Vacillations of our own feeble souls and even feebler faith of our colleagues, my parents marked its start. At times I felt that the only one eager for the journey was our own 'La Poderosa'--journey to cover a 1000 Kms within a span of 3 days, to leave a part of red corridor, Gadchiroli, and to welcome Queen of Satpura, Pachmarhi. The impetus to accomplish a wildely publicised journey--not surprisingly it made us look a bit crazy--was more of a reason than our own willingness. Suddenly I felt that this must be done for some greater good, for something which we weren't sure about, though you may say it was a decision of young impulse that inflict most of us at one time or the other.
Amid scorching sun, resounding city noises and even louder voices in my head we left only to get accustomed to the intense heat, fleeting noises and subduing internal conflicts. Soon we were away from those daily sight of a hundred humans, boring and barren stationery, pandemonic printers and lethargic office life. I hate the grunt of printers and they remind me of screaming swines. We were on our way to our first stop Nagpur, some 175 Kms away. Colourful houses on road sides gave way to continuous belt of farms dominated by yellow patches, pedestrians were replaced by caracasses mostly of dogs and ocassionally cows, chaotic inextricable horn patterns to rhythmic ones specially aimed at you, big shops to small children selling fallen fruits which they collected by road side, intermittent gaze of sun with an indefinite stare, those characteristic shops of Vidharba region selling finely beaten and rolled tobacco almost disappeared and indifferent folks of the city transformed to small attentive bunches appearing regularly, waiting under sheds and swaying their heads with each passing vehicle.
Being a co-pilot can afford you to be luxuriously lost in your own thoughts. What if the bike goes off track and we bump into one of those guarding trees? What if there is some technical glitch and we have to stop in this merciless sun? What if I get one more phone call from home pleading not to go? And then a screeching sound made my head bump against the back of the helmet. Commotions settled like mud in a still water. I can now see clearly through it. We were fortunate not to hit one of those cows that keep popping from nowhere, one behind the other, swaying their heads, sweeping the barren metallic roads to realize there is nothing to graze and then without any eagerness to cross they would do everything to annoy, to test your patience. These "corporate cows" will trim every grass--every single wild blade of grass developed now. We continued to graze passing through Armori, Brahamapuri, Bhivapur, Nagbhid and Umrer. It seemed as if we finally trimmed those small wild grasses to a developed Nagpur--just like those innocent cows.
All those left leaning talks is okay but once I reached Nagpur I could not stop my consumerist self from entering a luxurious food store. I had the meal coupons and felt as if we were there to eat for free. Unless I count currency notes, I feel I haven't spent money. We were in total contrast to the place--everything shining, polished as if for sale, even humans and we as some ancient rock to be displayed in some glass box, dark, tanned from sun, dulled with dust but who cares; consumerism has rendered us with such equality and choice that nobody bothers. The word 'choice' echoed and I suddenly remembered 'My Choice' video that created uproar recently. At the risk of being labelled a misogynist I feel that these videos and talks are far from revolutionary and in turn exhibit resemblance to an anecdote.
Consider a 12-13 year child and his discovery of his father's smoking habits; unable to make his father quit although he never tries to do it, which is very obvious that he won't be able to do it, he feels fascination for trying it himself; the child finds sanctity in the reason that his father smokes, the father finds sanctity in the reason that he now permits his son to smoke; a kind of mutual permission and sanction governs the situation; the child seeks permission, is granted, now feels equal; the father grants permission, accepts his inferiority but in the end decides for himself the coordinates of his own inferiority.
This is the exact position I find with many feminist movements, not exactly movements but outbursts. They resort to permission seeking realising that they won't be able change anything--a kind of 'if you do why shouldn't I'. This is evident in a paradoxical argument regarding the violence content of both men and women and advocacy of equal rights for women in defense forces. Men are usually violent, cause of most wars and blood shed. Women are considerd peaceful and there is certain argument floating, had there been women rule there would be minimum wars, much more peace like those in the times of Minoan Utopia. But they surrender their earlier position when it comes to advocating equality in defense forces. These two contradictory feelings coexist. Are we not experiencing the same mutual sanctity of father and child? Do we not see the father bothered little about it if he is writing the very basis of his inferiority?
We left Nagpur for Chindwara, still 135 Km on NH26B before we can finally rest on the soft beds of our employer's guest house. Alternate blow of hot and cold air on our face felt like we entered and exited an air conditioned room. The best part were the Ghats. It felt as if sliding on the periphery along side a large serpent making its way silently through pitch dark mountainous forests, those bends even threatening to break the vertebral column of the snake, cracking vertebra resonating with increased beatings of the engine at every steep turn. The ghostly look of the forest materialized only during the day. We observed when we retraced it during dusk on our return journey. Trees shed their leaves with pointed, tapered stem appearing as if prepared to impale, barely any movement save our own, occasional screams of horn at sharp turns and greyish forests seemed to spill their colour on metallic serpent which we traced 2 days back--an ambush it seemed to capture and impale the travelling foreigner.
We had another 140 Km on MP SH19 to reach Pachmarhi from Chindwara. Partially fresh from 6 hours sleep we left early in the morning crossing Parasiya, Papariya, Tamia and Matkuli alternating between plain roads and Ghats--Parasiya was adorned with saffron flags atop almost all its buildings, sometimes ravines making us extra cautious at those blind turns, invoking horns and evoking nervous silent shrills. The thought of slipping and falling in the ravines stopped bothering me only when we reached the gate with a welcome board--"Muskuraiye aap pachmarhi me hai". We were quick to reach Pandav caves passing through roads that housed buildings from British times, sometimes finding people who admired and envied our blue vehicle. At times finding the machine alone they would perch it to get themselves clicked, may be for their narcissist urge to be recognised not with their own self but with the help of some supplement.
We crowned the depths of B-fall by lighting a Phillies blunt. The soothing sound of water striking against the glistening rocks and small fishes making you giggle with their play against your foot was enough to end the tiredness. Apsara fall and Rajat fall were much more deserted compared to B-fall partly due to the long trekking. That added to their beauty because you don't have to share the whispers of the fall. Every murmur meant only for you making you sit down to listen to it eternally, its not that there is no other voice but the physiological knob has turned to filter all other sounds, to make this murmur as a bridge between screams and silence. Dhoopgarh was another moment of adrenaline rush when we could not judge the steepness and felt as if we will go back falling into those green abyss. But quick judgement to change gear saved us to reach the highest point in Madhya Pradesh and witness the sun set one more time against the hazy backdrop of greenish Satpura ranges.
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| "La Poderosa" |
Amid scorching sun, resounding city noises and even louder voices in my head we left only to get accustomed to the intense heat, fleeting noises and subduing internal conflicts. Soon we were away from those daily sight of a hundred humans, boring and barren stationery, pandemonic printers and lethargic office life. I hate the grunt of printers and they remind me of screaming swines. We were on our way to our first stop Nagpur, some 175 Kms away. Colourful houses on road sides gave way to continuous belt of farms dominated by yellow patches, pedestrians were replaced by caracasses mostly of dogs and ocassionally cows, chaotic inextricable horn patterns to rhythmic ones specially aimed at you, big shops to small children selling fallen fruits which they collected by road side, intermittent gaze of sun with an indefinite stare, those characteristic shops of Vidharba region selling finely beaten and rolled tobacco almost disappeared and indifferent folks of the city transformed to small attentive bunches appearing regularly, waiting under sheds and swaying their heads with each passing vehicle.
Being a co-pilot can afford you to be luxuriously lost in your own thoughts. What if the bike goes off track and we bump into one of those guarding trees? What if there is some technical glitch and we have to stop in this merciless sun? What if I get one more phone call from home pleading not to go? And then a screeching sound made my head bump against the back of the helmet. Commotions settled like mud in a still water. I can now see clearly through it. We were fortunate not to hit one of those cows that keep popping from nowhere, one behind the other, swaying their heads, sweeping the barren metallic roads to realize there is nothing to graze and then without any eagerness to cross they would do everything to annoy, to test your patience. These "corporate cows" will trim every grass--every single wild blade of grass developed now. We continued to graze passing through Armori, Brahamapuri, Bhivapur, Nagbhid and Umrer. It seemed as if we finally trimmed those small wild grasses to a developed Nagpur--just like those innocent cows.
All those left leaning talks is okay but once I reached Nagpur I could not stop my consumerist self from entering a luxurious food store. I had the meal coupons and felt as if we were there to eat for free. Unless I count currency notes, I feel I haven't spent money. We were in total contrast to the place--everything shining, polished as if for sale, even humans and we as some ancient rock to be displayed in some glass box, dark, tanned from sun, dulled with dust but who cares; consumerism has rendered us with such equality and choice that nobody bothers. The word 'choice' echoed and I suddenly remembered 'My Choice' video that created uproar recently. At the risk of being labelled a misogynist I feel that these videos and talks are far from revolutionary and in turn exhibit resemblance to an anecdote.
Consider a 12-13 year child and his discovery of his father's smoking habits; unable to make his father quit although he never tries to do it, which is very obvious that he won't be able to do it, he feels fascination for trying it himself; the child finds sanctity in the reason that his father smokes, the father finds sanctity in the reason that he now permits his son to smoke; a kind of mutual permission and sanction governs the situation; the child seeks permission, is granted, now feels equal; the father grants permission, accepts his inferiority but in the end decides for himself the coordinates of his own inferiority.
This is the exact position I find with many feminist movements, not exactly movements but outbursts. They resort to permission seeking realising that they won't be able change anything--a kind of 'if you do why shouldn't I'. This is evident in a paradoxical argument regarding the violence content of both men and women and advocacy of equal rights for women in defense forces. Men are usually violent, cause of most wars and blood shed. Women are considerd peaceful and there is certain argument floating, had there been women rule there would be minimum wars, much more peace like those in the times of Minoan Utopia. But they surrender their earlier position when it comes to advocating equality in defense forces. These two contradictory feelings coexist. Are we not experiencing the same mutual sanctity of father and child? Do we not see the father bothered little about it if he is writing the very basis of his inferiority?
We left Nagpur for Chindwara, still 135 Km on NH26B before we can finally rest on the soft beds of our employer's guest house. Alternate blow of hot and cold air on our face felt like we entered and exited an air conditioned room. The best part were the Ghats. It felt as if sliding on the periphery along side a large serpent making its way silently through pitch dark mountainous forests, those bends even threatening to break the vertebral column of the snake, cracking vertebra resonating with increased beatings of the engine at every steep turn. The ghostly look of the forest materialized only during the day. We observed when we retraced it during dusk on our return journey. Trees shed their leaves with pointed, tapered stem appearing as if prepared to impale, barely any movement save our own, occasional screams of horn at sharp turns and greyish forests seemed to spill their colour on metallic serpent which we traced 2 days back--an ambush it seemed to capture and impale the travelling foreigner.
We had another 140 Km on MP SH19 to reach Pachmarhi from Chindwara. Partially fresh from 6 hours sleep we left early in the morning crossing Parasiya, Papariya, Tamia and Matkuli alternating between plain roads and Ghats--Parasiya was adorned with saffron flags atop almost all its buildings, sometimes ravines making us extra cautious at those blind turns, invoking horns and evoking nervous silent shrills. The thought of slipping and falling in the ravines stopped bothering me only when we reached the gate with a welcome board--"Muskuraiye aap pachmarhi me hai". We were quick to reach Pandav caves passing through roads that housed buildings from British times, sometimes finding people who admired and envied our blue vehicle. At times finding the machine alone they would perch it to get themselves clicked, may be for their narcissist urge to be recognised not with their own self but with the help of some supplement.
We crowned the depths of B-fall by lighting a Phillies blunt. The soothing sound of water striking against the glistening rocks and small fishes making you giggle with their play against your foot was enough to end the tiredness. Apsara fall and Rajat fall were much more deserted compared to B-fall partly due to the long trekking. That added to their beauty because you don't have to share the whispers of the fall. Every murmur meant only for you making you sit down to listen to it eternally, its not that there is no other voice but the physiological knob has turned to filter all other sounds, to make this murmur as a bridge between screams and silence. Dhoopgarh was another moment of adrenaline rush when we could not judge the steepness and felt as if we will go back falling into those green abyss. But quick judgement to change gear saved us to reach the highest point in Madhya Pradesh and witness the sun set one more time against the hazy backdrop of greenish Satpura ranges.
I lived in Pachmarhi for 7-8 years, dreamy place. It's best between June and September when you get to experience the fury of monsoon in all its glory. Is your La Pederosa still alive and thumping?
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