sidelower

A picture in a travel magazine of a train cruising past a bunch of rosy pink flamingos had caught our fancy a few years ago. Ever since M and I had been planning to visit the vast expanses of the Sambhar Salt Lake. For one reason or the other, the trip was postponed until last week, when we were cruising down the excellent Yamuna Expressway towards Mathura.

Leaving the Expressway, we negotiated the narrow alleys of Mathura's ancient quarters and took the SH 33 to Bharatpur and thence NH 11 to Jaipur. This convoluted route necessitated by horror stories narrated by friends and family while stuck in massive jams on the NH8 between Delhi and Jaipur. Bypassing Jaipur from the south, we hit NH 8 heading due west and at Dudu we turned off the road leading to Sambhar Lake. Road conditions on this entire stretch were excellent bar a few short patches.

The Sambhar Lake is India's largest inland saline water body, covering an area of almost 200km². It is home to a vast variety of birds, both native and migrant. Of foremost interest are the visiting flocks of Greater and Lesser Flamingoes. More than 10,000 birds make this lake their winter home each year along with many others.

The lake is also the production hub of Sambhar Salt Works and produces nearly 10% of the country's supply of salt. The Salt Works' lovely colonial Circuit House was our home during the trip. It is better to call in advance and make bookings as there isn't any other decent stay option available. 

After checking in, we decided to head straight to the south eastern shores of the lake - where the Shakambhari Mata temple is located at the base of a promontory that provides stunning views of the lake. A short but stiff climb to the top of the cliff leads to further magic. The entire lake is visible from the Chattri on top and the sheer scale of the place can boggle the mind. 

After witnessing a gorgeous sunset over the temple, we headed back to Circuit House to be treated to a lovely home style meal cooked by the caretakers.

Next morning at the crack of dawn we were on the earthen anicut that divides the lake in to two. One needs to drive down the Shakambhari Temple road and past the village of Japhog, take the dirt track leading off to the right. Keep your eyes peeled as it is easy to miss. The anicut controls the supply of water in to the pans used for salt production. A railway line belonging to the Sambhar Salt Works runs atop the dam, all the way to Gudha on the other side.

We spotted a small flock of sub-adult flamingos foraging near the dam. Their plumage was nearly white, not having reached the pink colours that the species is famous for. The pink ones, in their large numbers were far away in the water - far even for my 500mm lens.

We drove further down the road to find a closer vantage point. Another dirt track past this freshwater pond leads to the dried portions of the lake bed. This was the closest we got to the birds. Trouble is that a soft mushy layer of mud stands between the water and dried bed. This is almost impassable and hence we never got close enough to the birds for any close up photography. Yet the sight of thousands of flamingos stretching into the horizon against the backdrop of the temple was one to behold.

In the afternoon we were taken on a guided tour of the Salt Works around the lake. The saline water of the lake is evaporated to produce salt via a three stage process. The first step is to channel water into reservoirs from the main lake body. The aforementioned anicut performs that duty From there it is directed into 'condensers' - another pan in which the salinity of water is adjusted. Depending on the prevalent weather the salt content in the water can vary so water is pumped in accordingly until the right level is reached. Thence, it is channelled in to a third pan where the sun does it magic to evaporate the water, leaving only the salt crystals behind. The crystals are transported by the company's unique railway system to be processed in a nearby factory and then shipped across the country.

One last visit to the promontory above the temple followed in the evening. The flamingoes were glowing pink in the blue waters - a sight forever to be imprinted in our memories.

The Inbox chimes - the Orissa tickets have arrived. The weekend is a blur, driving to the Buddha International Circuit for the Formula 1 race, packing, emptying memory cards and charging batteries, and of course drinking like a fish. So a strong coffee is called for as I wait for my flight to Calcutta and onward to Bhubaneswar. 

The aircraft circles over the City of Joy, providing stunning vistas of the two bridges over the Hooghly, the Maidan, Victoria Memorial before turning north to line up with the runway. As much as I love the city, I hate its abominable airport and am glad to be up in the air again. This time, we follow the Hooghly's course where it meets the sea at Haldia before following the coast southward. We turn inland over the Mahanadi Delta and catch a glimpse of the famous Lingaraj Temple before touching down.

The aircraft seat gives way to a captain's chair in an Innova and we're cruising along the NH-5 to Keonjhar, Kendujhar or Kendujargarh as some call it. Grumbling tummies called for a halt and our driver assured us that Hotel Annapurna, just short of Dharmasala was the best in the area. But if burnt daal, garlicky cauliflowers and rotis that could be used as pizza bases was the best NH5 could offer - we are in serious trouble.

Turning left from Panikholi, we drive past Jajpur Road and the next 40 odd kilometres till Anandapur are horrible. Broken roads and heavy traffic slow us down. The sun begins to set as we approach Ghatgaon hills and what a sunset it is? We stop and admire the orange disc as it gently dips below the horizon. Things are looking promising again.

Darkness has fallen as we thread our way through the thick forests of the Ghatgaon hills. The road now lit up only by the headlamps looks like a ghostly path with massive trees bending over it like guardians of a hellish portal.

It is dinner time as we check in at Hotel Sans on College Road, Keonjhar. The running joke has been that the hotel will be 'sans' anything. An empty plot with beds laid out in it. However, we're proven wrong. Almost every creature comfort is provided for. I had expected Keonjhar to be the boondocks, but boy was I wrong?

Nevertheless, Small town India is the best place to look for exotic meals. And on that count, Keonjhar had topped the list. On the menu was 'Chicken Singing', described as 'Chicken on a hot plate served live'.

Since I am the last person on the planet to miss an opportunity to eat a live bird served on a dinner plate, I promptly order one. Only to be disappointed to find a dead bird, hacked to pieces and dabbed with cashew flavoured white sauce. I register my protest with the Bengali cook, who calls me the choicest terms his language has for a madman; for expecting to served a live bird cooked to perfection.

Heartbroken and hungry, I go to sleep determined to get a refund in the morning, promptly forgetting about it at the sight of steaming Dosas for breakfast. The destination for a day is an Anganwadi where I am shooting for a UNICEF project. 

The centre is set high up among the hills, surrounded by scores of iron ore mines. Strangely, the air is clear and no sign of the red dust associated with iron ore mines is visible. Instead, an interminable queue of trucks is parked along the jungle road. Apparently, there is some temporary ban on mining and as a result everyone in the area is twiddling thumbs. Not that I am complaining. 

I wonder though if the dust has any affect on the tiny tots at the Anganwadi, but am surprised to find a fancy device installed at the centre by the mining company to take care of. Not sure of the science behind it, but apparently the thing prevents dust from settling in the air in a 50 metre radius by creating some sort of vacuum.

Shoot done, we head back and I come across a huge Hanuman statue in the middle of nowhere. Our local guide informs us that the hills in the area are called Gandhamardana after the Ramayana legend where Hanuman carries back a mountain full of life giving herbs from the Himalayas. A post on the same launches a fierce debate on the social media as it turns out that Gandamardana was the hill in Rameswaram from where he took off on his epic flight to Lanka. The Orissa connection in unclear, especially since there is another Gandhamardana hill in the nearby Bolangir district. 

Not wanting to mess with local legends, we head back to our hotel. Not wanting to mess with the cook either, I order Dal and Rice and crash early. The next day's shoot takes us to many other Anganwadi centres where UNICEF is supporting Govt of India's Integrated Child Development Scheme (ICDS) in order to improve the mortality ratio among young children. 

Children in Orissa are among the most deprived in the country and visits to Nutritional Rehabilitation Centres (NRCs) set up to treat severely malnourished children are both heartbreaking and heart warming. It is horrible to see kids who were virtually a bag of skin and bone, yet I am happy to note that Indian Public Health system is now setting up facilities that can prevent these children from dying.

My time in Keonjhar is almost up, but a visit to lovely Sanghagra waterfalls just outside Keonjhar town is a must. The chat that evening is about what lies ahead in Kendrapara ...

My review of 'Around India in 80 Trains' that appeared in the Indian Express recently

"Indian origin author Monisha Rajesh’s first attempt at a book is an ambitious one. To travel in 80 trains touching all four corners of the Indian Railways network requires spunk, guile and a cast-iron stomach — specially if you’ve grown up in England and your “India experience” has been restricted to cousins’ weddings and a short-lived attempt to settle in Madras. Nevertheless, Rajesh takes courage and stocks up on anti-bacterial gel and takes us on a rip-roaring trip across the country. Phileas Fogg is her inspiration, so in comes her Jean Passepartout, a self-proclaimed “militant atheist”, Norwegian photographer Harald Haugan.

From Madras to Kanyakumari, followed by a whistle-stop tour of the Tamil heartland, she heads north along the Konkan coast to Mumbai. After experiencing the bone-crushing Mumbai local trains, she sips wine and savours kebabs served by liveried butlers aboard the luxurious Indian Maharaja train. After that, a series of trains take them across the country passing deserts, mountains, mighty rivers and into the boondocks and beyond...."

For years I have followed Mridula's adventures across India. And now she has her eyes set on the icy expanses of Antarctica. And she needs support because it is for a worthy cause.

She wants to be part of a 2013 Expedition called Sir Robert Swan's 2041 which are for raising awareness about Antarctica and sustainability under Sir Robert Swan's leadership. He is the first person to walk unaided to the North and South poles.

"Disclaimer : The Court's decision is not a final one. It is up for review once another plea on this subject is heard. Tiger Tourism in core areas of many reserves is not allowed as it is. This post is more of a rant against the near sighted decisions taken in isolation, rather than have a comprehensive conservation policy."

The Supreme Court of India has banned tourism activities in Core Areas of Tiger Reserves. While the Court's interest in saving the Tiger from extinction is laudable, I seriously think that this is not a well thought out move.

By stopping tourist activities, the Court is denying a large amount of revenue that is used for maintenance and upkeep of wildlife reserves. This money goes in to salaries of the men who keep poachers at bay. Without it, states will be forced to increase their own spend because the Ministry of Environment and Forests, gets less around 0.5% share of the Annual Budget of India. The share of wildlife is about 0.08% in case you wanted to know!

The grant from Project Tiger to Ranthambore was Rs. 3.5 cr and the one to Sariska (where Tigers have already been wiped out once) was around Rs. 1 cr. Compared to this, the Kenya Wildlife Service has a budget of USD 61 million (Rs. 300 crore) and even that is not sufficient!

One must also remember that tourist movement inside parks means more eyes, hands and feet on the ground. It deters poachers from moving freely. Once this movement stops, the poachers only have to outwit the Forest Guards, most of whom have no weapons or even Walkie Talkies on them to report. After this ban, poachers will be rubbing their hands with glee! 

Tourist activities also increase awareness about Tigers and conservation. Why would anyone care about an animal which they are not likely to see anyway?

Rather than banning tourism, the Honorable Supreme Court and the Governments should take steps that

Regulate commercial activities near parks

Facilitate relocation of villages from within National Parks

Increase forest cover

Increase budgets for conservation

Arm and train Forest Guards to tackle poachers

Have strict laws to prosecute poachers

Alas, conservation is a little understood subject in India. This excellent article throws more light on the myopic policies that govern conservation activities in this country.

Contd from Pt 2..

Buying second-class tickets to Bathinda, we made our way to the platform waiting for the Jammu Ahmedabad Express to turn up. We found an empty TTE's seat in one of the sleeper class coaches and decided to call that place home for the next couple of hours. Crossing several tracks to take the line towards Bathinda, we couldn't help but notice the lovely setting of the station with an impressive semaphore gantry guarding the exits from the station.

Once clear, the train settled into a nice throaty rhythm through the picture postcard fields, tall eucalyptus trees and over the occasional canal. The chief feature of this line is length of its straights. So much so that each time the train entered a curve, it was reason for us to celebrate! The line plays host to some lovely and exotic sounding stations such as Romana Albel Singh, Pipli Pakhi Kalan & also to the late Indian President's native village called Giani Zail Singh Sandhwan.

When we reached Faridkot, the station resembled a small cantonment in itself. A battery of cops and soldiers from every conceivable unit and descended onto the station with their Kalashnikovs, mine sweepers and sniffer dogs. The only things that were perhaps missing were a bunch of T-72s and BMP infantry carriers. Maybe they were outside in the parking but boy did they swarm over the train the moment it stopped! Every coach, every toilet was checked from every angle possible. Many people, including yours truly were summoned and questioned about our antecedents and then let go. The next day was the Independence Day and the cops weren't taking any chances.

Eerily enough, the whole scene was reminiscent of the dark days of terrorism when this part of Punjab lived under the ominous shadow of the gun. Everyone in the train had suddenly gone quiet and those speaking were doing so in hushed tones. Co-passengers who minutes back, had been backslapping the guys next to them were suddenly suspicious of each other and we too for no apparent reason were trying to avoid the gaze of the cops. However, all this ended the moment the semaphore dropped and the 16 pistons at the helm of the train roared into life, belched huge amounts of black smoke into the sky and lurched forward. The cool breeze that flew into the coach dispersed the clouds of uncertainty in an instant and things were back to normal again.

Sharing the space near the door with us was an old lady with intricate tattoos on her body that would have put even the baddest Harley rider to shame. Alongside were a few Banjara (gypsy) women who travelled on this route selling trinkets and the ubiquitous water bottle / buttermilk seller. The crowd in the train was predominantly Gujarati, but hearing every second conversation start with "Motabhai" right in the heart of Punjab was quite an experience in itself. Kot Kapura was the next halt on our route where the local population had set up water counters for the passengers in the absence of potable water from the platform taps. Locals volunteered to serve water and refused any compensation saying that 'Wahe Guru' will provide for all. It was so typical of the Punjabi nature and it brought a pleasant smile on everybody's face.

Gangsar Jaito to Bathinda was one fast run and we approached the massive Bathinda junction just as the sun was setting beautifully over the enormous cooling towers of the Guru Nanak Dev Thermal power station, which straddles the yard.

Getting off at Bathinda, we set off in search for suitable lodgings for the night and found a trainspotter’s delight in Hotel Apsara right outside the station. Walking in, we requested for rooms overlooking the yard which was met by a curious stare from the manager but instead asked us if we wanted an air conditioned or an air cooled room. We wanted to have a look at the options before we decided and we were shown a cosy little room with an air conditioner and an air cooler both!! Investigation revealed that the standard configuration of the room allows the use of the cooler only. Only when one pays the extra for the AC does the manager flip a switch near his desk downstairs, does the AC comes alive- Another prime example of Punjabi ingenuity!

Being the hot muggy day that it was, it was natural for us to prefer the AC and soon the hotel boy was dispatched to procure alcohol and grub. The dinner was the world famous in Bathinda Baigan ka Bharta, devoured with gusto while poring over the photographs from the journey thus far and it wasn't long that our snores were drowning the horns of the locos blaring across the road.

Independence Day, and the first sight that greeted us at the station was that of a pair of boys being caught by a Punjab Police constable for clicking pictures at the station. What he didn't know that a far nastier pair of camera wielding 'terrorists' was right behind his back. This pair spent the next hour or so clicking all 'strategic' things at Bathinda station like a lovely Ludhiana WDM2 with a sunrise pattern windshield grille, a pair of blue and cream WDP1s parked under the shade of a huge peepul tree in the sidings and a whole lot of vacuum braked trains!! .

After roaming around the station quite a bit, we decided to relax a bit and found nice benches in a corridor on the platform buildings. Freshly whitewashed arches framed our view of the track as railway men went on with their routines.

A local train towards Ferozpur departed, bursting at its seams reminding us of Andheri station of all places. Presently, the PA system squawked the impending arrival of our train, the Sri Ganganagar -New Delhi Intercity. As we made our way to the platform a ridiculously painted engine turned up at the helm of our train. Painted in Neon Green, with splashes of jarring pinks, blues and oranges on the sides - its painter was some hippy who had far outlived the sixties.

Our route was to take us to Delhi via Jakhal, Narwana, Jind and Rohtak passing through the verdant countryside of Haryana.

Contd.. from Pt 1

From Amritsar, our plan was to head to Bathinda, the long way around. Item #1 on the agenda was the local train to Khem Karan near the Pakistan border. From there we were to travel by road to Ferozepur (about 40 km as the crow flies) and thence to Bathinda. But before we did any of that, there remained the task of finding breakfast.

We headed out on to the street, only to find it deserted! At 845 in the morning, outside one of the busiest stations in the country one would expect a fair crowd but none of that here. For a second the scene reminded of grainy TV images from the late 80s, when terrorism was at its peak and firings, bomb blasts and curfews ensured that people kept indoors. Mercifully, it wasn’t the case – perhaps Amritsar too liked to sleep late on Sunday mornings.

After some hunting we did manage to find a hole in the wall, which was selling some kulchas (a kind of bread found in north India) and paneer curry. The paneer curry was about the worst we’ve ever had. The paneer was best described as vulcanized rubber and the kulchas were perhaps a few days old. Not wanting to embarrass the owner by throwing up in his shop, we scooted as fast as our queasy stomachs allowed and crossed the road into the station.

We bought ourselves some sickly sweet tea and bought tickets to Khem Karan from a counter manned entirely by pigtailed girls barely out of school. One of them was pretty cute and I tried my best 'Pindu' Punjabi (village dialect) on her. For a second she looked at me with amazement and then probably dismissed me as another one of those NRI types trying to impress her. Heartbroken, I turned around to see Bharath looking as if I had probably conversed in Klingon with the lady. So I had to explain the difference between the various dialects of Punjabi spoken around the various districts including the nuances of some, which when spoken - sound more like a Gatling gun on full chat.

We headed back to the platforms to board our train. The line to Khem Karan curved to the left leaving the lines going towards Atari and onwards to Lahore in Pakistan. We were in the lead coach right behind the driver and chose the emergency window, which allowed us unrestricted view of the bucolic landscape. Snaking out of the city, the train left behind the ubiquitous factories and into the fields that are the real deal.

Being paddy season, you could spot the occasional lady bent over with her sickle transferring the saplings - bringing to mind those famous lines from Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary Reaper’. Every now and then we rumbled over a canal where naked kids could be seen splashing around with the buffaloes, while tiny little stations cropped out of nowhere with romantic names like 'Dukhnawaran', 'Gohlwar Varpal', 'Jandoke' etc

We made friends with the granthi (priest) of a Gurudwara (Sikh temple) who was travelling to Rattoke Gurdwara just before Khem Karan. As we discussed our travel schedule, he grounded them by telling us told us that there was no road connection from Khem Karan to Ferozepur. Khem Karan town is hemmed in the by the mighty Sutlej river and Pakistan on the other. The only road crossing which would allow us to head to Ferozepur was at the Harike Barrage. And the nearest railhead to Harike would be Patti from where we could get a bus to Ferozepur. That meant we had to abandon all plans of heading towards the border.

Patti was also one of the few large towns on this route, boasting of a huge grain market. Walking through the bustling bylanes and the busy bazaar, the two of us were certainly a novelty for the town. Patti also had a large number of shoemakers crafting exquisite examples of the Punjabi Jutti (chappal / slip on). Reaching the bus stand, we had another brainwave and instead of taking a bus, we decided to hire a car and travel to Ferozpur through back country roads.

The Taxi-stand at Patti had the swankiest set of cars available. The moment we approached the stand, hordes of drivers descended on us each tugging us in the direction of their vehicle. It had automatically been assumed that we were NRIs and the only logical place we wanted to go was Delhi Airport. So without asking, sums totalling several thousands were being thrown at us.

Much to their disappointment, we haggled for a Hyundai Santro for 700 rupees and off we were to the beat of the most tubthumping music Punjab could throw at us. The first few kilometers were on the state highway, which led to the famous Harike Barrage over the Sutlej, which is the start point of the famous Indira Gandhi Canal project. A project, which has turned parts of the Thar desert to the south into a verdant patch of green bringing hope and joy to the rain-starved farmers. As we approached the barrage, we spotted pickets manned by CISF to protect the barrage. Busy clicking pictures of the barrage I almost missed the fat board screaming the usual "Photography Strictly Prohibite.d"

Quickly, I hid my camera as our car pulled into the hallowed compound of the famous Ishardham Nanaksar Gurudwara, which is built on the banks of the Sutlej. The Gurudwara is part of the Nanaksar branch of Sikhism and does not fly the traditional Khalsa flag that one normally associates with any Gurudwara. This  is a symbol of the sect’s apolitical stance. We parked the car and covered our head as is mandatory before entering any Gurudwara. There were hardly any devotees present at that time and we paid are respects in front of the holy Guru Granth Sahib, the holy book of the Sikhs which contains the teachings of Guru Nanak. Apart from the Prasad, which consisted of 'Mishri' (crystallized sugar) we were also treated to a sumptuous 'halwa' prepared in pure Ghee. And by the way, the Pure Ghee in Punjab is what Pure Ghee is, the rest is all clarified butter!

Despite the fact that we make our own Ghee at home from milk that comes from my relative's own dairy farm fresh from the buffalo's udders, the taste and richness of the milk in Punjab has to be tasted to be believed. A week's stay here could give you all the calcium you need for the rest of your lives!! After roaming for a while in the peaceful environs of the Gurudwara we set off again and left the highway and onto a bumpy back country road which cut across a lush paddy field.

The next 15 minutes were a stomach churning ride through buffalo stables and brick kilns. As if that was not enough, we had to contend with buses teetering at Newton defying angles. They hurtled towards us at scary speeds, covering us in a cloud of dust as they passed. Then there were the 'Marutas' also called 'Jugaad' in certain parts. For the uninitiated, these are locally made contraptions fashioned out of an old Jeep chassis fitted with a Greaves diesel engine normally found in tube wells. These are mated to a rudimentary steering & suspension setup and depending on the kind of body you want (designed by the Pininfarinas, Gandinis & Giugiaros of Punjab) -  you can choose between a passenger only model, a load only model or a mixed body. It is another matter thought that all 3 body styles can and are used for all 3 duties. If nothing else, the Maruta is a living example of Punjabi ingenuity. At a cost of just 12-15 paise per kilometer, the Maruta can carry 15-20 passengers or nearly 1.5 tonnes of cargo. What else can a farmer want?

Another thing we noticed, or rather did not notice was the presence of oxen for tilling the fields. The image of a pair of bullocks yoked together to a plough is perhaps the most common scene in rural India. Yet, there was no sign of them in Punjab. Perplexed, we asked our driver who told us that almost all of the cultivation in Punjab is now mechanized with tractors and harvesters ruling supreme. "But not everyone would be rich enough to buy a tractor?" we countered. He replied that farming equipment is mostly rented and that it is really hard to come by bullock ploughed fields these days.

Just then, we came across a Tata Sumo running dangerously parallel to a maroon Maruti Esteem bedecked with flowers. As we drew close, we saw a video camera sticking out of the Sumo trying to capture the first journey of a newly wedded bride to her husband's place. The driver of the Sumo was literally drawing circles around the Esteem while both the vehicles were in motion. The cameraman was leaning precariously out of the vehicle trying to capture this epic journey from every angle possible! It took a liberal dose of honking and some choicest Punjabi abuses to get the cavorting pair of vehicles out of the way and we cruised along merrily to the tunes of Surjeet Bindrakhiya and his ilk.

Word here about Punjabi expletives; while cuss words in other languages are direct and to the point, Punjabis don't believe in any such thing. Try pissing off any true blue Punjabi and be prepared for a deluge of invective directed at you, grandpa, the village dog and a whole bunch of relations you never knew existed.

On the other hand Punjab is also full of idyllic scenes for the trainspotter. Lush green fields lined by eucalyptus trees provide a perfect backdrop to the railway lines. Smoky engines bring back memories of the 'Ghar Aaja Pardesi' song from Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge. Following the railway line, we were soon at the outskirts of Ferozpur.

Entering the city, we took a flyover that crossed the line and dropped us in front of Ferozpur Cantt. Station. Getting off, we thanked the driver for such a wonderful ride and began our search for suitable place to eat as our tummies had begun growling. The sultry weather however necessitated the intake of a cold beer before lunch and we hailed an auto and asked him to take us to a place where we could get some food and drink.

Our auto, an ancient Lambretta chassis powered by a hand cranked diesel engine topping out at 600rpm shook violently with every turn of the cranky and 500 meters into the ride we were wondering if we'd be Parkinsons patients by the end of the ride. A few minutes later, the auto halted in front of 'Dharma Hotel', which in fact was the traditional north Indian Halwai (Sweet Shop) with a backroom housing a clump of rickety chairs and benches. A shiny steel counter showcased typical north Indian sweets such as Burfis, Gulab Jumans, Jalebis and some radioactive looking Yellow laddoos! The shop owner, an enormous man with moustaches as wide as his shoulders sat in a dirty white singlet and dhoti boiling milk on a huge tawa. Punjabis love drinking milk, which is slowly boiled for hours over a slightly concave tawa, rather than in a bowl.

Unfortunately that wasn't what we were looking for. We explained to the driver that we wanted to go to a place where we could get some alcohol along with some decent food rather than munch on a burfi!! Instead he pointed to a local liquor shop (country brew) and a shady looking hole in the wall joint serving some weird chicken dishes! Exasperated; we told him to take us to some BIG hotel and after much coaxing we were shuttled to Ferozepur city, past Shaheed Udham Singh Chowk and dropped outside 'Hotel International Beer Bar & Restaurant'. Not having the energy to consider and further options, we paid the autowallah and staggered inside to find ourselves in a dimly lit dining area, which had certainly seen better days. The place was almost empty and even before we had taken our rucksacks off, a couple of Thunderbolts had been ordered for.

For those who have had one, there is nothing quite like Thunderbolt, stronger than most lagers with a near 10% alcohol content, it is surprisingly smooth and a first timer may commit the mistake of having one too many.

After a bottle or two, we ordered that famous Punjabi dish, Butter Chicken. Having eaten nearly 24 million varieties of this dish across the country, I hoped that at least an eatery in Punjab would live up to expectation and produce an example that was true to the original recipe. In a couple a minutes a huge bowl filled to the brim was plonked on the table along with hot tandoori rotis and fresh onions. The already dead chicken didn't stand a chance; it was devoured within minutes along with heaps of delectable curry. The Butter Chicken was by far the best ever I have had in my entire life and you can take my word for it.

The after effects of the lunch soon made their presence felt and even moving an inch required considerable amount of effort and willpower. However, the clock was ticking and our connection to Bathinda was just about to arrive. Slowly we tumbled out into the harsh sunlight after thanking the cook profusely for what was perhaps one of the best meals we had ever had and hailed another Parkinsons inducing auto down which dropped us at the cantonment station a few minutes later.

Punjab - The name brings to mind tales that I heard from my grandparents that told of miles upon miles of lush green fields, of rivers of buffalo milk and bus loads of Amb Da Achar. Their stories were laced with a kilo of pure ghee here and quintal of jaggery there. Tales that would probably double the listener’s calorie count every minute. Then there were tales told to me by my aunt – her family fled from Punjab to Delhi- unable to live under the shadow of AK47s and transistor bombs. Tales that talked of Bhindrawale's Tigers and the horror that followed Operation Blue Star.

School had taught me about the Green Revolution that changed the Punjabi landscape forever. The books also taught me about the Bhakra - Nangal Dam, the Indira Gandhi canal. India Today rated Punjab as one of the best states to live in and Its NRI sons have sent dollars and pounds by the gazillions, transforming the entire landscape.

Therefore it was nothing short of a disgrace that I had not been to the land of five rivers for 18 whole years!! The extended Independence Day weekend provided ample opportunity to correct that, so here I was on platform 12 of New Delhi station alongside intrepid traveller Bharath watching the shiny rake of the Swarna Shatabdi to Amritsar being shunted in.

As the train passed through the northern suburbs of Delhi, it passed through endless shantytowns that lined the track on both sides. The early hour made the sight worse as most residents were squatting by the trackside. Heaps upon heaps of garbage, drains choked with plastic kicked up a foul stench that permeated even the walls of our coach! This was Delhi’s ugly truth and we were glad to leave it behind.

Entering Haryana, we were served breakfast. I hate making tea or coffee for me onboard the Rajdhani or Shatabdi trains. Not out of laziness, but for the fact that a flask of boiling water wedged in your thighs while the train bounces along at 100 is not really a bright idea. The last of the insipid breakfast was washed down our throats with 'Joozy' (a mango drink promoted by the Govt. of Kerala and the European Union).

Meanwhile, much too early in the day, a burly sardar had opened a fancy portable DVD player (no doubt imported from 'Amrika') and was watching Mr. Bean discs! What was more hilarious than watching the antics of Rowan Atkinson was the buffoonery of two people diagonally behind him. They were constantly fighting with each other and trying to get a closer look at the screen. The more the DVD guy turned his screen away, the more these two would lean over!

Picking up speed beyond Ambala, the train entered Punjab. We stayed glued to the door as this was our first glimpse of the storied land. Tearing down lush green fields we crossed the hosiery hub of Ludhiana. Just north of Ludhiana was the mighty Sutlej River and past the industrial town of Phillaur we reached Jalandhar. The countryside between Ludhiana and Jalandhar is perhaps the biggest advertisement for Punjabi modernity affluence. The famed GT Road runs close to the track and had cars of the latest make and model zipping up and down. Swanky crop harvesters were tending the fields, and somewhere in the middle of the farmland – lay unlikely sight of huge the glass and steel campus of 'Lovely Professional University'!

Our first port of call - Beas was the next halt in line. As we headed for the door, we crossed the famous river after which the town takes its name. For the world, Beas is significant, as it is the headquarters for the Radha Soami Satsang Movement. As a result, millions of followers converge on this town each year.

On the west side of the station lies a neat terminal for devotees going to the Satsang HQ. Neatly marked stands offer a variety of transport forms available right from the humble tonga to air conditioned Chevrolets. A stall offering cool water for the travelers is manned by volunteers from the Satsang.

However, the reason for our 'spiritual' visit to Beas was not the Satsang, but the quaint railbus that plies between Beas and Goindwal Sahib, a station that takes its name from a famous Gurudwara of the same name.

The blue coloured railbus was parked under a huge peepul tree, while some cows grazed underneath right next to some passengers who were sitting on their luggage waiting for the driver to turn up. The whole setting was just so idyllic that we just felt like stretching on the grass in the cool shade of the peepul with a tall glass of lassi in hand. The driver arrived some 10 minutes later and started the railbus, which sounded well just like a bus!!

After all, the whole contraption was designed around an Ashok Leyland bus chassis with body running on tracks via normal railway wheels! We took the 1315 service, which departed on time, and cut sharply to the left to enter the farmland that stretches into the horizon and beyond. The line primarily serves the pilgrims going to the Goindwal Sahib gurudwara. Apart from that there is little intra station traffic. The stations themselves are nothing but a leveled piece of land with a board stuck up in the middle and a small cabin serving as the ticket counter. Tractors and Combines of all shapes & sizes were spotted but my favourites were the John Deeres, which stood out in their green and yellow liveries.

As we approached Siddhpur Jalalabad, we saw that there was no passenger waiting on the platform, the driver turned around and shouted in chaste Punjabi to enquire if anyone wanted to get off, and when he got no reply, he simply sped through to the station with a friendly wave to the ticket clerk!! Now where else but on a branch line can one spot something like this? The conversation among the passengers was animated with the two of us being the chief topic of discussion. After all two camera wielding, rucksack toting fellows with a pure city accent are not a common sight on that line!

We reached Goindwal in time and the railbus halted for 10 minutes before commencing the return journey. The station consists on a ticket hut and 2 lines, which are smack in the middle of a paddy field. In fact once couldn't make out where the line ended and where the field began!! We passed the intervening twenty minutes chatting up with the driver and clerk. The driver, with his head a blazing red due to henna was friendly fellow and he told us a lot about the line. He said that the line was not making enough money as pilgrim traffic comes only at specific times in a year. The local patronage is not good enough as buses provide better long distance connections.

On our way back, the clerk and Goindwal locked up the office and boarded the railbus. He was on his way to Beas for his lunch break and would return in the evening. On the way, he sold tickets on board for passengers boarding from the intermediate stations as the clerks there were on their lunch break as well. How bus like again!

We reached Beas on schedule and then headed out from the west exit towards the GT Road (NH1) to catch a bus to Amritsar, as there were no train connections at that hour. The road leading to the highway is lined with shops and stalls but my favorite was 'Pappu Burger Bhandar' (Pappu Burger Store) selling Bombay Chowpatty's Famous Veg Hamburgers. In reality a cart selling fried buns stuffed with a potato patty and a thick wedge of onion.

A bus to Amritsar was found easily, but it was another matter altogether to get it moving. Private operators who dominate the route fight for each passenger. As a result buses spend more time at bus stops than actually running on the highway. The 40km run to Amritsar was real pain, which was worsened by the unintelligible music blaring from a speaker stationed right over our head!! But there was no shortage of entertainment - there this Maruti 800 with a sticker which read 'Overtaker Beware of the Undertaker' and a poultry store marked ' GT Egg Center & Chick - Chick Shop'! Brightly coloured trucks sped past with graffiti like 'Buri Nazar Wale Tere Bachhe Jiyen, Bade Ho Kar Sharab Me Mila Ke Tera Khoon Piyen' (You with the evil eye may your children prosper & mix your blood with wine and drink when they grow up). 

We reached Amritsar around 1630 and got off near the bus stand. A few policemen were manning a picket and we enquired about means to get to the Wagah border with Pakistan our objective being to watch the famous change of guard ceremony at the border gate. We were looking for a cab, but the cops told us that it would be stupid and highly expensive to take the cab. And without wasting a moment they caught hold of an auto driver and ordered him to take us to the border and back. Not only that, they fixed the price (250 Rs.) and also noted his registration number to ensure our safety!! Was this was the same Punjab Police that was rather known for its shoot first, ask later policy?

The auto ride however was a real pain the back and the backside. The seat was narrow, barely 4-5 inches and padded with perhaps 5 mm of jute. The backrest was also very low and curved inwards and hit us on the spine at every bump, which were present in plenty. The rudimentary suspension of the auto ensured that each pothole, bump and rut was amplified and transmitted up our spine; compounding our misery at each corner. Nevertheless we made it one piece to the border and were petrified for a second to see the crowd! Hordes upon hordes of fellow tourists had descended to watch the spectacle. After much jostling and pushing, we finally managed to get some seats in the arena, which was filled with nearly 8000 people from not only all parts of India but foreign tourists as well. We got chatting with a Finnish bunch while the ceremony started and tried to explain the whole thing to them.

The atmosphere was lively with some famous patriotic tunes from Manoj Kumar movies blaring over the loudspeaker. A portly fella, most likely hired by the BSF was dressed in national colours and held aloft a huge Indian flag while dancing Bollywood style to the tunes. The assembled janta clapped along and some even joined him for a dance. One over enthusiastic fellow almost broke his neck trying to go in for the Bhangra version of the head spin! Moments later, the music stopped and a moustachioed BSF jawan started screaming patriotic slogans on the PA system and the crowd followed suit. Each slogan was matched in volume by the other side where a similar sized crowd was cheering on a man in dressed in white and green holding the Pakistani standard high.

Soon, a hush fell over the crowd as a bunch of 6-foot tall BSF soldiers lined up and started the elaborate ceremony. Clicking heels in unison, the soldiers strutted around like promiscuous cockatoos, but the way their moves matched those on the other side, the whole ceremony seemed to be carefully coordinated and rehearsed and designed more for the gallery than for any historical significance. Frankly, the whole thing was a big disappointment and looking at the roaring business the BSF canteen was doing, and the number of kids selling of 'professionally shot' VCDs and DVDs on the cover, we were left wondering if it was patriotism or jingoism?

Tired and feeling empty, we found our auto and headed back towards Amritsar in another bone jarring ride. The autowala left us outside some swank colonial style hotel and upon enquiring from the reception, we were told that only 2 rooms were empty, we wished to have a look at them before we checked in and to our amazement we were shown rooms in what would have been the bloody servant quarters of some burra sahib!! Looking at the guests around us it seemed as if Indians were relegated to one corner of the hotel while foreigners were getting the best seats in the house. Shocked at this near racist treatment in our own country, we simply walked out. We found a brand new hotel (Sundew) right next to the Amritsar station entrance. For 700 rupees we got a modern room with all the amenities and none of the attitude. Along with that came a fridge full of soda and coke bottles and quick showers later, we were digging into hot tandoori chicken legs with the old monk for company and another hour or so later, the snores of two tired but content men would have kept the rest of the hotel awake for remainder of the night.

Why we travel - Pico Iyer

What a jerk! The invective directed towards the idiot who has piled a mountain of luggage in the aisle. And towards the collective force of the train’s weight acting on the coupler as it starts. The owner of the luggage appears, rushing in from the door waving goodbyes to the hordes that had come to see him off. Barging his way past me, he spends five more minutes arranging his stuff underneath the seats and I finally  get the chance to reclaim my prized territory - the side lower and the accompanying view of filthy suburbia as the Rajdhani sets off for its daily sprint from the nation’s political capital to the financial.

When I had left home for the station, the late afternoon temperature was in 40s. By the time I get off the Metro at New Delhi, it is drizzling. The ten minute walk to my coach has me drenched, not in rainwater but in my own sweat. But half an inch of tinted glass and the powerful air conditioning of the German design coaches are just what the doctor had ordered.

As the open fields of Haryana come into view, the Pantry steward turns up with the evening snack - a sandwich, a samosa, sweets and a pack of juice. A menu that hasn’t changed from the time when Harish Bhimani claimed to be Father Time each Sunday morning on national television. 

“Tussi Bambe jaana?” A loud voice from the right enquires if I am travelling up to Bombay? My co-passengers are a bunch of Punjabi gentlefolk, already sprawled on their berths like good government servants having a post-lunch nap in the sunny lawns of Delhi’s winter. “Aaho!”, I replied in the affirmative, thus opening a floodgate of queries from fertilizer men from Bathinda, on their way to Hazeera near Surat for some training.

Their queries chiefly concerned the availability of alcohol or the lack of it in India’s only dry state. They were going to spend two weeks there and the question of not drinking simply did not arise. Yet the prospect of breaking the law in a government campus didn’t appeal much, hence the fervent enquiries for legal ways to drink.

I simply point out that the Union Territory of Daman, where booze is legal is a few hours drive away. That lights up their faces and out comes a bottle of Blenders’ Pride and a few cut glasses (Note aforementioned remark on breaking the law). The first peg is generously offered, but politely refused causing a few faux frowns.

As their conversation drfits to the bust size of Mrs. Behl and the enormous backside of the yet unmarried Ms. Gandotra, I resume my lookout from the window. It is nearly seven, and the first of the birds and the farmers are returning home. The orange sun and the dust kicked up by the cattle have set up that magic hour which the Hindi language beautifully describes as ‘Godhuli’.

Looking at the sparse thatchments and curling wood fires, I can’t help but marvel at the tenacity of the farmer, braving it day in and out in weather that would knock us city dwellers out in ten minutes. There, behind the half an inch of tinted glass and the powerful air conditioning - it is easy to conjure such evocative images.

We are now thundering through Rajasthan, covering more than 2 km in a minute when soup followed by a tasty dinner was served. The bootleggers of Bathinda are still going great guns when I decide to draw my curtains and pump up the volume in my headphones. A full moon is out and Nusrat’s Night Song is the perfect accompaniment for the stunning views of the Dara Pass rolling past me.

I am gently woken by the Pantry steward, armed with a flask of hot water and all the essentials for the morning cuppa. We are fast closing in on Bombay and my bay is eerily quiet. The Bathinda gang had gotten off at Surat in the wee hours and I have the whole bay to myself.

I pull back the curtains on both windows and bright sunshine from the rising sun streams in. The PA system squawks the morning news bulletin, via hastily recorded tapes picked up at Surat. Another ritual that steadfastly refuses to die, even in an era where people know about incidents even before they happen!

By the time the breakfast tray of omlette, toast (special service for yours truly), cutlets and coffee is cleared, the first of Bombay’s famed local trains were running alongside. Bleary eyed commuters hanging on for dear life from every hand and foot hold possible.

The Bombay wallas on my train don’t get them a second look, while first timers from the North restart a conversation heard each morning on the Rajdhani, if you listen carefully. “Pata nahi kya rakha hai Bombay mein? Public ko dekho, na ghar mein jagah, na train mein - fir bhi marte hain yahan aane ko!” - God knows what’s there in Bombay, there’s neither space in their homes, nor on the trains - yet people would give anything to come here!

The Bombay wallah seated across them replies - “Kam se kam yahan chor to nahin hai! Dilli mein to Auto aur taxi mein loot hai!” - At least people are honest here, all your auto and taxi drivers in Delhi want to loot you.

The narrow gorge stops abruptly at an anicut. A cluster of trees around the water provides respite from the blazing summer sun. Sudden movement catches my eye. Almost silently, a Brown Fish Owl lands on the tree in front. Cameras automatically turn in his direction, like a missile battery tracking a hostile aircraft. 

Among the whir of the camera shutter, a langoor screams. At first he is ignored, but he calls again. Not the whooping sound while grouping the troupe, but a sharp cackle - a sign of impending danger. A Chital (spotted dear) joins the fray and by then the racket has my undivided attention.

The gorge is now abuzz with noise and movement. Hurried feet can be heard crashing through the undergrowth. Branches swaying as the langoors make haste. A herd of Sambhar (swamp deer) thunder down the slope and disappear. 

Ended up in Orchha a few summers ago. Guide book images of its towering temples and vast ruins had haunted me for years before I finally made it by slieght of hand and twist of fate. But the 3 days that I spent there were perhaps the most relaxing I've ever had in a long long time. Out there by the Betwa river, I could spend hours and hours gazing at the Chattris (cenotaphs) of the mighty Bundela kings who ruled over these lands. Cattle grazed in the lush grass by the banks and a motley bunch of boys tried to do a Louganis as they twisted, turned and dove into the quiet waters. Sunset turned this mystical land into magical. As the big ball of fire descended behind the Chattris, the whole atmosphere acquired a hue that no words can describe. Just as I though that I could leave as darkness fell, the deep blue sky turned those awesome buildings into towering shadows holding back tales of valour, lust, intrigue and heartbreak. It took a lot of effort to move away from the narrow bridge that spans the Betwa and connects the sleepy village with the district headquarters at Tikamgarh. A visit to the Chaturbhuj Temple is a must. Its towering spires afford grand views of the surrounding countryside and the royal citadel comprising of the Raja Mahal and the Jahangir Mahal. The Jahangir Mahal was of particular interest to me. According to history, the Bundela Chief Madhukar Shah built this enormous palace just to commemorate his friendship with the Mughal prince. The palace was built in 20 years after which Jahangir travelled down to Orchha from Agra and stayed there for all of 2 nights !! What a fuckin waste, but then that's how these turnip heads were !! Apart from the palaces, ruins and temples there is hardly anything worth doing here. But if you want a relaxing weekend doing nothing, this is the place to be. It is one of those rare places in India which is still free of touts, beggars and ganja smoking hippies. The shops here are yet to stock Shiva Trance CDs by Prem Joshua and Foreign Exchange centers havent yet sprouted at every corner. The taxi drivers don't fleece you yet, neither do hordes of agents descend upon you selling the virtues of their hotel. But at the same time I am wondering how long would this remain? Already, the local dhabas have shops that have signs that read in French and Hebrew. A hole in the wall tea shop advertises its large menu of Korean dishes and I counted atleast 4 internet browsing centers within 50 meters of each other. The street kids have learnt a few words of English and the moment they see you, they start chanting "Hello, 20 rupees??"  Head there before it turns into another Khajuraho. Head there if you want to spend a busy weekend doing nothing. Head there because it still hasn't been found by the hippie. Head there for Jatayu - the king of birds.