The Manimahesh Experience

OF CREED
"Bhakti me hi shakti hai!" (there is great strength in worship)
I encountered these words many a times as I trudged up the high altitude mountains of Himachal Pradesh (HP) on Monday, September 13, 2010, with my two companions Anil and Bali, both volunteers with WWF. Several thoughts occurred to me in a flourish. They usually do when you're doing a monotonously strenous task like trekking up steep, rocky and unfriendly slopes.

My first was bewilderment. Believe me! The 14km trek to the religiously significant high altitude Manimahesh Lake, nestled at an altitude of 4,088 metres above sea level is no walk in the park. It is back-breakingly difficult! No amount of cycling, walking, doing stairs or dancing in the city can prepare you for this partially rocky, partially miry steep trekking route. On top of that, it rains non stop, making it colder. It's no fun to trek drenched and shivering. And still, people come. They are mysteriously drawn to this lake from Punjab, Jammu and HP, just to conquer its insane height and take a dip in the suicidal icy lake.

Old, tottering men and women who need assistance while crossing the street in their hometowns were climbing. Young, middle-aged, children, tall, thin, fat, barefooted - ALL were climbing. And for what??
FAITH.
But how could their faith be so incredibly complete that they can do what they do? "This is the same faith that compels them to kill as well," the thought ran through my brain and the cynic in me smirked. But only for a second. I watched old aunties overtake me (and that too barefooted sometimes or in delicate sandals). Mind you! Reebok does not get you a sexy butt or make your trek any simpler! I was put to shame at my relative incompetence, but I was left in awe at the same time. How did they do it??!!

I got my answer a little while later, about 4km from my destination camp, Gauri kund. Somebody tied lead blocks to my feet and lungs and I found myself dragging my body. I do not know how, but in that state of near collapse, my religion came to me. I'm not an atheist, but I'm not a religious person either. It's like I'm reminded of my religion under two circumstances - at Christmas and Easter, and when I'm in a soup. This instance of course, belonged to the second case. Not to forget the religious enthusiasm around me which was contagious.

I thought of Jesus Christ, the only character I like in Christianity. What I thought, felt and experienced next is too personal to recount but all I can say is that my belief that He was there with me, was comforting. It helped me ascend some of the toughest stretches on those uncordial mountains!

Faith is a strange thing. It makes a believer out of you. You just don't realise it until you are tested.

THE KACCHAR & I
It was my last resort. After 11km, I couldn't push myself to do any more. It was here that strength of mind, will power and faith failed, before a beyond exhausted body. So when I realised that I'd reached my limit, I shamefacedly asked my companions to get me a kacchar. These were being used by some of the other pilgrims and for the transportation of goods. As a virtue, I dislike riding on top of animals. I feel like I'm disrespecting them. But in that moment, it was either using my useless limbs to climb another 2km or spending the night in the cold dark mountains. Neither was an option.

I was worried. Not for myself but for the poor sould who would carry my weight on the tough landscape for 2.5km in the paling light around us. They brought a sweet looking white kacchar called 'Buggi'. Throughout the ascent, I feared for him. Luckily for him (and my conscience), I soon learnt the tricks to make it easier for him. Pay attention, you might be in the same situation someday.

So when climbing up a slope, keep your body weight forward. Similarly, while descending, pull back your weight. This helps any quadruped maintain its balance and lessens the strain on it. All through the journey, I ignored the gorgeous scenery around me. I barely glanced at the deep purple sky with the aesthetically carved half moon, and the sun setting amongst the distant valleys. My mind was fixed only on two things:
(i) Coordinating my body position according to Buggi's ascent and descent.
(ii) Staying on Buggi. His guide told me to imagine I was riding a bicycle and to balance myself accordingly.

There were times when Buggi preferred to walk on the relatively softer edges of the slope, leading me to tighten my hold, breathe faster and clutch on to my faith in the sure-footed animal I'd entrusted my life to. I kind of figured that he wasn't interested in rolling down the rocky slope and dying any more than I was.

We FINALLY reached, a deeply remorseful me, a very tired Buggi. I think I was more relieved getting off him than he was to let me off. The minute I touched ground, I sat down and took his head into my arms, fondling his face and ears, a silent apology. I felt so so sorry for making him go through that. I'd like to believe that he understood.

The two packets of biscuits in my bag that I'd saved for Buggi were received happily by him. I gave his guide an extra 50 bucks which delighted him. He took off with Buggi, promising to buy him chanas with the extra money.

I learnt something valuable, besides ensuring my fitness levels before embarking on a tough trek. Always trust your kacchar. He knows what he's doing.

LIFE IS A MOVIE
My train from Pathankot to Delhi was at 7:05 pm. After a late start that morning, attributed to the lack of proper public transport between Harsar (the starting point of the trek) to Bharmour (our base) and the last minute bus ride and some hitchiking thrown in, I was in a taxi racing towards Chamba. It was three hours from Bharmour to Chamba. From there, I was going to undertake a five-six hour bus journey to Pathankot, from where I'd catch my train. Taxis are rather expensive in the hills, so I couldn't do a taxi all the way.

I was tense. I could not afford to miss this train for it was my birthday the next day and nothing would be worse than to be stuck in Pathankot on it, alone. More than that, mum and all were busy making plans and I just couldn't disappoint them. I had to catch this train!

The driver was a decent chap called Anil. It seemed like everybody I met in HP was called Anil. He reassured me that he'd get me to the bus stop in time. He did. But I couldn't recognise the station as the one I got off at three days ago. He gave me his number (in case of emergencies) and drove off. I asked around frantically for an immediate bus to Pathankot. It was already a little more than 2pm and I had 5 hours more to go. I received the dismal information that buses to Pathankot from this station were infrequent. Merrily, someone told me to sit around and wait for the next bus at 4pm.

I scooped out my cellphone, called Anil right back to where he dropped me, breathed easy the minute I saw him, withdrew some extra cash and told him to take me all the way to Pathankot. There, we were set.

Errr.....not quite. Within half an hour, we got a severe puncture. It took 40 minutes and 4 guys to fix it, while I strolled around uneasily, feeling the tick tock of my watch throb in my veins. When we finally started off again, we realised that we had lost out on precious time. Nevertheless, Anil gave me hope. Hill people are either very optimistic or misleading. At the moment, I chose to believe the former.

We rollercoastered up and down the mountains, watching the sun bathed valleys zipping past. I usually enjoy natural beauty, but my restless mind had only one agenda. For more than two hours we travelled fast. And just when I thought we were close, it happened.

The front axel collapsed.

Right in front of a Wine and Beer shop in the middle of nowhere. When it happened and we crashed to a halt, the image of my train running past me flashed before my eyes. I was reminded of my last Jab We Met experience of December 2008 when I ran to catch my train to Bombay, which I would've easily missed had I not made a dogged dash for it.

We were 35km away from Pathankot, it was 6:15 or so. My train was at 7:05. The locals from the wine and beer shop came out in hordes to examine the incident and my driver looked hopelessly lost, for the first time. That's when panic kicked in. I couldn't believe this was happening to me!!! I mean, I did a crazy trek which had left my legs of little use (even now I was crawling like a tortoise), I hadn't had decent accommodation or a bathroom in days, my birthday was tomorrow, we already made a mistake with the Chamba bus station and survived a car puncture, and now this!!!!!

I looked around at the locals with pleading eyes, asking for solutions. A few drew out cellphones after consulting my driver and made calls to local taxi drivers. But these were either too expensive or would take more than 30 minutes to arrive. There was no question of banking on them. While hurriedly glancing all around for some solution to emerge from the wilderness around me, my eyes fell on a couple of motorbikes parked before the liquor shop. I immediately requested that the journey be completed on a two-wheeler since it was already available and just needed a driver. The men just laughed at the suggestion. They probably thought I was some chick from the city with a dozen pink suitcases in the car.

I marched to the car, my mind made up. Heaved on my heavy knapsack, grabbed my trekking stick (something I couldn't part with even after the trek was over) and my 2kgs of Himachali apples I'd bought for dad. I was ready for battle. When the men saw me approach like this, they suddenly changed their minds. Now it seemed possible for me to be dropped on a two-wheeler. They called out to someone I couldn't see, while I went and stood near a motorbike, waiting for the driver to come and swiftly deliver me to the station.

There arrived on a scene a lanky boy of about 17, pushing forward a dilapidated scooter from my grandfather's era. The smiling men from the liquor shop told me that these were to be my wheels and chauffeur. After a brief moment of reluctance, I threw practicality to the winds and jumped on to the scooter with some difficulty, owing to the burden on my shoulders. In one hand I clutched my stick, held in a way that it would not injure fellow motorists on the road, and in the other I held on to those dear apples, as if they were my way back to the Garden of Eden. The lanky boy got on calmy, put on his worn out helmet. I waved a smiling goodbye to Anil who looked so guilty, and a friendly wave to the men of the liquor shop who I'd never meet again, but who had so endearingly found a solution for a distressed stranger.

As we flew round curves and thundered through straight paths, I grew more impressed with Grandpa's scooter. Though I still feared something just might go wrong, as the pattern had been all day. I also imagined in some kinky part of my mind that we were being videotaped! That we were actually in a movie, playing a scene. It all seemed to fit. The dramatic disasters. The curious coincidence of our taxi breaking down right before a Wine and Beer Shop. Had it been in the wilderness, it would've been a dead end. The strange, yet helpful people from the liquor shop, for whom this probably added some excitement to their routine. The ancient scooter, the lanky driver who I feared might fly off with the wind that hit us. And me, the most dramatic of all. Hair tied up hastily in a bun, red jersey, blue jeans, agitated demeanour, gigantic bag on her back, balancing it somehow on the back of the scooter, a sturdy stick on one side and some apples on the other. Wow! Now that's a sight you don't get to see everyday. You'd probably catch that in some freaky movie, giving me enough reason to believe for a moment that I was in a movie!

While expecting the scooter to break down any minute, I discoverd that my driver (/rider, whatever) was a little ill at ease. I was right about his helmet being worn out because the clasp that is fastened under to chin to keep it on the head was broken. So everytime, we reached Superman speed, he'd have to repeatedly press the helment down to his head to keep it from flying off. I could NOT have anything distract him from his single purpose in life - to drop me to Pathankot station. So my stick was transferred to my left hand which also held my apples. My free right went on top of his head and there it stayed for most of the journey. Many a passerby must have got his/her share of entertainment that day.

Eyes watering, right hand numb, phone buzzing in my pocket and no courage to look at the watch, we made it. We touched the station at 6:40pm. I don't know in how much time we covered 35km! I stumbled off the scooter, happy, breathing at a sane rate and laughing. If it had not been for my manners and the prospect of scaring a local Himachali boy out of his wits, I restrained from throwing my arms around his neck in an affectionate strangle. I thanked him five times before ambling towards my platform, enjoying the sudden luxury of extra time, knowing that I would be home for sure the next day to enjoy a happy happy birthday.

I wondered if the camera was still on me, recording my movements now that the excitement was over. I don't know about you all, but if this movie ever came out in the cinema halls, I'd sure go and watch it!

Commonwealth Gone.....

I think it was the cynicism and scepticism that the media bred like mosquito eggs and released into the main stream. And we took it in.

Sure there were problems with the Games. The corruption, the conspiracies, the half finished flyovers, the pot holes in new ones, the apparent incompetence, yellow lanes and traffic woes - everything seemed wrong about the Games. The media left everyone asking, "Why the hell did our people even agree to do them here??" And we were happy in our little world of indignance and criticism.

But they did it man! They pulled it off just fine. No one died. No bombs. No terrorist attacks. Only games, and of course a lot of sex on the sly, but yeah, no one died.

And as I stood on my terrace, watching the fireworks rise above the stadium which was so so close and yet so far from me, something inside me woke up. I woke up to the realisation that an event of this magnitude just took place in Delhi, and may never happen again in my lifetime, and I wasn't a part of it. I didn't bother to be a part of it. Yeah so I scrambled for tickets for the closing ceremony and wanted to watch at least one match, but I didn't put in any effort. I let the media mislead me.

And in that moment when fireworks rose in the helicoptered sky, I wished so much to be inside that stadium, to have been part of something so important in my city. Then Aashruti said, "You know, we've become so self-involved in our lives and work, that we let this pass."

That's when I woke up.

The Hunt

The word 'hunt' exudes this sense of anxious search, a desperate search.
But why?
A fear that the world will move past while you still sit alone at parties, smiling, trying to enjoy the music and buzzing banter?
The wistful walk through the park with your fingers longing for another's?
Clenched tight in the silent re-affirmation of love and security.
Someone to sink into and lose yourself for a while.
Someone to share moments that become special when it is that person you're sharing with.
Someone you can sit next to for hours without feeling the need to talk. No empty silences.
A hunt for that someone who probably comes only once.
A tough hunt, a near impossible hunt.
But as Murphy likes it, you never end up getting what you're on a hunt for.
The minute you stop at the side to catch your breath, worn out and dejected,
Someone lands right into your lap.

Contentment - The Elusive Bunny

I never seem to be content.
When I have purple, I want green.
When I have green, I want orange.
And when I fight the whole world just to attain orange, I realise that all along I wanted purple.
This is the kind of dilemma that can enter your brain and fry it.
And eat it too.
My brain is burning, and so is peace.
Peace burns before my eyes.
While I stand and wish I could've touched it just once before the flames embraced it.
Maybe nothing in this world is right.
Maybe a dilemma is simply a conflict between neutral ideas. And because they seem neutral, it becomes all the more difficult to choose. And sometimes, I can't choose because I know that whatever I do choose, will not keep me happy for long. That I will run out of contentment.
I'm tired. Really.
Especially of this temporary contentment that sets in with great gusto.
Before I move on to cribbing and grousing, making myself utterly miserable by my hopeless pursuit of perfection.
And this is what keeps me miles away from happiness.
This pursuit of perfection.
Practice makes perfect. And perfect makes life hell.
For me and everybody who has to endure me.

I wish I could live on an island and teach myself what many have sought to learn before.
This search is not new.
It is for that elusive bunny.
Who bounds and cackles and hops away.
Amused by me.
As I clutch at it with anxious and hopeful hands.

Songs of the Past

Walking down the street,
Colours of the day seem familiar,
They were the same when we were together,
That very fragrance surfing upon the breeze.
And to top it all,
That song.
When it begins playing now, you say to yourself,
"Nah it couldn't be....or could it....oh....yes, that's the one!"
The notes are back,
And like dancing artists,
They sketch the face of someone to who the song belongs, forever.
Flashes of times long gone,
And then a smile,
Happy that it happened,
Sad that it's over.
But the song remains, painting,
Filling in the colours of that melodious moment into the present.
The mind remembers the music,
And how it brought close people,
Who may not be close anymore.
It could be anyone,
A billion songs for a billion people,
Everyone has a song they'll be remembered by,
You may fade from memory when you're gone,
But the song will bring you back,
It is the only thing you leave behind in this world.

Men

I don't understand them.

I hate 'Needing'

It's not good to want and need things. It leaves you very discontented with yourself.
What you already have in your life, starts seeming little and insignificant.
This is not good.
There is so much to complain about!
But why?? I'm now complaining about complaining. How silly I am!

Early morning dragged myself out of bed after a late night of two beers and blaring music.
Got to write. And it's important. This is something I 'need' to do. But this need is alright. It's probably attached to a purpose which is what makes it justified.
What about the other needs but? How do I solve that puzzle. I can live without a lot of things. I've done it before and I can do it again, but it's getting harder with age I presume.

At 18 I was impatient, at 25 I'm anxious.

I wish I could be a Chris Mccandless, wild and free of want and need. He taught himself to live without 'needing', which is why he could detach himself so easily from people and things. He was truly free. But it's a tough one, this situation, where you need, but you don't want to need. You know what I mean? You want to live without but a part of you feels you cannot.

And all that remains is that need. Unfulfilled.

Moving On

It's possible.
I've seen it happen, too often than I'd like to, but yeah. Everyone does it. All it takes is a huge padlock on the door to that part of your mind. Once the door is locked, no thoughts come out, no thoughts go in. It's locked forever. And then the wait begins. The wait for the day when you can go back, courageously unlock the door, pull it open on its rusty hinges and stand and stare defiantly at the several corpses shrivelled in the corners of the room. They gnaw at you no more. Mission accomplished. The thoughts are dead and that part of your mind will never breathe again.

This death is called moving on....

Moving Out

I did it!
And hell it wasn't easy!
Indian women aren't supposed to do that you know. I found out. But somehow, anything that has a "supposed to" attached to it loses my interest faster that a jet plane. So I'm the black sheep now, ousted from the family for taking my life in my own hands and paving a path for myself which wasn't trimmed by others. They don't want me back. Well, I say, you can't get rid of me that easily! I may have gone, but I certainly haven't gone.

Tell me, why do you have to wage a world war to get what makes you happy? And most unfortunately, against people you love and who claim to love you??? Why do you have to fight so hard to be free, to just let be? I always knew that freedom came at a price, but I see a lot of other people enjoying it without paying a dime. A wise man often told me, "Good things in life never come easy." You're damn right! So far, nothing's been coming easy to me for a long long time. Or maybe it just seems long because it's tough and tough times just seem so long. Ah well, you know what I mean.

I have a small place. Nothing fancy. It's not even completely my own because the landlord and lady live nextdoor and there's no way I can avoid bumping into them everyday. They've been rather sweet so far. But that scares me too. What if that sweetness becomes stifling someday and the same things that I was seeking to escape cling on to me with a vengeance??

There's a lot of work to do to make the little space I call home, a home. The personal touch needs to come and the rules of privacy need to be established and understood by people around me. But I'm tired. However, the only thing that has kept me going are my friends. If it hadn't been for this wonderful gang of insane women, I'd be so alone. You need an alternate support system when your first one walks away in anger.

Sometimes, I'm too tired to even feel sad or maybe it's the other way around.

All I know is....I'm free. And at the end of the day, in spite of my occasional loneliness, my perpetual impoverishment, my struggles, dejection and constant rejection by the family, I am happy. For myself. And that's all that matters. Because if I don't look out for myself, who will?

It keeps playing, in the back of my mind......"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose..."

25

The quarter life crisis as they call it. What does it mean? Is my life really divided in parts? Has anything changed since I leapt from the other side of the cliff to this one? Have I become older? Will the aging process that most of us live in dread of, begin showing its ugly signs? Will I lose my youthfulness, my spirit, that spring in my step, my valued spontaneity? Will I now start thinking twice before doing what I like doing? Is now the time for marriage proposals to come streaming in, making me uncomfortable? Am I marked out more visibly now as a ripe (soon to be over-ripe) product in the market? Is my new name 'aunty' till the day I die? Will my pride in my sexuality and the expression of it now be seen as horny, sleazy and slutty?

I ponder. It frightens me sometimes, thinking of how things will tranform. How my skin will sag, how my knees will give in and I will be able to run or dance no more. How I shall be expected to dress according to my age - in dull pastel shades of sarees and salwar kameezs - whether I like it or not. If I don't marry till I'm 30, will I be shoved into the 'unwanted woman' drawer, where perhaps many files will be lying just like mine? If I flirt with boys younger to me, will I be called 'Desperate Aunty' and if they flirt with me and I welcome their interest, will I be tagged as a paedophile? If I squeeze into that tight dress and go clubbing, dancing with a glass of rum in my hand, will I seem disgraceful and dishonourable? What if I'm 35 and alone? No love, no companionship, and most of all, no space for a grown up woman to be herself and to hold on to her youth, slipping from her wrinkly fingers. What if being young is a characteristic trait and not a phase of life? What if she can still enjoy an ice cream at 40 and yearn for it like a child? How can you extract that trait as you age when it's a part of you? Then it probably just trickles down to a battle against societal norms to defend something that it savours taking away from you - the privileges of the young.

I am scared. But what comforts me is that I'm not the only one out here.