Adventures in the hills PART -3 Yamuna

An hour later I could hear soft sounds around the room, and I dug deeper into the blankets, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep. Much too soon though, Katie announced to no one in particular, that breakfast would be ready in half an hour.
I peeked out from under the pillow and saw her, all dressed and ready, sitting on her bed brushing her hair. Danielle, like myslef, was still a bump on the bed so I retreated to the dim recesses of slumber.
But another fifteen minutes later, I was dragged into the land of wakefulness, this time Danielle had joined in the effort with Katie, to rout me out of bed and both were looking at me with exsperated amusement.
Molten gold, in the form of sunlight, poured into the room through the tiny windows, blindingly bright.
Nature has a way of exacting payment of those who tresspass into her realm of the mysterious, magical, starlit night and await the coming of the rosy dawn. I paid for it with a heavy head and bleary eyes right through breakfast.The drive immediately after however jolted me wide awake and the fresh morning air cleared the cobwebs of sleepiness (pun intended, refer to the last post).
We stopped over a bridge, and walked down the slight incline that led to a small stream that ran below. Situated half way up the opposite hill was tiny stone building which housed a mill. The villagers who inhabited the neighbouring hills used the mill to grind their grain to flour. The old man who owned and built the mill was sitting atop it, enjoying the warm seeping rays of the sun. His nehru-cap and khadi sleeveless jacket added to the old world charm of the whole setting. He didn't say a word to us girls, but smiled obligingly into the camera.
Kunwarji explained the working of the mill, and showed us how the water was directed from a certain height, the flow of water was controlled by a simple wedge of wood that could be slipped into the grooves that had been carved into the sides of the water channel, effectively slowing or stopping the turbine that powered the mill. Two big round 'doughnut' stones, placed one on top of the other with a barely noticeable space in between made up the mill itself. The stone on top rotated and as the grain came pouring in from above, into the 'doughnut hole', it got crushed into flour and spilled out of the space between the stones. Kunwarji demonstrated the whole cycle for our benefit – it was very interesting and educational to experience that procedure first hand after studying it years and years ago in school.
We also stopped by another small village along the way called Batoli, which was similar to Sainji, and where Kunwarji had a few minutes of business to transact.Then we got back into the red minivan ready for a longish ride, winding through the hills, climbing higher and higher half of the way and then whizzing down curving roads the other half until we reached the huge metal bridge that spanned the Yamuna river.
Within minutes we were in the river, with our leggings rolled up as high as they would go. I found a large rock not too far from the shore and shinnied up on it. I turned around on my perch and saw that the other two had done the same. We felt like kids again, giggling and letting our fingers trail in the fast moving , icy cold water. The river gurgled and rolled by, not really rushing scarily out of control, but at more of a persuasive pace. The sunshine glinted on its green undulating surface. I am sure it would've gladly carried away anything or anyone willing to float along. The shore was rocky rather than sandy, with bits of algae clinging to the sides of the slippery stones. The river bed ran between two huge mountains, that were once part of just one mountain, and over the years it had had a path blasted through it for the river. Large jagged rocks lay strewn on the shore as reminders of the process. Further along the shore there was a summer camp that took paticipants rock climbing and rafting on the river. Their bright colorful tents stood out in stark contrast to the wild nature of those surroundings.
Kunwarji, the ever attentive host, bustled about arranging for a mid-morning snack. He hopped over rocks to throw us a supply of peanut butter cookies, after which he went back to the car and returned with some oranges. This time round, he just threw the fruit into the river and we grabbed them as they bobbed their way towards us! Talk about home delivery!
With a plentiful supply of water all around us, it had to happen sooner or later, and I picked a water fight with unsuspecting Katie. I threw an extra large stone close to the rock she was sitting on, the big splash wet her nicely and I couldn't stop laughing at the look on her face, that mingled surprise and indignation. But I should've known I'd be in trouble, cause she stomped on to the shore and attacked from higher ground. I was cornered and if it hadn't been for Danielle who kept supplying me with ammunition, I probably would've gone under sooner. Katie's aim grew surer with each throw and a truce was called, with me sporting a beautiful blue bruise on my shin (I deserved it, but – ouch!) and both of us soaked to the skin.
Oh it was fun!

Adventures in the hills PART 2 Sainji

The village sarpanch (head chief) married an Austrian anthropologist, and now they host tourists eager for 'the village experience', hence adding to the source of the villagers income.
Kunwarji (as the sarpanch was called) himself drove us up there in a red minivan that rattled and shook and was alien to any comfort a car might offer, but it was the type of vehicle that could survive the hair pin bends and rough terrain of those mountains. The chief was a very hospitable and accomodating host. But by the number of questions we pestered him with, I'm sure he must've concluded that we were a bunch of nosy parkers. We got to Sainji in about an hour and well after dark. Kunwarji showed us to our rooms and then left, we were to meet him for dinner at his house. Our accomodation consisted of a bedroom with three beds and a coffee table, a tiny kitchen equipped with what hoteliers would term as a TCMF (Tea Coffee Making Facility) as well as a fridge. The floor was made out of wooden planks that joined together and had a friendly creak. A basic bathroom that was outside on the adjoining terrace. All of this built about six feet off the ground.
The rooms were brightly painted and the furnishings becoming, colorful and comfortable. The doorways were low with thick wooden old fashioned doors. And tiny light bulbs were mounted on the wall for illumination while a charming wrought iron candle lamp adorned the coffee table.
After washing up a bit, we hurried to Kunwarji's home and on the way became the centre of attraction to the local women, who were gathered in the village square after a long days work. We found Kunwarji watching the news and chatted with him, while Nirmala (his niece) bustled about in the kitchen.
Dinner consisted of dal (pulses), rice, mattar paneer (cottage cheese and peas) and salad – tasty and wholesome. We walked back to the house and for dessert had peanut butter cookies that the sarpanch's wife had graciously made for us.
Then we discovered spiders.
Now I am not prejudiced against creepy crawlies and if they stay out of my way, I'll stay out of theirs. Lizards, I find, are usually sensible and scramble around in high places, unconcerned with human activity. Spiders on the other hand are too inquisitive for their own good and will climb any object that is stationary long enough, and then attempt to stake a web on it. However any movement on the object of their homestead and they'd scurry off into the nearest dark recess.
Our bedroom, as we found out, was decidedly the permanent residence of a throng of black faced, hairy legged and beady eyed spiders and compared to their city cousins, they were whole lot less bashful of our presence.
The thought of one of these arachnids crawling up my leg, gave me the creeps and so I tucked my pyjamas into my socks securely and got under a blanket while Danielle bravely swatted and shooed the visible ones.
We watched a movie till one am, interrupting the show whenever a spider poked its head out. When we finally went to bed, I fell asleep and predictably, dreamt of spiders. Since my bed was lined against the wall (spider territory), my slumber was fitfull, and I finally awoke at 3:30, exhausted and nervous.
I pulled back the curtain and peeked out of the window near my head, - and gave a gasp of delight! The patch of darkness that was visible sky was covered with stars. I threw back the covers. scrambled out of bed and tiptoed to the screendoor, out into the night.
The sight of millions of stars gleaming brightly out of the vast expanse of the night sky was awe inspiring. Never before had I felt so tiny and insignificant. I stuck my head in the door and whispered excitedly to bleary-eyed Katie “You HAVE to come see this” I pleaded.
She stepped out and we both gazed at the “holes in heavens floor” in silence.
“That's it, I'm sleeping out here on the terrace, anyway those spiders wont let me sleep in my bed.” I said.
“You're sure ?” asked Katie, “there maybe worse things than spiders out here, though I'll stay with you awhile before I go back in”
I dragged the quilts and pillows off my bed and Katie helped me arrange them on the floor outside. The night had grown cold so we curled under the blanket and Katie pointed out the different constellations as they charted their course across the heavens.
I witnessed my first falling star, and then another and another... which behaved as though they had been commissioned to be elsewhere in the universe and were hurrying to their new post, way off into the distance.
After a while Katie tucked me in and went back to bed, but sleep still evaded my eyes and I was content just to lie there and observe. A large bat swooped over where I lay, the sounds of the night were magnified – a cricket chirped nearby, the hoot of an owl echoed in the still night, the squeal of a small animal as it became prey...
The sky was bigger, uninterrupted by towering buildings, it stretched from horizon to horizon with no clouds and no moon and the stars so bright they seemed close enough to touch.
I finally knew what they meant when they said that the darkest hour is before dawn. I watched the stars fade gradually and the sky turn pale. The air was clean and sharp. The village still deep in sleep.
As all traces of darkness withdrew and the sky grew brighter by the moment, a cock crowed lustily in defiance, shattering the silence that had fallen just before dawn. And as if they were holding their breath till then, a chorus of birds erupted into song, filling the morning air with their twitter. Its was wonderful!
I could now hear the villagers stirring in the homes nearby. Wood smoke gently rose from the chimneys and soon the scent of fresh tea wafted on the morning breeze. I stretched and rose, wide awake and content to be so. I tiptoed in and rummaged around until I found my camera, then wrapping myself in a shawl I crept up the rickety iron ladder to the roof and waited for the sunrise, all the while being serenaded by warbling birds that thickened the neighbouring bougainville.
The sun took its own sweet time to rise over the surrounding hills, letting the sky brighten some more before it peeked over the horizon, blindingly bright and comfortingly warm, reminding me of the verse “ it bursts forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy.”
I didn't want to put the camera down, every where I turned there were 'pictures' begging to be taken. As I was happily clicking away, I noticed a little school boy with a fresh scrubbed face, dressed in a clean white shirt, grey shorts and tie and weighed down with a bulging school bag, trudging out of the village. I hurried down to the bedroom, pulled on my sandals, splashed my face clean, clutched my hair into a ponytail and headed out once more with my camera.
I was going to school again!
Children now stumbled out of the houses in groups of threes and fours, and made a beeline for the hill across the fields. I followed, pausing every now and then to take a picture while keeping an eye on the “stragglers”. Within a while I discovered that climbing a hill with a camera in one hand is no joke, especially when you want to stop to use it, every few feet on your way up.
Just before I reached the top, I came upon a ledge that housed a cattle shed – the apparent residence of two plump brown milch cows and one very white goat, all of them looked mildly surprised at my intrusion, but continued chewing their breakfast of hay just the same. I could think of no explanation as to why the cattle shed needed to be situated at such a precarious location, maybe the animals were fussy and demanded a 'penthouse' view – demonstrated by the panorama that lay before them.
I continued my climb up the natural narrow 'staircase' that had probably been trodden into existence by generations of school going kids. The white washed school house was perched right on the top and already there were many students loitering around in the adjoining yard. A pink cheeked girl was braidng the hair of her younger sister and fastening each braid with red ribbons just above the ear. Apparently it would still be a while before school began. I chatted with them for a bit though they were shy, and would only answer, not ask. They were happy to pose for a few snapshots, however the ringing school bell insisted we put an end to our photography session.
After waving goodbye, I began my descent to the village, stopping only to coax a disdainfull kitty to humor my fervid photographic instincts. The feline ignored me totally and continued licking herself clean, with complete disregard of my clicking camera. I now own pictures of a rural cat bathed in bright morning sunlight and evidently engrossed in practicing yoga.
The trip down was just as delightful as it had been on my way up, and definitely less exerting. The courteous teacher on his way up to the school bid me a goodmorning as he hurried on. Was he late? Or had the kids played a prank to get rid of me? I really didn't know and, on second thought did not want to find out.
By the time I got home it was around seven o'clock and I headed straight for my bed, spiders or no spiders, I needed some sleep!

Adventures in the hills - PART 1

I had been visiting my dear friend Katie in Dehradun and we had spent some wonderful days catching up on each other's lives, working our way down a stack of movies, baking cookies and patronising Baskin Robins. Halfway through my holiday we decided to head for cooler pastures and boarded a bus for the hour long trip to Mussorie. Once there, we only stopped long enough to gobble up some delicious momos before taking a taxi up the winding roads to Landour. The weather was pleasantly cool and it wasn't as crowded as Mussourie and Dehradun had been.
After depositing our bags at the tiny hotel, Katie and I huffed up a steep climb to the top of the mountain that is Landour, and after a short break to catch our breath we sauntered along the '8 chakkar' a trail that encircles the mountain top in the figure eight. As we walked we sang our favorite songs, some new to me, some new to her and some beloved to both. We met some of the natives who lived in the villages in the valley, and trek uphill everyday in search of work and to sell the milk that their cattle produce, these men carried these cans of milk in bags that looked like large-holed nets, the more fortunate ones letting their donkeys lift that burden, the others bent under the weight themselves. The view offered was beautiful, pine tree grew thickly in the surrounding area and we even caught a glimpse of the distant himalayan snow caps.
It had been getting a bit chilly by the end of our walk and so we decided to nip down and dress warmer. However we did not 'nip' back, I at least 'puffed' my way up in time to capture a glorious sunset on reel (or is that memory card now, in these digitised days)
Then we relaxed at a tiny cyber cafe that doubled up as an eaterie, and had hot spring rolls for dinner while Katie finished some work on her laptop and I copied some poems that I wanted. Our walk downhill was made eventful by the discovery of a huge black scorpion that had planted itself in the middle of the road as though daring someone to run over it. We nearly stepped on it! The rest of the way I treaded trepidly. And though I kept an eye on the road, the beauty of the moonlight threading its way through the dark trees was not lost on me.
After two movies, we had snuggled under the warm quilts, against the night that had grown surprisingly cold in a few hours. In the wee hours of the morning I was awakened by a noise that resembled an exuberant tapdancer practing his art on our roof, instead as I peeked out of the door I found the ground covered in white and hailstones still falling thickly.
Oh it was lovely to go back to that still warm bed and listen to the staccato rhythm the hailstones made on the tin roof as I fell into the arms of sleep.
Next morning, after a breakfast of banana bread, oranges and tea and some Bible time, we went out for another walk around town, we checked out the new up-to-date hospital, stopped at the Tibetan shop and left a note for the friend who owns it, walked by Ruskin Bond's home and got a picture there too. All that walking made us hungry and we made a pit stop at a tiny restaurant called 'Chhaya', that served a lovely chicken salad along with some oven fresh rolls with the cheese still oozing out of them.
Mussourie seemed to be the home of many shaggy haired, adorable mutts and most of them were incredibly friendly. On our walk about town, the whole day through, the dog lover in me had been treated to the sight bushy tails wagging in welcome and sloppy pink tongued 'smiles'. As we made our way through one particular tiny street, we saw a beautiful dog, glowing white and sitting majestically near the doorstep of the house he belonged to. I itched to get a picture of the darling thing. No sooner had I focussed and zoomed in on him, when he became aware of us peeping over the wall. He rushed at us, barking ferociously, his teeth bared – he was a fearsome sight to behold! What a contrast to the calm, stately, benign stature he had assumed just a moment ago, now I could have sworn he was possessed! Boy, was I glad to have that solid wall between us.
Flowers, that seemed to sprout out in the most unlikely places (walls, cracks in the road, thatched roofs - to name a few), grew in abundance in these hills, and their photos were also added to the steadily decreasing storage space, on my camera's memory card.
That evening we met up with Danielle (Katie's roommate) and left Mussorie for a little village higher up in the hills called Sainji.

For pictures check out my facebook profile http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=133356&id=512350627

Cake Ahoy!

I have been missing the fun I used to have at home, cooking for my family – not the serious, satisfy your families hunger pangs three times a day kinda cooking, that all wives and mothers face – but the fun 'lets be creative' kinda cooking.
When the craving for chocolate cake strikes, I usually jump into action.
Well, it struck yesterday and with it struck disaster. Actually it all began last week, I was overcome with the urge to make a yummy, gooey, deep dark chocolate cake. Since I didnt have all the ingredients at home, I decided to cheat and bought a Chocolate Brownie premix on my way home from work.
I was off yesterday and was reminiscing of a book I had read as a child, in which they always had 'Cafe und Kuchen' every evening and I was determined to have the same – Coffee and Cake. Now please understand that I share my flat with three other girls and the kitchen belongs to everybody and nobody if you know what I mean. People come and go and generally dont stay for more than a year. Most of the time we eat at work (in the cafeteria) or go out for a bite. We do have a small cooking range but no-one has ever bothered to buy an oven, so that's where the problem arose: I didnt have any means to bake my cake. Being ingenious, I thought I would bake it in a pressure cooker with sand at the bottom instead of water. The cooker traps the heat and the sand acts as an insulator at the bottom, preventing the cake tin (and the cake inside it) from burning. I was pretty confident of the outcome since this is a tried and tested experiment.
So dawned the day of my great venture and it rained and it poured - and as you can imagine there wasn't any DRY sand available anywhere. “Well what the heck, I'll steam it” I thought to myself and so cheefully we began (both me and Rakhi who works as a pastry chef in Amarvilas and is one of the inmates of our appartment). I started mixing the batter and she rummaged around for a container that would be small enough to fit into the pressure cooker. In the end she just used my pocket knife to unscrew the handle of a small saucepan, and further employed herself by greasing it with butter and dusting it with flour.
Finally the batter was ready - a smooth, glossy, rich dark brown batter! Then the batter went into the pan, the water (instead of the sand) went into the cooker, the pan followed the water and the lid and the whistle topped it all off.
She then made herself a lemonade and I got myself a coffee and we both sat back to await the result. Ten minutes later I asked her, “Shouldn't we have covered the cake?”
“Nope” was her complacent reply. There we sat, sipping and chatting away, whilst the cooker whistled it's head off, begging for attention.
I turned the stove off and waited for a while for it to cool before opening it. And guess what I found out? - YES, we were supposed to cover the cake before closing the cooker. You see the steam cooked the cake sure enough, but when allowed to cool, the steam had no way of escaping and the it condensed right into the cake.
Rakhi and I couldn't stop giggling as we made an attempt at resuscitation. but the poor thing had drowned beyond hope. I tried draining the water-logged-sponge-of-a-cake. Unfortunately we had buttered and greased the pan too well, cause as I tilted it, the whole thing just slid out of the pan and back into the cooker with a glorious splash. Both of us just collapsed laughing. Trust me, I had never-ever had so much fun making a cake. We tried some repairing but it was a lost cause. So we just dumped the whole concoction and drove to the nearest movie hall to catch a show.
You know what someone just told me that we could have used gravel too instead of sand and that would be available easily and could be used even if wet ?!?!?!
Well I guess theres no harm in trying. I'll let you know how it goes this time!
WISH ME LUCK!!!