming “Oye Lucky Lucky Oye” at the top of his voice…all in the name of music. If you would have thought that sleep would be something hard to come by in that sort of atmosphere, you would be perfectly right. At three thirty Alpha Mike, we were finally treading on familiar ground. By four, I found myself shaken into life, hustled into the house and dumped into a bed, followed by the sensation of being lifted off my feet and into the supreme world of dreams.

 

 

Day 10

 

 

The next couple of days were strictly for a bit of R&R, but we didn’t stay idle.

The first day, I played NFS Underground for hours together, and when I wasn’t doing that, I was getting the millions of pictures I had taken into the PC. Sorting them out was a Herculean task, but we got round to doing it within a few hours. That evening, that is, New Year’s Eve, we had a small reunion, with my dad and his colleagues meeting after a couple of decades. They were all engaged in chatter about what happened in the decades between their last meeting, and there was generally a lot of hugging and shaking hands.  On the whole, the only thing that appealed to me was the dinner, which was nothing short of splendid. I’d rather not go into the details of the meal, because I would be both tempting my readers and drooling on my keyboard if I did so.

That being that, day ten was over.

 

 

 

Day 11

 

 

 

This was to be our last full day in the wonderful state of Himachal, and we tried to make the most of it. The day was spent quite nicely, what with a shopping trip through Chandigarh. Lunch was something worth writing about. As we walked into this restaurant and seated ourselves, the guy in charge barked a waiter, “Aa table alli ondhu menu kodappa!”

We were astonished that the sweet tongue of Pampa, Ponna and Ranna had worked its way north to the Apple State. Truly a reason to make Kannada a classical language.

After lunch, we visited the rock garden and a lake whose name escapes my memory. After that, we went window-shopping and returned with ice creams in our hands and popcorn in our mouths.

The only event worth remark was something I will call Rasamgate, but going deeper into this subject will only lead to censorship.

All we had time for after that was a quick bite and some sleep.

 

 

 The next morning, we boarded the Pashchim Express to Delhi and from there we took the Rajdhani Express back to Bangalore. Our grand Himachal trip was over.

  

Bala