Travels of an Indian

The rain deterred my trip from Dehradun to Kalap in the Garhwal Himalayas but when I eventually left in a rickety bus, early in the morning in a journey extending a little more than five hours, there were no signs of the rain. The bus crawled through the windy mountain roads flirted dangerously close with the gorges. I met Guddu at a dusty mountain town called Netwar and proceeded on a 5-hour trek to reach his village high up in the mountains.

In the village, I spend my days reading and writing on the sundeck of Guddu’s wooden house. I accompany him to his field along with his horse to spread manure before the onset of the sowing season. I take long walks, trying to identify the plants and bird life around the village. On these trips, I mostly stand glued to the grand vista of the mountains, its terrace fields and the deafening roar of the Supin River.

I become the official photographer for the village’s holi festival and by the end of it, although I survive without being doused in color powder, my camera bears the brunt. I participate in the making of the calzone like sweet Gujjia – holi special – deep fried packets of dough filled with roasted mixture of semolina, desiccated coconut, jaggery and raisins. By the end of it, Guddu’s wife, Pathuli – meaning butterfly – has thawed towards me after witnessing my able handedness at rolling and sealing the calzones. I ask extensive questions about what grows here and what doesn’t, what kind of fruits can be cultivated and comparing their food with that from the plains become a staple in the conversation. I also become accustomed to the switching of local language by Guddu and Pathuli in a conversation, unmindful of my presence.

In all this, I forget that I have an alternate existence - an existence that is punctuated by staring at different screens for ego-inflating status updates in social media outlets and liberal dosage of pop culture consumption.

I watch myself in the mirror that frames the magnificent hills in its reflection at my overgrown facial hair, my gaunt face, my sunken eyes and my tanning skin and dry lips. The hand drawn calendar I brought to keep tab of time lie abandoned.

When the sky is clear, sometimes in the night I step out. The gazillion stars in the sky resemble a crowded Indian railway station.
I knew this couldn't last forever. Oases do not a desert make. While Guddu and Pathuli long for a life in the plains secretly, I wished my sojourn in the mountains extended a little more.