Of Travel Companions

For a moment I did not know where I was. It was partly the Scandinavian sun, and the fact that I had changed my room just this morning, that I found myself in a groggy, confused state as I awoke from a short, delirious nap. I gradually started regaining consciousness of my surroundings. I was back in the hostel after another long day walking the streets of Copenhagen. The sun and the beer had made me sleep instantaneously. I still had my shoes on. And there was a gorgeous woman bent inches away from me, whistling to herself as she rummaged through her rucksack. “Hi there” I said, pretending to be wide awake. I have seen people get startled, but only when I am totally awake. This performance, witnessed in my state of half sleep, was truly phenomenal. She jumped out of her skin by a mile! Apparently I am a silent sleeper. (Thank God! I hate snorers.) She had no clue that I was there in the room. At least that is what she seemed to be explaining in between huge gasps for air. To complicate matters she had the most amazing French accent. If you have watched ‘A Fish Called Wanda’, where Jamie Lee Curtis has this foreign language fetish, you will realise what afflicts me. Finally, I was waking up. At least a part of me!

Li’ll Blackbird, as I shall call her, based on her email id, became my first impromptu travel companion. She had just landed in the Danish capital on her annual ten day visit to a chosen place. I was halfway through my three day stopover there. We decided to do my last day in Copenhagen together. I travel without a camera (sigh! No longer – I have a phone that has one now. :-( ) She travelled with a camera that used photographic film. Couldn’t get more archaic than that! We had a great time. We were together till I nearly missed my bus. She told me I was not her types; I had not even hit on her. Just when we were nearing the time to part – that time of the day/night when time seems to drag/race depending on your relationship – I learnt about a brewpub that had the Westvleteren beer. I had been a beer tourist for the second half of my year in Europe – and for me it was like getting a clue to the Holy Grail. I dropped my mug of beer, paid up, and dragged her across the city centre to reach the place. They had it. I bought it. She saw my passion and refused my offer to share it with her, but she agreed to have the first sip. “It’s like songbirds singing in your mouth,” she exclaimed as soon as she had sipped it. I enjoyed the best beer in the world, totally satisfied that I had the best way to describe it later – thanks to my fabulous travel companion.

That’s how I nearly missed my bus!

Driving through some awesome landscape in Sri Lanka can be an excruciating experience if you have the wrong travel companion. I started realising this when I did the same today with the most militantly mediocre person I have been with in the last few years. To negate my extremely violent thoughts, I started thinking of the amazing companionship that I have shared during the course of my travels. The preceding piece was conceived when I was actively filtering out the incessant babble of my vehiclemate. I am glad I could do it – the countryside looked so much more beautiful.

First Day at Work

The first day at work, we were handing over a mine field that had just been cleared. I couldn’t help thinking that I would be learning my job backwards! Lots of time for that, I was told as we were starting work on a new mine field in just a couple of days. I walked through the entire area that the team I was joining had painstakingly cleared, inch by inch, in the past few months. The ground looked so innocuous. So inviting. I saw a forlorn school building in the middle of the mine field. Twenty mines were recovered from around it, the team leader informed me. Finally the area was clear. The war in this area had gotten over sometime back. But these silent killers had ensured that peace was held at bay. It was set to change now. The school would be used to house students once again. The ground will be used to play football.

 

The Drive East

Sometime next afternoon I started the drive east to head for my team location, near Batticaloa. The route would take me right across the country. A good way to start seeing a new country, I felt. The roads were not the broadest, but they were in good condition. In India anything painted on the road is usually graffiti or someone’s unfortunate pet dog. In Sri Lanka road markings actually tell drivers what to do. Like don’t cross this line, don’t halt here etc. And if the drivers don’t listen, the police actually think it worth their while to stop them and impose a hefty fine. As a result the roads didn’t seem as narrow as they would have back home.

At first sight the country reminds you of Kerala. The resemblance is striking. Then you drive through some amazing open spaces – vast plains, totally uninhabited and the resemblance ends. My route took me through some important historic towns, namely, Dambulla and Polonnaruwa. We took a short detour to go past the Sigiriya monolith, a UNESCO world heritage site. I will write more about these places when I actually have the time to visit them, in stead of just driving through! As we reached nearer to base, we crossed an elephant reserve, and actually saw wild elephants in the ..er wild!

Colombo

The guy at immigration check in Trichy airport wasn’t very impressed with my answers. I didn’t blame him. It did look a little fishy. To fly from Pune to Chennai, and then take the night train to Trichy, get off at an ungodly hour (1-30 AM!) and then catch the early morning flight out to Colombo. Did seem a bit like I was trying to sneak out of the country! To make matters worse I had my guilty look on. I don’t know why I do that sometimes when faced with an authority figure. So I wasn’t too surprised when I was ushered to an inner office and presented to the Immigration officer, the big man I was told. I went through the spiel of how my NGO was trying to save on costs by buying the cheapest tickets and how all tickets from other airports were sold out and how I just had to be in Colombo today for an important meeting. By now I had donned my own interpretation of an ‘authority figure avatar’ and he seemed to buy it. I was deemed legit. I was off to Sri Lanka!

It doesn’t take you very long in Colombo to realise what a dumbwit you are. A country is at war in your backyard and you realise it only after you have landed there. Till then it was a vague memory of some news clipping. Then as you go through check post after check post, manned by soldiers who seem to know what they are doing, you realise that there is something afoot. The front line is too far for you to hear any battle noises. However, the demeanour of the security agencies suggests that they are not fooled by the distance. Colombo takes the threat seriously. (That didn’t stop a parcel bomb going off near the heart of the city a couple of days later, injuring more than 40 people.)

I was ushered into a room that had jaw marks all over the carpet. I added to it, as mine dropped down too at the awesome sight, my first, of the amazing Indian Ocean! I realised later that the management uses the view to good effect. I never once complained about the musty smell, the lack of drinking water, the mosquitoes or the door lock that never worked! I thought that the hotel was right on the beach when I was startled by a strange noise that didn’t quite belong here. I peered around and realised that the terrace just below me was concealing a railway track that runs right on the edge of the ocean – it was time for the 12-30 local! Now this was one train journey I had to take.

You can be excited about a long meeting in the Ministry for Nation Building only if you have been bumming around for a year. I had been. I enjoyed the meeting. And a few others that were thrown in. In between and later, I stole long walks to explore Colombo. Twice I was gestured off the road and made to wait with fellow pedestrians as some important cavalcade passed by. I was impressed by the soldier’s watchful eyes, looking out for whatever a potential suicide bomber is likely to do, as he held on to his M-16 purposefully. I passed an English pub and remembered my vow. Then I passed a Bavarian pub and nearly forgot my vow. I had visions of a drunk and disorderly me arguing with one of those purposeful soldiers. I bought myself a root beer and went back to my room to call it an early day.

Antic Pond

Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
-- Matsuo Basho

Antic pond--
frantic frog jumps in--
gigantic sound.

Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond

The Train Journey

The following is a true account. I know because I was there.

The Indian Railways is a web of life. I have travelled by train in other countries. I have loved most of the journeys. They transported me to another world. When you step into a train in India, you enter another world. It is a parallel universe, a journey within a journey. This is an account of one such journey.

I don’t remember if this is true, but the first time he entered my office I must have said to myself– Trouble. I more or less instantly warmed up to him. For a laid back person like me who can never be blamed of being a go-getter, life can tend to be pretty boring. However that has been far from the case. As I acknowledged his languid salute and asked him to take a seat, I must have got a vague feeling that my boring moments were numbered. Not very often, but every now and then you meet a person who is like minded. You enjoy the moment and say life is good. This was not such a moment. Once in a few billion human interactions, two people meet and realise that they have a nearly identical track record of creating mess ups. At this moment you pause and say to yourself –trouble! This was such a moment. This is an account of one such journey with one such person.

It was a journey of small miracles. The first miracle was that we reached Pune railway station to catch the train. Let me tell you how the journey was hatched. For me, it was the year of living irresponsibly, which I took too seriously and so it had stretched to now being almost two years. I was having the time of my life. And for a change it involved me staying right where I was. No wanderlust. I really didn’t want to go to Delhi. Trouble was I still had Trouble in my life. Over copious amounts of Old Monk we discussed ideas and got excited. New ventures that would lead us to a new life. I loved it. But he wanted to make it work. You know that part where you actually get off your ass and start doing the million mundane things that so completely ruin the joys of a great idea. The trip to Delhi was supposed to be a business trip. How boring.

Reluctantly I started for the train station; leaving home just in time. Not accounting for the delays that can be caused by traffic snarls, accidents, break downs, marriage processions, funerals, strikes, political rallies etc for which every Indian naturally accounts for and leaves home hours in advance. I made it.

Trouble was visibly glad to see me. He was there with another friend who was travelling to Delhi too. We didn’t have confirmed seats for a journey that was to last more than twenty four hours. I wasn’t really looking forward to the prospect, but he assured me that he had it under control. He patted the bottle of Old Monk that made a familiar bulge in his bag. I relaxed a bit.

We got in the train and were happy to see that we had one seat between the three of us. Not bad. In Indian Railways that’s all you need. He was already pouring the drinks when the train pulled out of the station. “Not for me,” the other guy said, “I don’t drink Rum.” The two of us gave him the look that is reserved for people who drink alcohol but don’t drink Old Monk. We shrugged and sipped our drinks. It was a pity though, because it was that guy’s bottle. “Why didn’t you just get some alcohol that you drink?” “I know how much you both like Old Monk,” our friend smiled. He was a nice bloke. I felt the nice warmth that comes from a combination of rum and good friends.

Ahmadnagar is a nondescript town a couple of hours from Pune. The only reason that I acknowledge the town was because a good friend had recently moved there. In fact I had driven him down from Pune when he had moved. As usual I had failed to stay in touch soon after that. As our train approached Nagar, I was thinking a lot of him. Because just a few minutes back I had given him a frantic call. He is a doctor and I presumed that he would be used to frantic calls at odd hours. Apparently not. My call had seemed to unsettle him a bit. To his credit, only a bit. He had recovered and had swung into action. I had called him precisely twenty five minutes before the scheduled arrival of my train in Nagar. I had asked him to rush to the station with a bottle of whiskey. Two reasons for that. First, our friend didn’t drink rum. Second, the rum was getting over. The doctor, who was in a party when he took my call, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the bar and then mounted his 1991 vintage Kinetic Honda scooter and raced to the station that was at least twenty minutes away. When we pulled into the sleepy Nagar train station there was still no sign of the doc. It was a five minute halt. Desperate moments require desperate measures. A desperate plan was hatched. I was to wait outside the station for the Doc. Trouble sent me off with a reassuring pat, “Don’t worry – I won’t let the train leave without you!” As I stepped outside I saw the train beginning to pull out. At the same moment I saw a visibly flustered Doc running towards me. I rushed to him, grabbed the bottle and rushed away. No time for small talk. The doc understood. The train which had reached the end of the platform suddenly came to a halt. I ran to my coach and got in. I walked to my seat, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the whiskey.

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence as a railway police patrol walked through our coach, slowly looking around. I could feel the eyes of the other passengers on us. The patrol passed on to the next coach and we let out our breath. And poured out the whiskey! By now we were becoming popular and a few others feeling up to a drink had joined us.

The trouble with Indian rail journeys is that they invariably outlast the booze available. We hadn’t yet reached Manmad, a mere 300 odd kilometres away and we were running dry for the second time that evening. Another desperate plan was hatched. Trouble and I were to jump out at Manmad Station with our knapsacks and venture out to look for alcohol. It is not too improbable to find some shady place that sells, even at that time of the night, around most Indian train stations. If we missed the train we would catch a later train and our friend could travel comfortably on the only berth we had. A noble plan, we congratulated ourselves. We were foot-boarding, when the train stopped in the pitch darkness, a little outside Manmad Station. This can happen only in India – but out of nowhere there appeared an urchin, selling bottled ‘mineral’ water. Trouble got chatting with him and he proudly confessed that he bottled the water himself from the railway tap! One thing lead to other and suddenly a deal was struck. The urchin disappeared for a while and was back soon with four chilled bottles of some strong vile local beer! Just what we needed!

Bhopal. Distance covered 895km. Alcohol consumed – Rum, Whiskey and vile Beer in varying amounts. My eyes refused to open. But Trouble was excited about something. It was a bag with a lot of food and a dozen bottles of frozen kingfisher beer! I groaned inwardly and tried to go back to sleep. Vague memories of last night played havoc in my head. The bejewelled gay cut-surd hotel owner from Switzerland was saying something in his funny accent. The ex assistant Adjutant of the Indian Military Academy was there too. I was doing bottoms up with that vile beer. Gosh! My head was throbbing. I decided that I could not possibly go back to sleep now. So I joined the guys who were already tucking into the food with a gusto that I could only envy. I ate and felt marginally better. It was only after we popped open a perfectly chilled Kingfisher a couple of hours later that I came back to life.

Mathura. Distance covered 1455km. Alcohol consumed – Rum, Whiskey, four bottles of vile local beer, and dozen bottles of Kingfishers. Gloom was descending fast on my now large group of friends. Trouble and I exchanged glances, even we seemed to be out of ideas. Two dignified looking Sikh gentlemen were sitting across us and solemnly playing cards. They seemed to sense our gloom. They had been observing our antics for a long time now. One of them turned to us and said, “I have some Colonel’s Special. Would you like to share?!”

We had the last sip of the Colonel’s Special as the train pulled into Hazrat Nizamuddin. We had done it. The journey could not out last the booze this time. We bid adieu to our friends and stepped out. We grabbed a taxi and went straight to a nightclub. Such journeys need to be celebrated!

Fenny

Don't drive after this, the voice said. I took a look at my drink. The bartender was just pouring it. It looked flat and lifeless. Incapable of doing a thing. But those words made me want it more. I turned to the source of the voice as I felt the drink stir behind me. I had asked for some Limca with it. I struck up a conversation with him, afterall I was a hitchhiker and I needed to get to the end of the night. I needed this ride. And even though I had fallen in love with the drink stirring gently behind me, I knew it was this guy who would be driving me. At least initially. So I listened politely as he told me the crazy things this drink could do. I grew impatient, as he grew graphic. I just wanted him to shut up and spend some time with my drink. "....fenny!" he finished, and I looked back in time to see the bartender handing me my drink. Suddenly the music changed, the drums rolled. And the musician playing on the stage beckoned to me. He was playing the number I had requested earlier, much earlier. I just wanted him to shut up too, and spend some time with my drink. It wasn't to be. I was yanked unceremoniously to the dance floor and I politely made as if I was enjoying the number. You can never be sure when people think you are doing a great job. Immaterial if you are wanting to or not. This was one such night. That was the last number and the local rocker who was crooning the song decided that I was his friend for life. Which meant that I was to partake in his consumption of the 'hash thrust into his palms by a hysterical fan.' I didn't quite know which part of the statement to disbelieve. So I started at the beginning, and it was hash all right. I decided it was safe to disbelieve the rest now. But by then I wasn't really bothered about the truth either. That is how I briefly met Fenny and fell in love with her for no reason. At least the reason wasn't evident to me yet. That night ended without me seeing her again. But yes, I did see her again later. And again. And the good thing? She liked being called Fenny! I guess Goa does that to you.