Travel Trendz Trilogy Update: Day 2, Sep 20

Surprisingly no one was hungry. It was nearly dawn and when you are on the road and the darkness starts playing a losing battle with the rising sun, most people want to grab a bite to eat. Well, that’s been my experience. But here we were, with only Rajesh demanding a pack of biscuits. Other had their tea in miniscule cups. I was not going to partake in that ritual. I had four cups of tea poured into a tall glass and only then consented to imbibe the spirit laced with tannin.

I checked the luggage bin to see if there was any leakage into the compartment. It had fortunately held up pretty well with not a drop to be felt inside. That was a relief since there were so many things stored in there that would be disastrous if wet – cameras primarily.

We sped on towards Pune. My cousin stays there and we had told him to expect us for breakfast, around seven is when I had told him to expect us. When he called me around eight, we were still a fair distance away. I upped the arrival time to ten.

Once people got wind of the fact that breakfast was going to be delayed, hunger pangs started. Rajesh promised us the staple breakfast of Maharashtra and soon enough he spotted a roadside eatery making the delicious vada paos. Cars were parked and the vada paos just kept on coming. Along with missal pao and poori bhaji ... and of course tea. The guys had never ever had vada paos before and they gorged. I suspect hunger had only a slight part in the amount all of us gorged.

Breakfast done, we hit the road anger, stomachs happy and contented. The cameras started rolling and Rajesh who was sitting in the Gypsy became the cameraman. He soon gave up, said that the two eyelids of his were desperate to meet, changed vehicles, dropped the seat and dozed off like there was no tomorrow. The others had had their fill of sleep and were taking in the wonders of driving through the Maharashtrian heartland.

By the time we hit my cousin’s place (that took us an hour to find his house) it was past noon. Realising we were going to be late, he had taken the time out and the effort to cook some fantastic chicken curry and rice. The vada paos were still active in all our stomachs and none of us did any justice to the fantastic food that was laid in front of us. That was sad, but unavoidable. Quietly everyone made their way into the washroom to clean up. I have a sneaky feeling that they wanted to do more than just wash up, but felt embarrassed to make their intention openly known. Mumbai was a couple of hours away and the pressures building up in the nether regions could wait. No one complained of the odour in the vehicle so I guess God was in His Heaven all the way to Mumbai.

The expressway was a dream to drive on and we did just that ... enjoy. The Gypuzu is not known to do great speeds and we were cruising at around 85 kmph when the rain started to come down. And it was starting to pelt. After the wonderful Hyderabadi weather and the rising humidity as we headed towards to Mumbai was partially offset by the coolness of the breeze wafting between the raindrops. 

A few kilometres short of Mumbai, thankfully before we hit the infamous traffic, I smelt something not so happy a split second before the cockpit filled up with smoke. That was one worry I had had for the past two days and my apprehension was coming true. Something had happened to the radiator and I was about to begin my voyage down the creek without a paddle. Gingerly I got out of the vehicle (fortunately I had parked it under a bridge), opened the bonnet to find that indeed something had happened, though not half as serious as I had expected. After the vehicle was serviced, the mechanic had put in just water in the radiator and no coolant. The water had heated and evaporated over the past 600km and the radiator said sorry. My other five well wishers were up there to help immediately. The radiator cap was opened and what water we had was promptly poured in. Little did they realise that due to the heat, all the water was instantly evaporating. Good sense prevailed and everyone waited for the engine to cool down before pouring in the additional water. Fortunately there was no leakage and nothing had gone bust. Driving slowly thereafter, we reached the hotel a while later and checked in.

While the others relaxed, freshened up and did what they wanted to Rajesh, Mustafa and me went off to the Mumbai office to catch up with Soumen and Kamalinee. Tomorrow was International Peace Day and Travel Trendz was the Global Broadcast Partner. There was a concert being staged in Mumbai and Rajesh had the responsibility of filming it. He had been going this way and that for the past couple of days getting the production organised and he had yet to see the venue to decide on logistics. Soumen would be working with him on this and I left the two of them to decide what to do next.

Soon enough we were back in the hotel, dinner was a scrumptious affair and the comfort of the bed beckoned us all. But there was work yet ... we were here for the exhibition and all of us trotted off to the venue to see what was up. The stall had to be installed, the Gypuzu had to be placed, the TV sets put up, the storage areas identified ... a whole lot of work. When we arrived work was on at full swing. But that did not mean that we could just park the Gypuzu and head on home. The area had to be cleaned, carpets pasted, platform constructed, etc, etc, etc. Home was some time away yet. Which came soon enough.

Hussain was sleeping in the car and he did not know when or how or at what time we came back to the hotel or how and when he went up the elevator and crashed into bed. This was his first ever long distance journey and he was pooped. In fact we all were. We sank into our respective beds and did not even realise when sleep overtook us ... probably even before we hit the bed.

That was how the day ended. A long drive, a taste of vada pao followed by a lovely lunch and then setting up of the stall and placement of the Trilogy vehicle. An eventful day indeed and quite satisfying.

So ended Day 2. I’ll see you when I’ll see you. Keep following the Trilogy for more.

 

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Travel Trendz Trilogy Update: Day 1, Sep 19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

D-Day. Well almost. D-Day because I finally left Hyderabad to embark on the Travel Trendz Trilogy. It was past midnight and there was just the team that was travelling with me to Mumbai. It was late, it was raining, and it was not possible for people to see me off and wish me Godspeed. Nonetheless, there was Mustafa, Rajesh, Teja, Irfan and Hussain, all off who were travelling with me to Mumbai for the India International Travel Mart, where Travel Trendz was a co sponsor, and where the expedition would finally flag off from.

I was just a little bit apprehensive. It was after more than a year that I was again going to the heights of Ladakh and more than four years later that I was attempting another expedition, another world record. There were thoughts that kept coming back to me about the chances of success, about the possible pitfalls, about the fact that this time there were sponsors whose hopes and dreams of a successful outcome of the Travel Trendz Trilogy were lying squarely on my shoulders. It is a heavy burden to carry, the outcome of which lay entirely on me. Travel Trendz and Via.com did all that they possibly could ... support me psychologically and financially. I was not too worried about the other two co-partners – OutThere Adventurers and the OTA Survival School for obvious reasons. These companies were not outsiders, though the onus of success and failure lay as heavy on them as they did on the others.

Anyway, a little after midnight (so does this update qualify for the 19^th?) the six op us shook our respective hands and off we were for a tryst with destiny. First stop, Mumbai for the IITM exhibition. I was the Project Manager for this event and apart from making sure that I did what I had to do for the Trilogy, I had to ensure that all was well and ran smoothly at the exhibition. There had been a major goof up a couple of days back and that did not sit well with me. But as I keep telling myself, butterflies are always good, they keep you on your toes, making you more aware of the things that need to get done.

Off we went northwards. It was drizzling. Rajesh joined me in my two-seater Gypuzu, while the other four were comfortable ensconced in a ten-seater Winger ... albeit with lots of luggage. We hot the highway and soon thereafter Hussain promised us a cup of tea, the likes of which we had not tasted ever. Sure enough it tasted good. Just off the highway on the road to Mumbai, after sipping some gorgeous tea, we headed on. I was leading all the way while Hussain kept on my tail. I preferred it that way since I had not driven long distance with him before and I like the fact that he was right there on my rear view mirror.

And we drove on into the night. As people slowly dozed off, the only ones to hear the drone of the engines was Hussain and me. So ended the rest of the night and then we stopped for a cuppa just before dawn and a wayside dhaba that was just about starting to clean up for the next day’s business.

A quiet day ... or night as it turns out, after a hard day’s work, and the drive was uneventful apart from the constant drizzle that for a short while turned into a virtual downpour.

I’ll see you when I’ll see you. Till then take care, work hard, play harder and sleep tight.

 

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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.

Off to watch the desert being stormed

It is that time of the year again. The expected call came from my dear friend Ashish Bhatia, once again inviting me to be his co-driver during the Desert Storm 2012 rally. Allegedly one of the most gruelling and challenging rallies in India (some say in Asia), it is tough for the participants. But from what I have experienced over the past three years, it can be as tough for the Marshalls. And I was going to punish myself again as a Marshall this year too.

Life is tough for the Marshalls. Time loses all meaning. Meals are a thing you grab when you can. Sleep is something you catch in the gap between two cars speeding obscenely towards your Hop. You are left in the middle of the desert or the salt flat or the Rann in the middle of the night, the only contact with the outside world being the intermittent crackle of radio sets, supposedly establishing contact, but sometimes I feel, it is for the radio holders just to reassure themselves that there is a world at the other end of the radio set. The Storm is about food deprivation, sleep deprivation, water deprivation. Thirst, hunger, fear and the numbing cold are a constant companion.

I understand that this year our responsibilities are going to be largely placements of the other rookie Marshals along the rally route. Which means we will first have to reach each stage, recce the entire route, then gather all the Marshals in a convoy and keep placing them, placing ourselves at our locations, establish radio contact with the Hops behind and ahead of us, and then wait for the Stage to go live. Which could be hours away. And after the Stage is over, sweep the Marshals along the course and head for the next Stage to repeat the exercise all over again. And the next Stage could be 300 km away. And this is on a good day (or night). Often times participants stray off course and get lost. If they are lost in our watch we have to go look for them and shepherd them back to the paddock. Other avoidable instances are accidents, God forbid.

Sometimes I get the feeling that the organisers do this on purpose. Make the Marshals drive through the night to reach their next location, keep them occupied for most of the night, start the Stage in the wee hours, allow it to go on for much of the night. And as night falls, new duties are handed out and the Marshals drive through the night to reach their next port of call. This way hotel rooms do not need to be booked for most of the Marshals and if per chance some of them do happen to drop by the staging area, remnants of a buffet dinner might be available.

Nah, I am kidding. It is a tough ask to organise a rally as big as the storm. And JD and Raj and team do a fantafabulous job each year. Hats off to them. The work starts months before the actual rally and becomes even more intense on the rally days. It is no mean task to administer this monster of an event. There are the participants who are the real heroes of the show and have to be catered to. As have to their support teams. The rookie and trigger happy Marshals (and I have seen a few of them) are no easy bunch to manage. Food, refreshments, hotel bookings, permits, ambulances, cops, local administration, villagers, run-over dogs (and sometimes cattle), the spills, and the ever present fear that someone will make a mistake and there will be a nasty pile-up. Seven days of pure hell. I am surprised they still look so cool and calm and composed. But behind that serene exterior I am sure there is a racing heart and the fingers dug into the pockets ostensibly due to the cold, are crossed every which way.

So here I am, ready to get go off and get punished, of my own free will. Might come back a few kilos lighter, a lot darker, with a stated promise never to be broken that this was the last year and all the elephants in the jungles of India will not be able to drag me to another Storm. But then, come this time next year, I will be writing a similar blog before heading off into Desert Storm 2013. Inshallah.

A drive through the asteroid belt

Having travelled a zillion miles over the years I am still convinced that travel is not about the destination as much as it is about the journey. And I have been through all kinds of terrain, all kinds of roads, all kinds of what like to call themselves roads, through high mountain passes and in the bosom of the desert. Every journey comes back with its own experiences, its own memories, each to be treasured for their own unique reason.

But, I had a recent experience that kind of let me down pretty badly. I had to go to Hyderabad for a meeting and like the maverick I am, I decided to rev up my trusted old 10 year old Santro and head off into the Deccan. People told me I was crazy, but then I always knew that. Anything to have the steering wheel in my hands and I could drive anywhere. So me and a couple of friends of mine loaded up on the vehicle early one morning and headed off South.

Sameer promised us breakfast at Agra, right in front of the entrance to Agra Fort. He said that the best meals of all varieties were available there. So, when we hit Agra, instead of looking for the bypass which would take us towards Gwalior, we went looking for the entrance to the Agra Fort. Finally found it. And blank. The whole place had been cleaned out as if swept with a broom. Not a thela in site. Not one distant smell of a paratha. No one selling pethas. Not even a chai wallah sneaking behind a tree trunk. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Shams and me looked back at Sameer questioningly. He had a very sheepish look on his face and finally confessed that this was the place to grab a bite when he had come here last. When was that, we asked. Well, five years ago, he said. No wonder. Five years is a long time for the civic authorities to clean up the mess, if that is at all possible in a country such as India. But sure thing, not a vendor in sight. We headed on and somehow found the highway once again and headed off into Chambal country.

The parathas we finally found in a roadside dhaba were delicious. Adding to the flavour was the spicy achaar and to cool off the tanginess in the mouth was fresh curd. Delicious. We spent some time talking to the locals about the ill repute of the Chambal region, its dacoits, and whether they were looters or modern day Robin Hoods. Everyone agreed that life in the region was much more peaceful now and almost all the dacoits had been either bumped off or were in jail. Life was a lot more peaceful and our worries of travelling through the Gwalior stretch at night were found to be largely unfounded. At least as far as these locals we spoke to at the dhaba was concerned. And it was still early morning and we had to cross the other ‘bad’ stretch of the road yet, well before nightfall. The naxal belt between Nagpur and Adilabad.

We raced on. Well, we did not actually. We wanted to though. As soon as we entered Madhya Pradesh something happened to the roads. They just disappeared. A stretch of spanking tarmac followed by miles of potholes. Maybe this was where the asteroids had hit Earth. Deep, deep craters. All the way. We headed gingerly on. My sister lives in Bhopal and we decided to spend a night with her. We told her to expect us around five. At seven we were still a few hours out. Here she was expecting her brother to come spend the night, the kids were waiting to show me some books that they had recently been gifted, the Old Monk was getting increasingly impatient, and here we were parked next to a thela having chai and dal vadas. By the time we parked in front of my sister’s house, it was past ten at night. The kids had managed to stay up just about enough to say hello, and off they went to bed. The Monk kept us company for a while, but the journey on the famed land of the Chambal had taken its toll and soon the three of us dozed off, oblivious to the symphony that our respective snores had on the neighbourhood. Least of all Shams whose snores can actually wake the dead ... on a good day. And today he was tired!

The plan was to leave Bhopal before daybreak, but by the time we heard the roosters and said good morning, the sun was way up in the sky and the promised dosas had burnt on the tawa. A South Indian breakfast was replaced with toast and omelettes and by the time we headed out further south, it was nearly ten in the morning. But we felt refreshed after a good nights sleep. We would be in Hyderabad by late evening. Given my enthusiasm I promised them an early night, maybe even while it was still light. Little did I know that one should never predict travel times when travelling down the heart of India – Madhya Pradesh. The roads entirely disappeared. Actually incorrect. The semblance of what was once a road was distinctly visible. In between the missing asphalt. Often we would stop not knowing which way to go. Crater on the left, crater on the right, an 18-wheeler honking behind us, a taxi blocking our way in front, caught in the same predicament. I lost count of the number of times the undercarriage went bump.

By the time we hit Nagpur it was way past sunset. And the ‘crazy’ stretch, the naxal belt was ahead of us. My information was that the Nagpur-Adilabad road was under construction and going would be slow. A better idea was to take the Nagpur-Asifabad road instead. Ok, we headed down that road. Sameer has a hatred for travelling at night and he insisted we parked for the night somewhere in Nagpur. I did not want to do that. I have always wanted to drive at night because of the traffic conditions I find at night – no rickshaws, no tractors, no schools, no children, no shops, nothing apart from trucks and the occasional bus. And I have no problem with them. My worry was safety. I did not want to become the main player in a ransom story. We asked around and everyone assured us that all was well and we could drive on without a care in the world. Sameer was less inclined and finally he won over. We drove another hundred kilometres or so towards Asifabad, and found a seedy hotel in a one-horse town and parked for the night. As you entered Sameer’s room you were immediately hit with the bold advertisement that proposed you call Babita. Mobile number and all! Babita was given a go-by but the chhotu of the hotel latched on to Sameer (who was sleeping in one room while Shams and me shared another) and insisted on giving him a massage. Sameer did not know what to do and immediately changed and insisted we head on. By this time, old man monk had had his say and we decided to leave early morning, which we did around five.

I called Hyderabad and told them to expect us around noon. Little did I realise that we were still in Madhya Pradesh. By the time noon turned around on the watch, we were still a couple of hours away from the destination. Awful, awful roads. I do not remember if it was Shams or Sameer who opined that National Highways were supposed to be maintained by the Centre and there was no use to blame the State Government for it. But that should hold true for all National Highways. Why was it that when we entered Madhya Pradesh the concept of a National Highway disappeared entirely? And guess what? The worst stretch of National Highway was labelled NH 69. No wonder!!!

We were way behind schedule in any case and there was no point in making any more apologies. We headed towards Hyderabad and finally landed at our destination, late beyond explanation. We were graciously put up in the company Guest House and despite my best intentions at staying awake, waiting for the time when we would head for our meeting, we were snoring like there was no tomorrow. The meeting, informal though it was, happened later in the evening, when we were treated to a delectable meal of dishes from literally all over the world – Greece, Turkey, Arabia and good old India. Tummies tucked, our formal meeting was pushed for the next day and we headed back to the Guest House for a much needed night of rest after the battering our bodies had taken over the past many hours.

We stayed on in Hyderabad for a few days completing the necessary duties, meeting people we had to meet and after having concluded a fairly successful trip it was time to head back again. Oooops. Back in Madhya Pradesh. The thought itself was not welcome, even to me who jumps at every opportunity for a long drive. Sameer had some work in Hyderabad and he decided to stay back for a couple of days. Me and Shams loaded up, cleaned the windscreen of the accumulated dust and headed off. No, we would not take the Asifabad road but the Adilabad road. It was daytime and the naxals would not trouble us. Moreover, my information was wrong, the road was constructed and we could make very good time. Which we did. In spite of the day time traffic everywhere which I personally loathe.

The owner of the dhaba we stopped for lunch advised us to head for Rajasthan from a detour short of Adilabad. A longer route, but a better one he promised. I wonder what happened to me but I decided to go down Madhya Pradesh, albeit through a different route than the one we had come by. We would not head to Bhopal, but would head to Nagpur via Hinganghat and then go down to Jabalpur, Jhansi, Sagar and Gwalior. Hmmm. Bad idea. The craters came back. Not as bad as on the other route, but bad enough. If the roads had been good, as they were till Adilabad, I was targeting reaching Delhi by noon. As luck and the roads would have it, by the time we hit Sagar, it was past midnight and the roads had taken their toll. We parked at a dhaba and slept for a few hours and then headed off again at the crack of dawn.

Got stuck in traffic through the day and by the time we hit Delhi it was past midnight. I should probably have listened to the dhaba owner and peeled off into Rajasthan. A longer route but I guess a shorter one in terms of time. And way more generous to the butt and the car.

But let me give Madhya Pradesh its due. This is not the first time I have travelled down MP. I have done it on a bike a few years ago. The conditions have gotten worse. But MP is doing its bit in population control. Accidents are par for the course. And whether they are a part of NREGA or not, a lot of employment is being generated. We found so many broken down vehicles, they certainly provided employment to a whole lot of mechanics all along the stretch. Spare part owners are making a killing in MP. What good is it to run a spare parts shop if no parts get broken? The roads in Madhya Pradesh ensure a steady stream of income for all spare part shops and mechanics of all hues. Add to that the threat of the dacoits of the Chambal and the Naxals of in the Nagpur-Adilabad stretch, we have hotels, motels, guest houses, dharamshalas, having their rooms booked at all times. Kudos.

Was it a good experience? According to me no experience is either good or bad. The experience just is. It is the memory of the experience that makes it good or bad. As for this ride, it gave me another glimpse of travelling down our wonderful country. And it took me down two different routes. And the next time I head to Hyderabad, I will take the route through Rajasthan. Let’s see how that turns out.

Travel hard. Travel long. And enjoy the experience. Remember the good memories, do not dwell on the bad. After all, it takes all kinds to make this world and when you take the good with the bad it makes for a memorable experience. Have fun.