Episode 17: One More Dream (concluding episode)

 

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

On the way to Bangalore, we stopped at Ramana Ashram for one final visit before leaving Tiruvannamalai.

The driver drove very skillfully. His steady and expert driving helped me relax and even get some sleep in the car.

After reaching Bangalore, I dropped the driver at an interstate bus terminal in Shantinagar, from where he could get a bus back to Tiruvannamalai, and drove to the homestay, which was about three kilometres from there.

After checking in, I switched on the AC and slept like a log till evening.

I had got a lot of rest that day: in the car and at the homestay. Consequently, I felt like going out for a stroll in the evening.

This homestay was near one of the entrances to Lalbagh, which is a massive garden in Bangalore. I thought it would be a good idea to spend some time amidst nature in Lallbagh.

Not wanting to sit in a crowded place, I parked myself on a good seat in a secluded part of the garden. The only people who passed through that path were joggers and evening walkers who went about their exercise quietly. Two hours of sitting quietly under a tree in nature made me feel a lot better. I felt that I could leave Bangalore the next day itself instead of staying back for an additional day.

That night, I paid my dues to the homestay host and told him that I might leave the next morning if I felt good enough.

When the alarm rang in the morning, I woke up feeling very refreshed and decided to leave for Belagavi right away. The drive from Bangalore to Belagavi was quiet and uneventful. I stayed once again at Abhi’s homestay in Belagavi for a day and left for Pune the next morning.

On the way to Pune, just after crossing Kolhapur, I was stopped by a group of four traffic cops. They had put up one of those barricades that force you to slow down and drive zig-zag. It seemed they were doing routine checking.

One of them walked up to me and asked for my license and car papers. I gave him my license and the pouch containing the car papers. He examined everything carefully with a taciturn expression. The license was good, the car registration was good, the insurance papers were good. His expression did not change until he held the PUC certificate in his hands. That’s when I noticed a faint glimmer of joy which immediately transformed into the original taciturn look.

“The PUC certificate has expired,” he told me.

I checked the card. He was right. It expired three days back.

I tried to explain to him that it had just expired a couple of days back and promised to get it renewed in Pune. I also showed him the stack of all past PUC certificates as a proof that I always had my papers in order. However, my explanations did not help much. He insisted that I pay the fine. I had neither the energy nor the inclination to argue, so I paid the fine, and moved on towards Pune.

On the way, at a particularly empty stretch of road, I reminisced about the one and half month stay in Tiruvannamalai.

Three desires had converged to make this trip possible. Ever since my grad student days in USA, I had a strong desire to do an adventurous long-distance solo drive. The second desire was to spend at least a month in a place like Tiruvannamalai or Rishikesh, where I could stay away from city life in relative solitude. And finally, I harboured the desire for a spiritual experience.

I got the adventure and the solo drive. I also had an opportunity to stay in reasonable solitude, away from city life. However, the spiritual experience that I had hoped for did not happen. Instead, I found peace while looking at Arunachala and the stars from my terrace. I found peace in the ashram during the evening aarti and in my visit to Virupaksha cave, where Ramana Maharishi had stayed for several years. But most importantly, I experienced kindness from both my Airbnb hosts and other strangers who helped me deal with various challenges that came up from time to time.

It felt like Ramana Maharishi was winking at me, saying: “Relax buddy, I gave you what was best for you!”

As I drove on towards Pune, nature once again showed up in all glory. There were mountains, open fields, the sky above me, and the road moving rapidly below. My mind took a flight and started planning the next solo trip—this time, from Pune to Pondicherry. 

Episode 16: This time it's not a car problem

 

The view of Tiruvannamalai from Arunachala Hill

The days in Tiruvannamalai passed by rapidly.

I worked in the mornings, read in the afternoon, visited the ashram in the evenings, and stared at the stars and Arunachala from my terrace at night 🙂

Every full-moon, thousands of devotees do the girivalam — a 14-kilometre walk around Arunachala. The full-moon happened a few days after the fuel-pump incident and I was very excited to walk 14-kilometres in three and a half hours.

One morning, I climbed up Arunachala to visit the ancient Virupaksha cave where Ramana Maharishi had stayed for several years. There was an energy of immense peace in the cave. The mountaintop also offered a breathtaking view of the city and the Arunachaleshwara Shiva Temple.

In the mornings, I cooked Khichdi for myself and my evening meal was an uttapam with filter coffee at a restaurant opposite the ashram or a light meal at a nearby terrace restaurant. I often shared a table with other travellers and exchanged interesting stories with people from different parts of the world.

I enjoyed a wonderful 4-week stay in Tiruvannamalai and before I knew it, my stay was soon ending.

In the second half of my stay, the mercury had risen in Tiruvannamalai. To cool my body, I started consuming copious amounts of packaged lassi I bought from a supermarket near the ashram.

I’ve always had a problem with tonsils from childhood. Artificial fruit flavours, cold water, and aerated cold drinks don’t go well with me (fortunately, my system has never complained about beer). It’s been decades since I stopped drinking cold water and artificial juices, but somehow, lassi did not ring any alarm bells in my mind. It should have, because a week before leaving, my throat hurt like hell and I caught a very high fever that refused to subside, even after three days of complete bed rest and max doses of paracetamol. I also could not eat anything which left me very weak.

Bala and his family helped me a lot during this time. I will always be grateful to them for the generosity and kindness they showed me.

One of his cousins, who owned an auto-rickshaw, took me to the doctor and arranged for medicines. The doctor said that a virus was going around Tiruvannamalai and many people had come to him with similar complaints in the past few days. He put me on a regimen of heavy antibiotics that helped my throat get better in a couple of days. The fever also subsided. However, it took me a few more days to regain enough strength to walk around the apartment.

Bala arranged for a maid to clean the house, clothes, and wash the dishes. She also cooked a bit of khichdi in the morning. A katori of khichdi was about all I could eat without throwing up.

However, in the evening, my body refused any kind of solid food. During my frequent visits to the terrace restaurant behind my apartment, I had spoken often with the brothers who were caretakers of the restaurant. When I was unwell, they delivered a bowl of soup every evening. It was very kind of them because, as a practice, that restaurant did not do home deliveries.

I had to extend my stay in Tiruvannamalai, since it was impossible to travel back to Pune in that state of health. Once again, Bala was very helpful. He said I could stay as long as I wanted and could also leave when I was in better health with just one day’s notice. A super kind gesture on his part.

A few days later, when I was doing better, I walked to the terrace restaurant for dinner. The restaurant caretakers had already been very kind to me and I did not want to bother them further. I was also keen to go out and get some fresh air.

I’m sure many of you have watched the movie: The 36th Chamber of Shaolin. After the movie’s grand success, video libraries in Mumbai were flooded with kung-fu movies. I could never figure out the story in those movies, but they had a lot of antics and drunken kung-fu masters.

That day, on my way to the restaurant, my head started spinning after walking a few metres, after which I walked in the dark and dangerous alleys of Tiruvannamalai like a combination of a drunken kung-fu master and the brilliant Bollywood comedian, Keshto Mukherjee. Full of bravado, I climbed up two flights of stairs, swaggered into the terrace restaurant, tipped my hat, and shot a sideways glance at my new friend. Stabilising my body, I raised my right hand in greeting, while expertly balancing my water bottle in my left hand, after which I took the crouching tiger stance, and said, ijhiijhjiiyay, in a way that would have made even Keshto blush.

Anyway, I had a full plate of khichdi, which was quite an achievement considering my diet from the past few days. On my way back, I could walk like a normal sane human being. No crouching tiger; only ijhiijhjiiyay.

After saying ijhiijhjiiyay a few more times, my health improved steadily and my appetite returned to normal. However, I still wasn’t in a state to drive back to Pune, so I decided to stay in Tiruvannamalai for a few more days. After a certain point, my recovery plateaued. I think it was because the weather in Tiruvannamalai had become very hot.

Unable to take the heat much longer, I left for Pune after a couple of days. Even though my health was much better, the stomach cramps and weakness persisted. So, just to be safe, I asked Bala if we could find a good driver to take me to Bangalore. Bala spoke with his uncle, who had helped us earlier to find the car mechanic. He helped us, once again, by arranging for a trusted driver to drive my car to Bangalore.

With these arrangements done, I was keen on reaching Bangalore because I felt its milder weather would help me recover faster.

Previous Episode: An Unusual Maternity Home 

Next Episode: One More Dream (concluding episode) 

Episode 15: An Unusual Maternity Home

Photo by Niranjan _ Photographs on Unsplash

I didn’t have to wait too long for an answer. A squirrel leaped onto this guy’s chest from the fuel pump area and sprinting from chest to stomach to knee, and having disembarked from the mechanic’s body, it made a dash for the bushes.

The wire hunter emerged from under the car with a flat, square, nest-like structure made of grass and other throwaway stuff. Within this structure were two small squirrel babies. He held the squirrel babies in one hand and some chewed wires in the other.

“Oh my God,” I exclaimed. The squirrel that had just jumped out some time back was a mama squirrel who had birthed two babies near my fuel pump. My car had become an unlikely squirrel maternity home.

I looked at the babies. They were very little, very cute, and translucent. Their eyes were shut and their body expanded and contracted as they breathed.

The mechanic held the grass bed gently and put it down under a tree. After that, he showed me bits of wires which the mama squirrel had chewed away.

It was a moment of mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was happy that they had finally figured out the problem, but, on the other hand, I felt guilty that these little squirrels had been separated from their mother and were now in the wild, unprotected from predators. I could hear crows cawing from the trees, and prowling cats couldn’t be ruled out either.

Squirrels get scared very easily and the mama squirrel had taken off in fear. But I did not know if she had abandoned her babies or was hiding somewhere waiting for the right time to get them back.

I stood beside the babies to make sure they were safe while the mechanics continued working on the car. But, really, how does one care for newly born baby squirrels who have been abandoned? I was wondering if I should take them to my apartment or to a vet or to an animal shelter. I was clueless and so was Bala, my homestay host.

I checked the Internet, hoping to find answers there. One of the articles suggested that one could take the baby squirrels to a local animal shelter. Another suggested that it’s best to take them home and care for them for three weeks until they can move out of the nest. I didn’t know how to care for baby squirrels. I didn’t know what to feed them. Surely, they would need something to sustain themselves. They were so tiny that I was scared to handle them. Taking them to an animal shelter felt like a better solution.

I asked Bala if he knew of any animal shelters in Tiruvannamalai. He didn’t. I asked him if he knew of any vets. He didn’t know any vets either, but said that he could find out. We continued our discussion, trying to figure out various possibilities to protect the babies.

Meanwhile, the mechanics had fixed the car and asked me for the key. The stockier mechanic got into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key one notch to start the electrical system. He wanted to explain something to me. He told me to watch out for a “grrrrrr” sound from the back of the car.

“This is the fuel pump sound,” he said.

He explained that the car makes this sound every time you turn the key one notch. It meant that the fuel pump was starting. If we don’t hear the sound, it could indicate a problem with the fuel pump.

Next, he folded his hands, closed his eyes, chanted “Om Namah Shivaya”, and turned the key one more notch to start the car. And lo-and-behold!!! The car cranked and fired like its good old self. For the second time in this trip, the harsh sound of my car’s engine sounded like the sweet melodies of Shreya Ghosal.

Relieved that the car was sorted out, I suddenly realised that I had left the squirrel babies alone for a long time. I turned back towards the tree to look for them. That’s when I saw Bala smiling from a distance.

The nest was empty. Bala said that while we were near the car, he also moved away from the tree to answer a phone call. Interestingly, once everyone was away from the babies, the mama squirrel came and quietly took its babies.

Ultimately, everything ended well, and I happily paid the mechanics their fees and added a good tip. I thanked them and Bala a dozen times before taking the car for a little spin in Tiruvannamalai.

Episode 14: Shriek Upon Shriek

Photo by Xavi Cabrera on Unsplash

I paid the mechanic for his visit and watched helplessly as he wrapped up his stuff and mounted his bike to leave.

Just as he was about to leave the parking space, I realised that I had not seen him get under the car. Mechanics have to get under the car at least once. It’s a customer satisfaction thing. Like, when you go to a doctor, you feel satisfied when they listen to your problems, nod with sympathy, and give you some blue, pink, and yellow pills.

This guy wasn’t getting away without getting under the car. And in any case, you have to get under the car to check the fuel pump. His shady voltmeter may have declared that the circuit was good, but he should have checked the fuel pump wires as well.

I shouted, “Wait, wait!”

He stopped and looked behind.

“Did you look under the car in the fuel pump area?”

“No sir not needed. All circuit good.”

“No no. Please check the fuel pump. Get under the car and check the fuel pump wires… Fuel pump wires. Please check if they are cut.” I repeated, in a desperate attempt to stop him.

He shook his head as if I was a child who refused to understand a simple thing.

But, fortunately, he decided to humour me. Getting off his bike, he pulled out a small jack from his backpack, raised the car, and slid under.

I stood by the side, looking at him expectantly. Hoping that he would find something in there.

I could see he was struggling with something. He came out from under the car after five minutes, showing me his bare but stout hands.

He was a well-built person and apparently, his palms and wrists were too large to reach the place where the wires were located.

For a moment, I wondered if I should volunteer to find the wires. My hands were thin and could reach the wires if he gave me directions.

However, he promised to return with one of his colleagues before I could suggest myself for the job.

I was in two minds. I really wanted to check this myself because I wasn’t even sure if he’d return. But he assured me that he’d be back with his colleague in a few hours. I was a bit hesitant to let him go, but there wasn’t any way to stop him, so I thanked him and said that I’ll wait for his call.

I went back to counting petals, but the afternoon sun blazed angrily at me, as if reminding me that flower petals were meant to be used for supremely important matters like love, and not for trivial matters like car break-downs. I respected aasman and released the flower back to dharti, and did the only reasonable thing that can be done in such times — I had my lunch.

Fortunately, the mechanic kept his promise. He returned after two hours with a slimmer colleague and a larger, industrial-sized jack.

They raised one side of the car with the jack. It was a huge jack with which they were able to raise the car really high. The slimmer of the two got under the car and expertly manoeuvred his hands to get to the fuel pump area. He emerged after about five minutes and declared that he would have to unscrew at least one screw of the fuel tank and lower it a bit to reach the wires.

I wasn’t sure if all this was needed, but the matter was out of my spectrum of car knowledge, so I left it to them, asking them to do whatever they had to do.

“Please be careful and put everything back together properly,” I requested, silently hoping they knew what they were doing.

This was going to take some time, so instead of just standing there, I started walking around the parking space until…

Until I heard a scream from under the car.

Apparently, the person who was unscrewing the petrol tank did not realise that it was over three-fourth full. He was expecting an empty tank. When he unscrewed the tank, it came down from one side, almost crushing him. I still have a feeling he had removed two screws instead of one.

Fortunately, the other mechanic was big and strong. He quickly slid under the car and held the tank while the slimmer one began his hunt for the fuel pump wires.

I decided to stand there and watch, just in case a third person’s help was needed for something. Very soon there was another shriek from the wire hunter, followed by a wild laugh from the other mechanic.

“What was going on?”

Previous Episode: A Strange Voltmeter 

Next Episode: An Unusual Maternity Home 

Episode 13: A Strange Voltmeter

 

Photo by Christian Erfurt on Unsplash

I needed to show the car to a mechanic. However, it was 6:30 PM, perhaps a bit late for that day. I asked Bala if he knew a good mechanic. He didn’t, but he promised to find out from his uncle, who owned a “tour and travels” business. He said his uncle had a few taxis and would know a good mechanic for sure.

After thanking Bala for his help, I proceeded to the ashram, sat there for some time in the meditation hall, had dinner, and returned home. That night, on the terrace, instead of looking at the stars and Arunachala, I browsed my mobile to find solutions to my problem.

As I browsed through various internet forums, one particular discussion caught my attention. The question described the exact same problem. This guy had fuel in his car, but the fuel gauge showed empty and his car wouldn’t start.

There was just one answer. It suggested that he might be dealing with fuel pump malfunction. The answer went on to explain that the fuel pump was located under the fuel tank at the rear of the car. If the wires were cut by any chance, it would prevent the fuel gauge from getting any voltage, resulting in an empty reading, even if the tank was full. It would also prevent the fuel pump from transferring fuel to the ignition unit. That was why the car didn’t start.

This explanation made sense to me. There must be a cut in the fuel pump wires. That’s why the fuel indicator didn’t budge even when I filled fuel and that’s why the car didn’t start — because the malfunctioning fuel pump couldn’t transfer fuel to the ignition unit.

Understanding the problem is half the solution. Armed with this information, I felt somewhat more relaxed. I looked at the stars and Arunachala for a few minutes before retiring for the day.

Meanwhile, a message announced that Bala had obtained the address of a good mechanic from his uncle. He told me we could go on his bike to the garage in the morning.

The next morning, as promised, Bala took me to the mechanic whose garage was about three kilometres away.

I explained the problem and also told him about what I had read on the Internet. He said he would send someone to check the fuel pump circuit.

With nothing else to do, we returned to the car and waited for that ‘someone’ to come. I picked up a flower from the ground and plucked its petals: “He will come; he will not come; he will come; he will not come; he will….“

The gate opened after 30 minutes. Wow! He came as promised.

Based on the web page I had read the previous night, I assumed the mechanic would come with a voltmeter. Instead, this guy came with a battery and lots of wires. He connected the wires in different places to check the electrical circuit. I was a little puzzled. I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to do.

After about fifteen minutes of checking, he declared that the circuit was in perfect condition.

“No fuel pump problem, sir…” he said confidently.

“Don’t you need a voltmeter to check the circuit?” I asked, a little exasperated.

“No sir, I check with this.” He pointed to the battery.

“Please check again with a voltmeter,” I almost pleaded.

“Not needed sir. Circuit good. No problem.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had pinned all my hopes on broken or cut fuel pump wires. But now he was saying they weren’t the problem. I was back to square one.

“So, what is the problem?” I asked him.

“I don’t know sir. You take car to Maruti Service Centre.”

“Ok, where is the service centre?”

“On Chennai highway sir. Thirty-two kilometres from here.”

Good God! Thirty-two kilometres!!! Never before in my life had I been so disappointed that something important wasn’t broken.

“So I will have to tow the car?”

“Yes sir.” He said with a grim look on his face.

I was mortified. The lane in which the car was parked was very narrow and the place where it met the main road was dug up for some road work. There was a back road too, but It meant pushing the car at least some distance, and then going with the towing truck to the service centre, and returning by an ST bus, and then going back once again to pick the car after… I didn’t know how many days they would take to fix the car and I didn’t know what the service centre guys would say and even whether they could fix the problem. Suddenly, I was beginning to feel tired. Very tired.

I paid the mechanic for his visit and watched helplessly as he wrapped up his stuff and mounted his bike to leave.

Previous Episode: Mystery of the Disappearing Fuel 

Next Episode: Shriek Upon Shriek 

Episode 12: Mystery of the Disappearing Fuel

Photo by Sten Rademaker on Unsplash

I spent the first few days in Tiruvannamalai getting settled into my small 1BHK Airbnb, catching up on my freelancing work and visiting the ashram. Being busy with these activities, I did not find time to start my car. It was parked in a small parking lot next to the Airbnb host’s house about 100 metres away from where I stayed. The car was safe, so there was no urgency to check on it.

But after ten days, I thought it might be a good idea to start the car. I wasn’t expecting anything to be wrong but just wanted to get the engine going and move the wheels a bit.

The next evening, I left for the ashram a little early and went to the parking space first. The car’s body was dusty, and the windshield had a medium-thick layer of dust on which I wrote ‘Tiruvannamalai’ with my fingers, just for fun. I wanted to clean the car, but, given the dust, it would have taken a lot of time and effort, so I made a mental note to find someone to clean it twice every week. But for now, just starting the car would have to suffice.

I got in the car and turned on the ignition key. The engine made a sound. It was a normal sound; the engine was cranking, the spark-plugs were firing, but, and there always is a but, the car did not start.

I looked at the fuel indicator, which, to my horror, showed empty. This was impossible. The tank was somewhere between half and three-fourth full when I had parked the car ten days back. That’s about 20 - 25 litres of petrol.

I had double-checked the fuel gauge and also noted the mileage while parking the car.

I pulled out my phone to get the details. The odometer showed the same mileage reading. The car hadn’t moved an inch. So where did 20-25 litres of petrol disappear?

If this had happened to bollywood actor Amrish Puri, he was have said in his ominous baritone, “Abe murkh insano, meri gaadi ka petrol kaha gaya? Kya use aasman kha gaya ya dharti nigal gayi?“

I simply scratched my chin and stared into space, wondering what was going on. I may not have a baritone and gun-toting henchmen, but dreadful years in software development have given me the gift of logic, so I squatted near the fuel tank and tried to sniff for any sign of petrol leakage. There was none. Neither smell nor dark patches under the car. That was strange. I called Bala, the Airbnb, host to ask him if he had smelled petrol or if anyone who lived in that lane had reported a strong petrol smell. He said that he had visited the parking area several times in the past few days but had never smelled leaking petrol. No one in the lane had reported anything either.

Could someone have stolen the petrol? I looked at the little lid outside the fuel tank. It was locked. I unlatched it to check the lock. The black screwable cap was in place and tight. I doubted if a thief would be so conscientious to fix the cap back properly and close the lid. And, in any case, I didn’t believe the fuel was stolen. The people in that lane felt like they were trust worthy and taking twenty litres of petrol isn’t something you can do in a few minutes. Somebody would have noticed it.

So where had the fuel disappeared? I looked at dharti and aasman but they were as clueless as me.

Completely clueless, I tried the pointless exercise of turning the ignition on and off a few times, but the fuel gauge stayed at ‘E’ and the car refused to start.

I checked the headlights to make sure the battery was in good shape. It was.

There was only one thing left to do: pour fuel into the car. I asked Bala if we could get petrol from somewhere.

He got a 5 litre can from his house and took me to a nearby petrol pump to get it filled.

Back at the car, we cut an old plastic bottle and connected it to a sturdy plastic pipe to create a funnel. With this makeshift apparatus in place, we transferred the petrol into the car.

Filled with hope, I turned the ignition key. The fuel indicator stayed stubbornly at “E” and the car too did not start.

Could it be that five litres weren’t enough? It really should have been enough, but I decided to get some more. Off I went to the petrol pump and came back with some more fuel, which was quickly poured into the fuel tank.

I did the whole car-starting-dance again and got the same result. The indicator refused to budge, and the car refused to start.

By now, it was clear that lack of fuel was not the problem. The problem lay somewhere else. Something was causing the fuel indicator to malfunction and preventing the car from starting.

This problem was way beyond my scanty knowledge of cars. I needed expert help.

Previous Episode: Tiruvannamalai 

Next Episode: A Strange Voltmeter 

Episode 11: Tiruvannamalai

Entering Tiruvannamalai with Arunachala in the background

 

Filter Coffee did its magic and my relationship with the map lady was restored. Her voice boomed in the car again.

“Continue straight…”

We were both happy that we were getting on well with each other, but in that joy, she became over-zealous and did some rerouting magic. It seemed she had found a shorter route. I saw the horizontal rerouting-bar at the bottom of my mobile screen progressing as the map lady changed the route to take me through a supposed shortcut. I thought she meant well, but in retrospect, I’m not so sure. I wonder if algorithms can hold grudges. Not right now, but the thought of a smart-ass techie creating AI algorithms that hold grudges is quite unpleasant. And looking at the way AI seems to creep into every aspect of human life, I can only keep my fingers crossed.

For a moment, I thought I should stop to ask a “real dependable human” for the best route to Tiruvannamalai. However, it didn’t seem like a good idea. Being alone in an unknown place where I did not speak the language made me hesitate. I didn’t want to show that I was lost.

I pulled over onto the side of the road to examine the map software. I didn’t know which road it was taking me through, but I could see it led to Tiruvannamalai. Under the circumstances, I thought it best to trust the map lady and follow her directions without risking another quarrel. And so I meekly followed her directions, going straight when she said and taking turns at her behest.

Soon I was off the highway on a small dusty road with cars, busses, bikes, and small tempos. On the left were a few shops scattered far and wide, with lots of open countryside behind them. The small tempo ahead rattled as it negotiated the traffic and potholes on the road. Seated at the back of the uncovered tempo were two women, one man, and two kids. The women wore colourful pink and green saris and the man wore a white lungi and a blue t-shirt. I don’t remember what the kids were wearing, but I remember they were asleep. They were trying to get some rest — at least whatever rest was possible under the afternoon sun in tropical India.

After a few more kilometres, the map lady asked me to take a turn onto a road that soon became a narrow, one and half lane road that passed through a village. However, there was something strange about this village. There were small houses on the left and fields on the right, but not a single human in sight. Well, there was one. Just one. An old woman with a pile of sticks on her head. Maybe everyone was indoors because of the afternoon heat. I don’t know. It was just weird to see a town so utterly deserted in India.

My mobile signal was also flaky and the map lady announced “GPS signal lost…” a few times. All I knew was that the road led to Tiruvannamalai and so I drove on with faith in my heart and a prayer on my lips.

Much to my relief, this one-and-a-half-lane road did come to an end. I was once again on a small highway bustling with life. I prefer solitude and am always on the lookout for places that are a little away from civilization, but this was one of the few times when I welcomed bustling human activity with eagerness and relief.

After a few kilometres on this highway, the road quality started deteriorated. At first, there were small potholes, which later became large potholes, and after some time there were only potholes and no road. I felt like I was in a boat, tossed around by the waves of a stormy ocean. Fortunately, the storm didn’t last too long, and I was soon on mostly flat land without my car having to endure any tyre damage. I drove ahead on this unfamiliar road until I spotted a familiar name: Chengam.

Chengam is a large town just before Tiruvannamalai. I heaved a sigh of relief. Wow! I was almost there. It was a beautiful feeling that filled me with renewed energy, despite the heat.

At 4:45 PM, I saw, at a distance, the wonderful “Arunachala” hill. This modest hill is of great prominence in Hindu mythology, with two very famous legends of Lord Shiva associated with it. It’s also the hill where Ramana Maharishi spent the greater part of his life after arriving in Tiruvannamalai. It is said that he refused to leave Arunachala and did not step away from the hill even once after taking up residence there.

I had finally reached my destination!

Previous Episode: Someone Give me a Horse, Please! 

Next Episode: Mystery of the Disappearing Fuel 

Episode 10: Someone Give me a Horse, Please!

 

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash

I left Pyramid Valley after two days of rest in its serene setting. It was 10:30 in the morning when I left their campus. Tiruvannamalai was 236 kilometres away — about five and a half hours’ drive.

I was refreshed and relaxed and even though I got into peak Bangalore traffic once I was on the highway; it did not bother me much. The road Hosur packed till Hosur, but the traffic eased down after that. The road quality also improved. Driving in Tamil Nadu, especially till Krishnagiri, was a pleasure. The roads were smooth and people drove in a fairly disciplined way.

My first pit-stop was for lunch at Sri Krishna Inn in Shoolagiri. Sri Krishna Inn was a neat restaurant located in one of those mall kind of complexes. The complex also housed a McDonald’s, CCD, a fancy tea shop, and a T-shirt factory outlet, among others. It was one o’clock on a hot afternoon. Maybe that’s why my normal appetite for uttapam did not turn up, so I had a plate of curd rice for a change, followed by filter coffee (which cannot be changed).

Stepping out right under the furious sun after lunch gave me quite a shock. For a moment, I felt like parking my car in the shade and taking a nap. But come rain, hail, snow, or sun — warriors of the road don’t take naps. “Once more to the breach,“ the road called out to me. I grudgingly started the car and drove out of the mall with a slight squint, which I believe persists till today.

About 30 minutes later, I passed Krishnagiri, which is famous for granite quarries. It also has a forest and, I had heard, a wild-life sanctuary too. However, I wasn’t sure about the latter, so I made a mental note to check it. While I was still thinking if there was a wild-life sanctuary anywhere close by, the map lady started crooning.

“Take left,” she instructed me.

But there was no left turn, although I had just passed one about a hundred meters before she spoke up. I wasn’t sure if she meant the left turn, which had already passed, or that a left-turn that would appear soon.

Normally the map lady says, “Take left in x meters,” but this time it was just, “Take left.”

The left turn did not come, and I think the map lady decided in her wise algorithmic brain that she would get me to take the next available u-turn on the highway and put me back on track. She gleefully told me to “continue straight.” After some time, a u-turn did appear and she asked me to turn around. But instead of proceeding on the highway, she directed me to take a slight left onto a deserted service road.

Something did not feel right. The road looked like it hadn’t been used for a long time. To my left was a patch of land densely packed with trees, and to my right was the highway. I’m not sure if what I saw on my left was forest land or just a large patch of dense vegetation. From the car, it felt like forest land.

Just like I suspected, the road had not been used because it did not go anywhere. It soon came to a dead-end with the thick vegetation curving into the lane and blocking it from further access.

“Go straight,” the map lady instructed.

I told her, rather politely, that there was no road ahead. But she wasn’t in the mood to listen to me.

“Go straight. Go straight.” She insisted.

“Dear map lady,” I said, “I need a horse to enter the forest.”

“Go straight. Go straight. Go straight.” Her insistence had turned to a demand. I wondered if the map lady thought we travelled on horses and elephants in India. With the East India Company marching all over the sub-continent, we made a distinct shift towards becoming an industrialized nation, and left whatever vestiges of civilized-close-to-nature living that we had. In the past hundred years, we have gone too far on the road to destruction. It’s a point of no return. Horses, elephants, and travelling in forests is but a distant dream. I didn’t think the map lady’s algorithm would agree with my views on civilized living, and I was too tired to argue, so I took the easy way out and shut the map software. (Recent Update: I got a cycle instead of a horse.)

The place where I had taken the u-turn, a few hundred metres back, had a petrol pump and a garden restaurant. I thought it might be a good time to take a coffee-break, fill fuel, and retrace the route on the highway to the place where I had missed the left.

But first, I sat in the car for some time, enjoying the deserted road and greenery to my left. I also reflected on what I thought was an important lesson. Regardless of how good technology gets, the best backup is and will remain for the foreseeable future, paper and pen. I really should have made a note of all the important places that I would pass and all the places where I needed to take major turns. Well, we learn something new every day.

After relaxing for some time on the unused service road, I had a coffee at the garden restaurant, filled fuel, and set out on the highway retracing my route.

Previous Episode: Pyramid Valley, Finally!

Next Episode: Tiruvannamalai

Episode 9: Pyramid Valley Finally

The Meditation Pyramid in Pyramid Vallley

Now I was in a real quandary. I had no clue why the headlights weren’t working. Could it have anything to do with jumpstarting the car in the morning? It was unlikely, but that guy had pointed to the circuit breaker and he had tried to tell me something that I wasn’t able to hear.

I pulled over to the side to call him, but no one answered. I tried a few more times, but no luck. Maybe he was in traffic and couldn’t hear the phone. Since I was already running late, I did not want to waste any more time.

I wondered if I should look for a mechanic close by, but ruled out that option quickly. It didn’t feel like a good idea. I was in an unknown place and it was beginning to get dark. I don’t want to generalise, but I had heard stories of how unknown highway mechanics could deliberately mess up your car. I wasn’t sure how true those stories were, but it did not feel prudent to take a chance at this hour.

For a moment, I grudgingly thought it might be best to check into a decent hotel and go to Pyramid Valley the next morning. Perhaps the hotel guys could call a trusted mechanic and get the lights fixed.

I was still parked on the curb when I noticed that the left-most lane of the highway was full of massive trucks. They drove slowly and steadily, with each truck maintaining a steady distance from the next. These guys also had very powerful headlights and, being large trucks, their headlights were well over the hood of my car.

I drove slowly on the curb alongside a truck and then curved right to place my car between him and the next truck. The road ahead was perfectly illuminated by the lights of the truck behind me. I did not know where these guys were going, but looking at the size of the trucks, they were certainly going long distance.

An idea started hatching in my mind. I could drive slowly with the truckers illuminating my path until I needed to take an exit into the city. Once I entered the city, I could either look for a good mechanic or buy a bunch of powerful flashlights and duct tape them to the bonnet.

For some strange reason, this patchy idea helped me feel calm. Even though I had prepared myself to take a stopover in Tumkur, I was not happy with the idea. I had left Belagavi to reach Pyramid Valley, and that was where I wanted to be. The jugaad-inspired flashlight idea gave me hope. I switched on the music and drove under the wings of the truckers at 50 Kmh in the slow lane.

With my mind calm and the car moving slowly, I replayed the conversation with the battery guy in my mind. He had pointed to the “circuit breaker”. I remembered that much clearly. Maybe that’s where the problem was. I felt like I should stop and at least take a look under the bonnet. I don’t know much about cars, but if the problem was obvious, then I just might be able to fix it.

By this time, I was also beginning to get hungry. I had skipped lunch to save time. A cup of tea on the highway was all I had consumed after breakfast.

About fifteen minutes later, I noticed a Kamat Upachar restaurant on my left and pulled into the parking lot. It was a good place for dinner. However, I wanted to check the circuit breaker first. I unlatched the bonnet and stepped out to open it, but the engine was way too hot. It was impossible to put my fingers inside. I emptied a bottle of water on the bonnet and decided to have my dinner while it cooled down.

It was only when I sat inside Kamat Upachar that I realised how exhausted and famished I was. After placing the order of an onion uttapam and filter coffee, I put my head down on the table and closed my eyes to get some much-needed rest.

The waiter returned after about twenty minutes, giving me enough time to rest. The uttapam was huge. It smelled delicious. And, as I soon found out, it was delicious.

A good uttapam and filter coffee can bring any tired person back to life. Nothing in the world is better than this simple caffeinated beverage and fried, onion-filled pancake.

I walked back to my car and put my hand on the bonnet, which had cooled down enough to open it. Armed with a good flashlight, I examined the circuit breaker. It was the white plastic box on the side. And there it was. The culprit in plain sight was an unhooked wire dangling below the white box. I found out later that the battery guy had removed the wire to prevent another short circuit. This is exactly what he had tried to tell me when the auto-rickshaws roared past us in Belagavi. It seemed he had also told me to connect the wire whenever I needed the lights and to disconnect it when I didn’t.

I would have saved myself a lot of stress if I had asked him to repeat the part I wasn’t able to hear. But then again — no stress; no fun. No fun; no travelogue. 

I reached Pyramid Valley at 10:30 PM. To my relief, Sharmaji was seated on a chair in front of a desk between the rooms.

Pyramid Valley has a special parking lot. Guests are not supposed to park near the room, but Sharmaji made an exception, seeing how tired I was. He not only let me park in the tiny lane leading to my room, he also helped me with the bags. One more angel. One more gem of a person.

I had booked a room in Pyramid Valley for two days, so there wasn’t any rush to wake up early. I wanted to sleep for nothing less than twelve hours.

Pyramid Valley Campus

Previous Episode: Back on the Road, But

Next Episode: Someone Give me a Horse, Please! 

Episode 8: Back on the Road, But

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

By the time I stepped out of Tumkur Tatte, the traffic was in full swing. It was about 9:45 AM on a bright day with the sun smiling benevolently on Earth.

Since I was arm-twisted out of the restaurant, I thought I might as well check out the other mechanic.

I walked back to the junction, crossed the main road, and walked a little further until I saw a mechanic’s garage on my left. It was still shut, but there was a young guy pacing the length of the garage while talking animatedly on his mobile.

I thought he was the owner of the garage, so I waited for his conversation to get over. When I spoke with him, I learned that he wasn’t the owner, but a neighbour, who lived in the adjacent house, and he was most likely speaking with his girlfriend.

“The garage will open in about half an hour,” he said.

I must have looked really dejected, because he inquired, rather kindly, if I needed anything urgently.

“Yes, my car battery is dead and I need a jumpstart urgently.”

“Oh, there’s a small battery shop about two minutes ahead on this road. He also opens at 10:30 but his phone number is written on the shutter. You can try calling him.”

I thanked him and rushed to the battery shop. It wasn’t open, but the owner’s number was painted on the shutter. I punched in the number to call him. The phone rang, but no one answered. I tried again. Still no response. I tried for the third time. No luck again.

Dejected, I returned the phone to my pocket—which almost plopped out immediately when I jumped in fright upon hearing scooter brakes screeching right behind me.

I did an “about turn” in mid-air, fortunately, landing safely on my feet. In front of me was a man seated on a scooter. When my adrenaline settled, I noticed he was a middle-aged man, and he had a red scooter with a battery placed on the footboard near his legs.

“Are you waiting for me?” he asked me.

“Are you the owner of this shop?”

He nodded, and I felt like the fates had finally smiled at me.

“Yes, yes, I am waiting for you. I even tried calling you sometime back.” The words tumbled out of my mouth.

“I was in traffic. I couldn’t answer the phone. Sorry. What do you want?”

I explained the entire situation to him and also explained that I needed to leave as soon as possible because I was headed to Bangalore.

He assured me that he’d get my car started right away. Motioning me to sit on the pillion seat, he blasted his scooter like a rocket. I grabbed the stepni behind me to regain my balance and gave him directions to the car.

While waiting at a signal, he told me that he normally didn’t open his shop at this hour, but some work had made him leave home early and here he was. I was lucky to have found him at that time.

When we reached the car, I got into the driver’s seat, unlatched the bonnet, and waited for him to hook up the batteries. However, he spent a few minutes examining something before connecting the car’s battery to his spare battery.

“Start the car,” he told me, peering from the side of the bonnet.

What I heard next was music to my ears. My car purred back to life. At that moment, the car’s rather loud and harsh engine sounded sweeter than Shreya Ghosal’s super-melodious voice.

When I stepped out to pay him, he pointed to a white plastic box attached to the right edge of the bonnet scoop. It was the circuit breaker of the new 90 watt headlights that I had installed before leaving Pune. He explained that it had a short-circuit which caused the light to stay on even after I had flipped off the light switch the day before.

He went on to explain a few more things, but his voice was drowned out by a noisy truck and four auto-rickshaws that rumbled one after another.

The only thing I could figure out was that he had fixed the problem with the circuit breaker.

Sometimes I do things that are outright foolish. This was one of them. I really should have asked him to repeat the last part, but I was in such a hurry to reach Bangalore before the peak evening traffic started that I simply nodded, thanked him, paid, and sped on towards the highway.

The drive on the Belagavi–Bangalore highway was uneventful except for a diversion that had me taking a detour for a long time, causing further delay in the journey. Not to mention, the road had weird speed-breakers. They were a set of lots of small speed-breakers, but they were higher than such speed-breakers usually are. As a result, I bounced on my seat every time I encountered them. There were times when I thought my car might come apart. The car stayed intact, but my nerves didn’t.

I approached Tumkur a little after 6:00 PM. Google Maps indicated that Pyramid Valley was about 100 kilometres away. A little over two hours not considering the traffic. But peak Bangalore traffic was unavoidable, which meant it would take me a lot more than two hours. I just didn’t know exactly how much more.

However, I had one more concern besides the peak traffic. Pyramid Valley’s reception office shuts at 7:30 PM. They had noted my booking without asking me to pay an advance amount, so I was a bit concerned that I may not get the room if I reached after the office closed. I pulled over to the side of the road to intimate them that I was running late. The person at the reception assured me that someone would be present near the room to give me the keys, regardless of when I arrived.

Relieved, I got back on the road. There’s only one phrase that can adequately describe the road from Tumkur to Bangalore: tollbooth galore (although if I remember correctly, those hideous booths started before Tumkur... somewhere between Chitradurga and Tumkur). I encountered one tollbooth after another at ridiculously short intervals.

Sometimes, my imagination runs wild, but I imagined that if people had to pay the toll with their clothes, everyone entering Bangalore from that highway would ultimately be in their birthday suits. I wondered if the last tollbooth sold clothes at a premium (*).

But, jokes apart, what was even worse was that there were hardly any lights on the road. I suppose the companies that collected the toll were under contract to maintain only the road (which was also in questionable condition), not the lights.

By now, the sun had almost set and dusk was receding into the darker end of the twilight spectrum.

I flipped on my car’s headlight.

Hmmm... I flipped it back off and on again. And a few more times.

What the @$%#?

Damn hell. I was on an ill-lit highway, at least over two hours away from my destination. It was dark, and the headlights weren’t working.

Previous Episode: A Sincere Student of the Menu

Next Episode: Pyramid Valley, Finally!

Episode 7: A Sincere Student of the Menu

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

I thanked the unknown gentleman who had generously given his time and energy.

“No, no, you are a guest. It was my duty to help,” he said cheerfully, trying to make me feel less guilty.

I couldn't say anything, so I just folded my hands in gratitude.

Abhi was planning to leave for work in some time. He said he could take me to a place in the city where I’d be able to find car mechanics. Very soon, he dropped me at a large crossroads a few kilometres from the apartment. It was a business neighborhood with lots of shops.

I thanked Abhi profusely for the help and kindness he had shown me, and apologized for delaying him. But he too said the same thing the other gentleman had said — that I was a guest in Belagavi and he was happy to help.

Before leaving, he mentioned that shops in Belagavi rarely opened this early and I might have to wait till 10:00 or even 10:30 AM.

“But you might find a mechanic sooner if you are lucky,” he added encouragingly.

Even though the odds were stacked against finding a mechanic at 8:30 AM, I decided to try my luck. Better to try and fail than not try at all, I reasoned.

There were a few traffic cops standing close by at the junction. I walked up to them and asked if they knew of a car mechanic close by.

They knew two shops. The first shop was in a by-lane a few meters to the left and the second was further ahead on the main road on the opposite side of the junction. They also said that the shops may not be open this early. I thanked them and walked towards the by-lane, which was the nearer option.

This small lane was quite a contrast to the main road. Even though the main road had not yet reached peak traffic, it was awake and alive. This lane, barely so.

There were small shops on one side of the lane and small houses on the other. The shops were closed, and the residents — a few of whom were standing outside — were enjoying their early morning peace. I saw a woman and a man brushing their teeth. A few feet ahead, a group of four men were having their morning dose of bidis and tea. A few people loitered around. Two kids played cricket with a stick and a rubber ball.

I had a strong feeling that the mechanic’s garage would not be open, but I plodded ahead. However, I couldn’t find anything that resembled a garage.

It was time to ask for help. I approached a few men who were sipping their morning tea and sucking their morning cigarettes at a nearby stall.

“Is there a car mechanic anywhere around here?”

They said there weren’t any in this lane, but they pointed to the other side of the junction, just like one of the traffic cops had said. One of them added that mechanics and battery shops don’t usually open before 10:30.

I looked at my mobile. It was 8:45 AM. The great cycle of time was one hour and forty-five minutes away from that magic hour, and I was already tired from all the pushing earlier that morning. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t had my breakfast.

I figured it might be a good idea to put some food in my stomach. I walked back to the main road and asked an elderly man if he knew of any place close by where I could get idli and filter coffee. He told me to go straight ahead and turn left at a certain landmark.

I followed his directions and, just like he’d promised, there was indeed an idli restaurant in that lane.

The board read: “Tumkur Tatte Idli.”

The Gods have an interesting sense of humour. At least they got me to a place where I could enjoy the famous “Thatte Idlis” before leaving Belagavi.

The idli joint was packed with breakfasters (not a dictionary word, but it doesn’t sound too wrong). There were office goers, nurses who worked at a nearby hospital, a group of students, and elderly people.

The assorted variety of eaters also had an assorted style of eating. Those who were running late gulped unchewed bits of idli and wada while flushing them down the throat with coffee. The elderly men, sat with their heads buried in newspapers. They ate leisurely, chewing breakfast sprinkled with spices made from the daily grapevine. One table was occupied by students who were relaxed and cheerful. They cracked jokes and pulled each other’s legs as they ate. I figured they must have bunked their morning lecture. From personal experience, that’s the only reason for a bunch of college students to be cheerful in the morning.

I looked around. All the tables were taken, but that wasn’t a problem because it’s acceptable for unknown people to cohabit a single table at an Udupi restaurant. I walked up to a four-seater occupied by an elderly gentleman who reading a newspaper and parked myself on the opposite chair. He peered out of his newspaper for a second and decided that the news was more interesting than me.

“Order sir.“ A waiter looked at me with a pen and pad in his hands.

I knew I wanted a plate of idli and a filter coffee, but I had time on my hands and the best way to waste some of it was by studying the menu. I told him I needed some time to decide and picked up the menu with the same tenderness with which I'd have picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice.

I studied it carefully. First, I checked out all the sections, followed by the items and their prices, after which I did one more revision to ensure I hadn’t missed anything that might be asked in the question paper. If I had a pencil and notebook, I might also have made notes.

The waiter came back after some time with an expression that told me he would not leave without an order.

“Order sir!” He demanded.

Oh well…

“One plate idli.”

According to my mobile’s stopwatch, he returned with the food in four minutes and thirty-two seconds.

I was reminded of a song: There's something wrong with the world today... I don't know what it is...

“Thank you,” I said grudgingly.

Now was the perfect time to follow good chewing principles. I had heard that the correct way to eat was to chew each bite until there was nothing solid left in the mouth. The food had to blend with the saliva before letting it stream down the esophagus. I chewed and chewed and chewed, as slowly as possible, savouring every molecule of the idli, sambar, and chutni, waiting for the delicious solid idli to become delicious liquid idli.

I also checked all my emails, WhatsApp messages, Facebook messages, and so on, until there was nothing left to check. By this time, the plate was empty and there was nothing left to chew, either.

The waiter must be eying my plate like a hawk because he appeared as soon as the plate was empty. “Anything else, sir?”

“Filter coffee,” I said triumphantly. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

The coffee appeared in record time.

Having filter coffee cold is an unpardonable offense, so I couldn’t play the chewing trick this time. Also, the next table was occupied by nurses. Chewing filter coffee might have aroused their suspicion enough to give me an injection or something.

“Anything else, sir?“

“No!“

I wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but the nurses were looking, so I played it safe.

The delicious Thatte Idlis and filter coffee had satisfied my belly, so I somewhat forgave him for his prompt service and even left a tip, although I did the latter grudgingly because I had a feeling that he was over-prompt on purpose — as if he wanted to foil my plans of spending more time there.

Previous Episode: Why Won't the Car Start?

Next Episode: Back on the Road, But...

Episode 6: Why Won't the Car Start?

Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash

Abhi was clearly relishing the ice cream and Bond’s escapades. I do enjoy a good Bond movie once in a while, but as far as I'm concerned, Sean Connery was the first and last Bond. So I turned the greater part of my attention to ice cream and ate it with a sprinkling of fancy gadgets and Roger Moore's polished daredevil antics.

It was the perfect way to end a tiring day.

After some time, I thanked Abhi and retired to bed early because I wanted to leave for Bengaluru by 6:30 next morning.

I had slept well, but when the alarm rang at 5:30, my head was still foggy, my calves and lower back ached, my stomach felt queasy, and my body just did not feel strong enough to start the day. A seven-hour sleep had proved insufficient to recover from the previous day’s journey.

Even though I’m totally off medication for my health issues, I get tired easily and need more than average time to recuperate. That’s one reason, along with a love of solitude, why I prefer to travel solo. It’s difficult for me to know in advance when I’ll need more rest. Travelling alone just makes it easier to change plans on the fly to accommodate my health.

I went back to sleep for an hour more.

It was about 7:30 by the time I washed, changed, and stepped out to start for Bangalore.

An hour’s delay wasn’t that big a deal. Bengaluru was about nine hours from Belagavi. Even if it took me two more hours due to stops and traffic, I’d still reach Pyramid Valley, my destination, by 6:30 in the evening.

Energised by the extra rest, I walked down in good spirits, loaded the car, and turned on the ignition.

Click. Click. Click. The ignition gave a dead click. Neither did the engine crank, nor did it fire.

The battery was dead. Totally dead.

A jumper cable would have helped. Damn! Why hadn’t I bought one? Before leaving Pune, I had purchased a portable machine to fill air in the tyres, but I forgot to buy a jumper cable. Lesson learned: batteries go dead at the most unexpected times. Never travel without a jumper cable.

I called Abhi to ask him if he had one. He didn’t. Neither did the neighbours, but being the gracious host that he was, he came down to help me start the car by pushing it. We took turns pushing the car, but after two rounds up and down the road, the car still refused to start.

Meanwhile, unknown to me, a gentleman on his daily morning walk was watching our struggle. He took pity and volunteered to help. The three of us tried for fifteen more minutes, but the car was adamant and we were panting.

It didn’t look like a push was going to start the car, so we pushed the luggage-loaded car to the side of the road. There was no option but to wait until one of the local mechanics opened their garage.

I thanked the unknown gentleman who had generously given his time and energy.

“No, no, you are a guest. It was my duty to help,” he said cheerfully, trying to make me feel less guilty.

I couldn't say anything, so I just folded my hands in gratitude.

Previous Episode: The World's Best Idlis

Next Episode: A Sincere Student of the Menu

Episode 5: The World's Best Idlis

Two and a half hours later, I woke up with red eyes, wondering where the hell I was and what I was doing in this unknown place.

After blanking out for a few seconds, I somehow managed to dodge my way from the bedroom to the living room with my water bottle in hand. I’m glad I didn’t break anything because my eyes were still half shut.

Abhi had returned from work and was sitting on the living room couch, watching TV. I raised my hand to greet him and stumbled into the kitchen to fill my bottle.

A few sips of water helped pour consciousness back into me. Managing to open my eyes, I walked like a sane human back into the living room. I told Abhi about my drive and asked him a few questions about Belagavi. He was a very friendly and relaxed person, and although he had just returned from work after a tiring day, he answered all my questions patiently.

Our conversation soon turned to dinner. I was craving for a light South Indian meal, so I asked him if there was any place close by where I could have good idlis and uttapam.

He asked me if I wanted to join him for dinner at the dining hall where he often had his dinner. They didn’t have idli, but they had great wholesome meals, he said.

I would have joined him, but I wasn’t hungry enough to have a full meal. Too many hours of driving had reduced my appetite. Besides, I was also concerned about the meal being too spicy or oily. idli felt like a safe, wholesome, and tasty choice.

Very generously, Abhi changed his own dinner plans and volunteered to drive me to what he claimed was a place that made great idlis.

Tumkur Tatte idli. That was the name of the restaurant we walked into. He asked me if I had ever heard of them. I said I hadn’t. He said they served special Thate style idlis.

When our meal was served, I noticed that the idlis looked different. They were shaped like soft, thick white pancakes with flat sides. Very different from the flying saucer-shaped idlis I was accustomed to. But it wasn’t just the idlis that were different. The sambar and chutni also tasted extraordinary, as if they were made of stardust and moonshine and a pinch of venusian soil. They were out of this world!!!

Now I’m no idli aficionado, but I’ve earned my stripes by eating idlis in all sorts of places. Heck, there was a time when I’ve battled the crowds in the Andheri-Churchgate local to eat idlis at Satkar. And I’ve eaten the world’s second-best idlis at a roadside joint in Tiruvannamalai that served four mouth watering idlis with a jug (it was almost a pail) of unlimited sambar — all for Rs. 20.

But I’d never seen or tasted idlis like these before. I devoured a plate of their Thate idlis followed by uttapam and filter coffee. I ended up eating far more than what I might have eaten at the dining hall, but then again, it’s hard to resist good idlis and uttapam. Seeing our empty plates, the waiter came to ask if we’d like to order anything else. I burped thrice in response.

With satiated stomachs, we returned to Abhi’s house, where he once again extended his generosity by offering me ice cream.

Like a Jedi, Abhi removed a couple of ice-cream cups with one hand and waved his TV remote like it was Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber with the other. As a result of his masterful jugglery, James Bond and ice cream materialized at the same time in the living room.

Abhi was clearly relishing the ice cream and Bond’s escapades. I do enjoy a good Bond movie once in a while, but I’m not a big fan. And anyway, as far as I’m concerned, Sean Connery was the first and last Bond, so I turned my attention to ice cream and ate it with a sprinkling of fancy gadgets and Roger Moore’s polished daredevil antics.

It was the perfect way to end a tiring day.

After some time, I thanked Abhi and retired to bed early because I wanted to leave for Bengaluru by 6:30 the next morning.

Previous Episode: From Fantasy to Reality

Next Episode: Why Won't the Car Start?

Episode 4: From Fantasy to Reality

Photo by Tim De Pauw on Unsplash

Life doesn’t always match up to our dreams, yet, twenty years after I had sowed the first seeds of travel, here I was: on a solo 1000-Km drive from Pune to Tiruvannamalai - a place I had longed to visit after reading Paul Brunton’s book: A Search in Secret India.

This was no small opportunity—and I was filled with gratitude for it. The road, the hills, the greenery, the sky... everything was laced with gratitude and joy.

We drove on quietly. I was lost in thoughts and my neighbour was probably tired after the night shift duty at the toll booth. I noticed him shutting and opening his eyes intermittently between yawns and groans. I was glad I gave him the ride. Night shifts can’t be easy for anyone.

“He bus station diste?” he asked me, pointing to some distant place on the left. I shook my head. I couldn’t see the bus station, but I switched into the left lane and slowed the car from 80 to 50 Kmh.

“He ithe baga,” he said, once again pointing to what I now saw as a bus station about 200 metres ahead. I slowed down even more.

The bus station was separated from the highway by a small service lane. I was figuring out how to get onto the service lane, when he said, “ithe thamba, mi jato.”

He asked me to stop by the side. He said he’d walk across to the bus station. Crossing over from the highway to the service lane was simpler on foot since there was a small mud mound of about ten feet separating the two.

He thanked me as he got down, and I wished him well. He proceeded to the bus station, and I drove on towards Kolhapur and Belagavi.

After stopping for a quick lunch near Kolhapur, I drove on to Belagavi. It was afternoon, and the sun beat down in full force, despite the car AC whirring at full speed.

Heat has a way of sapping my energy and making me impatient. I can drive forever in the evenings when it’s cool, and the sun is gentle, but afternoons are a different story altogether — they make me tired, edgy, and impatient.

Around 3:15 PM, much to my relief, the map lady instructed me to take the next left and get off the highway. Belagavi had finally arrived! Now, all I had to do was find my way to the Airbnb homestay, where I had booked myself for that night.

From the moment I entered Belagavi, all I could think of was a comfortable mattress, a dark, curtain-drawn, air-conditioned room, and a good, restful nap. My camper-van fantasy faded out and the heavenly mountains and sunsets made way for a heavenly bed and a heavenly nap.

Abhi, the Airbnb host, had sent me the location of his apartment, which I could find easily. I looked around as I turned into the lane where he stayed. It was a nice open neighbourhood that mostly had bungalows and a lot of open spaces. Lots of trees as well. Just as he had said, there was a parking bay next to the building wall where I parked my car, slung my laptop backpack over my shoulders, pulled out another bag containing some clothes and toiletries, and trudged to the apartment.

Fortunately, Abhi was at home for some work. He gave me a quick orientation, showed me where I could find drinking water and other essentials, helped me settle into the apartment, and returned to his work.

When you drive long-distance, it’s usually after you’ve reached the destination that you realise how tired you are. As I entered the room, I felt a wave of relief through my body. I switched on the AC, washed my face, and flopped down on the bed. I dozed off within seconds; still wearing my socks.

Two and a half hours later, I woke up with red eyes, wondering where the hell I was and what I was doing in this unknown place.

Episode 3: Old Dreams

Photo by Tommy Lisbin on Unsplash

After a minute, two more bikes passed us, then one more, and then five more. In the next ten minutes, about thirty bikes had sped ahead. It was quite a scene as they sped by on their monster machines, leaving my ten-year-old Maruti Swift hatchback coughing on the road. What’s going on? I thought to myself. Was this one of those secret races a friend had once told me about? I had heard about these underground race clubs and their often dangerous bike races. Was I witnessing one of those clandestine events?

I think the cop read my puzzled look.

“They’re going to Goa,” he said, pointing at the bikes.

“I see these people regularly at the tollbooth. Mostly as the weekend approaches…” the cop stopped to take a sip of water from his bottle.

“These bikers are from Mumbai. They go to Goa around the weekend and return on Monday. Riding long distance is a hobby for them.”

“These look like pretty expensive bikes,” I remarked as two more bikes whizzed past us.

“Yeah, they cost about 5—10 lacs. Sometimes even more,” the cop informed me, quite casually, as if every second person in the country owned expensive bikes.

Long-distance travel was my dream too. And just like there are cat-people and dog-people, or coffee-people and tea-people, I think one can categorize road travel enthusiasts into bike-people and car-people. I am most certainly a car person. Mostly because my body isn’t well-equipped to deal with nature in its fiery glory and having a roof over my head helps. Sometimes, I also think of myself as a camper-trailer kind of person, but I’ve never owned one, so I’m a hippie-gypsy-on-the-road only in my fantasies, with the hope that, like fairy tales, these fantasies may also come true someday.

I looked longingly at the bikers and envied the lifestyle they enjoyed.

As a grad student in Charlotte, I often dreamt of owning a camper van and traveling across the USA in it. In my dream, I’d eventually return to India and do the same here, spending large amounts of time in the northern part of the country in Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand where I could live close to the Himalayas.

I had nurtured this fantasy for the entirety of my grad-student years, hoping for it to materialise in some form. However, my dream was nipped in the bud because of severe health issues which were eventually diagnosed as Crohn’s Disease.

These bikers reminded me of that dream. I looked ahead on the road and remained conscious enough to make sure that the car didn’t swerve, but mentally, I was in my fantasy camper van.

The Earth below; the sky above; green fields with bullocks, a farmer or two with their kids playing in the background; mountains of all sorts: large barren behemoths, green rolling hills with waterfalls and streams; rivers; lakes; forests; distant places rising up magically from the fog; villages with mud houses and villagers smoking hookahs on their charpoys; understanding local cultures; my laptop in my backpack, and working as a remote software consultant from my camper van. That was the life I had dreamt of as a student—and that’s the world my mind inhabited as I drove on the smooth patch of road between Pune and Belagavi.

Life doesn’t always match up to our dreams, yet, twenty-two years after I had sowed the first seeds of travel, here I was: on a solo 1000-Km drive from Pune to Tiruvannamalai - a place I had longed to visit after reading Paul Brunton’s book: A Search in Secret India.

This was no small opportunity—and it filled me with gratitude. The road, the hills, the trees, the sky... everything was laced with gratitude and joy.

Previous Episode: A Swarm of Bikes

Next Episode: From Fantasy to Reality

Episode 2: A Swarm of Bikes

Photo by Harley-Davidson on Unsplash

 “Where are you going?” He asked me.

I was not comfortable answering that question. He may be a cop, but he was also a stranger. I was driving solo and long distance, so I wanted to be prudent.

“Is there any problem with the road ahead?” I asked politely, evading the question.

“No, I need a ride back home. My duty just got over and my bike is in the garage for servicing. How far are you going?”

His round face, earnest eyes, and the simple way in which he laid down his cards with no silent threat to comply helped me lower my guard.

“I am going to Belagavi but will stop for lunch at Kolhapur.”

“Can you drop me about 40 kilometres from here? You won’t have to get off the highway. There’s a bus station near the highway from where I can get a bus to my village.”

“Sure, come in.” I unlocked the passenger door and moved my backpack to the rear seat, which was already full of stuff for a month-long trip to Tiruvannamalai.

He had a water bottle and a plastic bag, both of which he placed on his lap as he pulled the door shut and locked in the seatbelt.

“Are you comfortable?“ I asked him. He nodded, and I started the car.

As the car powered up, the audio returned to life and filled the cabin with the melodious voice of Kishore Kumar, a popular Bollywood singer from the 70s and 80s.

Ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si… one of the most beautiful songs of this legendary singer, had me lip synching with it. I glanced sideways. The cop was also smiling and bobbing his head back and forth — in rhythm with the music.

Song: Ek Ladki Bheegi Bhaagi Si

“Kishore Kumar che gaane changle ahe na?” I asked him in Marathi.

“Ho lai changle ahe,” he answered, echoing my sentiment that Kishore Kumar’s songs were indeed nice.

And off we went. I switched into the centre lane, driving neither too fast nor too slow, for it would have been weird to get a speeding ticket from a cop sitting beside me in my car.

“I have two bikes. My son-in-law has borrowed one of them for a few days and I’ve given the other bike for servicing,” he said, explaining why he needed to hitch a ride.

“Accha,” I answered. “Kootli bike ahe?” I asked, curious to know which bikes he had.

“Ek Hero Honda ani ek scooter.” He had a Hero Honda motorbike and a scooter.

He continued to tell me more about his vehicles. The scooter was ancient, but the Hero Honda was a recent purchase. He also stressed that he was very careful about servicing his two-wheelers on time.

“They are both in tiptop condition,” he said with a flash of well-earned pride beaming across his face.

We continued talking with the music playing in the background. Ek ladki bheegi bhagi si… ended and Nakhrewali…, another gem by Kishore Kumar, poured out of the stereo.

Song: Nakhrewali

Just as the new song began, a bike sped ahead from the fast lane on the right. Then two more bikes followed suit from the slow lane on the left. The bikes from the left curved in and switched two lanes until they were tailing the first bike in the fast lane.

Three black bikes. Bikers wearing black leather jackets and helmets with a dark visor. Two of them were riding solo while one had a pillion.

After a minute, two more bikes passed us, then one more, and then five more. In the next ten minutes, about thirty bikes had sped ahead.

It was quite a scene as they sped by on their monster machines, leaving my ten-year-old Maruti Swift hatchback coughing on the road.

What’s going on? I thought to myself. Was this one of those secret races a friend had once told me about? I had heard about these underground race clubs and their often dangerous bike races. Was I witnessing one of those clandestine events?

Previous Episode: The Traffic Cop 

Next Episode: Old Dreams