I spent this past week in the Kumaon region of Uttarakhand. Readers of Jim Corbett will likely remember these Himalayan foothills as the locale of his thrilling tales of shikar (hunting). If you are plotting to recommend these serene highland jungles - where Corbett once stalked man-eating tigers - as a holiday destination to an annoying boss, be warned. The woods are now bereft of man-eating, boss-dispatching tigers; though I am told there are leopards in these parts. Perhaps your boss will meet one with a taste for human flesh. Try it, I suppose. One can only throw the dice, the rest is up to the gods.
I have previously written about running being an essential item in my travel itinerary. In keeping with this custom, one morning, I went exploring the local trails. After rising and dipping through the forested valley for a kilometre, the dirt track opened into the highway. On the other side of the paved road, a small hill lay squatting, its summit pimpled by a temple. I recognised the temple. We had visited it earlier though we had taken a path up a different side of the hill. On this side, a switchback trail cris-crossed the hill, beginning at the road and disappearing into the pine trees. The temple’s courtyard promised sweeping views, so I started jogging up the trail. The narrow path soon relapsed into a channel of flattened grass, and then, disappeared completely. I paused to assess my options.
I am, as some of you would know, a rational and methodical thinker. In situations where others panic or are perturbed, I coolly evaluate the risks and choose the most suitable course of action. For instance, a few weeks ago, my wife and I returned home one evening to find a rat scurrying out of the kitchen and taking refuge behind the refrigerator. Lesser men may have frozen in horror at such a moment, but I immediately formulated a plan of action.
Upon myself, I conferred the designation of OV-FD (Observer of Vermin - From a Distance) and my wife assumed office as the PCO (Primary Chasing Officer). I calmly made my way to the stairs outside our apartment, from which vantage point I had an unhindered view of the rat’s escape route. My wife took a broom and approached the refrigerator. She performed her duties admirably and drove the villain towards the stairwell. I excelled at my task and - from my station at the upper storey - observed the creature as it hurried downstairs. A flawless operation was made possible, purely on account of my astute planning.1
On that Kumaoni hillock, my analytical mind once again shifted into gear. The ascent up to the temple was steep but not impossible. The serrated hillside offered enough purchase for a sure-footed climber, like me. I pictured myself gliding uphill, stepping lightly over the gnarly terrain.
Five minutes later, I lay spread-eagled on the ground, grabbing at tree roots to haul myself upwards. I was only halfway up the hill and the temple seemed impossibly far. Moving onward meant crawling on all fours. Turning back would involve negotiating a tricky slope where a misplaced step could send me tumbling down.
I was stuck. The only way out was to make a choice and commit to that path. Which pill to choose?
In a newsletter issue last year (linked below), I talked about how I have trouble describing myself as a writer. How I worry that my writing is frivolous and inconsequential, and does not feel like a serious occupation.
Not much has changed. I still struggle to introduce myself as a writer. In writing communities and book clubs, I am sometimes able to force out the words: I write (always the verb, never the noun). But I baulk at the thought of making such pompous proclamations to the world at large.
Earlier this week, I spent a few days attending a writing workshop at the fabulous Himalayan Writing Retreat. I met some lovely people, made new friends, and took copious notes as the multi-hyphenate wonder, philosopher - writer - athlete - etc., Aakash Singh Rathore, shared his wisdom with a room full of aspiring authors.
On the last day, we returned from a coffee break to find a sheet of stickers on our table. Squarish blue labels emblazoned with the legend ‘The Himalayan Writing Retreat’. It was a sort of memento one could put on their laptop or phone. I reached out for one, but then, I hesitated. Attending a writing workshop is one thing, attaching its banner to your laptop is quite another. The sticker may have seemed innocuous but it wielded enormous power. It could convert a private, discreet act into a public declaration. I could choose to ignore the sheet of stickers, avoiding the inevitable questions they would trigger about their provenance and my profession. Or, I could slap one on and be done with it.
That morning, stranded halfway up the hill, I decided to try crawling up. (I could colour this choice with shades of determination and perseverance, but to be honest, the downhill option was much scarier.) After a few minutes of scrambling and rummaging through pine needles, I reached the temple.
The views were, indeed, marvellous. Rolls of woodland disappeared into the hazy horizon, with strips of tarmac snaking in and out of view. I stood there, taking it all in as a feeling of satisfaction (and perspiration) washed over me.
I wonder if the vista was enhanced by my sense of contentment, by the joy of a minor achievement. Not the achievement of having fumbled up a difficult path; but of having chosen to, at least, attempt it. There are times when making that choice is the hardest part of the process.
My wife later asked me why I had squealed but she had clearly been rattled by the operation. What she had heard, in fact, was a roar of triumph I’d let out when our enemy had beaten a hasty retreat, its tail between its legs.
One question - how did you come down? Was there another path down from the temple? Are you still stranded there Rohan?
Fun post. I love it. And HRW - I hope to attend one soon 🤞🏽. Glad the sticker is on the laptop 😊
Call it a cliffhanger