Travel Travails of a Highway Trotter: Chapter 07

In late 1981, instead of the boys persuading me to take them on a trek to the Himalayas, it was I who persuaded them and three other teachers to go with me on a trek to the Everest Base Camp in the summer of 1982.

Why I did that can be understood in the light of another flashback into my life.

I have already mentioned that I had done an adventure course from Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, Darjeeling when I was seventeen.
It was not a personal choice. I was a member of the National Cadet Corps and every year, a few “promising” NCC cadets from all over the country were selected to attend various specialized training courses anywhere in India.
I was selected for the adventure course because the NCC officer was my uncle.

At HMI, Darjeeling, we were lucky to be trained by some of the most famous mountaineers in the world. Late Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, who had married twice and climbed Everest once, was our Field Director. Nawang Gombu, who had married once and climbed Everest twice, was our Deputy Field Director.
After completing the course, I had fallen in love with many Himalayan legends like Everest, Kanchenjunga, Annapurna, Dhaulagiri, Nanga Parbat and Nanda Devi.

~

In the years until I joined Mayo College in 1977, I had read every book written on major Himalayan mountain climbing expeditions. I had lived the experiences of those legendary mountaineers through imaginative participation, sharing their moments of grief and elation with deep intensity.
Place a copy of the the Kama Sutra and a copy of Sir Ed Hillary’s biography in front of me; I would make a grab for the latter.

I had read so many expedition accounts on Mount Everest I knew each step from Kathmandu to the summit of Everest like the back of my hand. Jiri, Namche Bazaar, Tengpoche, Pheriche, Lobuje, Gorakshep, Khumbu Glacier, Base Camp, Khumbu Icefall, Western CWM, South Col and Hillary’s Step sounded like home.

Alongside deep infatuation for Everest grew the passionate urge to see it with my own eyes, if not climb it. At that time, however, it felt like falling in love with Meena Kumari – the tragedy queen of Hindi cinema – distant and unapproachable.
The dream had remained dormant until I joined Mayo College and started doing small treks with Mayo boys. I came to know that Mayo boys had actually made a bid to reach Everest Base Camp a few years ago but had given up at 16000 feet after tiring themselves out by walking 150 miles from Jiri to Lobuje.

So in late 1981, I started persuading my colleagues Mr. Ramesh Shah, Mr. Arun Sharma and Mr. G.S. Bajwa to join me in taking the boys to the Everest Base Camp in the summer of 1982.
I had reasons to pick those three men.
Mr. Shah, a senior member of Math faculty and a mountain enthusiast like most Gujaratis would not be able to resist the temptation to see Everest for free.
Mr. Sharma, my colleague in English department, was desperately looking for the position of a Headmaster just as Mr. Dick Everhard had done back in 1978. A trek to the EBC would certainly open the gates for him.
Mr. Bajwa, an ex-sailor from the Indian Navy, had smuggling electronic goods from Nepal to India on his wish-list. He would not miss the opportunity for the life of him.

Still, they were reluctant to join me.
Their reluctance was based on their awareness of our Headmaster Mr. C.R.Gupta’s aversion to spending money.
Their reluctance evaporated when I suggested that a trek to Everest Base Camp could be made to appear like a big event for which funds could be raised through donations.

When we mooted the subject to Mr.Gupta, he was elated at the proposal. So long as money came in and did not go out, he was always elated. He happily signed the circular letter for parents which I had drafted cunningly to elicit maximum response from them. Even before we had started planning for the trek, more than sixty thousand rupees had already been donated by the parents.

The Chief Guest on the Annual Prize Giving function in November 1981 turned out to be a rich Sheikh from a Sultanate in the Middle East. He had studied at Mayo in the late forties and held an important office in his country.
Seeing the opportunity to raise more donations for our trek, we sought an interview with His Highness. He dismissed us promptly with a cheque for forty thousand rupees; there were other beggars waiting to have an interview with him, though he did not say that in those very words.

By the end of the year 1981, we had more than 100,000 rupees by way of donations for the trek. By then, I had already invented a name for our venture: “MAYO COLLEGE EVEREST BASE EXPEDITION 1982”. Wish I could delete the word ‘BASE’ from it!
The donations in kind too had piled up – kilos of sugar, rice, cooking oil, biscuits and chocolate from parents dealing in those commodities. Through the aegis of the NCC, we had been issued high altitude parkas and sleeping bags by the Indian Army which we had already started using for practice. After all, it does get quite cold in Rajasthan in winters.

~

Then began the next phase of our “Expedition” – planning. With the kind of funds we had already amassed plus the mandatory contribution of two thousand rupees by each Mayo boy wanting to join the expedition, planning a trek had never been such a delight!
Brain-storming sessions ensued from which Mr.Bajwa had to be excluded for obvious reasons. He was hulk of a man, but just that. Our Maker exercises immense discretion in the allotment of gray matter just as our Headmaster Mr. Gupta does in the allotment of money.
The first agenda item to be discussed and planned was the itinerary of the Expedition. Fully aware of the reasons for the failure of the earlier Mayo trek to Everest Base, we, first of all, decided to make the journey as comfortable as possible.

Thanks to the shoe-string budget at their disposal, the planners of the 1977 trek had almost killed the boys by making them walk from Jiri to Lobuje and then back to Jiri to save pennies. Since we had no need to save pennies, the Expedition would fly from Kathmandu to Lukla. The boys would be fresh and energetic and would reach EBC within ten days. We would hire porters to carry our gear and rations. We would make the boys stay in lodges and not in the tents to save money. We would give them bindaas food cooked by a team of Sherpa cooks. Finally, we would fly them back from Lukla to Kathmandu. Perfect.

~

On May 3, 1982, our Expedition comprising sixteen boys and four teachers reaches Kathmandu Airport at 6 in the morning to catch a plane to Lukla.

While we wait for baggage and security check in the domestic lounge milling with travelers both native and foreign, I notice a group of native men squatting on the floor and doing curious things. They have their baggage open in front of them from which they pick up brand-new shirts and T-shirts and start wearing them one on top of the other until all the shirts and T-shirts are worn.
At the end of the operation, they have so many shirts and T-shirts on them they look like Sumo wrestlers from neck to pelvis.
It is rather hot in Kathmandu in the month of May, so I am not convinced they are so cold they need to wear all those shirts and T-shirts at Kathmandu airport.
But wait a moment. Couldn’t they be getting ready for the cold weather at the destination – Lukla, Jumla or Jomsom?

I have almost lost interest in them when Shamendra Singh – a boy from a royal family in India and related to a royal family in Nepal – whispers in my ear.
‘You know why these people have trussed themselves up in those shirts and T-shirts, Sir? They are business people. They bought those shirts and T-shirts here in Kathmandu to sell them in their shops at Lukla, Jumla or Jomsom. Wear them all. No extra baggage, no extra payment. Only extra profit.’
By the time Shamendra has finished speaking, the group of ‘over-dressed’ businessmen is lined up in front of the check-in counter for Jomsom.

~

Until May 3, 1982, my colleagues Mr. Shah, Mr. Sharma, Mr. Bajwa and I had seen airplanes either in the movies or flying high up in the sky.
On the other hand, all the sixteen Mayo boys had travelled in them to the US, Europe, Canada or Australia on numerous holiday trips.
So when we walk to the small propeller-driven STOL Canadian airplane parked in a corner of the airport, all of us teachers have butterflies fluttering nervously inside our tummies.

Madhav: Hey, Shamu, are we flying to Lukla inside that kite?
Shamu: You guessed it right, man. Drones like a mosquito flying at 10000 feet. Been on it quite a few times.
Kong: Hope it doesn’t get stuck in a tree, ha, ha, ha!

I’m so nervous I don’t enjoy boys’ humour. Wish we had planned to walk from Jiri to Everest Base like our predecessors! Place terra firma under my feet and see how confident I can be.
Seventeen of us clamber into the small plane through its three-step ladder-cum-door. That is all this plane takes. Mr. Arun Sharma and two boys would be in the second flight to Lukla that morning.
The two uniformed Nepali pilots are already seated in the cockpit up front. Though I am scared, I choose a seat right behind them to the left of the narrow isle. Would like to see how they fly the plane and be ready to lend a hand if need be.
The flight attendant bangs the door-cum-ladder shut when all seventeen of us are seated.
Then he moves up the aisle, distributing candies.
Then he checks if all of us have our seat belts on.

Mr. Bajwa: I don’t have a belt. I’m wearing track suit pants.
Flight Attendant: No. no, Sir! You fasten the seat belt.
Mr. Bajwa: What seat belt? You didn’t give us any. You gave us only one toffee.
Flight Attendant: Sorry, Sir, but would you mind getting up for a second, please? Let me show you how to do it.

Mr. Shah and I watch the demo eagerly so that the flight attendant doesn’t have to help two more ignormuses on his flight.

By that time, the pilots have switched the engines on. In a moment, the plane starts juddering as the propellers whirl at full speed. Boys are talking, laughing and joking loudly when the plane starts moving forward. Within seconds, it is air-borne. With my heart in my mouth, I see Kathmandu tilting to one side and then to the other. Oh dear Lord Shiva, let this plane land me safely at Lukla. I promise I would never ever step into one, especially when visiting your holy abodes in the high Himalayas!

As if answering my prayers, one of the pilot’s voices rings out on the PA system.
‘Gentlemen, we are now flying at an altitude of 10000 feet. You can see the Great Himalayas to your left. Right at the centre of the range is the famed Gauri-Shankar group of mountains.’
I silently bow my head towards the venerated peaks shimmering white against a deep blue sky. All devout Hindus overcome their blues just by uttering the name of Shankar and when they can see Him side by side with his wife in the shape of another lofty mountain, they become as cocky as the Australian cricket team playing India at Melbourne Cricket Ground.
All the guys sitting to the right of the aisle (including Mr. Bajwa who weighs 104 kilos in his underpants) unbuckle their seat belts and rush to the left side to look at the mountains through the small windows. The plane starts tilting to the left so precariously one of the pilots has to order them back to their seats on the PA system.

I congratulate myself for choosing the best seat in the plane. I can enjoy watching the pilots fiddling with knobs and dials in front of them and occasionally tweaking those joy-sticks built like bull’s horns. They have earphones clamped to their ears and I keep wondering if they are listening to Nepali music on radio or just protecting their ears from the noise of the plane.
I also have the advantage of the ring-side view of lofty Himalayan peaks lined up on the horizon to my left. It is a bright and sunny morning and I can easily identify each massif or mountain. When I start recognizing the shapes of mountains around Khumbu in the far eastern corner of the view framed by the window, I know we are about to reach our destination.

One of the pilots comes alive on the PA system and asks us to fasten our seat belts for landing. Sooner than he has finished speaking, I find myself staring at the most frightening view through the windscreen of the cockpit.
The plane has slowed down and is lined up with a dusty airstrip below that starts from the edge of a cliff and ends up at the farthest end of a narrow shelf from where a steeply inclined mountain begins to rise up into the sky. The strip looks so short I am convinced the little plane would over-shoot it and then . . .
As I start praying fervently before my impending and premature meeting with my Maker, the plane is just about ready to touch the cliff-side edge of the runway. In a moment, I feel the wheels of the plane come in contact with something hard. The plane bounces into the air a few times as the harsh grinding noise of the brakes announces our return to terra firma.
Suddenly all the noise drops down to zero, the plane glides forward like a swan, takes a slow right turn and comes to a gentle halt on a wide and dusty clearing.
Thank you, Lord Shiva! Thanks for cancelling your unscheduled meeting with us!
Everest Base Camp, here I come!

~

We had paid a fortune to get our equipment and rations air-lifted from Kathmandu to Lukla.
When people saw it unloaded on the airstrip, they thought we were on our way to the summit of Mt. Everest.

Just as sugar attracts a horde of flies, our mound of stuff (which actually had a lot of sugar in it) attracted the Sherpa porters, guides and cooks from Lukla and neighborhood villages. We immediately fell for a young and handsome Sherpa guide and began negotiating with him. After considerable haggling, it was decided that the young Sherpa would engage a team of porters, cooks and yaks to carry our stuff from Lukla to EBC and then back to Lukla for a sum which we thought was quite reasonable.
Since our guide had an unpronounceable name, we decided to call him Tom.
After sealing the deal, Tom led us to a big lodge just above the airstrip.

Lukla in 1982 was still an archaic Sherpa village with a few simple lodges that catered to the continuous flow of backpackers from all over the world, especially during summer months.
Our lodge owners were a middle aged couple who readily agreed to accommodate the twenty of us in a large dormitory and also allowed us to use their big courtyard to sort out our mound of stuff. In a jiffy, Tom got all the stuff ferried from the airstrip to the courtyard where it was stacked neatly to be split into loads for porters and yaks the next morning at 6.

~

After dumping our rucksacks in the dormitory, we set out to explore Lukla. It was a cluster of houses and lodges on either side of the high-street which was also the trail to Namche Bazaar. It was a busy street with people and yaks moving constantly up and down.

Most tea-shops were filled with western trekkers who sat at the tables reading trekking guides to Himalayas and sipping tea. There were both men and women, young and old. It was reminiscent of Pushkar -- a holy town near Ajmer – where western tourists flocked throughout the year and sat in tea-shops reading Lonely Planet Travel Guides and smoking joints.

Lukla sits at 9000 feet and as we tried to soak in its ambience, we were content with the thought that we had begun the acclimatization process by staying a day at Lukla.

We had read and heard so much about the local beer called chhang Mr. Sharma and I decided to try it immediately after returning to the lodge. Mr. Shah being a Gujarati never touched alcohol; Mr. Bajwa drank anything provided it was free.

Though we hid the fact from each other until our return to Ajmer twenty days later, Mr. Sharma and I almost puked after the first sip of chhang at Mr. Ang Dawa’s lodge. It looked and tasted like the piss of a horse suffering from urinary tract infection. Still we drank it with the same kind of patience and perseverance as was required to drink potions made by our Mayo Hospital compounder.

I was so familiar with Nepal through my intensive reading of books on Everest and other expeditions I diplomatically changed the next drink from chhang to rakshi. When Mr. Ang Dawa poured it into our empty glasses from a huge kettle and Mr. Sharma took the first sip, I could see an expression of intense delight on his face despite a dense growth of salt-n-pepper on it.

Without the slightest hesitation, he called Mr. Ang Dawa back and bade him to refill the kettle with rakshi up to the brim and leave it on our table.

It took us the rest of the day to finish the kettle, but we never complained.

In the summer of 2007 a quarter century later before Mr. Sharma passed away, he and I met after many years and once again tried to recall unsuccessfully how we had managed to reach our beds in Mr. Ang Dawa’s lodge after finishing that kettle.

This is how Lukla looks now.

New Nature Images

Here are some nature images I shot recently.

Assorted Nature Pictures

Travel Travails of A Highway Trotter: Chapter 06

Recent View of Ajmer Railway Station

So back to the road, or rather rail track, this time – and that too of the meter gauge kind!

Meter gauge rail tracks were yet another left-over from the British era we still had to live with for decades after the Independence.

In the eighties of the twentieth century, the only direct train between Ajmer and Hyderabad ran on a meter gauge track. It went by the name of Kachiguda Express – a misnomer since it crawled rather than ran on a circuitous route in such a leisurely fashion I grew a healthy beard by the time I reached Hyderabad from Ajmer!

On the hot summer morning of May 3, 1980, I boarded the Kachiguda Express at Ajmer railway station. My wife and kids (I had only two then; the score went up to four by the time I completed my research) came to the station to bid me farewell.

It was a futile gesture of goodwill, anyway. Boarding a train in India is an ordeal that leaves no room for farewell kisses and parting hugs. Collective India takes over the moment you step inside a railway station, making you a member of the cosmic family also known as Vasudhev Kuttumbakum, in Sanskrit.

Although Ajmer was the starting point of the Kachiguda Express and we had reached the station nearly two hours before its scheduled departure, the Vasudhev Kuttumbakum was already in place. The platform milled with people and all the benches were taken.
The sleeper compartment I had been allocated was already so jam-packed it took me nearly half an hour to reach in the vicinity of my “reserved” berth.
Under the circumstances, it would be foolish of me to elbow my way out again to receive farewell kisses and parting hugs from my family.
Sweat-soaked, dishevelled and breathless, I somehow found a tiny ledge on a berth and fitted myself into it, hugging my suitcase.

My family in the meanwhile had visualized my predicament and drawn closer to the window with the intent of waving their hands at me and then going home.
I was not exactly at the window seat, so all they could probably see of me inside the compartment was my chin resting on my suitcase.
Conversely, all I could see of them on the platform was my wife’s left hand resting on the rump of my younger one sleeping on her shoulder.
I guess my wife had already waved farewell at me before surrendering her space at the window to some other face.
That face was now pressed into the window bars. The level of noise on the platform was so high I could see only the lips moving in communication with someone inside.

~

Assuming my family must have gone home, I now decided to assert my place in the Vasudhev Kuttumbakum I was going to travel with all the way to Hyderabad.

To achieve that end, some immediate action was called for about my suitcase so heavy with books it was crushing me to death. In addition, buffeted by the traffic inside the compartment, it had bashed my face time and again like an Indian school teacher dealing with a lazy student.
I stood up with a jerk and pushed my way in the general direction of my “reserved” berth, using the suitcase as a battering ram. Indifferent to the yells and shrieks from crushed toes and battered limbs, I finally reached my destination.

To place my suitcase under the berth, I lowered it to the floor. Then I pushed with all my might. I could hear some shin bones crackling in the process but I did not care. Curses and cries erupted around me but I did not care. Someone pummeled my back with clenched fists but I did not care.

Finding my suitcase not going anywhere under the seat, I bent down and peeped into the space. It was already crammed with suitcases, tin-trunks and bags.

‘Arre kyon tan-gay torr raha hai, come-bakht?' (‘Why are you breaking our legs, you ill-timed progeny?’) A female voice squeaked above my head. ‘Apne bucksay par baith jaw na! Sit on your box!’
Deflated, I did her bidding.

~

Legs surround me on all sides. Presently one pair of them stands up.
‘Where are you going, bhaiyya?’ Mr. Standingpairoflegs addresses me from above like the voice of God in a mythological Indian TV serial.
I’m under no obligation to answer that question, but I do.
‘Hyderabad,’ I say without looking up.
It is so crowded inside the compartment I can’t look up even if I want to.

Mr. Standingpairoflegs bends down to grab me by the shoulders and pull me upright. I see a swarthy middle-aged face inches away from mine. I have seen it before but can’t figure out where. Ajmer is a small place but not all that small either.

‘You sit here,’ he grabs me by the shoulders again and jams me into the narrow slit he has created on the bench by standing up.
On my left is a shrunken old crone in a white cotton sari. Probably she is the one who had pummeled my back with clenched fists or suggested I sit on my suitcase.
On my right is a thin, anemic-looking boy of about ten, deeply involved in digging his nose with an index finger.
‘My mother too is going to Hyderabad,’ Mr. Standingpairoflegs informs me from above. ‘And this is my boy Manohar travelling with her. Since you are travelling to Hyderabad, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind taking care of my mother and son.’

I nod my head nonchalantly. It happens all the time in the Indian trains -- especially if you are travelling third class.
‘Okay, then, I’ll make a move, amma,’ Mr. SPOL yells at the old crone, stretching a hand as far as it can go in a symbolic gesture of touching her feet. ‘Don’t hesitate to ask babuji if you need anything.’
By babuji, he means me.
With that, he turns around to elbow his way out of the compartment.

By the time the Kachiguda Express starts chugging its way out of Ajmer town, I am fairly well assimilated into my cosmic family.

~

Indians are a resilient lot, especially when they are travelling third class and that too without booking a berth or a seat.
By the time the train reaches Bhilwara, all the members of my cosmic family are settled comfortably -- in the passage, on the three-tiered sleeping berths and even inside baggage racks.
If you feel the urge, you can hop your way to the toilet over the squatters on the floor. Nobody minds being hopped over or even stepped on during a train journey in a third class sleeper compartment in India.
The Express trundles along the whole day, first through Rajasthan and then through part of western Madhya Pradesh, stopping at all stations big and small. By the time it reaches Indore, it is quite late in the evening.
To my great relief, most of the members of my cosmic family occupying the compartment floor, toilet vestibule and luggage racks have taken their leave at some station or the other and I am now the proud possessor of my first-tier “reserved” berth.
And so are the old crone and her grandson on the opposite first and second tier berths.

~


The Kachiguda Express takes such a long halt at Indore one can easily take a city tour, eat dinner in a good restaurant and be back on it well before its unknown departure time.

Daly College Indore: A School Like Mayo College Ajmer


However, I am a coward by nature when it comes to abandoning the Kachiguda Express at Indore station and going out for a sight-seeing tour of the city and then having dinner in a good restaurant.
So the best I could do during the indefinite halt at Indore was to act the unpaid personal attendant to the old crone.
Her first order was to fetch dinner for her and her grandson Manohar who lay on his back on his second-tier berth above his grandmother and continued digging his nose with the concentration of a Yogi.
Mrs. Old Crone gave me a five rupees note and ordered me to bring two Poori-bhajis from a catering stall on the platform. Fortunately, there was one just outside our compartment. I waited until the pooris were deep fried and placed on a leaf plate alongside a leaf bowl filled with bhaji. I paid eight rupees, adding three from my own pocket. Then I carried the two meals balanced precariously on my palms and delivered them to Mrs. Old Crone.
Before starting her dinner, Mrs. Old Crone extracted a brass lota (pitcher) from her copious handbag and ordered me to fetch cold water from one of the water coolers on the platform. It was located at quite a distance from our compartment. While I was filling it up with cold water, our train moved a little bit.
With half-filled lota, I sprinted back to my compartment at a speed Sardar Milkha Singh (the only Indian to win an individual Gold Medal in the Olympics so far) would have been quite proud of.
Obviously, I was scared. This train had no scheduled departure time, after all, and I don’t fall in the league of those expert Indian train travellers who step into moving trains carrying suitcases in both hands.
Anyway, it was a false start. Why the train had moved, I had no clue.
Maybe it was the wind!

Mrs. Old Crone was a little upset about the half filled lota.
‘Hey, lad, why is the pitcher half full? This is not enough even for my grandson. Do you want us to die of thirst?”
(The above is a rough translation from Hindi.)
Guiltily, I made another trip to the water cooler, mainly to atone for my cowardice.
By the time I had delivered the full lota to Mrs. Old Crone, she and her grandson had finished their dinner.
“Now go get me a sweet paan (beetle leaf mouth freshener). Zarda kumm.”
I didn't have the heart to tell her I had spent three rupees from my own pocket to fetch her dinner.
After all, what difference would it make to spend another fifty paise from the handsome travelling allowance the Government of USA was paying me for going to American Studies Research Center at Hyderabad?

Those were the days when there was no ban on smoking in the public places and paan and cigarettes were sold on the platform itself.
The kiosk of paan-cigarette was so over-crowded with customers I had to wait fifteen minutes for my turn.
We Indians can go hungry for days, if need be or if the circumstances dictate, but we cannot do without paan, cigarette or beedi at regular intervals.

Fortunately, the Kachiguda Express did not make even a single false move during that time.

~

“Keep an eye on my grandson, lad. Don’t let him wander off,” Mrs. Old Crone admonished me as she dragged her old feet laboriously to go to the lavatory, chewing her sweet paan.
Grandson Manohar seemed to be least interested in going anywhere.
He had resumed his nasal mining with a greater degree of concentration after dinner.

~

The rest of the journey to Hyderabad turned out to be the repeat performance of my debut as the Personal Attendant to Mrs. Old Crone.
During the halt at Akola station, I brought her a cup of tea and two samosas.
She ate one and saved one for Manohar who had fallen into deep sleep with his index finger deep inside one of his nostrils.
At Nanded station, I filled her lota with cold water for the seventeenth time.
At Hyderabad, I carried her tin trunk all the way to the Tanga stand outside the station.
By way of terminating my services as her temporary Personal Attendant, she said only three words: “Keep the change”.
Then she boarded her Tanga and was gone.

Travel Travails of A Highway Trotter: Chapter 05

Mayo College Main Building 2007


In the summer vacation of 1980, Mayo boys did not persuade me to take them on a trek to the Himalayas.
There were two reasons for it.

Firstly, they seemed to have had enough of trekking already. Secondly, I had to trot off in a different direction that summer.
Why I had to do that has a story behind it. The story, however, is so old it needs to be told in flashback.
So here is the flashback . . . .

~

In July 1967, I left my native place Chamba to do my MA in English.

Those were the days when all colleges and schools in Himachal Pradesh were affiliated to Panjab University. The University campus was located in Chandigarh and Shimla was the only place in Himachal Pradesh where there was a Regional Centre for Post Graduate Studies.

I preferred Shimla for three reasons.

Firstly, we Himachalis shudder at the idea of leaving Himachal Pradesh. Secondly, Chandigarh is so hot Himachalis spend more time in the air-conditioned cinema halls there than in the University classrooms. Thirdly, I had heard the girls in Shimla were quite accommodating and even though I was way past the minimum age for adult franchise, I was still a virgin.

It had been my dream to join a college or university after doing my MA and teach English literature. The dream was so persuasive I had looked at other professions the way a high caste Hindu used to look at a low caste Hindu before the Constitution of India came into effect on January 26, 1950.

What were doctors, engineers, administrators, auditors and servicemen, after all, but a bunch of unimaginative bozos recruited to keep the systems the British had set up before their departure from the sub-continent going?

Doctors waste their lives on sickness and disease. Engineers waste their lives making ugly buildings and inefficient machines. Administrators sit in their government offices playing God to the masses. Auditors have nothing better to do than find faults with other people’s accounts. Servicemen spend first halves of their lives saluting others and second halves getting saluted.

A professor of English literature, on the other hand, enjoys his work of teaching poetry, prose and drama and giving lectures on literary aesthetics a la Aristotle, Plato, I.A.Richards and F.R.Leavis.

~

Dreams, particularly of the young, tend to be extremely fragile.

Not even the most gifted engineers in the world have been able to manufacture a box on which it is clearly indicated: ‘Dreams inside. Handle with care’.

All they have been able to manufacture are the cardboard boxes with glassware icons on them so that even the dumbest luggage handlers at airports and railway stations do not break the expensive goodies inside them.

I carried my youthful dreams in a jhola (satchel) after doing my MA in 1969.
Carrying a jhola was the fashion statement of the day. Jhola came in handy to carry the manuscript of your recently composed poetry, a packet of Charminar cigarettes and a copy of Jean Paul Sartre’s Nausea – necessary tools to assert your superiority among your peers in the coffee house.

By 1972, all the dreams in my jhola were gone. So were the tools of my superiority.
All I carried now in my jhola were splinters of shattered dreams, a well-thumbed copy of Making Life a Masterpiece by Orison Swett Marden and a bundle of beedis the Bihari paanwala handed me reluctantly on credit.

~

By 1977, I had accepted a schoolmaster’s job at Mayo College Ajmer.
By that time, I had also done my M.Phil in English literature.
There were three reasons why we did M.Phil those days.

Firstly, doing M.Phil helps a bit in bridging the gulf between dream and reality. Secondly, it offers respite from pain and humiliation boys face sitting home after doing their MA.
For girls, it helps killing time before getting married.
Thirdly, unemployment rate in India by 1970 had gone up so high your MA could not get you the job of a peon.

Even though my dream of becoming a professor of English literature had evaporated into the thin air by 1972, I still wanted to be a teacher and that too in a government school in Himachal Pradesh.

There were two reasons for it.

The first one has already been spelt out. We Himachalis are the most laid-back people in the world; leaving Himachal means we can’t be laid back anymore.

Secondly, a government job in Himachal Pradesh is like a one-time ticket into the world of eternal pleasure. No matter how often you remain absent from your job on account of weather conditions, illnesses, weddings, fairs, pilgrimages, harvesting seasons, religious ceremonies, births, deaths and excessive intakes of lugdi (home-made whisky), you still get your pay. No matter whether your students pass the Board examination or not, you still get your pay.
Best of all, you get promotions with the passage of time. You don’t have to do any thing special to earn them.

So I tried to get a school teacher’s job in my state. I tried and tried but never succeeded like that fairy-tale spider.

To be utterly frank, all those fables and tales about stubborn spiders and creative crows are just . . . bullshit. Yet they are taught to school children in India even today!

There could be two possible reasons for that.
Firstly, everything else in India keeps changing except school education. Secondly, fairy-tales still continue to be Indian teachers’ all-time favourites in the classroom application of inspirational psychology.

~

When you fail to get a government job in Himachal Pradesh even after trying for a decade, the hard facts stare you in the face: You just don’t qualify!
Fact # 1: You don’t belong to a scheduled caste
Fact #2: You don’t belong to a scheduled tribe or a backward class
Fact # 3: You are not even distantly related to a politician or a senior bureaucrat.

When I eventually left Himachal Pradesh, I got a school teacher’s job at Mayo College Ajmer.
There were three reasons why I was selected for the job:
1) I was the most qualified among the candidates present.
2) They did not administer a written test in English.
3) I readily accepted the salary offered.

~

Burning ambitions are like raging erections, difficult to keep under wraps.
Both clamour for instant gratification, no matter what you do to achieve that end.

I had just about completed one year at Mayo College Ajmer when my burning ambitions once again started raising their heads.

As for raging erections, the amount of work boarding school masters in India are made to do leaves room only for burning ambitions. No one knows it better than the wives of boarding school masters.

A plumber is a plumber and a policeman is a policeman. You cannot expect them to be doctors even though some plumbers and policemen do practice homeopathy at home.

At Mayo College Ajmer, a schoolmaster is expected to be the jack-of-all-trades. Here is a list of what he has to do.

During games time, he has to teach kids how to play cricket, football, hockey, basketball, tennis or squash.
No matter if all the games he ever played in his life were kabaddi and gulli-danda.

During swimming season, he has to teach kids how to swim. He also has to make sure none of them decides to stay back in the swimming pool for personal reasons.
No matter if contact with water in his entire life was restricted either to drinking it once in a while when the municipality taps ran or getting soaked in it during monsoons.

Once a year, he has to judge field and track events during the annual athletic meet.
No matter if all the athletics that happened in his life were on occasions when he placed his school report in his father’s hands and ran.

Once or twice a year, he has to take kids out on cycling and trekking expeditions.
No matter if he hates both cycling and trekking – things he had to do in his youth to reach school or college on time.

Once or twice a month, he has to sneak his way into local cinema halls to catch a boy enjoying a late night movie without his housemaster’s permission.
No matter if he too had enjoyed a matinee show or two in his youth when his parents thought he was in school!

Once or twice a term, he has to face unexpected parents visiting the school and asking him about their kid’s performance.
No matter if he fails to recall even the name of the kid, leave alone his performance.

No wonder then that my lust for a professor’s job turned unbearable after a year at Mayo College Ajmer.

Ground reality, however, told me I needed to do PhD to qualify for the job. M.Phil degree now got you jobs recently re-christened ‘Support Staff’.

~

Everyone knows it takes years to earn a PhD degree unless you are in a hurry and buy it from the University of Meercut or Raotek.

Since Himachal Pradesh University at Shimla had come into existence only recently, I decided to get myself registered there as a matter of right.

But you need to have a research guide to do your PhD.
In 1979, it was easier to find a government job than to find a research guide in Himachal Pradesh.
So I had to look elsewhere.

Fortunately, the reputation of Patiala had grown from its association with the size of a peg of whisky to a town with a University that went by the name of Punjabi University.

In 1979, Punjabi University Patiala had quite a few professors who had done their PhD degrees from America either as Fulbright Scholars or as illegal immigrants.

However, it did take me some time to find Dr. Peenewala (not his real name) and persuade him to be my research guide. A discrete investigation revealed he was very choosy about his research scholars. To be chosen as his research scholar, one had to be one up over Sisyphus in terms of perseverance and patience.

How I managed to do that is a saga I have happily consigned to amnesia.
What I remember with pride, however, is the fact that I did earn my PhD degree with Dr. Peenewala as my research guide.

~

But why did I dedicate my thesis to my friend Major K.S. Rajput (not his real name) and not to my wife like most research scholars tend to do?
Many friends ask me this question when I persuade them to have a look at least at the first page of my PhD thesis.
I never give them either of the true reasons listed below.

Firstly, Major Rajput was the one who procured for me, from time to time, crates of booze from army canteens. What those crates did to win me the position of a research scholar with Dr. Peenewala is a secret I cannot divulge for reasons of safeguarding the remaining career of Major Rajput in the Indian Army.
Secondly, during my research period, my wife was so busy producing kids she hardly paid me any attention, leave alone my research work.
What I did to make up for her lack of attention is a secret I cannot divulge for reasons of safeguarding my own career.

~

At the end of this flashback, I guess it’s kind of necessary to reveal the topic of my research to explain why I trotted off to Hyderabad and not to the Himalayas in the summer of 1980.

The topic of my thesis was “Manifestations of the Undercurrents of Vatsyayana’s Kamasutra in the Major Poetic Works of Emily Dickinson”. It was such a path-breaking original research it was recommended for the award of a PhD without a viva voce!

But why did I choose that topic?

Firstly, I didn’t. Dr. Peenewala did it for me.
Secondly, HP University had to accept all research topics submitted for approval in 1979. As a fledgling university, it had to set its priorities right vis-à-vis the mighty UGC (University Grants Commission).
Thirdly, the topic was so very American it was sure to get me a fellowship at the American Studies Research Center Hyderabad, if not at the Harvard.

That’s why I had to trot off to Hyderabad in the summer of 1980.

Charminar: Major Landmark of Hyderabad

Travel Travails of A Highway Trotter: Chapter 04

They say victors are generally benevolent towards the vanquished.

Be that as it may, my boys bade farewell to their hosts with hearts heavy with gratitude, egos bruised with defeat and bodies sore with after-cricket aches.

On the morning of our departure, a whole lot of Military School boys escorted us all the way down a shortcut through the forest to the road to Shimla.

The way the boys hugged each other at the moment of separation filled me with the conviction we had departed from MSC richer.
By that, I don’t mean the pennies we had saved free riding their hospitality.

~

So back to the road again.

I have learnt through experience that roads, trails and tracks are the most unpredictable entities in India. No matter how much research you may have done in advance through travel guides and tourist maps, they always spring a surprise when you are actually travelling on them.
The Lonely Planet travel guides are the best in the world. As of today, they cover every inch of the planet Earth, telling you how to reach there, where to stay there, what to see there, what to eat there, where to get the daily doze for your personal nirvana and so on.
They too, however, concede defeat when it comes to the roads, trails and tracks in India.

For instance, there can be and there are several trekking routes between Chail and Shimla – via Junga, via Funga, via Kufri, via Shufri, and so on.
Needless to say, each route is different from the others in every respect.

The road not taken is something we regret later, like in our case when we took the one via Kufri and ignored the one via Junga.
The one via Junga is much shorter than the one via Kufri. However, the one via Junga has too many ups and downs whereas the one via Kufri has no ups and downs.

Scared of ups and downs, we generally take the one with no ups and downs.

Since we base our choice on the predictables, we need not grudge the unpredictables. Still, we always end up doing exactly that, like we did that day when we chose to walk from Chail to Shimla via Kufri.

For 30 kilometers between Chail and Kufri on that hot day in October 1979, we found no water spring, no stream, no roadside café -- nothing.
Unpredictability factor number one.

Today, there are so many hotels, resorts and health spas on that road you are confused which one to spend your fast bucks on.

~

We Indians are emotional people; we let emotions cloud our judgement at the crucial moment.
Like those affectionate boys from Military School Chail who hugged my boys while bidding them farewell but forgot to remind them to fill up their water bottles.

A barren mountain is far worse than the desert on a clear October day, particularly when you are on your way uphill. The sun is hot, the exertion is heavy and there are no oases in sight.

After walking about 5 kilometers out of Chail, my boys are so thirsty they are willing to drink anything. Sadly, there is nothing to drink from – not even those liquor shops you normally find in every nook and corner of Himachal Pradesh.

On a distant hill stands what looks like a small village by the side of the Chail-Kufri road. From that distance, I’m not sure if it is a village or a formation of the rocks.
Still, I point it out to my boys, assuring them it is not more than 5 kilometers away (It actually turned out to be almost 10). Surely, there would be some water there.

Hope sustains life. I am convinced of it when I watch my boys trudge like zombies with eyes glued to what looks like a village on the crest of a hill.

Talk about mirages only in the desert!
Unpredictability factor number two.

~

Eureka! The mirage on the hill actually turns out to be a village! The boys would have murdered me if it hadn’t.
But it is just a couple of dilapidated old shacks by the roadside.

An old lady dressed in rags sits in the verandah of one of them, doing nothing. Her face is an intricate cobweb of wrinkles, which expands into a different pattern when I touch her feet.

We Himachalis are programmed to show respect towards the elderly, even if we don’t mean it.
Though I don’t speak her dialect, I succeed in conveying to her my boys are dying of hunger and thirst.
And so am I, which I don’t tell her.

For an old woman, she jumps up with surprising alacrity and dashes into the single room in her house. I am not sure whether she is scared or concerned.
In the meanwhile, my boys have sprawled in the verandah like fish out of water for a very very long time.

Presently the old woman comes out of her room carrying an earthen pitcher and a steel tumbler. She places both items by my side and withdraws into the room again.

The pitcher is three quarters full of water. Boys pounce at it so ferociously I hug it to my bosom to protect it from getting vandalized.
Then I dole out a glass each until everyone has had one. Then I have one myself.
Water never tasted like nectar in my whole life ever before.

We have just begun the second round of water when the old woman comes out again. This time she is carrying a basket in her hand filled with freshly roasted corn.
I grab the biggest cob and leave the rest for the boys who pounce on them like . . . well . . . hungry boys. (Why malign the image of those poor old wolves?)

The corn is a bit hard but tasty. Can beggars be choosers, anyway? We are munching away greedily when the old woman brings another consignment – this time a basket full of ripe cucumbers the size of melons. There is a sickle and a bit of salt on a piece of paper alongside the cucumbers.
Being a hill man, I know the routine. I quickly peal the cucumbers and chop them into slices the size of pancakes. Boys gobble them up, not even bothering to salt them. Everyone ends up with a healthy burp.

I keep the trek money in a leather handgrip I wear around my wrist all the time. The grip is stuffed with wads of cyclostyled receipts I keep handy to obtain thumb impressions of people unable to acknowledge in writing the payments received.
If I don’t do that, my headmaster recovers all unaccounted-for amounts from my salary.

I speak of the time when you needed those receipts in bulk in Himachal Pradesh. Today, Himachal is one of the highly literate states of India.

My handgrip is like a crafty woman. The bulges in it give wrong ideas to the right people, or vice versa.
Thank God, I haven’t lost my wrists so far on account of that.

~

When everyone is sated and content, I unzip my handgrip to take out some money and a receipt slip. I extract a ten-rupee note; on second thought, I extract another. I look at Sandeep for approval; he is my second-in-command. When he shakes his head in disapproval, I extract yet another. He is a baniya but with a heart, unlike our headmaster.

‘Paagal hua re shorua!’ the old woman scolds me, pushing my hand away. ‘Paaniro pesa kaun leta?’
(Are you crazy, you silly boy? Who takes money for water?)

I guess my boys too realise even Manoj Kripalani could not calculate the amount of pennies we saved at that moment in the old woman’s shack.
At the moment of departure, all of us including Wahid Yavari bend at her feet as she surveys us with a toothless grin on her wrinkled face.

~

The sun is about to set when we collapse in a heap at a place called Chini Bungalow just short of Kufri.

In 1979, Chini Bungalow was actually a quiet little bungalow on the crest of a hill redolent of summer flowers both wild and cultivated.
Only peace-loving tourists stayed there the night.
Noise-loving tourists came in HPTDC buses, ate their tiffins, littered the premises, clicked pictures and returned to the Mall Road in Shimla.

Today Chini Bungalow is probably the smelliest tourist spot in India, if not in the entire world.

Absence of public conveniences notwithstanding, the smell is generated by ponies, which are so numerous I suspect they exceed the population of Himachal Pradesh.
Why Indian tourists like to be photographed atop ponies during holidays is an enigma that generates stink and sustenance simultaneously – and in generous measures!

As of today, there is no bungalow at Chini Bungalow anymore. There is only a shabby shanty market selling fake antiques, artificial jewellery and genuine marijuana.

So many vehicles visit Chini Bungalow round the year its parking lot is the largest revenue grosser for the Government of Himachal Pradesh.

~

Anyway, let us return to that evening in October 1979 when all of us collapsed in a heap at Chini Bungalow.

We are so weak with fatigue we fall instantly asleep after ordering tea and sandwiches.
The waiter wakes us up after about two hours. It used to take that long to meet an order at the Chini Bungalow tourist resort in 1979.
No wonder fast food industry is doing so well these days -- thanks to places like Chini Bungalow!

Tea and rest revive us so well we are able to chat up the waiter and find out from him where the PWD rest house at Kufri could be.
The size of our tip notwithstanding, the waiter not only furnishes information about the rest house but also shows us a shortcut to it.
Going by his helpful disposition, it is obvious he is not from Himachal Pradesh.

~

It is pitch dark by the time we finish the shortcut.
Without that shortcut, we could still be wandering along ten kilometers of switchbacks between Chini Bungalow and Kufri like a bunch of desolate knights from John Keats’ La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

To our dismay, a passer-by tells us Kufri rest house is still three kilometers away on Kufri-Shimla road.

Wahid is so . . . er . . . pissed off (why hide facts?) he discards his rucksack and lies down on the highway.

‘Goodbye, my friends. May Allah be with you!’ he addresses us in a voice choked with emotion.
No farewell speech had raised a lump in our throats that quickly ever before.

‘Tell my parents,’ he adds as an afterthought.
We turn around in unison, surprised to hear him speak again. We thought he had either passed out or passed away.

‘Tell my parents,’ he emulates Rajesh Khanna -- the ham actor par excellence of our times (Shah Rukh Khan was still in his diapers at that time).
‘Tell them I died with a prayer on my lips. Allah, the Merciful, will restore one day their homes and hearths in the mountains of Isfahan.’

Depressed, we too sit down or sprawl on the road, forming a protective circle around Wahid Yavari – the poor little exile in our midst from the distant lands of Persia!

Half an hour later, Wahid is the first one to jump up and scurry for safety when a truck loaded with apples suddenly appears round the bend like a ghost with a weird sense of humour and almost runs us over.
Truck drivers of Himachal Pradesh switch off engines and headlights while going downhill at night. It helps making an extra buck or two.

~

Kufri rest house is a nice little Victorian cottage tucked away in a thick grove of cedar trees.
The old caretaker is so ecstatic to see us I suspect we are the first visitors to his rest house since the British left India in 1947.
(A cursory glance at the Visitors’ Book almost confirmed our suspicion!)

When the caretaker says ‘Dinner is ready’ soon after our arrival, my admiration of the Headmaster of Military School Chail touches a new high.
Obviously, he has done more than booking the rest house for us by phone.

~

I’m so tired a drop of brandy could do me a lot of good. However, I’m so pooped I can’t bear the thought of going looking for it.

Some impulse prompts me to share the thought with the boys scattered on the lawn in different stages of undress. Shoes are off and the smell of socks has vanquished the fragrance of cedars.

I’m not surprised Prakash Kripalani is the one to react to my thoughts.

‘Where could one find that stuff, Sir?’
‘At a place called Kufri we left behind us.’
‘What is in it for us if we go get it, Sir?’
‘A spoonful each.’

Even before I finish speaking, Prakash is putting his shoes back on. Can Rishi, his soul mate, be far behind?
Even Wahid despite good distance between him and Ayatollah Khomeini volunteers to go, but I veto him down. (You couldn’t under-estimate the reach of SAVAK/VEVAK in 1979.)

In a trice, Prakash and Rishi are on their way to Kufri.
They carry only cash -- no cyclostyled receipts. There are two reasons for it.
First of all, liquor vendors in Himachal Pradesh, even if literate, do not issue cash receipts.
Secondly, the money boys are carrying is from my own pocket.
After all, how can I risk my job for just twenty rupees?

~

Prakash and Rishi are back in less time than it takes between Mayo College Ajmer and the Choongi Check Post on the Jaipur highway.

When eleven spoonfuls are distributed as promised, there is little left in the pint. However, I count my blessings and drink it.

By the time dinner is served, my boys are so relaxed they tell me they had never thought trekking could be that intoxicating!

Till today, I have this lurking suspicion: Was there more to it than the single spoonful of brandy to make my boys that relaxed?
And why were they making a beeline to the toilets one after the other before dinner time?

~

Our trekking itinerary in October 1979 was as flexible as a street whore looking for pickings.

After counting the money left in my handgrip, pickings looked good to me only if we could avoid staying at Shimla for the remaining four days of our ‘trek’.

Narkanda is a famous ski resort 60 kilometers away from Shimla. From Kufri, it is only 45.
How about a trek to Narkanda, boys? I said.
My boys by now were so experienced they agreed on one condition – they wouldn’t walk!
I agreed.

We also signed an unwritten secret pact that night. Amit -- a gifted ‘creative’ writer among us -- would write a thrilling report on our ‘trek’ from Chail to Shimla via Narkanda for publication in the school journal.
None of us must contradict even a word of it.

~

A few minutes after getting off the bus at Narkanda the next morning, my teeth start chattering,
They start chattering not because it is cold at nine thousand feet.
They start chattering because the caretaker of the Tourist Bungalow at Narkanda has closed shop for the season and gone on a holiday trip to South India with family!

So we bus back to Shimla -- a place I married a woman from and am still married to.
What that has got to do with our stay of four days at Shimla I better keep out of my ‘account’ -- mainly out of respect, if not fear, for late Mr. C.R. Gupta, our Headmaster at Mayo College Ajmer.

Shimla in 2006

Travel Travails of A Highway Trotter: Chapter 03

The cricket match with Military School Chail, contrary to my expectations, turns out to be as exciting as a 20-Twenty between India and Pakistan.

It is a Sunday morning – bright, sunny and calm -- just perfect for cricket. The highest cricket ground in the world is so well groomed it looks like an over-done Indian bride on her wedding night.

The cricket oval, surrounded by an excited crowd of five hundred boys and masters of Military School Chail, echoes with raucous cheering.
‘Jee-tan-gay bhai jee-tan-gay, Em Es See – jee-tan-gay!’
Come what may, MSC will win!

The local army band, not to be outdone, begins with Colonel Bogey and then breaks into Hum Honge Kaamyaab.

In the exclusive enclosure for the VIPs, I sit next to the Headmaster of MSC with my loser’s heart well marinated in the bitter juices of impending defeat and ready to be roasted in the oven of shame. Had never expected so much hullabaloo, assuming it would be like one of those lacklustre affairs we occasionally have with Military School Ajmer.

The Headmaster of MSC regales me with the tales of his First Eleven’s exploits in a recent contest featuring such luminaries as Lawrence School Sanawar, Yadvindra School Patiala and Doon School Dehradun. He has already shown me the Champions trophy sitting proudly in his office.

Soon it is time for the game to begin, but first the ceremonies. No Public school in India worth its name would ignore the ceremonies. No matter how ordinary the event, the ceremonies must be immaculate.

At 10 a.m. sharp, the two teams emerge from the Pavilion and march towards the centre of the ground. The host team is dressed in spotless white from head to toe. The visiting team is a motley bunch late Mr. Kerry Packer would have been proud to be associated with. I, being no Kerry Packer, wish the earth to open up and swallow me.
Ten of my boys are dressed in jeans, trousers, shirts, and shorts. Only Manish Jain, the wicket keeper, is dressed in white kurta-pajama he slept in last night. That he is the wicket keeper is obvious from his padded legs and wicket keeping gloves.

With my head bowed in embarrassment, I manage to steal a peek at the Headmaster’s face. It is the face of a man sorry for making an occasional impulsive decision.

However, the show must go on, as Raj Kapoor used to say in MNJ. So when the time comes, the Headmaster walks to the centre of the ground where the teams are lined up.
He shakes all the players by the hand and stops a moment in front of each to say a good word like the Duchess of Kent does during Wimbledon finals.
When Manish offers a cricket-gloved hand to the Headmaster of Military School Chail, I’m so embarrassed I’m unable to give it a damn.

~

At 10.15 a.m., umpires are in place, the opening batsman has taken his guard and fielders stand wherever they feel like. Manish as wicket keeper has no option but to stand behind the stumps.

I’m alarmed to notice that Gaurav Mehta has agreed to open the bowling attack. I know he hates games in general and cricket in particular. Give him anything of the Beatles on a good turntable and he is game.

When the opening batsman has taken his stance and the umpire has dropped his arm, Gaurav charges down the bowling run at a furious pace.
The pace, in fact, is so furious it takes him yards ahead of the popping crease before he releases the ball. He hurls the ball with such fury it pitches more than two yards outside the leg stump and rushes to the boundary like a bullet. The crowd bursts into cheers and jeers. No ball! Or is it wide?

5 for no loss.

Sandeep Gupta as team captain leaves his position at the slips and sprints to his opening bowler. A quick conference ensues; it is not difficult to guess what the agenda is.

Gaurav’s second delivery released a yard short of the popping crease is so emphatically assertive it turns into a bouncer.
The batsman tries to hook it. The ball rises vertically off the edge of his bat -- its descent from the apex so slow it seems to be looking for Sandeep’s hands.
5 for 1!
Stunned silence!

Overcome by cricket emotion, I jump out of my seat with a roar and do a step or two of bhangra. The Headmaster of MSC takes his sunglasses off and polishes them thoughtfully with a white hanky.

The new batsman plays it safe. In fact, Gaurav does it for him. Surprised at his unexpected success, he now bowls with such gusto it is either a wide ball or too fast for Manish to gather even if he had wanted to, which he rarely does.
Gaurav delivers so many wide balls his first over lasts nearly half an hour, at the end of which the score reads 23 for 1. All extras!

Sandeep has no alternative but to bowl the second over himself. The ball is so new I fear a massacre. The opening batsman resting and rusting for half an hour at the non-striking end is so impatient he steps out of the crease to make mince meat out of Sandeep’s first delivery.
The decision costs him dearly. Sandeep, the crafty leg spinner, produces a well-pitched flat delivery that dodges the bat and topples the middle stump. The silence this time is so thick you could cut it with a khukri.
I leap out of my seat for the second time and execute another step of bhangra.

23 for 2. Still all extras!

The army band is now silent. Looks like the musicians have taken an early tea break.
The Headmaster’s face has turned a shade darker -- not entirely on account of the hot sun, I suspect.

Now 23 for 2 is a score at which most batting teams start wilting. Not so with MSC team – the reigning champions of north India.
Egged on by a fusillade of hysterical cheering, the next batsman swaggers to the centre stage and takes stance without taking guard. Looks like some kind of a local hero. The Headmaster informs me he is the Kapil Dev of MSC – a formidable pace bowler and a hitter of the ball.
I’m more than convinced when he hits Sandeep’s next delivery with perfect timing. The ball races past Wahid standing at mid-off and trying to stop it with a foot. Sadly, his football skills do not seem to work while playing cricket.

Despite vigorous rubbings on his jeans, Sandeep fails to produce magic with the new ball. The local hero smashes his next delivery into an effortless six. The crowd goes berserk with excitement. A costly over thus far in spite of a wicket in it!
Sandeep, however, is not in our First Eleven for nothing. His next three balls are so clever the local hero fails to score on them. Surprisingly, Manish gathers all of them behind the stumps.
The score now reads 2 overs, no maidens, 33 for 2.

Bowling change is inevitable in view of Gaurav’s generous contribution to the host team’s opening score.
Manoj Kripalani standing at deep fine leg is called in. Manoj is a math wizard of our school. Good thinking from Sandeep: Manoj’s abilities about parabolas and ellipses might do the trick.

Ball in hand and deep in thought, Manoj stands next to the umpire for nearly 2 minutes. After that, he decides to bowl round the wicket.

Feeling no need for a bowling run and standing firmly on his feet, he releases his first ball in a high parabolic arc determined by the parameters of a mathematical equation inside his head.
The one-down batsman tries to read it but in vain; most residential schoolboys are abnormally weak in mathematics. Deciding to play it full toss, he misses it completely. The ball caresses the off stump gently like a lover’s hand and dislodges the bails.
33 for 3!

Manoj, however, is far too dignified a mathematician to jump at the predictable conclusion of his calculations. The honours, therefore, fall once again upon me – a fickle, excitable cricket fan like millions all over the world where the British once ruled and left behind a curious game in which 15 people stand on the ground at a time but only 2 of them actually play it!
So when I stand up from my seat to execute another step of bhangra, the look of dismay is unmistakable on the face of the Headmaster of MSC.

The host team, however, does not crumble like the proverbial cookie. Sandeep and Manoj keep the pressure on and take two more wickets but not until the local hero has made 38 not out on the completion of 20 mandatory overs.
At the end of the innings, the score of MSC reads a respectable 102 for 5.
Depression invades me like a sudden bout of diarrhoea as I rise from my seat and follow the Headmaster to the Pavilion for a cup of tea with the staff before the start of the second innings.

~

The opening pair of Sandeep Gupta and Rishi Dhawan walks to the pitch amid thundering applause not meant for them.
The army band too is back into business, playing a titillating pahari folk tune.

Before taking guard, Sandeep gazes at the sky for a moment or two like many cricketers do before batting. Some say they do it to assess weather conditions; others say they do it in prayer. My guess is Sandeep has combined the two --offering a prayer for bad weather. That is the only way crushing defeat could turn into a consoling draw.

The local hero is the opening bowler for the host team. To my great distress, he replicates Kapil Dev’s bowling action to perfection. His first ball whizzes past Sandeep, missing the off stump by cat’s whiskers. Sandeep shakes his head in disbelief at his good luck.
The next ball hits him squarely on the pads. Even before the local hero can croak “Howzzat!!!!” the umpire has already raised a finger heavenward.
1 for a duck!

It is the Headmaster of MSC this time who jumps out of his seat and performs a little twist – the favourite dance of his younger days, I believe. Embarrassed at his impulsive action, he immediately sits down with the inscrutable expression of a Headmaster’s face back in place.

For the first time in my career as a schoolmaster, I feel a surge of compassion for all headmasters. They too are human, after all!

Prakash Kripalani, the younger brother of Manoj Kripalani, is a boy with an attitude.
On the free Sunday every month, boys of Mayo College Ajmer make a beeline to the Honeydew restaurant on the Station Road.
Prakash, on the other hand, rides his bicycle all the way to the CCP [Choongi (octroi) Check Post] on the Jaipur highway.
For boys like Prakash Kripalani, the CCP on the Jaipur highway is the only place worth visiting in Ajmer after the tomb of Khwaja Moin-u-din Chishti.
There are two reasons for it.
First of all, there is Sophia Girls’ School on the way. Secondly, dahi-paratha dinner at the CCP dhabas is “freaky stuff” – to quote majority opinion at Mayo.
On certain evenings in a week when even stray dogs find the mess grub yucky, plucky Mayo boys like Prakash Kripalani can be seen patronising the CCP dhaba complex.

There are two reasons why Prakash makes a beeline to the CCP even on a free Sunday.
Firstly, with a Sophia girl riding pillion on your bicycle and with the kind of pocket money Mr. Gupta allows you on a free Sunday, you can buy lunch for two only at the CCP.
Secondly, only a dumb fool would go to the Honeydew on a free Sunday and that too with a girl riding pillion on his bicycle.
There are two reasons for that.
Firstly, the place is choc-a-bloc with Mayo boys. Secondly, the management of Honeydew tries to clear off a month’s leftovers on that day.

Prakash’s attitude seems to me the only reason why Sandeep has decided to send him to bat one-down.
My conviction is confirmed when on his way out, Sandeep stops Prakash for a quick word, after which Prakash walks to the crease like a tiger.

Standing at the crease, Prakash takes in a 360 degrees view around him. Then he takes his stance – standing erect, feet wide apart, bat held firmly in both hands and drawn back to strike. He is ready.
But the bowler isn’t. He is still expecting the batsman to adopt the familiar stance until Prakash makes an impatient gesture at him as if to say, ‘Come on, you moron, what the f *** are you waiting for?’

The bowler, like the proverbial bull allergic to all fabrics red in colour, grunts his way forward to deliver a short-pitched ball. Prakash, incidentally, is wearing a red T-shirt.

With the magic mantra (‘I don’t give a damn’, most likely) from his captain still ringing in his ears, Prakash smashes the ball with such abandon it soars high above the long-on position, clears the highest cricket ground in the world by several yards and drops into the woods below, never to be seen again.

6 for 1!

Search for the lost ball is futile, so the umpires choose a new one. Not that it would make any difference, anyway – the first one was delivered only thrice and hit only once.
The local hero delivers a yorker with the new ball. Unable to do anything about it, Prakash hops up instinctively to save his ankle from grave injury. The ball spares the leg stump by a millimeter and reaches the boundary before you could say ‘Timbuktu’.

4 byes. 10 for 1!

Frustrated, the Kapil Dev of MSC bowls two wide balls in succession, making his wicket keeper sweat for them. I could be wrong but I think I heard the Headmaster utter a word that rhymes well with ‘hit’, ‘bit’ and so on.
My respect for this Headmaster keeps on going up and up.

In his effort to square cut the last delivery, Prakash nicks it so well the ball rises from the edge of his bat like the Columbia hurtling into space from Kennedy Space Center, Houston. It sails well above the heads of the slip fielders, lands a couple of yards inside the boundary and then crosses it at a leisurely stroll.
At the end of the first over, the score reads 16 for 1.

~

Tennis players, they say, make lousy cricketers.
Rishi proved it the other way round.
Prakash and Rishi (another CCP buff) proved to be good runners between the wickets – thanks to their frequent running between Mayo and CCP.

Rishi connected the bat practically to every ball he faced during the match. Using all the tricks of tennis – drop, volley, lob and so on – he dodged the fielders at will. Prakash with a ‘nothing-to-lose’ attitude hit the ball to the fence at regular intervals and ran the cheeky runs happily.
63 runs partnership and 9 overs to go. The asking rate of 4.5 per over almost within reach. Spectators chewing their nails so intensely I thought MSC would need no nail-cutters for months.

At 77 for 1, luck ran out on us. Prakash gave a wrong call and Rishi was run out. Prakash, who had crossed over to the other end during the run out, was clean bowled by the spinner’s next ball.
77 for 3 at the end of 15 overs. 25 for a tie, 26 for a win. I too started eating my nails from that moment.

Luck refused to turn in our favour from then on. Unaware of cricket rules, Wahid at the non-striking end strolled restlessly forward beyond the batting crease and was stumped out by the bowler.
Enraged, he stopped short of murdering the bowler for his treacherous conduct until I was called in to intervene.
Wahid finally departed, muttering obscenities in Persian.

The rest of the match turned so anticlimactic for us I don’t feel like describing it anymore.

This is how the Chail Cricket ground looks today: