Dreams of a Long, Really Long Drive

It may not come as a surprise to most of you that Google Maps is one of favourite sites and has a pinned position in my Top Sites. When I upgraded to iOS 6 a few months ago, my biggest fear (and eventual loss) was having Apple Maps instead of  Google Maps. Of course, Google released their independent app soon after, but it does not help, that the default Maps in iOS is still Apple Maps, which is far from a usable product.

But of course, this post is not about that.

Google Maps is my favourite site (and app). I’ve helped the map become better with many edits after I’ve been misled by it. (I’d be happy to do the same for Apple Maps, but apparently you cannot.)

So, I was a bit surprised to see that the National Highway markers, on Google Maps, usually seen as NH17 or NH3 etc, were now labelled as AH47 or AH-some other number. First, I thought this was new nomenclature for the Golden Quadrilateral. On closer inspection, I noticed, many of the roads labelled AH were not a part of the Golden Quadrilateral.

The cat started dying with curiosity, and searching AH in Google, for some reason kept showing Ahmedabad. As the dying and curious cat was breathing its almost last, the answer revealed itself and the cat was saved!

AH stands for Asian Highway. Surprise, surprise! (Well, at least for me, some of you may know about it). Wikipedia has a full article about the Asian Highway Project, also known as the Great Asian Highway – a cooperative effort between 32 countries, including India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, China, Japan, South Korea and Bangladesh. Reading the article made me feel worse, knowing that this project has been going on (and off) since 1959, though for practical reasons, it really started in 2003. I still feel bad, that I wasn’t aware of this project for almost ten years!

After reading the article, there was newfound excitement. There exists a definite possibility of a “very” long drive.

I’m thinking Mumbai – Tashkent – Istanbul – Ulaanbaatar – Tokyo – Bangkok – Dhaka – Mumbai should be a good drive. Exotic places, all of them, and I haven’t been to any of the places, except Tokyo, (where I’ve seen only the inside of Narita International). So I proceeded to map the itinerary on Google Maps, but it was unable to do that; I guess, some roads are yet to be built (huge JPG; display patience); so that gives me time to prepare.

And no, you do not have to remind me that I still have to complete the Golden Quadrilateral. It’s not that I have not tried; there have been quite a few false starts, but I’ll do it – soon – on my own terms. Folks who can contribute a month or so, are rare.

But a drive is always wonderful whether it is a couple of hundred kms to Alibag or six-thousand-odd kms around the country, or (soon) many more kms around the continent.

Because traveling is like writing; and writing is like traveling – and I love them both. That’s what dreams are made of!

All’s Well; Let’s Go

All’s well.

The most interesting struggle in life is of contradictory expectations. A part of you wishes that things happen like x and a part of you wishes that things happen like y. Necessarily, x being the opposite of y. In the end, it doesn’t matter whether things happen like x or like y. Either way, you are unhappy. Either event doesn’t satisfy you. It’s staging; you’ve staged yourself to be unsatisfied. And for good reason.

There I am.

It may seem un-natural to be in this state, but I find it completely natural. It’s possibly the intermediate state to salvation. Big words; heavy concepts. What we expect is our conditioning, what we don’t expect is the calling of our own self. There continues the struggle of what we have to be and what we are. Not all validations are a source of celebration. Some validations, as useful as they are, are scalding slaps on your face. Funerals. And painful as they are, they are most welcome. They remind you of your place in this world.

I was introduced to maps way back when I was young and in the many years that have passed I have learnt their inherent meaning — maps are not only about distances and the means to get from A to B — but a means to know yourself and where you are. Not all maps are made of the roads, rivers, mountains and valleys — most maps are made of people, life, events, memories, arguments and silent encounters. Those are the maps that help us find our way. We have to learn that maps help us understand more about us, than the place that we are in and where we have to go. 

If we know where we want to go.

All’s well, I know where I am.

 

Backseat Adventures

For a while now, I have been taking photographs from the inside of a rickshaw and exploring the nuances of the rickety travel across city streets.

This is just one of the views, for a wider exploration see the entire set. Beyond the visual, one-way conversations, there are those that involve people.

It all started with the rickshaw-driver asking me if the day was still a holiday, considering the low evening peak traffic. I said, I’d expect that people would be back at work; enough time to nurse their hangovers (alcoholic and otherwise), and added, it’s a good thing that the traffic is sparse; I’ll reach home early. No, he said, it’s a bad thing, he’d struggle to get fares.

One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.

Smaller bits of conversation ensued regarding driving sense, road quality, politics and such, and I was about to give up the conversation as the usual rickshaw banter. He was talking of being a part-time rickshaw driver. Politeness as well as curiosity made me ask him, what his day job was. He laughed, and said that I’d laugh too, if he told me. Since I was on the edge of walking away from the conversation, I said, I’d respect it if he didn’t want to tell. I could now get back to checking my mail.

“Have you heard of IPTA?”

“What?” It sounded like ITTA when he first said it and all the honking and acceleration by trucks on the flyover was not helping.

“IPTA – Indian People’s Theatre Association,” he elaborated.

“Of course, I know IPTA.”

He seemed surprised that I knew IPTA. “My day job is with IPTA.”

“What do you do there?” The default profession would be an actor, but I wasn’t going to stereotype.

“I am an actor and a writer,” he said, and went on to explain that he was an assistant to a writer, and picked up roles when he could. A brief history of IPTA was narrated and the bad influence of money on art was investigated in some detail.

“You could join mainstream and make enough money, films, television, enough avenues out there,” I said, in some part, defending the 100-crore club.

“I am not in it to make money, I want to stay true to my calling,” came the incorruptible reply. “I make enough money for me to sustain and watch movies.”

A Wednesday (2008) was cited as an example of good film-making. Titanic, and Inception got special mention. I asked, if he had seen In Time (2011). Yes, he said. Star Movies. Nuances of conceptual art were discussed. People’s over-reliance on mindless entertainment was lamented. Mumbai’s ability to make billionaires of beggars was lauded in spite of its heartlessness and bad food; unlike Kolkata, where he was from. Vincent Van Gogh featured as an artist who died without experiencing appreciation while he was alive. The role of the audience and the performer was surgically explored – the inter-dependency was confirmed.

“Two hundred rupees,” he said, as I reached home. We both felt that the traffic should have been worse and the conversation longer, but some conversations are beautiful when they are short, unplanned and have an ending.

Rush-hour traffic is a good conversation-enabler.

Nine Years, I Wonder

An adventurer always starts out as an ordinary person. That day, you cannot call that person an adventurer. The first step across the threshold is tentative and heavy with excitement and dread. The next step is fueled by intrigue and curiosity. Then the next step and then the fourth. The feet become ever so light with every step as the long walk continues. As you walk along you recall the wonders that you read about, when you were immersed in the chronicles of other adventurers. You wonder, when you will face your first wonder. Events define an adventurer; not the intent. Not all adventures are made up of dragons, long walks along the ridges of mountains and fighting unknown beasts. Some are. And dragons, tall mountains and deep valleys have a way of manifesting themselves.

Time passes, you have taken many steps already but the canvas of adventure is a summer mountain-scape in the mountains of the Deccan. Sameness pervades and you wonder if it may be worthwhile to imagine a wonder that would be the first chapter of your chronicle. Stay true, you tell yourself; they will come, you assure yourself and plod along. You recall the long journeys of ancient adventurers across seven seas and seven mountains that were completed in a couple of pages – you remind yourself that the number of words or pages is hardly ever the measure of the extent, the breadth or the depth of content.

A tall mountain looms.

It’s filled with wonder, but you fail to recognise it as such. You make a note of it and it strikes you: this is indeed the wonder of my adventure. Without warning you have met with your first wonder. Does that make me an adventurer? You hope it does, but do not say it loud, lest you jinx it.

I wonder what lies beyond that mountain.

A long time and fewer pages later, you meet others like you. Some have set off on the adventure before you, some after you. You exchange chronicles and barter myths. Some seek to discover wonders together, some choose their own adventure. Not all wonders amaze everyone. From a seeker of wonders, you never realise when you have become an adventurer; till that day – when someone calls you that: an adventurer. Uncertainty and euphoria grips you on either side.

Am I?

But there is no time for you to debate and evaluate. You seek the wonders, and you walk along. You celebrate the wonders with fellow-adventurers; you speak of how long you have been a seeker. Sometimes it is not so wonderful. You do not move because you are laden with disgust and disappointment. You question the purpose and the value of what you seek. You question the authenticity of the initiative. There comes a time when you are trying very hard to stay true and you fall in a quicksand. You don’t drown because the Archangel of wonder-seekers watches over you; pulls you out. Scarred though you may be, slow though your walk may become, distress though may run in your veins, you pick yourself up. You walk. And though your eyes refuse to see clearly, the wonders don’t cease. Distracted though you may become, you keep to your path.

In the league of wonder-seekers, if you have been seeking for a long nine years, you are known as an adventurer. But, what they know you as, matters less, because after nine years you are inherently aware that the adventure is the biggest wonder of all.

To all the seekers of wonder out there, whether we still share the same wonders or not, whether our paths crossed for a moment or for years, whether you are still seeking or not – thank you – my adventure has prospered because of you.

It has been a wondrous nine years with you all.

Music; Time; Journey

I wish there were means for us to be able to situate ourselves in songs. I’d choose – War by Edwin Starr, Will you be There by Michael Jackson, and Dazzling Blue by Paul Simon. (Let’s agree there are many more, these are only representatives.) We probably need time machines to insert ourselves and be actors to that poetry. That would allow us to be with the artistes – experience first hand the excitement of ‘making’ the song.

I am here. I listen to this song.

Perhaps we don’t need time machines. We have learnt about time and time is strictly linear. What if it is not? What if the songwriters planned for their music to escape the constructs of time? Why be sentimental of a poetic paragraph that was intended to violate the linearity of time? It is available to me by sheer means of storage. We go together like a wink and a smile. And I wonder if I need time machines at all.

All the music and poetry that makes my life beautiful is timeless. But, we will have to understand what timeless means. It is not that this music and poetry will be appreciated as the years go by. Timeless assumes that generations to come will appreciate without contemporary constructs.

Timeless is not that.

These songs, the music and the poetry are time machines in themselves. So, will the ‘oldies’ take you back to the 60′s or the 70′s. I doubt. Unless I have missed a major leap in what physics can help us do – we cannot “go” back there. But the smart songwriters and the musicians of the days gone by, used a wonderful trick: they laced their music; dipped in the ethos of the moment and released it. With each mix of the note and the syllable they created a portal for us.

Whether we ‘logged in’ was up to us; and for the registered users – they offered a journey that time itself could not wipe – from history, from our memory.

Middle of Nowhere

I am in the middle of nowhere.

Such a place, we all know, doesn’t exist as far as geography is concerned. You are always in the middle of somewhere or at the edge of some place. But it always sounds better to say that you are in the middle of nowhere. That phrase has certain expanse; some more width than your exact location. It creates that mystery and sprinkles a sense of romanticism to whatever description may follow the phrase.

So, I am in the middle of nowhere.

The boat I am on, is anchored here, in the middle of the water, the late afternoon sun sparkles diamonds all over the water and coconut trees lean over, as if to peek and see what I write in this post.

Rest of the family has had a wonderful lunch and are now lulled into sleep by the slow rocking of the boat. I am out on the deck, looking at the sneaky trees and listening to the silence that surrounds our boat.

Far away, in the fishing village that I can barely see, a few colourful boats are anchored, devoid of any activity. Perhaps someone else is describing this feeling in his or her own way.

Nothingness is a difficult state to be in. Even such thick and opaque calmness outside does little to calm the ruckus in your head. Earlier today, as I walked through the market street in this town, I imagined the townsfolk looking at me and being able to recognise that ruckus in my ahead – ah, city folk – they must have said. I have been here for a few hours now, and the calmness is taking over.

Nothing matters now, though it won’t be like this for long.

But, for now, I am in the middle of nowhere.

*

E&OE; Moblogged
Malvan Backwaters, April 22, 1625hrs

On Anger

It is not people, circumstances, or situations that anger us – as much as we believe. It is our own thoughts.

Try this – the next time you feel angry – or even afraid for that matter. Forget all that counting from one to ten. What really made you angry? What were your thoughts about that situation that made you angry? You may notice that it eventually comes back to yourself – in a way. It is always a thought in our mind – based on something that we have known and not liked. We do not like those bad things to recur – so it makes us angry. Our thoughts are only derivatives of what we have experienced and our ability to build concepts from the knowledge that we have. It is a useful thing that our mind does; we don’t put it to very good use, however.

And the anger is only, in a way, an expression of helplessness. When we encounter a problem – we tend to solve it – when we can’t – we get angry and afraid. We imagine bad things will befall us – which obviously is not a pleasant thought.

It was Sinhagad Express from Mumbai to Pune in the early days of my career. I met a bohemian gentleman on the train. We talked of Hindi Film Songs, soon after Karjat, a few hours from Mumbai, because he heard me humming to an old favourite Mukesh song. He asked if I knew that Mukesh was one troubled singer because he was often asked to do a retake on his songs more than once. I said I didn’t know that. He told me, that it was not because he sang wrong. It was because people in the studio loved to listen to what more he could bring to the song.

It was a beautiful conversation.

That person with the long hair and funny clothes is a distant memory. We talked of life after that – about what we do. I don’t recall now, what he did for a living.

As we approached Pune, the man said to me, “Do not celebrate your success too much; do not shed too many tears on failure.” It probably should have meant a lot for a young person who had just taken the train on the entrepreneurship track. I felt good about that learning. I somehow forgot about it on the longer journey that I have embarked upon.

I randomly look for answers where they may be. Here is what I find.

From the Bhagvad Geeta, Chapter 6, Verse 7

जितात्मनः प्रशांतस्य परमात्मा समाहितः।
शीतोष्णसुखदुःखेषु तथा मानापमानयोः ॥७॥

The Supreme Soul of him, who is self-controlled and peaceful, is balanced in cold and heat, pleasure and pain, as also in honour and dishonour.

Inception; of Sorts

(Almost), exactly, three and a half years ago:

That image of you on a cushion-less leather chair near Gate 13 at Barbara Jordan Terminal in Austin, TX, cross-legged, chin resting on your hand, elbow delicately balanced on a thin armrest, an open notebook with scribbles ambitious of being the words that will be your history someday. Will you be able to confine that image to permanent memory?

Yes, it was confined to permanent memory. I remember it like I remember a photograph that I have seen a few minutes ago.

And we are back to airports. In a way that it used to be. It’s nice to know yourself the way you knew you were. It’s like meeting a friend after ages. Like John Travolta (Face/Off 1997) said, “It’s like looking in a mirror. Only… not.” It is like the experience in Coach 78519:

“You are the same too – except a few crinkly wrinkles that have become permanent after years of laughter – the only sign perhaps – of how much you laughed once upon a time.“

And in between the meeting of the then-you and the now-you, there’s a third self, a ghost of the in-between adventure. But he isn’t present, as such. You can’t see yourself, but (the now-)you know that your smile has changed. What was once only a dream is now buttressed with with a calm resolve. The blinding speed, scattering of effort, the running around in circles have all vanished. You don’t just see it; you experience the space.

This slowing-down-thing is working very well, I must say.

It’s a lovely day.

Travel Episodes

The first word in the slug-line of this blog is travel. And that’s what I have written very less off in this blog. Hopefully, I will do justice to that first word, this year. And it starts with the first episode of my recent trip to South India. To help you find my travel posts, they now have their own shiny button on the menu, above. The first episode is up. More, to follow, soon

Episode 1

Episode 2

 

The Long Drive: Episode 2

My best friend, DJ, and navigator by my side (all of them is one person), we have made it to the mouth of the Mumbai-Pune Expressway in under an hour.

Mumbai roads, that early morning can be quite alien. Most of the traffic comprises of unusual trucks and hired SUV-kind of vehicles dropping off and picking up folks who work shifts. All of them drive fast; a couple of hours later, these streets will be filled with other and many familiar vehicles.

One big advantage of having a dual carriageway is that you need to focus just a bit less on the road. And since this road is quite familiar, it works better for me. It didn’t matter whether it was Rajasthan or Karnataka. I wanted a conversation. With my best friend. The expressway helped us set the mood for the next few days. We talked.

I am happy. My plan, beyond the routes and the reservations is coming true.

We had breakfast at McD’s. I like their muffins better than their burgers.

I have been thinking about highways and dual carriageways for a while now. They are efficient. They are fast. But, they do not expose you to the environment in which you drive. Flashback: c 2002ish, I am at my friend’s house in Virginia. He is a proud American. Like you and me, you know – proud about our country. We were discussing how the highways and expressway have changed the scenery on a drive like this. We killed a little bit of romance at the cost of speed and efficiency. Years later, I saw Cars (2006) – the movie – and we spoke again.

Today, I do not mind the speed. But I do not want it all through this trip. I am out here, to slow down. The 59th Street Bridge Song starts playing in my head. I wonder, how I will make the morning last. The best I can do, is capture that moment. The tea is laced with masala and the morning, with happiness.

The more or less uneventful, but enjoyable drive continues. We passed Kolhapur. It’s the first time I have passed it by. In less than an hour, we are at the border of Maharashtra and Karnataka. The road quality changes. It becomes better. I have thought about this before – and it comes back to me. How can the quality of a road change at state borders when the road is a national project?

We make our way by-passing Belgaum, Dharwad and reach Hubli. I have been warned that credit card machines are rare, as I leave the highway. The first ATM I go into has the ATM software’s equivalent of the BSOD. The second ATM seems to be working. And for the first time in my life, I see angry graffiti at an ATM; a severe accusation of not delivering. The language that was employed was very different, but I’ll let your imagination take over for that. I am a bit concerned. It would be a shame to have your debit card sucked-in at this point of the trip. We drive away, finally find an ATM that (a) worked and (b) did not have a bad review.

It’s time to leave the GQ. We take a left towards Hospet, onwards to Hampi. The road is not as bad as I had thought it would be, and apart from the ongoing road works, it is in good condition. But more than that, the pleasure of being off an Expressway is now in view.

The sun prepares to leave for the day, and my calculations, about reaching Hampi while it’s still daylight, have been wrong. I had even accounted for the shorter December days. We reach Koppal just after sunset. I have been asked to call from there, for the directions to the Anegundi Road. We stop at a “Tiffin Centre” – my favourite places to eat when I am in the peninsula. A few kilometres ahead and we take a turn onto what is obviously a village road. My concerns are happily devastated as the road tuns out to be quite good and small hamlets pass us by every 5-odd kilometres. We are to reach Basapur, where someone will escort us to the place we are to stay.

It is 7:15pm. There’s a buzz in Basapur even though it’s not brightly lit. There’s smell of street food, dried grass, mixed with country liquor wafting in the neighbourhood.

We get our escort on a bike, and in less than 5km but almost 20 minutes, we meander through a rocky dirt road to Hampi’s Boulders. A very warm welcome and we are told we are just in time for a campfire & barbecue. It’s been fourteen hours for the 740 kilometres to get here. A campfire and a barbecue are very welcome. We quickly checked in to our room that was perched atop one of the largest boulders I had seen, and went to the campfire.

It is 8:20pm on 23rd December, 2011 and little did I know; campfires were to be a prime theme of this trip.

The Long Drive: Episode 1

I haven’t slept very well. Perhaps it was the excitement. I have never driven more than 500-odd kilometres in a day. This one is going to be more than 700. The last time I tried something closer, we were stuck in a traffic jam for a few hours. In the night; we slept in the car. Am I unable to sleep because I remember that?

The road today is well-known and often travelled. Almost all of it is a Dual Carriageway and three-fourths of my drive is on the Golden Quadrilateral. After Hubli, I am not sure what’s in store for me. The place I am supposed to reach, is not even on Google Maps. I feel quite comfortable about driving till Hubli. The adventure, I suppose, will start when I take left after Hubli.

It’s almost one in the morning, and I still do not feel sleepy. I have been planning this for the last three months. Routes on Google maps, asking for feedback on Twitter, tips from friends who have recently been to Rajasthan and the like. And after three months of rigorous planning, I have a completely new plan – in the opposite direction. We are going to South India, instead of the North. And I am now wondering, how I got this route and the locations in place in one week. Perhaps, that’s the reason why I don’t feel sleepy. I am surprised wide awake.

These thoughts go on, they occupy every crevice in my mind nudging their way back and forth to my attention. And I am still not asleep.

“It’s already 4:30,” she says, “you said we’d have to get out by 5:30.”

I wake up, and that seems to be proof enough that I did get some sleep. All my thoughts, who had slept with me, wake up with me. The excitement buzzes in my head. I take a minute for the buzz to settle.

We are ten minutes late. It’s 5:40am on the 23rd of December 2011.

We are off.

My Darling, Angel

I was in Goa, a couple of weekends ago – with Mahendra. As one thing led to another, we talked of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (ZAMM). That is one book I never bought. I inherited it – one amongst a treasure that was bequeathed to me; one that I cherish. I did buy Mr. Prisig’s other book – Lila – and read it – even. So, while we were talking of ZAMM, I was at loss in the conversation.

Elements of that conversation made me want to access the treasure that was bestowed; and I picked up the book as soon as I returned. The book has more personal meaning for me, than its content. As I moved through the pages, I realised that I had started reading it long ago. And it struck me, why I had never crossed the first few pages. While the book isn’t about motorcycles, as such – it did make a case against cars. It was a strong statement – about the joy of travelling in a car vis-à-vis a motorcycle.

Indigestible.

Then, and now.

The last three years have been beautiful with her. Today is her birthday. We have been on many adventures together. Most of them have been pleasant and enjoyable; some risky and dangerous, even. Many friends and acquaintances have come and gone and we have been places. Some chose to look out the window; some chose to sleep all through. We have been on mountains and along the sea. We have been on the best roads and – believe me – worst roads. Mostly, I have been with my angel and my artist friend – and we have painted wonderful pictures using thoughts, ideas, and experiences for palettes, brushes, and paint.

I do not have a specific memory of every inch on the road with her; I have a collective memory, though, of my experiences and my dreams becoming real. And she has helped me — see. In a way that I could never have, otherwise.

The road is a lover
You never recover
Not now or any time soon
My head starts to spin
When I think where I’ve been
Playin’ twin to an old fiddle tune, oh
As the wind chases after the moon

Through the kindness
Shown me that day
I gave him this melody
And we sang in duet
`Neath the stars in the sky
And the shadows of dancing trees

~ The Road Is A Lover; Alison Krauss & Union Station

She has opened my eyes to the world. And, now, she is all mine!

Heritage Hike: Daulatabad

Pico Iyer resurfaced in our conversation as soon as I told him about our plans for the weekend. We discussed this blog. It was meant to be a travelogue when it was started. I had very high hopes of high frequency travel and high availability of time, when I started the blog. Like my relationship with Twitter now, I knew how different people used blogs, but was not sure how best I would use my blog, then. So I told him, how, over the years this blog had changed complexion and texture, but weathered all the climate change. He was sympathetic — he gently assured me that this blog was indeed about travel — not the kind where we use trains and cars and visit real places, but travelling through and to thoughts and memories. I smiled at the assurance and said, it’s good destiny any how — I could never write like a travel writer.

It seems redundant to write facts about a place, when there is so much available on Wikipedia and million other people are repeating the facts all over.

What to see? What to shop? Where to stay? How to get there? Tips for travellers. Sameness pervades our lives.

Templates are the curse on the variety that we have in life.

What was supposed to be a drive in my car, turned out to be a Xylo bouncing across the NH3 chauffeured by a short, young, and able driver of good disposition. I was upset about not being able to drive, but was suitably compensated by the chance to take photographs from a moving vehicle, which, really, I don’t enjoy. But you do get to catch a few winks, and not pay attention to the road, but miss the experience of a drive. So you can imagine the number of times the emotions were smoothly changing directions on the almost straight road to Aurangabad.

*

700-odd steps. That’s how high up we’d have to go if we wanted to get to the peak at Daulatabad. 700-odd fort steps. Not your consistent byte-sized, apartment-style steps. Some dreadful glances were exchanged at the base of the fort between us. We had much more to travel and walk at our next stop. We went in, the 700-odd steps looming heavy over our heads — deciding to leave the climb/not climb decision when got to the steps. Cannons greeted us at the base of the fort, in an enclosed, but a large open space. To my sense, the scene was jarring. I imagined a smart ASI officer (or a consultant) who must have had the bright idea to bring down the cannons from their original location, and placed incorrectly in an enclosed space — all directed inside. Pop-Tourism, is a curse, when you want to discover history. Artefacts are removed from context to give you your money’s worth. Small and temporary pleasure of having seen a cannon and perhaps the gross gratification of touching something a few hundred years old, completes our tryst with history.

There’s a lot more to see in and around the fort — thoughtful architecture, stones that have onyx embedded in them, an impressive Chand Minar, small sculptures embedded in the walls, dual moats, triple walls, and many labyrinths. You will also see a few manicured lawns that almost make you feel you are in a monument in New Delhi. Apart from those exceptions, you are reminded soon enough that this is monument far from the capital and does not receive the kind of maintenance, support and attention due to its distance from the centre.

As we walked slowly from a wall here and a small temple there to a large tank there, for a good hour, we reached the decision point. It was a massive arched entrance that invited and challenged us at the same time. Being in the fort for an hour had made us feel at home, in a sense.

We embraced the challenge.

Of the 700-odd steps, we climbed a few hundred, crossed the dry and the wet moat with considerable ease, unlike what it must have been when the fort flourished under Tughlaq, the Mughals and the Nizams.  To my dismay, we were in the fort for most of the late morning and the early afternoon, when sunlight is the worst. For humans, as well as for good photography.

*

Forts, somehow, are silent storytellers. A guide or an accompanying book can give you a lot of facts. An enthusiastic guide can even (and usually will) sprinkle myths that are very creatively meshed with the facts. But the fort, with its irregular textured walls, falling tiles that expose the rough underneath, remnants of prosperity, carvings that have dulled by weather and human abuse, will always tell a story. All you need is imagination to watch that story unfold before your eyes. When the imagination takes flight in the strong breeze on the top of the hill-fort, use the facts to control the story, if you must. These places are the best to time-travel.

I indulged in a flight of fancy, at the Chini Mahal, here, where Abul Hasan Qutb Shah was imprisoned for 13 years. To be imprisoned in a section of the fort that was adorned by encaustic blue china tiles, yet never ever see it.

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We saw a lot of inscriptions of love along the walls, mostly made in chalk or inscribed by stone, of undying love. Most of these were made in the last fifty years. I could imagine these lovers coming from far and nearby on their bikes or gaudy-coloured tourist buses, where they are given an hour to see the fort. And since you can never finish seeing the fort in an hour, these lovers, instead of expressing their love for each other had to leave a mark on a heritage site. I have become quite numb to this crass expression of permanent presence, sometimes just initials, invalidating the purpose of graffiti; sometimes with spelling mistakes: perhaps in the future, it may become the subject of an anthropological study.

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It so happened that we did not get to the top — the last few hundred steps were sacrificed to manage our schedule that we had packed too hard. There was much walking to be done ahead at the next heritage site: Ellora. I left Daulatabad with a promise to lay a longer siege some other day. The fort is no stranger to a siege, but I believe it will welcome mine.

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These photos (and more, soon) are available on my Flickr

People in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Tea in 1732kms.

The one thing that you cannot escape on a long drive, is people. No matter what secluded place you drive to, you will encounter them. Sometimes a few, sometimes many. But you will always see them.

They come in various shapes, sizes, colour, accents and moods.

They sit at toll booths and pass out the exact same ticket for the exact same fare for the duration of their shift. They are walking by to a village close by, and you duck your head out of the window to confirm the right turn – usually after you have taken that turn. They might offer directions with a nod of their head, sometimes they will want to give you more details than you care for – sometimes they ask you to drop them on the way for offering you directions. They might make tea for you, serve food, or help you get to your designated room for the night. They smile at you: sometimes a fake trained smile like the one we see in airlines or hotels; sometimes the smile is genuine, for no other reason than just to have met you. Sometimes they stare at you – because city folk in a village usually stand out like, well, city folk in a village; sometimes they ignore you. Usually, folks I have met on my way are helpful; a few times, they didn’t bother. As we go into the interiors we see them wear very colourful clothes, which often hurts our overly sensitised sense of bland attire. They become gaudy sometimes, and we are quick to be sarcastically humorous. We see labourers on the highway, levelling it out for us in the heat and dust, while we are quick to roll-up our windows and switch on the AC.

We forget almost all of these people when the drive is done. We usually never take these portraits to remind us of these people when we upload photographs or blog about them. One wayfarer’s face in over seventeen hundred kilometres, however,  has stayed with me like a photographic impression.

We had just left Dhar, off Indore, on our way to Surat. The road up to Dahod is in a very bad condition, with very small smooth patches in between. Where I could, I was speeding, to make up for lost time. As one smooth patch was coming to an end, I slowed down. Green fields on my right, with tall hills somewhere far watched me with patience. In the foreground, close to my car, I saw him. He wore a light blue soiled kurta that still saturated itself well against the blue sky. His back was turned to me. As I came to an almost halt to go through a deep pothole, he turned – he wore a tightly wrapped white turban and a white dhoti, wrapped in a way I have never seen before. As I surveyed him from his bare feet to his face, I think, that’s when the mental shutter released. It was a face, lush with character and marked by deep, confident wrinkles for the years. The thick regal moustache ended somewhere, but was hidden by where the sideburns waved towards his ears; the facial hair a sharp contrast to his sun-worn dark skin. I’d like to think and even say, that our eyes met, but I was too mesmerised by what stood there, to remember. Yet, I remember those big, dark, sunken eyes, which were the source of the hypnosis of that brief moment. As if to complete this vision that I was beholden to, he moved his right hand slightly for me to see the most beautiful axe in his big hands.

The car moved on having climbed out of the pothole and found a semblance of a road. Both of us were speechless for a few minutes.

Most of your memories can be captured with a camera. Some memories, however, you are meant to capture and preserve in your heart.

Forever.

Traffic in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Life in 1732kms

Some of my friends, who have left the country for a while, often tell me that “India is happening” and I am lucky to be in the right place, almost saying that it was a good idea that I chose not to leave the country, when it wasn’t as happening. I usually agree with them, don’t quite argue on the situation that really exists, feel good about it and let them feel good about it.

I often wonder, how the guys during the Renaissance felt. That is, the folks who lived and were young when it occurred, not for those who read about it later. While I will never know it, I think I feel the same way. I live in a country that is at the crossroads of being the best place to be live in (in the future), but isn’t there yet. And since it is a crossroad, for various reasons, if it takes the sharp left (or right), we’ll have a very interesting could-have-been story.

Most of the 1732kms that I travelled in the last week of the December of 2010, were on roads that wanted to be more than they have always been. Not just to bear more vehicles, but to be smarter, faster and smoother. Some of the roads have already achieved that, some are in the process and some are only yearning for it. I had a good share of the best and worst roads that week.

One of the worst patches, was from Indore, MP to Dahod, GJ. Work is on along this patch to make this into the short-sighted dual carriageway that is a hallmark of NHAI, but it is bone-crushing in it’s own way.

The highlight of these 1732kms (and why we took an off route) is a different story altogether. No suspense; it was approximately a 20+km traffic jam, just as we left the border of Maharashtra into Madhya Pradesh. Starting at Hadakhed and ending just before Sendhwa, all through Borghat. Analysing traffic jams is fun, if you aren’t the kind that gets frustrated easily – it is an academic exercise, but when you have nothing else to do, it serves useful purposes.

In the five and a half hours that I spent in Borghat, I learnt that there are three levels of complexity that cause such traffic jams.

For one, trucks in India are overloaded to no end. The limit of loading a truck is very well-defined, actually. If it will stay on the truck, load it. What would usually take three trucks to transport, we manage in two (sometimes, horrifically so, we manage in one.) So the traffic jam problem, really starts with cost cutting – at the cost of safety. Don’t get me started on cost-cutting; it is a synonym of short-sightedness: let that suffice for now. Overloaded trucks have a tendency to topple, and two of them did, on this patch. I saw one overloaded truck trying to get out of the way for us, doing a wheelie — and I am not exaggerating. It, no doubt, was a factor of the overloading.

Secondly, we have a very inefficient and untrained traffic policing system that is grossly underpaid to even think twice about refusing bribes. I am sure (but I don’t know this for a fact) that there is a law that disallows a truck to be overloaded. Weigh-bridges at every possible junction stand witness to the potential existence of such a law. Further, (in most places) we have no limits or scheduled times regarding when certain types of vehicles are allowed to ply on certain roads. I remember, way back, in the ’70s, I believe, the Khambatki Ghat, used to be closed at night to avoid accidents. It was a single carriageway then.

Finally, you and I are the one who screw up the most in a situation that is such trucks make worse. We cut lanes, disrupt traffic coming from the opposite side — because we have overwhelming faith in our small and manoeuvrable vehicles. When all the trucks are lined up like an army, we break ranks with gay abandon and rush to meet the oncoming traffic. This, unfortunately is not a highway phenomenon: I have seen this happen even in Mumbai – which I believe has one of the most disciplined traffic etiquette. I am not against overtaking, but the manner in which we do it – defies logic and reason.

Just after Hadakhed, NH3, Mumbai-Agra Highway (Photo taken between Sangvi and Palasner)

But, being there – for those five-odd hours was cathartic for me. Late in the night, with a few headlights directing rays in an almost laser show, a part of me felt peaceful. The other part was utterly frustrated – but I ignored that part. I was able to imagine this under-construction-road, how it would be when it was all done, when we would not give another thought to the travails of those that tread this path when it was being built. I allowed it to become a forced instance for me to stop and think of all the things that have bothered me for long. My friend, tired from navigating for almost 14 hours took a nap. I shut down the car and got out to watch the stars. To be on the incline of a tall hill at night is a revelation. The stars don’t really talk to you; they don’t send messages; nor do they have answers. To get out of your car (because you have no choice) and sit on a ledge that overlooks a far away city, identified only by the lights that it chooses to leave on at night, and wonder at a life — is a privilege. It is a rare experience. To be with a group, but distanced by vehicles that came between us, and therefore be alone — is a privilege. As I sat on the ledge — I remembered what my driving license said on the back cover: Driving is a privilege, not a right. I felt thankful.

A truck driver had got out his kerosene stove and was cooking food. I asked him how long he had been in this jam. He said, “12 hours.” I smiled. I asked him what he would do if the traffic started moving suddenly, with a dart of my eyes to his stove. He shrugged, said nothing. In the moth-eaten blanket of a sky, my life reflected an image, mocked me.

I was sure we would not be able to reach our destination in good time. By the time we would reach Indore, we would really have to wake up hoteliers to give us rooms. It didn’t matter much to me – I was not so sure of my friend and his family in their vehicle, a few trucks behind. (Later, I was to learn, to a happy surprise, that we shared an interesting DNA for adventure — the matter for another post)

We of course, as you may have seen in the map in the earlier post, chose not to return by NH3, and chose to come through NH8 via Vadodra and Surat. The Indore-Bhopal highway, however, was a pleasure – a driver’s dream come true. Somehow, all through the trip though, a line of truck made our hearts sink, bringing memories of that Christmas night that we spent stuck for no reason. Luckily we didn’t encounter any jams as severe as the one on NH3. But it left a lasting impression.

Part frustration – part experiential. And while I am not sure how my other five co-travellers experienced it, I choose to remember the experiential part of it.

What’s an adventure, if you have already decided what to expect out of it.

Related Articles

• Life in 1732kms (gaizabonts.wordpress.com)
• Chinese Drivers Stuck in Traffic for Nine Days (athingforcars.com)

Life in 1732kms

Not that we live a life that is planned down to the last detail, but unplanned trips have a certain romance associated with them. To deliberately not plan infuses a certain mystery and adventure in a journey. After a very long time, I embarked upon such a trip, and had with me for company someone who had never done such a thing before. The enthusiasm on his part helped. Apart from the romance of discovery and surprise that unplanned trips have, there is a lot of learning that happens on the road. Often, from the dynamic sights and sounds that surround you as you drive; sometimes from being on a long empty road that clears your mind of the accumulated daily tinsel that you seldom sweep away. I had ample opportunity to absorb from the outside as well as see clearly through the things that had been made obscure by familiarity.

The last week of the year saw a few of us on the road. We drove a stretch of 1,732kms (that is 1,076 miles, for those of us still using the imperial system) to Central India, in the last six-and-a-half days. It is by far the longest I have done in a single trip.

I have started retracing that journey, filling it with the moments that we experienced all through, the first, basic trace below:

Mumbai > Nasik > Dhule > Julwania > Indore > Bhopal >Bhimbetka > Indore > Vadodra > Surat > Mumbai

At the start of the journey, I was concerned about my ability to disconnect from the world that I lived in. I often feel I have too many gadgets and connectivity means that might get in the way of living this week the way I had imagined it to be. I can now say, I succeeded to a good measure. There was a level of Facebook interaction, primarily for photo uploads. I realise though, I can easily do without it. (Note, for the next trip)

Driving is refreshing. Especially in India, where the landscape, food, vegetation, people, attire and colours change every two-hundred kilometres. I have some photos, but they can never do justice to what the eyes and your heart are able to absorb. The themes of experience were plenty and this one post can never do justice to all those themes. They’ll show up, soon.

I am glad I did this and even more glad that I had good company for every kilometre of the way.

Slow Drink

Today, I took the slowing down literally. Domestic urgency required me to get to Pune today, and I drove along the Expressway, as usual, and touched Pune in three hours.

It started raining as I was getting ready to come back to good-old Bombay. There was also a shower of warnings and caution. Drive safe, go slow, don’t speed and the like. As if it is statistically likely to have an incident when you are driving alone.

As it comes naturally to me, I expressed my drive as soon as I hit the Expressway; a few kilometres down, however, I slowed down. Really slowed down (within speed limits) Turned down the windows, allowed in the friction that I have so vehemently denied all these years. I selected the middle lane. I pumped up the volume to the music of Natarang, with a not very unusual bias to “Apsara Aali”.

Bliss.

It’s 6:44 in the evening. 24 degrees centigrade with an air-conditioner is very different from a natural 24 degrees centigrade. I lit up a slow cigarette, and invited the cool, moist wind to my car. The rain, it seems has limited itself to the municipal limits of Pune. The Expressway is dry. The sun is setting behind a cloud formation that attempts imitating the mountain peaks. It slashes dramatic golden streaks across the sky. Late-evening blue meets a last-minute orange shade of gold. Terminal sun-rays blast through the cloud — making gold everything that they can reflect off. I curse myself for not having carried my camera. Almost instantly, I congratulate myself for not bringing my camera. The viewfinder and the lens would have sucked this moment out of me.

Insurance products and home loans are the reason why we are unable to live in the moment.

Something that I read recently in Robert Genn’s post filled my car:

If your work depresses you, and depresses you more as you go, you need to get happy. Count your blessings. Count your winnings. Take a few minutes to fly the flag of optimism. I don’t know about you, but I often feel I’m getting drunk on a painting. It’s better to be a happy drunk than a mean one. ~ Robert Genn, The fine art of fooling around

I got drunk this evening on the images that surrounded me; on the sense of being that I had almost forgotten. It was a slow drink; each sip savoured so that it could last forever.

Elementary Schizophrenia

For a while now, I have stayed away from my schizophrenia posts. People have liked them, asked for more, yet it has been a while since I wrote those type of entries. A while is defined as eleven months. I wonder now, what makes people want to read this level of abstraction, for a post that is so personal, what is it in the post that they identify with. Words. Madness. Form, or the lack of it.

There’s water shortage in Mumbai. Yet abundant flowing water finds a way to push through the walls of my house and eyes that try hard to stay dry and strong. This month, the city lakes are full, my empty heart finds some happiness in that.

Disaster movies, I think, are a round-about way of making us respect natural powers. I think they only cause further fear. Of all the disaster movies that I see, the ones inspired by water are the most boring. I hate to sit through two-three hours of watching water wet the screen. The ones inspired by fire, are another thing altogether. Fire has an ability to reduce things to nothing.

I have seen fire at close quarters. I have fought with it, and I live under no illusion that I won against it. That day however, it was fire’s nasty cousin – smoke – that I was really up against. If the fire hadn’t chosen to retreat that early morning, I would have lost some things.

I have a love for mountains that I am unable to explain. I have often heard from folks about how the enormity of a mountain or the sea makes the human look so small and insignificant. Earlier, when I did not have an opinion about it, I approved; considered it to be a an interesting thought. Not anymore. I always feel I carry the enormity of nature within me, for only I can recognise it. To look at the mountain or the sea as a separate reality is to distance itself from you. If it’s within you, you are as significant as it is.

I loved the mountains the most on 8th December 2009 at 6:44AM. I embraced it with my heart. It held me in a tight bear hug. We had conversations as we watched the wonderful view. There was no awe, just love – infinite love.

I have promised myself a drive. A long one. It has yet to materialise. I’d like to go alone this time. I hate the rules that confine driving when I am with someone. Their rules. The need to get to a place, to eat at certain places, avoid night-driving, worst – to close the windows. I love the wind in my face. I’d like to keep driving, if only to feel the wind in my face.

The smell changing every ten kilometres or so. The branches swaying in slowmo. The musical wailing as it passes through ridges, valleys and over the plains into the mountains.

But I am where I am.

We never crave for proof of life. That’s an axiomatic assumption, if there is something like that, well-supported by philosophical premises and academic arguments. Standing on the top of a mountain, watching the sea below, the wind blowing against us, to kindle the fire within, and being where you should be – that, perhaps, is the proof of life.

The Evening Before Knopfler’s Night

Knopfler is on about the Christmas dance, Mr. McIntyre, and the fat girl that got left at the side. I am trying to relate to that song. I cannot. I don’t dance. Never have. At least not a dance that has a name and followers, anyway.

Tonight’s Knopfler Night, as I have called it. His voice doesn’t need your ears, it reaches straight into the heart. I have invited a few friends to share this voice. No one has accepted the invitation as yet. It will be an hour before I clear this damned traffic, hopefully some will have accepted by then. Unless they are in this same damned traffic.

Traffic has become a solace nowadays. It’s the place to be, yet be nowhere. Feels like Ruby Tuesday again, on a Friday. The abstract expression escapes me, however. Finding a romantic expression in dreadful situation is losing its romance.

Knopfler is saying something about the selves of books and the picture hooks and everything that is gone, but the heart, that still hangs on.

This is what they mean, perhaps, about being alone in a crowd. I never knew if it was supposed to be a good thing or a bad one. But I could get used to it. It’s almost an hour to yourself. Not having a driver is even better. You cannot fiddle and play with the phone or read a book. It is a complete escape. Zombie-like, sticking to one lane, thinking of Seth Godin’s Dip, it is almost like being in a train, with a car to yourself.

Knopfler is now claiming that he will get to where he will be eventually, while wondering if there is no forever, all the while insisting that true love will never fade.

Dreams are Made of These

It’s the October of 2007. I have been tagged. There is a bit of a history to the tag, but it seems I have delivered the tag pretty well. I start the tag with:

It’s a calming view.

The mountains and the faraway sea are deeply in love, quietly courting each other. The late afternoon sun gleams wide over the sea, spreading its warmth all over. The valley is a shade card of all the green and hay that you will ever see in your life. Little sparkling silver streams line the ridges of the mountains, playful and eager to trek downhill. The leaves on the tall trees that line the mountain walls are a lush green, fresh, wet from a recent rain. You are driving through the road, angle-sliced on the mountain’s slope, in your car, cruising at a comfortable uniform speed along the locus, lost in happy peaceful thoughts, one with yourself and with the world that allows you to be such. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the window, elbow sneaking out just that little bit, feeling the moist misty breeze. You almost don’t need to pay attention to the many curves, the slight turn on the steering comes to you naturally. The tag, as such, had nothing to do with travel, or driving, it was about writing. However, I did start off the way I did.

Kumbharli Ghat

Two years and four months later, this piece of fiction becomes reality. Almost. There was no rain. But the experience was intact. And in that, there was no transmission loss between the thought above and the experience I had, a couple of weeks ago.

We took a couple of days off and coupled them with a long weekend. Off to Chiplun for a couple of days and then to Panchgani for a couple and back to Mumbai via the NH4. While the entire journey was one of the most memorable, the highlight of this trip, was the crossing of the Kumbharli Ghat. Which, interestingly led us to the discovery that there isn’t a single-word equivalent in English, for Ghat. The closest you can say is – mountain road. You take the first left towards Karad when you enter Chiplun’s biggest cross-road island – Ambedkar Circle. For a while this road meanders through the town, and soon you are faced with a lofty soldier of the Sahyadri range that you immediately begin to climb on a good quality road, not like how I remember it from many years ago. The amazing views from here appear as if in slow motion and after a few minutes reach a breathtaking crescendo. You’d be tempted to stop, as I did, at the first possible option to breathe in as much of the freshness of the view that you can. You’d make the same mistake that I did. Not because what your eyes will see is disappointing, but because you will have to stop again, later. After you have travelled a third of this approximately 85 km stretch across the Sahyadris from Chiplun to Umbraj, you come at the most basic and most strategi-touristically located hotel and you will stop for tea. The tea is good too. At over 2,300 feet, tea does taste good, no matter what.

Hotel Valley View, ~ 2300ft, Kumbharli Ghat

After you have finished the tea, and reluctantly drag yourself back to the car, thinking it is now going to be all downhill any way (pun intended), there begins a bigger surprise. The rest of the road to Karad is bordered with beautiful farms and lovely trees bearing flowers in every shade of pink and red. With wonderful friends in the car, willing to enjoy as much of the drive as you, if not more, and stop as many times as you want, the flowers begin to look more colourful, the road becomes smoother, and the sun turns the dial to just about the right temperature of warm. It is an enchanting movie with varying landscape fleeting by you of mountains, hills, farms and flowers.

But this is it.

This is as much I can achieve as a travel-writer. I could write the piece above better, if I started questioning the raison d’être of every word and imagined the ride more dreamy and poured every possible diabetically romantic adjective in my cauldron in the travelogue.

Terrace Farming

But then, I wouldn’t be telling you the truth. And space-filling facts, I have none.

Because I hardly ever travel with a plan. Even to get the distances and the heights, I consulted Google Earth. I am of those that cannot enjoy travel if they know where they are going and when they are going to get there. I usually like to know that I have a place to sleep, somewhere on the way, though, there have been times, when I haven’t bothered about that either. This makes it difficult to travel with most folks. People have a plan in their mind – people decide what, how, when and where they are going to enjoy. Living the week with an agenda suffices my need to be in control. More than. And that is why, this peregrination was such a pleasure. All four of us were thinking alike (which means, we weren’t quite bothered about stuff). I have travelled with folks who have been so bothered with the destination, that they never did experience a journey. Some have slept through it. For some, like me, the journey is the destination.

Sunflowers, near Helwak

This blog’s slug is “Travel, life, thoughts, ideas, wish-lists, and everything else”. I have hardly written about travel, though. And it seems, with good reason. I am a rubbish travel writer. As an afterthought, I added “Thoughts, mostly.” Which is good, because I travel a lot in my mind and I can write about those travels. And, what I write, has the potential to be true, even if it is two years later.

And when such a thing happens, it is a wondrous experience!