Almost There!

I have travelled the world. Literally.  Flown over vast spaces on holidays and sailed the 7 seas (with my Merchant Navy husband). But never have I ever seen any place as beautiful as the orchard we own

This stunning piece of property lies nestled in the Himalayan Range at a height of about 8000 feet. Unlike the usual stepped horticulture of the region, it undulates along the top of a mountain ridge and stands bathed in sunlight all day long. If one were to take a few steps beyond the front gate and settle down with a hot cup of tea, one would have the most marvelous, uninterrupted view of the valley as it gently slopes down to the legendary Sutlej River. The tiny “chappad” (pool) adjoining the wall to one’s left, attracts creatures from all around, who pause on their way up and down the mountain, to slake their thirst and rest in the cool shade of the overhanging trees.

To the right, is an open plateau. The sunsets are particularly picturesque here, because as Indra sinks down to sleep, the horses, sheep, goats and cows gather to graze and rest for the night. A peaceful, serene spectacle to calm the soul. Have I mentioned that the silence is so surreal that one can hear a bird calling from the adjoining mountain?

The piece de resistance, however, is the majestic cedar (deodar) forest that encircles the entire rear of the orchard, framing this tiny fragment of farmland and turning it into a magical masterpiece of stunning, unparalleled beauty.

It goes without saying, that it transforms into a winter wonderland when the snow blankets it all in pearly white.

Is it any wonder that everyone wants to visit?

Well, my revered father was no exception. Staking his claim to seniority, he booked a berth in our vehicle, demanding that he be transported to this famous fairyland the next time we journeyed there. He brooked no argument and overrode all appeals.

And so it came to pass.

Permit me a brief digression here, dear reader, to paint yet another portrait….of our
transportation (in due course, you will understand the significance of this). They say the mountains are ancient. Well, our beloved Jonga belonged to the same era. One of the fabled 'discards’ of the army, it had been refitted with a truck engine and was inordinately powerful as a result. However, thanks to Father Time and the vicissitudes of rough travel, this conveyance had reached a stage where the adjective ‘decrepit’ was nothing short of a compliment! Suffice to say that break downs were not a norm but a rule, and that I had gradually transformed from a wife into a mechanic’s able assistant as the years had gone by.

To continue with our tale…..

The day dawned and we set off in the month of November, bags packed, our faithful canine ensconced behind and my dearly beloved patriarch seated next to me. Do bear in mind that these were the days of yore when bucket seats and seat belts were still unknown features of the future. The Jonga had a single, straight bench in the front, which constituted the sole seating of the vehicle. And so there were the 3 of us – yours truly squashed in the centre with my husband behind the wheel and my pater on my left.

The initial bit went well. We cruised along gently curving, well tarred roads and soon the elder amongst us relaxed and became quite chatty, entertaining us with stories of hair-raising adventures he had been on. Needless to say, he starred in each episode and emerged the triumphant, rugged hero. Like well-trained offspring, we dutifully congratulated him each time
a tale reached its conclusion, admiring his tenacity, strength and courage. Unfortunately, this only served to inspire him to serve up yet another embellished fable and so there we were travelling up the mountainside being regaled by our daredevil.

Until a sudden silence fell upon us. This was followed by an unrelenting pressure on my left that sent me crashing into my spouse on my right. He, in turn found himself hugging the door on his right and thanking the Almighty for the said resistance, or else we may well have found ourselves sans a driver with yours truly literally in the driver’s seat! Of note – those were the days when I had still not learned to drive.

Seizing the wheel firmly, my husband applied a strong counterpressure and soon we were all once again back in our original spaces. Curiosity however, made us look towards the originator of the near catastrophe, only to find said perpetrator gazing fixedly out of the window whilst firmly holding the fixture in front of him in a white knuckled grip. Further exploration revealed the cause of this ungainly posture – we were on a narrow mountain road with his side close to the edge. From where he sat, he had a bird’s eye view of a steep 800 foot drop straight down to the rocks below and might well have felt he was suspended over the said precipice, with no life-saving seat belt to prevent the plunge. Suffice to say that most of the rest of the journey consisted of overt demonstrations of Newton’s 3^rd law, with action and reaction being the game played all the way up the mountainside!

Evening fell and we were close to our destination. One more road to traverse. When disaster struck. We found our way obstructed by a truck that had broken down in the dead centre of the road. Every manoeuvre to pass it failed miserably and then – our beloved Jonga decided
to emulate the deceased roadblock. As befits a vintage vehicle, it too decided to exercise its freedom of choice and, with a mighty gurgle, gave up the ghost. No amount of coaxing would resuscitate it. Like an old codger, it refused to budge and we were now faced with the grim reality that there was no way up except on foot, even as the sunset fell upon us.

Now, dear reader, do permit me one last digression. I promise it is relevant to the proceedings.

The final stretch of road that led up to our orchard had been built by us personally. In an effort to preserve the forest as well as our pockets, the shortest route possible was decided upon - obviously. Unfortunately, this also meant that the gradient of the said passage was extremely steep. To walk up it was nothing short of participating in an extreme sport.

So there we were, as the day passed into the night, boldly venturing forth where no man had gone before…..up our extreme sport road, in the biting cold. That the moon had chosen to hide behind the clouds was of no help whatsoever and that leopards came out to feast on such occasions, only served to add flavour to the already over-spiced dish of trauma.

By the way, have I mentioned that my dearly beloved papa had grown up in the mountains of Nainital? I haven’t? Well…he did. And I have lost count of the number of times we kids were told how unhealthy we urban progeny were as compared to the mountain goats like him, who had been bred on clean mountain air and steep, challenging slopes. So when we started on the ascent, it was a brave and bold man who swung into action. Our intrepid hero sallied forth with vim and vigour, scathingly beckoning us slow coaches to catch up.

Until he hit our road.

In the dark.

20 short steps up the incline, he decided to declare his close kinship with the Jonga and emulated it by abruptly coming to a halt. Inhaling mightily (read – huffing and puffing), he magically transformed from a swaggering sailor (he is from the Indian Navy) into a plaintive geriatric, declaring pitifully, “I’m old, I’m asthmatic. I can’t go on”, and that said, he plonked himself down on the nearest rock.

Imagine out plight! We were faced with the herculean task of getting our self-proclaimed champion up that impossible road in absolute darkness.

Now you may well ask - why do I keep stressing the lack of light? Elementary dear Watson – what one can’t see can be transmogrified. And that is precisely what happened. In the most
soothing tones imaginable, I coaxed said dying duck up onto his feet with the complete fabrication, “It’s not too far and the incline is a truly gentle one”! With that I hauled him to his feet and quite literally heave hoed him up the offending ascent, all the while cajolingly assuring him about how magnificently he was doing and wasn’t it an easy stretch of road to traverse?!

Unfortunately, the 8000 foot high rarified atmosphere, combined with the physical strain of the slope soon brought about another collapse. This time he flung himself dramatically onto our dear frozen mother earth and from that supine position pathetically declared, “Leave me behind sweetheart.”!!!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was when I truly rose to the heights of mendacity. Keeping in mind that we had the steepest part of the steep slope dead ahead, I magnificently declared, “No worries Baba. We are over the hill. From now on, it’s level ground”!!

God bless the blackness. Such is the power of suggestion (and prevarication) that, sighing a weary sigh, our relieved conqueror rose to his feet and staggered up that slope, fully convinced that he was on level ground. To keep the fable alive, I followed, crooning,” See, I told you – the worst is over.”!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we got our triumphant victor home!

I will leave you to imagine what happened the next morning, when the literal light of day, revealed the truth. I leave you with a hint……I suffered from extreme frostbite for the remainder of that holiday, thanks to the cold waves emanating from our offended lionheart. As for the rest of his days….my credibility rating lay in negative figures!!