Life. Lessons.

Phone rings as I am considering leaving the office to the hospital. Close friend on the line. It is about the hush-hush plans we are having about a holiday. “I’ve booked the tickets”, he announces. “Now, tell me where are we supposed to book our hotels in”. 

I answer that question and add, “But, there’s a hitch”. 

“What now? Don’t tell me you’re changing dates and plans!” I could hear the annoyance in his voice. 

“No, it’s just that dad is unwell.”

“Why? What happened?”

I hesitate for a moment and then respond.

“He suffered a mild stroke the day before. So, I am a little unsure about my dates of travel”.

“Oh! So sorry to hear. Let’s cancel the plans then. We may do this another time”.

“Nope. My original plan was to reach much earlier than you guys. Now, I’ll reach almost at the same time as you all. This has been in the making for quite a while”. 

“How’s the prognosis?”

I explain it once again - have lost count how many times I’ve already done. That his left limb isn’t yet responding well, and intense physiotherapy is the solution since the tissue in the cortex is gone because of a block. 

“How is he taking all this?”

“Oh he’s cheerful as ever. Tells he’s lived well and on his own terms, and all that. He’s giving life lessons to everyone who’s visiting, and to the doctors and staff at the hospital!” 

We both laugh at this and the friend says, without missing a beat. 

“Now this brings amazing clarity”.

“What is it?”, I am curious.

“The ability and skill to preach and lecture have come to you as a hereditary gift”, and laughs hard. 

I seethe and smile at the same time!

Briefing and Beyond (Kailash-Mansarovar Sojourn: II)

Cosmos at Simikot!

The Pomp, The Briefing, The Panic

Our tired faces were welcomed at the Nepalgunj hotel by a high-octane committee.  Booming smiles, cheap faux-silk stoles, and the kind of marigold garlands that instantly make you feel like a particularly well-fed sheep about to meet Ma Kali. They applied tilaks liberally on our foreheads and pointed towards the dining hall (which was an extension of the reception).

Since it was a crisp 9 PM, the advice was: Eat. Listen to the briefing. Go to bed. Not a soul had the energy to protest sound advice, which is saying something for a travel group.

The lead manager kicked off the briefing at 9:30 PM. He repeated everything, naturally, because we were firing questions like students flying paper planes or blindfolded monkeys looking for the light switch.

The essence? Three commandments to survive the mountains:

1. Thou Shalt Worship the Weather Gods

From this point forward, everything—flights, treks, mountain passes, even stepping outside for a smoke—depended on the sky's mood. I gritted my teeth and prayed for calm, hoping we wouldn't end up stuck in a Himalayan holding pattern. Though the weather held up all through the trip, the universe yet set us up for a surprise reality show later.

2. Thou Shalt Stick to the Clock

"Arrive on time for every step!" We were told our lives now depended on sticking together and being punctual. An Indian being punctual? That man would instantly become the legend and punchline of his entire friend circle. This would be both our strength and our inevitable weakness.

3. Thou Shalt Pack Light (Hahahahaha)

We were issued a duffel bag, a backpack, a sling bag, jacket, and a cap - in deep blue and orange, all branded with the operator’s logo. Our Nepalgunj departure would be on tiny flights, which meant a terrifying 12 kg weight limit. (It could be 15 kg, but they had to account for the precious Mansarovar holy water we'd haul back.)

Crucially, this meant our giant, beautiful suitcases had to be abandoned right there in Nepalgunj. None of the pre-trip literature mentioned this suitcase-hostage situation! Had I known the suitcase-separation-anxiety was mandatory, I'd have packed better!

Some poor souls had brought four suitcases, packed with enough fried snacks to cater a wedding, clearly assuming the pilgrimage was a high-altitude picnic. While even I struggled with what to carry, their trauma was spectacular.. The identical gear was not just  for logistics; it would make it easy to spot a stray traveler in a crowd. No "Mele Mein Kho Gaye Judwe" melodramas here.

Forward Ho!

Our goal was to blitz from Nepalgunj through Simikot and Hilsa, and land in Taklakot (Tibet/Purang) that very same day, buying us precious high-altitude acclimatization time before the Parikrama.

The manager had decreed in the briefing we assemble, fed and ready, by 7 AM. Once flight departures were announced, we’d be trooped to the airport. The late-riser in me started negotiating with my own body clock for sleep. Our passports, he sagely noted, would arrive from Delhi with our "14th man" by the time we reached Hilsa.

We made it to the airport around 8 AM and wondered if we had wandered onto a movie set for a 70s bus stand. People and their assorted bags were everywhere, porters were wrestling luggage, and the cacophony was deafening. The only thing missing was that signature, nostalgic bus-stand aroma of stale pee.

Nepalgunj Bus er Airport!

A little too prepped up!

After an hour and several cups of coffee - made passable only by excellent service, we were handed boarding passes for Simikot. Turns out, the 14th man (our hero!) had arrived overnight with all our paperwork. Our flight was a one-hour scenic tour aboard a 19-seater Dornier-228 run by Sita Air.

Our Dornier Arrives in Simikot!

Choppers, Cosmos, & Time Travel

Simikot’s airport was smaller, dirtier, and, ta-da!—it had the aroma Nepalgunj lacked. But, the little airport was surrounded by stunning, wild cosmos flowers, which was a magnificent distraction from the overall grime.

From here to Hilsa, it was chopper time (maximum four passengers per trip). The ride was breathtaking, a masterclass in mountain flying as the heli skimmed the gorges. It’s a spectacular way to be reminded of the importance of weather and the skill required to navigate these tricky ravines, and why so many important people end up in the news for the wrong reasons.

A wonderful view from the chopper!

We broke for lunch at Hilsa, a tiny village of dirt roads and basic traveler cottages. This is where we discovered we had successfully time-traveled: the local time was suddenly two-and-a-half hours ahead of India's. Despite China being massive, they use a single time zone, and here, right on the border, they had jumped the clock ahead. It defied longitude, but not the political agenda. Getting used to this time warp took a while.

Sheep Crossing the Border

It took over two hours for our entire group to assemble in Hilsa, thanks to the choppers flying back and forth like over-eager sky-autos (weather permitting, naturally). We then headed to the suspension bridge that marks the border with Tibet/China.

Kailash-Mansarovar travel&trek route

This is where the true scale of the pilgrimage hit us. Our operators alone had 50 other tourists, and there were several other operators with similar armies. We all waited patiently to clear immigration at Sher (the Tibetan border post).

China doesn't stamp a visa for Indian travellers; they issue a group permit. You enter together, you exit together, and you follow the designated route, like highly-regulated sheep. We had been fed horror stories about rude Chinese officials, so we were bracing for unpleasantness. Our trepidations were blessedly unfounded. The officials were courteous, even using devices that made robotic announcements in Hindi to help make immigration process smooth.

The final leg to Taklakot (Purang) took a mere half hour. At almost 13,000 feet, this was our high-altitude base camp. The agenda for the next two days? Nothing. Just chill, acclimatize, find a cafe with good coffee (success!), and maybe shop for something utterly unnecessary.

Two days later, with body clocks declared adjusted and lungs tentatively filled, we boarded the bus for Mansarovar.

To be Continued…..

The Kailash-Mansarovar Sojourn

Part 1: Bengaluru to the Himalayas 

Bengaluru airport. All set to take off. 

Huffing Even Before Hiking!

I was 47, on the cusp of 48, when my life decided to stage a hostile takeover. This major upheaval forced a deep, painful, yet necessary reflection: What exactly was I doing with the years I had left? The answer, apparently, was making lists—lots of lists. Not one, but several: things to learn, things to achieve, places to travel, and, most ambitiously, things to do before I hit the big 5-0.

Looking at life this way wasn't just rediscovering the desire to live; it was practically a resurrection of happiness. One of my first triumphs was dragging my parents on travels, a long-held, long-feared desire. The "before 50" list, naturally, was completely decimated by COVID-19. Yet, here I am now, acting like a determined accountant, reviving those old spreadsheets and ticking off one box at a time from the many, many buckets I’ve created (before I kick the bucket)! 

Smiles hiding the anxiety!

The Call of the Mountain (and the Knee)

Trekking to Mount Kailash was the most insane of these dreams. I first eyed it back in 2010-11 when my elder brother (technically my first cousin—Mom's sister's son, because clarity is important, even when you're being ridiculous) made his trip successfully. I, meanwhile, was recovering from my first knee surgery and was mostly known for my ability to sit still. Confidence (or fitness) was not my strong suit.

But things change! When Rambabu, a friend and a senior from the Service, completed his third Parikrama in 2019, I threw caution (and my knee's objections) to the wind. I sent the message: "When you head out next, I would like to join. Please let me know." He kept his word, proving some people are gluttons for punishment.

The Yatra was then suspended for five years—thanks to COVID-19, then an international standoff. We were worried the mountain itself was getting bored! When relations finally thawed this year and the dates for the Yatra were announced, Rambabu promptly sent across messages about, and added me to the group of the trek enthusiasts. Our travel date was finally set for September 5th. We were a beautifully random, slightly anxious collection of humans: bureaucrats, scientists, journalists, businesspeople, and homemakers—or as I like to call us, "a focus group for high-altitude anxiety."

Anxiety and Logistics (The Two-Headed Monster)

Rambabu, our fearless leader, advised me to secure my leave early. Done. Then came the long, detailed packing list a week before we left. I stuck to it diligently. I packed. I checked. And yet, I still managed to forget a few key things despite owning them. (Turns out, my organizational skills also need a Parikrama.)

We deliberately avoided the 21-day government route—because who has three/four weeks? Instead, we found a tour operator who promised to get us in and out, safely and swiftly, in under ten days. It also helped that Rambabu had previously travelled with the operator and found him super efficient.  This was either efficient planning or sheer madness.

Our plan was simple: meet in Lucknow, travel to Nepalgunj (a border town in Nepal), and then, weather and political goodwill permitting, fly and drive into Tibet.  As the travel day approached, my fears began their daily performance. The starring roles were played by: 

1. My joints (Will they survive?); and 

2. My lungs (Will I be able to breathe, or will I be reduced to a wheezing fish?). 

I Googled Diamox so much I think I paid for the manufacturer’s next marketing campaign. To add a little spice, our passports were still vacationing at the Chinese embassy. The tour operator’s message was reassuring: "The permits and passports will hopefully arrive by the time we reach Nepalgunj!" Just what you want to hear before an international trek.

A Casino and a Crisis

On D-Day, we all congregated at the DRDO guesthouse in Lucknow. The mission: reach Nepalgunj before dinner. We set off at 3 PM in four SUVs, a total of 13 people, with the 14th (the passport guy!) meeting us at the border. Despite all our military precision planning, we arrived at the border well after it was closed. I watched in awe as phones were worked, contacts were woken up, and diplomatic miracles were performed just so the 13  nervy samurais could cross a closed gate without being hampered.

Our hotel in Nepalgunj was... interesting. The place even had a casino! The perfect place to either win your trekking money back or lose the will to live before the altitude sickness even starts.

Our abode in Nepalgunj 

Post-dinner, we had the detailed briefing—the whole itinerary, "weather and God willing." This briefing made me realize the brutal truth: I must write about this. Every itinerary I had read online was incomplete, flowery, or written in such technical jargon it felt like reading a tractor manual. Having survived the trek, my resolve to write a clear, no-filter guide for future victims (I mean, pilgrims) is stronger than ever. And thus, this piece.

(To be Continued….)

Of Loss, Longing, and Love. (A Movie Review)

A work of art takes time. In conceptualisation, in creation and execution. A work of art asks for time to indulge in it, notice and admire. When one considers movies too as works of art (when assaulted by ‘Animals’ and ‘Beasts’, one wonders, of course), many of the classics may not have been crowdpleasers or favourites when released. They’ve over time become cult classics. 

Last weekend, I happened to watch, Sabar Bonda, a movie by Rohan Kanwade, his first feature length movie. Several friends had messaged me to go watch it because the movie had won some prestigious awards, and because Rohan is known to many of them personally. I too have met him, at a film festival in Bengaluru many years ago, when one of his first movies was being screened. 

A few other friends too joined in and we all set out to watch the movie - a morning show, because the movie had found a limited audience because of the niche audience it might attract. The show was almost full, a surprise. 

The movie begins with the demise of the father of Anand, the protagonist. Anand is reluctant to head to the village where his father’s last rites are to be performed. Only his mother’s admonitions make him reluctantly head there. He has to stay there for a full ten days and complete all the rites before he can head back to the city, Mumbai. Why is he reluctant and what is he that he fears, and what transpires in those ten days while he’s at his native village forms the rest of the story. 

The film is shot at a leisurely, languorous pace.  It’s unhurried, and yet not indulgent. The place, people, their lives, and daily conversations all feel very real. One does not feel that one is watching a movie, but is a spectator in someone’s life as it unfolds over those many days. Everyone in the movie gives their best to the role, and makes the movie worth the watch. 

Anand has already turned 30, and every relative has the same question. “When are you getting married?” He cannot out himself or his sexual orientation to his relatives for the fear of their reaction towards his mother. He can stay away from them forever, but can she, he asks her. His parents have known that he’s gay, and they have largely come to accept him. However, they have unstated worries - will he find someone for himself, after we are gone? 

Balya is a childhood friend of Anand in the village. As they reconnect, old memories come to the fore and sparks rekindle. Is this just a physical desire because they both yearn for a tender touch, or does it have a future beyond the boundaries of class, caste, and educational divide? 

In essence, Sabar Bonda is a love story that unspools in times of melonchoky and loss. I was reminded of the 2015 Kannada movie, Thithi, which was built around a death. While the templates are similar, the narratives and the perspectives are different. While Thithi - with its broader canvas and multiple threads - celebrated life and had an irreverent vibe to it, Sabar Bonda is melancholic; it delves deeper into a person’s psyche and explores deep-seated emotions, and insecurities. 

Rohan Kanwade shows extreme control over his subject and delivers a winsome film; it is a love story that transcends genders and sexual orientation. And, as I said before, the performances add gravitas to the proceedings, and keep you rooted. 

There are very few holes to pick in the entire movie. If any, they possibly can be attributed to the shoestring budget the movie might’ve had - like the sound recording or the background music. I also wonder why the movie has an ‘Adult’ certificate even though it has no nudity (barring one scene, which barely shows any skin, and even without it the movie would still work well) or foul language, or violence. The only grouse I had when I watched was, the protagonists do not seem to kiss convincingly, and their lack of chemistry (or hesitation to perform gender non-conforming scenes) shows.  

My verdict in short for the movie: the awards it’s gathering are well justified. Do not miss; go watch it. This movie is truly a work of art.  A special word of appreciation for those who have backed Rohan in ensuring the movie finds mainstream release too. 

Cactus Pears

Setting the Records Straight!

Recently a news item made the rounds for all the right or the wrong reasons. Addressing a bunch of school children, a popular politician/minister, asked the question, “Who was the first person to go into space?”

The children screamed in unison, “Neil Armstrong!”

The politician corrected them, “No, it was our very own Hanuman!”

The children too were incorrect. But, that’s besides the point, and let’s come back to this a bit later. 

Based on this above episode, the Guinness Book of Records is planning to revise the records held in the books! Accordingly, the Newly Recognised Firsts are as follows:

The first person to travel abroad (from India):

Sita Mata. Albeit she was forced to. 

Non-Indian category:

Ravana. 

The first Indian to voluntarily travel abroad:

Hanuman (again)!

The first person to fly a plane:

Kubera, the god of riches owned the first ever plane, called the Pushpak. He gave Rama and Sita a ride back to Ayodhya after the Lanka war. The plane was built by his brother, Maya. 

First Nuclear Explosion

Was carried out at the end of the Kurukshetra war in the Mahabharata. Ashwatthama detonated a nuclear bomb to exterminate the Pandavas. A counter bomb was fired by Arjuna, but was disarmed by him on advice of Krishna. Ashwatthama’s bomb couldn’t be defused - possibly because it was based on Russian technology and Ashwatthama hadn’t mastered all the complicated keys; it had to be taken on by Krishna’s air defence system with minimum damages.

The second nuclear explosion happened at the beginning of the Vedic period; this ended the glorious civilisation of the Indus Valley, and even took out a river (Saraswati) from its existence. 

First World War

Happened several millennia ago, with india as its epicentre, involving multiple nations, some siding with the Pandavas, and the rest with the Kauravas. 

First test tube baby:

According to careful study of history, the Kauravas were the first test tube babies. Gandhari was the first such mother. 

First surrogate mother:

Madri was the first. Kunti was tired after having given birth to several babies, including one clandestinely. So, she transferred the onus to Madra to conceive the Ashwini twins - Nakul and Sahadev. 

I wonder if the episode of the birth of Shanmugam predates the Bharata. If it does, then the Krittikas were the first surrogate mothers, who lent their womb to Siva and Parvati for the birth of Skanda, the commander in chief of the gods’ army. 

First children through sperm donors

Dasaratha’s sons. Despite marrying three women, Dasaratha couldn’t produce any progeny. Only then it dawned upon him that the trouble may not lie elsewhere but in him. So, he made a sage donate his sperms, which his wives happily accepted and produced four children - all male at that!

First dancer 

Siva, who else! The one who performed the cosmic dance taught the moves - after he calmed down and agreed to marry again - to Parvati, who now is considered the patron goddess of dance. 

First beauty queen

Lakshmi (no, not Rati). She rose out of the Milky Ocean in absolute glamour, mesmerising everyone around. 

First drag queen

Vishnu, hands down. He donned the form of Mohini and bewitched the demons, and ensured Amrit went only to gods. Then he killed a demon, Bhasmasura in the same form by making him burn himself. She seduced Siva in the same avatar, resulting in the birth of Ayyappa. Even back in those days, none could resist the charms of a drag queen. RuPaul, please take note!

Vishnu influenced Arjuna too to don the drag and live as Brihannala for a year. 

First transgender person

Shikhandi. Successfully transitioned from female to male (was known as Amba before transition). Bhishma was jealous of the transition as he too secretly wanted to transition, but had grown too old to try.  

First Olympics 

Was held in Hastinapur, the capital of the Kaurava kingdom. Karna emerged as the champion of champions in this edition, besting Arjuna, who ran away. 

First ever radio announcement

Happened in mathura, when the gods announced that Kansa would be killed in future by his own nephew! 

First Quiz

Featured the Pandavas at the lake. Yudhishtira won the contest. Yama was the quiz master. This original contest has given rise to so many contests in TV today including squid games. If Vyasa was alive he could sue them all and be the richest man alive! 

As and when more facts tumble out of our great history, the Guinness Records will undergo further revision. The Committee has assured. 

She Said He Heard…

A view of Hilsa 

We are into the last leg of our Kailash Yatra. Despite concerns and doubts, and a lot of conflicting information, we manage to start off from Taklakot (Purang, in China). Having reached China-Nepal border at Hilsa, we rest at a small hotel named, Moksha, and await our turn for the chopper. 

Hilsa is a small village and has barely a handful of houses that turn into home stays for the Kailash yatris during the Kailash Yatra season. These village doesn’t even have metalled roads. Hotel Moksha is a new building that has come up recently, and a couple of other hotels too have come up. These are pretty basic in terms of the facilities they offer. Our aim is to have a lunch here and take off to Simikot. From there, the journey would be to Nepalgunj.  

Many other Yatris that were there begin to leave, and some new ones arrive. Most of them are staying put as their choppers aren’t scheduled for another day (at least). 

Some yatris that have arrived at the place we are resting realise Moksha isnt their resting place (yet) and they need to go to another hotel. So, the patriarch shouts orders to one of the younger ones to find out which is their hotel. The girl who runs the establishment finds out and tells this group that it’s ’Snow Line’. 

The man and his fellow travellers collect their small bags to leave. As they’re leaving, the old man wonders aloud. “Why is the hotel named Slow? Do things move at snail’s pace here?”, in Hindi! 

Falling Apart!

A dull ache in his shoulder, a new twinge in his knee - he felt like he was falling apart. This was supposed to be his peak, the moment he finally cashed in on years of work. The modelling gigs, the ad campaigns; they were his for the taking, and they were paying off big time. But the mirror, once his ally, now reflected a stranger. A tired man with dark circles under his eyes, his smile strained from clenching his jaw against the pain. He hadn't listened when his body whispered, and now it was screaming. He needed a lifeline, a sympathetic ear, and there was only one person he trusted.

He called her to meet at a sleek new cafe downtown, all minimalist decor and the strong scent of burnt sugar and espresso. She was a welcome island of calm in his storm, stirring a latte with deliberate grace.

"It started as just an ache in the shoulder," he began, "but now it's a frozen shoulder."

"Hmm," she hummed, not looking up. "The full-body equivalent of a computer freeze."

"It's worse than that. I also have sciatica, and... an ACL tear in my knee."

She finally looked up, her expression a mix of concern and dry amusement. "Dude, you're becoming a one-man hospital ward. I hope you're at least doing something about it."

"I'm in intense physiotherapy, and I've started swimming lessons. Surgeon's orders."

She smiled, a genuine crinkle around her eyes. "Good."

"Good? I'm not seeing any results!" he groaned, running a hand over his face. "As if all that wasn't enough, my tooth enamel is gone, so I have to see a dentist now, too. And then there are the migraines..."

He trailed off, listing his ailments like a shopping list for a tough laundry day. She set her cup down slowly, her gaze fixed on him. For a long, silent moment, she just stared, no longer smiling.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, suddenly defensive. "I'll overcome all of this."

She leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'm not feeling bad for you. I'm just thinking that with all the advancements in AI, you're the perfect candidate to be converted into a bionic man.”

He laughed, more sound than mirth. "Oh, come on, don't be so harsh. There are still parts of me that are alive and kicking well."

"I know," she shot back, a teasing grin spreading across her face. "But with the advancements, you may not need them."

He feigned offense. "I meant my brain, silly!"

She lifted her hands in surrender and chuckled. "I meant the same thing."