Gravitomania

Sleep won't last. Miles will.

Sorry if you couldn't find this term in any dictionary. I coined it on my way up a nameless slope. Consider this name a tribute to that slope. A tribute to the potential energy. Tribute to height. So how did I reach this slope? A coincidence might be the correct answer, but I would like to call myself lucky. You see, K and myself knocked on the hell's gate, but Satan turned us away, just after giving us a little glimpse of the feast we missed us that day. Told us 'Hell's full son, come back tomorrow.'

And the man said "Flashback"

Idling at office, can sometime lead to unexpected results. It was one of these dawdling sessions on the internet, that I came across Mohanchatti, a Rishikesh suburb, that promised stream, sand, and bungee. Perfect escape from the sweltering summer, which was getting unbearable by the day.
It was an April morning when we set out for the ordeal. I remember this because, Achiles' last stand was ringing in my head (one more instance aggrandizing my trivial shitty life). There were no plans made, no reservations sought, it was to be an open ended trip, right from the start. We boarded a rickety U.P. roadways bus for Haridwar, that took 8 hours to cover some 200 Kms. Another 40 Km journey, and we were in Rishikesh. Stepping out into a starry midnight, we found our way to a gurudwara. The good thing about gurudwaras are that they can't (or don't) turn you away, no matter how ass-fucked you look. The long journey had left our limbs shaky, and our appearance unkempt. But they still let us in and allowed us to decamp in their dormitory.


Mohanchatti map



And the man said "Insomnia"

It was well into the midnight, when the mattresses were laid and the mind, irritated by the long journey, screamed at the body to sleep. Excellent point. Just that the caretakers at the gurudwara lit a 100 watt bulb in the dormitory. Reason:  what if some hobo decides to wake up in the middle of the night, to take a dump, you don't want him to flub through the lines of people and still drop his pants in wrong place. Either that or it was to dissuade freeloaders like us from ever stepping on their hallowed grounds.
With the obtrusive bulb stinging my eyes, sleep wasn't to come easy.
No matter which way I contorted my body/face, light greeted me with open arms. Shut my eyes tight, the mental picture still remained. Lay face-down, ended up inhaling fistful of dust from the mattress. For a while, my elbows covered my eyes, but the position stiffened body too much to dispense any rest.
Ultimately, I had to swallow my self-respect, and cover my face with my tattered sweat stained vest. The stinging light was cut off, but for a price. Normally your stench never offends you the way it offends others. In fact it has an appeasing nostalgic quality, a mark of your presence (much like dog piss). I used to shrug off the constant objections of my flatmates/ colleagues about my stink, as a conspiracy to blemish my awesomeness. This illusion took seconds to shatter.
After defeating the bulb, I thought that I had won the war. I was wrong. The bulb occupied my mind long enough to keep the bugs out of equation. Now they came back to haunt me. The mosquito repellent cream, which I had smugly put in my bag, thinking that I was the smartest Homer Simpson alive, lost hands down. The fuckers bit me in places that I itched in the night indulgently, but couldn't quite dare to itch publicly next day.
Long story short, sleep eluded me on the night I required it urgently. The bitch, led me believe that she was just around the corner, and I ended up chasing her all the night. Like a striptease, she let me grab her once or twice, just long enough to create some ill formed dreams and nightmares. They were still there, when I woke up with a groggy head, in a room full of sunshine, cursing everything within my sight.

And the man said "Let there be food"

Drowsiness had sapped most of the energy in me. K, who can sleep through storms woke up an hour later than me, ready to conquer castles and throw gauntlet in world's face. The heaviness in my steps remained till we wandered the street (luckily, there is always just one in hills) to find a 'dhaba.' With a heavy thump, our asses fell on its woodden chairs, and stayed there till the point when we literally had to clamp our mouths shut to prevent food from falling out. This dhaba was totally non-descriptive, and chosen purely on the basis of laziness (closest to the detour we had to make to get to Lakshman Jhoola, one of the two famous bridges in Rishikesh, other being Ram Jhoola). The food turned out to be surprisingly good. The paranthas, despite being baked in tandoor, were soft, the chai was high sugar, high ginger masterpiece, typically associated with dhabas. Might be worthwhile to mention that this town is full of such exceptional food outlets, thronging both sides of Lakshman Jhoola. Despite tourism economy, they don't skin the customer alive. A bakery called 'German Bakery' served such a diverse range of pies, salads and milk-shakes that if you doze off there and wake up, you might consider that you are in some posh, uptown bakery. Another cafe called Namaste cafe, by a Nepali immigrant in his home, served more kind of teas than you could imagine. One shot of Ginger Lemon Honey, and your throat is ready to harangue for hours. That said, the non-veg food is banned here, so if you have spent your whole day trekking, with your guts are groaning louder than your throat, you might be disappointed for the lack of proteinous food. No alcohol too, although that's not a major problem. You don't want to be inebriated near hills and streams.

And the man said "Hyule"

With the stomachs' full, mood had taken a 180 degree turn, from dispiriting to exuberant. Through the meandering streets leading to Lakshman Jhoola, K managed to spot a tout who will rent us a bike for 500Rs a day. Not a bad deal, considering the shoddy public transport on the other side of the bridge. The clock had already struck 1300 hours by the time we got hold of the bike. This bike, a 125cc LML freedom, had its silencer tweaked to make it sound like a wildbeast on steroids. Thus, a lot of pedestrian hippies, turned their heads in the direction of the roar. What invariably followed, were heads shaking in disappointment. K, whose driving skills are infinitely better than mine, took rein of the bike initially. He drove on, skirting the mountainious highway, overlooking a scenic valley with Ganga carrying a bevy of rafters in its lap. Weekend meant that rafters had crowded the rapids; a file of rafts was formed, following one after the another in the rapids. Some 7 Kms uphill, a diversion came; one highway led to Neelkanth, and another to Mohanchatti (our destination). By this time ganga had deserted us, and its tributary, a narrow rivulet called 'Hyule' took its place. A welcome change, considering that this stream would be atleast swimmable. And with the high noon sun hovering right above our heads, this idea was on the top of our heads. So when a bridge came, we stopped the bike and trekked down for a dip into the 'Hyule.' To use the cliche, its water was crystal clear; mostly shallow (2-3 feet), deep only in certain pockets. The rocks and stones were clearly visible, depth or no depth; and the river flowed at a comfortable speed, so you never had to worry about getting washed away. If you stood stationary in water for long enough, the fries (young fish) would treat you like a rock and float past your legs, sometimes nibbling the hair on it. Lucky that they weren't piranhas.
It had been long since both of us had swum(a year for him and three for me), so there was a little hesitation initially; but it vanished away soon. We took to water naturally, displaced good deal of water while swimming, making it difficult for the fisherman to catchy any prey downstreams. After cursing us for a minute or two, they went far upstream, where we couldn't bother them. Nothing much worthwhile happened, except that once I was in the deep end, the sun shining on my back, created a huge shadow on the stream's floor. The illusion was disturbingly dreadful. I mistook it for some huge fish, waiting to disembowel me; fight or flight syndrome kicked in (it's invariably flight for me). I swum back frantically; realizing my folly some three or four strokes later. I reached the shore all limbs intact but with only shreds of self respect.

And the fool thought that the world had tilted.
In foreground: The Hyule.
In background: The fool.
Picture by: K

And the man said "Disappointment"

Water had cooled our engines good deal, and they were ready to be fired up again. K offered me keys to the bike, in case I wanted to try my hands on it, which I gleefully obliged. After a fuck-up or two, I got a grip on the bike. The major fuck-up was when I had encountered the first road that headed downhill, and the bike was soon hurtling, edging on the fine line between the control and lack of it. Mild shots of brakes ensured that the bike didn't skid into the ditch. Despite this fuck-up, K was unruffled, and imparted an important driving lesson to me; while driving downhill, put the bike in first gear, and you won't have to overuse clutch and brakes, also you can forget about providing race. The bike will maintain a control over itself, and the only thing your lazy ass needs to do is to provide a direction to it. The road towards the Mohanchatti (bungee destination), was progressively deteriorating. The last couple of kms. were worst. Narrow road, with more gravel than cemented potion and potholes of ungaguable depth (filled with water) marked this stretch. The bike had to snail through this patch to avoid skidding. We parked the bike outside 'Jumpin Heights' at half past two.
This brings us back to the begining. The precinct of Jumpin Heights was full of douche bags like us, who sought bunjee jump to pass their long weekend. The situation reminded me of a witty quote that I had read on a T-shirt once : "I am unique, just like all others who bought this T-shirt (or something on the same lines)." But I didn't think it was the appropriate time to utter it.
We were told to come back at 4 to confirm whether or not there were any slots available. More or less it meant, 'Fuck off till tomorrow.' Hopeless as situation was, optimism was a trait instilled ass first into us. Even if it meant waiting hour and a half.

And the man said "Gravitomania"

The thing about open-ended trips, is that there are more detours than the straight paths. So when one door closes on your face, another opens within a blink of an eye. Not an exaggeration, considering that we were heading towards the mountain just opposite to the gate.
"Want to climb to its top?" I asked K.
"Any reason not to?" He shrugged, classic case of insanity fueling insanity.
With a bottle of water and an energy bar between the two of us, we set out to slay the monster. The rule was simple "Don't follow the clean trail." The path was scattered with dead leaves, making it slippery. The only conceivable tactic was to jog up to a holdable bark, hold it for your life, take some deep breaths, and then run for the next bark. In no time, we had enough sweat between us to fill a bottle. There was a sharp drop some 3 feet from the path that we had taken, but it was forgotten after a brief mention.
Mountain tops can be deceivingly elusive. What our eyes made out to be the pinnacle, turned out to be a plateau, some farmland, that was nowhere near the mountaintop we had set forth to conquer. A bunch of cows, who were not much accustomed to see intruders, were staring malignantly at us, stomping hoofs to persuade us to leave. Good thing, the fuckers were tied, and empty threats were all they could deliver.
Meanwhile, the owner of the farm had seen us trolling on his farm, and asked us to leave. No trace of anger or frustraion. It turned out that we weren't the first turd balls to roll into his field. Every now and then, city boys like us, who acted as if they hadn't seen a mountain in their lives would trespass into his fields, stepping onto his crops with mindless impunity. By now he had accepted this as a fact of life. After giving us some water, he directed us to a downhill trail to Jumpin heights. That was a relief ; ascending a hill, howsoever enervating is under your control. Choose to descend on an untrodden path, and you are apt to tumble down, and the fall breaks only when you hit some tree or rock. Luckily, we survived that.

Breathlessness: The bitch doesn't appear in the image, but it 's there.

And the man said "Euphoria"

Our descent to Jumpin Heights greeted us with a predictable result. No more slots for bungee that day. That meant our stay was extended by another day. No worries, a few new equations needed to be worked out, and they would be in due time. What mattered then, was that no daylight should be wasted ruminating about lost bungee. So the bike was kicked, put into gear, and off we went on the same path, detouring only once, when we thought that the road towards Neelkanth might offer better surprises than the one we came from. We ventured a Km into that direction before a tea stall owner warned us that this path leads to just a fucked-up over hyped temple, nothing worth to waste your precious gasoline on. Point duly noted, we turned back to the direction we came from. The map we carried and some reconnaissance (the word I dearly wanted to use) from the locals told us that there is a waterfall called Garudchatti on the way. Since there was still two hours of daylight left to burn, no better way than a plunge in the water (yet again). The bike was parked, empty stomachs were filled with Maggi, and hike #2 began. The previous hiking experience had left jitters in my legs, so not a word escaped my mouth regarding taking the untrodden path this time. K seemed to still have plenty of fuel left in his tank, as his walk uphill, was brisk, almost effortless, while I plodded behind him, my head hung low, as if in some deep musing. Despite sipping water occasionally from the bottle, my mouth seemed to be always dry. The path that led up to the Garudchatti falls was narrow, the path surrounding it covered with tall trees and dense undergrowth. The first km or so had hardly any surprise. Pilgrims, who were familiar with the path were running in either directions, crowding the already narrow path. When we reached the place where most people flocked, we saw a pathetic pool. Such a struggle for so little shit. Not for us. There was supposed to be a good waterfall somewhere around, and we were damned if we couldn't wet our balls in it. So we trudged forward. The path seemed to diverge from the existing pool, but the soft croon of flowing water told us that water was never too far away.
Adjacent to this path was a mud hill, with loose protruding rocks, the whole structure kept intact by a bunch of trees that jutted out like cocks, curving from their horizontal base, to spurt out towards the sky. I can't remember the exact logic that led to the act, but shortly we were clawing these mud stones, disturbing this fragile structure. A lot of loose rocks became free and tumbled towards the ground, before K managed to grab hold of a branch, and climb his way onto the tree. I guess that this would be a good time to inform that we had a third partner with us on this trip, whom we were hiding in the bag for the last two days. Not anymore. The rope that we had casually packed in my bag, unsure about its utility, had finally found its purpose. I had passed it to K and he doubled it on a tall branch and abseiled his way down. Climb up, rappel down; climb up, rappel down. This cheered us up for a while. Upside of having a short attention span : more experiences, howsoever ephemeral fill up your knapsack.

Now the fool thinks that the world is upside down.

Shortly afterwards, we packed the rope, put the shoes back on. This little burst of activity had spurred the blood-flow in our limbs, and helped me shake off the previous exhaustion. So the next part of hike was covered without struggling for breath. It led us to a sight we beheld in awe. A rivulet, dropping some 15 feet down on a rock, the whole area covered with an undergrowth of moss, ferns and dense trees. Huge boulders, about hundred feet in height, dwarfed us. Crossing the rivulet on small stones, trying hard not to get the shoes wet, we scaled the rocks from where the water was falling. K had grabbed onto this rock; so water struck him before making way around his body. His clothes were drenched, and he hardly gave any damn about them. A brilliant idea spawned in his mind. He took the rope out again and tied it to the boulder. More rappelling ensued. It seemed like we couldn't get enough of the water. Twice it was decided to move forward, and twice this pact was broken when we grabbed the rope and drenched in that free flow. I guess images will better substantiate this idea.

Ecstasy.

After the dips, the rope was packed back for good, to be taken out only after reaching back to Gurgaon. The bitch had absorbed a good deal of water and weighed heavily on the shoulders now. But since the sight of  the fall was getting better with every yard we covered, the weight of the rope was forgotten. All that mattered was to go as far uphill until the light ditched us. That we did, we leapt over the slippery rocks, sometimes making it to the desired rock and sometimes slipping into the cool water. The higher we went, the greater the disconnect from humanity became. It was a place where, when you are silent for long enough, you can hear your own heartbeat, interrupted only by the cry of the cicadas. Each time a leap from one rock to another failed, our legs splashed in the motes disturbing the larvae of the yet to turn fishes. I wish that they died by 100s. No personal enmity there, just plain old schadenfreude.

Castles to conquer and larvae to squash.
P.S. This is a classic example, why mobile cameras are not suited to capture fast frames.

When the final rays of sunlight bid us adieu, we called it a day. We descended in dark, relying on our eyes, more than our feet, exchanging some past anecdotes, about getting lost in the woods, and the lost stakes.The ascent had pumped enough endorphins in our bloodstream. Brimming with happiness might sound cliched, but it fits. K was so happy that he wished that a bear appeared in the middle of the path and he could hug him and caress its soft fir. I on the other hand was content with a much smaller woman, and a quick fuck behind the bushes. In our banter, we inadvertently wandered at a point where trail seemed to split. The mistake was realized soon and corrected, we backtracked, and after a bit of confusion, came out on the main path without a hitch. The next couple of hours were uneventful. We had filled our empty stomachs with unusual (but delicious) food from German Bakery. While I was gorging on what was known as 'Israeli salad (perhaps in memory of junkies, who squat in Rishikesh, and let its economy prosper),' K was trying to evade the questions about his whereabouts from his parents on telephone (they are still unaware about this trip). The man who had lent us his bike was not much enthusiastic about having it back, considering the sweet time he took to have it back. All the while we squatted in the middle of the Laxman Jhoola, doing the thing that irritated us the most in the morning - not walking, and apparently blocking the way. The starry night and the humongous river down below led to some serious bits of conversations, most of which centred around the fact that 'how long will we be able to hold on to the cable in case the bridge collapsed.' Since we were immoderate about our volume, that earned us a lot of bewildered stares, while people hushed past with their kids tucked abnormally close to them, wondering if fools' fantasies could ever come true. Finally the bike man returned to take back his bike. Since we were tired to our bones by this time, and had no qualms about loosening our tight fists to get a comfortable room. The bike man obliged, and used his contacts to get us one, literally a stone throw away from the place we were standing. Talk about networking!
This time sleep didn't turn out to be the elusive bitch she had been a day ago, for just 800rs, we got an a/c room. We slept like stones, our sleep punctuated only in the morning, when the first rays of sun shone through the window.

And the man said "Jump asshole"

Flash forwarding the next day. Waking up, realizing that we are operating on shit low level of money. We had been instructed by the 'Jumpin Heights' staff to board the staff bus for Mohanchatti that departs at 9 AM, in case we wanted to avoid the same predicament that we faced a day ago. Despite our prudent planning that dealt in minutes, we woke up late and were running through cramped Rishikesh streets, like jackasses on steroids to get some cash from the ATM. Even with persistent jogging (something we hadn't done for a long time), we made it back only by 9:15; half expecting to be deserted by the bus. But it was there, and it took another sweet 15 minutes to depart. In all this quandary, the idea of breakfast was dropped, and we had to get by a couple of granola bars between us. Considering the way our stomachs were growling, this was definitely not the best idea. Not that anything could have been done about it. That day I learnt that body has a lot more energy than we give it credit for. It can dig in deep to salvage any shred of energy available to it and lets you do the things you previously thought that you were too tired to do.

The bus led us to the Jumpin Heights office, where we paid for the bungee and the flying fox. After this payment, we were weighed (The ropes are decided as per the weight of the person, they don't take any chance that a fat fuck bashes his head on a rock because of an over stretchy rope).
The first stop for us was the 'Flying fox.' This structure consists of a rope stretching from the top of the hill to the bottom of valley, spanning about a Km. The operator told us proudly that a person can touch the speed of 150-160Km/h, and since there is no windshield to protect, this speed is pretty much in your face. Hanging on this rope, dressed up in red tarpaulin sort of dress (making us look like retarded aliens), looking into the depth of valley had a sobering effect. If this position, where some stranger held the 'Release button' had the power to unnerve me, bungee would make me wet my pants. However looking down was the only high point this structure offered. When the operator released the brakes, we were hurtled forward, but not at a pace that we hoped to achieved. Merry go rounds offer more fun. The speed (as told by the operator later) hovered around 110-120, not much more than the speed K drives his bike on. The only consolation was that the view down (Hyule again, reflecting sunlight gloriously) below was ravishing. Overall, this ride was overhyped money squanderer. Not worth a try.

The pirate's plank. Don't strain your eyes too much in case you can't see it.

Disappointment was short-lived. Soon after we descended back to the bungee base, waiting for our turn to jump. I didn't have to wait for long. Shortly after I stepped on the base, I was told that the rope they had set, matched my weight, and I could go for the jump straight away. This undoubtedly raised a few eyebrows, from the people who were waiting in line longer than I was. One person was especially irate at this injustice meted at him, and took this up with the jumpmaster (call her JM#1). She didn't give much damn about his hysterics, and politely told him to shove his money up his ass in case he was too offended.

That settled, I was prepared for the jump. First a chest harness, then a leg harness, then the jump rope (which was so heavy that it required a counterweight of 17 Kg, so the jumpmasters could pull it up) was fit to the leg harness with the carbiners that could bear weights in tonnes. While I was at a safe distance from the jump podium, a PJ song 'Given to fly' was running through my mind (somehow I associate this song with suicidal jumps). My heartbeat was normal, and the conversation with the JM#1 was going naturally. She had been instructing these jumps for several years now, and had herself a good share of jumps. She had advised me to delink the mind, shut it altogether and jump at a whim.
Standing on the podium, all these well meant advises vanished without a trace. They were replaced by a burgeoning sense of self-doubt.
"What the fuck am I trying to prove??"
"Will I grow another set of balls if I accomplish this task?" These questions started bugging my mind.
Some people are naturally gifted, not to be afraid of height. K was one of them. But I wasn't. 83 metres down below, Hyule gleamed immaculately, so clean that even the colour of a few stones was discernible from this height. But I wasn't able to appreciate this beauty.

All I could say was 'Shit.' I remembered it distinctly because the jumpmaster (JM2), who stood behind me, told me that half of the people who stepped there uttered this word. The other half say 'Fuck.' In other circumstances, the hilarity of this joke would have me rolling on floor. Now, not even a ghost of a smile broke out on my face. It is said that fear is the most physical of all the emotions. It's dead correct. My heartbeat had soared, my legs had developed a shake. Had I been outside my body, I might even have seen colour disappear from my cheeks. The JM told me to look ahead and not down. But how could I? My gaze was transfixed at the depth, the depth that seemed to beckon me as well as repulse me. In the background, JM#2 yelled '1', '2', '3', 'Bungee'
Nothing happened. He might as well be yelling this to a rock. No response for me. I was still staring nonplussed into the depth. My brain, with whatever words it could muster in such situation, finally articulated to JM#2 that he didn't need to goad me into jumping, I would jump when ready. In a couple of seconds, I took a deep breath, filled my lungs with all the air I could, and jumped. I wished I knew how to dive, but I didn't at that time. But my body tilted nonetheless, and I was going head-first towards the ground. Hands wide open. Perhaps flailing, perhaps not. All I remember looking down, was that my head seemed to have gained weight, and so did my eyes. I guess too much blood had accumulated there. The phrase 'retching your heart out' didn't seem so impossible now. In a couple of second, a soft jerk. If it had been an orgasm, it was a very short one. After the first jerk, I got pulled back, and then fell back. Much like secondary squirts after the big load has been ejacuated. The show was over. Didn't even take 5-7 seconds from start to end. I was slowly descended. The staff down on the stream's edge, passed on a long stick for me to grab on. I was tugged towards a mattress where I was laid down to get the blood flow normally.
Sitting on a boulder beside the stream, waiting for K's turn to jump, I got the answer to the question I was pondering earlier. No, I didn't grow another ball after the jump. Much like thousands of assholes, who come here in pursuit of 'so called adventure,' which requires nothing more than a bundle of notes on their part, the jump was pretty much every-man's game. The only high you get out of all this is overcoming your instinct; convincing your body that the fall is non lethal, even though your brain already knows this. Stretched on a boulder, I enjoyed the jumps of other people gleefully. The person next to me took too long, and too much inciting to jump. The one next to him was so thrilled to jump, that he was howled all the way through it, and long after the jump. He waved his fist in air while running towards his mates as if he had found the best kept secret of life.
Watching him rejoicing, made me want to punch him in the face. Of course I didn't. These fantasies are best kept buried.
Then came K. As I squinted towards the platform, his black turban confirmed me that it was K indeed. Never the one too scared of heights, he too ignored JM#2's goads (he was adamant on jumping on his own terms). I am unsure of how much of diving experience K carries, but when he took up diver's pose on the platform (hand's raised up towards the sky, legs bent, body hunched forward), the dive was picture perfect. It was more like a meteor striking down towards the earth. Not even once, did the rope stagger from its straight path, not even when the rope pulled back after the first jerk. Unlike his predecessor, this jump was completely silent, no-nonsense. The jump didn't seem to have slightest effect on his composure. As the bungee staff pinned an 'I've got guts' medal on his chest, I thought he deserved two.

And the man said 'Hasta la vista, baby'

The jumps concluded our trip to the magicland. It was the time to head back to the sultry city we came from. After a parting dip in Hyule, and an uphill trek, we got back to Rishikesh. Then Haridwar. Then the most shitty journey back to Delhi. Word of advice for all the people taking a night journey on NH-58 (Roorkee, Muzaffarnagar, Meerut, Ghaziabad ). Don't take it. It won't do you any good. You will find yourself in 2-3 hour long jams, sniffing dust and fumes. If you don't die of monoxide poisoning, you will wish that you had, when you haggle with Delhi Autowalas at 1 in the morning. Even after you have haggled to your heart's content, you end up sharing the auto with a weirdo, who trusts the people he has just met to pour out his life's woes about shitty job and shitty bosses.
And then the auto driver still manages to trick you by taking the longest route and charging for 'night duty.' If this hasn't given you a migraine yet, you find the same douchebag with whom you dutched the auto, in your taxi-cab, whining out the stories he forgot to tell. Days of running, jumping, climbing and swimming couldn't exhaust us the way the return journey and the douchebag did. With gritted teeth, and clenhed fists, we tolerated the idiot till he debarked from the cab. Briefly afterwards, we did too. The adventure was over for good.