UTTARAKHAND REVISITED

Joydeep Choudhury

This is probably how a woman feels when she leaves the house of her father - I had signed off my
travelogue of Nainital, last November.
It is a recurrent feeling at the end of every vacation in the hills. I always return to the plains with a
feeling of sadness in my heart. Then, I keep going back to the hills again and again, for the hills are
where I belong. Despite having lived on plain land for the past two decades and a half, I have not
succeeded in expunging Shillong from my being.
The last time, it was Kumaon. This time, we chose Garhwal. Ma and Baba were visiting us in Mathura
this summer. Buri and I sat one evening and planned out this trip. It was meant to be a surprise for Ma
& Baba. Mili & Viv would be having their summer vacations during this time and it appeared to be a
great idea to escape the oppressive summer heat of Mathura and retreat to the hills of the north. We
picked Mussoorie.
Before moving on with the story, it is necessary to introduce my fellow travellers to the reader.
Baba - my father, 76 years old and remarkably fit for a man of his age. Except for a stubborn cold
allergy that has been his constant companion for the past five decades, he has kept himself in good
shape. All those long walks in the foggy Calcutta mornings with fellow retired men seem to have done
wonders to his health. It is, however, strange that for a man who has spent the major part of his life in
the hills of Shillong, he is more comfortable down in the heat of the plains than up in the cool climate of
the hills.
Ma my mother, 70 years old. She has just come out of a cataract operation and is doing fine. Except
for a stiff back that hurts once in a while and necessitates wearing a belt, she is also in fairly good
health. There is no way of telling that she has been moving around with only one kidney for the past 38
years.
Buri my wife of fifteen years, four months and sixteen days. We have known each other for a little
over the past twenty three years and intend to celebrate our silver jubilee in less than two years time. If
you are good at mental arithmetic, you will observe that we dated for eight years before taking the
plunge into the abyss. Her name is Madhumita. I call her Buri. That is what her folks back at home call
her - her nickname, if you want to call it so. Now, Buri is a strange name. In Bengali, it means an old
woman! We Bengalis are an expert lot in giving weird nicknames to our babies when they are born.
Bhuto, Bhuti, Tepa, Tepi, etc. - names that are essentially noises and dont mean anything except
endearment names that I am sure, every child seriously considers disowning as he / she steps into
adolescence. It might interest the reader to note that Buri has a cousin, a chartered accountant, named
Bura old man! I had a Bengali roommate in my college hostel Ghempu! I used to think that such
absurdity of names was eminently a Bengali affair until I landed on the shores of Kerala to study
engineering. On the first day of classes of my engineering course, I remember, all students had
introduced themselves to the teachers and to each other, one by one. There was this burly Keralite with
dense curly hair and a complexion that made me feel like I was from Scandinavia! When his turn came,

he stood up all of six feet and grunted in a voice that was so deep that it sounded as if it had
originated from the belly of a bull and said Baby John. Baby? Well, if he was a baby, then I was still a
sperm! I am sure that by now he has either changed his name to something more macho and
appropriate like Mike Tyson or has hanged himself from the ceiling fan. For many years after that, I held
onto the opinion that only Bengal and Kerala had this common fetish for peculiar names besides the
other absurdity that connects these two states in a sickening commonality - Communism. Anyway,
when I landed my first job as an engineer in Delhi in 1990, I revised my opinion. I found that Chunnu,
Munnu and Pappu were also human names and these were not patronised by Bengalis or Malayalees.
I learnt that a portly 250 lbs salt-and-pepper bearded & turbaned Sikh responded to the name of Lucky
Singh! It took me another 18 years to realise during the announcement of long service awards at
Mathura Refinery that Shaitan Singh, Singhara Singh and Beeri Singh were also names of perfectly
healthy and sane human beings. Heck, that was quite a digression! Coming back to the point, Buri
shares my passion for the hills, although I must complain that she often gets irritated by the difficult road
travels, which in turn annoys me to no end. For me, comfort is a baggage that must be left at home
before venturing out on a vacation. My family does not share my opinion. Save for the peaks & troughs
of temper that she is wont to displaying every now and then, quite like the contours of the hills, she is
one great woman I wouldnt have survived without. My wife, the best thing to have happened to me in
my life. It will please her that the longest introductory paragraph has been devoted to her!
Mili my thirteen year old daughter. Dislikes travelling, loves television. Dislikes physical activity, loves
Enid Blyton. She reads novels in half the time as I and has a much greater command of English than I
had at her age. Given the choice between staying indoors to watch a Tom & Jerry episode on television
for the tenth time and walking a kilometre uphill to catch a glimpse of the magnificent Himalayas at
sunrise, she would prefer the former.
Vivek my son, all of five and a half years - quite a handful and has the penchant for coming up with
ingenious theories like Mamma & Papa were brother and sister and then they got married. Has
boundless energy and makes for the best travel companion among all the people that I have introduced
so far. We call him Viv, short for Vivek. It gives his name a smart, westernised flavour. The
westernised name notwithstanding, his vocabulary of English currently stands in single digit, an aspect
that has been causing Buri and me considerable worry.
Finally, yours truly. Suffice to say that I am a night owl. I enjoy staying up at nights and quite relish
sleeping the day away. It is indeed the dead of night now as my fingers type away these words on my
laptop.
So, after a delicious dinner at Jishnus house that was served with a lot of care by his wife Aradhana,
the six of us set out from Delhi by the night train to Dehradun. It was the first train journey in which
Vivek had a berth all to himself he had crossed the five year threshold in January this year and I had
to now buy a half-ticket for him. A train berth at half the price !
The train chugged into Dehradun station exactly at 5.00 am the next morning. I hardly slept. A constant
niggling thought about luggage safety prevents me from sleeping soundly during train journeys. Groggy
eyed, I got off the train.
One of the eternal charms of an Indian rail journey is the early morning cuppa at a railway station.
Nowadays, the earthen cones known as kullads have been replaced by the ubiquitous plastic cups and

along with that a large part of the old world charm has vanished. In the age of quick service, the
romanticism of buying tea from the good old chaiwallah, serving tea from a kettle, has given way to
saccharine syrup and dip-dip sachets. Nevertheless, there is still no available cure that is more effective
for a sleepy head and bleary eyes in the morning than a hot cup of the brew.
We drank our tea and ventured out of the station. Dehradun was yet to wake up. There were about a
dozen taxies outside and their drivers looked expectantly at us for a reservation. I ignored them and
walked down to the adjacent taxi stand where there was a larger number of cars the old warhorse of
Indian roads, the Ambassador waiting in queue. Outside Bengal and the north-east, Dehradun was
the first place where I observed that the Indicas and Innovas had still not displaced the grand old lady
from the roads.
I hired a car. Baba and I sat on the front seat beside the driver while Ma, Buri, Mili and Viv sat behind.
We drove through Rajpura road that was slowly beginning to wake up to life. The road took us past the
Great Value Hotel where I had put up in January with my colleagues from Indian Oil. Presently, we
found ourselves climbing the hills and were on our way to Mussoorie, leaving the plains behind us. The
temperature took a dip with every bend in the road and with every bend in the road a new layer of
coniferous vegetation appeared before us.
The drive to Mussoorie was a short one a mere 35 kms. However, the climb was steep. When the
milestone on the road indicated that there were 3 kms to Mussoorie, we took a diversion to Barlowganj,
where we had reserved a suite at the hotel Green-n-Breeze.
The hotel was located on a slope at a vantage point from where we had a clear view of Dehradun and
Mussoorie alike. It was bright and sunny when we checked into the hotel. Our cottage had a double
bed on the ground floor and another king sized bed on a mezzanine wooden floor. As I stood on the
balcony outside the room, I saw huge masses of white clouds way below me, gradually making their
way up the valley from Dehradun towards Mussoorie. In time, the clouds came closer and closer till the
entire expanse of hills and valleys in front of us was covered in a thick layer of white.
Visibility dropped to what I imagined was less than
twenty feet. It was white all around. The clouds were
palpable within touching distance! With every breath
that I took in, I inhaled a piece of the sky and the
clouds. It was dj vu. Not since my Shillong days
have I felt the moist sensation of mist in my nostrils as I
did that morning in Mussoorie. Those who have lived
in the hills and have experienced the sensation of
clouds in the hair and skin will know that mist carries
with it a peculiar smell I call it the fragrance of the
hills one that is difficult to describe in words. I do not
know if it has a name or can even be given one, but if
you have experienced it, you will know what I am talking about.
Cold weather and a thick envelope of clouds together constitute a wonderful recipe for sleep. Shaved
and showered, I lay in bed, the nights unfulfilled sleep standing at my doorstep, seeking permission to

invade. As I shut my eyes, I felt sleep arrive slowly from a distance, gradually climbing up the slopes of
my consciousness and enveloping me in a white, serene peace.

That afternoon, we took a taxi from our hotel and drove up to the
town of Mussoorie. The car dropped us at the entrance to the Mall
Road. We started walking uphill. On one side was Landour, home
to Mussoories most famous resident, author Ruskin Bond. Up
ahead was the popular tourist haunt the Mall Road. What struck
me on my face immediately were a huge crowd, a congested road
and a bustling & noisy marketplace. Was this Ruskin Bonds Mall
Road ? Within a few minutes I realised that walking on this road
was probably more difficult than crossing a busy street in Delhi
during peak office hours. Nevertheless, we lumbered on, giving a
Sumo or a Tavera the right of way every one minute. The road
climbed up, then took a curve to the right and again sloped
downwards. The shops on either side were so closely packed that
one couldnt be blamed for momentarily forgetting that this was a hill
town founded by the British. Except for the iron balustrade that skirts one edge of the road at the end of
the slope with typical Victorian arches, there is very little of the Mall Road that bears testimony to the
days of the Raj.
Mussoorie is just another heavily commercialised hill town that has been mauled, abused, defaced and
mutilated by tourists and businessmen alike. Heavy traffic and congested streets, noisy shopkeepers
and haggling customers it is the same common scene everywhere.
Like Wordsworths Yarrow Visited, I was forced to exclaim and is this Mussoorie?
The next morning, we braved the rain and set out for Kempty waterfall, 17 kms north of Mussoorie. Taxi
fares are exorbitant and a return trip costs Rs 800.
When we reached Kempty, there was already a 2 km beeline of
cars. Stranded at the end of the queue, we disembarked and
started to walk, the rain beating down on us. Umbrellas could be
hired here at Rs 20 apiece but we preferred to receive a drench. It
was such thrill! Our taxi driver was kind enough to loan us his
umbrella at no extra cost but one umbrella for the six of us was
grossly inadequate. Since Baba was the most vulnerable amongst
us to catching cold, we let him take advantage of the parasol while
the rest of us caught the raindrops in our hair and on our bodies.
Rs 70 per ticket for a ride in the cable car down to the bottom of the
waterfall. We took it. There was a motley crowd of boisterous
family vacationers and coy honeymooners, pot belied men and
overweight women, colourful children and vendors. Many had

chosen to take a dip in the pool at the base of the waterfall. The water looked muddy and not very
clean. We stood there witnessing the frolicking crowd for some time before deciding to take the cable
back to the road on the top of the hill.

We returned to the Mall Road for lunch. Mussoorie is such a small town that there isnt any place other
than the Mall Road where one can possibly visit. So, despite my displeasure, we ended up walking the
entire length of the Mall Road on each of the three days that we spent in Mussoorie.
On the third day of our vacation, we hired a car and drove to the nearby town of Dhanaulti. The drive
took us past the famous Woodstock School, the pride of Mussoories education setup. The taxi driver
pointed out the school to us from a distance. Thereafter, at every bend of the road where the school
premises revealed themselves a trifle more, the driver repeated Sir, Woodstock School, as if he were
the headmaster of the school!
35 kms later, of breathtaking views of hills and valleys, a
sharp contrast from the cacophonous ambience of Mussoorie
town, we arrived at Dhanaulti. The car parked itself in the
middle of the woods consisting of very tall deodar trees. It
was heavenly. The air was covered in mist, not a constant
cover of white but a light mist that lifted and descended very
now and then. Occasionally, the sky would open out and
drizzle down on earth. The road continued uphill into the
woods, although our car driver had chosen to park the car
here itself. The temperature was cold. Baba chose to sit on a
bench by the side of the road. Ma and Buri took the children
to the nearby eco-park. I walked up the road alone. I must
have walked for over a kilometre when I stopped. Nature,
here, was at her unspoilt best. There was absolutely no
sound of another human being, of a vehicle or of civilisation.
The drizzle had stopped. I brushed off the wetness from my

hair with my fingers. I had already taken my spectacles off. I

did not want to view the beauty around me through a pair of
glasses. I stood quietly. Drops of water fell from the trees to
the ground drip-drop, drip-drop. They made a dull slop, slop,
slop noise as they landed on the thick bed of wet leaves lying
on the ground. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance a
hilly stream flowed on, its gurgling sound adding music to the
ambience. A thick moss had grown on a branch of the deodar
that stood majestically before me. A glistening drop of water
gathered below the moss and gradually grew in size. It grew
till it became too heavy and then dropped to the ground.
Slop. Then again. And again. I stood watching the
phenomenon mesmerised! I slipped into one of those
trances that I often find myself falling into when in the lap of
nature. When I came to, there were tears streaming down my
cheeks. It is an inexplicable feeling of being overwhelmed by
the beauty of the hills, the trees and the surroundings.
Grudgingly, I slowly started my walk back to join the rest of my family.

In the evening, we were back at Mall Road.

It happened to be Milis thirteenth birthday.
We walked down to the Cambridge Book
Store and bought her birthday gifts two
books a collection of three mystery stories
by Enid Blyton and an omnibus of childrens
stories by Ruskin Bond. Even as I was
paying for the books at the counter, in
walked the author himself in flesh and blood
Ruskin Bond! It was the perfect birthday
gift for Mili as the author autographed the
book and Mili posed with him for a
photograph. I am sure that Mili will cherish
this moment for many years.

That night, while we were about to retire for the night, I told Buri that I had a spontaneous outflow of
emotions earlier in the day as I stood in the middle of nature watching drops of water fall from a moss to
the ground. Buri looked queerly at me, examining my face for a little longer than she has in recent
times.
A moss made you cry? she asked, bewilderment in her voice.
I replied Yes.
Are you ok? her expression full of incredulity.
I think so I replied.
She kept staring at my face disbelievingly. I knew it was futile to even try to explain to her why and how
I feel the way I do. Only if she were as perceptive, which she isnt.
Pass me the i-Pod I said, cutting the pointless discussion short.
Couples married for fifteen years no longer have conversations these days. They only have short
utilitarian discussions. These discussions normally involve either disagreements on almost all issues of
the world or other essentials like taking stock of depleting provisions in the kitchen, due dates for
childrens school fees, truant maid servants, doctors appointment and what-time-will-you-get-backhome-from-work?. I think it is a generation thing. My parents have been married for forty three years
and they still seem to have a lot to talk about. I guess, unlike us, they do not have better things in this
world to not talk about.
The following morning, the car arrived at the hotel to drive us to Rishikesh first and then to Haridwar. It
was yet again a faithful Ambassador, driven by a man who looked just as ancient as the car!
As we descended to Dehradun, the north Indian summer hit us full blast. We drove on towards
Rishikesh. The temperature continued to climb. The plums and apricots of Mussoorie gave way to
mangoes and papayas that were neatly placed on carts by the side of the road. The only thing that I
could think of was cold drinking water!
Our car came to a stop on a slope in the road, at the end of a queue of vehicles that was not only long
but also appeared to have been immobile for long. We stepped out of the car almost two hundred
metres before the parking area and started to walk down towards the river, leaving it to the driver to find
a place for his car. The walk to the famous hanging bridge of Laxmanjhula was about half a kilometre
from where we had got off. The street was crowded and the shops selling religious curios on either side
were busy soliciting customers. Well, soliciting would be an understatement because most shops had
guys posted at the front who had obviously been directed to aggressively pull the visitors into their
shops. Men & buffaloes, carts & vehicles, stench of dung & smell of cheap incense all jostled for
space in the labyrinthine alleys, each of which led to the bank of the river Ganges. Muck, squalor, grime
and filth lay generously all over the place. Keep Rishikesh Clean pleaded a banner on the road.
Clearly, it was a superfluous appeal.

On a junction of two alleys, in the middle of such a squalid display of

garbage stood the Sachcha Achaleshwar Mandir. I looked at the
inscription and wondered if there was also a Nakli Achaleshwar
temple somewhere else! It appears that God also needs
certification of genuineness in this age of bootlegging, like the
adjacent shops that boldly advertised genuine precious stones. My
forty years of life in India have taught me that religion is essentially
an industry that drives the economy of all temple towns from
Vaishno Devi to Kanya Kumari. Devotion is just a bluff that is
peddled by the grand merchants of religion. Besides religion, sex
and superstition are the other two hottest commercial commodities
that sell best in our country, not necessarily in the same order. The
scores of palmists & astrologers seated inside small shops on both
sides of the street, their foreheads smeared in vermilion and
turmeric, promising accurate predictions of our lives and panacea for all malaises, all pointed to how
gullible and insecure a society we have become.
I have never been the greatest fan of regimented religious prescriptions. With every visit to a holy town,
my contempt for religion grows.
The only thing that I enjoyed observing in Rishikesh was the point below the bridge where I had got off
the raft six months ago after completing 18 kms of white water rafting from Shivpuri. That was in winter
and the climate was cold and pleasant. Now it was hot, oppressive and disgusting. I also observed a
few rafts arriving at the same point upon the completion of their stretch. I pointed out to Vivek that these
were the kind of boats in which his father had placed his life in the hands of fate in January 2008. Vivek
was very keen to go rafting. It took Buri and me quite a lot of effort and some amount of bluffing to
convince him that he was still too small to undertake the adventure.
We crossed the bridge and got to the other bank of the river. For a moment, while still on the bridge, I
was afraid that the structure might collapse. The river below was fast and furious. It was a multitude of
humanity (and hundreds of simians too) that was crossing over to the other side and we were six among
them. The humanity expanded out onto the streets on the other side and dispersed in various
directions. The heat, the sun and the sweat drained us of our last reserve of energies. We staggered
into a restaurant and ordered lunch. More than the food, it was the shade and the water that did us
good. I cannot imagine how such repugnant environs can be even remotely associated with God and
piety. It is gross business!
Lunch over, we retraced our steps along the same path. By the time we reached the parking lot and
located our car, our beleaguered bodies could barely take any more pounding from the midday sun.
Just five hours ago we were in Mussoorie. What a disgusting contrast the plains offer to the blue
mountains!
Sahib, Ramjhula now? inquired our driver.
Straight to Haridwar and stop by the first shop that you see selling chilled mineral water I instructed.
Screw all the jhulas, I cursed under my breath!

The old driver was mighty pleased to have the length of his trip reduced.
The drive from Rishikesh to Haridwar took us through a lush green forest. The woods on either side of
the road were thick and the road itself was very well kept. An hour later, we approached the entrance to
Haridwar. I had travelled the same route in January with the merry brigade of 50 IOC-ians on the
experiential outbound training. This time the encore was with my family. We were on the outskirts of
Haridwar when our car got caught in a huge traffic jam. Single line, double line and soon the cars
formed triple lines. Every man was in a hurry to get ahead of the others. In the process, everybody got
stuck. I thought of Singapore, where I had been less than three weeks ago. I was in awe of the road &
traffic discipline that I witnessed there. This was as opposite as opposite can ever be. Singapore felt
like an ex girlfriend tugging away at my memories.
We waited with frustration inside the ambassador car, every pore in our bodies absorbing the heat and
the dirt in gay abundance. Earlier that morning, when I was showering in Mussoorie, I noticed in the
bathroom mirror that all the tan that Mathura had gifted me had been erased by three days of cool
climes of the hills. The narcissist in me had been pleased! After all, with the kind of skin colour that I
have been born with, every lighter shade is an occasion for celebration! In less than half a day, I was
sitting inside a stationary car, with the sun beating down on my skin and turning it many shades darker
than Mathuras blessings. Getting rid of tan is like wooing a hard-to-get damsel. You try hard and do
the right things for many days and she falls in line. Then suddenly like a bumbling idiot you open your
mouth and say something stupid and all the diligent efforts are undone.
The car eventually moved after one hour of stagnancy and in due course we arrived at the doorstep of a
hotel enchantingly named Azure Ganga, in the vicinity of the railway station. We checked into the hotel
and the face that stared back at me in the bathroom mirror was that of a miner just done with his twelvehour shift work inside an underground coal mine!
Screw the plains and the lousy heat, I muttered !
Destination Har-ki-Pauri. I had been here in
January, but for less than an hour on that
occasion. We had to take the Shatabdi
express to Delhi that evening and had
missed the aarti of the river Ganges, a
famous evening activity that attracted
crowds by the thousands every day. This
time, when we reached the banks of the
river Ganages, it was about six oclock, still
one hour ahead of the aarti. All the steps on
the embankments were already taken by the
early birds who wanted a vantage point to
witness the fiery offering to the river god
from. Baba chose a spot a few rows back
from the edge of the river, exactly opposite to the temple on the opposite bank from whose premises the
aarti would be offered. Even seating space was on sale. Baba paid Rs 100 for 5 persons. The sixth
person, the writer of this story, chose to wander away, preferring take photographs of the area and the
humanity in attendance.

Devotees in thousands were bathing in the holy water of the Ganges. You sin away throughout seven
lives, then take a dip in your eight incarnation and lo & behold, all your sins are washed away! Since
sins in this world are usually more interesting than moral uprightness, it struck me as a jolly good idea to
indulge in the sinful pleasures of life wantonly and then make an occasional trip to Haridwar for
cancellation of the sins from our personal records in St Peters filing cabinet.
At a distance, on the eastern bank of the river stands a tall bronze-coloured statue of Lord Mahadeva. It
is a wonderful sculpture and can be seen from a distance. I stood there admiring the aesthetics of the
statue. So well proportioned! My eyes wandered off to the sky. A storm was brewing on the horizon!
Proportion, however, was something that I could not attribute to the physical shapes of the many
thousand devotees who were half immersed in the river in various stages of undress. It has been a
perpetual mystery with me as to why Indian women prefer to bathe in rivers and seas in dowdy maxies,
more popularly known as nighties, or eleven yards of sarees or even in salwar-kurtas! A visit to any sea
beach would leave one confused about whether a lady had arrived to take a plunge in the sea or had
been mistakenly deposited there by an absentminded taxi driver instead of a conference venue
somewhere else. Ogling at Har-ki-pauri is very different in its essence from the same activity on Baga
beach in Goa.
I wandered about.
As the hour drew closer to the 7 oclock aarti, orchestrated chants of ganga maiya ki jai rose in the air.
Above the cacophonous din of humanity, salutations to ganga maiya were the only decipherable words.
The noise was deafening.
I still wandered about.
Fuck, look at those tits man !
I turned around. It was the first normal language I had heard in the past one hour. The words had
come from one among a group of four young boys just behind me. College students, I presumed. I saw
four pair of eyes riveted on an object of admiration a nubile twenty-something that had just emerged
from the river, her soaked diaphanous white shirt displaying her humongous assets to the world. Well,
not four, but now there were five pairs of eyes! The eyes of a man pushing forty joined those of the
much younger gang of four as a pair of pendulous breasts displaced substantial volumes of the
atmosphere with every step that she took and walked away from where I was standing. As I first looked
at her gait and then beyond, I noticed that the sky had turned an ominous colour. The firmament that
had earlier draped itself across the horizon had now arrived overhead and was threatening to break
loose any moment. We are in for a drench I thought to myself.
I perched myself on step number 5 of a sentinel tower. A policeman with a big paunch and a double
barrel rifle had allowed me to climb up to the fifth step but no higher.
Isse upar nahin he barked in a voice that imparted to itself a pseudo sense of authority.

This was probably the only time of the day when he had the chance to throw his weight around with
people. I stood still, one hand gripping the railing and the other my camera. The man climbed up,
slowly. With a rifle and a paunch on him, it must have taken him seven minutes to reach his post at the
top of the tower, about six floors high. I could not help wonder why he would need a gun at that height.
It would have made sense if he was in charge of security on the ground, but at that height, he should be
having a torchlight and an announcement mike rather than a gun. Strange are the ways of Indian
security agencies!
At exactly seven oclock, the aarti began. I immediately clicked two snaps. Good for me I did that
because at precisely the same instant, the skies broke out and started unleashing huge volumes of
water upon us. The priest who had embarked on performing the aarti preferred to flee the scene,
considering self-preservation to be a better option than piety! I braved the downpour and managed to
locate my family after almost ten minutes. They were relatively ensconced under a polythene weather
shade. I was drenched to my skin. Wind and rain beat down on earth with enormous force for the next
one hour. We stood there with trepidation, watching the level of water in the river rise with every
passing minute. After an hour, the conditions eased out just as the water level touched the top of the
embankment and we set off towards out hotel, one soggy step after another.
Rickshaws were hard to come by. After walking almost a kilometre, shivering in wet clothes, we
managed to catch hold of two rickshaws and ride them back to our hotel, at a premium.
That night, as I lay in bed in the Haridwar hotel room, I ran up high fever. I tossed and turned in bed,
unable to get sleep. Vivek lay asleep by my side, one leg placed royally on my body, blissfully unaware
that this father was febrile. It was during this night of sleeplessness that I thought out the structure of
this article. Where hills are the inspiration, even a delirious brain is productive.
***