Pale but alluring January mountains

Until that Thursday morning in the second week of January 2019, I was only looking ahead at a possibly dull weekend in the crowded, polluted, chilly Delhi. I love the city, nonetheless. Come Saturday, I was in a sub-zero environment, in the Himalayas, surrounded by less of man-made and more of the natural world, thanks to a wandering wordsmith. I was hoping to borrow a few of those words too, but not yet. So, I leave it at the images minus the imagery. 

A lazy (every)day in Calcutta

(Disclaimer: I don't mean to call the people of the city slothful, it's just the city.)
It didn't take me long to fall in love with Cal! Let me make a confession, I'm weirdly attracted to chaos. I developed an instant liking for the mess that it was. You'd be thinking I would love Patna too, but that's a repulsive mess (no offense to friends from Bihar). Kolkata with its Victorian touch, photogenic streets, history, culture and food, quaffs you. The weary old city epitomizes 'laze' as my Bengali friend puts it. Kolkata and its Park Street has been the same even three decades ago. They just chose to let it be when Delhi and Mumbai decided on a makeover, he says. But that's why Kolkata offers a time travel into the past - bright yellow Ambassador taxis (they run just fine), trams and rickshaw pullers - details missing from other Indian cities today.

The legendary yellow Ambassadors with a splash of red.

Quoting a friend who lives in the city, "If you're in no particular hurry to reach home after work, take the tram; that's the only thing slower than a walk".

A spread of Kachori, jalebi and kulhad chai for breakfast.

Taking a break over Hooghly.

Goods move from Kolkata to Howrah across the Hooghly.

Labourers carrying goods across the river was one of the most common sights on the Howrah bridge.

Streets of Kolkata dotted with nearly century-old houses.

Bookstores on College Street.

The College Street Coffee House opposite Presidency College where Satyajit Ray and Amartya Sen were regulars.

Kolkata tries an Abbey Road but it has to be in disarray when it's in Cal.

Taking a ferry across the Hooghly in 1985. I bet it would look the same in 2030.

From Sohra, With Love

(Note: A few days ago, I happened to read a piece that mentions how we've lost the letter writing culture, and the joy of a longing wait with it, as instant messaging has changed our sense of time. I felt I should go back and imagine how I would have written a letter to someone beloved if instant messaging and emails were still not a thing. I chose to write from Cherrapunji, Meghalaya.

https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/11/23/rebecca-solnit-encyclopedia-of-trouble-and-spaciousness-2/)

Dearest mmmh? (I’m so tempted to write Shekure)

Cherrapunji is pristine, well sort of. This name has lingered in my head since early school days and feels good to be breathing it now. The town wore a blanket of fog as I got here. You might be saying, “Oh! What else did you expect?” Certainly, there is another side to it. There has to be. I’ll tell you, or rather, show you soon.

I have to tell you, I made this trip unexpectedly; you would have loved it here, the rain, clouds and tranquillity.  Though I had juggled the idea in my head (yeah! I never told you) before I confirmed this work trip to Guwahati, it faded away even before I took off. My mom planted it in my head, again, when she rang me up in Guwahati; it’s one of those places that she has been to years ago. Back then, she travelled by rail all the way from Kerala to Assam. Nowadays, it is a route frequented by thousands of East Indian migrant workers, who have made Kerala their Dubai. Ironical? I can’t say. But, I had to listen to mother at least this time. Yes, I am grinning.

This is my first solo trip of sorts, if you discount all those times I’ve travelled alone after leaving home (do not read ‘running away from the concept of home’) almost 10 years ago. Surprised? May be every trip is solo, because, when I look back, it’s about what I imbibed irrespective of who I was with. We should travel together more often; I know you don’t really fancy it but there is no harm trying. I’d like that. The great Kasi, who traversed the seven seas on his matte green Enfield to reclaim lost love, famously said, “The road has the answers.” You know who am I talking about, don’t you?

Shillong-Cherrapunji road

No, I am sober. Coming back to Cherrapunji, it is locally known as Sohra. I am here for a glimpse of the Nohsngithiang Falls (the other name being the ‘Seven Sisters’ fall). I don’t know if I’ve told you, there’s this one frame I envision before most of my trips. This weather is a first for me. It wasn’t drizzling but my clothes were damp and my hair moist. It’s beautiful nonetheless. The air has no pungency and the neighbourhood has no crowd. No barking dogs, no air conditioner compressors, no vendors yelling their guts out. It reminded me of Kerala’s celebrating hartals. Life is slow, time itself is lazing. I was ready to let my eyeballs wander without being impeded by concrete structures. Oh, the fog! I imagined the falls might be veiled too and was on the verge of comforting myself with “there’s always a next time”. But, may be, Helios heard me.

The sun smirked. Visibility improved and the little town unfolded before me like a rolled-up carpet. Sohra, known far afield for its rain, is a modest settlement of the Khasis. Small houses lacking any splendour with mostly slanting roofs dot either sides of the main road. All establishments, big and small, bear the stamp of the matrilineal society. Tiny tots are attached to their mothers’ backs with a piece of cloth. The town’s population appears young, and a great share is possibly below the age of 10 (this is merely my observation and not verified through data).

Let me take you to the magnificence of the Nohsngithiang Falls. It’s an ultra-wide frame. It is supposedly a seven-segmented cascade but I felt there were innumerable vertical drops across the cliff. What you see beyond the hills is Bangladesh, apparently. I overheard a dozen people saying that. You know how nature charms me and makes me lose myself. I probably spent over an hour there, clicking, and watching the clouds brush past the cliffs, casting their shadows on the slopes. A rainbow at the bottom of the falls, oh, how I wish you were here (Floyd playing). Okay, I’ll stop now. You probably have cuss works on your tongue and eyes-rolling.

Nohsngithiang Falls

Floyd brings me to the blue sky. No, it ain’t no myth. The vibrancy of nature here is going to save me several hours of Lightroom time. I know how much you adore blue skies and cloud art (hope I’m getting under your skin by now). What if I told you I even made it to a torrent – the upstream portion of one of the vertical drops of Nohsngithiang Falls – under that blue sky through a broken patch in a fence? Yes, I’m grinning again.

No, ain’t done yet. Listen to Nohkalikai Falls at dusk (I still can’t pronounce these Khasi names). I had mistaken it for a flipped image of the Nohsngithiang Falls (I thought even the names were the same!) in dry season, as the landscape is rather similar. So, Nohkalikai was not in my initial plan; but it would have turned out to be a blunder. It’s one of those love at first sight things, I was captivated. The slanting rays that passed through a thin layer of clouds gifted it an enviable glow. At the bottom of the main drop is a green pool surrounded by an ocean of greenery. I wasn’t happy with the shots and decided to wait for the sun to disappear behind the hills to try again.

Nohkalikai Falls 

I walked south; slightly downhill initially and then followed a narrow flat track flanked by grasslands and hillocks. The green and blue grew on me as I headed towards the horizon on that infinite trail. A little ahead, I met Phultiman, a Khasi woman possibly in her early 50s. She told me she was seeking some solitude from the rush near the viewpoint where she runs a shop. I started in Hindi and then she switched to English (not sure if she pitied my Hindi, but you must be laughing now). She runs the shop, which sells handicraft, shawls and sweaters, with her husband. She is a mother of four sons. To my dismay, even she asked me about marriage. Facepalm! But I managed to hide my pique in a laughter. Sweet woman, nevertheless. We discussed rain, the lack of it in Delhi, and even Kerala floods.

Phultiman at her shop.

The sun was to be seen no more. I tried framing the cascade again but nothing satisfactory came out. I cringed for not having got the tripod; but, in retrospect, I at least got the camera, because this trip wasn’t meant to be. The sky had turned into a colour palette. Black spread gradually. The day is done. 

Till we meet..

From Sohra,

With love

Chasing the Rain in Konkan

I alighted the autorickshaw at the Bata store on Hill Road in Bandra, Mumbai, as I had been instructed. My eyes were glued to the map on the phone screen. Turning around to get a sense of direction, Peter and Katherina were in the corner of the frame. “Can we help you?” said Peter, who is from the Netherlands. This is Mumbai, and, I definitely do not come across as a non-native, but, then, there’s globalization and Google. We happened to be crashing at the same (backpackers) hostel that night, call it coincidence? I took the invitation to follow them, though the eternal skeptic in me would keep going back to the map; not that Google is the one to be trusted, always. I tailed them through narrow alleys to the hostel, which does not have a façade distinguishable from the aging structures around. In retrospect, it was good that they found me and Peter would later mention that it was my backpack that prompted the offer to help.

Peter and Katherina, who’s German, are in India for two months. They were without a plan and still deciding on a schedule. First world luxuries I suppose. My weekend trip to Ratnagiri, a coastal town in the Konkan belt of Maharashtra, took much research and planning.

A halt on the Jaigad-Ratnagiri route near Ganpatipule

5 AM next day, the emptiest I’ve seen of the Mumbai local; boarded a train to Dadar to catch another to Ratnagiri about 420 kms south of Mumbai. Two good friends, Ajay and Sundar, with whom I primarily connect gastronomically, also joined at Dadar. Though they expressed great interest in the lush monsoon version of the Konkan, I was certain it was the fisherman’s net that had them hooked. 

Trains connect Mumbai and Ratnagiri day and night long; but take a day train to fill your eyes with the Konkan magnifique – the endless waterfalls dotting the Sahyadri on the east, the narrow streams and healthy rivers (because I live in a city through which the Yamuna River apparently flows; no, never seen it), struggling to find a hue other than green. If it rains, you are indeed blessed. Amen. The only distress comes when smoke from the diesel locomotive turns the compartments into gaschambers.

Forts, cliffs,clouds, rain and autorickshaws with doors sum up Ratnagiri for me; and the food, of course. Bakri – a type of pancake made of rice – replaces the pav in Ratnagiri. That’s a relief, and it changed my perception about Marathi cuisine (my bad I judged from what Mumbaikars ate). The typical meal was all about seafood, mutton and chicken. Sorry vegetarians, all you get is a local variety of raita and onions. Amantran restaurant is a must visit.

-

Everywhere in the world, I guess you can't wait to get home from school.

Ratnagiri is not touristy, yet. Marathi movies drew me there. It is a port city with a population of less than a lakh (2011 census). Over a 75 km-stretch along the coastline on the west of the city are three forts – Ratnadurg, Jaigad and Purnagad - in ruins. Located in the city, Ratnadurg Fort and the vast ocean beyond are popular attractions (read selfie spots) for the locals. It stretches across a cliff that overlooks the bay. Built in the 16th century, the fort changed hands from the Bijapur Dynasty to the Marathas and to the British. Well Shivaji Maharaj had to have had his hands on it at some point. 

Ratnadurg Fort

At the northern tip of Ratnagiri district, 45 kms from the city is Jaigad Fort. It is located on a peninsular with a view of the merger of River Shastri and the Arabian sea. Supposedly build by the Bijapur Dynasty in the 16th century, the fort was later controlled by the Naiks and the Marathas until the British era. Fast forward to the present day, the grassy interiors of the fort are now a treat to the cows. The only other visitors included a couple and three boys playing cricket.  

Jaigad Fort

The route to Jaigad, along the western coast is mesmerising. The first few kilometres are pothole-riddled and congested but beyond that is a dream canvass. It is a tad difficult to keep the eye on the road without being caught in the enchanting views around. The winding road often runs up and down the cliffs, offering magnificent views of a thousand white waves hitting the coast.

Purnagad Fort, 25 kms south of the city is almost non-existent. Google gave up after a point, leading us in circles. Even the locals struggled to point the way to the 'kila', which is at the end of a flight of slippery mossy stone stairs. The structure is hidden behind thick vegetation, which has even eaten into its walls. Purnagad is the smallest of the three forts. It overlooks the Arabian sea at the point where the Muchkundi River enters the sea. It's history is less known. 

Purnagad Fort

Thiba Palace where Thibaw Min, the last king of the Konbaung Dynasty of Burma, lived in forced exile after the British defeated his kingdom is another bit of history in Ratnagiri. Given its long coastline, the city also has several beaches. The tide being high, and with the waves bringing back all that we dumped before the monsoon, it wasn't the beach time of the year. 

I was only chasing the rain and managed to keep pace. After all, that's the only thing I really miss about Kerala. Also, thanks to Marathi cinema for bringing me here.

Bhatye beach

The Abode of the Snake God - Nag Tibba

I pulled the sleep mask over my forehead and rubbed my eyes. I was still in the bus that I had boarded from Delhi the previous night. But, the engine was dead. The co-passengers were all asleep. I peeked out of the window through a gap in the curtain. A tailback, mostly trucks carrying construction materials. For a moment I wondered whether the bus hadn’t left the National Capital Region. And, then, we Indians, smart as we think we are, assume those following a queue are nincompoops! We try to squeeze in through the needle hole. I can go on about how we are perpetually in a hurry. After moving at a snail’s pace for some distance and after a few classic Indian road moves that would have put Ayrton Senna to shame, traffic cleared beyond a narrow tunnel. Dehradun was still 10 kilometres afar and the bus was running 30 minutes late.

An initial section of the trek which starts at Pantwari.

We, (oh yeah! Ronnie, the other character in this narrative) managed to catch the connection cab to Pantwari. A small town in the Tehri Garwal region of Uttarakhand. Pantwari is one of the three preferred starting points for the trek to Nag Tibba. That’s where we are headed on this two-day expedition. At an elevation of a little over 3,000 metres, Nag Tibba, which translates to ‘serpent peak,’ is the highest peak in the Lesser Himalayan region. Ronnie is firmly counting on reviews on the web that this is an easy trek. He has been planning on jogging after winter, which apparently hasn’t ended for him; it’s May in Delhi. We had made arrangements for camping and food en route to the Nag Tibba summit through a local guide; thanks to the internet. He arranged the cab from Dehradun too.

 A mud house at the Goat Village.

Nine of us and the driver were fairly comfortable in a big Mahindra Bolero. Dehradun was in the rearview in no time. The road soon drifted between left-handers and right-handers as it wound through the hills. Panthwari is 85 kilometres north of Dalhousie, via Mussoorie and Nainbagh. Besides usual traffic, schoolchildren in their red and blue sweaters, and cattle herders enjoying orange ice sticks stretched our journey over three hours.

And it gets steeper.

Nag Tibba base camp.

After brunch at Pantwari, we followed our guide – Dinesh – a lanky Pahadi in his fifties, clothed in a dress shirt, and a pair of polyester trousers, and wearing sandals. I had shopped at Decathlon the previous day to be trek-ready! Sigh! We followed him through the narrow alleys of the village. The concrete made way for a steeper rocky trail. As the terrain got rougher, Dinesh seemed to gain efficiency, like a fish in water. His sandal-clad feet maneuvered the loose rocks and sharp edges effortlessly, leaving our hiking boots feeling inferior. Dinesh says the trek has become popular with Indians only in the last four to five years, thanks to the internet again. In the preceding years, he mostly guided foreigners to the summit.

Jaibir Chaudhary shepherds his cattle to their shelter.

A gentle breeze cancelled out the harsh April sun. The hike has two water points until the base camp. As icy water trickled through the rocks into the bottles, seven more folks joined us. We got good company in Mariya and Prateek, two childhood friends. Though Mariya claims her marketing job doesn’t leave her a life, she’s an avid traveler. Prateek mostly works six days a week as he can’t find much better to do, going by his words. Moving forward, the terrain continued to be rocky and the trail got narrower. 

Jaibir is a father of four - three sons and a daughter. One of them is in the army and the others are in school. He is not keen on any of them taking up his occupation. At their age, he did not have a choice as his ancestors were shepherds, he says.

The second water point is at Goat Village. As summer sets in, water supply declines. The arid topography of the hills reflected the ruthlessness of the unforgiving big star. Goat Village is gaining popularity as a camping spot; in addition to mud and straw dwellings, blue and yellow tents, and a few cottages sprawl across the vast hilly grasslands. Ahead of the village, the trail passes through a forest. Burans (tree rhododendron), the state flower of Uttarakhand, dot the forest, offering a pleasant contrast to the faded greens. A short hike among the trees and the trail leads to Nag Tibba base camp on a gentle slope. It takes about four hours to reach the base from Pantwari. Tents of several trek organisers line up along the slope. The site is preferred owing to water availability at a nearby pond.

Much needed warmth and rest.

We stretched our legs munching piping hot pakoras. Countless contours of mountain ranges spread in the west. The sun prepared to turn the sky orange. My favourite part of the day was approaching. Bleats were heard in the distance; as they became louder, the furry white creatures made their way up the hill in twos and threes and then in tens and twenties. They grazed around until their master called out to them in his familiar voice. The sun sank; clouds gathered, grey ones; the wind gained speed, petrichor started emanating from the warm earth. The shepherd, Jaibir Chaudhary, hurriedly gathered his herd before it started pouring. A few of his sheep stared at my lens curiously and Jaibir was kind enough to invite me home for tea; he insisted. We made a little conversation about his family and the cattle business while sipping hot tea prepared with goat milk. Before long, hailstones rattled the roof, warning of the downpour to come. I gulped the tea and scampered to the campsite after quick goodbyes.

The trail to the summit.

Thunderstorm lashed the hills for about an hour. The wind carried the rain away and we gathered around a bonfire for some much needed warmth. It was an early to bed day as the summit trek would begin around 4 am. The clouds killed my hopes of capturing the starry night sky. Zipped up in the sleeping bag, I wondered how I would have loved to star gaze listening to Fleet Foxes and Dylan.

Mariya, Prateek and Mayur catch up on the final hike to the summit.

The summit trek began with torchlights. Through the woods, and past the Nagdevata Temple, we were at the final leg of the hike, the steepest of the trek. The elevation changes by about 2,000 feet from the base camp to the summit. The first rays had started kissing the distant peaks. The trail moved among trees with mosses on the skin. Cattle herders had already begun their day; we had to carefully avoid shepherd dogs on many occasions. After over two hours uphill, a green carpet welcomes hikers to the final approach. The summit faces east with a view of some of the mighty Himalayan ranges, including the Nanda Devi range. However, haze deprived us of that panoramic view. Still, it was worth staring at the veiled marvel somewhere beyond the clouds as the early morning rays touched our weary skin.

Nirvana.

Almost there, at the summit. 

Nag Tibba summit.

Haze does not let the eye reach for the panoramic view of the Himalayas.

Lost, on the edge.

Descent to the base camp. 

Back to Pantwari; one of my favourite spots from the trek.