Reminisce

Chapter 6 - Pit Stop To Paradise

Shimla. It was an epitome of how we, as a race, can ruin even the most beautiful things. Rare flowers and blossoms existed alongside plastic bottles and chocolate and potato chip wrappers. Evergreen trees towered alongside concrete behemoths, dilapidated and faded. Pure, sparkling streams trickled like tributaries into black, viscous sewers. The chirping of endemic birds, the whistling of the soft, misty breeze was eaten by the babble of raucous, cacophonous crowds. This was mutated beauty; with its own, tainted flavour. 

'All right, people, Sangamam is here. We need an idea. Since we had a contemporary theme last time, let's try to look for a mythological story.'

'How about a mashup of The Phantom Of The Opera and The Swan Lake ballad?' 

All heads swung towards the source of the ridiculous sound.

I gulped. That didn't go very well. 

'Bhaiyyaji, the bus to Reckong Peo has just left. You'll have to catch one to Rampur Bashahr - it's a popular place, any bus goes there - and then take one to Peo. Just board the one behind you, it goes there. '

Well drat. Me, Naman and Akash trudged towards the nearest HRTC bus and climbed aboard. 

'Chips?' Akash wasted no time opening a packet as soon as we'd found seats. 

'Danish, we need you outside,' Sneha called from the ajar road.
I picked up my notebook and pen and strode out towards the SAC Amphi. I knew why I was needed. Stick figures, flowcharts - hell, I wouldn't mind making a PPT to explain the plot of The Phantom Of The Swan Lake. 

I awoke to the taste of apple juice and MSG, with a new hint of lightly polluted rainwater on my lips. It was drizzling. As the sun disappeared behind the darkening sky, the droplets grew bigger and the breeze stronger, washing away the heat and the stench and the smoke like a panacea for the soul. 

I could spend my whole life observing all the different forms of rain, and it wouldn't be a wasted one. 

The lightest, is like a mist that floats in the air, occasionally making its presence felt as nothing but a feeling of moisture on the face, with no visible water droplets. It hangs in the air lightly, making the world look like a grainy, faded photograph. 

Then the rain becomes stronger, and it gains forms, like a transparent wave, a water-wraith with limbs and a life force. It has direction, purpose. It cools the air and calms the mind. Something has begun.








Now, it overpowers the breeze. It is pouring, washing down with controlled fury, admonishing the hapless humans for the wounds they have hacked into Mother Earth. The sky grows darker and the earth is a weeping portrait, and we, evanescent specks of dust - easily washed away like droplets on a windowpane. 






It ends at the storm. Thunder, lightning, blue and pink streaks of pure light crash, unforgiving, into the battered and bruised ground. The sky is black with the wrath of the unseen Gods that run amok, looking to wipe this canvas clean. All we can do is submit, and hang on to the hope that our sins are being washed away too. 

Sneha scowled at me from behind the metaphorical sword, as I laughed sheepishly. Maybe it was because my aforementioned flowchart had confused them further; maybe it was that I had modified the plot at the last moment for a stupid meta feel; maybe it was because the piece she had to dance to alone was a random jigsaw puzzle of notes and beat patterns that would put an Escher diagram to shame; or, that in addition to this ridiculous mashup, King Arthur's Excalibur was now making a cameo. 

On that day, in the most stupid manner, I had bonded with Sneha Mahesh. 

'Rampur Bashahr! Get your asses off!'

Chapter 7 - The Mighty River Satluj

'The bus you're looking for leaves at 11:30 in the night.'

'What? But it's just 6:30 pm.'

'I know.'

The nonchalant tone of the guy behind the counter wasn't surprising - we weren't exactly expecting sympathy, just alternate plans.

'Is there a bus we can board earlier that goes somewhere nearby?'

'Yes.'

We looked at each other. Had I made it sound rhetorical by mistake?

'Well? Where, and when?'

'I don't know. I'm just the HRTC guy. Listen, stick around, wait for the bus. You'll get there.'

We picked up our luggage and walked along the Rampur Bashahr bus stand. It was surprisingly clean and spacious, with an entire row of shopkeepers selling snacks and accessories. 

We told our predicament to a wizened guy who seemed to know everything. 

'Well, there's two buses, one at 11:05 and one at 11:25, but no buses before that. Peo is too far from everywhere else. There is a dharamshala right below - just go down those steps. He'll charge you Rs. 100 per bed for the dormitory, and also give dinner on separate charges.'

After thanking that God-sent, we went to the dormitory. It was very affordable, and looked decent enough, until we made our way to our beds and looked out the back window.

The dharamshala was right above the mighty river Satluj. I saw the tumultuous flow roar and thunder over the poor rocks right beneath us. As we opened the window, the musty, fresh smell of moist wind hit us. 

I called dibs on the bunk bed near the window. But I knew sleep would not come. As evening spread it's dusky, cosy blanket over us, I shrugged it off and walked down further, looking for some microcosm of beauty to distract me. I saw a small cove-like structure, jutting out into the river, with the river flowing above it. There was enough space for me to crawl under. When I looked outwards, it was like watching the world from inside a waterfall. I smiled - I had found my moment of the day. It was time to head back and conserve my strength. 

The next thing I remember was a meagre meal of kadhi-chawal, followed by a rushed exit to the bus stop after thanking the guy, followed by a rushed climb onto the second bus that headed to Peo, since the first one was jam-packed. That didn't save us from standing the entire way there, though.

A night journey on a rickety bus in the mountains with a very precarious balance, both of our feet and our minds - oh, this was going to be fun. 

Chapter 8 - Hypnagogia 

I knew the moment I stepped into the bus that my brain was going to put on a very interesting Late Show for me. There was one, tiny blue light in the front and nothing else. The cold was biting; the sky a swallowing darkness, with lonely stars - shimmering like diamonds in a coal mine. 

We started off with a quiet roar, and as the chilly wind hit my face, I let the night take me. 

'Danish da, stay in touch, man. You'll stay in touch, right?'

'Probably not.'

In my mind, I slapped my forehead hard. What. Who says 'probably not' to a sentimental senior who's about to leave campus? 

A socially illiterate apathetic narcissist, that's who.

I had finally confronted myself with this identity, having had it validated by many a friend and by-stander. It was one thing to know what you lacked, and another to fix it. 

The bus took a sharp turn, and my head hit the pole I was holding on to. It stung worse in the cold. Well, at least I felt like I deserved it. 

'The secretary of Ragamalika,' Ananthu drawled in his characteristic, lovable accent, 'is Rahul Sunder!'

'Woohoo!' Everyone chorused exuberantly. 

I was the joint secretary. Time travelled so fast. Now we were in charge of the ship - we would affect the journey of all the passengers, the direction and the destination we took and how the ship itself evolved. 

'I hope we did a better job than this driver,' I thought, as my head hit a different pole. 

'It was a good NR, man. I'm happy,' Rahul grinned as we sat under Patel statue. The show had ended - just two hours ago. He took out his diary, 'Now, let's see what all we need for Sangamam.' 

We discussed all night, starting from worldly, tangible things, and ending with cosmic, extra-terrestrial discussions that were just fun to talk about without any direction. We laughed for about an hour outside the BBVP hostel, hearing them play their trumpets at 4 am in the morning. 

It was now 6 am. We were sitting in Nutan, our sleep-deprived eyes watching the hustle-bustle of the Pilani bus stand through the steam of our tea cups.

'This is my first time to Nutan,' Rahul commented dryly.

It was a cherished memory. I glanced at Naman half-sitting, half-standing in some uncomfortable posture. He was 6'3", so buses were always a problem for him. Small win for the small guys, I thought. 

Behind me, Akash and a stranger were sleeping on each other's shoulders like they were old pals, holding each other up as they swayed along to the driver's will like the legs of a caterpillar. I chuckled. It isn't that hard to make friends, is it? We're all helpless passengers in a crazy bus - let's hold each other up with whatever we have.

'Listen, what if we have chamber concerts? Like, each of us performs for about an hour or so in front of the club. This will keep us in practice, provide relief from the intense pick-up and composing sessions, and also keep this room a happening place.'

'That's a good idea. We could also do some experimental pieces. I've always wanted to do a flute harmony piece.'

This was the semester we got Rakshit Prasad. A mandolin player, a direct disciple of the great U. Srinivas. Needless to say, he left a mark on the club that would always remind us of the exponential growth we achieved, and the potential we had. His willingness to perform renditions in the Raag room kick-started the idea of chamber concerts - it was a miracle how he pulled us amateurs up to the level of giving solo performances in a year. 

Rakshit. He was the one who taught me - beauty is practice, beauty is technique. Beauty is not as abstract as you think; you can write it down, you can quantify it, and you can break it down into parameters which are within your control. If anyone had any doubt in his paradigm, they just had to hear him play. 

'You want to do a bottle concert before the flute harmony piece?'

'Yeah. Each musician has two bottles, with water filled to a certain level. We can have an entire scale with, say, six musicians. We can get mountain dew bottles from Ram redi.'

'This is crazy.'

I looked at them, wide-eyed.

'We're in.'

Me, Vismay and Pranav - we played a flute harmony cover of Canon in D. Everyone loved it. And now, Rakshit was going to play. 

Our first chamber concert. Yay.

'Reckong Peo!'

Well, about time. This trek had been delayed long enough.

We dismounted. The sunrise rainbow had just begun to appear, with the sky metamorphosing into an azure hue behind us.

I casually turned around, still in a zombie state. The sight that greeted me drove out any consciousness I had left, and I was spell-bound, transfixed. 

'Naman,' I whispered. 'Look behind you.'

Chapter 9 - Reckong Peo

The snow was right there - right in front of our noses. We had stumbled into a young localite on the bus, Yogi - our first encounter with Kinnaur Expeditions. He put us in touch with Harish, whom we would learn to call Happy, and told us about Abhishek Home Stay, which was right above the bus stand. Another Rs. 100 per bed per night - or Rs. 400 per room which holds three people - affair, we took one last look at the mountains and submitted to seductive sleep. We were coming. 

'Piano? With Carnatic vocals?'

'Yes, it will be like Crisis - except simpler, and more classical. Just the three of us. What say?'

'This is crazy.'

I looked at them, wide-eyed.

'We're in.'

The first ray of light rested upon my eyelid, and I opened my eyes to the present. Naman's legs were hanging over the bedpost, and Akash was making some weird grunting noises. It took me a while to realize that my mobile was ringing. 

'Hello?'

'Hello, bhai. Happy here. I've heard you're college students looking for a trek?'

'Yes, yes,' I rushed, failing completely to sound either eager or not desperate.

'Yeah, so let's meet down by the main city circle, at around 10:30. Cool?'

I grunted my assent and turned towards the bed. My peripheral vision caught the landscape in the bright morning light. I opened the door and greeted heaven.



The full glory of Reckong Peo hit me as the snow-capped peaks, lush-green hills and mist-laden clouds emblazoned themselves on every level of my conscious and sub-conscious brain. This was the starting point - it was only getting better.

Damn right, we were meeting at 10:30.

'So, you have all the equipment you need?'

We nodded, sitting in a small dhaba over a plate of egg bhurji. 

'Now, I'll provide the tents and two sleeping bags, since Danish is carrying his own. Food will also be made available. The warm clothes you need are all up to you.'

He told us about waterproof clothing and gloves, since we were going into heavy snow and rain.

'What about our shoes? They aren't suited for walking in snow etc...'

'Shoes are fine,' he waved away our concerns. 'Technique is all you require.'

'Well then, thank God. Also, err...the approximate cost?'

He smiled slowly, immediately striking fear into our hearts. 'You guys don't worry about cost - I'll make it reasonable for you guys.'

We all gulped almost simultaneously.

'So, the trek starts tomorrow, early morning. See you guys then. Get the gloves and anything else you might need - or you'll die up there.'

We laughed at that. He didn't laugh back. 

'So, today you guys could go to Kalpa. It's a beautiful place, half an hour from here. Just go to the city bus stand - a bus leaves every fifteen minutes.'

We made our way to the bus stand and got on the first one we found. 


A little kid was humming a Pahadi song. I recognized it faintly, like a song I'd heard in a dream from another life.

Had I been here before?

Chapter 10 - Kalpa

The bus made its way up. We had the fortune of sitting right at the front, and the locals watched with bemusement as we gawked at the sights, looking at the young kids with vicarious pleasure, imagining their life within this beautiful, isolated biosphere. 

 

We reached the neat little bus stand, and immediately set out to explore. The first to catch our attention was the monastery. Like cat burglars, we jumped through rooftops and narrow alleys, in a poor imitation of parkour. With every step, it looked like we were getting closer to the mountains. 

When we were face to face with them, we stood still, letting the stillness wash over us. It was a silent conversation.

"For one day I will fly, and share stories with the sky..."

Naman sat there for a while longer - he couldn't take his eyes off the clouds hanging just slightly above the peaks, looking like a hidden dream the monastery was dreaming...

 I turned, and spotted a thin stream making its way down. I called out to the other two. 'Let's follow that stream upwards, as far as we can go. We might come across a waterfall.'

We quickly rushed to the canal where the stream ended. There were some steps that led up, to the left of the bus stand. Well, we had the entire evening to kill - and our bottles were empty. 

We reached a tiny waterfall. Akash stayed back there, deciding to conserve his energy for the actual trek. We continued our way upwards, climbing over rocks, jumping over streams, skirting trees and skipping waterlogged fields.

Me and Naman kept looking back at the hills, seeing how quickly we could lock eyes with their snow-swept sides, and leave the village behind us. 

I spotted a tall, dry tree. I had no option but to climb it. I told Naman to wait as I scaled it, going up to almost three-fourths of its height, until I could feel the tree swaying in the wind. The view was spectacular; the inkling of danger, and the freedom - priceless.

I took a picture from the tree, for which I had to let go of both hands and keep balance on a tiny branch - I have never felt such thrill before. Or idiocy.  

We reached a point, from where we decided to return. We sat at the top, near a tree trunk. As the stream murmured beside us, we sipped the cool spring water, pure and perennial, with the piquant essence of the earth it was flowing through. 

We made our way back. Climbing down was a different experience - the jumps were better, there was more vertigo, and climbing downward sloping trees was the most fun part. We actually felt like the stream making its way down, smooth, seamless, surmounting all the obstacles in its path.

We found Akash sitting atop a rock in the middle of a pasture. Me and Naman joined him. 

We went down, and came across a tiny shop on our way to the bus stand. We had momos with chicken soup, pudina tea and bought a bottle of milk for our way back.

On the bus back, we saw the mountains, slowly gaining altitude on us again. I smiled. Tomorrow.

What would tomorrow be like? Would pictures, videos, words, ever be enough to convey what we were feeling? We realized it would never be enough. There would always be a higher mountain to climb, cooler water to taste; better views to soak in. 

Thank God for that. Thank God beauty is endless. She is the greatest mistress that we, irrespective of caste, creed, age, or any unwilling labels we carry around, bow down to. 

Then, the greatest fear any person can probably have, is getting tired of beauty. 

"Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

She tied you to her kitchen chair

She broke your throne and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah...

Hallelujah...Hallelujah..."

- Leonard Cohen