However much as one would like to get over and be done with doctor appointments, some days get completely derailed. Never mind the fear lurking in the mind of the outcome of such visits. Perforce one has to sit patiently waiting to be called by the receptionist, clad in a short white coat, bursting with self-importance. And when she announces unapologetically “We are running behind schedule…please come back after lunch,” tempers justifiably hit the ceiling. Having to deal with sore bums and hunger pangs, further compounds the woes.
On such a day, with frayed tempers, we stepped outside in search of an eatery, and located one closest to the hospital, on the sidewalk. Small, with limited indoor and outdoor seating. Serving the usual South Indian fare of crispy golden-brown dosas, idlis, pongal, and vegetarian thali meals. Comfort food for hungry stomachs, most enjoy for its freshness, quick service and pocket-friendly prices. A few four-wheeler taxi drivers, construction workers, hospital staff along with us quickly filled up the space during the lunch break. Placing our order at the counter, we opted for the kerbside sit-outs. Grabbing a vacant table and chair, we made ourselves comfortable enjoying the breeze under the awning of a big banyan tree. An altogether different and humbling experience.
The food arrived in nanoseconds. And we dug into it pronto. The smell of clarified butter preceding it had already activated the salivary glands. While we were at it, in walked Lady Moo, in her shiny black coat, udders full, demanding to have lunch with the rest of us. No one seemed disturbed by her presence or irritated at her persistent calling out for lunch. I confess it was unnerving to have her breathing down my neck, mortally scared of being guillotined with her ivory polished horns, ringed with a marigold garland. Unfounded. She stood unmoving on her ground, polite and gentle, belying her size and appearance.
That she was a regular was evident with the waiter bringing out a steel plate heaped with idlis and vadas, which she polished off in no time. Lifted her tail and took a dump right there in front of a ‘no-class distinction’ audience. Shook her tail a couple of times, as if to say “thank you” to the manager and the waiters. Gently stepping down the kerb, ambled across to the opposite side, unconcerned about holding up the traffic flow in both directions. No one honked to upset Lady Moo, the privileged one who has the right of way in our country, at all times, disregarding any urgencies or emergencies. Not uncommon in a marriage of the urban with the rural, across big cities. Mind calmed, we returned to the hospital to face the ‘wait challenge’.
They say happiness comes in small bytes. This incident sparked a silver line of hope that suddenly made its appearance to lift the spirits that had taken a beating in the hospital. A complete volte-face!
Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a published author of four books and a regular contributor to anthologies published in India and overseas. A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.
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Storm at Sea on a Moonlit Night, Painting by Ivan Aivazovsky (1817-1900)
AT THIS MOMENT
The moon is a frightened bride, with nowhere to hide. The wind is a wolverine. Wandering lost in a fog. My boat shakes like a leaf of tea, as I drift like a sodden log. I look for a crack in the sky, Where light can shine, but rain falls like razors. At such a time, I should think of my wife, how worried she’ll be, but in moments like this, afraid for my life, I can only think of me.
IN NOVEMBER
Dead leaves fall from trees with a cancer-like disease. Clouds drift by in their ordinary way, moving too quickly to say what they might say. The river still flows somewhere. I don’t know where. I’ll never go there. Time is only important when you need to say goodbye. It will soon be snowing. Like people, winters come and go. The snow begins falling. I stare at my unmade bed. It’s now been a year, that you’ve been dead.
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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The nurse says quietly, efficiently. 'I'm sorry but you can't disturb the chairs.' So we push them back, a tentative scraping; now, regimented at the bedside, we form a silent circle around a patient centre. We talk a little, laugh when we can. The air is hot and stuffy; and always the pungent tang of disinfectant. In the adjacent bed lies an older man, tubes snaking from his body to a 'Life trace' machine. At his side his wife holds his hand; and, as he tries to speak, she says softly, again and again, 'I know. I know.' His hand, in hers, struggles to squeeze out a response. On the screen a white line scales small mountain peaks. Up, down. Up and down. Random numbers flash erratically.
II
We hear a rasping cough. See the old man's arm swing through the air, describing a careless arc. His hand thumps off the bedside table, upsetting a vase of flowers. Slowly, very slowly, the vase tips over the edge, sudden water leaping at the brim. One by one, the flowers, daffodils, I think, spill out.
III
Now the glass vase turns through the air, scooping up the sunlight, bright water gasping at the neck. Someone moves, as if to catch it. But no-one does. It smashes on the hard, scrubbed floor, scattering into a hundred pieces. Fingers of sunlight seem to pick at the pieces; nimble beams on gleaming glass. The flowers' flaccid stems lie, forlorn there, on the floor; and, helpless, we can merely look on; just watching the water spread.
From Public Domain
Stuart MacFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.
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Namita Gokhale is a writer and a festival director. Her work spans various genres, including novels, short stories, Himalayan studies, mythology and books for young readers. She is the author of twenty-three works of fiction and non-fiction, including the novels Paro: Dreams of Passion, Shakuntala, Jaipur Journals, Things to Leave Behind and The Blind Matriarch; and the edited anthologies Mystics and Sceptics: In Search of Himalayan Masters, Himalaya: Adventures, Meditations, Life (with Ruskin Bond), and (with Malashri Lal) In Search of Sita, Finding Radha and Treasures of Lakshmi. Gokhale is the recipient of several awards, including the Sahitya Akademi Award (2021). She is the co-founder and co-director (with William Dalrymple) of the famed Jaipur Literature Festival.
At the outset, Namita Gokhle’s Never Never Land seems conventional, centering on the protagonist’s quest for meaning amidst loneliness in a bustling city life, where relationships and even “monsoon is a betrayal”. What sets this book apart is the imperative nostalgia of both lived and unlived experiences that permeate through the narrative. The author captures the nostalgia well with her style which skilfully moves between a first and third person narrative, navigating between the past and the present, with the principal character embarking upon a journey back to her roots.
The protagonist, Iti Arya, is a single, middle-aged freelance editor/ writer struggling to find a footing in her life. Undetermined about her writing which doesn’t seem to take off, she decides to return to The Dacha, a place of her childhood, in the hilly Kumaon region, where life for her had been beautiful if not downright perfect. It was a place she had longed for while living in dusty Gurgaon surrounded by a concrete forest, a place she hoped to return to find herself, a place where she could find meaning in relationships, a place where validation for who she was and what she strove for ceased to exist. ‘Never Never Land’ seems to be for her, both a literal and symbolic place of return.
Iti returns to her grandmother with whom she has spent the happiest days of her school life, her Badi Amma who used to tell her that when mountains speak, one must listen carefully. She returns to find out the stories that she can only find in the mountains. At Dacha, the cottage owned by a hundred and two years old Rosinka (her amma’s erstwhile employer), she also comes across Nina, around whom an aura of secrecy hovers. The course of the novel then ripples with their interactions providing contexts for Iti’s quest forth. At times, she is awash by the unspoken love of her Badi Amma and Rosinka, feeling secure in their presence and in the knowledge of their affection for her and for each other, an unlikely friendship that is stronger than any relationship she has known. Her stay there makes her re-examine her life to find the missing pieces that lead her to feel lonely and uncomfortable.
An inheritance, a theft, a strange recovery in a deluge, and an unfolding of a truth later, make Iti come face to face with her reality. She makes peace with memories of her now departed mother whom she did not love but wished to be seen by. She holds onto her Badi Amma and Rosinka whom she dreads to lose. She holds onto the place that makes her feel protected. A place she belongs.
The essence of the book lies in the warm relationship shared by the women whose stories are uncovered layer by layer. Women, who lonely in their own ways in life, find comfort with each other and stand guard of each other’s happiness. Reading the book reminds one of the likes of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, only that here women are not bound by blood but by an understanding that has come with years of living together for one reason or another.
The cover page of the book, inspired by Nicholas Roerich’s painting ‘Himalayas — the Abode of Light’, resonates with Iti’s journey towards clarity and finding a meaning that illuminates her life. At the end of the monsoon, as the sun comes out, she feels revived and willing to carry on, with herself, her grandmothers and the mountains.
Rakhi Dalal is an educator by profession. When not working, she can usually be found reading books or writing about reading them. She writes at https://rakhidalal.blogspot.com/ .
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Pond near Springfield by Oscar Grosch (1863–1928). From Public Domain.
Like a breeze, I walk lightly. Sitting in the spring sun, Gazing at the green valley, Life is truly a lonely thing.
Even with yesterday's memories and tomorrow's hopes, Even with friends coming and going and daily business, Living is truly a lonely thing.
All day today, I've been thinking of you. Is my life lonely because I miss you? Is this spring day lonely because you're there?
Like a breeze, I walk aimlessly. Sitting on the grassy field, gazing at the waves in the lake, Even this blossoming season feels lonely
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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(for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt and Christine Ena Hurt)
There will be joy in the morning for now this long twilight is over and their separation has ended. For fourteen years, he had not seen her whom he first befriended, then courted and married. Let there be joy, and no mourning, for now in his arms she is carried over a threshold vastly sweeter. He never lost her; she only tarried until he was able to meet her.
LADY’S FAVOUR
May spring fling her riotous petals devil- may-care into the air, ignoring the lethal nettles and may May cry gleeful- ly Hooray! as the abundance settles, till a sudden June swoon leave us out of tune, torn, when the last rose is left inconsolably bereft, rudely shorn of every device but her thorn.
(Published by The Lyric and Suravejiliz)
HAPPILY NEVER AFTER (the Second Curse of the Horny Toad)
He did not think of love of Her at all frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads (nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small at last to be invisible. He smiled (the fables erred so curiously), and thought bemusedly of being reconciled to human flesh, because his heart was not incapable of love, but, being cursed a second time, could only love a toad’s . . . and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . . and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted, his anaemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
(Originally published by Romantics Quarterly)
From Public Domain
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.
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An eight-year-old girl stands near the bustling confines of an airport: her eyes are wide, her smile bright. However, beneath that radiant smile lies subtle hints of deeper emotions known only to the girl herself.
The discovery of this photograph had been an accident as I was sifting through a neglected box of keepsakes. The moment my eyes met the image, a floodgate of memories unleashed. I could feel myself stepping off the plane and onto American soil, the soft glow of the cabin lights, and the sea of unfamiliar faces. The conversations flowed around me as I stumbled blindly into a linguistic labyrinth.
The memory of that first day in American school etched itself in my mind. The teacher introduced me, and I blushed as the other kids looked upon me with fascination. I felt like an outsider unable to fit in. My thick Indian accent, which I had never thought about, was now a stain that separated me from others. My tongue stumbled over words spoken with the cadence of another world. The perplexed gazes of strangers mortified me. That day I made a promise: I would do anything and everything to fit in and change my accent. It was an instinctive reaction, born out of my desire to be native in a foreign land. It was a survival mechanism, a way to navigate the social structures that formed the scaffolding of this new world.
Beyond verbal communication was the challenge of writing and spelling. On the first day, we had a benchmark spelling test. I performed miserably. Growing up in India, I was educated in the British English system. Words like “colour,” “favourite,” and “theatre” adorned my vocabulary with their extra “u”s and “re”s. These linguistic quirks had been ingrained in me since childhood, and I had never questioned their correctness. Soon I realised that my spelling, which I considered impeccable, was peppered with these “mistakes.” I was embarrassed. I developed an obsession with consciously correcting my old habitual spellings, like “colour” to “color,” and “favourite” to “favorite.” Like leaving behind my Indian accent, I sought to rewrite this part of my identity.
I grew up to become a chameleon, forever adapting my linguistic hues to blend seamlessly into the ever-changing landscape of my life. In a peculiar dance of identities, I became a performer mastering the art of disguise. Even now, I marvel at my own adaptability, at how I can effortlessly switch between rhetorical worlds. It’s as if I have a wardrobe of culture, with an American accent for the world outside and my own familiar Indian accent tucked away at home. When I’m with my family, when I return to the comfort of my roots, the switch is automatic. The words flow with the rhythms of home, and my voice reverberates with the echoes of my heritage. It’s a return to a world that doesn’t require adaptation, a place where I can be unapologetically myself.
In this continuous performance of linguistic acrobatics, I’ve realised that my identity is not fixed but fluid, a reflection of the multiple worlds I inhabit. I am the chameleon, forever changing and adapting in this intricate dance between accents and authenticity. I’ve found a new version of myself—a person who can navigate two cultures, seamlessly switching between accents yet remaining true to my unique identity. I was neither wholly Indian nor entirely American; I was the synthesis of these two worlds, a living metaphor of cultural fusion. As the years passed, I found solace in the poetic beauty of my dual identity. In the end, I realised that it was in this tapestry of language, accent, and identity I had truly discovered myself—a narrative still being written, a story still unfolding, a girl who had found her place in a land of dreams.
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Chinmayi Goyal, a student at Yorktown High School in New York, is passionate about writing. She serves as editor-in-chief of a newspaper called VOICE and has published several of her piecesthere.
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As I was fast asleep in my bed of roses, Someone silently moved The cuckoo clock standing against the eastern wall And hung it next to the awning through which I watch sunset.
As I sleep on my bed of roses, The cuckoo comes out of the darkness every hour. The cuckoo's breast is brown, like the pile of wood stacked on funeral pyres. The cuckoo would look at the unencumbered nail sticking out, And blow its honest heart out, ‘It’s not about death I am afraid, It’s about living’ – It’s time I hang a picture of the churchyard symmetry Where my father, my mother and my friend have gone before, sleep. I sleep past my bed of roses. I do not draw conclusion from the waxing of or waning of the moon The moon passes through the window over the beads of raindrops All night, The good old cuckoo clock minds ‘Cuckoo…, cuckoo…’.
From Public Domain
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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Chaptek: The feathered shuttlecock is kicked with the heel to keep it in the air as long as possibleBelon acah (or galah pajang) is a team sport where players cross against the barricading opponents.
LIFETIME BY MAIN MAIN
wooden blocks, wooden trains, ageing memory still remains. friends divide, police and thief, evening sweat a stress relief. Belon acah on badminton court, cari lobang through the fort. colourful feathers adorn chaptek, mesti main during pagi break. hantam bola with acrobatics, ducking projectile, elak tactic. rounders, imperfect diamond, home runners jadi legend. ceper with five bottle caps, navigating past the 3D traps. guli lined up without blame, mata sempit taking aim. tightened cord, to spin gasing, if too loose kepala pusing, whack the stick, gili danda, count back jangan salah. Hide and seek, every little nook, hearts like pages of an open book.
Glossary main main: play, playing Belon acah: name of the game cari: look; lobang: gap or hole chaptek: featherball mesti: must pagi: morning; hantam: strike / hit; bola: ball elak: avoid jadi: become ceper; bottle cap guli: marble mata: eye; sempit: narrow slit gasing: tops that spin kepala: head pusing: turn, context is disoriented gili danda: name of the game jangan: don’t: salah: error / mistake
You can check out more about the games mentioned in the poem by clicking here.
A game of Ceper
.Sanjay C Kuttan, poet, philosopher and writer, was born in Malaysia, lives in Singapore, has his poetry published in Where Fires Rage, In One Breath, Under the Spell of Flickering Lights, Quilted Sails and in other anthologies.
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Farouk Gulsara on a cycling adventure through battleworn Kashmir
They say to go forth and explore, to go to the planet’s edge to increase the depth of your knowledge. Learning about a country is best done doing the things the local populace does, travelling with them, amongst them, not in a touristy way, in a manicured fashion in a tourist’s van but on leg-powered machines called bicycles. Itching to go somewhere after our memorable escapade in South Korea, cycling from Seoul to Busan, as the borders opened up after the pandemic, somebody threw in the idea of cycling from Kashmir to Ladakh. Long story short, there we were, living our dream. The plan was to cycle the 473km journey, climbing 7378m ascent in 8 days, between 6th July 2024 and 12th July 2024.
Our expedition started with us landing in Amritsar after a 5.5-hour flight from Kuala Lumpur. From there, it was another flight to Srinagar, where the crunch began.
Day 1. Amritsar
Amritsar Golden Temple. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
After a good night’s sleep, everyone was game for a quick, well-spread breakfast and a leisurely stroll to the Harmandir, the Sikh Golden Temple. Much later, I realised the offering was 100% vegetarian and did not miss any non-vegetarian food. As a mark of respect, the vicinity around the temple complex served only vegetarian food, including a McDonald’s there. Imagine a McDonald’s without the good old quarter pounder! Hey, image is essential.
The usual showing of gratitude to the Almighty was marred by the unruly behaviour of the Little Napoleons, the Royal Guards. New orders were out, it seems, according to one guard with a chrome-plated spear and a steely sheathed dagger at his hip—no photography allowed. Then, on the other end of the Golden Pool, it was okay to photograph but only with a salutary (namaste) posture, with hands clasped on the chest. On the other side, it was alright. One can pose as he pleases. The guards were more relaxed there.
That is the problem when rules are intertwined with religion. People make their own goal post and shift it as they please. When little men are given power to enforce God’s decree on Earth, they go overboard. They feel it is their God-given raison d’etre and the purpose of existence. Since nothing is cast in stone and everyone in mankind is on a learning curve, what is appropriate today may be blasphemous tomorrow and vice versa. We distinctly remember snapping loads of pictures of the full glory of Harmandir day and night during our last visit, preCovid.
We all know what happened in the Stanford experiment when students were given powers to enforce order. It becomes ugly very quickly. Next, the flight to Srinagar.
Boat House Dal Lake, Srinagar
Srinagar. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
My impression differed from when Raj Kapoor and Vyajanthimala were seen spending their honeymoon boating around the lake in the 1964 mega-blockbuster Hindi movie Sangam. Then, it had appeared insanely cold, with mists enveloping the lake’s surface. Serenity was the order of the day. What I saw in the height of summer with a temperature hovering around 30C, was anything but peaceful. Even across the lake, the constant blaring of car horns was enough to make anyone go slightly mad.
The lake is a godsend for dwellers around it. Many depend on the lake to transport tourists and sell memorabilia and other merchandise on their boats. The rows of boat houses are also popular sites for honeymooners and tourists to hire. Privacy may be an issue here. Imagine small-time Kashmiri silk vendors just landing at the boat house and showing produce to the occupants. They may want you to sample their kahwa,a traditional spiced-up, invigorating, aromatic, exotic green tea.
Day 2. Boat House, Dal Lake, Srinagar
Kashmiri Kahwa, a spiced tea. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Early morning starts with peaceful silence until the honking and murmur of the crowd start slowly creeping in. It was a leisurely morning meant to acclimatise ourselves to the high altitude (~1500m) before we began to climb daily till we hit the highest point of ~5400m. This would — aided by prophylactic acetazolamide –hopefully do the trick to keep altitude sickness at bay.
The morning tête á tête amongst the generally older crowd was basically about justifying our trip ahead. The frequent question encountered by these older cyclists was, ‘Why were they doing it?’ The standard answer was similar to what George Mallory told his detractors when he expressed his desire to climb the peak that became Everest.
“Why? Because it is there!” Mallory had said.
The cyclists told their concerned naysayers, “Because we can!”
Yeah, the general consensus was sobering. Time was running out, and so many things needed to be done before the big eye shut. There were so many places and so little time!
Lal Chowk. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Continuing the easy-peasy stance before the crunch, a trip to town was due. Backed with the symphony of the blaring of honks, we made a trip to the town square, Lal Chawk. After checking out how regular people got along with life, we realised the heavy presence of armed army personnel at almost every nook and corner of the town. Perhaps it was because it was Friday and prayers were in progress.
The return trip to our boat house was a trip down memory lane. After spending most of our adult lives in air-conditioned cars, the trip back on a cramped Srinagar town bus brought us back to our childhood, when rushing to get a place in the bus and squeezing through shoulder to shoulder in a sardine-packed bus was a daily challenge. That, too, was in the tropical heat minus the air conditioning.
By noon, temperatures had soared to a roasting 30C. So much for cool Kashmir!
Our trip coincided with the Amarnath Yatra, an annual pilgrimage for Shiva worshippers who pay obeisance to Holy Ice Lingam.
Dal Lake. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
The evening was the time to familiarise ourselves with our machines, which involved a ride around the city. It was a nightmare of an experience where we had to simultaneously see our fronts, back, and sides. It was jungle fare. Nobody knew from which direction vehicles were going to barge at us. We survived somehow, if ever we were born in India, our most probable cause of death would be death by road traffic accident.
The ride brought us to the affluent part of Srinagar, which changed our perception of Kashmir as a war-torn zone. What we saw were nicely manicured lawns and neatly painted buildings. The only hint of disturbances is the apparent presence of armed army personnel nearby. It is said that the one single sign of peace is to see people hanging around lakes and esplanades. We did see this on this ride. Young families were strolling along the promenade to a string of shops selling potpourri of delicacies. Kashmir appeared peaceful.
Day 3. Srinagar…move it, move it…
Sunset at Dal Lake. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
It was 4am in Kashmir, and all through the night, it had been raining with occasional threats of thunder in the distance. The plan was to start riding as soon as the day broke with the first ray of the sun. That could be 5am or later. And it has probably nothing to do with Indian timing. Today’s ride would be a 90km challenging ride with an ascent of 4.5%.
All the cyclists survived the ordeal. Starting around 6am, after checking the machines and last-minute briefings, we were good to go.
We did not know that Lake Dal was so huge. The first 20km was all about going around the lake. The first stop was at Mani Gam, a picturesque countryside with a massive tributary of the Sindh River, for an early breakfast of hot milk coffee.
As expected, the traffic was heavy because of the Amarnath Yatra. But one would expect attendees of a divine voyage like this to want to exhibit tolerance, patience, and softness. Unfortunately, the ugly side of drivers was in full glory. If the rest of the world would blare their honk with all their might just before a head-on collision, here, the same action is synonymous with informing another fellow road user that he is around.
To be fair, many pilgrims were in chartered vans, and the drivers were quite aggressive, overtaking in blind corners and swerving to the edge of the roads. All in the name of making more trips and making money for the family.
Sind River at Ganderbal. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
They say with greater powers comes great responsibility. Apparently, the lorry drivers here missed the memo. Locally, they are known as the King of the Road, with multi-octaved ear drums rupturing high-decibel honks, sometimes to the tune of Bollywood numbers.
The cyclists continued grinding despite side disturbances that can push any person raving mad; the steady climb was unforgiving. Just when they thought that was the end of the climb, they were fooled for another just after the bend. The most gruelling part was the end of the day’s trip. We rode more than 85 km, climbed a total elevation of 2692 m, and still lived to tell.
Hotel Thajwass Glacier, Sonamarg
Along Srinagar…Ladakh Highway. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Dinner was entirely vegetarian as a mark of respect to the hotel’s occupants who were there to fulfil their pilgrimage at Amarnath temple. The brouhaha that struck a chord amongst many occupants was the cancellation of helicopter services to the pilgrimage site. The pilgrims were given the choice of either walking a 15 or 22-km track to fulfil their vows or they could pre-book a helicopter ticket to go there. The trouble with the helicopter services is that their feasibility depended on the weather. Weather is controlled by God, the logical explanation would be that God was not too keen to give audience to the so-and-so who were scheduled on flight.
After the light chat with fellow hotel dwellers and answering their curious questions about why able bodies would want to torture themselves, it was time to hit the sack. We could have asked them why fly when they could walk, but we did not.
Day 4. Sonamarg
Sonamarg. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
We decided to make it a day of light and easy. Everyone was left to their own devices after the spirit-sapping grind the day before. Most took a rain check on the initial hike but went for a long walk instead.
So, we took a stroll in the Kashmiri Valley, admiring the result of Nature’s choice of colours in His palette: the symphony of rushing cool mountain water and the refreshing cool breeze.
We met a couple from Chennai at the breakfast table with a sad tale. They had recently lost their only child who was born with cerebral palsy. They had to part from her after caring for their child for many years. They suddenly found plenty of free time on their hands. They decided to spend the rest of their remaining post-retirement lives doing short gigs, earning enough money to tour around and help out other families undergoing the same predicament as they did with their special child.
When we think we do not have nice shoes, we should not forget about those with no feet. No matter how big our problems seemed, others could have had it worse.
Sonamarg can be classified as a tourist town with rows of hotels on either side of the road, occasionally laced with souvenir shops and restaurants. The township appears to have been newly built, with freshly tarred roads, loose pebbles on the road shoulder, and unfinished touch-ups.
Day 5. Off to Drass
On the way… Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
We were off to Drass, the coldest inhabited place in India in winter. A quick read and one might read it as Dr-Ass, rather fitting of a name as one could use an examination of one’s derrière after a climb that was upon us. We will see you in hell. But wait, hell is supposed to be hot, is it not? Or hath hell frozen over?
At one point in the 1947-48, Drass was invaded and captured by Pakistan. Soon later, India recaptured Drass. We were only 12km from the line of control (LOC).
Hotel D’Meadow Drass
As expected, it was a gruelling ride. The first 21km were excruciatingly torturous, with narrow roads that had to be shared with the notorious motorists who thought that without the honk, one could not drive. We had to test our trail biking skills later as quite a bit of the stretch was undone or probably collapsed as a result of downpours. We were left with a sand tract and later fabricated stone tracks, which gave good knocking on our posterior ends. Remember our appointment with Dr Ass?
Zojila Pass. Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
After the 21 km mark, it was generally downhill, but our guide told us to unlock the mountain bike suspension for more comfort due to the violent bumping. The road improved as we entered Ladakh but was interspersed with occasional potholes that shook the machine.
After a short lunch break at a remote restaurant (referred to as a hotel), we were good to go and finally reached Drass at about 3 pm.
We had gone through the gruelling Zojila Pass. A tunnel is currently being built to connect Sonamarg and Drass. It would cut down travel from 4h to 1.5h.
Point to note: this Pass lives up to its name. When Japan was attacked by many post-nuclear attack monsters, the biggest one was referred to as Gojira. Hollywood decided to christian Gojira as Godzilla, giving rise to the meaning of gigantic as in Mozilla and Godzilla’s appetite. Zojila Gojira, what’s the difference? Both were scary.
Day 6. Drass to Kargil
Leaving the ‘Gateway to Ladakh’ and the ‘Coldest place in India’, we headed toward Kargil, which had been immortalised in annal of history when Pakistan and India fought a war in 1999.
Today’s cycling routine was less enduring compared to our previous rides. Most of the route was a downhill trend lined by dry, stony mountains on one side and the gushing blue waters of a tributary of the Indus on the other. The road condition was pretty good, with recently tarred roads, barring some stretches being tarred and resurfaced in various states.
After completing the close 60km trip to Kargil, we were told we were the fastest group the organiser had ridden with. Eh, not bad for a bunch of sixty-something madmen! Maybe they were just words of encouragement.
I was surprised to see Kargil as a bustling town with many business activities. Construction is happening here and there. Vendors were spreading their produce. Touters were busy looking for clientele. Hyundais, Marutis, and motorcycles thronged the streets, which were obviously not built to handle such tremendous volumes. Everyone was in a hurry. That is a sign of development.
We were housed in the tallest building around here. It was a four-story, four-star hotel with a restaurant and 24-hour hot water services. In most places we stayed, hot water was only supplied at short, predetermined intervals.
Day 7. Kargil to Budkharbu
The day started at about 6:45 am, with temperatures around 9C. This leg was expected to be tough. Two-thirds of our journey would be climbs, and there’d be more. It is expected to be sunny throughout, so we could expect a lot of huffing and puffing.
Today’s ride was easily the toughest one. Straddling on our saddles for 7.5 hours was no easy feat by any means. The climbs went on and on. The steepest and most prolonged ascent came after 39 km. It was a sustained climb for the next 10 km, hovering between 4% and 12% ascent.
Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Nevertheless, we were feasted with some of the most mesmerising views of barren, arid landscapes, as though someone had painted them with hues in the brown range, occasionally speckled with malachite green and a top of sky blue. It was a feeling as if we were at the edge of heaven.
We pass through a small town called Malbech, which appears to be a Buddhist town with many temples and chanting over its public address system. I guess no one wants to keep their sacred words of God to themselves. They had a compelling desire to broadcast it to the world.
Many Shiva temples and mosques lined the road of our ride, all showing their presence with specific flags, colours and banners claiming those areas.
We finally reached Budhkharbu at 2 pm in the heat of summer Ladakh. The temperature was about 22C. The total biking time was 5h 43m. Everyone was shrivelled, depleted of glycogen and energy.
Budhkharbu is so far from civilisation that the occupants do not feel the need for digital connectivity. Only we, the town folks, were having withdrawal symptoms for not being able to upload our Strava data to earn instant gratification. Foreigners were not allowed to purchase SIM cards, so we were essentially crippled for a day.
Day 8. Padma Numbu Guest House, Budhkhorbu to Nurla
Photo Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Rise and shine. Rinse and repeat. Breakfast at the Guest House to a vegetarian, sorry, no eggs too, accompanied by the aroma of incense and the tune of ‘Om Jaya Jagatheeswara Hare1‘, we were good to go. I suspect the owners of this guest house were ardent BJP supporters. The keyholder to our rooms carried a lotus symbol. And the BJP mission office was their neighbour.
We were up on the saddle and ready to move by 7:15 am. The sun was already bright and shiny by then, and we were all enticed by the 26kms steep decline.
After 9 kms, we did not mind the initial steep climb traversing the unforgiving Fotula Pass. At one point, we almost reached 4,200m above sea level. Other than the occasional passerby and military barracks, there wasn’t a single inkling of life there. It was just barren, arid land for miles and miles.
64 km later, we arrived at our destination, Nurla. Nurla is a no man’s land and is not featured for first-time visitors to Ladakh. Nearby is a self-forming statue of the Sleeping Buddha and a giant statue of Maitreya Buddha. Here, the seed of the Namgyal Dynasty started. It is famous for Tibetan paintings. As temporary sojourners, we just learned and moved along.
By now, we had learnt how the honking system worked. Even the brotherly advice from BRO (Border Road Organisation) advises using vehicle horns, especially at blind corners and overtaking another vehicle. At a telepathic level, the driver seems to converse with the other, ‘I can take charge of my vehicle as I overtake you. Now, don’t you make any sudden moves, can you?’ The melodious tone of honks, especially of lorries and buses, is just to liven up the monotonous journey, as do music (and movies).
Day 9.Travellers’Lodge, Nurla to Leh
We were told today’s leg would be challenging, with 85 km to cover and a steep one. Hence, we had to be up on our saddles by 5 am.
In essence, today’s outing was the toughest by far. We climbed two hills, and just when we thought everything was done and dusted, another climb to our hotel came. Overall, we covered 85km and 1672m elevation in 7h 2m.
We saw two essential tourist attractions as we approached Leh: Magnetic Hill and gurudwara. Magnetic Hill is believed to create an optical illusion of a hill in the area and surrounding slopes. The cars may be going uphill when they are, in fact, going downhill.
Sourced by Farouk Gulsara
The Guru Pathan Gurudwara is another curious worship site in the middle of nowhere. Legend has it that Guru Nanak stopped at this place, coming from Tibet and towards Kashmir. It was a Buddhist enclave. While meditating, an evil demon tried to crush him by rolling down a boulder. Hold behold, the stone turned waxy soft and did not injure the Guru.
An indestructible piece of rock was encountered while constructing this stretch of the highway. The Buddhist monks told the authorities of the legend, and the Gurudwara was erected. The Buddhists revered Guru Nanak and treated him as a great teacher.
The journey ended with a brutal, unrelenting climb to our final destination, Hotel Panorama in Leh.
The next journey the following day to Khardungla was optional. Only the young at heart opted for it. A 37 km journey with an inclination of 8% constantly with possible extreme subzero temperatures was too much to ask from my gentle heart. I opted out.
Thus ended our little cycling escapade from Srinagar to Leh, Ladakh. Few will attempt this journey with SUVs or superbikes; only madmen will do it with mountain bikes.
P.S. I want to thank Sheen, Adnan, Basil, and Samir of MTB Kashmir for their immaculate planning and supervision of the rides.
A holy chant extolling the lord of the Universe ↩︎
Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy and Real Lessons from Reel Life, he writes regularly in his blogRifle Range Boy.
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