End of jeep journey at Lansdowne bazaar. Don't miss backside of departing bhaiji
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)
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)
Pundeer, mesmerised by the opera going on in the valley
Innovative flower pot :)
Sunflowers in the dusk
Madhubala brightening up a canteen wall
RSS Feed
