Three Musketeers III

‘They are in Dibrugarh,’ I declared. 

‘What’s a Dibru.. What?’ Kiran had an expression of grief, confusion and sheer exasperation on his face. 

‘Dibrugarh. The other end of Assam,’ Abhay chimed in. He was worried all this while but was calm now. ‘Well, that’s reassuring. Now that we know where the bikes are, we can try to find them.’

I was feeling like an idiot. I was going to join a job in the Railways in December. Abhayji had been telling me to use contacts I had in the organisation to keep track of the vehicle. For multiple reasons ranging from insecurity and lack of planning to sheer laziness, I did not do that. The result is that the bikes that were supposed to be delivered in Guwahati went all the way up to Dibrugarh. Dibrugarh, because that was the last stop. Luckily, the last stop was only 400 km away from where we were. A train usually has a stop of about 5-10 minutes at major stations. This is sometimes not enough for all the goods that it is carrying to be alighted at the station. Since trains cannot be delayed on this account, they usually deliver the low-priority packages at the next major station. This can also happen due to ineptitude. I am not sure what happened in our case but we now knew the bikes were at the other end of the state. I called a friend of mine who was working in this part and he confirmed after a few calls regarding what the situation was and how it could be salvaged. They would send it back to Guwahati on the next train and it would reach by early morning 4 am. They would also ensure to deliver the bikes this time. Abhayji was giving me the glare all the while I was making these calls. I, as is usual, decided to carefully avoid the confrontation. Kiran was distraught. If you knew him as an acquaintance, you would think that his first love was his Honda CBR. But once you get to know him better you would understand that this bike was only the third most important thing in his life. Suffice it to say that he did not appreciate the ‘mistreatment’ his bike was receiving. It was also his first trip outside of Kerala and it has not started out well. It was during these times that one really appreciates the presence of Abhayji. I, for one, would have no idea what to tell Kiran to make him feel better or less dismal at least. Abhayji would say something like, ‘The passion with which you are invested in your bike is something which we could all learn from’ and somehow we would all be able to see the silver lining. I don’t exactly remember what he said this time around though but in about half an hour the three of us were back at our guesthouse talking to our hosts about the North East. 

Chihan was Abhayji’s friend from his stint at the Fellowship in Assam. Shimzun guesthouse was his own house, the first storey of which he had rented out. It was a cosy place, hidden in the middle of the City, nestled within its gardens, shrubs and small trees. Chihan’s mother was the sweetest. She was a Naga. I had been reading about how the North East was more matriarchal than most cultures of the world and here I got the first glimpse. She was running the guesthouse on her own, doing the cooking for the guests, managing the books and didn’t even break a sweat. Abhayji was doing most of the talking with them. Though we were in Guwahati for almost half a day, it wasn’t until lunchtime that we got our first real taste of the place. Aunty cooked us a traditional Naga lunch which comprised rice, fermented bamboo shoot stew, pork and some dal and some Bhoot Jholokia chutney. We were having our pork and rice and were happy when Aunty bought this chutney and said, ‘The meal is not complete without tasting this special chutney.’ She paused and warned, ‘But be careful. It is hot.’ For the uninitiated, ‘Bhoot’ means Ghost in Hindi and  Jholokia probably means Chillies. Kiran and I didn’t know that Bhoot Jholokia was one of the hottest chillies in the world. In the Hornbill Festival, people have literally died on overconsumption of these chillies. Abhay knew all these titbits and decided to not tell us. I am not a fan of too spicy food so I took only a little of the chutney. For the next half an hour, Kiran and I were not able to speak, see, hear or use any other senses for any real purpose. Our eyes were watering, ears were burning and tongues were seething. Kiran was literally rubbing soap on his tongue. Abhay was laughing. ‘So the trip begins,’ he chuckled. Aunty was beaming. ‘I knew you would love it. I bet that you won’t be able to find this chutney in India’, she said. And the realisation hit me that we were indeed in the North East of the country.

We woke up the next day at about 8 am and went straight to the Railway station. The bikes were here. Finally. But not without problems. The visor and one of the rearview mirrors on Kiran’s bike had been broken. It was probably because of the silver lining conversation the previous day that he was just happy that his bike was here. We paid the porters some baksheesh and pushed our bikes out of the station. Bikes have to be completely empty of petrol while being moved on trains. We had bought just enough petrol in PET bottles with us to take us to the nearest petrol pumps. We rode back to Shimzun and started packing and getting ready for the trip. With the bike fiasco, we were already a day behind schedule before we even began. We were supposed to be in Shillong yesterday evening. It was decided that we move right after breakfast and try to reach Shillong as soon as we can. Aunty offered us the Chutney again for breakfast, which we politely refused this time. Each of us had two rucksacks which we fastened to the pillion seats using two bungee ropes, each 3’ long. We hadn’t thought of rain covers for our luggage. Chihan offered a few plastic refuse bags, just to be safe. We took a few photos on our phones to mark the beginning of the trip and were on our way. 

One of the most difficult parts of a group travelling on bikes is communicating how to pace the ride. This is especially more difficult when one of the vehicles is a superbike and the other two are just barely bikes. For optimum performance, Kiran’s bike needed to be going at around 90 kmph. Abhayji’s bike was a 135cc Bajaj Pulsar which would be comfortable at 60 kmph. My Hero Glamour was a 125cc commuter bike. I weighed more than 100 kg at the time. The two rucksacks that I was packing would easily be about 30 kg. If she had a vein, it would probably burst under the effort taken to haul my ass. But when we began riding, we didn’t think these things through. It was assumed that everyone would be riding at their own comfortable pace and reach Shillong safely. This was true while we were inside Guwahati town, wherein you could only ride within speed limits. Once we got onto the highway, the CBR 250r showed its true colours and disappeared from sight within 5 minutes. It wasn’t a very difficult terrain to ride in. Assam offered plain roads for the most part. We stopped at about half an hour for some snacks after having done around 15 km. Though, the quality of the road wasn’t the worse but riding was difficult and the pace was slow because of the number of obstacles on the road including 2-wheelers, rickshaws, carts and bullocks and other milch animals. It was steady progress but we were excited. Khanapara was the border between Meghalaya and Assam and the plains started giving way to the winding, snake-like roads of the Khasi hills. Garo, Khasi and Jaintia were the three major hill ranges in Meghalaya. Shillong, which was our destination, was in the Khasi hills. Nostalgia gushed inside me when I first saw these hills. I had spent my childhood in the Army camps in Darjeeling and Sikkim, before being transplanted to Kerala. The Western Ghats, though majestic, could never compare to the imperious nature of the Himalayas. Though the Khasis were not a part of the Himalayas they reminded me of them. It felt like I was travelling down the annals of my childhood. The roads in Meghalaya were surprisingly good. Two-lane, well-paved, and marked roads with an almost tarmac-like quality wound around the hills. Another thing we noticed was the spectacular lane discipline that the drivers displayed in these parts. This was, of course, mandatory here because tortuous hair pins at every mile with oncoming traffic meant that if you didn’t religiously stick to your lane there was a risk of accident or worse, going off the cliff towards a certain death. The plains never boasted of lane discipline as chances of near-death accidents with oncoming traffic were not a good enough deterrent. 

The ride to Shillong was about 100 km. The winding roads and our cautious nature made sure that we would take about 4 hours to complete this journey. The fact that we would stop every half an hour to forty-five minutes for a snack or a break meant that the journey time would keep steadily increasing. We rode through several places whose names we could not pronounce properly. Our one major stop during this ride was Umiam Lake. This was not a planned stop but it was so picturesque that we couldn’t help it. This lake was formed as a reservoir for the Umiam hydel project on the Umiam River. The lake formed was nestled in the valley among the East Khasi Hills. The lake had dark, deep blue water and the dark green canopy on the hills in the background made for an amazing view. We stopped to take several photos here. There were also some small shack-type shops here which sold trinkets for tourists. An interesting item was the Kukri. This cute-sounding item is a large knife or a short sword depending on how fragile your ego is. It is a weapon of Nepalese origin and was the constant companion of the dreaded Gurkhas of the region. The ones we saw here were quite small (Objectively speaking). This was probably because selling murder weapons out in the open was probably illegal. We did not buy anything as haggling for prices with people selling Kukris did not seem to be a good idea. We continued with our journey. It was not dark by the time we reached the outskirts of Shillong. Chihan had given us a contact here for accommodation. Zion Guesthouse was the place where we were going to stay. We checked in and interacted a little with our hosts. They told us about the places to visit in and around Shillong. We already had the famous Nongriat Double Living Root Bridge (DLRB) on our list but they suggested we visit the Don Bosco Museum as well. The three of us thought that taking some rest for the rest of the day would be a good idea as we would have to start at 6 am the next morning if we had to cover the DLRB. We had our food and roamed around the city for a while until it got dark. Shillong was, what one could call, a tiered city. Cities built upon hills had that quality. Roads could get confusing as a junction would have about seven exits with some routes going up the hill and some going down the hill. So when the map tells you to turn left you needed to figure out whether it was left-up or left-down or just plain left. I hope I have managed to confuse you as much as we were then. 

Kiran and I were lazy people. It was almost impossible for us to peel ourselves off the bed in the morning. Abhayji was the polar opposite. He functioned like a clock. So it was surprising for all of us when all three of us woke up by Five in the morning the next day to get ready for our trip to DLRB. It was probably the excitement of the first tourist destination that we were going to see on this trip. We got ready and had a light breakfast as the hosts had informed us that there would be a hike to reach the location. The sun rises by around 3:30 am in this part, so by the time we had started riding it was already quite late in the day. The journey was about 70 km. It would take us about 3 hours to reach the Nongriat village and probably another 1 hour for the trek to the DLRB. This is why we had to start at 6 am so that we could return before nightfall. Riding through the hills in the daylight was tricky enough. The plan was perfect. Our luck wasn’t. Less than 10 km after leaving Shillong, I felt my bike wobble. Initially, I thought it was just my poor riding skills. Abhayji rode nearer to me to see what was wrong when he saw me wobbling and saw that my front tire was flat. I had probably ridden almost a kilometre with a flat tire and didn’t even realise it. The three of us stopped. We were crestfallen. It was going to take at least two hours to get the tire back to Shillong to get it repaired. On the way, we did not see any mechanic shops either. Abhayji said that we should take off the tire and he and Kiran would carry it to the nearest mechanic to repair it while I wait. 

‘Get the toolkit, Varma,’ Abhay said, rolling his sleeves and getting ready to do the dirty work. 

‘I didn’t bring any toolkit, dude.’, I mumbled.

Kiran guffawed. ‘He doesn’t even know, Abhayji’, he squeaked. His condescension irked me. 

‘You don’t know that your bike has a tool kit? Are you serious?’, Abhayji looked more annoyed. ‘Who brought this guy along, man?’ He shouted at Kiran pointing at me.

Kiran was laughing and shrugged. ‘It was all your idea,’ he chortled. 

‘MOVE!!’, Abhayji ordered as I was contemplating digging a hole in the ground to bury myself in. I dutifully moved out of his way. Abhayji took my bike key and probed my bike once. He opened a small compartment below the fuel tank and took out a white plastic cover, the size of a palm. Voila! The toolkit. The compartment even had ‘TOOLKIT’ written on it. What was more embarrassing is that I have had this bike for almost 2 years now. I shot a pained look at Kiran and he burst out laughing again. I have to admit that I was secretly relieved that my initial plan of going on the solo trip didn’t materialise. 

While I was standing uselessly at the roadside, Abhayji was trying to pry open the nuts of the tire using the spanner and lever. He and Kiran tried for about 15 minutes and then looked at me accusingly. I tried my luck for about 10 minutes, to no avail. The nuts were probably rusted and were not budging. 

“Ok. You and Kiran wait here. I will go see if I can find a mechanic to come here,’ Abhayji was thinking out loud. We agreed, of course. Kiran and I moved my bike to an open area on the inward curve of the hillside road and waited. 

‘You haven’t even opened the User Manual of the bike, have you?’ Kiran whispered. 

‘I thought it would be about how to drive and all,’ I retorted. 

‘All the more reason for you to read it,’ he stabbed back. No clever remarks from me this time. 

We were waiting for about 10 minutes before Abhayji called and told us that there was a mechanic about 2 km on the way back to Shillong. But this guy would not travel with his tools and we would have to bring either the bike or the tire to him for the repair. Riding the bike with a flat tire posed the risk of damaging the rim and the tire permanently. Trying to pry out the nuts without proper tools could do the same. Kiran and I gambled with the first option. We rode at a snail’s pace back to where Abhayji was waiting for us. The mechanic informed us that the rim was not damaged, to our delight. He repaired the tire in about 10 minutes. The whole fiasco cost about an hour and a half. We still had about 60 km left to go to reach the base camp village of Nongriat. We carried on with our journey but decided to not hasten our pace as we didn’t want to risk another debacle. It was about midday when we reached the village. We could see a flight of stairs descending about 100 m away from where we parked our bikes. It was a relatively open area where the road ended. There was a small shack right at the top of the stairs, with a poorly painted wooden board, about the size of an ironing board, that welcomed us to the ‘World Famous Double Living Root Bridge’. About 5 natives were sitting in the shack. They were drinking and smoking. One elderly lady sprung to her steps and asked us if wanted a guide to the DLRB. We were told that there would be a hike to reach the destination. When we looked at the steps descending down the edge of the hill, we thought that the downward hike is going to be easy, especially with the steps but the return will be difficult. We asked the lady how long it would take to walk to the DLRB. Imagine our shock when she pointed to the next hill!! There were about 1000 steps to descend down the particular hill we were on and another 1000 steps atop the adjacent hill to reach the place. And it wasn’t just the steps that were challenging. The Nongriat village was spread across these hills and the routes could get confusing. Abhayji told the lady that we would take the guide. They also advised us to take the make-shift trekking poles they had cut out of sturdy branches. 

We commenced the trek. This was October and the North East Monsoon was already underway in the place. As a result, we could see several waterfalls, big and small, strewn like strings of Pearls upon the velvet green cloak of evergreen trees on the hills. Our guide was a jovial, middle-aged man who spoke just enough Hindi for our comfort. He was explaining where the villages were pointing in various directions all around the hills. He pointed to a far-off location on the hill we were at showing us his native village. And here, we were thinking that Nongriat was just one village. About halfway down the first hill, he showed us a wide crack on the side of the hill about 50m away from the route we were taking. He informed us that we could find honey there if we wanted to try some. Abhayji, with his lithe physique, had gone ahead a few 100 metres. He has also been here before so he could hold his own. The guide was talking to Kiran and I. Kiran got excited. I, on the other hand, could feel my anxiety peaking. This cave had an entrance about 2 feet wide, was pitch dark and looked like it was going to only get narrower. ‘There might be bats in there, though,’ warned the guide. I could feel the colour draining from my face. Kiran took out his phone to take pictures. 

‘Let’s go, bro,’ he urged me.

‘I think I am going to pass, man. I am claustrophobic.’

‘Who?’

‘Not who, what. Claustrophobic. Fear of closed spaces. It gives me anxiety.’

‘Why couldn’t you just say it simply, man? Why use cholesterol and phobia and all?’ 

‘It won’t sound cool enough,’ I clarified with an overconfident smile. 

‘You don’t look very cool shitting your pants, anyway.’ Kiran leading 2-0 in today’s game of witty responses. 

He proceeded to go inside without waiting for me. I waited outside for about 5 minutes before they both came back out. Too many bats and water inside for any adventures, the guide informed me. We continued walking and caught up with Abhayji in about half an hour. He was waiting by the bridge. A steel bridge. After climbing down this hill for about 1000 steps, we reached a steel truss bridge which connected the route to the adjacent hill. We stood in awe for a few minutes at this location. The bridge, standing about 100m above a valley with hills all around, covered with fog and clouds made for a splendid view. There was a river flowing through the valley, whose name I forgot. We drank in the view for a while and forged ahead. After another half an hour or so, the guide showed us a living root bridge. It was underwhelming at about 15 feet long and 5 feet wide. The rivulet it was supposed to bridge over didn’t even have any water. The disappointment was probably writ large on our faces because the guide started to explain that living root bridges are not a single structure built as a tourist attraction. The Khasi tribes have, over centuries, devised the method to direct the roots of the rubber fig tree (He gave the local names of the trees which we didn’t understand and figured it later through Google) by cutting and shaping them in a manner that roots from either side of a river or stream would grow across the river and meet midway, forming a connection. These would then grow wider and stronger with time and become massive living structures, strong enough to withstand the weight of several humans. He told us that there are more than a hundred such bridges across these hills. The one that we saw right now is just a baby bridge. There are bridges more than 200 feet in length and 20 feet wide. The one that we were going to visit now was the most famous and not because of its size but because of its design. One could notice the pride with which he was speaking about his culture and their monumental achievement as a society. His passion filled us with the energy to plough our way through the remaining 500-something steps. It was very tiring though. We saw two more small bridges on the way. We felt like we were deep in the forest by the time the steps started to taper off. There was a small shack here as well, selling water, soft drinks and snacks. One marvels at the capacity of capitalism to penetrate human lives in the most arcane of places. Right next to the shack was a small path that led to the DLRB. The Double Living Root Bridge was an architectural masterpiece. There was heavy foliage all around the place with a considerable number of trees and distinct undergrowth. A rivulet was gushing through. The terrain was absolutely rugged with gullies and crevices cutting across and boulders of diverse proportions strewn about the place. In the midst of all this stood the 50 feet long, double-decker bridge. As the guide had hinted earlier, this bridge was famous for its design comprising two levels of paths, one above the other. The Khasis had outdone themselves with this structure. The lower level was about 8 feet wide while the upper tier was slightly narrower. Both the levels were robust and to my understanding could easily hold at least 25-30 people each, comfortably. We spent a good half an hour awed by the structure, walking on and around it. A lot of questions were shot at the guide, regarding the historical, engineering and societal aspects of the structure. He was more than happy to answer. 

The creek on which the bridge was developed was not flowing at its maximum regime that day and Abhayji was known to have a special affinity to water bodies. He took off his clothes without warning and jumped into the pool formed between the rocks. We followed suit, of course. The cold water felt like balm on our sore bodies after the gruelling trek. After some time, the guide asked us if we wanted to see the Rainbow Falls. We jumped out of the water with enthusiasm and got ready to start for wherever this next wonder was. Apparently, farther up the hills, the vegetation gets sparser and the waterfalls there get the sunbeams at varied, spectacular angles creating rainbows across the whole place. Hence, the name. Unfortunately, it was another 2000 steps upward. Abhayji looked at the watch. It was already 2 pm. If we start walking back to our bikes now, it would be at least 4 pm by the time we reach and would be too dark to ride. Our faces probably looked like three hurt puppies when we realised that it would not be prudent to proceed to Rainbow Falls. We would actually have done it, if we could stay somewhere there. But the guide made it clear that that was not an option and the only place to stay would be in some villager’s home back at the place we parked. Now, came the hard part. While going to the DLRB, we had the anticipation of seeing the destination. No such motivation existed now. It was going to be drab and difficult. It was funny to see a few groups of tourists making their way to the bridge while we were returning. It always feels good to see people who are most lost than you are. 

After scaling all those 2000 steps again we reached back to where our bikes were. It was about 4 pm and was starting to get dark. We hadn’t spent much time outside at night since our trip began and had only anticipated and were trying to avoid the risk of travelling in the dark. What we did not factor in was how cold it was going to be. On top of that, it started to drizzle a little. We put on our jackets and guards and started back to Shillong. We were not carrying raincoats and the faux leather jackets were the only thing protecting us. There weren’t many street lights on the way. Our headlamps were the only light for the longest stretches. The drizzle felt like pinpricks on whatever skin was exposed. The three of us were exposed to the cold weather to varying degrees in our lives and therefore, were responding differently to the temperature drop. Abhay had spent 2 years here recently so he was acclimatised to the weather. He was feeling a little chilly. I had spent my childhood in these parts and because the good part of the last decade was spent in Kerala, I was feeling quite cold. Kiran was probably spending his first week above 500m above mean sea level. He was practically frigid. Even though we were riding slowly, he would approach me every now and then and ask if we could stop for a few minutes to warm up. One thing we were sure of was that it was best to keep moving in the cold. When the rain started again, we decided to stop at whatever next stop we see. It happened to be a small tea shop, where a few other people were also seeking shelter from the rain. They saw us shivering and offered us hot, black tea and boiled grams. If you ask Kiran, he would probably say that this was the best meal he had ever had in his life until that moment. Once the rain abated, we kept riding back. We reached back our guesthouse by about 7pm and it felt like midnight. The clothes were hung out to dry and we took hot water baths. Rice and pork stew were served. The three of us wanted to talk a bit about our experience on the day but I only remember lying down on the bed and passing out. What an amazing day!!