Gratitude

My face lit up, breaking into a broad smile.

Reconnecting my phone after a much-needed, internet-free holiday with my partner, I expected a deluge of work messages. What I didn't expect was the flood of congratulations. As I scrolled and read, the reason became clear: at his recent retirement farewell, a former colleague, Nagaraj, had publicly credited me with saving his life from depression and self-harm.

The memory jogged back immediately. Years ago, I was heading a different office when Nagaraj arrived, new and completely unreliable. Work was shoddy and absences were frequent. Instead of initiating disciplinary action, I asked to meet him. Nagaraj and his wife came in and revealed his severe depression, triggered by long periods of separation due to distant postings. I immediately promised them my full support, guaranteeing flexible leave and a transfer to a role where Nagaraj had once excelled, as indicated by his former colleagues. I saw to it that he had an empathetic manager, and I made a point of checking in on him myself occasionally, just to reassure him that he was safe in the office. Over time, Nagaraj’s attendance and quality of work visibly improved.

The case had faded into the background over the years and a few transfer, only briefly recalled when Nagaraj was one of three retiring officers who invited me to a joint farewell lunch just before my own beach vacation. Now, the overwhelming impact hit me.

Nagaraj’s wife had also reached out: "Grateful for the faith you reposed in him. He’s almost as good as he used to be.” 

I knew the power of that support. I had faced my own dark moments during unceremonious transfers, and I’d found solace and strength in the help of colleagues and strangers. I closed my phone. "What goes around comes around," I uttered aloud. My partner, who was observing me without a word, gave me a hug and said, “just like us”.

Pain & A Little Prayer! Kailash-Mansarovar Yatra III

A view of the Mansarovar

B for Briefing: The Never-Ending Types 

We were ready for Mansarovar, but first, a mandatory detour into another briefing. Come again! When will these end? And why are they never brief?

The scene shifted dramatically from 13 people to 50+ pilgrims crammed together. The new Tibet tour leader had plenty to say, much of it drowned out by the din. The gist of the Great Unveiling was:

 * Oxygen is your new god: If saturation dips below 80%, you're out. Take the freely distributed Diamox (which I instantly started doing).

 * Mansarovar waters are for drinking, not swimming: Tibetans consider the waters holy, so no unauthorised dipping. Collect water only from designated points.

 * Accommodation is basic: Prepare for shared living and shared ablution spaces—a polite warning to respect others’ hygiene (i.e., you're largely on your own).

* Remember the team: from here they will go with you everywhere; even to the Parikrama.

* Hiring ponies and porters: make up your minds if you need support; you can’t cry for help after they have bolted!

Over the next two days, I got to know the crew better. I was rooming with Venkateswara Rao, a self-made, self-assured industrialist. The standout was Sanjay Jha, a journalist and veteran Yatra companion to Rambabu. Sanjay's greatest asset was his endless supply of wit, knowledge, and an alarming ability to "start a conversation with even a stone." A skill I hoped to learn but knew well I might never be capable of!

Our hotel at Taklakot/Purang

The Problem With My Head

From day one at altitude, I was locked in a bitter struggle with a severe, ceaseless headache. Despite the pain and sleepless nights, my oximeter readings were frustratingly normal (always above 85\% saturation), suggesting I was perfectly fine. Meanwhile, Rambabu was chilling with his saturation in the mid-70s, yet looked more relaxed than a cat in a sunbeam. Clearly, the mountain wasn't the problem; my own skull was staging a revolt.

Our drive to Mansarovar started three hours late—9 am became noon—throwing the whole day's plan into chaos. The first, hour-long leg took us to Rakshas Tal (Demon’s Lake). It's stunningly beautiful but, according to legend, "poisonous" because Ravan created it. (High salinity is probably the less dramatic explanation.) Our half-hour photo-op was hurried, with guides trying to get us back into the bus like they were shooing "a bunch of monkeys from a coco grove."

Vistas from the Rakshas Tal

Mansarovar: A Late Lunch and a Late Realization

Soon after, we arrived at the immense Mansarovar. After a stop to admire the south face of Kailash and a stop to change the bus, we finally broke for a seriously belated 4 pm lunch. There’s a helipad at the lake; those who cannot afford to do the Parikrama (but can a chopper ride) can take a ride to view the lake and the mount Kailash from above!

Mansarovar with the Kailash in background

This stop also provided prime viewing for rule-breaking. Despite all the instructions, several pilgrims attempted to take an unauthorised dip, leading to a spectacle of shouting and cussing—which, to be fair, lent credence to the cliché that Indian tourists struggle with following rules.

The mad rush at the lake!

My headache, now at a fever pitch, sent me straight to bed early. I feared the worst: was it HAPO? I tried everything: pills, coffee, camphor under the pillow, and frantic checks of my still normal oximeter. In the deep quiet of the night, I was convinced I was dying. So, I meditated instead of alerting my companions. If I survived the night, I resolved to quit the trek and head back to Taklakot. Before dawn though, I did one last thing: I looked up the symptoms. 

What I found was the definition of irony: my terrible headaches, sleeplessness, and palpitations were classic side effects of the Diamox I’d been taking to prevent altitude sickness. I had caused my own misery! The relief was immediate and massive, even if the headache wasn't gone. I felt like the Buddha!

The next morning, we reached Darchen quickly. Though the pain lingered, I knew it was temporary, not terminal. I voiced my decision to skip the Parikrama, but my companions suggested I wait it out. With nothing better to do for the entire day, we headed to Ashtapada, a holy Jain site with majestic views of Kailash. This is the place where the first Tirthankara attained salvation. We had just started our "ooh and aah" routine when a sudden hailstorm descended, forcing us to beat a hasty, undignified retreat back to the hotel. Some sightseeing! 

The South face of Kailash 

Did I Forget the Briefing?

The Mandatory Prep-Rally

The all-important briefing (as promised in Taklakot) was held yet again in the dining hall. The theme was, predictably, the Parikrama, a spiritual journey that needed an elaborate logistical scheme designed to enrich local entrepreneurs. 

 * You can hire ponies and porters at Yamdwar, the starting line. But, and this is the important part, the services must be booked NOW. Why? So the tour operators can, with transparent selflessness, secure their not-at-all-inflated commission by tying up all the contracts like a mob boss securing territory.

 * If you splurge on a pony, a porter is bundled into the cost (a sort of complimentary, human GPS system for the equine). You can, of course, just hire the sherpa/mule-whisperer alone, for the true "I-should-do-more-cardio" experience.

 * The system is strict: one person, one pony. Your friend/spouse/associate may not hop on for a turn when their legs fail. This isn't a merry-go-round, people. It’s a transaction. The same rule applies to the porter—no sharing the burden!

 * And because this is serious business, there are weight limits. Your bag, which you hand to the porter, must not exceed 10 kilos. Meanwhile, you, the intrepid rider, shall not burden the poor pony by exceeding 90 kg. It’s a spiritual journey, not a gastric challenge.

 * Be warned: this three-day ‘stroll’ covers 40+ km. Furthermore, the facilities at the end of each day will be "basic." This is code for: "exactly like the Mansarovar lake experience, but somehow even less appealing."

 * The three checkpoints are Deraphuk, Dolma La, and Zithulphuk. Day two includes scaling a mountain pass—because nothing says 'fun' like ascending a vertical mile on a diet of stale crackers.

 * Finally, the escape clause. If your dignity and/or knees fail you, you can bail out at the end of any day and take a vehicle back to Darchen—for an extra cost, naturally. You can't just flag a cab, either; the tour guides have the market cornered.

 * The final, helpful advice: "Carry only essentials." I mentally translated this to: "Do not forget extra socks (to cry into), snacks (for emotional eating), and a water bottle. A lighter bag ensures an easier trek!" Just as a lighter wallet ensures a richer tour operator!

The man behind the mad blog

The Raucous Competition (aka, My Ears Are Bleeding)

The hotel in Darchen was teeming with pilgrims. They were raucous. They were noisy. They danced and prayed to Lord Shiva as though their volume settings were directly proportional to their spiritual sincerity. If you ask me, Lord Shiva probably has earplugs specially forged from the peaks of Kailash, just for this lot.

The absolute worst offenders were the Gujaratis. Their enthusiasm was weaponized. Their devotion was a sustained sonic boom. If it were left to me, I’d have happily gagged them all and issued marching orders straight to a silent monastery or a vipassana workshop.

Prayer flags at Ashtapada

The D-Day

The day of the great Parikrama arrived. My resolution was simple: I would travel up to Yamdwar—the point of no return—and simply look at the trek. I figured I could always retreat back to Darchen with my pride (mostly) intact, rather than succumbing to the ignominy of quitting halfway. I had to at least pretend I was capable of hiking 40 km, even if my body was already drafting a formal letter of resignation.

(To be Continued….)

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