The Backpacker

This is the closest you can get to a mountain without actually climbing it. Well, many like to keep it that way, I did too, but it was when climbing mountains did not feature prominently on my list of priorities.

 

Once in Darjeeling, it is a crime for any visitor to miss the Toy Train. It is a wonderful way to see and feel the hills. Nestling in the foothills of the Himalayas (north east India) with the Mt Kanchanjunga looking down lovingly upon the bright green tea gardens, it can best be described “enchanting.” I have not figured out what I loved more__ the train, the green or the mountains.

 

But what I did love was riding on the engine!! Oh, people here do it all the time. Here it is not something to be proud of. You can sip tea and chat with the driver as the engine smokes and groans uphill. Or you can do a jig on the top of the train. If you are not properly clothed, it helps keeps the body warm.

 

This tiny wonder begins at New Jalpaiguri in the warm plains. Best to start here and make your way up 90 km to Darjeeling. There are numerous stations along the way, all small and picturesque, but the Pagla Jhora (Mad Torrent) took the cake.

 

Here the tiny train stopped for water. Not to be outdone, people got off too, in a mad rush to get to the fiery torrents. The driver told me in the monsoons the stream swelled up and was capable of washing off the train and the railway line itself. He told me how he had once nearly been swept away when he stepped into the stream for a wash. I believed him. I dislike unpredictable, destructive streams too and did not venture near it.

 

Twice I raced with the school children alongside the train and lost while the train continued on its way. The children skipped school to pit themselves against the train which moves roughly at the speed of 10 kmph and win every time. I wondered if all they had to do was put the train to shame, they might have raced the Shatabdi in the plains. But the toy train, mature with age and experience, continued its way slowly unmindful when people got off and went away to buy tea and re boarded it at their own pace.

 

I did that thrice without once missing it. Then it dawned upon me that I was walking alongside the rain more than riding in it. Finally I sat by the engine and spoke to the driver. We passed through Senchel Reserve forest with oaks, chestnuts, walnuts, magnolias, rhododendrons. Nothing can beat the beauty of flowers in bloom. Here is the Tiger Hill with the best view of the sunrise, but I got there only a day later. The scenery is ‘breathtakingly’ beautiful. When I craned my neck to see the bottom of a ravine and could not see it, I knew what that word meant. It shakes your belief in the English word. Here you learn to associate the word with ‘fear’ too.

 

The train is also pretty accommodative. As it passes Jorebunglow, a small town, the roads are narrow with traffic jams and the nice train stops to let it pass and sometimes even backs up a little. A well taught lessen in humility, I thought. It was after this we reached Ghoom the highest point of the journey at 2260 m before beginning the descent to Darjeeling.

 

Darjeeling: The best place to have TEA. What more. Every journey is rendered unforgettable when there is good potable tea. Here in the cradle of tea destination, I had no complaints. It was cold that November evening and luckily accommodation was available. If the heaters in the lodges do not work, you can walk around the whole night, not because there is nothing to take you from point A to B except your feet, but because if you are looking for someone to set the heater right, you are looking in the wrong place. Even in the worst of times, no one comes along to help. At best you can get another blanket.

 

But take my word. Darjeeling is mind blowing. Darjeeling is beautiful.

 

Walking is the best options here, you head nowhere unless you are climbing up or climbing down. There is nowhere else to go. Also here I visited the Buddhist monastery for the very first time. Suffice to say I considered this a very important step in eternal salvation!!!

 

The Mall Road (I note with satisfaction that all hill stations in India have one) are alive with colourful prayer flags fluttering in the cold winds. That lends an aura of peace and does much for the tired soul.

 

From here the mountains appear to be within touching distance. But do not begin walking towards it. Easier it would be to walk the tea garden and imagine the stars of Indian cinema sing their way into the hearts of delicate heroines. You can do that too, there is something about the air that will make you want to do so.

 

However do not scare the women picking tea leaves. It is bad for the TEA!!!

 

 

 

How to get there:

Air: Kolkata or New Delhi to Bagdogra and from there by taxi or jeep.

Train: Kolkata (Sealdah station) to New Jalpaiguri. Jeep/taxi or Toy Train to Darjeeling.

Life has a funny way of throwing surprises. It is a good teacher, even better than Ms Emilda Pintos and Celine Pais'

in school. Likewise, Life came knocking the morning I headed to Rishikesh.

 

"What is your spiritual agenda?" it asked me. I should say I was glad it had not asked me the chemical formula for spiritual enlightenment. "Why, nothing," I replied, boarding the bus at the ISBT (Dehradun). "You must have a purpose," Life continued. "Rishikesh must not be taken lightly."  Few days ago as I had begun my journey from Bangalore, my mind had come close to asking me the same things. Life was doing it again. Now it was behaving like my moral science teacher, god bless her soul, who always began the class with a purpose. 

 

"You must observe the spiritual code," continued Life as the bus edged out. I handed out money for the ticket when the driver, just short of running into an auto-rickshaw, slammed on his brakes. I hate being tossed about and therefore let a curse escape my lips. The conductor who had never encountered swearing backpackers frowned deeply. When he held out the change, his manner had changed. It was cold. 

 

The gods were looking after us that morning and we reached Hrishikesh (uneventfully) as it was stirring to life. In the background misty green hills rose sharply into the skies. The first rays of sunlight cut through the fog and kissed the calm surface of the river Ganga and I caught a brief glimpse of goddess Ganga rise from her watery abode before disappereing into the golden rays of sunlight. A bell sounded somewhere in the background and suddenly Life touched everything in Rishikesh. The transition was magical.

 

What struck me was the aura. There was something beyond the ordinary here, a sense of calm prevailed above the din of the everyday life. All you had to do to find peace was look into yourself. It was easy actually. Rishikesh taught you how.  

 

In that brief moment I was lost in a magical world, tourists appeared from nowhere, fighting for space everywhere with the locals looking for a quick bargain, (here I learnt later there was always bargain), rishis and sadhus in saffron robes and vermillion smeared on their foreheads went about chanting. Temple bells began to ring all at once announcing the dawn of the day. Cats, dogs, cows and monkeys fought for right of way with the beggars on the narrow Ram Jhoola. (This narrow suspension bridge, like Lakshman Jhoola, is the high point of attraction in Rishikesh. A lot of activity is undertaken on this bridge, begining with feeding the fish and arguing with beggars and scooterists). 

 

I crossed the bridge, well nearly, before I bumped into a goat. The young owner looked so happy to have run his animal into me that he offerred me his name. Ram Bharose, he said with relish, waving his tattered cap expansively. (Ram Bharose later follwed me to Laxman Jhoola with his goat, chatting and chasing monkeys.) 

 

The goat was I should say, a harmless version of fun in the form of "python balls" that waited for me on the other side. Women looking for a quick laugh thrust them at me and giggled at my discomfort. (I wondered why they singled me out in the first place. Heck, I must have looked like a scared backpacker!!) But my knight Ram Bharose rescued me from their evil plot came with a mere lifting of eyebrows. He shooed them away but not before speaking his mind.

 

The three of us walked to Lakshman Jhoola because no one agreed to give the poor goat a ride. It is a hard walk though, full of people, scooters and animals. We made a sight and several foreign tourists even took our pictures. Ram Bharose and his goat stopped to pose everytime a camera clicked. 

 

I must have fallen in love with Rishikesh standing right there on the jhoola. Some divine energy seemed to propell me and without knowing I made way to the nearest ashram and booked a three day stay. Bidding goodbye to Ram Bharose was the saddest thing to do. The goat rubbed herself against me, trying to say goodbye. I should have cried had she bleated. I hate the mournful bleating of goats.    

 

In the evening I got hungry. ll the "masala papads" and "poha" had melted away. The air here works wonders on the appetite. I sought a restaurant and was disappointed. Rishikesh has plenty of fish in its waters but none on the menu. Not even an egg. Even the egg knows it must keep away, lest it adultrate the pristine environs which leaves very little chance for the meat to make an appearence. I thought the meat cared little about committing blasphemy. Apparently no one was taking any chances. (Actually the vegetarian food was not bad at all)

A dip in the Ganga was enough to show me what the rishis have called "freedom." Nothing mattered, nothing but the peace and the cleansing of the soul. But a cuppa tea by the road was in order because cold winds had suddenly sprung down the hills chilling my bones.

 

There was a lot to see and feel. I spent two days trekking around. Next day I joined a group of tourists on a 12 km walk to Nilkanth Mahadeo temple at a height of 5000 feet, commanding spectacular views of the region. There have been interesting stories about this place, none which I remember anyway.

 

The numerous temples kept me busy the whole of day three, while I was not striking a bargain with the locals over sea shells, stones, holy vermillion and clothes.

 

I am sure I left a huge part of me behind when I left Rishikesh. I certainly felt much lighter.  

Everyone follows their spiritual agenda when they visit a holy place. But I had none. How could I? A backpacker does not (and I think should not) follow an agenda. It takes away the appeal. What little sense of devotion I did have, quickly disappeared when a sea of beggars surrounded me at Haridwar, in north India.

 

 

Shooing away persistent beggars was enough to convince me that for a place that served as the gateway to heavens, there seemed much lacking in way of prosperity. Had I not had a little sagacity I should have burst out laughing. As it is, my mouth twitched dangerously when a sad looking soul told me how he had found peace and joy on the banks of the river. (Literal translation of the word Haridwar means God’s door)

 

 

Here, in the plains, river Ganga gushes mightily and people eager to wash away their worldly sorrows, gingerly steps down to touch its waters taking care not to be swept away with the currents.

 

 

I belonged to that category of people looking for quick remedies to be rid of their sins and therefore made haste to the make peace with the holy river. But people do not let you do so easily. First they insist on giving you a glass of “milk” to offer to the river, some perky girl presses “sandal paste’ on your forehead, a passing ‘yogi’ sells you a ‘prayer bead’ and if you are lucky you can get away without having to see the entire town, complete with its hotels and temples on some postcard. When I finally knelt on the banks, I half resembled a “yogi” if you could ignore the sun glasses and the occasional frown.

 

 

The place is noisy, crowded and colorful. But you must not confuse a holy place with a place where no dishonesty exists__ especially if you are alone and want to be photographed. Some quick thinking yogi can easily convince you of his photographic skills and melt away into the crowd with your camera while you are arranging your hair. If you can ignore all this, Haridwar is delightful. Life passes by without much effort and river Ganga has that magical rhythm which serves as a balm on fraught nerves.

 

Later I had a run in with a monkey.

 

 

It so happened that, a cable ride away I arrived at Mansa Devi temple, perched high on a green hill, home to many monkeys. These monkeys have claimed that part of the earth and diligently guard their territory. After paying my respects at the many statues, I decided to enjoy some sticky ‘gulab jamoon.’ (a well known Indian sweet) when a monkey decided I had overstayed my welcome. He sat on the window sill and stared. If you have ever been stared at by a monkey, you will know what I mean.

 

 

I never imagined such concentrated hatred could manifest itself in something as innocent as the monkey-eyes. He stared and then made a face. First he curled his lips slightly revealing a row of tiny white teeth. If it had not been for his eyes, I could have mistaken that for a smile. Then without a warning, he bared his molars (I suppose monkeys have molars too!!) dangerously sharp and produced a hollow sound.

 

 

I made my first mistake. I grabbed my camera. The monkey, all his etiquettes thrown to the wind, just shut up!!! He looked at peace with the world and even adjusted his position in a way of posing for a photograph. Well, what good is a monkey that looks like a role model for discipline?

 

 

Then I made the second mistake. I made a face at him. Well, I never made the third because by then I had been fleeing down the steps (I did not think of the cable car either) with a vicious monkey o my heels. He never got to me of course because (by some divine intervention) I had the good sense to hurl the gulab jamoon at him, it caught him on the face and he was lost in its sweetness.

 

 

I cooled my heels in the Ganga again before wandering about inspecting strange looking shells and beads and munching on sugarcane.

 

 

Haridwar hold a special place in my heart because of its aura. It is the right place for one to discover the self. Even in the midst of the humdrum of daily life, there is an underlying sense of calm. Here people live and die, happy in the knowledge that they have touched the door of heaven atleast once in their lifetime.

When I think of you, I know

Life is beautiful and true

Like the golden sunlight

Dancing off the morning dews

When I think of you I know

It is Love I feel

and touch, when the night breaks

Into cool silvery breeze

When I think of you, I know

That Love does exist

In smiles, in tears

And even amidst a million fears

How many of you can resist the smell of frying fish? For a start :  Not me. I am fish-person. 

 

 

Therefore, Gopalpur-on-Sea becomes a place hard to resist. The name sounds suspiciously like Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in the cold west: but say no more. This one is a pristine stretch of sea in Orissa in Eastern India which I discovered because the train to Howrah developed a fault at Berhampur after huffing its way from Chennai. Naturally I had to take a different train back, abandoning the idea of continuing north after having a fill of the sea and fish.

 

 

I worship the sea. And even the journey to the exotic northeast India cannot keep my nose from twitching mischievously when there is a sea within sniffing distance. A short ride later (16 km) we arrived, my nose and I, looking for some fun and fish. But yes, to savour the fish, you must walk through old warehouses, godowns and decaying fishing boats to reach tiny hotels held by vines and planks but which when up and bustling become the hub of activities including swapping tales of the seas.

 

Here people do not think of frolicking on the sands. They either eat fish or spend their time in introspection. I should have guessed because even the dogs and cows quietly rested on the warm sands not moving when I rested myself against it. The dog however gave me a look and letting out deep sighs went back to his meditation. Apparently everyone here believed that the only way to stay away from committing a sin was to remain idle.

 

Gopalpur, once a humming sea port now catered to the soulless wanderers offering in large measure, sand and serenity. One can still see the crumbling walls and pillars of the jetty, witness to its past glory of commercial activity, far removed in spirit and vitality from the nearby towns.

 

It is admittedly laidback, including the coconut palm that was plain lazy and did not shake down a fruit when I got thirsty. However there was one small exception: the sand dunes. They shifted and took on various dimensions with the change of tide. In fact they were the only things with some life in them. That was when I developed a strong bond with the sands…and the waves. They moved.

 

You can forget (that’s the right word) yourself at Gopalpur and have a lovely, lazy time. Sleepy lagoons and tiny creeks are all but a part of the giant picture designed to lull you into a world of peace. But if you are bored with being lazy you can climb the ancient lighthouse and watch the blue waters shoot up several feet high. There is only so much relaxing one can handle.

 

I heard from a fisherman that a vibrant place named Taptapani existed few miles away, which he thought suited my spirit. How could I thank the wonderful man? “Buy me fish” he said. Apparently, the fisherman had lost his touch!! Taptapani (67 kms away) stood up to its name. the waters were indeed hot!! Imagine having to soak in the hot water springs to work away the relaxation!! But after the indifferent animals at Gopalpur, even the hot water springs seemed welcoming.