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Journeys matter, destinations don’t – in a share jeep taxi with a foul-mouthed old woman

16/7/2011

24 Comments

 
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End of jeep journey at Lansdowne bazaar. Don't miss backside of departing bhaiji
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The road to Lansdowne
“Bisht, it’s the journey that matters, not the destination.” Pundeer has taken on the Maa Anima avatar again. Chewing furiously on sugarless gum, my ex-roommate from Bhagwandas Road Working Women’s hostel (from 19 years back - with whom I shared a room for seven years) has just convinced me that we shall do the one hour trip to Lansdowne in a bus and not an air conditioned car, as I had planned. She hands me a strip of gum too. Since I have been grinding my teeth anyway, I pop it in. 

It is hot sweaty June in Kotdwar; the river Kho (which means disappear in Hindi) has disappeared into its hot bed under the bridge near the Sidhbali temple. People (only male – lest your imagination goes wandering) have stripped down to their vests and the rain clouds are playing a complicated mind game that only my retired Army officer dad has the aptitude to analyze and enjoy sitting in the verandah with a tall glass of gin and some Garhwali folk music. 

Pundeer, who has only just landed from Houston, has decided that the two of us shall travel the same way we did 17 years back - in a bus. All my whimpering about the heat falls on deaf ears. “Heat and cold are a state of mind,” she states loftily. The two of us stand outside 1/38 Badrinath Marg, trying to flag a passing auto rickshaw for a ride to the station. One zips pasts but the driver apparently cannot see through the fluorescent pink of his fake Ray Bans. No, he can. Some last remnant of chivalry left undestroyed in his gene pool kicks his conscience and taking a dangerous squealing U turn he comes to rest besides us, grinning widely. A fat white cow that is appreciatively smelling the garbage dump near the gate - to make up its mind on which delicious morsel it should begin lunch with - does a startled double take. The auto drives past bright orange jalebis frying at Jhanda Chowk, hand-pushed carts selling juicy yellow Dussahri and Langda mangoes, and a roadside Hanumanji temple where Mr. Ray Bans (spelt Rey Bans) temporarily takes his hands off the steering to do a quick pranam. He then veers his auto around a big-horned bull taking a nap in the middle of the road and deposits us at the bus stop near the railway station where buses to Lansdowne, we soon discover, have stopped stopping. They are instead parking at a place called Motor Nagar on Devi Road. We hitch hike, rucksacks on our backs. Pundeer also has to lug her camera bag with the new fancy Canon and a few kilos of monster lenses. Since I’m annoyed with her I don’t offer to help.

We don’t find any motor gadis at Motor Nagar. Only share jeep taxis. And soon the two of us tunnel our way across plump legs and laps inside a model with bright maroon upholstery and settle down in the row behind the driver. We sit squashed between a bidi-smoking big-slippered Bhaiji on the left and a foul-mouthed crumpled cotton sari-draped bwaadi on the right, our bags resting on our knees. Bwaadi – in delightful contrast to her wrinkle lined face, thick Gandhi glasses and tiny knot of snow white hair - is exhibiting a vocabulary that would put a pirate to shame. Careful attention reveals that the ire of this senior Jack Sparrow is directed at the driver of the jeep for packing a dozen of us in - like the proverbial sardines – into space meant for half the number. The driver – a young lad with an earring - makes a rather stern departure announcement: Gaadi dhuyeen cha, kui ulti ni kaaral. (The jeep is freshly washed, nobody will vomit) and throws in a rather provocative: “tu sun ni chai bwaadi?” (I hope you are listening old lady). Old lady responds with some scandalous and completely incestuous observations about his choice of coitus partners.

When big-slippered bhaiji’s bidi smoke wafts straight down my nostrils, bringing on a bout of nausea I decide to shake myself out of coma. Taking things in my own hands (figuratively speaking since I’m already holding a rucksack, a camera, a wallet, a pack of chewing gum and a sock (yes, sock - that the Pundeer has flicked off her flight and generously lent me to wipe my eyes with)) I fish out a crisp note from my wallet and wave it at the driver, professing need for extra space. His eyes glint ruthlessly with unforeseen opportunity and before Bhaiji-with-bidi can say “kan kanda dharin’ (roughly translated as ‘may you burn in hell’), he is unceremoniously pulled out and dumped (slippers, bidi, jhola et al) into the back row that is already crammed with a gaggle of ghaseris who break into shrill protest. Pundeer and I get into some intellectually stimulating conversation about the charms of a certain Mr. Daniel Craig. Bwaadi frowns darkly. Her expression says she is trying to mentally brush up on some more swear words.

Meanwhile, our charismatic driver has managed to coax one more savari into the front seat, taking the total to four (on a seat for two) and is performing a Ripley’s Believe it or Not feat by hanging on to the edge of his seat by the steering and sheer will power. The jeep starts with a growl and darts out of Motor Nagar. It crosses the red bridge that marks the boundary of Kotdwar and enters the thick forested precincts of Dugadda where wild elephant droppings have been known to fascinate walkers. It zips past the temple of Durga Devi on the rocks near the river where children wade in the water and goes past the old toll booth - the chungi where we used to eat spicy black chana out of chipped porcelain bowls once upon a time. It hugs the edge of the valley, with the river and the tiny villages visible deep down below as little dots. It rumbles past the white daisies growing on the hillside, making their supple stems shake. It enters thick pine forests that have dropped dry golden spiny leaves all the way to the road and then wheezes up to higher altitudes where deodars stand like stout sentinels with thick coils of purple orchids spilling out of moss covered forks in trunks. It breezes into the new toll post where a pointy mustached toll collector takes Rs 2 off each of us, enters the green painted cantonment of Lansdowne and finally spits us out into the bazaar where all the passengers (except bhaiji with bidi – who is still scowling) grin sheepishly at each other and part. Our shared achievement creates a sense of bonding. Not one of us has vomited enroute.

Pundeer and self lug our bags up the narrow winding path that goes to Tiffin Top where our little yellow cottage awaits us. It’s a 30 minute uphill walk that takes us thrice as much time since we do it looking back on the years gone by. We reminisce about ex bosses and colleagues and friends we have lost to the years, new responsibilities and distances. We speak affectionately about fresh entrants in our lives. We laugh about the eve teaser we once dragged to the police station and the van under the streetlight on Tansen Marg that sold us chowmein and chilly chicken, that we had sitting on the sidewalk after returning from late night Bhimsen Joshi concerts. We get sentimental about bread pakoras and mugs of chai brought up to the room, about sheets that had to be dunked in cold water to break the heat of hot summer nights. We remember squeezing toothpaste tubes to share that last bit of paste reluctantly coiling out and the appetizing smell of the Maggi cooked on a heater in the common room when one of us missed dinner at the Mess. 

We put our bags down and take a breather on a cement bench, reading romantic messages that young Romeos have scribbled for their lady loves. We trace the outlines of hearts with arrows piercing through them etched on tree trunks, and grin back at an amused Nepali porter passing by. We talk about first loves and heartbreaks and pain that we once believed would never fade. We pick up our luggage and walk some more discussing the fruit beer at Bercos, the salad bar at Nirulas, the Govinda film we caught on a night show in Connaught Place, sitting in the front row.  I embarrass Pundeer by reminding her about the last Rs 2,500 in her bank account that she bought me a pair of gold earrings with when I got married. 

We go past the old church and the haunted houses and take the turn in the road for the climb to the resort. Eventually, we reach our destination, but it doesn’t feel like much of an achievement. We sit in the verandah facing the oak forest, watching the birds and reminisce some more. We do it till night falls and the crickets call. Till some stinky black insects invade our room, forming Freudian patterns on the wall. We switch off the light to send them away and sit in silence watching a pale yellow moon rising above the Deodar forest. I don’t know what my ex roommate is thinking but for a moment I wonder where the road will eventually lead. And if at all we will ever be together like this again. But at that moment, sitting in the moonlight, swatting away unwanted invaders, I am so much at peace with myself that I don’t really care. I feel a surge of affection for the girl with a long plait and wide eyes who opened the door to Room No 415 for me 19 years back and said: Hi! Feel at home and think of my music system as yours. Who is - at this moment - glaring darkly at a little black bug sitting on her arm.

You know what? Pundeer was right this time. Journeys matter, destinations really don’t.

Bhaiji: Elder brother (respectful way of address in Garhwal); Bwaadi: Old lady; Ghaseris: Village women who go to the forest to bring back grass for cattle; Deodar: Oak; Bidi: well, bidi (sort of cheap leaf wrapped cigarette)
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Pundeer, mesmerised by the opera going on in the valley
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Innovative flower pot :)
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Sunflowers in the dusk
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Madhubala brightening up a canteen wall
24 Comments
Dipti Nair
15/7/2011 08:54:31 pm

Lovely...u paint such a beautiful picture with words.

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dave
15/7/2011 09:12:46 pm

Hope sometime in our lifetime ur stories will make for a series on tv.

Talent, I read somewhere, is like an std that that refuses to go away! Rachna's writing is good as gold and stands tall on its own merit.

My best wishes
Davinder

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Mahendra
15/7/2011 11:48:34 pm

Very good one, though I was somewhat disappointed that Pundeer did not pull out a hip flask - A few swigs, and she would be correct in stating that "destinations don't matter" (In fact I believe this theory explains why many youngsters in Kotdwara seem to be "journeying" all the time without any destination).

I did wonder why the greenery is so dense and healthy in the innovative flower pot - But that is another story...

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Reema Moudgil link
16/7/2011 02:38:59 am

I love your writing..so rich. So textured, fragrant, lush and alive. You are so alive to everything, the smallest of sounds and that part of life we have all somehow stopped recating to, connecting to. Thank you for this journey..much love Reema

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manoj
16/7/2011 03:56:54 am

Good writing as always. As suggested earlier these articles will make a great short stories book for those who can connect themselves to these incidences or otherwise. For me it's always walking down the memory lane.

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Santosh Rawat
16/7/2011 05:32:52 am

Exquisite writing, Rachna ... you have beautifully drawn the sights and sounds of our little towns and interwoven your personal story into it ..... it took a US returned Anima to persuade you to take a ride in the 'jeep taxi' to Lansdowne :} ... and what a 'rewarding' experience it turned out for you ... you would have otherwise missed your colourful fellow travellers and we, a colourful passage in your story ...

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BIG B
16/7/2011 12:53:13 pm

Another great article,you have indeed painted it beautifully .....remembering old memories with close friends always bring spice in our life, indeed friends are treasure of love....Hey I remember your story when you have taken someone to police station ...and your Dad also tried to make that case bit stronger bit putting some Masala to your story..h haha...nicely depicted the beauty of nature and more so the basic attitude of comman people......beautiful article..once again....

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Anima
16/7/2011 01:42:38 pm

Friendship is like red wine...only gets better with time...:)

Mai to ek dum senti ho gayi bisht...

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deepak gera
16/7/2011 03:49:56 pm

wow few coincidences....i encountered REB-HANN sun glasses....how daring the both were seller and buyer u can imagine...In makrana dak Bunglow during my posting there ....'GAMLA laya hu Saheb'....ek awaz ..my wife surprised and said you have not ordered any gamla for house and here in Office u are worried about gamlas....to our surprise we got to know that it was sanitary contractor who bought European pan to replace one broken Pan in toilet... u paint story very well..Rachna..wud luv to read all in form of book one day....

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richa
16/7/2011 05:26:26 pm

Am surfing Web dictionary to find appropriate word to express.....

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sanjay
17/7/2011 12:30:33 am

Hi rachna
lovely story attached with tepical rural indian behaviour & also the lovely fealing of friendly affection to the person,place & nature around you. "remembering old memories of old friends are just like treasure to us"

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Geetanjali Kapoor link
17/7/2011 01:06:26 am

Hilarious and brilliant writing. You are too good Rachna :)

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Neeraj
17/7/2011 03:58:23 am

You play with words like a romeo plays with emotions... Keep it up Rachna. Your words are lovely, white and simple and you have miles to uncover before you sleep. God bless.

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Tanu
18/7/2011 02:38:27 am

Couldn't agree with Pundeer more. It is indeed the journey that matters not the destination, at least to some of us......i realise that has been my philosphy in life, which is probably why i am unlikely to reach anywhere but then i have discovered over time that i don't particularly want to. Call it lack of ambition, or aimlessness or sheer laziness or maybe just wisdom.....!

Loved para 6 for some reason
Lansdowne is like that, it gives one the feeling of having endless time on one's hands, with some people getting restless and bored while others like us savour each moment....!

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Ritha Hegde
18/7/2011 11:23:47 pm

I almost felt the tension in the auto when your autowalah took the turns :)
And the bus, yeah a pat on your friend's back for suggesting that.
The way you write and make us feel a part of it, I was just hoping that no one vomits in the bus, as I was having my breakfast while reading this. Just when I was deciding if I should stop reading for a moment or stop my eating, I read 'no one vomited' and I was fine ;)

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Sunil Rawat
19/7/2011 12:23:54 am

... a brilliant piece of writing di!
The way u add just-the-rite doses of humour in ur writings is exceptional.
I enjoyed 'Bhaiji' and, 'Bwaadi'--the senior Jack Sparrow!

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Swapan Lahiri
19/7/2011 02:01:14 am

Though not from the hills, it brought back happy memories. I wish your snap had captured the bwaadi's visage also. Gr8 writing again.Thx!

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Anju Gangwal
19/7/2011 11:25:34 am

"Kan kadin dharin " I have jotted down in my diary n learnt ...Will definitely swear on a person if he /she irrtitaes me ..won't even come to know :)

Yup ..Life is a journey and not a destination to be reached at ..

Nice article Rachna ..as someboby in the above comments said ..u bring out such minor details which we seem to be missing out in the hustle n bustle of our everyday lives .

Well my best wishes ..u'll surely meet Pundeer sooon ...

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Y S Rawat
20/7/2011 10:15:34 pm

You have the art of making simple jeep taxi ride also an enjoyable reading. It was indeed a good idea to take a taxi to Lansdowne; that is the best way to travel as a tourist, you get to meet and learn more the locals and their life style. Unfortunately not many do that and I include myself in it. Of course I am not a tourist here but elsewhere yes, I too try to do that, within my constraints.

You missed famous ‘Chai wala’ at the old ‘Chungi’. Even though the ‘Chungi’ is no longer there, most people still stop for a hot glass of Chai and boiled Chanas at the road side joint. Anand Bhai and Bhabhiji are the most regular customers of that ‘Dhaba’ though it is not much of Dhaba. His tea has a flavor that you do not get elsewhere and it it really refreshing. One simple reason, as the chaiwala himself also explains, unchlorinated spring water and pure cow milk brewed in old fashioned kettle on a wooden ‘chulla’; something that you do not get these days.

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Julie Middleton link
22/7/2011 03:41:33 pm

....evocative writing, Rachna ... made me want to jump on a plane and come back to India!

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Jhoomar
30/7/2011 08:31:32 am

I save your pieces on Lansdowne for the lazy weekends when I can savour the virtual trip back home!! And you always take me there in a flash, I love it!!!

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ather
3/8/2011 11:51:35 pm

This article is just the ticket! What a slice-of-life you serve up weekly with your regaling and evocative articles. Thank you!

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RITEN
9/9/2011 10:35:02 pm

I was almost in the Jeep Taxi,Rachna's writing has that magical quality,like Raju Srivastava who makes comedy of a parked scooter nudging a bike,U really take us on board for a free trip,reminding me of Etawah-Ajitmal ride,I asked the Taxi driver, How many passengers can you take in an Ambassador, to which is his prompt reply, 17 bhery comfortably.
Absolutely wonderful.

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pankaj
19/7/2012 07:16:24 pm

Oh My God, U are a..........writer.....I am at loss for words....
I think you are doing injustice (with us) by postponing book writing ....and u know these are the journeys (with friends only, soul friends) which credit lots of happiness into our lives which sometimes may offset many unhappy moments in life...to make it neutral....!!!.

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    Rachna Bisht Rawat is a full time mom and part time writer. She is married to an Army officer whose work takes the family to some of the most interesting corners of India.

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