Camp I: Raun Gadera, 10 May 2007

Our first camp: Cosy warm red and blue tents, a stream running by over rocks that have stood the test of time, green mossy banks, mules lazily grazing with their bells ringing, and the smell of food cooked over smoldering logs. Except that the tents let in the cold drafts, the water in the stream would chill a snowman, the grass was too damp to sit on, the mules snorted all night…and more: toilets that had to be visited, sleeping bags that were so cold that you did not want to slide into them, lining up for the food like prison inmates and washing the plates and mugs afterwards and not being able to have a bath. Lien of course was undaunted and stuck her head in the cold, cold stream complete with shampoo and probably conditioner too. We of less hardier souls left our hair as is and relied on wet tissues, lotion (both sunscreen and odomos…especially for Preeti…didn’t she after all ask us to buy the stuff?), talc and deodorant.

That apart, Camp Raun Gadera had the makings of a picture perfect camp (if only there was plumbing thrown in, the need for which was compounded by the fact that our children were resisting every attempt at recycling the food they had ingested since Delhi. It was worrisome for us moms but they had no complaints and merrily skipped around picking up interesting stones, wood, leafs, flowers and in Ayesha’s case little bouquets for Liz who ended up saving each one of them). The camp was clean with little dug out dump pits, affectionately called “DUMBPIT”. The stream was crystal clear and the music the water made was hypnotizing. There were river-crossing activities and the food was good. The bonfire was lit and songs were sung. Our tent was full of the gang of girls (Nikhila, Jyotsna, Usha, Priyanka, Aaliya, Anushka) and more kids, all attracted to Priya, who was becoming more like a logo for the nine of us. We got to know a lot more of our group and marveled at how parents had let some of the young ones come alone on a trek up to 12000ft. The children outnumbered us and what with the seemingly honey-covered Priya, we had children hovering all round us. They came to have their hair combed, their bags packed, and even for a good cry. Some were beginning to feel homesick—for their parents but also for the potato chips, the air-conditioning, the comfy beds and their Gameboys.

It had slowly crept on us all that trekking was not a walk in the park and that the Roopkund Trail was not for beginners. We also began to realize that it wasn’t the sunscreen that we needed. It was much more harder made harder than harder by the fact that we were all first-time trekkers not exactly in the prime physical condition. We had already given our rucksacks to the mules and now a decision was taken to get a mule for the children. Enter Narayan—we just could not decide between him and his beast as to which one was the mule. He was endearing in the way that you hate to love Donkey in Shrek. We were at 6000ft now and the climb to Tol Pani-Camp II at 10000ft was surely not going to be a joke.

We did not realise it then but we were part of an adventure that was bringing in a whole of lot of learning into our lives: about the beauty of little blue, purple and yellow flowers that dotted the landscape, the tricky challenges of the trail that this beauty shrouded, the unlearning of urban ways to adjust with the bare necessities of nature, the amazing things we did not know about our children, the warmth and support of people we were getting to know, the spice added by the intricacies of having to live within a large group at such close quarters, and in all this - holding on to oneself as an individual and just being.

From Loha Jung to Raun Gadera, 10 May 2007

We got up at Base camp with the sun and the regal peak of Nanda Ghunti. Breathtaking. One felt a surge of enthusiasm despite the dampened clothes and spirit. The children dressed and ran to the nearby Devi and Shiva temple. We gathered around after breakfast to be addressed by the organizers. “ Show respect to the Himalayas. Avoid littering, drink water in small gulps but keep yourself hydrated. On Day 3 of your trail you will be climbing half a foot higher with every step you take. Show respect and you will get it back.” The same sentiments are expressed on the base of the main tree in Loha Jung in almost Chaucer-like quaint English.

We by then have several ceremonies of our own: the adoption of Liz by Ayesha, the initiation of the Medicine woman Aparna and her assistants, family photos in the backdrop of Nanda Ghunti and a group photo of our band of women all set to scale new heights.

And then we found out, as Preeti said, why we have legs. It was a 7 km walk that was amazing. Through dense forest green woods of pines, up and down narrow rocky trails, restful meadows etc. Our paths were paved with silver, shiny rocks, trees with artistic mushroom growth, soft lichen and moss covered boughs. We stopped once in a while to look at the carpet of trees below, the mountains looming around us, and the awesome song and dance of the sun, clouds in the blue skies above us. Everything seemed to come together and damp clothes, cold camps aside, we knew it was a privilege to be part of this. We passed by villagers who were it was plain to see living a life very basic in nature. Jobs were few and most of the men were army personnel. One army chap on vacation showed us how he had channeled the stream to power his flourmill.

Talking of streams—I now know how sweet water can be. The streams were cool, clean, fresh and satiated our thirst like an answer to a prayer. Every gulp of the water was fulfilling. Our stops to look here and there had us lagging behind and we lost our way a bit just as we were about to reach Camp I—we climbed down a steep hill and used stepping stones in the stream to crossover to camp. We made it—our first day of trekking—our legs were already weary but it’s long way to go baby!

Bus from Rishikesh, 9 May 2007

We traveled through the night to Rishikesh and when we arrive disheveled, crumpled up and with clogged internal plumbing, it’s in the wee hours of the morn. We have to change and get on to the bus to Loha Jung. The driver Dev looks like the Hindi film villain Danny Denzongopa and we quickly freshen up for a photoshoot. We board the bus. I brace myself as we pass the picturesque Lakshman Jula. I am famed among the circles I move for throwing up in the UK, USA and the UAE and I do not understand why my own country should be an exception. Our bus driver Danny obligingly stops the bus before the holy Dev Prayag as I get off to throw up. Woe is me—what a way to pay my respect! Surprisingly, Liz joins me—just adopted as aunt and already showing family solidarity?! There are others too, unrelated, and we continue to dispense our bile thru the ghats till we reach the Base Camp—the only consolation for me was a compliment from Preeti which is very rare indeed, “That was very dignified throwing up.”

So for 12 hours, we suffered the rain, the cramped seats, the sudden jolts and turns (of the bus and the stomach) and great advice on the billboards “If married, divorce speed”, “Better to be Mr Late than Late Mr”, till we got to Base Camp. The sight on the way was literally for sore eyes—amazing views of the Ganga, Alaknanda, Bhagirathi, meandering around playing tag with the mountains. We took in the shores of white sand, avid river rafters braving the rain and the aggressive currents, and the awesome mountains—with sensible advice from the government, “You have the license to drive, not to fly”. And flying was what we wanted to do rather than be crumpled up into our little seats.

After the rigorous, seemingly never-ending hours of the bump and grind in the bus we reached Loha Jung, our Base Camp at 7,200ft. We got off with dampened spirits and clothes—the rain has soaked our clothes and us with disappointment. The Base Camp was gloomy, wet and cold. As Preeti and Aparna set out to dry whatever they could, we all began unpacking what we could carry in the rucksacks given out to us. The tents were far from being cosy and the sleeping bags did not keep us warm enough. The makeshift toilets were apologies to basic hygiene. The dinner warmed our souls with delicious hot jalebis along with the Rajma and rice. When we slept, it was probably with one thought bubble over our heads, “What have we got into?” But we trusted Baz Luhrman on the sunscreen—we had plenty between us.

Train to Delhi, 7/8 May 2007

There’s something leveling about the Indian Railways. No matter what class, caste, religion, you will be covered with the same dirt, sweat and use the same toilets. No matter what brand of shoes you wear Gucci, Reebok, or Bata; your toes will be trod on. We Himalayan trekkers (87 of us—probably 25 adults and the rest a range of kids from 7 to 19 years) were a buoyed lot, proud of ourselves of the challenge we had took on—12,000ft—we are coming up! We chatted and laughed at each other’s expense over Rite Bites, Chips, the famous Indian Railway chai and coffee that walk up to you in the ubiquitous dispensers, the cold drinks in buckets full of ice, the cutlets, the bread-anda, etc. We passed the fields of paddy and wheat, the orange orchards of Nagpur, the lakes clogged with water hyacinth and rubbish, the early morning bums of faceless fellow homosapiens along the railway tracks, the cows, the buffaloes and the vendors on the platforms—till we chugged into Delhi two hours late.

An organizer was aghast at our luggage.“ Is this a fashion parade or a trek? All you need is shoes, two pants, two shirts, a sweater, cap and a raincoat. You should be able to swing your rucksack over your shoulder like a purse and walk like this”, he said, doing a catwalk jiggle. But there we were huffing and puffing with our 12 day ensemble of underwear, shirts, pants, socks, several tubes of Odomos, analgesics, back braces, plastic mugs, plates, toilet rolls, tissues, sunscreen lotion—the list was unending. To make us feel even more wonderful, our Karol Bagh hotel greeted us with rooms on the 3rd floor and a lift out of order.

We take stock of our inner group of 9—Meena, Nayanika and Ayesha are our strength, luck and joy, Aparna is the medicine woman with medical supplies a medical representative would envy, Priya is the universal mentor to ours as well as all the other kids on the block, Lien is the dynamic mover and catcher of the best seats on the bus, train, etc., I am the journal keeper, Liz is to document the trek on the camcorder, and Preeti is the last word on everything.

Unfortunately the camcorder blacks out on us and Liz and I set off to every single Sony showroom in the vicinity in Ram Ayodhya Sahni’s auto (RAS seems like a godsend on Hanuman’s auspicious Tuesday). Liz trades for a automatic camera as the camcorder issue can’t be resolved, and decides that RAS is someone Priya has to actively consider—he’s got the height, the pan habit can be cured and he’s an entrepreneur who owns his auto—but who knows what will happen in the knotty world of matrimony!

We finally board the bus (the best seats, thank you Lien!), luggage piled up on top and set off from Delhi to Rishikesh.

Climb Every Mountain?

At this age? C’mon, rather now than never!!

Alright, here are the details—the trek is for beginners. Our destination is Roopkund in the Garhwal Himalayas. Not only is it a picturesque climb, it’s shrouded with mystery ever since National Geographic Channel researched its findings on the skeletons found at Roopkund Lake in a documentary titled Skeleton Lake. Base camp is at 7,200ft at Loha Jung. From there we trek for a eight days to Raun Gadera, Tol Paani, Bedani Kund, Ran Ki Dhar and get a breathtaking look at some of the peaks like Trishul and Nanda Ghunti.

The lunch is vegetarian. We look at die-hard non-veg friend—she is squirming. No smoking and alcohol. It’s then that we chime in that non-veg friend will have problems. She grits and says, “Why must you mention it after the smoking and alcohol—couldn’t you have said it after the food bit?” Questions pour in.

Will there be wild animals?
May be the Himalayan bears but they would be more scared of us than we of them.

And there’s this very naturally urban reaction to the wilderness…how do we..er..go about…er…attending to the…er…calls of nature? And we do not mean talking back to chirping birds.
You want a rest room? Well, finally you are in a place where you can rest anywhere. Behind a tree, on a rock, in the bushes, but you can use the makeshift toilet tent—just cover up your stuff. So am I expected to carry a shovel and follow myself around?
A caring friend intervenes, “She’s just been released from Erragada. You do not want her to take care of your children.”
Erragada is an a mental asylum in Andhra Pradesh can I possibly take it as a compliment? Yet another friend moves her chair,distances herself from us with a pointed finger and a prim, “ I am a respectable school teacher—I don’t know these people.”
Back to the resting issue—baby wipes, use the tent when it’s around or just unite with nature.

What’s with the vegesaurus?
More healthy, less chance of contamination.
An aside from the die-hard non-veg, “I am sure we can pass a village or two where I can grab a chicken and stick it in the campfire”. Thoughts of us shaking off the chicken feathers crowds our minds and one die-hard veg friend is thinking the movie Madagascar, when the steak-deprived Alex wakes up chewing Marty’s butt. But we are a brave lot.

Once the names are given it turns out that there are nine of us—all of the definitely fairer sex. The men want the comfort of the four walls, the TV, plumbing and the peace of not having women around (but “We’ll be Back). The nine of us include the lovely Aparna, seven-year-old Meena, and Meena’s aunt Lien; then there is Preeti the Perfect, nine-year-old Nayanika, Nayanika’s aunt Priya, and Priya’s buddy Liz. And of course there is nine-year-old Ayesha and I but with none of Ayesha’s aunts. We decide to adopt Liz as the aunt. Says Aparna, “ But I’m Ayesha’s aunt”. Adds Preeti, “I am Ayesha’s aunt too—from the father’s side.” Applying the rules of stretchable kinship, it’s clear now that Lien is an aunt too, as is Priya and Liz of course has been adopted already.

So here we are at the beginning of our trek to Roopkund lake at 12,000ft—Meena, Nayanika, I, Ayesha and Ayesha’s five aunts.

Hair and There - With Naga

There’s something about barbers, excuse moi, hairstylists that is akin to executioners. They pin you into the chair, cover you up with a cloth, slop your wet hair back and make you look ghastly in the mirror and then…menacingly approach wielding their weapons. “And what would you like this time—short, in steps, permed, curled or should I just take your head off?” Cut it off, Vasu—I mean the hair. And snip, snip, snip—hair today, gone tomorrow.

Very short this time, because I’ve finally learned to like my face.

Naga’s hair woes were a story altogether. She could not cut her hair. “What all I have to do, Madam, to be a ‘good’ daughter-in-law! I must keep long, long hair. My mother-in-law boasts to fellow neighbors, “Look at my bahu! She is working woman and yet no need for style-vile short hair”. Long hair is my certificate for a moral character.”

But Naga—it’s your hair.

“Yes, Madam, it is. And grew it did, all the way down to my knees. Full 15 minutes it took me to wash, an hour to dry and another 15 minutes to comb it. Even my husband would not let me cut it, so much he liked.”

They probably see it as a sign of beauty

“Only sign I got was that people in my family were mad about my hair. After all, they were not carrying all that hair on their heads. My husband and mother-in-law would say, “Why you want U, V and W haircuts, Naga?” So I had to find a way to deal with the hair in the hot Andhra summer.”

So what did you do Naga?

“Like a good daughter-in-law I told my mother-in-law and husband that I wanted to go on a pilgrimage—how can they say no? So I went to Tirupati and got an O cut.”

Oh my, Naga, you tonsured your hair?

“Yes Madam”, gleamed Naga. “The bald style grew into cropped style, cropped into boy-cut, boy-cut into short blunt, then shoulder length—and the best thing is Madam, all these hairstyles I got for free!”

Vasu! I screamed mentally thinking of the bill!

Plants, Pets and Prayers III

Part III- Prayers

Plants, Pets and Prayers…hmm. Am wondering if it should be Prayers, Plants and Pets. Prayers are indispensable to Nirvana. Like it or not, it’s a tool that our maker uses to get us on our knees. And in life we will get down on our knees at some point of time or the other indeed! It’s a literal way to come down to earth and actually be thankful for the bare necessities of life. However, the catch is that whenever we go down on our knees and pray, we are usually asking for something. From written notes shoved between pictures of deities asking to clear a math test to praying for a child. We are always asking for something and up above, divine notes must be being taken down as to who is eligible for what.

The rich promise gold and cash in return for an answered prayer. Some people I know have promised to go around a temple premises eleven times for a business deal that came through. Some pledge their hair or better still their offspring’s hair. That makes me wonder what the follicularly-challenged people who are without heirs and hairs could pledge?

For prayers which are request lists, read the fine print “Life does not give you what it cannot give.”

At the office, we know we are covered because a colleague is praying for us at all times. For surfing during work, for wasting time here and there, for saying things that should not be said…we are definitely covered and are adequately pushed into being penitent for our actions. I keep remembering Sean Connery in one of the Indiana Jones movies saying “Only the penitent may pass” and boy, do I duck and bow—yes I do for I do want to pass the gates of paradise, if not for anything but to have a quick peek at what lies beyond.

I have seen prayers are a solution for many things beyond our control simply for the fact that they strengthen your mental resolve and help you be a bit stoic in face of life’s unpredictabilities. I have also seen that prayers are about forgiveness—forgiving your own self first and then moving on to settling scores with other things in life.

Forgive me for my impatience, my temper, my intolerance.
Forgive me for wanting so much in life.
Forgive me for not knowing that I have the best—the sweet smile of a loved child in the morning and the assurance of support of family and friends
In return, I forgive the price rise, the late bonus and the electricity bill.
I forgive the pollution, the people who were mean to me and the traffic.
I forgive it all—if you, my Devi, promise to always be there with me to show me the way.