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.