Blown and bloated beyond recognition by the much awaited, incredibly delicious and indecently devoured meal ,we literally had to roll out of Master ji’s kitchen. Taking into consideration the physical travails awaiting us in the coming week and also the inconvenient propensity of spherically shaped forms to roll downhill, we decided to take a walk in an attempt to return our distended forms to human proportions. Having already explored one part of the village, we decided to head in the other direction. It led gently uphill and we could see majestic coniferous trees and vibrantly beckoning rhododendrons at a distance. As we passed what would be the official starting point of our trek, Kris was told that masterji had summoned him for discussing some important issues about our trek. He left rather haughtily, chest puffed out in pompous importance. (kindly remember that given that the starting shape itself was a grossly engorged caricature of the human form, this puff of pride, though unnecessary, was an achievement in itself). Vaguely wondering what it might be that Masterji had called Kris for, we resumed our walk, periodically punctuated by excited screams and spellbound whispers as tiny springs, hidden streams and yawning valleys provided enroute entertainment.
It was already late afternoon and the sun was well on its westward journey. The colours of the ensuing twilight added to the drama, bestowing a mystical shimmer on the roadside streams and making the already intense red of the rhododendrons gleam as if on fire. This ethereal setting further enriched by the ghostly white flags billowing in the wind and the whispers of the rustling pines, kept us mesmerized for quite a while. Kris came back just as the night was creeping in and we decided to get back to the village.
Masterji had told us to stock up on chocolates, biscuits and dry fruits for the climb since we would not encounter many shops, or rather, any civilisation at all, in the days to come. Now, ‘stockin up’ and ‘chocolates’ and ‘biscuits’ were all terms that were dear to our guzzling hearts and we took to the task with gusto. The owner revelling in what was probably the sale of a life-time, we left the store with food that could have fed an army for a month and smiles that would have put the Cheshire cat to shame. After putting away our rather substantial hoard, we unabashedly trooped to the kitchen for dinner (yes! For more food! Any problems? We did take a long walk after all!). The savoury scent dismissing any qualms about the repetition, we treated ourselves once more to dal and cauliflower while masterji happily chatted away enthralling us with his accounts of the thrills and dangers of trekking along with some highly useful tips and tidbits. Among these tidbits was the rather sinister statement that the first three kilometres would take the wind out of our lungs. In response to the looks of open terror on some of our faces (identity protected in order to maintain some semblance of respect), he said, in what he assumed was a very encouraging tone, that if we could survive those (i would like to re-emphasize the IF in 'if we could survive') we would, most likely, make it through the remainder of the trek. A highly intriguing choice of words, wouldn't you say? With eager expectation overpowering any inhibitions that may have arisen, we hit the bed hoping to hurtle into the dawn that just couldn't come soon enough.
P.S : In case you’re wondering what happened to Kris, whom we shall rechristen as Banta for the time being (as in Santa and Banta, our leaders) when we were on our walk, here it is. Though Mr.Banta has some lofty and obviously spurious yarns about having been called upon to make critical decisions and do some meticulous planning, here’s our (totally honest and definitely not exaggerated) version of what he had to do. Since Mr.Banta took it into his head to be our “leader” and representative, he had to perform some ancient Sherpa rituals to protect himself and his group of “followers” from the wrath of the mountains. According to these, the leader is taken to a goat pen having about a hundred goats. Of these he has to identify the female goats (by looking ONLY at their faces! they’re sacred goats remember!! So no peeking! hence the afore-mentioned critical decision making), count (and remember) their teeth and bathe in their milk in the centre of that pen at twilight. All of these must be done with utter reverence or one might annoy the sacred goats. Though we’re still having some trouble in getting Kris to admit that he did all this, our account is based on Stuart’s extensive knowledge in this area and on strong factual evidence.
No comments:
Post a Comment