I want to tell you a story. A story that is not cliché.
A story about a journey, a journey into the mountains. A journey that made me
look at life in a whole different perspective. A perspective that has left me
feeling more helpless than useful.
I took a trip to Mcleodganj in the spring-summer of
2019. I am currently based in Rishikesh and the journey was 12 hours north of
here. A very comfortable bus ride up and around the swirly roads dropped me off
at a pleasant 13 degrees at Mcleodganj Bus stand. Breathing in the crisp air
and sipping in the hot tea were the first 2 things I did up on landing. How
beautiful it was to be there. How liberating to be free of everything that tied
me down in the valley.
With a little help from Google maps and strangers
strangely up at 6 am, I found my way to the little dorm I had rented for my
stay. The view from the terrace-cum-penthouse-cum reception was magnificent to
say the least. They took 3 hours to give me my lodging but it hardly mattered.
The sun was soft, the snow peaks kind and the food hot and delicious.
One portion of the trip was of course the sights –
the temples, the church, the stores and of course the cafes. But this holiday
was different. It was about the people. The stories that came along with them. And
the different journeys we all are on.
Buddhist temples always take my breath away. The peace
it disseminates from miles away is something I don’t think I would ever be able
to describe in words. The power you can feel in their prayers and the jolly in
their smiles – also things I wish for you to experience yourself. I visited the
temple twice. I was fortunate to witness them having their ritualistic one on
one debate. It made me wonder why we don’t do the same. Why don’t we have
healthy discussions about things that matter or at least things that matter to
us? Would it be so difficult? Wouldn’t that trigger our neurons too?
This was the first trip I went absolutely berserk shopping.
Never have I ever splurged on myself. I must’ve bought something for every
store on the street. A key ring from this one, a scarf from that, prayer flags
of course and definitely not to forget - postcards for everyone. I needed an
extra bag back just to fit the gifts and souvenirs.
Churches are my second favorite holy place of worship.
A lovely stroll outside McLeod, on the main highway. It reminded me of the
roads of Mussoorie. Glorious tall trees beside the long winding roads. The grass
smelling so fresh and St. John in the wilderness living up to his name. Small
little monument with a very on-display-graveyard. I missed mom dearly then. If
she had been there, she would have surely told me stories of the spirits luring
around. There was one caretaker at the church. He was patiently dusting each
seat of each row before he moved to sweeping the porch. A golden cross stood
tall in the center in front of the pristine stained glass. I settled in on a
seat behind the old man I entered with; before the noisy teenagers barged in
giggling and pretending to be religious. Oh boy do I sound like a grumpy old
woman!
I absolutely dislike treks. I made one up to a
small village called Dharamkot nonetheless. A 30-minute climb straight up with
at least 5 stops to catch my breath and slow my pounding heart. Treks always remind
me of my baby sister. Nothing stops her. Twisted ankle – not an issue.
Recovering from surgery – just a small hiccup. Longer and treacherous the journey,
she will be there! And I can’t do a tiny 30 min climb. Oh, what a laugh she
would’ve had. On top of the climb, we found a little café – Morgan’s Place: design based on Alice in Wonderland with a view just as wonderful.
The first set of people I met were the caretakers of
the stay – ruthless business man – owner: who was full of himself and didn’t bother
to hide it. His little minions – the true managers of the stay – were kind and
gentle. Not a harsh word beyond audible decibels; not a word of protest on any
request made and always ready with a cuppa tea!
Then came my roomies – 2 lost Indian girls inspite of
their notebook with Things to do & Places to see. A Korean damsel who had spent 3 weeks in south
India and was very happy to be back in the cool northern latitudes. A Canadian gentleman
who lost his bags at the airport. This was his second trip to India and then
Nepal. He planned to do the Annapurna Circuit. A Bengali banker- voluntarist who
seemed so at-peace in the hills that it broke my heart knowing she was returning
to my ever-favorite city of Mumbai. She showed me around town the way only a
local could – the right stores to shop, the really good cafes + bakeries and of
course a plate of authentic Himachali lunch. The co-caretaker of the stay an Anglo-indian
reminded me of Ruskin Bond. A singer-artist of Colaba who cracked the same cliché, cheesy jokes that I do. Whose mom was a nurse and understood
the troubles of my career even without having to state it. The three of them
and a few more sang the most beautiful tunes on that almost full moon night making
time stop at the coffee shop behind the hills.
I think the cherry on top of all these people was the
40-something year old MBA professor who was my seat-mate on my ride back. I
never got his name and I never got to say goodbye. His entire family were
doctors and he had 2 children in school but didn’t intend to impose any of the rat
race rules on them. He gave me some unsolicited advice that reminded me of my own
father. Advice on how to be financially secure and advice on how to live. Live
because of today. Not for tomorrow or day after. But because it is now that you
are living for. Be aware. Be aware of your breath, your heartbeat. Of the
people around you. Of the air brushing against you. Of those thoughts you are
trying to control. Be quiet. Say what is needed and nothing more. And one day everything
you say will be true.
Time had slowed down in the thick air of the Himalayas.
I am a loner and was happy to find the cozy corner at the Illiterati café, with
my hot chocolate and Tom Hanks collection of short stories. Ironically, the
people I did meet were looking for company. Maybe they were escaping their
reality and did not really wish to be alone. Maybe we are all misunderstood and
are looking for someone to finally get it. Maybe solo-traveler is just a
misnomer and it doesn’t really exist. Maybe you need to see what I saw, to feel
what I am feeling right now to make sense of this gibberish. I feel detached and
aware at the same time. I can feel all the forces that surround us and feel
helpless that the others can’t see it too. I now know there is so much
more to the mundaneness we presume to be life. More to the routine of wake up -
brush – work – eat – sleep. I just have to figure out what. I just have to find
my passion. Find my calling.
