A Rainbow At the End Of The Road

                                                   

A neonatologist M, a writing mentor K, an on-the-verge-of-published-writer-now-published R, a trained singer cum linguist Kay, an ace blogger Mr P and an anxious traveler vacillating between motion sickness and absorbing the landscape Me. Apart from the common destination of a writer’s retreat in the Himalayas ( sounds exotic? It was!), we had one tendency in common. It was the penchant for bursting into a song in all possible scales and tune trajectory with any uttered word. The second common factor though was a nightmare, Mr P hadn’t bargained for as if being the lone representative of his kind wasn’t bad enough. 

 The six of us began our drive from Haridwar to Guniyala, a sleepy hamlet in Pokhari tehsil of Uttarakhand. It was pitch dark at five in the morning as the vehicle left Haridwar and moved through the Rajaji National Park. Five heads lolled from side to side trying to catch up on remaining sleep before the sun peeped up over the rolling peaks. But apart from the driver Karan, K wouldn’t  retreat into slumber. She had been on this route umpteen times to know every bend, every bush, every tree en-route. It was a wonder she did not stop every now and then to say hello to the landscape and all the mobile  and immobile denizens of the countryside.

“People! You have to be alert now because we are going to come across that first view of the river Ganga as we begin our climb. It is one of the most ...” she goes on sitting at the edge of her seat straining against window pane.

No response from the other five sleeping members. Me, I was having a hard time holding back the contorting stomach that threatened to spill out and spread embarrassment.

“The best thing I like about this journey is how you get to see the Ganga in all her moods..” K was at it, exhorting, cajoling and reprimanding us in turns for the lack of enthusiasm.

All she received was appropriate interjections of polite grunts and sighs . And then I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please stop the car…”

I just about managed to bend over the edge of the road. By the time we reach the first pit stop we had stopped once more, no thanks to me. Furniture were still being dusted, some shutters were yet to be heaved up. Worried at how was I to reach Guniyala without inviting the looks of disdain  from my co passengers, I joined the others in strolling over to the other side of the road.

                                                    

First Pit Stop And First Glimpse

                                        
That is one vision guaranteed to infuse energy and well being in any traveler! We drank in the rushing water of the river running along in the morning silence and bird songs blowing in the breeze! We waited and watched the birds dip and glide over the water, perch on the branches on the banks. Waiting for our breakfast to arrive, fiery red specks of palash on the corrugated roof of the shop across the road caught my eye. Yesterday’s flowers had given way to new blossoms marking the beginning of a new cycle. A change with every turn of the wheel.

                                

Palash On Roof

When we took off again, sunshine had wriggled its way into our vehicle. Conversations picked up, eyes moved out to drink in the passing landscapes and I was strapped in as the co-driver. Mentally I had picked up some dust from the front CEAT tyres and touched it to my forehead. A trick I was taught long ago by a kind driver on our way to Shillong. Just another one of those rituals they believed in, like reversing if a cat crosses the road or saluting the steering wheel before switching on the headlights when  dusk creeps in. He believed the dust from the wheel stopped the motion sickness. By now I was desperate to try out anything.

A quick stop at Teen Dhara, just short enough to gulp down a glass of its famed masala nimbu paani, is a ritual any traveller on this road vouches for. Just like the sheds selling Maggi in most mountainous trails. Somehow Maggi never tastes the same in the plains. We were making steady progress with Karan's consistent driving skills. He was not in a hurry to reach our destination which gave us ample relaxed nerves to enjoy the scenario with our hearts and stomachs very much in their rightful places. Quiet in contrast to some others zipping on the curves. We were secured enough to belt out one song after the other. Driving is an art really.There is to be just the right amount of pressure on the brakes anticipating a break in the speed, the smooth shift of gears, the build up of the speed and sticking to the permissible limit. Ask me.The slightest  inconsistency has me throwing up especially the clutch- brake dreadful duo, lurching the vehicle in jerks and spurts. A smooth drive is when the passenger's mind takes off from the road and spreads itself in the surroundings, conscious of thoughts rising up one after the other.

                                               

Devprayag

We stopped once again. This time to peer down at Devprayag, the first of the Panch Prayag in Uttarakhand. A temple stood at the confluence and its steps led down to the merging waters of the Alaknanda and Bhagirathi rivers. Watching the two Himalayan Bulbul perch on a frail branch, I realized there is something calming about gushing water of a river. The tiredness, the anxiety seemed to ebb away and join the waters down below and the river bundled them up before carrying them away from me. This break proved to be wise in more ways than one. K suggested I take the wheel and give Karan a break much to the consternation of the others including Karan although he kept the perfect poker face. We still had a long way to go, another hundred kilometers or so, and I did not seem reliable exactly. On hilly terrains the time can stretch way beyond what is accepted in the plains including the hazards of stopping at every picturesque bend.


                                      

Himalayan Bulbul And Alaknanda

                                            

The wheels so far had filled me with dread as to how was I to survive the trip. It had me wondering about the return trip so much at the end of three days, that I had a good mind to rent a hut there on the hill top forever. But the wheels under my control now filled me confidence, letting me enjoy the show. I chipped in with my share of the tuneless singing along with the more tuneful ones. That’s when the thought struck me! Here I was, away from my family, away from all the domestic issues, on a road trip with acquaintances turning into friends and travelling without any roles attached. With every turn of the wheel was a revelation waiting to be explored. Each of us is born tough, we only had to rediscover this mantra.


                            

Layers And The Flow

Gradulally the road liberated me and the CEAT tyres turned the way I steered. A white blinding patch caught our attention and we decided to stop. Reaching the destination was no longer a priority. We did not want to miss anything the journey offered. We were collecting gems for posterity. It was a stretch of river beach, pristine in its white sands. From the water rose  a few boulders, sunning themselves in the blazing sunshine, displaying with pride each layer it had accumulated over the ages, holding its own even in the flowing water. I could have sat there for hours together, just watching the river and the rocks.

                             

Lofty Himalayan Peaks From Guniyala

The songs came in wild abandon from behind. I was a happy traveler now but also focusing on the road. With my liberation from misery I also had a responsibility of ferrying my friends in safety. Karan, much experienced on this route, in the co driver’s seat was stable and alert. Whenever the traffic increased near little towns I followed his calm gestures to avoid tricky spots. How the weather had changed since morning in this moving vehicle! By the time we wound our way up to Guniyala, the mountains changed for me. It opened its arms and stretched out to reveal the lofty peaks of Badrinath and Kedarnath. It revealed a rhododendron forest, a grand show of thundershower and a spectacular burst of the rainbow! That is how I have remembered this trip ever since - the rainbow at the end of the road.

                         

‘I’m chronicling my road trip adventure for CEAT Tyres in association with BlogAdda.’

Meditation On A Drive

                                             

     It was those bunched up bright yellow pumpkin flowers that made me stop. Dipped in rice flour paste and deep fried , the ronga lau phulor bor were a delicacy that hadn't touched my taste buds for many years.   Rumu, whose cab we had hired for the journey from Goalpara to Guwahati, indulged and let me reinstate  my connection  with the land that never ceases to fill me with a warm feeling. The overcast sky threatening to pour down notwithstanding, the car came to a halt .

       This Deobariya Haat, the  Sunday market  somewhere between Boko and Soigaon took me back to another era when these were the only produce we would see. Available in accordance to the seasons, tasting right just then. A common utterance during meal times comes to mind reiterating the importance of seasonal fruits and vegetables,

“ Botoror pasoli  khabo lage…”

So we were told when the nose screwed up at the sight of gourds, gourd shoots, tender drumsticks, ripe jackfruits and all those vegetables and fruits that seemed unpalatable.  The produce of the land is ready to be consumed only at a particular time of the year because that is when it is full of virtues that benefit the body and yield best to those discerning sensors in the tongue. The colours, the sights and sounds of this little bazaar where the fresh seasonal produce of the nearby villages are brought, were a treasure of long forgotten fruits and vegetables. Where it was a part of monotonous lives in the smaller places, chancing on it was like an excitement of discovering  what was thought to be long lost.

          These little markets that spring up along the highway are the best places to source from.  Squatting in colourful mekhelas, the bright faces of the local Rabha and Garo women glisten and glow. The fresh ghost chillies that the world is raving about, tender ferns, cucumbers , banana flowers, bamboo shoots and gourd shoots, those fragrant kaji lemons… and that maddening aroma of pineapples. All organically grown. All arranged in little heaps, in groups and the larger ones kept in singles to be sold thus and not by the scales. You have not tasted pineapples unless you have walked past some of those from the Garo hills. Relishing them begins from the sweet aroma that they tantalise you with. A nick with the knife and a burst of juice trickles down. The best way to get them ready is to wash and remove the peel, core out the 'eyes', salt and wash them and then cut them into chunks over a plate or a bowl so you don’t waste the juice.

                                   

  Incidentally, this is a market where the vendors are women barring aside one or two. These Garo and Rabha women are said to be extremely hard working and enterprising , threw in Rumu as we continued our journey with our fresh vegetables in the boot of the car. He elaborated that these women are up at daybreak tackling the household chores, tending to the livestock, the vegetable patches and field. Whereas majority of the menfolk awaken just before the sun touches the zenith and nurse their homemade liquor through the day between spurts of work.

                                           

 You’ve done well to pick those vegetables here, baido, he continues. You will not regret. Whenever I've passengers on this route I always pick vegetables from here. They don’t spoil for many days unlike the ones picked from the town market. And they taste the best too. For the simple reason that they are not injected with chemicals to help them grow or ripen overnight. What were those bamboo hollows for, I ask. Are they to be filled with rice and slow cooked on embers? Oh those! Rumu explained that the women in these parts, stash a particular smaller variety of fish, caught in their jakois, into the bamboo hollows and leave it to ferment and dry on bamboo racks over the earthen stove at home. Once it is cured, this dried fish is then cooked in small amounts or made into chutneys. It is a popular delicacy and is also said to have medicinal  properties to prevent malaria in these densely foliaged parts of the countryside.


                                                   

      I looked out of the speeding car watching the distant landscape with the rolling hills and young green of the paddy fields  change it’s orientation while the nearby trees and roadside homes ensconced in the privacy of a verdant  buffer offered by the  tall jackfruit,amla, mango, areca trees, mausandas,  zipped past.  My mind went back to the little market again and again, triggering a thought here and there.

      The red bag I’d noticed in the market contained some white cotton roll like stuff. These are eri cocoons , the lady had offered.  Just then a customer had come, checking the cocoons, he tried bargaining but she was not to budge.  Weaving at homes had always been a part of daily life in Assam just as raising a vegetable patch, or cultivating a bamboo grove or fish in the pond backyard. Just enough to fulfill the daily needs of a household. Threads would be spun out of these cocoons on a wooden spinning wheel. These then would be mounted on a wooden loom resting under a thatched shed usually placed near the kitchen that allowed women of the household to alternate between their chores, cooking and weaving. Memories came tumbling down of my grandmother and my aunt in Tipling ; sitting at the loom combing in the warp and the weft; of sliding the shuttle between the threads; clicking the bamboo pedals with their feet in a neat orchestra . Basic mekhelas, gamusas and fabric emerged from these looms for the family then.

  The looms now feed the many boutiques and shops  in the towns and cities. A week back we had dropped by an NGO, Grameen Sahara, at Soigaon that was involved with many self sustaining programmes for the local people. Strengthening eri silk weaving was one of them. Right from developing a system of  providing cocoons and threads on credit, the NGO untiringly supports the local people to weave the eri fabric that has found a niche market in the western world. Their adherence to quality has earned them the stamp of approval of Silkmark.  For the uninitiated, eri is a tenacious warm silk fabric and it’s thread is derived from the Ailanthus silk worm. It is also known as ‘ahimsa’ silk since the cocoons are used after the moths leave them. You can be sure to find an eri shawl stashed in a trunk in every Assamese household that will be brought out with the first hint of a chill in the air. These have been handed down from generations, capturing and bequeathing the warmth of the ancestors in their threads, mostly woven by a grandmother or a great grand mother.

  As the car nears the outskirts of the Guwahati city, the idyllic landscape is dotted more frequently with concrete structures peeping over distant green canopies or jostling each other. The mind humours the little ideas that bubble up now and then. It is heartwarming to come across spaces that rekindles the bond with the roots. And it is heartening to see the social development efforts striving to provide a better life to the simple rural people by empowering them. Retaining the unique identity of an area while developing it to provide basic amenities and bringing prosperity to it's people without churning out concretised clones of cities and towns, is the challenge. It will be worthwhile to keep in mind that the sight of the pumpkin flowers and fresh pineapples in the roadside farmer's market with the paddy fields and the distant blue hills in the background will continue to charm the travellers in the now and forever.