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A ride through rough terrain

Travelling to Tehri and Uttarkashi on a bike filled NITIN CHAUDHARY with a sense of accomplishment

BEAUTIFUL VIEW ALL THE WAY The Tehri dam.

The arrival of the first light of dawn was a bit too sudden; I realised when I stood some 20 km from the site of Tehri dam. I had reached here earlier than expected.

In this not-so-far-off and well-connected place, I stood at the edge of the road looking out over a shallow valley, while taking a break at a roadside hotel. I prepared for the journey ahead; the 20 km ahead that will perhaps take me into the world where tears flowed with water and had become difficult to distinguish.

I have been here before, and on bike again. Tehri meant little during those undergraduate years — only a place offering beautiful views on the way to Uttarkashi. That's the fault of looking at the world with well-travelled eyes; there is a search for something to give a thrill to the traveller, and under this focussed search, the landscapes fail to yield up their meaning.

This time, however, I searched for the meanings. What took me to the place was the underground culture that was reborn with the anti-dam protests. Coffee houses near Connaught Place, Delhi, university campuses and worn-down NGO offices have been infested with the discussions on the lost battles for Tehri, a story which was unceremoniously given a farewell from all the news sources.

I was here not to talk or listen, but to see. I was here after absorbing stories of `activists' who had come down to help people here and to protest. Who are they, and why are they here, I asked. But the answer had to be searched. It was this search that brought me here where at present I stood over the edge to quieten my nerves over the prospects of treading into the unknown. Apprehensions soon settled quietly beneath the excitement.

She was wearing earthy orange and had a look of concern that changed to distress and back to concern in moments. Truly trusting her knowledge, she gave me a speech, punctuated with `Richter', `seismic', `height' and `displacement', with a well-rehearsed touch. Who could have told her this? Perhaps, some engineer here. Landslides

And now, here she stood explaining what she had been explained to before. Sensing no response (was I tired?), she went on, "a landslide would do an equal harm. It will wipe away thousands!" She appealed through her expressions, but somehow I failed to grasp what she wanted from me.

In my college years, a friend had coined a term `cultural capitalists', which at a broader level, described a part of our generation that was brought up in affluence and where English was the first language. That theory, written for the campus magazine, was interesting to read; however, what reminded me of that story now was the mention of presence of a heightened `social sense' among the cultural capitalists. Meaning, they had the craving to do something for the poorer parts of society. However crude the article was, and the brainchild of an amateur, it had now somehow made me see one such cultural capitalist standing in front of me.

The Bhagirathi River.

Some words of consolation and support bubbled out of me as I made my way out of the makeshift house leaving the girl in orange with a disappointed look that had turned into a contemptuous smirk by the time I turned to say final goodbye.

Outside, a group of little children waited in expectation for chocolates, which they eventually got after happily posing for pictures. After confirming the way to Uttarkashi, I proceeded on the road leaving behind Tehri, engulfed in a trail of dust.

Uttarkashi

The evening just had the first blinks when I reached the gates of the market that often mark such towns — crowded narrow lanes, defined with shops selling intricate objects peculiar to such far flung hill villages. The presence of the river Ganga (called Bhagirathi here) and the mountains marking the edges contributed to the underlined mystery of this place.

Standing at the mouth of the market, with the river flowing carelessly behind me, I observed the crowd, which surprisingly passed by me without shuffling and with no more than our shirts kissing.

Uttarkashi is conveniently located for travellers and forms the base camp for treks to Gangotri, Yamunotri and the Gaumukh Glacier. Another attraction is the Nehru Institute of Mountaineering where enthusiasts come from all over for training. The sublime beauty of this place gently nudges the travellers to settle for a long stopover.

Later, I sat on the stones in the middle of the depleted river while contemplating the future course of my journey.

By the time I walked back to the city late at night, the streets were vacant but silently reverberating with a suggestion of life. I had checked into the government-maintained GMVN guesthouse (Rs. 400 per night), which offers value for money. After a quiet dinner, I retired to my room.

Next day, I dared to have a go at Gangotri, realising well that my bike may fail me in the process.

For once, I was experiencing a sense of accomplishment. I could not reach even halfway to Gangotri. However, not on account of my 150 cc bike, but for the landslides that blocked the way.

I returned with a heavy heart, but renewed spirit. Though I took a day extra (than planned initially), the statistics sounded impressive — 1,085 km in four days, averaging close to 270 km a day. I remember once doing a non-stop 120 km stretch when I could not find a suitable stopover.

It took two weeks to recover from accompanying sunburns, pains and insomnia.

But, the memories linger — of the glorious mountains that I had biked to and of the spontaneity that had propelled me on that unplanned journey.

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