Life, since college, seemed to have just zipped ahead. But it was the sudden realization that, apart from the inevitable process of some old faces being replaced by newer ones, nothing worth bragging about seemed to be happening in my life, that prompted me to join a small group of colleagues who were going on a weeklong trip to the Himalayan foothills. Frankly, it was thought of adventure and not leisure, that got me hooked onto the idea.. A journey of over 2000 kilometres, a small group of friends with whom I have not yet been that well-acquaintanced, … basically, the chance to add another colourful piece to that collage called life... there were quite a few reasons that got me excited about this trip, none more persuasive than the doubt that such a chance may not come around a second time. The date of departure from Bangalore had been set at Sept 25 and as the date neared, it appeared as if time just wouldn’t move on, the minutes scheming to linger around longer, just to spite me. And during that period, everything centred around plans, preparations and discussions of the trip. 23-24-25… 8-9-10-11-11.30-12-12.15-12.30…. The wait for the trip was just as exasperating, if not more.
It was my first time in Bangalore International Airport. It definitely wasn’t nondescript, but the lack of any noticeable crowd, eye-catching sights or even beautiful girls definitely contributed to the place not living up to my expectations. After a short stop in Ahmedabad, we reached Delhi in just over 4 hours and that was it – my first flight.
I had heard of heat waves in Delhi, but even the night seemed helpless in cooling the simmering Delhi heat. Interesting as it was, the taxiwala’s Hindi with its distinctive Punjabi slang gave me a feel of the place. We had arranged for stay in Pahargunj. Pahargunj!! I have to admit that the place sounded grand yet graceful. Anyway, as I mentioned, our stay was arranged in Chaandiwali Gali in Pahargunj. Soon the realization that no auto driver seemed to have heard of the place created a mild panic about whether we had got our name right. Finally, some more roaming around, Kichu hanging out to take in the names of the streets and shops as they pass by, and Chinnu remembering to make a mental note of 2 nearby shops, before we had started out, all helped in us finding the place finally. A small street barely over 4 feet wide, and in that maze of streets, one really had to leave a marker there to be sure to spot it the second time we passed by there. We had put up in a place called Dollar Inn there and seeing its condition, the name itself seemed so obviously ironic. Even there, the customary security measures like identification of the guests were there. I wonder whether I was a tad too serious while posing in front of that camera, feeling silly holding up a slate with my name across it?
I woke up next day when Kichu came knocking on my door and that too at 4 in the morning. I have to admit, his organizational abilities are really commendable. But since this was the first day of the trip, the excitement of the much anticipated journey more than made up for the irritation of being woken mid-slumber and that too when sunrise was still a couple of hours away. Within a remarkably short time, all of us were ready and well before the scheduled time of 6 am, we were at the bus stop waiting for Rao Travels. Since the occasion and venue seemed appropriate for it, we lost no time in getting down to discussions of national import, the grandeur of the capital city and soon whether the bus would be coming at all. Turned out that our fears for the last thing was completely unnecessary. Our short journey out of the capital was interesting; through a Delhi that was still trying to get what sleep it could out of what was left of the night, wide and near-empty roads, except for the odd milkman or paperwala here or there.
The journey to Agra by rail supposedly takes just over 1.5 hrs, but the famed Delhi traffic ensured that we took well over 5 hours by bus, to reach there. The first remnant of Mughal grandeur and Mughal architecture in Agra, that we visited was the Agra Fort, of red sandstone, just like Delhi’s Red Fort, but much larger in size in comparison. From its south-western end, one can see the grand Taj Mahal nestling the Yamuna, the same image I have had since childhood of the Taj, from the cover picture of matchboxes, appearing in almost similar size in front of me, a few miles away, just across the Yamuna. There is the oft repeated tale of Aurangaseb, after he had taken over the Fort, having his father Shah Jahan imprisoned in that fort in a room with a view of the Taj. Despite all his religious excesses and brutality to enemies, he was gracious enough to do at least that much for his father, a potential political threat. That his father had gone to heaven, by the time the arrangement was finished, is yet another matter. But then, for people who set out to build paradise on earth, I suppose, even heaven may be found wanting.
Later, after a short visit to the U.P government promoted Handicraft’s Emporium which mostly included some window shopping, we set out to the Taj post-brunch. It’s a no entry zone for all motor vehicles within 1 km radius of the Taj Mahal, supposedly to preserve it from air pollutants, to keep the place and its surrounding clean and to preserve its magic, or what is left of it. But then, whatever be the restrictions imposed for these noble intentions, it is after all us people who end up visiting and walking around the monument. And this ends up usually with the “This is your world” slogan(the implication being, preserve it), being turned into “The world is yours”(the implication being use it as per you inclination). Anyways, getting back to the point, the only modes available are either cycle rickshaws or by foot. Riding in a cycle rickshaw was definitely an experience, both quaint and uniquely refreshing at the same time.
Finally we arrived at the outset of the structure and my God! Even a Rajnikanth film in its opening weeks would be hard pressed to match the length of the queue in front of the ticket counter. The entry fees was interesting, a blatant slap on globalisation, as one of my friends put it. 20 Rs for Indian tourists and 200 Rs for foreign ones. The attitude seemed to be, if they can take the pains and more importantly afford to cross the seven seas and come all the way till here, why not shell out a few rupees more than the impoverished locals. My, my, whatever happened to the concept of “athithi devo bhava”..
And as with any successful self respecting theatre back home, there were the black marketers for tickets here too. At 50 rs, instead of 20, they promised to get us in without us needing to stand in that serpentine queue. With our curiosity piqued and the sight of that demoralisingly long queue deciding it for us, we followed him wondering whether he knew some hidden passageway into the structure. It was then that realised he had merely taken us to another doorway. The Taj has 3 doorways and he made us walk almost a kilometre and we paid an additional 30 rs for the privilege. I called him a black marketer, but on reflection, a decent job and he delivered what he promised, something which many of the big businesses, handled by the bright young products of prestigious B-schools across the country, can’t lay claim to with a straight face.
And finally, there it was. Quite simply put, The Taj Mahal would transcend even your most beautiful and grandiose imaginations. But, at the same time, spare a thought for those thousands of daily wage labourers who worked for 20 years, knowing well enough that the day the structure finishes they would be out of work (or as a gruesome tale goes, the reward for the architect of this grand monument was get his hands cut off by the emperor so that another such structure be not built ever again). It is their combined skill set that has made this structure such a beauty to behold, but to paraphrase a line from the film Troy, “History doesn’t remember the brave foot soldiers who crafted the victory (or in this case, the skilled labourers who built the edifice), it only remembers the emperor who sat and beheld it all unfolding much before him.” Someone had got it right on the mark when he commented that despite all its efforts, mankind would never keep pace with history.
Blame it on our national obsession with fair skin or the leniency of the foreign tourists in their uninhibited skin show, we as a nation are simply awestruck by the sight of fair-skinned foreigners. The unquestioned adulation reserved for the British and the resulting partly self inflicted colonialism, is a well documented part of our history, and it now looks like that at least a part of that mentality has still not worn off even among the new generation. The sight of a father of two requesting a fair skinned foreign lady to have a snap with him was ridiculous, embarrassing and perplexing at the same time. The lady in question, quite confused by the motive behind the request, graciously gave consent, as one might patronise a puppy persisting on to play fetch. And even before the lady had recovered from the incredulity and shock of the strange request, the whole family had gathered around her, posed keeping her in the centre, taken their snap and left, all before she could even say “whoa!!”. There was not even a black foreigner around to check the other side of the coin, but I doubt if the same thing would have happened to a black skinned male. And for the tourists from African nations where Indian rupees have as much value as dollars have here, the dual faced Indian tourism system is not exactly welcoming. Talk about opportunism in globalisation.
Leaving Agra, our next destination was Madhura. The primitive traffic control systems in UP and the appalling road sense of the average driver ensured that we reached Madhura a lot later than we had planned. Speaking of which, though I did not have any preset ideas, the city made me sympathise “was this the once great capitol where Kamsan held court?” Just another city, with nothing to offer outside the mundane. The Hindi with that distinct U.P drawl made me ponder 4 a moment about that character in Madhavikutty’s (Kamala Das) book who declares definitely “Daivam samsarikkuna bhaasha Malayalam aanu. Podikkunjaya nammude Sulukkunju polum Malayalam parayenethu aarum padipichu koduthittalla..” (Malayalam is the language of God. Even our Sulu who is barely over a year old speaks Malayalam without anyone having taught her the language.) I wonder what his reaction would have been had it been brought to his notice that Lord Krishna was from U.P and couldn’t have spoken any language other than this Hindi with its distinctively U.P drawl.
It was 1.30 in the night by the time we returned to our hotel. "Ghoomke itne der laute ho sirjee…” The teen sporting a pencil thin moustache that had asked us that question must have been placed there to rope in any foreigners who must have been searching for their hotel in that alley. For a similar enterprise called Euro Inn is situated barely two feet away and the difference is hardly discernible in the dark. These hotels with their currency based names and equipped with well designed websites targeting foreigners looking for a cheap but decent accommodation in Delhi seem to be doing a pretty good job of pulling off their trick with their websites, despite the decrepit conditions of the buildings themselves.
Speaking of which the by lanes of Delhi (or dilli ki galliya as one of my friends referred to them fondly) are more relics of a by gone era, the tomb of history, where it sleeps in grandeur, struggling to fight for their space and yet still managing to invoke an old world charm in you despite being amidst cables, telephone and electricity wires and cobwebs. The tonkas and cycle rickshaws, now an almost extinct idea in South India, is still alive and kicking here; and people still pull like workhorses to make ends meet. For a closet socialist, this sight in the Capital city just reinforced the prejudice that like any other city, here also, wealth breeds wealth and poverty breeds poverty.
Next day morning, we dropped into a nearby okay looking hotel, for breakfast. Here again, the focus and attention was on targeting foreign customers, on making them feel at home, or at least the intent seemed to be so. With the flags of over 20 different countries and the posters of MJ, Madonna and Merlin Monroe adorning its walls, it was difficult to miss the effort put in. But even after spending half an hour taking in the “ambience” as you could call it, all that was served was a cup of coffee. Since we didn’t have much time to spare, we paid up for the coffee and left, and the teenager doubling up as the waiter and the cashier, seemed quite unperturbed by such a loss of potential business. Obviously, his reaction might have been vastly different if we happened to be an obviously rich set of foreigners.
The caravan(the auto to be more literal) now moved onto the Qutab Minar. One thing which we soon realised that almost all the roads in Delhi seemed to have been named after one or the other administrators or rulers of Delhi, starting off from the Mughal Kings right upto recent day politicians. But it has to be conceded that most places have a nice ring to their names, like Pahar Ganj, Dhariya Ganj or Vasant Kunj. Speaking of strange sounding place names, I am reminded of an anecdote from my first year in engineering, when seniors had come around to get introduced to the fresh bakras. One of them had asked me where I was putting up, and on hearing me mumble “in Pavaratty”, he remarked that he was no enquiring about my financial state(Poverty) but was asking me where I was from.
Anyway, we finally reached Qutab Minar, yet another magnificent piece of Mughal architecture, and one, which would definitely test the muscles of your neck as you crane backwards to take in the full glory of the tall structure. On the walls of those stone pillars, inscriptions in Arabian can be seen, and we were informed that they were quotes from the Quran. The integration of Indian and Persian architecture was obvious, more so since the Minar had replaced some dozen odd Jain temples that were in that area. Sometimes one even feels a touch of Tanjore style of architecture in some of the stone work there. And it seems but natural, since the famed iron pillar that Vikramaditya the Second had gotten installed in Udayagiri, was shifted to the Minar premises by Iltumish. Even the inscriptions on the pillar is Saskrit Brahmi script. This is the same pillar which, even in this modern age remains a mystery to one and all, making us wonder about the technology used 1600 years ago, that it still remains immune to rust and all the weathering that it has suffered in the rain and vastly fluctuating climates of Delhi. The remnants of Mughal architecture does really make you feel proud of India’s varied culture and its seamless integration of different entities, though sometimes out of compulsion.
We travelled from Chandni Chowk to Kashmiri Gate in almost the blink of an eye, by the metro rail. The modern Delhi metro is an experience not to be missed. Our next destination was Jantar – Mantar, the first astronomical observatory established in India, a few centuries ago, by the Rajput king, Raja Jaisingh the Second. It appears that the word has evolved through colloquial usage of the term “Yanthra Manthra”. From there, we left for India Gate. The grand road connecting the India Gate to the Parliament building was just too wide to comprehend its intended purpose by the designers all those decades ago, when it was built. With lawns lining its two sides, the occasional military vehicle parked by the roadside, including Indian Army gypsies and officers of various departments of defence in their bright uniforms appearing here and there all leading upto the India Gate standing proud and firm. The sight of the flags of the 3 arms of the defence establishment flapping gloriously in the air, made my heart swell with pride. So did “Amar Jawan Jyothi”, the flame kept burning without getting extinguished, a symbol of tribute to those countless brave hearts who selflessly laid down their lives for the nation. There is also the names of all the soldiers who lost their lives in WWI and the Afghan wars, inscribed on the structure. Yes, Here, history remembers Soldiers too! , but them who have fought for British under the conquered India
Now, our trip was to move to cooler climes and Manali was our next destination. We boarded our Himachal Pradesh Transport corporation bus from the Kashmiri gate bus stand and we were soon well on our way. The dawn broke providing us an awesome view of the mountain ranges surrounding Kulu, which were gigantic beyond the promises of imagination. The bus stopped for an early morning tea break. As for me, I was just too spellbound by the surrounding view; mountains that questioned the credibility of your sight by their sheer size, looming on one side and on the other, a deep gorge in which the Beas gushed through rocks chiselled on and rounded over time. You could literally hear the sound of nature there, and feel the unstoppable force beyond that sound and you definitely can’t miss that feeling here, of how insignificant man is, in the scheme of things, in nature. The locals here seemed to be a pretty peaceful and calm type of people; Was it the lulling beauty of nature here, or this realisation of how angry nature could be that made them so? Whatever the reason, this serenity definitely plays a part in attracting people here.
Just like the mango or jackfruit trees we have back home, there were trees lazily laid out in many compounds which had fruits resembling an orange (something called Japanese Fruit, as per a local vendor). The apple and pear trees had yet not started bearing fruits.
Anyway, we reached Manali before noon. We stepped out to a mildly warm mid-September sun. We had a late brunch, the poor service further fraying our nerves and testing our growling bellies, but the tasty puris and the steaming potato curry went a long way in cheering all of us up. By the time we stepped our tourist vehicle was ready. We set out first of all, to a Buddhist monastery. The place, decorated with colourful flag pieces, had a 2 men tall gold covered Buddha statue. A monk sat beside it praying. The bronze bell out front made some noticeable tremors, with each gong. The prayer wheels aligned around the temple seems to be always rotated by some one. Reciting the chant “Om Mani Padme Hum” each time the wheels are rotated is supposed to bode well for the one doing it.
We then moved onto the Hidimba Temple, the lone temple in India dedicated to Hidimbi, one of the silent and rarely noticed protagonists in the epic. Here amidst all these countless, tall Cedar trees, she sits safe and secure. The low entrance ensured that whoever entered did so with a bowed head. On a still lower piece of rock lies the foot print believed to be the Goddess’. The size of the footprint alone was enough to settle any doubts as to whether the owner could have been a suitable wife for Bheema, but though the person seemed weighty enough to have caused a landslide alone, if she so choose, the footprints still jutted above the surface of the rock. Interesting…
It was on stepping out of the temple that we noticed small cotton yarn-like rabbits prancing around. For the price of some food titbits, these silent celebrities allow you a snap with them. Also, it was here that I got my first yak ride, pretty much giving an idea of what Yama must be feeling during his on-duty travails.
We then travelled by foot to Vashisht hot water springs, with dahlias smiling at us on our way, tree logs being rolled down the hillside, crossing some women carrying tree barks in their baskets,.enroute. As we moved ahead, we noticed quite a few souvenir and handicrafts shops lining the way; handicrafts, hand crafted textiles, all seem to be a way of living here. A kilometre further down the way, lies Vashisht village. Hot water springs is truly a spectacle, and a steaming one at that.
The shutterbugs amongst us were over themselves, happy to have caught some local kids, with their Eskimo like features on the camera. With the sun setting, we started our return trek and by the time we reached our vehicle, darkness had fallen. Later, we set out for a stroll in the night. The darkness, the soft, embracing fog and a discussion based on epics and myths, interspersed with comforting silences made it a walk to remember. On the way, we checked out some shops which sold wooden products for unbelievably low prices. This place still did not seemed to have been much commercialised.
Next day early morning, we set out for Rohtang hills, starting of with huge military bridges built across deep gorges with the Beas rushing beneath. On the way, we made a pit stop to rent some furcoats and galoshes and soon reached the Rahala falls. The words “bone-chilling cold” assumes literal proportions here. Oh mother nature! I bow before your might!
Rohtang turned out to be farther than we had anticipated, but the irrepressible enthusiasm of my tour mates and the scenic landscape resembling the well detailed brushes of a talented painter ensured that this journey would remain writ in a remote corner of heart , where I safeguard the fondest memories. Soon the Rohtang ranges, started appearing in sight, and the canvas began to turn whiter, as if a bucket of white paint has been poured over the top of the mountains. Soon we got down at a point. Beyond that there was nothing like a plain piece of land, just rounded rocks and crystal clear rivulets only. The travel forward was on horseback, because even for a healthy man it would take him close to 2 hours on foot, and so our case did not need much thinking. Sheru, Julie, Shahrukh and Chandrakantha carried us to our destination. Despite realising that the travel was an ordeal for them and seeing how the creatures are whipped by their handlers to prod them forward at a reasonable pace, with the indifference caused by routine repititions , we looked forward to reaching our destination with little more than a mild twinge of guilt.
Soon, we reached there and stepped down onto the frozen crumbled snow. It appeared like whether we were careful or not, losing our balance was inevitable. And there before us lay the splendid Himalayas, like a toddler had tried a few expansive brushes with snow white paint on a light blue canvas. It was with a feeling of accomplishment that we started our return journey. And it was one which taught us that traffic jams were not a feature of cities and plains alone. A clear sun, with its mildly piercing rays still couldn’t prevent us from a round of sound sleep.
Since our return journey took us more time than anticipated, we had little time to waste between returning and setting off for Dharamsala by the overnight bus. Now, this was a Kashmir bound bus supposed to have a stop at Dharamsala; but since there were very few Dharamsala bound people, the bus dropped us off at an appropriate point and we journeyed the remaining part via taxi. We reached McLeodGanj in Dharamsala, quite early next morning and by the time we snuggled up into our rooms it was almost dawn break.
In stark contrast to the windowless walls in Delhi, here windows dominate the walls ; the ones that open into nature. The fog that covers the glasses melts to dig meandering courses. The world here is cuddling in the foggy blanket. On the mighty mountain slopes stand houses of different colours stacked on terraces; houses that are just big enough for a family, unlike the huge mansions on the plains . The prayer-flags of Buddhists are decorated over the village as a bride’s forehead is with vermillion. The mountains are silhouetted against the misty curtains.
The world is slowly getting up; engaging in their chores : all with their characteristic tranquility. The sweet honey that we received with the French Toast was smelling of nature. It was while we were talking over the paragliding arrangements that I noticed the Tibetan child standing on the other side of the green hand-rails. He was smiling at us , these kids don’t show the strangeness exhibited by normal kids, they remind you of ‘Cherubs’ .The places are noticeably clean and the roads are inclined with a 20-25 degree slope
The hotelier Vivek was a young man in his early thirties. Similar to the other ‘Pahadi’s , he too has a high nose and the lightness of his skin creates a kind of transparency for the green nerves. He was a gentleman in all sense of the word. This is not the case of one individual, the people here are generally so. They earn your respect, and generously give it too. You might not comprehend the Pahadi language, which strikes similarity with Hindi sometimes.
Unlucky for us , the weather was not suitable for paragliding. It rained for 2 hours in McLeod Ganj the day before . And in Bir Billing, the soaked nature was still fighting shy of re-dressing. Okay! We kept it for the next day!
Got a car at our disposal. The first destination was the ‘Bhagsu’ falls. Houses are made of coarse grey granite packed closely. A path formed by constant human treads is rambling on the side of the mountain. Mountain goats are grazing around at leisure. The sound of the approaching cascade is gradually rising. And on the other side, the fearsome river is flowing like Durga through the threatening boulders. And mind you, it bothers her the least! Even beyond that I could see an endless flight of stones which leaves no clue of where it ends.
It had been quite some time that we were treading, and a big boulder had to be manouvered to reach the falls. You have to be extremely careful here. And if you carefully climb down, you can even find a cosy little café
The cold water that was charging violently like a madman’s dance, ran thunderbolts through my bones. A pant rose from my lower abdomen. The milk-like water turns emerald-green on falling down. I was stopped by the rigour of the water lest I lose my footing , I was not good at swimming.
Back to McLeodGanj!
There stands between McLeodGanj and Forseyth Ganj, the St. John’s Cathedral(-in the Wilderness , as they say) , guarded by gargantuan Deodar trees. A church without a pastor or a church-bell, a pleasantly tranquil sanctuary! There were a few photos hung on the walls that showed how the snow clad place looked like the abode of the characters in English Bedtime storybooks.
Then came October 1, when the Chinese celebrate their Independence Day. Banners and processions were seen everywhere. The board that is mount on the sidewalk carrying the words “One people One Nation; Fifty Years of Tibetan Resistance 1959-2009” , wont escape your eyes. The shutterbugs were trying to click a Buddhist monk’s picture with this background. The protests of these Tibetan immigrants has the language of silence. Anyways, noise cant do much in their case. (For those who don’t know the history of the Tibetans in Dharamsala : Communist China conquered Tibet in 1950 and made it a part of the Chinese land and they slowly started obliterating Buddhism. High Highness Dalai Lama had to flee from Tibet and China and it was India who gave them refuge and He camped in Dharamshala) . It was a pleasant coincidence that we could visit Dalai Lama’s abode of Tsug-La-Kang on the important date. Except for a stricter control than the other monastaries, this was yet another of them.
Our wish to try Tibetan food was fulfilled in momo and Thukpa. Though I relished it, I didn’t find it filling
It was 7 o’ clock when we reached back in McLeodGanj. It’s a real pleasure to walk through their alleys, which were crowded with shops selling artifacts and trinkets. There we witnessed a procession led by a person ,supposedly a member of the clergy ,who was carrying a photo of the Dalai Lama ,reciting some mantra repeated by the accompanying monks and other followers which included foreigners and countrymen , who were carrying a lighted candle in their hands. Be there once and you will readily agree, how important a weapon silence can sometimes be! I was overcome with awe and surprise at the enchanting charisma of these silent men , when I had to resist the temptation of being a part of the silent demonstration, as I didn’t have time on my side
Another day-break in the mountains; Oct 2, Friday and the weather on the mountain-top was favourable for paragliding. 4 hrs took us to Bir Billing, through the green fields and tea-estates of Palampur. I started to be grappled by fear as we were nearing the much awaited destination. And the hardship was worth it. Nature was basking in a glorifying sunlight . Gliders flying aimlessly in the sky. I could see wild horses grazing at a distance. A few more of them had come to experience a flight in a glider. In some time , we were also equipped with helmets and gadgets on our backs. All you have to do is to jump from a mountain when the instructor flags; the mountain, at a height of 2290 meters!
Glider is piloted by trained guys in their early twenties. My comrades yielded without much resistance, though I had to be really reassured about the safety and when persuasions failed , I was thrown off the cliff, by when, my friends started to be seen as tiny specks on the blue sky. Owing to my low body weight , I was really floating around . I felt how it is to be like a pollen in a breeze. As the altitude rose, I started to get nauseated and felt nice when I alighted after a 15 mins sojourn in the skies.
On the way back near Palampur, a meter gauge track came as a treat for the photo enthusiasts. It was 3 when we stopped at Palampur for lunch. After an hour, thanks to the punctured car, we got to see how corn was grown in houses ; all ripe and ready for a harvest. It was later than we thought when we reached back to McLeodGanj and only a few hours were left to catch the scheduled bus to Delhi.
Road to Delhi didn’t disappoint us and we reached earlier than we thought. Thus on the final day of the journey, back to Main Bazaar in Pahar Ganj and we tried a multi-cuisine restaurant. Royal ! was the word for it. Relished the delicacies of Lebanese, Spanish and French breakfasts.
Next, to the Red Fort, which was kept aside for the return, while we left on Delhi on Sept 28. Indian Flag was fluttering on the grass bed outside the fortress, which was a mixture of Persian, European and Indian architecture and craftsmanship. And it was the biggest edifice in Old Delhi. But this is way smaller in circumference than the Red-Fort in Agra.
It was almost 3.30. Andhra and Karnataka were inundated by the seasonal rains. The news shook us; apprehensively, we took a cycle rickshaw to drop us back in the Pahara Ganj Railway Station. The train was prompt in leaving at 5. Gwalior-Jhansi-Bhopal-… ; I had planned to get a glimpse of all the places, but it was all covered when I was sound asleep at night. People were getting on and off ; the train continued on its journey
Sometimes an end is a beginning too. My world has been expanding ever since I started carrying the smell of the himalayas
