The Ride
How do you keep a wave upon the sand; how do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?
It was unexpectedly cold and dark early in the morning, when I left Bhopal to begin my journey to Dindori. Shivering through a continuous glare of headlights from tired and underpaid drivers who drove to complete their overnight journeys in the city, I played it extreme-left handed and risk-averse until the sun finally lit up my world. At the junction for roads to Nagpur and Jabalpur, it was time to stock up at the regular breakfast joint that serves the softest, hot and large gulab jamuns. I reminded myself of the long journey ahead and resisted the temptresses. After all the effort preparing for the long ride ahead, I felt obliged to act responsible. With a body and mind that has sometimes felt worn-out with over forty three summers on terrain like the roads of Madhya Pradesh: cool smooth stretches of thin straight lines breaking unexpectedly into stones and gravel you can curse, but do nothing about. Extra care also needed for my motorcycle and partner with 40,000 kilometers and ticking. Nuts tightened, leaks fixed, spokes adjusted, cables changed, chain greased, points scrubbed clean, brake shoes replaced, shockers tested for sudden surprises and an extra spark-plug, just in case. Does it still feel the same, I ask myself, as I tilt and turn in a sharp and unnecessary swerve towards Jabalpur? But as I descend down the slope into Bari, 110 kilometers from the start, I experience the excitement; the familiar rush from heading closer to the ascent with the peak in sight. I realize that we require more of the stuff to get back into the groove. I am enjoying the ride now. The sun shines ahead of me as I head east. It is all in the mind, I tell myself. I become reckless and stop for some tea and decide that one cigarette now is not going to hurt anymore than all the smokes since I was twelve!
You experience less when your head is full of questions, especially if you think that you already have the answers. I was asked by a friend in the government to examine the potential for developing eco-tourism in Dindori. He was unable to pay me for this, but agreed to bear my expenses. I jumped at the offer because I wanted to escape the rut for some days. When I telephoned the person who runs the local unit to manage the project at Dindori and told him that I intended to ride my motorcycle to reach his place, he suggested that I drop the idea. The road, he said, was not worth the effort. I struggled to find an excuse because I knew instantly, that he was not the type of person who would understand why anyone should seek more than what the world has instantly on offer. I stretch the limits because I find joy only in the margins: staring vacantly from the edge. I told him: exactly, the point: I need to know what the roads are like in order to provide proper advice. I need to go through experience for myself, feel and immerse myself in the information before I can process it for the project. My weak excuse worked and he reluctantly suggested that I travel up to Shehpura on the border between Mandla and Dindori from where he would have me picked up.
After traversing the chaos in Jabalpur and lunch to kill time rather than hunger, I am still running early for my scheduled time to arrive at Shehpura. I slow down now, and wonder why the landscape switches from bald undulating hills to stretches of thick sal forests with protectionist departmental markings on the trees. As I enter and leave the time warps of our mixed economy, I find it easy to adjust my perspectives, but the horrendous paradox of an internet caf in Bichhia and a little girl in a school uniform with a useless polio-affected leg, struggling to make it in life with just a stick to support her, sears through my brain, leaving me unsettled. I steady myself by putting it behind me at the Fossil Park with less than thirteen kilometers left to cover.
A rapidly fading board outside the park announces that it is home to plant fossils from six million years ago. I stare at the rusted gate wrapped up in chains and look around for help. A bored guard with anxiety-lines on his face about his daily-wager status since 1983 appears from behind his hut. I ask him for a ticket to enter, but he can't find the receipt book. Meanwhile, his dog and only resort to tackle the loneliness of his post scampers about, lifts one hind leg on the front wheel of my motorcycle and lets out a spray of defiance. I give his act of aggression a pass and enter the park, invaded with tall grass and concrete benches. Pieces of wood-turned-into stone that take you on a journey to unravel mysteries of earth's past. A coconut tree fossil here and eucalyptus further on. Another piece of wood that even has termite holes pickled in lava. Many people who come to visit the park return wondering why they traveled such a long distance to see heaps of stones. For others, the journey is a magical pilgrimage into a world of imagination and mystery. The guard lets me out and tells me that his department is constructing a place for tourists to stay near the park. I hope they plan a nice big verandah for the lonely guard and his nasty dog, given that it will be a long wait between visitors.
Shehpura at four pm, 450 kilometers from Bhopal: two hours before I had planned to arrive. I check the motorcycle's lubes; top-up the engine oil. Play with the plug, polish the tank, and get rid of the dog urine stains from the front wheel. Then I announce my arrival to my hosts who show me where I must park my partner to rest for the next four days as I continue on my explorations with them.
That night, as I struggle with boring conversations, persistent mosquitoes and bad rum at the PWD rest-house, I think back about the time when I slowed down took off my helmet and felt the wind in my hair. I am already looking forward to return back on the road where I belong!
Contributed By : Chowla, ASHIM
Ashim Chowla
Social Scientist and Travel Entrepreneur
email : ashimchowla@rediffmail.com
:: Parag Bakshi :: March 01, 2007
