'Till The Next Crossing

Milk On The Rocks

musafirujan — Sun, 12 Oct 2014 03:21:00 GMT

Every night in NITK Surathkal would be stirred by the long whistle piercing the deafening silence. The heavy diesel locomotive would lead the giant reptile through the Konkan Railway, arguably the most beautiful strech of railways in entire India, running through the shoulder of the Western Ghats. The single line system covers the West Coast from Mangalore to Mumbai, taking a few detours from Madgao. One such by-route gets menacingly close to the Dudh Sagar falls. A very popular destination for the photographers, the internet is flooded the photographs of a blue train bisecting the Milk-On-The-Rocks. I had always wanted one for my own!

Somewhere something happened, and Friday was declared a holiday. It was a late decision, and when we got to know, the Thursday was already in its last fraction. With a longer than usual weekend ahead, the locals were booking tickets for home, and the 'unfortunate' us were dreaming for a good sleep. I submitted my lab keys to the key-guard, and walked past the trolly bags and backpacks headed for home. A lone dog somewhere in the campus let out a painful howl, which submerged in the long whistle. The last train for Mumbai is leaving. From the distance I could only make out the chain of windows which sped through the darkness. I felt left out. As if the train was supposed to wait for me, take me along. Okay, I thought, I will chase the selfish giant.

One shirt, a pair of trousers and socks, a bottle of water, a torch, my camera and four batteries. I left the sleeping campus at midnight with my backpack. And as I had done quite a few times before, stood on the National Highway 17 with a outstretched left hand. And as I had always noticed, private cars seldom showed any interest. It was an empty mini-truck that gave me a lift. Night time highway truck drivers are either very talkative, or pretty much silent. This one clearly was in the latter section, and the Kannad song that his radio was playing reminded me of a Bengali sufi folk song I had heard long back. Kandiya akul hoilam bhobo nodir pare... “Oh, how I cried in despair on the bank of the river of life...” The tune wasn't the same, and of course I didn't understand the Kannad lyrics, but somewhere the feel was similar, of a repenting man splilling out his hopelessness and desparation.

He took me till Udupi, where I had to bear the pungent ammoniatic odour of a nearby open-access urinal until a reluctant homeward-bound banker agreed to drop me till Kundapura. This man, however, had a few questions for me. I had to lie. “My friends had taken the night train to Madgao, I missed it. No more trains today, and no direct bus as well. So I am trying to get as close as possible, and then take the first bus whenever and wherever I get one, instead of waiting in Mangalore. This will save me some time.” Sounded convincing to me! I started rehearsing the paragraph in my mind. I knew that I would certainly have to use it many more times before I actually get to see the mighty DudhSagar! Just as I gave in to that compelling urge to close my eyes for a bit, he stopped. Kundapura, he pointed out. He'll take left now.

For a few moments hence, I felt so drowsy that I considered taking a nap on the bus stop bench. I would have done so, but the mosquitoes did well to change my mind. I yawned on the NH17 as heavy oil-tanks sluggishly went on. I thought of changing position. I should stand somewhere well lit, I thought, nowhere shady. I started walking forward to find a tea shop surprisingly serving to a couple of elderly people at 3 in the morning! I sat on the disbalanced bench, inclined towards me, and waited for some vehicle. A truck came. It stopped. The driver came out. He sat on the other side of the bench and balanced it for me, asked the shop owner for a bhaand of tea, and gave me an inquisitive glance. “I am stuck”, I said in Hindi, imparting a futile Kannad accent, “ Can I... ? Will you... ?”. “Kaha tak jana hai aapko?” He replied fluently. “I am from Bihar”, he added, and smiled. His paan-stained teeth was more authentic than a passport! I insisted on paying for his tea, and a couple of biscuits. From an airconditioned front seat of a Ford to the boiling cabin of the Full Punjab truck, what else was in reserve for me? Little did I know the answer then...

For a long stretch, the highway ran parallel and close to the Arabian Sea, and the phosphorescent waves almost outgrew the beach and touched us. We reached Bhatkal when it was 4. It was still dark, and judging by the city-lights, Bhatkal was a bigger town than Kundapura. I was hopeful. More streets merging with the NH would mean frequent vehicles. I was wrong. Half an hour, I was stuck. Quarter to an hour, no sign of relief. Ten minutes past an hour, a pair of headlights flashed. I started waving at it. It did slow down. And managed to scare the life out of me. It was a police jeep. Four uniformed cops began interrogation. Fortunately enough, I had rehearsed my cover. They were a little skeptic, but nevertheless agreed to drop me till Honnavar, where I could avail bus as well as train service, since the Konkan Railway had an intersection with the NH17 at Honnavar. And of course, I had to promise not to wander about alone at night around these places!

Honnavar was a one hour journey. We'd have reached earlier, had a truck not somersaulted on the by-way and the cops had to intervene. I peeked into the bus-station. Quilt covered people lay asleep like corpses on the platform, and drowsy buses posed like ancient machines. Evidently bus wasn't an option. Neither was train. So I returned to the highway again. The Eastern horizon had barely started to fade. A one-eyed pick-up van decided to pity on me. But the driver and his son were occupying the front seats. I couldn't fit in. And it was a boon in disguise. I re-arranged the sacks of guava and cabbage on the open van and hopped in! As the vehicle grazed sixty Kilometers an hour, I witnessed a serene sunrise on the Western Ghats. As I looked upon the yawning city of Karwar at dawn, with a messed up hair, the father handed me a guava from his stock, and disappeared in the market. This was by far the most beautiful town I have seen in the Kannad coastline. The hills here have come down to meet the sea. The white sand beach was clean, the waves disciplined, probably because they were in touch with the Indian Navy base. The beach was named after Tagore, apparently he visited here for some reason.

I had breakfast in Karwar. Idli and chatni. Goa border wasn't far, although inter-state buses were scarce. I didn't want to waste any time in waiting and I found my way to the Karwar railway station. Oh, the sweet Konkan Railway and its small, desolate and poetic stations! I reached Madgao by 12.

What I learnt there, was a disappointment. Apparently, one has to go to Kulem via train from Madgao (a detour from Konkan that merges subsequently with the South-Western railway), and then go to Dudh Sagar. There was NO public bus service, tourists take train or hire cars. And the next train was at 3 o'clock.

The weariness was catching up, reminding me of the night's sleep that I missed. Three hours to kill, and an empty bench. I fell asleep, with the diesel engines singing lullabies for me. Somewhere above me, I heard... “ Welcome to the Konkan Railway, we wish you a happy and safe journey... tiriting ... Yatrigan kripiya dhyan dijiye, gari number......” with which the senses faded away...

My dreamless sleep was terminated by the alarm I had set in my mobile. I found a railway policeman inadvertantly measuring me. The curious little child wasn't so discreet though. He looked at me with suspicion, frowning, and never leaving the comfort zone of his father's viscinity. I was alertly listening to the anouncements, and changed the platform as the passenger train from Vasco made an early arrival to take me to Kulem.

“Which way to DudhSagar?” I asked a couple of men discussing some Govt. policy. They looked at me skeptically. “This way...” There was a 'but' hanging there somewhere. A doubt. I proceeded anyway. And was stalled at the entrance of the Mahaveer National Park. I wouldn't be allowed without a permit, and the plunging pool of the DudhSagar fall was 14 Km into the forest, I can't walk anyway. And I almost certainly can't hire a car. I felt like crying, when the two guards found a way out for me, probably because I was alone, and had traveled almost 400 Km to see it. Yet again, Konkan Railway was the solution.

At about halfway from top, a branch of the Konkan Railway dissects the DudhSagar falls. There is a halt station at the point, though none of the trains are supposed to halt there. The nearest station was Castle Rock, and thats where I was headed. A diesel loco pulled the Vasco-Nizamuddin Express, and two of them backed it up. Three engines for a single train to counter the steepness of the Western Ghats.

This time, I was lucky. A misbehaving signal stopped the train just as it crossed the halt. I leapt into side tracks and a minute later the train whistled away. The panoramic range of Western Ghats displayed shades in blues and greens in the cool dusk. The milky water bounced off the rocks on the other side, and plunged way beneath me. DudhSagar was worth every risk I had taken so far.

The forest was eating up the daylight, as I walked a few minutes to the halt. There was one single man, locking the last door. I took a deep breath of fresh cold air, and asked “When is the next train to Kulem?” The man double checked the lock, pulled the door twice and spoke. “No more train today, babu, yahan raat ko thand padhti hai, pani nahi hai, khana nahi hai, aur...” I was already gasping... “Aur parso sher aaya tha...” He disappeared in the circuitous cattle=path through the slope, leaving me in the leopard infested jungle. Alone.

I prepared myself to die that night. Eaten by a leopard, bitten by a snake, or out of hunger and thirst. Not thirst, I thought, not when I have an eternal source of fresh mountain water with plenty of water right by me. I got busy clicking all I got in the fading day light. A loud honk really really scared me. An engine.

Two engines, locked with each other. Apparently they pushed the train out of the steep range, and were going back to Kulem. All that I came to know from the drivers, for I was now inside the monsterous diesel locomotive. Another item ticked of from my bucket list of hitch-hiking.

The drivers were reservoirs of stories, yet even they never encountered anything of my kind! I kept feeding there curiosities and they stopped wherever I requested them to, wherever I found a nice frame to click! A whole engine at my disposal! I was in a fairytale that I wrote for myself!
It was about seven in the evening when we were about to reach Kulem. “Where will you stay?” one of them asked. I told them that I had planned to take a train to Madgao now, and one from there to Surathkal. They looked at each other. “The last train has left Kulem at 6 in the evening. This isn't a busy route, you see. But I think I can make a way for you...”
Hours later, when I was sitting on the floor of the guard's van of a freight train, with my legs stretched and cool wind bristling through my hair, I crossed one more item from the Hitch-Hiker's Bucket list. This had been an eventful day.

Bumpy Rides

musafirujan — Fri, 6 Jun 2014 16:47:00 GMT

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair...
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air...
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,
I had to stop for the night...

   It took me a few seconds to find the answer of the perfectly valid question “What am I doing in the cabin of a truck?” as I was sprung back to sense by the jerky ride. It was dark, and, in spite of completely aware of the golden rule of not falling asleep while travelling beside a driver, I did. For a few minutes, only. The last milestone said our destination was about 30 K.m. Shy, while now it said 26. I looked back. My two comrades were sleeping on the back bench of the massive truck's cabin. The comfort of a warm (read hot) cabin-of-a-truck-full-of-brick worth a stretched arm seemed to humiliate a 75o buck seat in a multi-axle ac Volvo bus. It was quiet except for the constant droning of the bid old engine. The trucker spoke a different tongue, and I finally got some time to introspect.

   It started with a weird phone call from a strange friend. I might as well call him a friendly stranger, but let us focus on what got us into this. We were having our usual dinner in the usual hall, when he rang, and told me a bizarre story, which I muted in my mind, and which gisted to the fact that he's going to arrive at a distant, shady, spooky station at the middle of the night (possibly because he caught the wrong train) and he needed company to travel back to college. You know what’s bizarre-er? I agreed! And I convinced another friend of ours to join in this quest of rescuing a friend.

   The truck stepped aside on the highway, and the driver went to take a break, breaking my thread of thoughts as well. The headlights were blazing as a couple of cars paced away into the dark. The number plate on our chariot says it’s from Kerala, so I assume it still has a lot of miles to cover. And judging by the direction it was coming from, and the nearest industrial belt on the way, he has been driving for at least 7 hours! How can he not fall asleep? And what happens if he does? Doesn't he feel bored? Insecure? Lonely? As he climbed back into the cabin on his seat, I couldn't help but notice the satisfaction of emptying himself in his face! Back in bench, the two of them continued napping, their snores now over run by the growling engine.

   We were standing just outside the main entrance to our college, hoping to be picked up by a willing highway traveller, and were being denied any luck. Some flickered lights, signalling us “Not gonna happen”, some others didn't even bother to bat an eye. A few of them, whom I like to call The Trollers, slowed their car, hinting to stop, and as we got excited, they whiskered by, accelerating suddenly. What were they expecting, a mermaid in short skirts? Cars came, and cars went by. Time, tide and cars on NH17 wait for none. Except the lone Maruti Swift.

   The way back in the truck felt a never ending one. The headlights pierced the dark misty night and the highway looked like a long forgotten road. The fatigued engine carried the heavy vehicle, a sleepless steerer, a dreamy soul and a couple of oblivious minds in deep slumber up against the slope. It was a long night. A revealing one.

   As the white car took a sharp stop, we ran and bent down in front of the window with the tinted glass. The glass rolled down, and immediately a freezing gust of air was let out. “What do you guys want?” asked the old man in a French cut. Confronting this sudden yet perfectly valid question, we realized we had not prepared a story with a solid ground! A story that would be interesting, but not Indiana Jones interesting, which would demand compassion, but not my-friend-is-dying with glycerine-in-eyes compassion, and most of all a story that explains why we are not travelling NORMALLY! The true story, being strange enough, logical yet stranger than any fiction we could think of in three seconds, seemed to be our cover story. “Our friend is a lame jackass, he picked the wrong train and it doesn’t stop at Surathkal, and he doesn’t know a damn bit about this place (believe me, NOT an exaggeration), and he is too scared to travel alone at night (again, no exaggeration at all)”. Interesting, compassion-demanding and logical. Boom! All three wrapped in one! And guess what? It worked!

   The full sleeve Urdi-clad Jawan held a hand out with the right arm wrapped around a Self Loading Rifle. The truck stopped, and the trucker handed out some papers to the Pagri-clad Jawan. The former had his eyes fixated on me. Did he recognize me? After all he had seen me in a white Swift less than an hour ago. Was he wondering about my motives or my modus operandi? I smiled at him. He frowned. The truck jerked off the inertia and took off. The doubts of the Jawan in khaki Urdi faded in the rear-view mirror.

   The old man in a silk kurta and lungi was driving like a pro. He wore rich perfume, an expensive wrist watch and for no apparent reason, turned the AC on to a dangerously low temperature. I was shivering in the front seat while my comrade sneaked into the back seat corner. We were bracing ourselves for an inevitable flood of questions, but the old man with his lungi above his knee kept looking at us intermittently with a mysterious grin on his face. There was a very awkward silence. I kept smiling back sheepishly and the ghost on the backseat disappeared in the dark. At last he spoke. “It feels good to have someone around. It has been a long drive, and I am tired. So where are you from?” I blurted out “Kolkata” whereas the darkness spoke “NITK”, at the same time. He looked at both of us and grinned. “So you came all the way from Kolkata to study here? Huh! Fascinating! My son is now in...” For the next quarter of an eternity, he went on and on about his son-who did this from Arizona-and that from Minnesota-and is settled in Godknowswhere, and about his daughter who married a guy-who did this from Kentucky-and that from California-and is settled in Godknowswhere. Man, he wouldn’t stop!

   He was indeed feeling bored, the trucker. And he decided to put some music on. The pacific night burst out in a fit of disco grooves. It startled the sleep out of the other two, who rubbed their eyes and asked me why we haven’t reached college yet in a rather peevish tone, as if it was my fault! Maybe it was, maybe I didn’t want this journey to end. I replied with a caustic glance at them, and handed them the water bottle. They drank, and before the next milestone could appear, again dozed off into sweet oblivion.

   Then something weird happened. The old-looking man’s new-looking phone rang and interrupted his story. No, that wasn’t weird, the conversation was. In his own style of impeccable South Indian accent of English, he asked whoever was on the other side of the call to keep tracking his car. He provided the caller with the current position of the car, and his ETA, and hung off. And then he kept on driving as if he had just told his wife the he’ll be late. A couple pairs of inquisitive eyes stared at him. He realized it in a few moments and came clean. “I am a C.B.I official, you see, on special duty for the upcoming elections. They don’t trust us, you see, we are the temporary recruits, us, the retirees from other jobs. They track our cars, you see, they say it’s for our safety, but you see, they are monitoring us!” We saw. We saw indeed!

   As I sunk in my thoughts, I was no longer paying any attention to the music player. The groovy disco beats mutated into some psychedelic trance. And the truck transformed into a convertible sedan. It was a dark highway, the sea breeze brushing my hair. An un-identifiable intoxicating smell surrounded us. Up ahead in a distance, I saw a shimmering light. It was home. We were home.

P.S.   With the assistance of an old-looking CBI official, we reached the Udupi station, a few miles from the highway, at the nick of the time to pick up our guest. Our well wisher dropped us till the junction, from where a drunk speedstar flew us till the highway. And after a few minutes of no recollection, we found ourselves climbing on to a truck cabin.

A Hitch Hiker's Tale

musafirujan — Fri, 2 May 2014 04:32:57 GMT

It wasn't a sudden impulse at all. Everything was neatly unplanned. I have been conjuring this “unplan” for a whole semester. Only the few minor details were left out, one of them being the destination! All I knew was, I have to go somewhere, as far as possible, by hitch hiking! Then I mapped it out! Chitradurga, a nice little hilly town with a good old castle, in interior Karnataka, 250 miles from my College Hostel.
I was standing on the NH17 at midnight for half an hour, tirelessly hanging my left hand in the air with an erect thumb.
A bunch of late-night-party-goers came to the rescue! Driving a crowded car, these kids were going to Manipal, a heaven for night clubbers! Loud music, a few bottles on the floor and a few pair of red eyes greeted me! I had no choice but to find a seat! They took me up to Udupi, some 42 km from where I started. I thanked them, and off they went to party, leaving me in a deserted Bus Station.
It was so silent, that I could hear my wrist watch ticking! I was pondering for other options when a sainlty looking man drove up in his Unicorn! Fortunately, he was going in my direction and agreed to drop me till Tirthahalli, a place I've never heard of before!
The unicorn was fabulous! It left the NH17 and took us through the dark jungles and the meandering roads of the Western Ghat! It was a cold , starry night, out in the middle of no where, with fearsome screams from the jungly neighborhood! A copybook adventure!
My bizarre journey in the antiquated vehicle continued for another hour or so, and not a word did we speak in the meantime! He let me go at the ghostly town.
The night time traffic consisted only of large-bellied trucks. I managed to stop a massive one. The Marathi trucker was pretty happy to have a company!
I didn't realize when I fell asleep. When I woke up, the sky in the East horizon was starting to fade. We had stopped at a level-crossing. I had an urge to pee.
As I emptied myself, up popped the sun from the corn field, and the horizon cleared at once. The great old fort was visible from a distance on the top of a giant stony hill. Chitradurga beckons. We waited, while a freight train with an eternity of fatigue on its wheels passed by into the unknown. Who knows when it started? Who knows how far it has to go? Who knows how many lands it had seen? I wished to be on a journey like the train. Without a hurry to finish, without a worry to take care of... Wherever I'll stop, will be my destination.