Stop Exploring, Start Decaying

I have met very few people in my life who do not like to travel, do not like to explore. There are many that I have met who envied the life I used to live – travelling, exploring, discovering, adventuring. “Lucky you”, “If only I could” were refrains I have often heard. I have also held the belief that if the grass on the other side is greener, the water bill is probably a lot higher too. 

But living a nomadic life, travelling where fancy takes you, is really a good way to live. We have just one life to live and we need to make the best use of it. Meet new people, experiencing new cultures, imbibing new habits, opening the horizons of the mind, dusting the cobwebs that cloud our judgement due to lack of exposure to an idea alien to us. Travel and exploration certainly makes us a lot more compassionate, accommodating, resilient ... richer. Richer in thought and experience, if not in money terms. But is required to travel. Without a cheque coming in at the end of the month, the resources tucked inside the shoe can run out pretty fast.

This is one reason many of us cannot even begin to start exploring and travelling ... money. And many of us have to suspend their explorations because the money ran out. All of us have liabilities to address in our lives – home, family, tuitions, fees, food, gas in the car, an occasional movie, eating out. The list is endless. Those who pursue a passion, sacrifice a fair bit and compromise on their lifestyle to be able to balance their lives. Oftentimes, reality catches up and the rucksack is mothballed. Sad, but that is the reality of life.

Not everyone is after money or what money can buy. Many people want to live their lives chasing their passions, trying to make their dreams come true. Sometimes, it becomes a futile battle and the longer it takes for this realisation to dawn and to come back to the tried and tested, a lot of water has usually flown under the murky waters of the twilight zone that dreams are. It is almost as if time stood still in the interim ... the time taken between what was given up a few years ago to pursue a dream and the date with destiny when the ties came out again and the shoes were polished, to walk the doors of offices looking to get back into a “meaningful” existence.

The pursuit of happiness is largely an alien concept in India. Maybe I am being too generalistic or cynical, but I have found it to be true, at least in my case. “Why can’t you take up a job and then travel during holidays?” is a common refrain. “You gave it a shot and it did not work, now wake up and smell the coffee” is another one. Finding meaningful employment in what you have been trained for and are good at, is difficult. In the interim your juniors have grown. You might have been largely out of touch with the changing landscape of the economic world, making it difficult for employers to slot you at the position you deserve. Compensations are almost always a miniscule percentage of what it could have been had you been a loyal servant all along, not “jumping ship” to head off into the horizon. All these realities hits one in the face like a ton of bricks. Some cope with it better telling themselves, “What the hell, I gave it a shot and now I need to play the game with the cards that I have been dealt.” Others succumb under the ignominy of having tried and failed. In either case there is a sense of acceptance, of compromise, “If only” never being too far deep in the sub conscience.

Be that as it may, life carries on. The sun will still rise in the East tomorrow, the water flowing in the stream will still be inviting, the birds and the bees will continue to flutter from one flower to the next, there will always be some programme on television taking one into the horizons of forgotten dreams. But the process of decay will start with the first day you wrap the tie around your neck, almost throttling you, telling you, “I told you so.”

However, the process of exploration can still continue in a different form and manner. Vicariously and through books and television and the web. But somewhere deep down inside, the compromise you have been forced to make will always whisper in your ears, reminding you of what might have been, what could have been ... if only.

Happy Father's Day

Time just flies. It seems like just the other day when I got the phone call from my brother who was sitting our my father’s bedside, waiting for the inevitable. I was taking a shower when the phone rang and we all knew the message that was waiting at the end of the line. Mother looked at me, gestured to pick up the phone, silent, unshed drops of liquid forming in the corner of her eyes. She was having breakfast. The rest of the day would be hectic and she quietly finished the last morsel of food, the last she would have as a married woman. A marriage that had lasted a good 35 years and 26 days.

I picked up the phone. It was indeed my brother and the conversation was short, though far from sweet. I told him to wait and quickly proceeded to the hospital to bring our father home for the last time. After a brief illness, though a painful one (mentally and physically), father would come to the home he built with so much love. He always said that he may not enjoy living in the house for very long. Providential, as it turned out. Just about three years he got to spend in the asset he built, scrounging around to pay for each brick. I was still young but remember the hardships we had to go through in life. There was always a whole lot of month left at the end of the money and despite that, the house came up, brick by brick. It was built in three or four stages, work stopping when the money ran out entirely. But in those last three years of dad’s life, he really got to see the fruits of his love and labour.

My father and me had a relationship that was always at loggerheads. He had a whole lot of expectations from me, I managed to pour cold water in all his wishes. I had always been a rebel, while he was looking for a conformist. Not that he did not allow us to tread the unknown, far from it. He told us to chart a path and cross the milestones. I, a man in a hurry, coupled with the exuberance and follies of youth, wanted to skip a few milestones and get straight to the destination. He told me, in order to be a General, you need to be a foot soldier first. I always thought that I was a born General, charting the course of history.

To be fair, he never ever told us not to follow our dreams, not to try out new things, not to walk down the road less travelled. He always told us to plan our moves and take calculated risks. In those teenage years, with the adrenaline rushing and the veins pumping, risks were there to be taken and walls to be scaled, without the slightest thought on what awaited at the other end of the drop and whether one would land on two feet. Much of what I am today is probably because of the little nuggets of wisdom drilled into my head by my father. I did not realise it then, but as the hair disappears from my head, the realisation dawns of the importance of a father who guides you in the course of history that you are trying to chart out of your life. Failure was important to him, as it is to me. Without failure there can be no success. Failure only happens the last time one refuses to get up and walk again.

Born in a one-bullock-cart-village in the interiors of Mymemsingh (now in Bangladesh), the fourth child of a school teacher, growing up in a house with almost a hundred members, my father went on to lived a cherished life, rising up to the second senior most officer in the Indian Army, the first India Green Beret ( a la Rambo), starting the Commando Wing for the Indian Army, becoming a jungle warfare and counter insurgency expert, representing India multiple times in football, being felicitated and awarded by the President of India with the highest military award granted in peace time, being part of the Monitoring Committee for selection of the India archery and shooting teams for the Commonwealth Games, Asian Games and Olympics, he came a long way. The dusty road from Usthi, Mymensingh to the sprawling home in Aurangzeb Road, Delhi sure was an interesting journey.

The journey finally ended when cancer got the better of him. Lung cancer for someone who was as fit as the proverbial fiddle, an international level athlete and sportsman, yoga almost till the end, no smoking, no drinking. He lived a full life though and I hope I can live half a life as eventful and rewarding as him. Today is not special for me since he is in my mind and heart every day. But given the fact that people want us to go out of our way to say that we remember our respective fathers, I thought it opportune to pen a few words in his memory.

I love you. Thank you for breathing life into my heart and bringing me to this world. Happy Father’s Day.

Putting adventurers like me to shame

I fancy myself being an adventurer. I call myself a traveller and an explorer. Going to far off places, meeting people, experiencing cultures, exploring traditions. Before my knee got busted in an accident in 2006, I used to take off on my motorcycle for weeks and months. BikePacking around the country and on the high mountains of the Himalayas. Just me the open road (whenever I found one), the wonders in front of me, the bike throbbing between my legs and the thump reverberating off the gorgeous countryside. After the accident, biking became a problem and I moved over to four wheels. And the journeys continued.

Then recently life took a turn on my road of exploration and I found myself polishing my shoes, dusting my ties and ironing my shirts. The torn jeans and frayed T-shirts found their way into a duffel bag, and neither they nor I know when they will smell the dirt on the road again. I am still in the travel and adventure space, telling visual stories, as part of a media organisation. Doing what I have always wanted to do, albeit in a more structured environment. The possibilities suddenly became manifold and even though I may not be able to explore as much or as often as I would like to, I will still be in the space of talking about and promoting travel, particularly adventure travel.

Be that as it may, let me get back to the story I want to share...

Yesterday, a couple of colleagues and me were out, looking for a restaurant to gorge on good old Hyderabadi biryani, which arguably is the best in the world. And within the many places that serve Hyderabadi biryani, we heard of a place that was supposed to be the best of the best. As we drove towards the restaurant, we crossed what I can only describe as a sight and a vision. An old man, with flowing white beard, wearing sports shoes and track bottoms was walking down the road. Not that that by itself was unique. What made us stop and look again was that he was carrying a load on his back that was almost as tall as the man himself and tied to the pack, fluttering proudly in the gentle breeze were two enormous flags of India.

Being from the media, we kind of figured that there was possibly a story in what we were witnessing. We did not know who or what this man was all about. He could be a porter carrying a load from one end of town to the other. Maybe he was poor and destitute and had just lost his home and had packed all his belongings and was out looking for a new place of residence. We did not know, but we were starting to care. We drove on a couple of kilometres down the road, had our meal of Hyderabadi biryani (which frankly disappointed me, I‘ve had better), and just as we started to take the first bite of paan (betel leaf), there was this guy again crossing our location. We started out after him and after a few yards caught up with him.

As he put his pack down, a crowd started to gather, as if looking at an apparition. This is what I am uncomfortable with as far as travelling is concerned. Even in my motorbiking days, everywhere I stopped for a cup of tea or a meal, within seconds a crowd would gather, gaping, as if witnessing a monkey in a zoo. Some would gather the courage to come forward and strike a conversation. The same was happening here. Some people stepped forward and tentatively shook hands with the ‘apparition’. Some took out their mobile phones and took pictures. The crowd started well, crowding him, and we had to literally push our way through to have a chat.

We introduced ourselves and found that here was a man on a mission. From Panipat, Haryana near Delhi, he was on his way to Kanyakumari. Not from Hyderabad, mind you, but all the way from Jammu & Kashmir. He was walking down the length of India.

I had heard of people who have undertaken endurance treks, endurance bicycle trips, motorcycle trips,, gone around the world, and such like. Was there a story in this guy walking from Jammu & Kashmir to Kanyakumari? Maybe not. Even with the passion with which he started describing the causes he was espousing – and there were a load of them. Stop tobacco use. Stop female foeticide. Plant more trees. Equality in education. Eradicate child labour. And a bunch of others. Sure the causes were important, but in today’s day and age, the necessity of a cause is to be able to attract funding. Maybe this guy was walking (pun intended) down that same road. But a story? Maybe not.

We carried on our chat with him. His name was Bagicha Singh, a proud Jat and he turned out to be 78 years old. 78, and doing the kind of stuff he was doing? Creditable. His pack was propped up close by and between the three of us started guessing its weight. It certainly looked big and heavy. And not a professional rucksack or anything. A frame welded together of iron rods, the stuff wrapped in tarpaulin sheets, tied together with nylon ropes, the straps made of padded cotton, much like a mattress. It looked heavy and our guesstimates ranged from 30 kilos to 50. I tentatively got up and walked towards the pack and tapped it gingerly so that I did not tip it over. It did not even budge. A harder shove and it kind of figured that someone was trying to get its attention. I got hold of the frame and rocked it ... it did but barely so. I then got hold of the bindings on the side and tried to lift it. I was this close to a hernia. When I asked him how much the pack weighed, he stated, almost matter-of-factly, “100kg.” Hmmm. I believed him. A story was beginning to build. A 78 year old man with a 100kg pack, walking around the country, espousing some relevant and important causes. Ok, maybe there was something there.

It must have taken him quite a while to get to Hyderabad from Jammu & Kashmir and I asked him when he had started his walk. Believe, me I was not prepared for his answer. I was ready for something like three months, even six months. But when he replied, my mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish in a bowl, not knowing what to do, what to say, how to respond or what to ask next. His reply, “1993”. This bloke has been on the road walking all over the country since 1993, 19 years almost to the day. Ok, now we had a story.

Bagicha Singh left his home in Panipat early morning in 1993 and has been walking and walking and walking ever since, with a 100 kilo pack on his back, two large tricolours on two poles that displayed the Victory sign in the manner they were tied to the pack, a large banner with photographs of luminaries ranging from Swami Vivekananda to APJ Abdul Kalaam, listing his causes.

Here was a real adventurer. A man from a small town, with his only regret being that his story is rarely picked up by the media or the sponsors. Well, here we were, the media and we would support him in any way we could. We brought him to the office, recorded his story on camera and decided to run a social campaign around him. What he was doing is important and his story is incredible. I wonder in what physical or mental state I will be in when I am 78 years old! Talking to Bagicha Singh and hearing his story, I kind of regressed my pride in calling myself an adventurer. At best I am an armchair one, with the mistaken notion that what I am doing can and will change the world. Far from it. It requires people like Bagicha Singh to poke a figure in our eyes and show us the true meaning of adventure. He sleeps on the road, relies on the public for a meal, wears torn clothes and runs through sneakers every couple of months. And here we are looking for fancy gear and equipment to accompany us on our journey, a bed to sink into every night, a loo that is plush, air conditioning, room service and a shower to shampoo and condition our hair every other day. Sure, we are adventurers, aren’t we. Yes we are, till that fine day when we come face to face with an inspiration called Bagicha Singh.