Yet another hair-raising tale

Once upon a time my hair covered my entire scalp like any good self-respecting carpet. Cross my heart! At least this time, I am telling the truth. Then little Jamie Hair became adventurous and decided to go into the wild bad world. “Toodle-oo folks!” he said to his fellow Hairs and disappeared into the void.

Days passed by with all the grey hair Hairs nodding sadly at Jamie’s foolhardiness. But the wander-bug had bit and a few more Hairs disappeared. You know how it is! When Columbus set about discovering America no-one would have gone with him for a bet. Now, see what you have! Everyone running from pillar-consulate to post-consulate for visas! Thus it was with my Hairs and suddenly a great deal of Hairs left their home-head.

Even then a vast majority of them were sticking on. But then a radical started speaking. Jose Hair was hair-raising in his speech. “Brethren! Years ago I looked into the Head and found just A – Z and 0 – 9 inside it. I look in now and what do I see? The same A – Z and 0 – 9 looking hazy and atrophied due to long disuse! This fellow has not added a single thing to his head since these inhabitants slipped in unawares. The monotony of the view is killing me. Off I go!” This speech impelled a great many Hairs and suddenly hair was falling off my head like a hairy Niagara gone berserk.

Then it was that I started getting an admirable view of my scalp. With a view to sparing my fellow-inhabitants this distressing sight, I started twirling my hair into intricate shapes to cover the barren areas. Like rule-bound employees bidden to do something other than what was prescribed in their job descriptions, the Hairs rebelled.

Susie Hair, then told her fiancé, “Joey! When the many-teethed public conveyance comes by tomorrow book the middle berth for me.” Despite the massive rush for reservations, Joey managed the reservations and the duo left in a romantic mood.

Meanwhile my romantic thoughts were torpedoed beyond recovery. I had decided to reconcile myself to my situation but it was not to be. My point was that I was bald, no mistake, but there was no need for me to make a fool of myself as well into the bargain. Unfortunately, those around me thought otherwise and each one suggested some goo or the other which would positively make hair sprout all over my head with exuberance and joie-di-vivre.

When it got to the point where perfect strangers were stopping me on the streets to expound their theories about how my hair-fall was linked to my sweating and what could be done to stop both, I had to give in. I went on a goo-application spree; on diets to control my sweating; and scalp massaging and standing on my head to improve blood circulation to my head. It is a wonder that in the midst of all this activity I had time to do anything else but, since I am still alive, I must have also been breathing all the while!

You could never have imagined that the Hair family could be so finicky. They held their noses at the smell of the goos and shuddered at the texture. They looked upon improved blood circulation with profound disfavor. They detested my shampoo and held my solicitude for their welfare in contempt. And they left in droves! By the time I decided to forswear hair-saving activities, my head was a drought affected area. (Remember folks, we are talking about the eighties. A decade and a half later, I’d have had the benefit of hair-savers of better repute and effect!)

What irks me is this inconstancy and lack of discipline in the Hairs! You see your forehead lengthening and feel, “At last! Some signs of intelligence!” and suddenly find the sun scorching the top of your pate. No orderly withdrawal from the head, starting at one end and ending at the other. The Hairs leave as they please regardless of the fact that the head resembles a shell-shocked area when they leave. Or, it used to! My last hair is gone and that was the end of my hair problems. My head is a nice shiny thing of beauty now and you have another Vin Diesel above the eyebrows!

River-Rafting – Shivpuri to Rishikesh

I have little imagination when it comes to danger so it is relatively easy for me to contemplate doing things that could lead to injury. When it comes to discomfort, however, I am right up there with the brightest. Comes the time to think of motion sickness I am so far ahead of the crowd that creative geniuses cannot even see my dust!

Consider the fact that the original idea of motion sickness was closely allied to water – sea-sickness! Consider the fact that river-rafting was not expected to be done in tranquil waters and that motion sickness is more violent when the journey is not smooth! Consider the fact that it was just a day and a half since I had closely resembled a water faucet from both ends of the alimentary canal! Consider further that there was a half-an-hour trip by road to Shivpuri before we could even start on the river! Now you can understand why I felt little apprehension about trifles like falling off the boat. If one of my bouts of sickness struck me I would probably consider drowning as a welcome surcease. Thus, it was with trepidation that I approached the afternoon’s river-rafting expedition.

My idea of river-rafting was that I would be securely fastened to the seat with the organizers paddling down the stream while I tried to keep the contents of my stomach in. Imagine my surprise when I was told that all customers were expected to paddle to the orders of the lone expert accompanying us. He buzzed through a series of commands that seemed like so much Greek and Latin to me. The only saving grace was that he talked of right, left, front and back instead of obscure nautical terms like port, starboard, fore and aft. Not that it made the litany comprehensible but that it sort of made the impression that you could understand what he was saying if you had a day or two to mull over it.

A day or two! Within five minutes we were in the rubber dinghy when the second surprise was sprung on us. We were to sit on the sides of the dinghy with our feet insecurely tucked under the crosspieces that lay athwart the dinghy. Clad in life-vests and helmets we must have looked quite a bunch of jokers and, probably, the organizers thought that we had enough around the belly to provide whatever additional buoyancy was required.

A couple of dinghies of paying customers was accompanied by a chap in a kayak, who was ostensibly there to come to the rescue of anyone who fell off the dinghy and got too far away from it to be rescued by the people in the dinghy. I had a sneaking suspicion that he was probably there to rescue any paddles dropped in the water by the customers, who were playing at being boatmen!

We were off and there was mayhem. I was busily engaged in a duel with Sriram who was seated ahead of me. The clash of paddles by the side of the dinghy was entertaining. I would have won the duel but for the fact that Hari sneakily engaged my paddle from behind whenever I disengaged from Sriram for a tactical advantage. Meanwhile, Shekhar on the other side was patting the water with all the care of someone spreading butter over a crumbly slice of bread. Badri and Dinesh were the lead-rowers and only they know exactly what they were doing with the paddles though I am sure they managed their own version of entertaining paddling. Chandru had begged off paddling due to his injured hand and was giving us the count while Bala was busy trying to get people to paddle to his count. Great idea, but the problem was that each one was on a different rhythm and, thus, a microsecond after Chandru called out ‘One’ Sriram’s paddle would hit Dinesh’s up front while mine would still be in the air!

Our expert called a halt and started on some impromptu training exercises. Knowing that we were from the south, he exhorted us to emulate the Onam boat-race. Huh! Here we were, barely able to dig a paddle into the water, leave alone doing it in any sort of rhythm and he was likening us to those superb athletes who send boats skimming across the waters like torpedoes. The very idea of the pithy expressions those boatmen would come up with - if they ever heard such a comparison – doubled me up in laughter.

After some more paddle duels, we were off again onto the first of the rapids – the roller-coaster. The dinghy started see-sawing and the one moment etched in my mind is the sight of looking sideways at a wave framed in the sky. Our expert was exhorting us to paddle, though what use swishing the paddle in air would be in propelling the boat shall ever be a nautical mystery to me. Before we knew it we were past the rollercoaster and, to my surprise, I found myself regretting the briefness of the experience.

Next up was the tee-off. There was one violent motion that slapped us all into the boat. Onwards to the golf-course where our expert told us to try jumping into the water! Bala and I were in first. Not knowing swimming had never been a deterrent to me in indulging in water-sports even without a life-vest and with one around my frame I was feeling invincible. The problem, however, was when it came to getting back into the boat. Our expert hauled me in with such vigour that the vest covered my face and, for a while, I was wailing like the yesteryear heroine coming out of a swoon - “Where am I?”

River-rafting was great fun but it ended all too soon. The entire group was so thrilled that Bala’s suggestion of doing the longer version the next time was greeted with universal enthusiasm.

All good things come to an end, as did my trek/trip. All tedious things come to an end too – and, so, does this post!

A Trek to Brahmital – Part IV

What does one feel about a trek that did not succeed in reaching where it was intended to reach? Disappointment, of course, but does it leave you with a feeling akin to what you would feel if you made a tourist trip to Agra and failed to see the Taj?

Much depends on what you intended to experience on a trek. A few days away from the mundane, good company, great views and being close to nature are all take-aways from a trek no matter what the destination. The view of glorious starry skies; the gentle susurrus of a river by the campsite; majestic icy peaks; the glory of a sunset over tree-clad mountains; the shy smiles of unassuming little flowers dotting the landscape and the ineffable peace of your surroundings are all a great balm to the soul and it would be a pity to let a minor disappointment ruin the experience for you.

The problem for me was that the fourth day did not allow me to dwell on all the beauties that I had experienced. Amongst the various other infirmities of the body that I live with is this tendency for my belly to fill up with gas given minimal provocation. Friends have been known to comment that Mukesh Ambani could eke out the production of his gas wells by putting a pipe down my gullet. The fourth day was one such day and I descended back to civilization very apprehensive about the hour and a half journey to Gangnani by road.

We hit Gangnani with no mishap. Hari, who shares my aversion to road journeys and had vehemently displayed it on the way up, was as quiescent as I was and we booked into the hotel with relief. My problems started at the hotel when I started spewing from both ends leading to more apprehension about the next day’s journey back to Rishikesh.

Things had settled down by next morning and a dip in the hot water springs of Gangnani provided much needed relief to sore muscles. The pleasure of soaking the body in hot water after a tiring trek can only be fully experienced by trekkers. Thus, by the time we took the road to Gangnani, I was feeling more sanguine about the journey and perked up enough to take interest in the world around me. I have always been able to keep my spirits up despite aches and pains but the digestive system can bring me to cry, “Death! Where is thy sting?” Strange that buoyant gas can drag my spirits down like lead!

Luckily the trip down to Rishikesh was uneventful and we hit the hotel with the prospect of river-rafting on the morrow to buoy up our spirits. An evening of bridge ensued but, at the back of my mind, there was the regret that yet another trek was over!

A Trek to Brahmital – Part III

The trek to Brahmital from the campsite had been portrayed as a sort of lazy jaunt on the rest day by the trek organizer at Uttarkashi. The day dawned with the information that it would be a four hour ascent and about three hours of descent. Not a particularly restful program for the day but our jaunty group was still full of beans when we started on the trek.

The first half an hour – after crossing the waterfall - had spilt most of the beans from almost all of us. One does expect a tough time ascending but the path was almost unrelieved ascent on loose soil with almost no stretches of level trail to regain your breath. That this portion of the trek was in the shade of trees was the only saving grace – not that we were in any mood to count our blessings. Dinesh was doing well enough to help the other guys around which was great going for anyone leave alone a first time Himalayan trekker. Sriram, despite being the oldest, was always gung-ho about going places and seeing things and, despite the lung-testing qualities of the trail, could still manage to give his usual exhaustive commentary on the status of things!

Two hours into the trek we, at last, hit some level areas. Any other day, these areas would have seemed a testing incline for they were not particularly level but, after the efforts of the first couple of hours, this was almost a walk in the park. We crossed the waterfall yet again and faced up to an interminable ascent yet again! With blood vessels ringing what seemed like a death knell in my forehead and lungs screaming for surcease I topped the rise to see Chandru holding out some dried fruits. End of trek?

Not really! We had used up four hours and the guide said that there was another hour of trekking to do to reach Brahmital. Chandru and I blew our tops. The day’s trek would take up eight hours, even assuming the guides’ estimates, and that was tough going by any count. Add to that the fact that the descent was bound to be treacherous – with the steep incline and loose soil – it seemed a difficult ask to do the trek in the day. Had the guides done a proper reconnaissance, we could have camped at Panchbilli on day one and camped by the side of the waterfall (Sathgadare, is the name of the place according to the local), where we crossed the second time, on day two. Then, the trek to Brahmital and back would have been possible on day three though not necessarily a walk in the park.

Recriminations are normally an exercise in futility once you are stuck with options already exercised. Five of us opted to try the trek further and three dropped out. Hari, Dinesh, Chandru, Shekhar and I proceeded further up. There was a stretch of trail rendered absolutely slippery with ice melt and slipping and slithering became the order of the day. I was trailing the group cursing myself heartily for not having joined the sane lot that opted to walk back. What devil of contrariness urges us ahead to do things so discomforting that you rue your decision almost as soon as you make it?

The weather had become chill with the skies clouding up and Hari found the combination of slippery slopes and cold weather not to his taste. He opted to walk back and join the others on their way back. About half an hour later – and an hour after starting on the last leg – I joined Chandru and Shekhar who were waiting this side of a long ice patch. Chandru pointed out to the distant horizon, where the icy peaks jutted out into the sky, and said that Brahmital was just beyond that ridge. Considering that a good half of the distance had to be walked over snow/ice, it did not seem likely that we could do get back to where we were standing in less than 2-3 hours. Starting a descent on the slopes that we had just slithered up as it was getting dark did not seem conducive to a healthy return for all five of us. Nor, indeed, did the ominously darkening clouds provide any silver lining!

Sriram and Dinesh had already part-crossed over the first ice patch when we decided to call it a day. With great reluctance the intrepid duo acceded to coming back. Chandru left to lead the way while Shekhar and I awaited their return.

The return descent was impossible without the help of the guides. I was practically dragged down till the waterfall considering that the inch of thick clay under my heels was offering me no purchase. At the waterfall, we met with Chandru nursing injuries. Apparently he had slipped on that treacherous stretch and somersaulted down. Scratches on his scalp and cheek, a badly barked knee and a swollen finger testified to how bad the fall had been.

After lunching at the waterfall we proceeded down the next stretch of steep descent back to the camp. As a final irony, the skies cleared up miraculously and we hit the camp with the setting sun shining brightly down on us.

Or was it that the Goddess of Brahmital did not want us to see the place?

Disclaimer: Photographs by Dinesh.

Links to photographs taken by my fellow trekkers are here. Needless to say, no photographs were taken by me, considering my abilities to turn the most ordinary attempts into something Picasso would have been proud of!

https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=dineshpresent&target=ALBUM&id=5755184952454148257

https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=dineshpresent&target=ALBUM&id=5755428614808610721

https://picasaweb.google.com/113660628666717664764/TrekToBrahmiTalJune9172012

https://picasaweb.google.com/100214039042736147235/TrekToBrahmital