The Signs Were Always There

Death is, perhaps, the ultimate answer to all the questions of life, the one reality no one can dodge. Ivan Ilyich learned it in a hard and excruciating way, and for me, it was going to be quite easy. But why, all of a sudden, am I trying to sound so philosophical? Well, because that is exactly what I felt the moment I was face to face with it. Going down the hill from Bhadraj Temple, the roads were absolutely pathetic covered with potholes, steel frames generally concealed under material to provide structure to the path were openly exposed. Add to that nearly 8,000 feet of elevation, a rented scooter around ten years old, and a brake that was screaming to fail. What would one get? Recipe for a huge disaster.

The speed was around 50 km/h, and the slope might have pushed it further up by 10 km/h. Then, all of a sudden, a hairpin bend came. I tried to turn the handle in the right direction, but to my horror, the upper body of the scooter was stuck. I frantically tried braking, but to add salt to my wounds, the brakes had failed too. A sense of panic struck like lightning through my entire being, and chaos took hold of my mind. A nervous breakdown began unfolding the valley was right in front of me, no safety railings in sight, and I was marching towards my doom on Helios's Chariot.

Then, out of nowhere, a calming sensation came over me. In that moment, I thought of the most absurd thing any sane person in my shoes would never think of the lyrics of Space Oddity, and how audaciously comical Bowie looked in it. The moment my mind wavered towards that absurdist thought, something struck me a second time: what if I try to create some sort of imbalance? A last attempt to survive. If it succeeded, well and good and if it didn't, I might go into oblivion thinking of something hilarious, with a slight smile on my face. The gamble did work. With a loud clash, I was on the ground alive, but bruised and the damned vehicle pinning my right leg. I was losing consciousness, and it was happening quite slowly. And then…

Looking back, the signs were there from the beginning.

Day 1 had ended on such a high note (reference to my previous blog) that I slept like a baby and woke up like one too, because for some reason I was extremely irritable and in no mood to strike a conversation with anyone. There was a certain uneasiness in my being that I couldn't shove away. Still, I convinced myself: this is a place I've been looking forward to visiting for quite some time now, I can't just lie around, no matter how I feel.

Once I took the first step outside, there was a new energy in my being all of a sudden. The valley was looking magnificent, covered in clouds like draped curtains, and I was coming to terms with why Mussoorie is regarded as the "Queen of Hills." I dialled the number of the first guy who had approached me for a rental scooter, and he dropped the vehicle off at my hostel in about fifteen minutes. The moment I saw it, I thought maybe this was a piece of work the colonial rulers had left behind for their precious hill station as a parting gift. It was literally in shambles. The brakes were really hard, there was some sound coming from the engine, but due to a mixture of two overwhelming emotions the eagerness to discover this land and the uneasiness that still hadn't gone away, I ignored those glaring problems and off I drove towards my first destination, Dalai Hills.

The ride to Dalai Hills was mesmerising. The moment I crossed the chaotic Mall Road, I was surrounded by Deodar Cedar the majestic trees, often embodiments of their Sanskrit translation, The Timber of the Gods. The forest is home to various fauna, and I was lucky enough to spot pheasants, woodpeckers, Black-headed Jays, as well as the notorious menace of the valley Langurs. I believe the only thing a person must do in the valley is drive at a negligible speed and observe nature in its rawest form. My mood had lightened considerably by the time I reached the gate of Dalai Hills. The nature had cleared my conscience in such a way that I was feeling at peace, and on top of that, I had spotted one of the most scenic tennis courts I've ever seen in my entire life at the Officers' Club, en route to my destination.

But to my absolute horror, the place was crowded Instagrammers, casual tourists, and ruckus-causing non-valley migrants had all descended upon it. I had been looking forward to visiting this place for some time, primarily because it was where the Dalai Lama addressed the international media after the toppling of Tibet's sovereignty by the Chinese invasion. The 14th Lama, who migrated here at only twenty-three years of age, was able to establish the initial headquarters of the Tibetan government-in-exile at Happy Valley in Mussoorie, with the support of the Indian government, while Shedup Choephelling Temple became the first religious site for Tibetans in India.

The sacred place looked far from peaceful, but it was still quite an experience to understand the depth of Tibetan Buddhism through its various religious artefacts. The one I felt most connected to was the Wheel of Prayer, representing the pillars of the entire religion, a manifestation of Buddha's compassionate speech: "Om Mani Padme Hum." The vibrant artwork depicting various mythologies on the walls of the temple provided a serene quality to the blessed site.

After roaming around the premises for about an hour, I decided to undertake the hike to the top of the hill, where there was a riveting statue of Lord Buddha. But before that, I had to continue a tradition of buying a souvenir from every new place I visit mostly just a magnet. I bought one from the nearby gift shop, showcasing the entire landscape of Mussoorie with a few pivotal landmarks marked on it.

The hike took me thirty minutes to be precise, and what awaited me was a sight I cannot forget ever. The meadows in front were lush green, a light drizzle of rain was falling, clouds and fog were covering the ranges and forests of Deodar and Pine far in the distance and at the centre of all of it, a mythical statue of Lord Buddha. I was just beginning to come to terms with what I was witnessing when a certain intolerant and rowdy simpleton spoiled the entire ambiance of the place. He stated, in a high-pitched voice, to some of his friends in a language I won't mention in this blog that it would've been far better if a statue of Lord Shiva had been placed here instead, and that he didn't even know who this figure in the statue was.

Now, I am a devout Shaivite myself, but honestly, there is no need to advertise that fact in places which are significant to other religions. That is not how you preach your religion and certainly not in front of monks from a religion that has been persecuted for the last seventy years and has lost the land of their forefathers. Yes, there were a few Tibetan priests present when these statements were passed. In about fifteen minutes, hordes of people started flocking to the top. The place became so crowded that I decided it would be better to head back down.

             

On the way back down, I noticed a shop that looked like the valley itself had quietly swallowed it whole. Tree roots had surfaced through the ground, cutting across the floor, and the middle and upper sections of the trunk were visible right through the tin roof. Behind a small counter, a girl roughly my age was preparing tea, alone, managing the entire structure by herself. Fair-skinned, slight, dressed in a traditional kurta, with the easy unhurried manner of someone who had grown up with these hills as her backyard. She welcomed me with a warm smile. I took a table facing the hills and a few shrubs, ordered an omelette with a bun, and without much preamble, we just started talking.

It began with the crowd. She told me what this place used to be like a decade ago, living in this exact spot. Only a handful of sophisticated tourists would make their way here the kind genuinely hungry for local interaction, curious about Tibetan culture, willing to sit with a monk over tea and listen. A real harmony had existed between the visitors and the community, she said, and it had made this place deeply soulful. Then the travel bloggers came. Then Instagram. Then everyone who had no context, no curiosity, but simply wanted the photograph. She said the deterioration in the quality of people became unreal after the COVID lockdowns as if two years of being locked up had taken away whatever sensitivity people had left.

Then the conversation drifted. She told me about the places she wishes she could travel to someday the landscapes she has only seen in photographs, the vast beauty of her own country that she hasn't been able to witness firsthand. I sat with that for a moment. Here I was, a guy who had taken a month off to wander through Uttarakhand on a whim, and sitting across from me was someone who lived inside the very landscape people like me travel thousands of kilometres to visit and yet the rest of the country, the rest of the world, remained entirely out of reach for her.

We talked about the haves and have-nots, but not in any pitiful or performative way. There was no charity in the conversation, no condescension on either side. It was just two people with genuinely different lives, mutually curious about the other's. She had scored well enough in her Class 12th to pursue medicine, she told me but the decision had been made for her. I didn't press further. I didn't need to. The omelette was long finished by then, but neither of us moved to end the conversation.

I left without knowing her name. I don't know why I didn't ask maybe because the conversation had that rare quality of feeling complete in itself, without the formality of introductions. Or maybe I was already slipping back into the self-absorbed rhythm of a traveller moving on to the next thing. I walked back to the scooter thinking about her, and I was still thinking about her when everything went wrong on that hill.

When I reached back at the main gate of the temple, I noticed a food stall selling a snack I had never heard of Laphing, a Tibetan delicacy with a soft outer layer and a crushed, firm filling with a tangy sauce inside. It had a really unique texture, and I liked it.

As I reached my scooter after that hearty meal, I found out that my key wasn't going into the ignition point. I tried for half an hour, but to no avail. A lady from a nearby store came over and tried to guide me in some way as she also ran a rental service. A couple of guys passing by tried their luck as well, but nothing worked. Finally, I called the owner. He came with a couple of tools, and after an excruciating hour, the vehicle finally started. Anyone in their sane mind would have left the scooter right there. Not me. I wanted to learn my lesson the hard way.

Off I went to my second destination the famous Company Garden, a beautiful botanical garden with a lake at its very centre, a man-made waterfall, a nursery for seasonal plants, and a wax museum tucked to the side. I grabbed a couple of photos with the poorly made wax statues at the overpriced museum. The only resemblance that truly existed was to a failed painter from Austria who had given most of his intentions away in his early works such as the untitled painting now commonly known as " The Melancholy Soul " and another decent likeness was of the person famous for hilariously caricaturising the former.

By about 5 in the evening, I was exhausted. I had covered almost everything there was to cover, but I had this impulsive idea of squeezing in one more offbeat place a temple dedicated to Lord Balrama, the Bhadraj Temple, sitting in the middle of nowhere.

The route to the temple was lush green, like any other road through the hills, and the rain had grown a bit heavier, making the surrounding forest look dark, gloomy, and hauntingly beautiful all at once. As the route grew steeper, it was becoming really hard to control the scooter. I kept going, until suddenly the front tyre got stuck in a pothole while the rear one started sliding towards the cliff. I began calculating that this affordable backpacking trip was going to cost me roughly as much as a generous one to Thailand or Bali. After a moment of paranoia, I decided to lay the scooter down horizontally.

At that exact moment, I encountered a few engineering students from Dehradun who were there to film drone footage of the valley and the holy shrine. They helped me out and tempted me further with descriptions of the landscapes they had just witnessed from the temple premises. I kept a stone on my heart and decided to turn back, I had a horrid picture painted in my mind of what would happen if I went even further up and the scooter got stuck again, alone in the dark of night with no human presence anywhere nearby. It had already passed six in the evening.

So, on my way back, everything described in the first paragraph of this blog transpired. On the verge of losing consciousness, I had my second encounter with those “Riders on the Storm” who saved me from climbing the “Stairway to Heaven”. But poorly written puns aside, I was indeed saved by those same students. They helped me up, gave me some water, and asked me to stand but my legs were completely sore, and I had somehow scraped my entire right arm raw, bleeding quite badly. They sat with me for half an hour, helped me to my feet, and drove that piece of crap delivered by Satan himself down the doomed road while I sat behind one of their bikes.

Still in considerable pain, I convinced myself to make small talk. I got to know that these guys were preparing for government exams, and one of them had already cracked the SSB and was about to join the naval forces as an officer. In their free time, they filmed various picturesque locations through drones and cameras, posting the videos on a YouTube channel as a passion project so that when they eventually did drift apart, they would at least have a digital footprint of the good times.

I don't remember most of the ride back to downtown Mussoorie. The nausea was considerable, the pain in my leg was making itself loudly known, and the small talk I was attempting from the pillion seat was coming out as something between half-baked sentences and delirious mumbling. But I remember the sunset. I remember it with a clarity that surprises me even now.

The entire range of hills was bathed in orange and yellow not the soft, gradient kind you photograph and forget, but the overwhelming, almost aggressive kind that makes you feel like the light is happening at you rather than in front of you. The clouds that had been heavy and grey all day broke apart just enough to let it through. It looked, genuinely, like someone had taken a decision about it.

I felt everything at once sitting on that seat relief so physical it felt like something leaving my body, guilt about those students who owed me absolutely nothing and gave me everything, a kind of smallness that wasn't unpleasant, and underneath all of it, something that I can only describe as gratitude without a clear recipient. Not quite directed at God, not quite at those boys, not quite at the absurdist instinct that made me think of Bowie at the worst possible moment just gratitude, floating free, attaching itself to the hills and the light and the fact that I was still there to see it.

I regret, to this day, that I never thanked my saviours enough or even had the courtesy of asking their names. You read that right. I don't even know their names. But I am eternally grateful for their gesture of kindness, because of which I made it back to my hostel safely.

 When I entered through the gates, Pawan and Gauri were horrified when they saw my condition. They grabbed the first-aid kit and started dressing my wounds. When the shift changed at the front desk, a new guy Harshvardhan helped me out by having my entire dinner delivered to the dorm bed itself, which was an exception made considering my inability to move due to the injuries (the full depth of which I only understood once I had settled onto the bunk bed).

The dinner was, obviously, a bagel with scrambled eggs and cream cheese, as well as Pav Bhaji overpriced, and the bhaji was in liquid form but no complaints. Everything was hand-delivered to me, and I was pampered as if I were the most important person in that hostel. I genuinely enjoyed it. Would have liked it even more if my leg hadn't been killing me.

I notified my parents and received the scolding of a lifetime. My father wanted me to cut the trip short and grab the next vehicle back to Ahmedabad immediately. After an excruciating amount of convincing, they allowed me to continue on the condition that I lose the scooter immediately and consult a doctor first thing the next morning.

I ended the day watching Forrest Gump, and two dialogues stayed with me, describing me and my day rather conclusively:

"Stupid is as stupid does."

And "I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floatin' around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it's both."

And yeah most importantly -- "That's all I have to say about that."

Thank you for reading.