Have Wheels, Will Travel.

          We drove approximately 200 kms from Srinagar to Daksum with our few-months-old son perched between me and Husband’s back, on our second-hand motorbike. Plastic jerry-cans of boiled water, packets of milk and washing powders and four dozen cloth nappies (disposable stuff tenna hanga mell naashilley) were tied to the vehicle. At temperatures hovering around zero degrees Celsius, the rough roads were covered with slippery ice through which we could see the carpet of needle-like pine leaves. The trees zoomed up twice higher than the Benauli Cocos nucifera naarls. The ghats were steeper than any in the Sahyadris, and much longer. Chai-dukaans were many kilometres apart; no habitat in-between.

Kurkure, Fruity and bottled water were decades away. We drank directly from the curvy Jhelum; at the time, we could do that from the Zuari and Mandovi, too. A crumpled map was our guide and the beautiful Pir Panjal range our reference.

          It was hard to describe to my Aji in Palolem what the rest of India, what snow, was like. The advent of running water, electricity, tourists and television has banished that ignorance.

          When in Jodhpur, we explored the Thar: Uttarlai, Bikaner, Mt Abu (where we encountered a bear on an early morning walk), Salawas, Ranakpur, Shekhawat. An annual measly couple of centimetres of rainfall brought out of the clayey soil millions of tiny prawns. None ate them. Tey shivraak loag survived on goat’s or camel’s milk, the hardy plants that grew around there and pulses.

          Parts of Uttar Pradesh and the North East gave us a feel of Goa: giant jackfruits, mangoes, bananas, pineapples, peroos, chickoos, roots that were roasted and eaten with rice and dark-skinned folk with bright, white smiles.

But the fish were river creatures. Sea-maal was sold at weekly haats (bazaars). Trucks brought in surmai, paamplate, lobsters (before the five-starred kitchens and exporters raised the price) from Jamnagar, Kakinada, even Vishakhapatnam. Perhaps they still do and in better condition, since modern freezing facilities are better.   

Some enterprising Goan Christians had settled in such places and set up shops selling dried bangdey and homemade chaurees. They used to visit their ‘native place’ once a year to get ‘stock’. Anyone visiting Goa got more. Keralites were in the same league.

Our longest drive in distance (1550 kms) and time (five days) was in a 1967 Fiat with a 44-kg hyper-ventilating dog who wanted to sit on the front seat. Friends at Gwalior, Indore, Pune and Nashik provided cheer, meals hot and packed, and beds.

We shed our heavy winter coats enroute, crossed the ravines of MP without event, saw thousands of tons of onions being transported... learned later that Jalgaon has the world’s largest factory to make onion, garlic (think pizza) and banana (for desserts) powders for export.

Last week we drove to Pune via Kolhapur. Even if we hadn’t carried our own water and food (to save money, time and plastic-garbage), we wouldn’t have been inconvenienced. Neera stalls and food ‘joints’ dotted the roads.

Strangely, there were super-speciality hospitals, too. Two of them were not for trauma care but for cardiac treatment. Who expects heart emergencies in the middle of sugar-cane fields? The boards mentioned ‘research’. Clinical research? Ethically done? Anyone checking this? Racing wheels churn up all sorts of thoughts.

Petrol pumps and green boards with arrows were conveniently located. We needed to ask for directions only when we entered the city and the GPS couldn’t figure out which road was closed for digging. Easy when compared to previous years, when driving through forested or sparsely populated areas could be dangerous (and hot, without air-conditioning). The Man once met an elephant one dark and lonely night in far-off Hashimara, West Bengal. Still not certain which of the two was more startled.

We entered Goa via a road with more ditches than surface because one sadist told us it was ten kilometres shorter to Panaji.        

When the road smoothened out, familiar features came into view: crosses, bars, speakers broadcasting religious music over a temple mast, aaboli and jaswanti hedges, women squatting near bus-stops selling tarle, pedvem, lepem and the occasional visvonn, buses packed with labourers going home, boards inviting tourists to hotels, advertisements for boat-‘cruises’ and ‘authentic’ Goan food... and then we saw one for “bikers”, for those interested in wheeling it to see porcupines, otters, bison, hornbills, pangolins, etc.

Away from the hype of the beaches, ‘rocking’ festivals and ‘drinks’, anni ek Goem asa, of which I am eager to learn about… on wheels, or on foot.