26 May, 2:30 PM
I got down from the bus and decided that the first thing I needed to do was find a loo. I headed towards the big blue display painted on the wall of the bus station and then to the neatly combed man drawn on the wall. Outside, under a makeshift roof, a woman was collecting money for the facility.
Now, experience at restrooms in bus stations of Delhi, Chandigarh and others had taught me that peeing is generally free or costs less than pooing. When the person in charge used to ask me what I had done or sometimes what I wanted to do, I only said ’toilet’, and had to pay 5 or 10 Rupees for the same. I knew this was a lot by Indian standards but didn’t care haggling for a few coins. Only when it happened with me a few many times did I realise that ’toilet’ to them meant pooing. I was paying for something which I wasn’t doing.
Mentally prepared, this time I went straight up to the lady who was busy sorting her coins. Before I could utter anything I realised that I had no word in mind for peeing and ended up saying ’toilet’ again. She said something in Tamil and then spread out her hand indicating ‘5 Rupees’. “Only toilet”, I muttered back, trying to somehow show her through my facial expressions and voice modulation rather than the correct word that pee was all I wanted to do. She again spread her hand. Ok, 5 it is then.
I then remembered seeing the HADP tourist office just before the bus had stopped and decided to walk there. The tourist official was apparently standing outside and I instinctively spoke in English. “Sir, can you tell me something about the trekking routes here and where I can obtain permits?” “Are you alone?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “Well, first of all you need to get permits which are issued by the forest department. It is getting difficult to get permits and at any point they are not issuing it to individuals.”
Not wanting to hear any more disappointing news I quickly did a polite thank you and headed towards the Forest Department office, hoping secretly that something would work out. My tent hung vertically on one side of my rucksack and the uneven distribution of weight made walking rather weird.
While asking for directions I consistently observed the prominence of yellow colours. The autos were all painted yellow, lots of trucks and other heavy vehicles. Moreover, almost everyone besides speaking their native tongue — Tamil — spoke either a bit or fluent English. The fact that Hindi is given a miss startles you, especially a North Indian, at first. But why should everyone speak Hindi? We are such a big country. The fact that I was here, communicating however little with people of my country in a foreign language felt strange, and I thought that if the British never came this conversation could perhaps never have happened. More English names popped up on signboards: ‘Churchill Road’, ‘Havelock Road’, ‘Wilson Road’.
After walking some 30 minutes I arrived at the forest department office. Outside hung pictures of tigers and elephants, caution notes for trekkers and places of interest inside the forests. Through the windows of the white wooden door I saw a police officer with 3 stars on his shoulder. I popped the door open a little and spoke in my most polite voice. “Good evening Sir, can I please come in?” He nodded and I stepped in, keeping my rucksack outside.
“Sir, I want to get a permit to trek in the forests.”
“I’m sorry but we have limited issuing permits to people. The man-animal conflict is on a rise and it’s becoming too dangerous for trekkers. We are only allowing special groups like YHAI or others who take special permission from us. With them we are sending our forest rangers, anti-poaching team and other officers. How many people are there with you?”
“Only me,” I replied, wiping the sweat which had now started to crawl down my head.
“Issuing to individuals in any case is impossible, it’s too dangerous.”
“Sir, aren’t there villages in that area?”
“Yes, there are two or three.”
“Sir, I have come from so far away, is there any place I could trek for which I wouldn’t require permits?”
“No,” he replied back calmly. Before I could think of any other clever thing to say, he made that expression which meant: the conversation is over. You may now go.
What a bummer.
Meanwhile, my father called to say he had booked a place for me to stay at the JSS College of Pharmacy guest house. One of the reasons I travelled was to be independent and take decisions and have choices that I wanted. I didn’t care if they turned ugly or bad, I was happy as long as they were mine. I was not even in a village or remote part of the country; I was in a thriving town full of places to stay. I disliked the idea of him doing things for me, treating me like a child, helping me in every step often using his influence. Damn the phone I thought. I wish I didn’t have it. I didn’t show disapproval on the phone, said “Ok” with an inaudible grumble and then went on to ask for directions to the Guest House.
Midway, it started to rain rather heavily and saving my rucksack which I covered up, I was all wet and enjoying it. My inner child immediately kicked in reminding me I would get ill. I did stop for a while, drank some coffee, but thought what the heck and ventured out again.
The JSS College is located on Elk Hill. It is a short hike up from the main bazaar in a fancy area called Roland. All the entryways and alleyways in the buildings of the college are full of quotes by different people. I liked the one by APJ Kalam the most: “Dream is not what you have when you sleep but something that does not let you sleep.”
The view from my spacious room was magnificent. Large window doors opened to a nice veranda which had perhaps the most spectacular vista of the town, now glittering with tiny lights with the backdrop of the setting sun over the hills. I could see a storm brewing far off, recruiting clouds from the land to its heavenly force. With my camera, I rushed up to the terrace three floors up and took pictures as the sky glowed with a great assortment of hues and colours. I was filled with a vibrant energy as if I was witnessing a miracle close to me.
The sun with its quiet red and yellow colours eventually descended into the hills. The only problem was that the guy I had just met on the terrace had locked the door while going out. I shouted for help from a family I could see below and the manager came scampering up. “Sorry Sir,” he exhaled.
I went out again to see the shops nearby and get a feeling of the surrounding topography and landmarks. An assortment of things made up my dinner: bun omelette, vada, idli sambhar, some fresh dal vadas and cake. Let’s call it a day now, shall we?