October 2015
A magical time in life. My longest solo ride then, to Kumaon. A step back from Google maps and fixed plans. Ride till sunset, ask around for a place to stay.
A cop stops my bike, and gets on without permission. "There is a guy running away, chase him!" I don't know who I'm chasing or where this is heading, but I ride along, full throttle. A brief experience of absolute right of way on the road, cop with gun sitting pillion. After some time we find a guy, who lacks the urgency of a fugitive. He is caught, amidst no drama. I don't understand anything, but it doesn't matter, I ride on.
The rivers have wide sandy beaches and closer to Rishikesh there are countless campsites - it feels like any good thing remains good only until everyone finds out about it. So one way to live life is to look at choices that others don't want to make. Like physical inconvenience is a great tool to keep crowds away. This has inspired Spiti in winter, Rajasthan in summer, Western Ghats during monsoon and places that you can reach only by foot.
Back to the ride, a few times kids going back home from school jump on, as do some adults. Outside big towns in the hills, for the most part there is only one road, and people are much more free to ask for help and to offer help here.
The end of the day is the best time and I don't want to stop. I can ride for as long as I please and sync with the sun, rather than distance. It's like the difference between timing food with hunger as opposed to eating based on fixed timings.
Prayag mean confluence, and everywhere I turn there is a town named Prayag on this route. For all our worship of the Himalayas and the great rivers birthed there, the sight of so much concrete damming dry river beds is ugly. What is a river without flowing water?
The sun sets as I approach Karnaprayag, I stop and say hello to an elderly man. What's a good place? He points me to a hotel - Sri Krishna. I enter and I see Rajinikanth's photograph with the guy behind the counter. The room is not too dirty. One avoids close inspection of the sheets, and fatigue takes over.
From here the places remain anonymous. Any place which attracts too much attention gets spoiled, so here I'm doing my bit.
The ride goes on, past dusty roads under construction, across invasive forests of pine planted 200 years back for turpentine. Two days later, I arrive at the base for the trek - a 100 year old house. One guide (Tillu), one porter (Babloo), and me start out.
As we start the climb up, we stumble upon a snake - a baby Russell's viper. My first ever Russell's sighting, a snake that stretches from sea level to over 2,000 meters.
At the end of the first afternoon my legs are crying for rest. We climb down to fetch water from a known water source. It's dry. Tillu and Babloo venture further down, while I return to the tents and wait. We had just missed some nomadic shepherds and mutton at 2500 meters. We are left with a carpet of goat shit to admire, and of course it's utterly joyous to be so high up and have the world open out in front.
The next day we climb further up, and only Rhododendron is left now, as we approach the alpine meadow above 3,000 meters. We reach early afternoon, and I'm going mad with happiness - running, jumping and rolling around. Just happy to be alive at that moment.
Life is reduced to food, water, tent and company. There is nothing else the mind craves, and there is absolute contentment with life as we settle around the fire to watch the stars. Shooting stars zoom past, galaxies glitter away, and we are taking it all in. I'm thinking this particular scene would've been there since humans first appeared, and this visceral joy for nature is a common thread that has endured.
The night is freezing, and the Tillu and Babloo silently regret their choice to bring tarpaulin for an open tent. They light a fire at 3 AM, and it melts the icicles on the roof and we have rain inside the tent. I hear sounds of chatter, and I just lay there, waiting for sunrise.
The following morning we climb further up to see sunrise at 3,500 meters, above the clouds. I catch myself looking at it thru my phone screen, and I feel stupid. I put the phone down and enjoy the rest of it.
Why do people wish to capture every moment for posterity? I find it particularly amusing when people hold up their phones to record a concert, sporting event, or Niagra falls - things which are constantly covered by professionals. Why can't we see a picture on Google or a video on Youtube? What's the joy in capturing things which have been captured to death by people with far more competence?
The climb down was quick, and my legs were happy for a break. A day later I was riding back, and my mind was filled with joy. As I ride towards Dehradun, I see a building that reminds me of my Indore campus. Turns out, it's an IIM, and I'm in Kashipur. The hostel and classrooms fall on either side of the main highway and I keep asking understand how?
Towards the end my clutch cable snaps, and I push the bike for a while and find a mechanic. It's dark and I'm tired. The stretch as I approach home is like the last chapter in a book being written.
A week later we would ride to Spiti, at the beginning of winter.
The most important variable in life is human company. Joy and Gopal would've loved it. How fortunate though that we found each other with time in our hands back in the day.
A magical time in life. My longest solo ride then, to Kumaon. A step back from Google maps and fixed plans. Ride till sunset, ask around for a place to stay.
A cop stops my bike, and gets on without permission. "There is a guy running away, chase him!" I don't know who I'm chasing or where this is heading, but I ride along, full throttle. A brief experience of absolute right of way on the road, cop with gun sitting pillion. After some time we find a guy, who lacks the urgency of a fugitive. He is caught, amidst no drama. I don't understand anything, but it doesn't matter, I ride on.
The rivers have wide sandy beaches and closer to Rishikesh there are countless campsites - it feels like any good thing remains good only until everyone finds out about it. So one way to live life is to look at choices that others don't want to make. Like physical inconvenience is a great tool to keep crowds away. This has inspired Spiti in winter, Rajasthan in summer, Western Ghats during monsoon and places that you can reach only by foot.
Back to the ride, a few times kids going back home from school jump on, as do some adults. Outside big towns in the hills, for the most part there is only one road, and people are much more free to ask for help and to offer help here.
The end of the day is the best time and I don't want to stop. I can ride for as long as I please and sync with the sun, rather than distance. It's like the difference between timing food with hunger as opposed to eating based on fixed timings.
Prayag mean confluence, and everywhere I turn there is a town named Prayag on this route. For all our worship of the Himalayas and the great rivers birthed there, the sight of so much concrete damming dry river beds is ugly. What is a river without flowing water?
The sun sets as I approach Karnaprayag, I stop and say hello to an elderly man. What's a good place? He points me to a hotel - Sri Krishna. I enter and I see Rajinikanth's photograph with the guy behind the counter. The room is not too dirty. One avoids close inspection of the sheets, and fatigue takes over.
From here the places remain anonymous. Any place which attracts too much attention gets spoiled, so here I'm doing my bit.
The ride goes on, past dusty roads under construction, across invasive forests of pine planted 200 years back for turpentine. Two days later, I arrive at the base for the trek - a 100 year old house. One guide (Tillu), one porter (Babloo), and me start out.
As we start the climb up, we stumble upon a snake - a baby Russell's viper. My first ever Russell's sighting, a snake that stretches from sea level to over 2,000 meters.
At the end of the first afternoon my legs are crying for rest. We climb down to fetch water from a known water source. It's dry. Tillu and Babloo venture further down, while I return to the tents and wait. We had just missed some nomadic shepherds and mutton at 2500 meters. We are left with a carpet of goat shit to admire, and of course it's utterly joyous to be so high up and have the world open out in front.
The next day we climb further up, and only Rhododendron is left now, as we approach the alpine meadow above 3,000 meters. We reach early afternoon, and I'm going mad with happiness - running, jumping and rolling around. Just happy to be alive at that moment.
Life is reduced to food, water, tent and company. There is nothing else the mind craves, and there is absolute contentment with life as we settle around the fire to watch the stars. Shooting stars zoom past, galaxies glitter away, and we are taking it all in. I'm thinking this particular scene would've been there since humans first appeared, and this visceral joy for nature is a common thread that has endured.
The night is freezing, and the Tillu and Babloo silently regret their choice to bring tarpaulin for an open tent. They light a fire at 3 AM, and it melts the icicles on the roof and we have rain inside the tent. I hear sounds of chatter, and I just lay there, waiting for sunrise.
The following morning we climb further up to see sunrise at 3,500 meters, above the clouds. I catch myself looking at it thru my phone screen, and I feel stupid. I put the phone down and enjoy the rest of it.
Why do people wish to capture every moment for posterity? I find it particularly amusing when people hold up their phones to record a concert, sporting event, or Niagra falls - things which are constantly covered by professionals. Why can't we see a picture on Google or a video on Youtube? What's the joy in capturing things which have been captured to death by people with far more competence?
The climb down was quick, and my legs were happy for a break. A day later I was riding back, and my mind was filled with joy. As I ride towards Dehradun, I see a building that reminds me of my Indore campus. Turns out, it's an IIM, and I'm in Kashipur. The hostel and classrooms fall on either side of the main highway and I keep asking understand how?
Towards the end my clutch cable snaps, and I push the bike for a while and find a mechanic. It's dark and I'm tired. The stretch as I approach home is like the last chapter in a book being written.
A week later we would ride to Spiti, at the beginning of winter.
The most important variable in life is human company. Joy and Gopal would've loved it. How fortunate though that we found each other with time in our hands back in the day.
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