RAJU TEA STALL

DREAMS DO COME TRUE

When I was in school, college I would read of this man as the father of green revolution. And he was as important as Mahatma to me. And one day in July, 2006, I of all my wildest dreams, got to co-chair an event with the God himself. I was dumbfounded and not in my senses. Look at my face and that of his greatness.
(Thanks to Samrat Mukherjee for this picture)

On a spirited October Monday I reported, danced and got drenched

Today was like a good old Monday, when you plan for the week and get every story you wanted on day one. There was no blue feeling about the day. It was all bright and cheerful. Your sources call you early in the morning, when you are still in a jam packed train. You get your first quote while inside the cab and when you reach office your other source confirms. You feel that adrenalin rushing.

You stop for a while, look around, walk like James Bond on the arched corridors of your swanky office, chew the coffee stirrer in a rustic Hindustani style and sip the coffee, again with English sophistication.

You are on a roll and think you can do things the way you like. You quit a relaxed discussion on the canteen table and suddenly rush to your desk. "I have to file the story soon." Just another confirmation needed. And yeah! You get the story.

Too much on my plate, but good it’s ready to be eaten. These are happy days for a good reporter. Years of source building, meandering in the dilapidated alleys, where most of your sources lived and still do. And it’s only on days like this you get a big, breaking story at the comfort of your air-conditioned surroundings and a few phone calls.

The story that you live through the day is like a movie, where you are the chief character. Its box office success depends on the follow-ups the competitors do, the publications that carry it. When you know you are being chased. It’s a very good feeling. Very celebrity feeling.

The good day ended. Time to go through the travel travails. You come out of the palm tree planted neat multi-storied office campus to meet eyes with the revelers of a couple of Durga Puja processions through Parel village.

No taxis to be found you have to walk fifteen minutes change two trains to reach home. What you do? I joined the revelers. Danced to the tune of popular Hindi numbers like bidi jalaile, munni badnaam hui.

I drank some buttermilk supposed to be laced with bhang. I danced for a while and felt melting into the sea of people, who actively led me to the Currey Road station, which always sounds like an Oxymoron to me.

The dhol-beats, genuine excitement and prayers it seems invited the Rain Gods at a short notice and look at me I was completely drenched before reaching station. I, however, discovered I was walking properly and was in my senses. Seems the buttermilk was pure.

Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal Continues

(Continued from the Heavenly Road to Doditaal)
The illumination was complementing the rhythmical sound of hundreds of rivulets and rainy season streams flowing in the near and distant mountains. It seemed as if this is heaven or at least a utopian world. It was not a dream but a hitherto unseen reality.

The night charmed us and suddenly escaped without answering my very Utopian questions.

The dawn was fascinating again; crystal-like dew drops on a vivid landscape were enticing. I was up early and while sipping tea served in a stained tin cup, met with the unassuming kids and women folk in the village.

The trust building process was quick and the conversation was fluid despite the language barrier.

Around eight in the morning we decided to start for the eighteen kilometre stretch and a 800 metre elevation, through some steep passes to reach our destination, Doditaal.

Our guide, a twenty something young man from the hills, moved swiftly on the slippery roads and made us move as faster.

First two hours seemed easy, it rained and there were plentiful of wild and fresh shrubs that literally paved our path with flowers. At places we came across the majestic white waters of Assi Ganga flowing down the mountains.



This beautiful walk reminded me of the fascinating landscape depicted in the ‘Lord of The Rings’ movies.

The loveliness of the first five kilometres was broken by a series of guerrilla attacks by thousands of impoverished leeches, who had suddenly sprung into life after rains touched the ground.

They were literally piercing into our legs, 10-20 at a moment on each foot.
We had to stretch them and throw every five minutes, or walk for an hour and then pluck them out.

In either case our skin was cut and legs were red with blood.

But locals taught us not to mind the blood and enjoy the nature. This was bad blood that moved out and now the circulation improves with this, they said. We obliged and moved ahead, stopping twice for tea and food.

At few instances the trek path was caved-in or there was no path at all and you could see the gorges down 2,000 feet. We managed with tree branches and ingenious footwork to jump over the space that never existed.

Every time we managed to cross over, it gave us a thrill and we looked back to gauge the width and depth. It was very much like the Indian Jones movie adventures. On the way we encountered no human habitation except a small congregation of makeshift huts where herdsmen from villages at lower elevation had come grazing their cattle the abundant green grass as the monsoon season was on.

Like any hill trek on the Himalayas we come across few aggressive wild Bhotia dogs who often attack you then become your friends after licking your feet and finally follow you for small stretches as long as their territory is marked.



We discovered a small ancient Hindu temple on the path, on the walls of which the name of JJ Irani and his wife were engraved.

We wondered if this is the legendary head of Tata Steel, who steered the company into the new millennium. But obviously, our querry couldn’t have been answered and we left the thought to ourselves.
After seven long hours we finally reached a place where we had to climb down on a moss-laden rickety path and we were told that the lake is almost there.



But we could see nothing for five more minutes. And suddenly there came up a flat piece of land and a small climb. And oh my God what we see! A painting of Monet! Yes it was like that only. A placid, transparent, silent, emerald green lake, the source of Assi Ganga and our ultimate destination was reached.

We were bedazzled and tranquilised and without words. I can't write the experience of that moment but can say my imagination of a heavenly land was similar to Doditaal, thanks to the childhood Chandamama reading. Heaven was like this misty lake, falling clouds and silence....

(The final part will be posted soon)


For the earlier part of the travel visit Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal
(Photographs: Sourav Mishra/Arshad Hussain and special thanks to Tanzeem Patankar for the Assi Ganga and Doditaal photographs)
To see more of the travel visit Tanzeem's blog at http://tazzo-dodital.blogspot.com/

Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal

I think I am a traveller of simpler means and presumably tougher destinations. Though it is difficult to make simpler means match tougher locales I do try, nevertheless. The Himalayas remain my destination number one and in the past six years I been to the mountain range 15 times to be precise. Being in Delhi till 2006, most Himalayan hill stations or treks were an overnight journey but Mumbai increases the time without reducing the interest.



Earlier this year I already had my annual trip to Kumaon in general and Kausani in specific. Somehow I always land-up in that part of the world almost every year.



In August all of sudden I decided to take another break and I didn’t want to go home. I thought of going to Amarkantak in Chhattisgarh to experience the monsoon mud and greenery and roots of majestic rivers. But couldn’t workout at such a short notice.

I felt back on Himalayas again.



It was an unplanned and bad timed trek, but nevertheless I decided to go ahead. My journalism school batch mates and yesteryear Delhi apartment mates joined me. We have bonded as trekkers since a small trek in December 2003 to the obscure Meghaohala forests in Orissa’s Dhenkanal.



Arshad and Sumit are tough trekkers never minding the time or location. In fact the harsh conditions give them more reasons to move forward. I obliged to their decision of going to a lake at 3000 metres on the fragile Shiwalik ranges in Uttarakhand.



We chose a trek leading to Doditaal Lake, an obscure, yet one of the most beautiful treks and more so when it rains. The distance from Delhi and a treacherous road made it longer to reach Uttarkashi, the closest town ahead of the base camp. The city on the banks of Bhagirathi River is of immense religious importance for Hindus. Dotted with ancient Hindu temples and monasteries of different sects, the quaint, saffron coloured town was warm to our arrival, despite the incessant rains.




On the way our car had to stop at a number of places due to damaged roads and falling stones. The falling mist on the road was exiting as well as fearful. A single wrong turn was not affordable. After an arduous long drive, we immediately proceeded to Sangamchetti, the base for the trek to overcome some of the lost time.



After a Maggi masala noodles treat and tea we proceeded on our first phase of the trek, a five kilometre stretch between Sangamchetti and Agora, the last village on the way. We old boys have always preferred treks on our own without porter assistance and exceptional kits. We prefer it raw, though there are some terrains where one has to be with special equipments. This trek was simpler in those terms and we had a guide.



But it rained and streams of water flowed on the precariously narrow roads making it unusually slippery. We were suddenly in the midst of misty rain soaked surrounding by the time we reached the little hamlet of Agora. Generous villagers offered us to sit in their neat manicured courtyards and offered us cream tea prepared from buffalo milk. That gave us an opportunity to relish the breathtaking beauty around.

There were five mountains changing colour every moment, while intense snowy clouds were caressing them with untold passion. The path on the village had bright red and blue flowers intertwined continuously in small patches with fresh rain drops on them, giving the 270 degree view a picture perfect frame. We savoured the beauty for three hours without realising it is already dark out there. Before the unspeakable beauty slipped into the dark night’s veil, we chanced to see a rare rainbow formation.




We could not have more natural beauty for our eyes. End of the day we entered into a house-cum-hotel sort of arrangement by a local woman. It cost us about 300 rupees per person for the food and the stay. In turn we had amazing mountain vegetable, ghee paraontha and achar and everything served with abundant honesty and humility.

We were covered in thick local made cotton blankets imagining the night to be dark and cold. But it wasn’t. After a while bold, white moon soaked through the silent mountains and invited everyone to have a look at her. It was beautiful outside, blue and white like the nights in the Twilight movies. It was a young full moon night.

(Read the next part at The Heavenly Road to Doditaal Continues)
(Pictures taken by Sourav Mishra and Arshad Hussain)

Mr Roy and 'Front-page Journalist' syndrome

Mr Roy was not a journalist, he was the journalist. Mumbai media world swore by his news gathering capabilities. He was bespectacled not for an eye disorder, but to spot news from a distance, he had an extra long nose just to smell news ahead of others.

He loved the sweet, intelligent bird like chattering psychiatrist Chirpy Bose, just in order to understand how an investment banker can reveal the biggest trans-national deal by committing some Freudian slip over an extended drinking session in some exorbitant Bandra pub.

Roy had developed a punch after guzzling hundreds of glasses of alcohol and overeating chicken platters every other day in the company of investment bankers. Mumbai media didn’t consider his sagging punch as an ordinary 'beer belly' but adorably termed it as the 'Roy belly'. The belly of dedication and journalistic excellence. The hundreds of alcohol glasses produced thousands of breaking stories on the number one financial daily that Roy worked with.

Mr Roy was courted by the editors of all top media houses with lucrative offers every weekend at the quaint, overcrowded Press Club near Azad Maidan, while the management of all top corporations wooed him with fancy dinners and other recreations at the finest luxury hotels and spas in and around Mumbai.

Roy stood like a granite rock, unfazed, not corrugated by any of the temptations. His only aim was to be on the front page of the number one pink newspaper. The pretty, bubbly Chirpy Bose sensed Roy is near the last leg of ‘Front-page Journalist’ syndrome, a thesis on which she did her post doctoral research and won many accolades across the world.

As Roy was close to insanity he found solace in football and as the world cup was on, he ignored Chirpy to such an extent that Chirpy stopped loving him and called him a nikamma old rooster. Roy, the rooster became a lonely man. His only friend was the front-page of the number one newspaper he worked for. As time passed, loneliness and alcohol consumed his passion, he missed his name on front-pages.

He still was considered the king of reportage by most of the media, but his happiness lied on the front-page appearance only.

After disappearing on the front-page for a consecutive five days Roy lost it. Roy tore all the fond photographs of Chirpy and David Beckham and also the numerous front-page cutouts he had pasted on his spacious bedroom wall. Roy was defeated, dejected and all very sad.

The blank looking Roy one day discovered a poster on the first-class train compartment he was travelling. It read, “108 times Chamatkari Baba Bangali Benareswale”..Mahayogi, mahagyani sare kaam sambhale. Pyar mein dhokha, bibika bhagna, jamin ka jhagda ho ya souten, chhudel ki samasya..baba sabarega bhag tumhara... kya stock market mein maal dubaya ya padosan ko dil de dia....sare uljhan ka haal jhatpat baba dega...chamatkari baba bangali...aaj hi ao taklif se niklo. To chup kyun ho aaj hin ao ya phir call karo 022-22222XXX , 10 lines. Credit card suvidha bhi uplabdh hai, milne ki dakshina sirf 1000 rupaye.

Milne ka pata Suite No 1001, Hotel Super, Kurla (East), near Champa Original Desi Bar, Police station ke baju mein.

Roy, though hesitant about confiding his problems of insanity and frontpage syndrome with such a hindustani speaking baba, but nevertheless he managed to call and take an appointment from Monika, baba’s personal secretary.