Friends in Strangers in the Himalayas

After almost an hour and a half into the picturesque drive towards Shimla, a catastrophic realization dawned on my mom! Her eyes suddenly became as round as coins as she looked at me in baffled desperation. She had blissfully forgotten her handbag in the restaurant where we had briefly stopped for our lunch along the drive. Horror, fear and agony gripped her all at once. The bag contained: a decent amount of cash - both RMB and INR; indispensable credit cards; several documents; an expensive camera; two of her much-valued mobile phones; some pieces of her prized jewellery items and most importantly our passports. You may well imagine the pandemonium that ensued at the sheer thought of losing our passports; our car came to a screeching halt in an instant. My Himalayan holiday plans encountered a severe jolt on the very first day of the vacation. How was this going to end?

Excitedly, I recalled the name of the restaurant after a few moments of pondering – Pinewood Inn. Within a few minutes our chauffeur, Arjun made a hasty U-turn towards Chandigarh. He kept assuring us that my mom would retrieve her bag. However I could almost feel the trauma of facing a never-ending series of bizarre government procedural norms. I was well nigh certain that our entire vacation would go topsy-turvy. Upon figuring out the contact numbers of the restaurant from the internet after what seemed ages of buffering, my dad frantically tried to reach the restaurant. But luck seemed to betray us! Each of our attempts to call the restaurant failed due to poor connectivity on the highway. A distraught countenance on my dad’s otherwise composed face did not escape my eyes. My mom brooded over her loss unabatedly while hot tears kept flooding her cheeks. 

With surprising deftness, Arjun drove us along the highway, snaking its way through the magnificent mountains. Quite abruptly that sky was overcast with dark grey clouds. To make matters worse, it started raining torrentially. I was absorbed in the menacingly beautiful look of rain-drenched Himalayas clad in mist and clouds.  The mental turmoil was killing. Nevertheless, the beauty and verdure of the clumps of majestic pine trees mesmerized me. Suddenly I heard a low rumble, which grew louder every second. Looking up at the hillside, I saw that several trees shuddered, tilted outward and fell off on the road.

Landslide. Arjun stopped shortly pressing his foot brake hard. My mom was in a state of absolute panic.

We remained rooted to the spot until the rocks stopped rolling down and the trees stood still. I noticed that some birds were circling the area. A frightened barking-deer darted past our car. Small cascades of water became gushing waterfalls. Frogs chanted. A tea vendor popped up from somewhere and served us piping hot ginger-cardamom tea in clay cups. Strong, spicy and zesty flavor of the tea mixed with the fresh aroma of rain and created a heavenly atmosphere. A cup of tea with some hot and crisp peanuts refreshed us in a jiffy. Arjun took a shortcut through a jungle path to circumvent the landslide and merge with the highway again.

As soon as our milky white car stopped in front of the quaint restaurant, my mom stormed into the reception area and blurted out the incident to the manager.

The pleasant looking manager listened patiently and politely replied “Mrs. Chatterjee, please be calm. It is safe in our custody”.

We had not heard such comforting words in a long time! A huge sense of relief enveloped all of us as the shiny crimson-red Prada bag was handed over to us with all its contents safe and sound. The manager explained that a waiter had spotted the bag and immediately handed it over to the management. The managerial staff contacted some Mumbai numbers that they found in a diary but they did not receive much information about our whereabouts. Subsequently they were about to contact the police when we rushed in. My dad thanked the staff immensely and desired to meet Amar, the waiter, who found the bag.

 “I do not want any money Sir. I just want to help a traveler who might be in crisis,” Amar humbly refused to accept the cash that my dad offered to him as a gesture of our appreciation. We were amazed and deeply touched by his incredible honesty, wondrous simplicity and humanity. The staff of Pinewood hotel, a small road-side inn in Barogh on the Chandigarh-Shimla highway in India still remains as one of our greatest friends.

The next few days were spent in Shimla, the erstwhile summer capital of the British in India. Hiking up hilly roads lined with pine trees, exploring forests covered with oak, deodar and rhododendron trees, horse riding and running about in apple orchards recharged me. But I realized one thing - the element of adventure that lurks in any journey often becomes more awe-inspiring than the destination itself!

Noyonika

A Hindu Horror Story

A few years ago, when I was in primary school  on summer holiday, I spent several months travelling through Asia with my family. We had to make our way from the Himalayas in Nepal down to Delhi. We arrived late one evening at the railway station of Gorakhpur, in time to catch a train at midnight. Or at least that was the plan.

I waited, and waited, and still the train did not come – until finally, at around 9 o’clock in the morning, the train arrived.  Oh… my… God…I thought, This train is packed ! I climbed into the train, and clambered over people and luggage until I found the compartment where my seat was reserved. There seemed no room, but they made space for me and I squeezed in by the window. It was a 3rd class carriage, just a wooden bench for a seat, and no aircon ! It was May, and stiflingly hot in the Northern plains of India – thank goodness for the breeze coming in through the open window !  The train chugged on through the morning, until …. Calamity !

 The train broke down, in the middle of nowhere !  No more breeze, it got hotter and hotter inside the crowded compartment. Nothing seemed to be happening, until finally a train conductor arrived and announced that another train would soon come and everyone had to transfer onto that one. My family and I looked out of the window waiting, and waiting, for the new train.  When  it did arrive, I was just thinking 'Is this a joke ?!' There were more people on this train than on our very full train and all of us had to get in ! There were people on the roof, hanging out the windows, under the bench and even in the luggage compartment. Everywhere I turned my head there were millions of eyes staring back at me ! So again I climbed over bags,  people, goats and chickens to find my seat.

 The Indians were somewhat nice to me and let me sit. But I think it was because I was a child and a foreigner because soon after this a fight broke out between two Indians : one wanted the seat for his pregnant wife but the other wouldn’t give up his seat. It was quite funny actually because their language is quite onomatopoeic so I could know that they were swearing.  After an excruciatingly hot 15 minute break, the train started to move and all that I could think was  'get me out of this hellhole!' or 'I’m never getting into a train again' but then the breeze started and all of my anger towards trains melted away. The train finally tiptoed into Delhi train station and I just told myself. Thank goodness It’s over ! I promised myself that I was never taking a train in India ever again.

Elenor