20 mins read.
Airport
Remember how your neck hurts
after looking at those moving planets and stars on the dome of the Jawaharlal
Nehru Planetarium? Mine did the same way. After glaring at those crimson
lights, hanging gardens, ceiling made of cross-laid bamboo and tall indoor waterfalls
at Terminal 2, KIA. Skidmore, Owings & Merrill (SOM) had placed every
sculpture and structure rightly, where they belonged. Our flight to Delhi was
scheduled for departure at 0800hrs. We
reached the Indira Gandhi International Airport at 1030hrs and steamed
ourselves in the basement, waiting for an Uber. Once the car arrived after
some 5 calls over confusion about the pillar number, we got in to reach Le Meridien (Delhi, NCR). The car was a
white Swift on the outside but was customized with black and red cushion-y
seats inside and with an excellent 'cooling system', which is susceptible in
Maruti Suzuki cars. During our travel, the driver and my mother were
comparing whose traffic is worse: Bengaluru or Delhi? Debatable. They settled
the argument with Mumbai's as even more worse. The driver asked us if we saw
Terminal 1 roof falling down while we were waiting at the basement. All we
could hear there was people calling taxies so we checked the news on our
phones to find out that the roof had really collapsed 7 hours ago due to heavy
downpour. Sad, but I think they later spiraled into complaining about roads,
governments and roads again.
Le Meridien, Sec 26
The buffet for lunch was
intercontinental: Italian, Japanese, Chinese and Indian. As we approached the
concierge to "guide the way" to a table, we picked the one next to
some big window - for the view. What excitement already, ja? Anyways, our trip
hadn't unfolded yet because we were still experiencing something that a
Tiffany-twisted person would in any city such as hotel employees rolling their
r's, aunties in pearl necklaces, appetizing food served in ceramic plates and
of course, coddled kids having an id outburst. Once we finished lunch, she left
for office work and I tried becoming Nancy Drew. Looked for nearby places to
visit and found Aravali Biodiversity Park 450 mts away. With three hours left
for the evening, I walked till there to only witness something not-nice: the
headboard being fixed, pathways being constructed and men staring at me for
believing internet too much. The Park was under construction. I immediately
walked back to the room, looking at the trains pass and kept thinking about a
comment one of my writer friends had made: "Delhi's metro is 30 years
ahead of Bengaluru's".
In the evening (around
2100hrs), her colleagues took us out for dinner at 'Yeti - The Himalayan Kitchen'. This was my second trip
with the duo - Mr. Mishra & Mr. Bhalla - whose bond and curiosity resembled Rocky Singh and Mayur Sharma.
There, I learnt about three things: Tingmo and Ema Datshi is Bhutan's national
dish, prayer wheels or mani wheels in the restaurant were the same ones in
Buddhist monasteries which were believed to recite mantras scripted over them
when the wind blows or someone rotates it and eat a chicken yeti special kothey
momo like a golgappa. However, what struck me was how and why is Ema Datshi a
national dish because it had cheese in it.
Road Trip
Next day, that is, on the 29th
of June, 2024 was a road trip in Mr. Bhalla's car to the Kumaon region of
Uttarakhand. Specifically, to Nainital district. We rode through New Delhi,
Ghaziabad, Amroha, Rampur and Rudrapur to Bhimtal. With minimal traffic within
city limits and vast roads, we could complete the road trip within 7.5 to 8
hours. For breaks in between, we stopped at Gurudev ka Dhaba and another bakery
in Haldwani which resembled like one Kanti Sweets building. I found an
equivalent to the countless Ambur Dum Biryani hotels or Star Briyani hotels (NH
4; KA to TN) to Shiva Dhaba Mama Yadav restaurants along the highway. After
listening/jamming to songs, flabbergasted at AIIMS
buildings (it has helipad too), appreciating how beautiful Akshar Dham is,
switching seats (except Mr. Bhalla who was on the steering) and listening to
Mr. Mishra explaining what a Tibetan Border Police Force HQ was doing in a
jampacked Rudrapur-Haldwani Road, we reached Goludhar Cottages of Bhimtal town
in Nainital district.
As it turned 1715hrs, the four
wheeled black shell in which we were seated in climbed up through the elevating
rubble road through mini hair-pin bends to the metal gates of Sage Homestay.
I don't quite recall how many gears Mr. Bhalla switched to maneuver till there.
A slim body crested with an oiled pompadour pulled away the gates inward;
latching each of it down to either corners to let the car in. From the ground
floor room came out the owner, Suresh Arora
to welcome all of us. Under the
grey mustache, his smile extended over wrinkled lines across his face spilling
Hindi words quite faster than his footsteps. One among us, however, ranked
higher than just a welcome - Pankaj Mishra - who was only returning back to
one of many of his travel escapes so a homecoming if you will. It was Nithin Bhalla's second visit. By now, the gates were closed and he resumed in
the kitchen to prepare tea and snacks for us. As I don't remember his name,
let's call him Raj. Raj has been working at the homestay for long enough that
his eyes only meet to either listen to a task he has to fulfill or during one -
serving food, leading customers to their rooms upstairs and briefing about the
geyser, going to the market to buy groceries that Mrs. Arora has asked for or
to the bakery to bring savories for Mr. Arora's important guests, etc. Mr.
Arora is also a Type A with a tinge of temper. After a few introductions and
greetings, my mother and I entered our room while the duo to theirs. Inside our
room stood a staircase leading to an attic which had a mattress placed into a
dim. Few breezes later, I found myself sitting amongst the Aroras, the duo and
my mother encircling a patio table set on the ground floor across the kitchen
window. Leading the conversation was Meenu Arora whose bangled hands spoke
as much as her voice, maintaining an invisible telephonic line running through
our temples. Between the times my mother pronounced ‘Bohot’ as ‘Bahut’ and
nodded her head sideways to make up for a loss of Hindi words, Mr. Arora had
dialed Zaib to drive his gigantic van over. Under the scattered hues of a
setting sun through the bendy roads separating cedar trees was our stop -
India’s highest yacht club, ‘Boat House Club Ltd Nainital’ or ‘Naini Tal Yacht
Club’.
to welcome all of us. Under the
grey mustache, his smile extended over wrinkled lines across his face spilling
Hindi words quite faster than his footsteps. One among us, however, ranked
higher than just a welcome - Pankaj Mishra - who was only returning back to
one of many of his travel escapes so a homecoming if you will. It was Nithin Bhalla's second visit. By now, the gates were closed and he resumed in
the kitchen to prepare tea and snacks for us. As I don't remember his name,
let's call him Raj. Raj has been working at the homestay for long enough that
his eyes only meet to either listen to a task he has to fulfill or during one -
serving food, leading customers to their rooms upstairs and briefing about the
geyser, going to the market to buy groceries that Mrs. Arora has asked for or
to the bakery to bring savories for Mr. Arora's important guests, etc. Mr.
Arora is also a Type A with a tinge of temper. After a few introductions and
greetings, my mother and I entered our room while the duo to theirs. Inside our
room stood a staircase leading to an attic which had a mattress placed into a
dim. Few breezes later, I found myself sitting amongst the Aroras, the duo and
my mother encircling a patio table set on the ground floor across the kitchen
window. Leading the conversation was Meenu Arora whose bangled hands spoke
as much as her voice, maintaining an invisible telephonic line running through
our temples. Between the times my mother pronounced ‘Bohot’ as ‘Bahut’ and
nodded her head sideways to make up for a loss of Hindi words, Mr. Arora had
dialed Zaib to drive his gigantic van over. Under the scattered hues of a
setting sun through the bendy roads separating cedar trees was our stop -
India’s highest yacht club, ‘Boat House Club Ltd Nainital’ or ‘Naini Tal Yacht
Club’.
We left the club and boarded
Zaib’s non-AC Toyota Qualis to head back. No lights were erected on the road.
The trees on either sides disguised as darkness. A trail that seemed to no
longer continue if you drove straight ahead. Unless a vehicle headed toward us
or followed up close, there was no vision of the road. The mist blurred bright
headlights into tangerine and crimson. Zaib would dim and dip on the lonely
path to see better. Between the flicker, mother gasped. Mrs. Arora according to
Mr. Arora was a bear with a thick skin
built for the anabatic winds. This explains why she sat spotting tiny dots
adorning Bhimtal, with her right hand forming a triangle on the sill and
gulping the gust through her eyes. An hour of stories and chuckles later, I let
the quilt engulf me into the attic’s warmth.
30th June, 2024. Sunday morning. There is a new voice in the kitchen. Poonam Panni. A middle-aged woman who was probably the inspiration for the smiling Matryoshka dolls. Raj and Panni are unrelated siblings to each other and guardians of the homestay when the couple is away in Delhi, where Mrs. Arora runs Angel's Basket, a bakery. Their palms set two plates of kachori, a cup of meethi chutney, a big bowl of watermelon pieces, two roti baskets of aloo parathas and bowls of raitha and pulao on the round food table under the shade. After a few scudding clouds pass over Kuriya Gaon at a distant in front of us, we filled our stomachs and were set for the first destination of the day.
Paragliding
Mr. Bhalla’s car drove us to Sky Bird Adventures, Bhimtal. Mrs.
Arora, Mr. Mishra and mother snacked at the nearby Do Bati Restaurant. The institution was split across three places –
a ticket counter which if built a step further could tumble down the hillside, a
take-off area arranged at the edge of a cliff and a plane ground for landing which
was dotted with a few thin mattresses and petite men clicking photographs of
paragliders. After collecting our tickets, Mr. Bhalla and I were escorted by a slim
dude in his 20s into a red Alto. No seatbelts. I wondered which tree would he
be hanging from if a turbulent wind gushed. But. He drove at 40-50 kmh to the
take-off spot uphill. We wore our harnesses and helmets. Before our flight, a
selfie stick tried settling in our sweaty palms (700 INR) or otherwise a
suggestion of HD photos of us (500 INR). Mr. Bhalla flew away with his selfie
stick and a pilot.
Manoj Chowdhury began, “Don’t
worry, madam. Just run till there and we will take-off. Don’t stop before. Did
you understand? Don’t take tension, madam. Run till there and don’t stop
before. Okay?” I had nodded at “till there” already. When we land, lift your legs. When my turn came, Mr. Chowdhury
attached something to the chute and me. I jogged till the edge and we lifted
off. The PAI licensed pilot had expected a tone-deafening “wohoo” as we were in
air but he got a passenger as quiet as Conan O’Brien around Jordan Schalnsky in
their Italy segment. He asked thrice this time, “Are you okay, madam?”. I had to assure
him by shouting, “Haa sir, bohot achcha
hai!” Naukuchiatal was below. The pilot explained that it was the last day
of paragliding due to a rainy July ahead and therefore, the duration of flight
would be less. 20 seconds. That’s what she sa-. Smooth landing. Five-star
rating.
Mr. Bhalla was waiting down near the landing area and we were guided through a farm patch to two mountain bikes. Again, slim dudes. The bikes did not have the handle behind for the pillion rider to hold onto. As my hamstrings cried a stretch, I sat behind and my driver said, “Madam, mujhe pakadke baithiye”. I held onto a grill underneath me and he drove up the dirt road, accelerating rigorously. The slope was so steep that it could be a base for a slide.
Around 1315hrs, the car engine stopped at a 4.6 acres aqua bejeweled with baby pink water lilies swaying on top of flat green pads. We were looking at Kamal Tal (Lake of Lotuses). Mee tamuka sachhi baat batul? (Do I tell you the truth?) A pod of nearly 100 lotuses!
Sailin' Yachts
Bends later, we reached the
homestay. Mr. Arora inquired if I enjoyed the flight. While Zaib the
Excellency of the Super Scary Hilly Roads was on his way to pick us up for the
boat club, Mr. Arora, Mr. Mishra and I decided to walk along the route, for no
significant reason.His heart heavy with commitments and pressure limited
continued footsteps. At Mr. Arora’s pauses, Mr. Mishra turned into DOP
(Director of Photography). A shy Arora saab who avoided photos was convinced
for one and fortunately, melted looking at them. We climbed into the Qualis
after walking around two-three bends. Before touching the Nainital-Bhowali Road
was a bridge stilted above a roaring stream before which were fragments of
fruit shops aligned on one side of the road. Brakes hit.
I saw cherries for the
first time. The Aroras gave us tiny bits of flesh to taste and I faintly
remember if the vendor approved the free taste-testing time. A tarty sweetness.
They bought cartons of wallet-sized fruits.
Around 1700hrs, I was slurping
the vermilion from a cherry as we were waiting to set sail in the yacht from
the jetty. Mother and I climbed down the boat house to a shaky pavement leading
to two parked yachts. We put on our safety jackets. Next thing, we are gazing
at chubby fish swimming below, at the distant cable cars sliding up and down
and at surrounding yachts that seemed to disappear slowly. Well, not
disappearing but being swamped by sheets of fog. By 1725hrs, our sail ceased.
Our hair strands had become threads of tiny droplets.
Mr. Mishra and I began
experimenting with chicken starters while mom and Mr. Bhalla ate everything
that vegetarians eat – paneer. 
The Aroras were passing time with their friends
who were also members of the club. Mrs. Arora – Tambola. Mr. Arora – Rummy.
Zaib and Raj must have been doing something important maybe? Then, our
financially stable Christopher McCandless aka Mishra Ped—Mr. Mishra led us to
Sakley’s. The ingress of this bakery smelt thick of sweet loaves, hot chocolate
and butter. Three gourmet heads were handling the bakery. We ordered a slice of
Banoffee Pie, Fetuccine Alfredo and a Jim-Jam (ripped). Frames of educational
institutions built by the British hung on one side of the wall. One of them was
Sherwood College, where one of my
seniors had studied and he is now serving in the IAF. Taste buds were greased
with cheese and white sauce. Clothes smelt of warmish from the maillard
reaction. We turned left from the shop and walked straight on the Mall Road.
Products of all kind were displayed adjacent along the entire roadway. One
could not miss any even by mistake as we treaded slowly for two reasons: last
evening in Nainital and the crowd. We purchased fridge magnets of Nainital, key
chains, shawls, earrings and fun after firing a few balloons. Mr. Mishra bought
me a box of mango jelly strips which only emptied around November in Bengaluru.
Then, Zaib drove all seven into dawn, back to Sage Homestay.
It was around 2100hrs. Raj had
prepared our dinner that Mr. Arora had told him in the car – stuffed parathas and
raitha. I could only make space for one. I ran up the staircase to the room and
then another that led into the attic to escape the dropping temperature.
1st July. Mr. Bhalla
and Mrs. Arora, two devotees of the saint led us into a snowy haze at 0600hrs.
Mrs. Arora began explaining that Steve Jobs ideated the logo of Apple following
his visit to the ashram and that prasadh
offered at any ashram of the saint was no less than ambrosia. Reading and
keeping the contents about belief and religion mentioned in the book, ‘Sapiens’
to myself seemed safe at that point. The
wheels speeded down the Nainital-Almora road to a buzzy parking lot. We stepped
out barefoot and walked toward the temple. In English, they mean ‘scissors’ and
‘holy place’. Kainchi Dham was an ashram where Sri Neem Karoli Baba used to
reside, attend to devotees of Hanuman and hold prayers. The saint was also
called as Maharaj-ji by his devotees. We were right on time for the daily aarti, 0645hrs. Lines of devotees
exchanged their gaze from the flames to the Hanuman idol then across
Maharaj-ji’s frame, their palms fused and lips whispered mantras. Sun rays had
touched the gurgling Kosi river. As I later tried fact-checking about Job’s, aunty was
partially true. Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg had toured here once on separate
occasions, however, after the saint’s demise in 1974.
Badu – (Goodbye in Kumaoni)
On phone, “Beta, paneer fridge se baahar rakdho” said Mrs. Arora to
Raj while we were approaching Bhowali-Bhimtal Road. The gates were already
opened for us. Mr. Bhalla pulled the handbrake. Mrs. Arora rapped at the
kitchen door. Under the umbrella’s dome, around the patio table were two men
seated – Mishra ji and Arora ji – who had paused their conversation. The latter
asked me if the temple visit was good. Haa
uncle. Mr. Mishra laid out the plan for departure. To pack bags first then
eat special paneer toast which would be prepared by mama bear herself. Then,
road trip back to Delhi. They were triangle shaped
stuffed with paneer fillings encased in a crispy bread. It was painted golden
brown on the bulging center of both sides but fluffy as the incisors cut
through the toast. Panni and Raj extended our breakfast platter. The Aroras,
the duo and mother began exchanging dialogues of having made pleasant memories
the past two days as the plates emptied. Mr. Arora, a Type A who had recognized
someone of his kind – my mother – offered advices to keep her head above the
corporate currents.
24 kms later, we stopped at Udupiwala for pakoras and juice. At 170 kms, a barista
handed our order of a pumpkin bread and three drinks at Starbucks, Gajraula
highway. As it was my first time at this expensive café, I let Mr. Mishra to
pick one for me. If he one day leaves his corporate job and leads a tourism
centered UX lab, people have to watch out. Seriously. You may never know what
hits you. He was a tall man who casually fit into his plane color shirts, jeans
and shoes flattering strangers of any age with his knowledge of tourism and touring
to their places more than once, sometimes into their memories. Humor sat at the
tip of his tongue. For example, as we were crossing Ghaziabad highway, he
pointed to massive cone-shaped dumps of garbage and said, “This is a hill station.”
Our flight to Bengaluru was scheduled at 1700hrs and the duo got us to the airport through the express highway, embassies and one man by 1530hrs. While waiting at a traffic signal, I saw the man inhaling through an empty white plastic cover and looked disoriented. Mr. Mishra explained that the white patches on his fingers were from a whitener and inhaling it gets one high. At the place where cars dropped people if stopped for more than a minute were shooed by the airport employees and their whistle, Mr. Bhalla waved to us with one hand while the other was on the wheel. A conversation was serious and boring until he made an entry. Adventures too – paragliding, driving on any terrain – needed his company. At 2100hrs, mother and I stood with our luggage beside us waiting for dad’s Ciaz. Cooling system, boo.
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