We got off the train at Dimapur, at noon on the fourth day... felt weird standing on firm ground, without the scenery whizzing past... we foud a little place called Hotel Skylark... walking up the stairs late one night, I saw a woman clutching a towel wrapped around her, rushing from one room to another... and I watched the door shut... and there was a guy lying on the bed from the room she was coming from... he had a glass of water in his hands and the most content look in Dimapur that day. There is a little note in every room which says "You're not allowed to bring in women guests." Paulo's feminist sentiments were churned up.
Walking around the streets of Dimapur that evening felt weird.. it felt like a different country - a dangerous country. We invited weird stares, but soon got used to it.. the city shuts down by 6:30 - 7... so we were back at the hotel... I couldn't believe that we actually made it to Nagaland... seemed like a big joke during my college days... discovered that it's really quite developed.. oh, and I couldn't believe that Paulo actually chose to make the trip with two 'almost random people' (in her own words)... I can think of only one other girl (Maitreyi Mundo) who'd do it... requires real guts to step onto those alien streets, to accept those weird looks, get used to the random strangers as travel-companions, and still retain the open mind.
30 May 2006
27 May 2006
The Great Optimist
Random conversation, only in India...
--------------------------------------------------------------------
When does this train reach...?
Let's see, today is Thursday, so we have Friday, Saturday, Sunday... Sunday afternoon!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
I always thought that anecdote was a big joke, only fit for discussion forums (like the one on the Lonely Planet website, which is where I picked it from)... 62 hours on Chennai-Dibrugarh Exp., from that beautiful Egmore station to Dimapur...
The train was like a little self-sustained community of sorts... people did everything any normal person would do at home... Joy, in his efforts to stay clean (I dunno why he even tries), used a chopped off water bottle to bathe in the train... I thought that was pretty crazy, till this guy took a full sized steel bucket, like the kind used to water gardens... Paulo didn't shit for 4 days... and didn't fart either... dunno how she does it... maybe she burps? ok sorry, that was gross.
Then one guy came along selling cameras and all kinds of digital gadgets... and a landline telephone... now I don't understand why anyone would buy a telephone on a train... like the steel-bucket dude, someone had to give me a bigger shock, so along came this guy selling a music keyboard... now, who on earth would... ok, I'll stop... I guess someone, somewhere has bought a keyboard and a telephone on a train, hence the optimism... I guess when people are sitting on a train for 4 days, with nothing much to do but stare at each other, they wouldn't exactly mind buying a telephone... the train must be a good place to advertise.
There was one guy selling lemon tea... he chanted 'lemucha' like it's the gayathri manthram... for some reason, everytime I listened to him, 'le-mucha' translated into 'the urine' in my head.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
When does this train reach...?
Let's see, today is Thursday, so we have Friday, Saturday, Sunday... Sunday afternoon!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
I always thought that anecdote was a big joke, only fit for discussion forums (like the one on the Lonely Planet website, which is where I picked it from)... 62 hours on Chennai-Dibrugarh Exp., from that beautiful Egmore station to Dimapur...
The train was like a little self-sustained community of sorts... people did everything any normal person would do at home... Joy, in his efforts to stay clean (I dunno why he even tries), used a chopped off water bottle to bathe in the train... I thought that was pretty crazy, till this guy took a full sized steel bucket, like the kind used to water gardens... Paulo didn't shit for 4 days... and didn't fart either... dunno how she does it... maybe she burps? ok sorry, that was gross.
Then one guy came along selling cameras and all kinds of digital gadgets... and a landline telephone... now I don't understand why anyone would buy a telephone on a train... like the steel-bucket dude, someone had to give me a bigger shock, so along came this guy selling a music keyboard... now, who on earth would... ok, I'll stop... I guess someone, somewhere has bought a keyboard and a telephone on a train, hence the optimism... I guess when people are sitting on a train for 4 days, with nothing much to do but stare at each other, they wouldn't exactly mind buying a telephone... the train must be a good place to advertise.
There was one guy selling lemon tea... he chanted 'lemucha' like it's the gayathri manthram... for some reason, everytime I listened to him, 'le-mucha' translated into 'the urine' in my head.
4 May 2006
The Longest Day.. & The Last Post
As we rode downhill from Kashmir, we passed thru the beautiful town of Udampur, which had some of the best roads that I've ever rode on... and by sunset, we were on the plains, entering Jammu... a bunch of obese cops stopped us, asked standard questions, and started a yawn-inducing lecture on The Adventures Of Two Daredevil Jammu Cops During Their Rebellious Youth... we rode in darkness from Jammu, on the beautiful NH-1, and arrived at Pathankhot by 10:30, and found a dingy little excuse for a room by 11.
Just as we were unloading the bike, some cops wanted to check our luggage and generally harrass us... I watched as he dug his hand into my bag and kept asking irritating questions... then Joy came up with the last of his master tricks for the trip... he walked up to him, and held out his ID card for his Human Rights course at the Indian Insti of Human Rights, Delhi... the cops were shitting bricks. They profusely apologised for the inconvenience, and wished us the most wonderful stay any tourist has ever had in Pathankhot.
We crashed like dead men, and woke up to the kind of unexpected gloom which leads to instant disorientation. The skies had transformed into dark grey overnight, and then, just as we started rolling for the day, it started pouring, like all the Gods chose to pee at the same time and place.
Gopal and I were on the Enfield, and followed the usual technique for riding in darkness, heavy rain... we'd closely follow a bus' tail-lamp, allowing the bus-driver to have the pleasure of dodging cows, stray dogs and humans... we couldn't turn around to see anything, because of the rain, and so we rode on, assuming that Joy wouldn't have a problem with riding on the dead flat, neatly laid NH-1... we didn't think much of the rain then.
I have to tell you about the Dhaba food on NH-1. It's simply the most delicious tandoori food that has ever gone down my throat. The best part is that the food doesn't saturate the tongue at all. Like I could never get sick of the taste, no matter how much I hogged. So I only stopped eating when Joy could spot some food at the top of my throat when I opened my mouth wide.
Anyway, there was no sign of Joy, and we thought he must've passed us with one of his mad overtaking maneuvers in the rain... so we rode on to reach Jalandhar by noon. And we get a call from some random number, and it's Joy. He said the bike got killed by the rain, and that he has no money on him, because his wallet is in my bag, on the enfield, and he's still close to Pathankhot, a good 70 kms back from where we were.
He sold off some petrol to get money to fix it, but the bike conked off for a second time, not too far down the road, but far enough to get him stranded in the middle of nowhere on that highway. So he pushed the bike for 2 kms and called us again, to tell us that we have to come back, that the mechanic has dismantled the engine completely... major problems, like the bike is in coma or something... we were irritated, depressed, angered... and a lot more. But we rode back 70 kms, in the rain... passing by the same scenery for a second time was painful, and the thought that we had to ride back the same way, killed what little energy we had. So Gopal and I cursed our hearts out for the first half an hour, and then we were just too tired and disoriented... we rode in silence... we didn't have to talk to know what's on the other's mind.
We reached Mukherian, where Joy was stranded, but standing outside a mechanic's shop with a big grin on his face... that's the only time I've ever felt like strangling him to death so badly. We screamed at him, while he screamed back at us, saying that we should've watched out for him, and ensured that he was following us... it was our mistake too, and it was hard to digest back then, in all the anger and madness... we should've watched out.
It took all of 20 ruppees to clean the carburettor. We rode back 70 kms in the rain, for 20 bucks. Funnily, I think if the bill had come up to 200 or something, we would've been happier that evening.
We rode back, this time being treated to a pretty sunset on NH-1... with the trees bordering the road glistening in the dampness, and the rain had let up for just a bit... somehow, thru all the shit, the soft yellow evening light brightened our moods, and for those 2 hours, we were really happy, like nothing ever went wrong that day.
Suddenly darkness engulfed us, and it started pouring again... the pulsar's electricals are so complicated that it's just looking for an excuse to have it's fuse blown up... and as we approached Jalandhar, there was a bright spark on the pulsar, and the engine died. The rain got worse, and we removed the fuse and rejoined the wires... and the pulsar was back alive... that ride was really painful. Darkness, countless headlamps making my eyes go blind, and the unforgiving rain... I don't know how we survived that period of madness, but we did... and arrived at Jalandhar late that night. Now the enfield chose to die, and we tried our hands at the carburettor, but it was not in any mood to obey us... so we pushed it for a kilometer, sometimes in knee-deep water, and ended up at this old, dusty, shady lodge... our room appeared like it had been locked up since Independence... dust everywhere, and there was dampness in the air, so it was a messy combo.
We opened our bags to see that, despite the tarpaulin sheets covering them, rain had found a way thru the small holes, and every single piece of clothing was wet. So we spread out all our clothes, all over that poor little room. I slept in my undies that night, cuddling under the bedspread to fight off the cold... but that's the beauty of fatigue... it helps overcome things like cold, dampness and dingy, dusty surroundings.
The next morning we woke up, praying for some dry weather... Gopal was adamant that we haul the bikes and ourselves onto some train heading to Delhi... he was thoroughly disoriented. So was I, but I chose not to show it because he did. We can't have everybody going down with the plan at the same time. So we egged him on to put in one last attempt... Joy was angry and I was disappointed with the idea of not riding back... because that would be like a huge blip on the adventure... the thought that nature actually got the better of us was unthinkable.
I cranked the enfield, with a silent prayer, and immeasurably thankfully, it came alive... and it stayed alive for the rest of the day. We rode mostly in silence that day... hogged the last of the dhaba food for the trip, and slowly things cheered up as we approached Delhi late that afternoon... we were back to our old crazy mood, joking and laughing... and I must say that the fresh, dry wind on our faces helped us more than we realise. Gopal cranked up and rode at 100 for a long stretch... and we felt good. Almost like the day we started out.
We reached Delhi that evening, and felt the drag of the traffic, but we were too excited to complain... we reached Gopal's room at Khatwaria Sarai, and parked the bikes and killed the engine, intoxicated with a sense of accomplishment. We did it.
Gopal's friend and roomie - Amrish, came home from work, and we couldn't stop talking about the trip... we showed him the photos on the handycam, and narrated as much as we could remember... the return to the real world is always weird. It hit us then, that we'd done something so outrageously brilliant. Three guys, with no real experience on bikes, not much money, or time to cushion our falls, going out and living a dream for 16 days... armed with nothing but an open mind and faith in ourselves... I can't count the number of times Joy, Gopal and I would've read thru the little box section in the Lonely Planet guidebook, about the Manali to Leh bike ride... how it always seemed like a magical dream... for some reason, it seemed so far away that we never thought of it as a dream worth pursuing beyond a point... and then it really happened! We couldn't believe it. I still can't.
After the trip, I got back home, to report to work... and worked for 8 months in a factory. Hated the four-walled confinements, the cubicle, the comp, the restricted thinking... and I wrote CAT, and now I'm off to IIM Indore. I quit and travelled to Madhya Pradesh, Varanasi, Calcutta, Trancquebar, Pichavaram and Varkala... now I'm off to Nagaland and Arunchal with Joy and another friend named Mridula... the last of my backpacking adventures for quite sometime... college starts on June 28th, and thats the last of my free air for another 2 years.
Gopal completed his course in Advertising & PR in Delhi, and came back to Madras... presently working as a Senior copywriter at Rediffusion... he's doing great, having all the fun and women he would want... getting pampered with countless office trips, where he stays in resorts, gets fed like a cow meant for slaughter, travels only in ac cabs on the road, routinely flies... he's getting really spoilt. He's afraid that the backpacker in him is slowly dying... but all he needs is another trip with Joy and me, and I'm sure he'll be back to normal... I don't believe some things can die completely. Rather, I hope...
Joy recently completed his Masters in Mass Communication... he's grown tired of chics, but not junk food... he's become serious about his career and future, but retains the madness and insanity that endears him to so many of his fans... he's seriously looking for a break of some form in photography... I'm sincerely praying that he doesn't get sucked into the normal world of formal shirts, pants and office cubicles... it would be the sad death of a creative brain.
We went to Gokarna for the year-end, with a bunch of other friends... once the three of us trekked up in the night, to get some booze before new year's eve... and for that one hour, it felt like Ladakh all over again... there is something about the way we hit it off... The Tender Trio. After the trip, Gopal and I inherited Joy's slang, and we started talking alike... so people started calling us 'The Twins'.
So that's the story of our Ladakh trip... there is so much more to it than what I've written and shown here... most of them would be boring and irrelevant to someone who hasn't experienced it... try doing the ride yourself, and you'll realise how much more there is to it... it's really unimaginably huge... changed us completely. Just do it. So yeah, that's about it... thanks for reading thru... wish us luck! :-)
Just as we were unloading the bike, some cops wanted to check our luggage and generally harrass us... I watched as he dug his hand into my bag and kept asking irritating questions... then Joy came up with the last of his master tricks for the trip... he walked up to him, and held out his ID card for his Human Rights course at the Indian Insti of Human Rights, Delhi... the cops were shitting bricks. They profusely apologised for the inconvenience, and wished us the most wonderful stay any tourist has ever had in Pathankhot.
We crashed like dead men, and woke up to the kind of unexpected gloom which leads to instant disorientation. The skies had transformed into dark grey overnight, and then, just as we started rolling for the day, it started pouring, like all the Gods chose to pee at the same time and place.
Gopal and I were on the Enfield, and followed the usual technique for riding in darkness, heavy rain... we'd closely follow a bus' tail-lamp, allowing the bus-driver to have the pleasure of dodging cows, stray dogs and humans... we couldn't turn around to see anything, because of the rain, and so we rode on, assuming that Joy wouldn't have a problem with riding on the dead flat, neatly laid NH-1... we didn't think much of the rain then.
I have to tell you about the Dhaba food on NH-1. It's simply the most delicious tandoori food that has ever gone down my throat. The best part is that the food doesn't saturate the tongue at all. Like I could never get sick of the taste, no matter how much I hogged. So I only stopped eating when Joy could spot some food at the top of my throat when I opened my mouth wide.
Anyway, there was no sign of Joy, and we thought he must've passed us with one of his mad overtaking maneuvers in the rain... so we rode on to reach Jalandhar by noon. And we get a call from some random number, and it's Joy. He said the bike got killed by the rain, and that he has no money on him, because his wallet is in my bag, on the enfield, and he's still close to Pathankhot, a good 70 kms back from where we were.
He sold off some petrol to get money to fix it, but the bike conked off for a second time, not too far down the road, but far enough to get him stranded in the middle of nowhere on that highway. So he pushed the bike for 2 kms and called us again, to tell us that we have to come back, that the mechanic has dismantled the engine completely... major problems, like the bike is in coma or something... we were irritated, depressed, angered... and a lot more. But we rode back 70 kms, in the rain... passing by the same scenery for a second time was painful, and the thought that we had to ride back the same way, killed what little energy we had. So Gopal and I cursed our hearts out for the first half an hour, and then we were just too tired and disoriented... we rode in silence... we didn't have to talk to know what's on the other's mind.
We reached Mukherian, where Joy was stranded, but standing outside a mechanic's shop with a big grin on his face... that's the only time I've ever felt like strangling him to death so badly. We screamed at him, while he screamed back at us, saying that we should've watched out for him, and ensured that he was following us... it was our mistake too, and it was hard to digest back then, in all the anger and madness... we should've watched out.
It took all of 20 ruppees to clean the carburettor. We rode back 70 kms in the rain, for 20 bucks. Funnily, I think if the bill had come up to 200 or something, we would've been happier that evening.
We rode back, this time being treated to a pretty sunset on NH-1... with the trees bordering the road glistening in the dampness, and the rain had let up for just a bit... somehow, thru all the shit, the soft yellow evening light brightened our moods, and for those 2 hours, we were really happy, like nothing ever went wrong that day.
Suddenly darkness engulfed us, and it started pouring again... the pulsar's electricals are so complicated that it's just looking for an excuse to have it's fuse blown up... and as we approached Jalandhar, there was a bright spark on the pulsar, and the engine died. The rain got worse, and we removed the fuse and rejoined the wires... and the pulsar was back alive... that ride was really painful. Darkness, countless headlamps making my eyes go blind, and the unforgiving rain... I don't know how we survived that period of madness, but we did... and arrived at Jalandhar late that night. Now the enfield chose to die, and we tried our hands at the carburettor, but it was not in any mood to obey us... so we pushed it for a kilometer, sometimes in knee-deep water, and ended up at this old, dusty, shady lodge... our room appeared like it had been locked up since Independence... dust everywhere, and there was dampness in the air, so it was a messy combo.
We opened our bags to see that, despite the tarpaulin sheets covering them, rain had found a way thru the small holes, and every single piece of clothing was wet. So we spread out all our clothes, all over that poor little room. I slept in my undies that night, cuddling under the bedspread to fight off the cold... but that's the beauty of fatigue... it helps overcome things like cold, dampness and dingy, dusty surroundings.
The next morning we woke up, praying for some dry weather... Gopal was adamant that we haul the bikes and ourselves onto some train heading to Delhi... he was thoroughly disoriented. So was I, but I chose not to show it because he did. We can't have everybody going down with the plan at the same time. So we egged him on to put in one last attempt... Joy was angry and I was disappointed with the idea of not riding back... because that would be like a huge blip on the adventure... the thought that nature actually got the better of us was unthinkable.
I cranked the enfield, with a silent prayer, and immeasurably thankfully, it came alive... and it stayed alive for the rest of the day. We rode mostly in silence that day... hogged the last of the dhaba food for the trip, and slowly things cheered up as we approached Delhi late that afternoon... we were back to our old crazy mood, joking and laughing... and I must say that the fresh, dry wind on our faces helped us more than we realise. Gopal cranked up and rode at 100 for a long stretch... and we felt good. Almost like the day we started out.
We reached Delhi that evening, and felt the drag of the traffic, but we were too excited to complain... we reached Gopal's room at Khatwaria Sarai, and parked the bikes and killed the engine, intoxicated with a sense of accomplishment. We did it.
Gopal's friend and roomie - Amrish, came home from work, and we couldn't stop talking about the trip... we showed him the photos on the handycam, and narrated as much as we could remember... the return to the real world is always weird. It hit us then, that we'd done something so outrageously brilliant. Three guys, with no real experience on bikes, not much money, or time to cushion our falls, going out and living a dream for 16 days... armed with nothing but an open mind and faith in ourselves... I can't count the number of times Joy, Gopal and I would've read thru the little box section in the Lonely Planet guidebook, about the Manali to Leh bike ride... how it always seemed like a magical dream... for some reason, it seemed so far away that we never thought of it as a dream worth pursuing beyond a point... and then it really happened! We couldn't believe it. I still can't.
After the trip, I got back home, to report to work... and worked for 8 months in a factory. Hated the four-walled confinements, the cubicle, the comp, the restricted thinking... and I wrote CAT, and now I'm off to IIM Indore. I quit and travelled to Madhya Pradesh, Varanasi, Calcutta, Trancquebar, Pichavaram and Varkala... now I'm off to Nagaland and Arunchal with Joy and another friend named Mridula... the last of my backpacking adventures for quite sometime... college starts on June 28th, and thats the last of my free air for another 2 years.
Gopal completed his course in Advertising & PR in Delhi, and came back to Madras... presently working as a Senior copywriter at Rediffusion... he's doing great, having all the fun and women he would want... getting pampered with countless office trips, where he stays in resorts, gets fed like a cow meant for slaughter, travels only in ac cabs on the road, routinely flies... he's getting really spoilt. He's afraid that the backpacker in him is slowly dying... but all he needs is another trip with Joy and me, and I'm sure he'll be back to normal... I don't believe some things can die completely. Rather, I hope...
Joy recently completed his Masters in Mass Communication... he's grown tired of chics, but not junk food... he's become serious about his career and future, but retains the madness and insanity that endears him to so many of his fans... he's seriously looking for a break of some form in photography... I'm sincerely praying that he doesn't get sucked into the normal world of formal shirts, pants and office cubicles... it would be the sad death of a creative brain.
We went to Gokarna for the year-end, with a bunch of other friends... once the three of us trekked up in the night, to get some booze before new year's eve... and for that one hour, it felt like Ladakh all over again... there is something about the way we hit it off... The Tender Trio. After the trip, Gopal and I inherited Joy's slang, and we started talking alike... so people started calling us 'The Twins'.
So that's the story of our Ladakh trip... there is so much more to it than what I've written and shown here... most of them would be boring and irrelevant to someone who hasn't experienced it... try doing the ride yourself, and you'll realise how much more there is to it... it's really unimaginably huge... changed us completely. Just do it. So yeah, that's about it... thanks for reading thru... wish us luck! :-)
3 May 2006
The War Zone
We were lazing around in the wooden slats outside the houseboat, when we met three Israeli travellers (2 guys and a girl) in the neighbouring place... Gopal spent the entire evening showing off and amazing them with his (extensive, I must say) knowledge of the Middle-East.
We were getting ready to ride out somewhere, when this 25~ yr old nephew of Shauk walked by... the three of us took turns to introduce ourselves... then he said - "Omar... I heard there's an Israeli chic in there... I've fucked every single Israeli girl who has stayed here!" The 3 of us exchanged blank looks, smiled at Omar and rode away.
We understood the meaning of 'heavily militarised' while in Srinagar... there is an army jawan posted once ever 30 meters, and a bunker every 100 meters... with sand bags, barbed wires and all that... if we pulled over by the side of the road, the nearest army jawans would rush towards us and ask us a dozen questions... suspicion is too light a word to describe the mood. In some places, one half of the road would be taken over by the army for setting up bunkers.
We felt like we were riding thru a war zone. One could see the toll taken by years of violence in the eyes of the people there. I don't know how people can say that Kashmir is returning to normalcy... I don't think any of the politicians who say that live in Kashmir. It's all too easy to sit in a Delhi fortress and talk crap.
Imagine being a jawan, standing by the side of the road all day... you've seen colleagues, who've stood next to you, being blown to smithereens by suicide bombers... and you don't know who's turn it is next... constant fear, for days, weeks and months together... I wonder what it does to their heads. I think it explains all the irrational behaviour in some of the jawans... like suicides and going on a shooting rampage, killing fellow army men. I bet it does permanent damage to their heads. When some of these people get killed, after all the shit that they go thru for the country, their families get peanuts. They go on protest outside India Gate, get some airtime on ndtv... but it's so depressing.
Majority of us would be scared to walk alone thru an unlit road late in the night... imagine living in a world characterised by perpetual fear of the unknown... and people call it return to normalcy. Bullshit.
I often wondered why we fight so hard for Kashmir, sacrificing so many lives and blowing up so much of our resources... then, when I went there and saw the place... no wonder they're fighting over it. It's so pretty! Everything is green, there are clean waterways running all over the place, the weather is just perfect, the mountain air is fresh and pure... there is beauty everywhere. We're just too soft... shouldn't have conceded anything in the first place... all the non-violence and peace diplomacy is crap. Our wartime leaders are never held responsible for plunging an entire state into violence and fear. Only Airports and Universities are named after them... I can't imagine how beautiful Kashmir would've been a hundred years back.
We lost our way in the streets of Srinagar... Joy went back immediately to the houseboat, while Gopal and I rode around for an hour... when we got back, we had more Omar talk to contend with... he bragged about how women go weak on their knees when he rolls out his charm... Gopal was evidently irritated with Omar's false claims to his Casanova throne... but he let it pass by, and Omar yapped on... and we yawned.
The Israeli hippies were a really nice bunch... the female had six-pacs neatly carved out on her abs... I've never seen a fitter female. She was really smart, funny and sweet. Omar got snubbed and humiliated, all laced with humor. One of the guys was intense, but humorous in a subtle way... the other guy was like Ian Wright on Lonely Planet... made us laugh so much. The common thread that I noticed, was their open mind, free and independent thinking, and living in the moment.
We had a nice chat that evening.. the Shauk's dad joined us, and we spoke about the changes in Kashmir over the years... his perspective was really different and eye-opening... he was deeply hurt that the army men don't trust anybody... not even people like him, who've been here for over half a century... he just wanted an end to the violence, and self-rule for Kashmir.
The next morning, the two Israeli guys, me and Gopal were on the boat (they're called shikaras) to see a floating vegetable market... Joy and the Israeli female were snoring in the warmth of the houseboat... sunrise was stunning... it's not like boating in Ooty or Kodaikanal... where they just dig up a large-sized round hole and pour some water and take us on a boat round and round till we get dizzy, faint and fall off... these are proper functional waterways... the vegetable market (wholesalers to retailers) was OK... it was different.
We were taken to Hasina's Honey Farm. She is the most dishonest businesswoman that I've ever met in my life. She sells flavoured honey... apple, lotus, almond, ganja, opium... she lets the bees out on a farm full of apple trees to get apple flavoured honey... like that. Anyway, she claimed that her honey has medicinal properties... and that between her various flavours, all ailments and diseases known to mankind can be cured... from backpain, diarrhoea and common cold to alzhemir's, cancer and aids... you name it, she had a honey to cure it. Poor docs are gonna become obsolete once her biz expands.
We went to the touristy Mughal Gardens the next day... hated the tourist crowd, and the neatly trimmed trees in the shape of dinos and elephands... it was too artificial for us. After all the natural beauty and wilderness, any form of man-made structure given to nature seemed ugly. So Gopal and I dozed off, while Joy wasted some tape shooting random objects for his doc film.
The next morning, we left Srinagar... on our way out, we were stopped by some random Sardar, who on seeing our backpacks, figured out that we were bikers heading for Jammu, and informed us that we were taking the wrong road... kindness of strangers.
As we rode on, we crossed the Jawahar tunnel, and had the company of countless army trucks and buses filled with army men going back home... then, around one bend, a signboard requested us to have one last look at the Kashmir valley... we did, and then we were off, determined to hit the plains of Punjab before sleep and fatigue conquered us for that night.
We were getting ready to ride out somewhere, when this 25~ yr old nephew of Shauk walked by... the three of us took turns to introduce ourselves... then he said - "Omar... I heard there's an Israeli chic in there... I've fucked every single Israeli girl who has stayed here!" The 3 of us exchanged blank looks, smiled at Omar and rode away.
We understood the meaning of 'heavily militarised' while in Srinagar... there is an army jawan posted once ever 30 meters, and a bunker every 100 meters... with sand bags, barbed wires and all that... if we pulled over by the side of the road, the nearest army jawans would rush towards us and ask us a dozen questions... suspicion is too light a word to describe the mood. In some places, one half of the road would be taken over by the army for setting up bunkers.
We felt like we were riding thru a war zone. One could see the toll taken by years of violence in the eyes of the people there. I don't know how people can say that Kashmir is returning to normalcy... I don't think any of the politicians who say that live in Kashmir. It's all too easy to sit in a Delhi fortress and talk crap.
Imagine being a jawan, standing by the side of the road all day... you've seen colleagues, who've stood next to you, being blown to smithereens by suicide bombers... and you don't know who's turn it is next... constant fear, for days, weeks and months together... I wonder what it does to their heads. I think it explains all the irrational behaviour in some of the jawans... like suicides and going on a shooting rampage, killing fellow army men. I bet it does permanent damage to their heads. When some of these people get killed, after all the shit that they go thru for the country, their families get peanuts. They go on protest outside India Gate, get some airtime on ndtv... but it's so depressing.
Majority of us would be scared to walk alone thru an unlit road late in the night... imagine living in a world characterised by perpetual fear of the unknown... and people call it return to normalcy. Bullshit.
I often wondered why we fight so hard for Kashmir, sacrificing so many lives and blowing up so much of our resources... then, when I went there and saw the place... no wonder they're fighting over it. It's so pretty! Everything is green, there are clean waterways running all over the place, the weather is just perfect, the mountain air is fresh and pure... there is beauty everywhere. We're just too soft... shouldn't have conceded anything in the first place... all the non-violence and peace diplomacy is crap. Our wartime leaders are never held responsible for plunging an entire state into violence and fear. Only Airports and Universities are named after them... I can't imagine how beautiful Kashmir would've been a hundred years back.
We lost our way in the streets of Srinagar... Joy went back immediately to the houseboat, while Gopal and I rode around for an hour... when we got back, we had more Omar talk to contend with... he bragged about how women go weak on their knees when he rolls out his charm... Gopal was evidently irritated with Omar's false claims to his Casanova throne... but he let it pass by, and Omar yapped on... and we yawned.
The Israeli hippies were a really nice bunch... the female had six-pacs neatly carved out on her abs... I've never seen a fitter female. She was really smart, funny and sweet. Omar got snubbed and humiliated, all laced with humor. One of the guys was intense, but humorous in a subtle way... the other guy was like Ian Wright on Lonely Planet... made us laugh so much. The common thread that I noticed, was their open mind, free and independent thinking, and living in the moment.
We had a nice chat that evening.. the Shauk's dad joined us, and we spoke about the changes in Kashmir over the years... his perspective was really different and eye-opening... he was deeply hurt that the army men don't trust anybody... not even people like him, who've been here for over half a century... he just wanted an end to the violence, and self-rule for Kashmir.
The next morning, the two Israeli guys, me and Gopal were on the boat (they're called shikaras) to see a floating vegetable market... Joy and the Israeli female were snoring in the warmth of the houseboat... sunrise was stunning... it's not like boating in Ooty or Kodaikanal... where they just dig up a large-sized round hole and pour some water and take us on a boat round and round till we get dizzy, faint and fall off... these are proper functional waterways... the vegetable market (wholesalers to retailers) was OK... it was different.
We were taken to Hasina's Honey Farm. She is the most dishonest businesswoman that I've ever met in my life. She sells flavoured honey... apple, lotus, almond, ganja, opium... she lets the bees out on a farm full of apple trees to get apple flavoured honey... like that. Anyway, she claimed that her honey has medicinal properties... and that between her various flavours, all ailments and diseases known to mankind can be cured... from backpain, diarrhoea and common cold to alzhemir's, cancer and aids... you name it, she had a honey to cure it. Poor docs are gonna become obsolete once her biz expands.
We went to the touristy Mughal Gardens the next day... hated the tourist crowd, and the neatly trimmed trees in the shape of dinos and elephands... it was too artificial for us. After all the natural beauty and wilderness, any form of man-made structure given to nature seemed ugly. So Gopal and I dozed off, while Joy wasted some tape shooting random objects for his doc film.
The next morning, we left Srinagar... on our way out, we were stopped by some random Sardar, who on seeing our backpacks, figured out that we were bikers heading for Jammu, and informed us that we were taking the wrong road... kindness of strangers.
As we rode on, we crossed the Jawahar tunnel, and had the company of countless army trucks and buses filled with army men going back home... then, around one bend, a signboard requested us to have one last look at the Kashmir valley... we did, and then we were off, determined to hit the plains of Punjab before sleep and fatigue conquered us for that night.
10 April 2006
The Dishonest Deal Cutter
Sonamarg was our first pit-stop in the lush-green Kashmir valley. There we met a typical dishonest salesman trying to get us to stay in his houseboat in Srinagar. His introduction went like this "Hi, Im Shaukat. People call me Shauk. They find Shaukat to be too long!"
He pushed his houseboat deal aggressively, using all kinds of lies known to salesmen. He painted this picture of something close to a moonlit dinner outside the Taj Mahal and called it his houseboat experience.
Joy was irked that Shauk was trying to compete with him for the crown of most-dishonest-deal-cutter, so he pulled out one out of his bag of tricks.
Joy said "I have a party of 6 coming down from Canada next month... I need to find a good houseboat to suggest to them..." and just to add some more fuel to the fire, " they know nothing about Srinagar, so they need to be guided fully (they can be taken for a big ride with no real effort)... also, they're high-end tourists (lots of meat to be devoured)... so I was just thinking.. " and Shauk couldn't hide his excitement... he started promising more goodies in his houseboat, I guess the Taj Mahal analogy is only meant for deprived Indian travellers like us. Respect for us ragged, budget travellers had never been so good. While Shauk was licking his lips at the potential gold mine, we got a good deal, and Shauk even went wrong with simple addition to charge us some 150 less, even as he joked about how math and shauk aren't the best of friends.
We joked that Joy would write a best-selling book in the future, titled "How to rip a guy off... and make him feel good about it!"
We rode to Srinagar and while we were looking out for Shauk's dad to receive us on the road leading to Nigeen Lake, we were approached by this gentleman who seemed a little too eager to guide us to our houseboat. He took us to this houseboat claiming that he was shauk's brother. Then he proposed some deal which didn't match the one we'd struck with shauk. Over the next 20 mins his relationship with shauk went like this - "My own dear little brother... he's a close cousin... uncle... distant relative... friend... dishonest guy... cheat... he's a liar! fraud! don't listen to him!! come to me, for the best houseboats in the whole of Srinagar..."
We screamed at him, and found our way to Shauk's houseboat... while it wasn't exactly Taj Mahal's floating cousin, I must say that it was beautiful. The intricate wood work inside the houseboat looked majestic, and the room itself was nice and spacious. I was impressed to find a bathtub there, but I realised later that it didn't have a plug to shut the hole, so it was merely an oversized wash-basin.
As we came out and sat on the wooden slats which form the pathway to the houseboat, we got our first glimpse of the beauty of Srinagar's waters. We were to explore them more later, but it was a stunning first sight. Things were so relaxed over there that it's hard to believe that Srinagar is the heart of a massive terrorist battlefield. So we sat there, with our feet dangling above the water, excited at the prospect of exploring Srinagar.
14 March 2006
The Second Coldest Stat
We’d only heard of Drass as a militant-infested district of Kashmir. What we didn’t know was the fact that Drass is the second coldest inhabited place on earth. There is a signboard stating “Drass… 2nd coldest… -65 C… Jan 1995” welcoming us to the town. Joy spent an hour, filming and photographing the stat-board from all possible angles. I think that stat is going to be the highlight of his doc film. Given that Drass is not particularly high up, it’s hard to imagine that -40 C is common during the winters. The place has a gloomy look to it, with dark clouds hovering above and a certain dampness in the air at all times.
That was the last of the cold nights. We woke up early, and found that the bathroom had a glass window the size of a door. While the idea of having a good, panoramic view is appreciated, they forget that the view is two-way. Anyway, the view happened to be that of Tiger Hill – the strategic peak that India lost and recaptured during the Kargil War.
While at the cramped hotel in Drass, we met a Brit who suffered from a colonial hangover. He passed generalized nasty comments demeaning advertising professionals, which annoyed Gopal. He never missed an opportunity to point out how everything (eg : Royal Enfield) is from Briton and that nothing has changed after independence. We felt enraged and sincerely prayed that he meets with an accident, hopefully in some godforsaken place like that old abandoned road near Lamayuru.
Negative thoughts aside, fresh snow is a treat to the eyes. It looks like someone strewed fine white talcum dust from top. So, early next morning, as we rode on to Zojila pass, we ogled at the dark peaks capped with fresh snow. I remember mocking at the name Zojila during 8th class geography classes. Never did I dream that I’d land there someday. Being a damp day, we rode on slush and loose earth, but crossing Zojila (~13,000 ft) was a piece of cake compared to the high passes of Ladakh.
We halted at an army check post, and the wonderfully polite chaps invited us for tea. Hot chai in a steel tumbler was the perfect antidote to the numbing cold that had bothered us all morning. As we looked down at the valley, we saw thousands of little tents littered all over, for the Amarnath Yatra. The army guys were shocked that, having traveled so far, we didn’t intend to check out the Amarnath Yatra. Joy threw this don’t-you-know-I’m-interested-in-stats look, not making an effort to hide his disgust at the idea. I tried explaining how we’d been thru so much emptiness and sheer natural beauty in Ladakh, that we were really not interested in crowded places of religious interest. But my struggles with Hindi meant that Gopal had to come to my rescue and he mentioned some non-existing train, which we had to catch two days later.
As we rode downhill, the road improved rapidly, and before we knew it, the roads were 30-40 feet wide, neatly laid… and swarming with steely-eyed army jawans holding AK-47s. Welcome to Kashmir.
2 March 2006
Under Enemy Observation
Jammu & Kashmir can be divided into the Islamic east– Kashmir, and the Buddhist west– Ladakh. The little town of Mulbekh is the divide between the two halves. This is where Buddhism ends and Islam begins.
The next town on our path was Kargil. What is essentially a quiet, dreary village became synonymous with the war with Pakistan in 1999. The ultra-wide, neatly done road (there is usually just one road going thru these villages) contrasts sharply with the diminutive character of the village. It's funny how it took a full-scale war to spur development.
We could feel our proximity to the Line Of Control with Pakistan. Heavily armed guards are present on every road, bridge or any mentionable form of infrastructure. It took us 30 mins to get a chance to make phone calls from a public telephone – the place was swarming with army guys. Oh, and they hate cameras in these places.
Next up was the LoC. Those were some of the most amazing hours of the trip. Beas (or Sindh?) thundered right next to the road, and on the other side of the river was Pakistan – nay, Pakistan Occupied Kashmir. The road bisected the slopes studded with bunkers and artillery pointed skywards. There was an unmistakable air of aggression and tension.
Just to make us feel at ease, a signboard read "You are now under enemy observation". Notice the word 'enemy'. Not too far from here, we have guys who play cricket, meet up occasionally to boost the Indo-Pak bhai-bhai sentiment, develop feel-good Confidence-Building-Measures… bullshit! Hypocrisy is the name of the game… absolutely nobody has the balls to speak out the truth sans all the sugar-coating and diplomatic gas. The media feeds us deceptive stories and loads of lies that comfortably shield us from reality. Kids coming for surgeries, musicians, actors, cricketers, diplomats, politicians giving out well-rehearsed lines… it's all such a messy farce. The mutual distrust is thick in the air. Infiltration is clear and present, and it's a very real danger to our country. The fear and suspicion in the eyes of the army men is unmissable. How can we shamelessly accept these lies when our army men live and die in fear?
The worst part is that there isn't a hint of an end to the terror, and to the problem itself. Men are going to die, suffer deep mental scars due to the perpetual fear and suspicion, Pak Generals will be extended warm receptions and taken to the Taj Mahal, not long after orchestrating a bloody war which claimed thousands of lives, Indian Ministers will meekly cry at the need for an end to terrorist camps in Pak, shamelessly begging for some western power to help them clean their mess, cricketers will play series after series after series and hog media-space like they were building peace-bridges and laugh all the way to the bank… and people just sit back and watch on… oh, and where is my pop-corn?
25 February 2006
The Baby Factory
That was the scene for our tea-break... oh, and the tea only cost us 5 bucks each - no additional costs for the 'happening'-quotient of the place.
Towards the end of that evening ride to Lamayuru, which is a beautiful monastery-village in the middle of absolutely nowhere, having crossed nothing but one stray cow for 50 kms, we realized that we’d taken the old, abandoned road. We didn’t really mind the long route, it was just another excuse to ride on. The surrounding dark peaks looked like chocolate brownies, and the stratified layers of earth on the slopes kindled memories of those long-forgotten geography classes spent snoring away to glory… sedimentation and all that.
We crossed the first house of the village late that night, and suddenly there was the house-woman chasing us, announcing ‘100 ruppees for a room! Just 100 ruppees!” She actually ran behind us, begging for us to turn back and consider her offer for a room. That was 100 for 3 of us, and they even offered 3 different rooms for the 3 of us to make ourselves comfortable in. Joy was thrilled at the prospect of staying at a place for just 33.33 per head. It gave him a bigger kick than all the beauty that Ladakh could throw at him.
The House went from being the flourishing first tourist place on the old road, to the impoverished fag end of the new road to Lamayuru. It’s amazing how an infrastructure improvement like a new road can affect the lives of some people. The extreme poverty was instantly recognisable.
The Man of the House ran a baby factory. He had kids of all ages and sizes, and the economic compulsions to stop production didn’t seem to bother him much. The eldest of them was a really cute girl, not more than 10 yrs old. She practically did all the work, never once complaining or showing as much as a hint of a frown. Her dad just sat in one corner, smoking away, while her mum was perennially occupied in taking care of all the babies. We were deeply affected by the life of that little girl… such responsibility and maturity at such a young age. I felt really bad for all the kids. They didn’t make any of the choices that led to their state of poverty. They’re paying up for someone else’s irresponsibility. I don’t know if they will ever have an opportunity to get out of the rut, but I dearly hope there is a way out for these kids.
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