The Travel Gods Must Be Crazy

by Sudha Mahalingam

  Travails of a Vegetarian Traveller

  The Lazy Susan swings slowly towards me. Atop are two inviting plates—one heaped with chunks of plump, juicy, steamed lotus stem, and the other piled high with blanched pak choi. I get ready, armed with a pair of chopsticks poised for attack; never mind I have never used this contraption before. I plunge the sharp edge of my chopsticks into the latticework of the lotus stem and hoist the piece triumphantly to my mouth. Before I can go for a second helping, my neighbour has already flicked the rotating disc towards himself and away from me. But never mind, it will come back, I console myself.

  We are about a dozen people of different nationalities seated in a fancy restaurant in Beijing around a huge circular table. I am the lone vegetarian in the group. My immediate neighbours are a Russian on the left and a Chinese on the right, both fellow delegates at a conference, like everyone else around the table. Carrying on a conversation through the interpreter seated at the far end, even as you wrestle with the plate of delicacies on a perpetually rotating Lazy Susan, is enough to ruin anyone’s appetite. But there is worse to come. In the next round, a new dish of boiled peanuts, incidentally my favourite, is added to the existing vegetable dishes. Try picking up a peanut with chopsticks while making distracted conversation with your neighbour without the aid of the interpreter who is busy with other delegates. Finally, when I do manage to pick up a recalcitrant nut with a pair of pincers and raise it to my lips, it changes its mind and rolls on to my neighbour’s lap.

  Meanwhile, the elegant waitresses in traditional Chinese silk gowns have gotten busy, piling the table with a procession of dishes. First comes a dish of slimy squid, followed by an impressive lobster with fearsome claws, which my fellow diners go on to dismember delicately and with practised ease. They savour the succulent limbs with evident pleasure. Then comes a full fish, eyes and gills intact, quite artistically done, one must admit, although I feel it is mocking me. This is followed by a plateful of whole pink chicken, legs folded just so; then comes a whole duck looking decked up with all those salads stuck on its sides. Finally arrives a whole piglet straight from the spit, its cute pink snout sizzling away seductively. Trust the Chinese to show the diners what exactly they are being served! I am grateful snakes are not on the menu today.

  My Chinese neighbour expertly plunges his chopsticks and delicately picks out some gooey squid and stuffs it into his mouth without spilling a drop. Then he uses the same chopsticks to pick up the pak choi and the lotus stem, one after the other. So do the others, all of whom seem to be enjoying their meal immensely, even as I sit holding my breath to escape the unfamiliar aroma wafting from the dishes. The tips of their chopsticks plunge alternately into the fish, meat and the vegetables with equal ease. This is interspersed with shouts of ‘Ganbay!’ as the diners tip tiny glasses of rice wine to wash down the meal. No one even notices that I am the only one not eating. I had requested the organizers to inform the restaurant in advance about my dietary peculiarities. They have obviously forgotten, what with so many things on their plates—pun unintended.

  I sit back and watch my colleagues with as much fascination as resignation while my stomach rumbles and protests. Finally, I pluck up the courage to summon a waitress and request her, through the interpreter, to bring me a bowl of rice. She gives me a disgusted look and, in a moment, slaps a very small bowl of boiled rice, each grain as big as peanuts and almost as brown. After darting a furtive look at my fellow diners, all of whom are busy enjoying themselves, I stuff the rice into my mouth and chase it down with rice wine.

  Well, it took me a few trips to realize that in China buffet meals are virtually unknown and banquets are de rigueur on official visits. So, during my next visit to the country, I decide to skip the banquet hosted by the organizers and instead go into the restaurant to order a la carte. But the menu is all in Chinese. The maître d’ brings an English-speaking assistant to understand my requirements. He beams, nods and bends in salutation and disappears behind the bamboo screen. In a little while the waiter appears with a plate heaped with boiled baby cabbage. Except, there is nothing babyish about the cabbage; it is as huge as it is slimy and I am unable to slice it even with a fork. When I try stuffing one end into my mouth, the rest hangs out of my face, making me look like a clumsy plant holder hit by a tropical storm. To slowly swallow the vegetable bit by bit requires quite a bit of gustatory gymnastics. With my dignity in tatters and my stomach still rumbling with rage, I exit the restaurant.

  The next day, the baby cabbage exited my system whole and intact!

  Stumped in Paradise

  In October 2016, I get a cold call on my cell phone. The voice at the other end says, ‘My name is C. I wonder if that rings a bell.’ Of course it does. The timbre of the voice, tucked away in the recesses of my memory, is unmistakable. It has been nineteen years since I last heard it, but how can I forget it? ‘Major C?’ I query. ‘Well, make it Brigadier C, if you please.’ Of course, how foolish of me! The next day, we meet at an army mess for lunch and it is then that Brigadier C opens up and finally reveals the answer to my query that had boggled my mind for years. He has retired from service and is settled in Gurgaon. He just got my number from a mutual friend and decided to surprise me. Our acquaintance goes back to 1997 when providence threw the two of us together on a dangerous car journey through desolate mountain roads in Kashmir on a beautiful moonlit night.

  I was returning from the holy caves of Amarnath that fateful evening in July 1997. Those were still early days of the Amarnath Yatra. The previous year, I had undertaken a thirty-two-day trek to Kailash Mansarovar. The scenery was stunning and the experience exhilarating, so much so that it had whetted my appetite for more. So I had decided to check out the Amarnath trail the following year. It was a much shorter trek, ranging from six to eight days for a return trip. Being in Kashmir, it held out promise of jaw-dropping scenery as well. And so much cheaper too, since it didn’t entail a $500 visa fees to the Chinese, which all Kailash yatris, or travellers, had to shell out. The Amarnath caves are well inside Indian territory, although Pakistan would like it otherwise.

  I take a flight to Srinagar and hire a taxi up to Pahalgam. It is only when you arrive in Chandanwari near Pahalgam to begin your trek that you realize what you have let yourself in for. The scene is worse than Delhi’s Sarojini Nagar market on the weekend before Diwali. Crowds are milling about on the slopes, often causing traffic jams. Porters, pony-wallahs, pilgrims and peddlers of assorted religious memorabilia jostle for space on the narrow trail. Sadhus with matted hair and skimpy loincloths march briskly even as you shiver under three layers of woollens. Self-styled traffic wardens try in vain to put some discipline into the yatris who seem to occupy every inch of the slope.

  Dozens of langars of every denomination have sprung up, their banners proudly announcing their religious affiliations. Everything from Gujarati thali to rajma-rice and idli-dosa is on offer, all for free. Yatris can have multi-cuisine meals several times a day if they so desire. Religious organizations of multiple denominations vie with each other to stuff your face in order to earn their punya. Try as you will, resisting these gustatory seductions, there is no escape. Every few yards, samosas and laddus will be thrust into your hands, along with Tetra Pak mango drinks. Quietly you drop these, unopened and untasted, into the Lidder River that accompanies the trail. Naturally, the river is submerged in a deluge of discarded food, TetraPaks and snack wrappers. There is so much filth that the Lidder can easily put the Cooum in Chennai or the Yamuna in Delhi to shame. A word of warning to female yatris—I wasn’t warned, but like a Good Samaritan, I am warning others. Practise bladder control for weeks before you venture out on this yatra. There is no female toilet anywhere until you reach camp six hours away, and nary a bush or shrub for you to hide behind. Men being from Mars, the sacred Lidder silently suffers their incontinent bladders. Women yatris can pretend not to notice and plod on, ignoring the overwhelming stench.

  The first night, I stay in Sh
eshnag, where the devout believe a five-headed mythical serpent would emerge out of the emerald waters of the lake, if you can brave subzero temperatures and watch out all night. I opt for sleep instead. On day three, I am at the cave around noon. I pass through the newly installed metal detectors at the entrance. The place is swarming with security personnel. After much pushing and shoving, darshan is over in a few minutes. I am back in the bazaar wondering how I am going to brave the crowds and my recalcitrant bladder for three more days on the return trek.

  But first things first: lunch in one of the langars. After much deliberation, I pick the Marathi one and gorge on sabudana vadas and missal pav. Sated, I wander through the stalls that hawk assorted religious memorabilia. In one of the stalls, I inquire about the availability of alternative trails to Srinagar. A helpful shopkeeper comes to my rescue. ‘Take the Baltal route. It is only around 10 km. You should reach in two or three hours. Srinagar is just two hours from there. But there are no camps or langars en route,’ he warns.

  That seemed incredible. Why does the official trekking trail take us through a circuitous Pahalgam route lasting three or four days? Why don’t the yatris come or go via Baltal then, I ask him. ‘Madam, the yatris want to go through Sheshnag for the chance to glimpse the holy serpent. Besides, the Baltal route is rather steep and only the fittest will be able to take it.’ He remembered something else and continued, ‘Also, you may not get transport from Baltal to Srinagar. Better you call your hotel in Srinagar and ask them to send you a taxi to Baltal.’ The Baltal route goes along the Indus River and offers equally spectacular views as the Pahalgam route.

  Cell phones had made their appearance in India only a couple of years ago and only the rich and snazzy used them. For the rest, there were the ubiquitous STD booths. I call my hotel in Srinagar where I have a booking for my return stay three days hence. Yes, they have a room that night and will send a taxi which should reach Baltal by 3 p.m. The helpful hotel staff give me the number of the taxi and the name of the driver. All tied up, I am on my way down.

  In 1997, the Baltal route did not seem popular at all. A few sadhus and pony-wallahs are the only ones headed that way. The path is so steep I struggle to keep pace with these veterans. Apart from the sound made by the hooves of horses, this route is silent. No shouts of ‘Jai Bhole Nath!’ or ‘Bum Bum Bole!’ that rend the air on the other trail. The river along the trail is criss-crossed by a few rickety bridges and interspersed with impressive waterfalls. Although I had been assured I could reach in a couple of hours, I seem to go on for ever. By the time I reach Baltal, it is already dusk.

  Baltal has a sprawling army camp, but no hotels. I spy a lone white Ambassador car parked under a tree. Ashraf, the elderly driver, is frowning, intently watching those who come down the slope. I approach him and introduce myself. He doesn’t seem too happy to see me. ‘Madam, it is already getting late. It would be better if we stay in the camp here tonight and leave early in the morning.’ But I am impatient to get to Srinagar so that I can use my open ticket (yes, you had them in those days) to see if I could get on a Delhi-bound flight the next day. I insist we leave right away, without waiting for dinner. Ashraf sulks, clucks his tongue, and is about to say something. But he changes his mind and gets into the driver’s seat. I hop into the rear and we roll out of Baltal.

  We have traversed just a short distance through the army camp when two uniformed soldiers come running from the opposite direction and block our path. Ashraf stops the car and rolls down the window. They ignore him and approach my window, which I roll down too. ‘Madam, Major saab wants to have a word with you.’ Major saab? Who? Why? I am a bit confused. But I tell Ashraf to wait, and am about to get out of the car. Meanwhile, a tall and handsome young officer in uniform, the Major saab, comes at a brisk stride towards me, bends down and greets me. ‘Good evening, ma’am. Are you going to Srinagar?’ I nod in the affirmative, wondering if he is going to tell me night travel is prohibited in these areas. But he bends closer and asks me, almost in a whisper, whether I would give him a ride up to Srinagar. I am a little surprised. Why would an army officer want a lift in a civilian taxi when the valley is crawling with the olive-green vehicles of the Indian Army? I hesitate a moment, but then my extroverted self asserts itself. It would be good to have company on this lonely winding mountain road, especially when Ashraf seems to be sulking. I smile and invite him to join me. He asks me to wait a few minutes while he goes to fetch his luggage.

  He comes back in civilian clothes and has a small duffel bag with him. He dumps his bag in the boot and gets into the front seat next to Ashraf. Soon, we are off driving into the silent mountains. The Pir Panjal range in the distance is silhouetted against a rising full moon. It is an indescribably beautiful night—serene, silent and stunning in the glow of moonlight. Ours is the only vehicle on this forlorn route.

  People who know me think I am gregarious, friendly and perhaps a tad too talkative. Having trekked almost silently for the past three days, I am happy to have someone to converse with, that too in English, since my Hindi is limited, and Urdu non-existent. The handsome young major seems fair game to throw my questions at. When I ask him his name, he mumbles, ‘C.’ As to his regiment, he is silent. In fact, he seems reluctant to engage in conversation. He answers my persistent questions in monosyllables. Yet he and Ashraf are carrying on a conversation sotto voce. I am truly pissed. After all, I have given this major a lift in my taxi and he doesn’t even have the courtesy to answer my questions. May be the arrogance of his rank, I think to myself, as it is now my turn to sulk.

  As we drive deeper into the mountains, I notice two things. First, we don’t see a single vehicle in either direction except our own. Second, the major is leaning out of the window, intently looking at the road. I wonder what interests them so much on this lonely stretch where the trees throw eerie shadows and the moon sends spangles through the chinks in the tall chinar trees. Are they watching out for a leopard or something? For the next two hours, we drive in uncomfortable silence, while Ashraf veers left and right, a tad unnecessarily, if you ask me.

  Suddenly I hear the rumbling of a distant vehicle. A few minutes later, a funny-looking, wide van, unlike anything I have seen before, passes our car. The driver of the van rolls down his window and has a brief conversation with the major and we move on. I strain my ears to listen, but they are talking in whispers.

  All of a sudden, both Ashraf and C seem relieved. They heave a sigh of relief, literally, although I have always considered this expression fatuous. They are no longer looking intently at the road, but lean back and visibly relax. I realize it had to do with that vehicle we just passed. I can’t contain my curiosity. I ask the major about it. After a brief silence, Major C turns to me and says, ‘It is a minesweeper.’ The dimwit that I am, I don’t first catch the significance of this revelation. It is only after a few minutes that it dawns on me that they both feared this road might have been mined by the militants. Now that the minesweeper has passed us from the opposite direction, it has cleared the road ahead and it is now safe for us to drive on.

  Back then, militancy was just beginning in the Valley after decades of peace. Amarnath yatris were sitting ducks. And still are. Which is why there are so many metal detectors and a huge army presence on the yatra route. Embarrassment envelops me. I should have heeded Ashraf’s advice and stayed back in Baltal. How is it that I, an educated woman and a journalist to boot, did not realize it would be dangerous to travel at night in the Valley in these times?

  Farther down the road, there are quite a few roadblocks and barricades, but we are always waved through because Major C flashes his ID everywhere. From snatches of conversation I have overheard, I gather some militants have been holed up in the mountains and the army has been trying to flush them out. We also see some houses aflame on one of the slopes. Later I learn that militants had burnt down the house of a family they had taken hostage. Around midnight, after many diversions, we reach Srinagar. Major C peels off in some
obscure lane while Ashraf drops me off at my hotel. This is one of the eeriest journeys I have ever undertaken, or at least so I think, not knowing what lies in store for me the next day. I mumble an apology to Ashraf and tell him I need to go to the airport early the next day. Surly Ashraf just nods and leaves.

  The next morning, after breakfast, I pack my bags and am ready to try my luck at the airport. There are two Air India flights that day and I should be able to get on one. The same white Ambassador arrives, but is driven by a young man. Aziz, Ashraf’s son, has come to pick me up. He is a jolly, chatty and somewhat reckless driver. ‘Aapko kuch tamasha dhikaoon?’ he asks. I tell him I need to be at the airport early to catch any cancellations that day. But he assures me there’s enough time and, anyway, flights to Srinagar are usually late. He weaves in and out of Srinagar roads. At some point, as we are entering a lane, he asks me to crouch under the seat. It seems to be a lonely stretch. After the previous night’s experience, I don’t bother to ask any questions, but comply. I fit my bulk into the narrow space between the seats and just peer through the lower part of the window.

  Aziz is driving like a maniac, zigzagging through the road. At some point, I hear shots from the right, from one of those deserted houses. The shot misses the car as Aziz drives in a crooked fashion, presumably trying to dodge the bullets. There’s more machine-gun firing and one bullet grazes the fender, but Aziz is speeding desperately. I fear we will die of car crash even if the bullets don’t get us. And all the while he is laughing like a crazed idiot, which makes me think terror gives him a high. Mercifully, we are soon out of range of the bullets. At the end of this road, which is probably no more than 800 metres, the army has set up a roadblock and cordoned it off too. A huge crowd of uniformed men is gathered on the far end of the road. Aziz stops the car before the barricade and gets down to talk to the jawans who move the barricade to make way for us. As I step out of the car, two officers come towards us. They reprimand Aziz for being so reckless and putting my life in danger as well. The three of us walk side by side and the crowd of jawans splits to let us pass.