*
Fifty-two kilometers from Chikmagalur the land slips away to give way to the ghosts of mist, and nestling in their midst is Kemmangundi. I don't know what to call it - a village, a town, a hamlet perhaps - there is nothing here except a horticultural department that studies the local ecosystem, a few tea stalls, a kitchen-slash-hotel, a run-down guest house that has since been closed, and stunning views of the mountain range. Its name basically translates to the 'red-mud hill’.
On another road trip, we reached Kemmangundi after a wet, four-hour ride in a slow, desultory rain. The uphill ride to the top was delayed by the swimming pool sized pot holes that formed in the rain. In many places, only a narrow strip of road remained between the pools of red-brown water and the endless valley to the left.
We parked the bikes at the first tiny tea shop we spotted through the haze of mist and rain and, while some of us stayed back to enjoy a hot cup of tea, Sumanth and Moham half-jogged into the fog to book us a room at the guest house. Rooms here were generally unavailable to the public, but Sumanth was able to get us in through the contacts he had made working at the Lalbagh Botanical Gardens, Bangalore.
‘Who has the vinegar?’ 3 asked.
‘Why do we need that?’ I asked, watching the smoke coming out of my mouth. We had ridden the last fifty kilometers to Kemmangundi through a constant, cold drizzle, and we were wet to our bones. It was getting colder as the evening progressed. But as a thumb rule, it's a good road trip if you can see your breath condensing in the air.
‘There are leeches hiding in the grass here. When we go to the waterfalls in the morning, we'll have to trek through a lot of grassland. If the leeches stick to you, they don’t come off easy.’
‘What does vinegar do?’
‘You pour a little on the bloodsuckers and they fall off immediately.’
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by this piece of information, and sipped my tea. Smoke from the tea would rise and mix with the cold, condensed air from my mouth and nose, but I didn’t notice. It would take me six more months to notice.
Sumanth and Moham returned with keys to our room. We quickly went inside, dropped our bags and chose our beds. Looking around, we realized it was more a dormitory than a room, with a row of eight beds facing an empty, crumbling wall. The roof overhead was leaking, and algae and grass were growing into the room. The wetness and the constant mist encouraged this growth. Changing into dry clothes, I thought to myself that it was cold enough to snow, and then said this out loud.
To which Moham replied, shaking his head, ‘It’s not cold enough. You have to go to the north of India if you want snow.’
‘You mean Shimla and Manali?’
‘No, Ladakh!’ Sumanth interjected excitedly, bringing the subject back to an exhausted topic.
‘Oh don’t start with Ladakh again!’ said Moham, putting on a pair of socks.
‘Why not? You know you all want to go there someday. I am just planning ahead.’
‘Plans never work – we will go to Ladakh when we go to Ladakh,’ 3 said, coming out of the washroom.
Through the window, I could see that the twilight sky was a torment of grey and mist. The setting sun blazed bleakly through the fog and added an infusion of dull gold to the mix of spreading colors. The fog itself swirled around slowly, seemingly losing energy with setting sun, playing half-heartedly with the world around it. From behind the fog, trees and tea-stalls and people would appear suddenly and disappear just as quickly, apparitions in the haunting light.
I knew the Ladakh argument would continue into the night. It was another thing that united us. Ladakh is a district in the troubled state of Jammu and Kashmir that is frozen in time. The capital, Leh, is a modern nugget of a city set amidst dusty mountains of rock and scree. For the intrepid biker, the ride from Manali to Leh is a litmus test, a test of strength, skill and stamina. A twisting and unforgiving mountain path that crosses many bridges over mighty rivers connects the four hundred and eighty odd kilometers between the two destinations. This arduous journey is compounded by the altitude itself, as the increased height decreases the oxygen content in the atmosphere, making it difficult to breathe and to think. That there is no electricity, no cellular network, no place to stay overnight except in thread-bare tents and no gas stations between Tandi and Leh - a distance of 365 kilometers - only adds to the difficulty. The very word 'ladakh' translates to 'land of the mountain passes', and to reach Leh one must cross five of them, some over seventeen thousand feet above sea level. But the journey inspires awe, and I have spent many nights dreaming about it.
The ghostly night in Kemmangundi was spent in the Ladakh argument, a keenly-participated discussion of the infrastructure and the planning that would be involved in undertaking such an expedition. At the time, the discussion felt futile but still exciting.
*
Xession*: Ocean Cave