LOST IN JAISALMER
(Inspired by real events)
My first visit to Rajasthan was in the summer of '86. From the start, it was meant to be a memorable journey. Buses were the only means to travel from Imphal to the nearest railway station, Dimapur. For some reason, the youth and sports department failed to release our travel allowances as promised. We only got a typewritten paper stating the purpose of our visit. We waited till the last minute, but when we're sure no financial support is forthcoming, we decided to travel on our own expenses. My hometown police were kind enough to stop a Dimapur bound truck for us. Initially loaded together in the cargo bed of a truck huffing and puffing along a bumpy zig-zag hilly road was fun. When we finally got down at Dimapur, none of us could walk straight. Like drunkards, we walk to the left but end up to the right, literally. Some of us couldn't even stand up.
For somebody who hailed from the cold and pleasant climate of northeast India, it was not easy to anticipate the heat of a desert. We don't have the luxuries of the Internet, Google, digital camera, Smartphone or air-conditioner. The knowledge I acquired about places were the romanticized versions either from cheap textbooks or secondhand narratives of soldiers on leave. Those days, booksellers in this part of the country don't deal with travel guidebooks. In all my ignorance, I pack a sweater in my luggage - a cumbersome and warm woollen garment. Since I took all the trouble to carry it that far, I tried wearing it while travelling in a state transport bus from Barmer to the heart of the Thar desert. Those days buses don't come with air conditioning. I almost dehydrated myself to death. Didn't somebody say the heat of the desert is the opposite at night?
Even though my Hindi was limited to 'ka-kha-ga' and 'a-aa-ee', the boastful youth in me often made me strayed from the group. Eventually, I lost my way in the busy street of Jaisalmer along with a friend who must be equally stubborn or stupid. We were in a situation where no Hindi means no talking. It felt like the whole Jaisalmer refused to talk to us or don't speak English. We approach a white man dressed in a black sadhu gown. Luckily, in American English, he pointed us back to where our bus was parked. We were quite pleased not because he pointed us back but for the fact that an American understood our northeast manufactured English. It took a foreigner to guide Indians in an Indian city. Ironically, the purpose of my visit was about national integration.
On our way back, we decided to take a tour of the national capital, Delhi. We request a known college student, who is now a senior IFS officer, to take us around. From the railway station, we hired Tongas (a light horse-drawn vehicle commonly used those days) and took a grand tour of the capital city. I was proud and felt complete to have the privilege of touring the capital of my country. On the other hand, it must have been quite an unusual sight to see a bunch of chinkies grinning away with their eyes visibly asleep on Tongas. We attracted the attention of almost every passerby.
In our onward journey to Rajasthan, we briefly halted at New Delhi to catch a Rajasthan bound train. I went to the city in a rickshaw, bought a hotshot camera (a pocket-size analogue camera) with sufficient roll films to cover the whole journey. There was no ATM or internet banking. If you don't have enough cash on you or you are pickpocketed, then you are done. I must have taken too little money or spent beyond my means, I ran short of cash on our return journey home. Though I was too ashamed to admit it, my friends came to know about it. They paid for my food, some generously and others grudgingly. I don't blame them. After all, our mission was national integration.
On reaching home, the first thing I did was get the photos printed. Unfortunately, nothing visible came out from the hotshot camera. The camera, which was probably the reason I ran out of cash, friends had to bail me out, and I am not proud of it till these days yields me nothing. I had bought a non-functional camera at the price of a brand new one.
Somebody had spread the rumour that we were lost and never made it to Rajasthan. Our parents were worried to death. We were only a bunch of class 10 and PUC (the equivalent of class 12) passed or appeared or failed age group with no experience of travelling on our own. I am still looking for that rumour monger.
Note: If you laugh or smile at any point of reading this story, please let me know with a comment or reaction. Your response will make me consider myself an accomplished writer of short comedies. 😁😁
(Inspired by real events)
My first visit to Rajasthan was in the summer of '86. From the start, it was meant to be a memorable journey. Buses were the only means to travel from Imphal to the nearest railway station, Dimapur. For some reason, the youth and sports department failed to release our travel allowances as promised. We only got a typewritten paper stating the purpose of our visit. We waited till the last minute, but when we're sure no financial support is forthcoming, we decided to travel on our own expenses. My hometown police were kind enough to stop a Dimapur bound truck for us. Initially loaded together in the cargo bed of a truck huffing and puffing along a bumpy zig-zag hilly road was fun. When we finally got down at Dimapur, none of us could walk straight. Like drunkards, we walk to the left but end up to the right, literally. Some of us couldn't even stand up.
For somebody who hailed from the cold and pleasant climate of northeast India, it was not easy to anticipate the heat of a desert. We don't have the luxuries of the Internet, Google, digital camera, Smartphone or air-conditioner. The knowledge I acquired about places were the romanticized versions either from cheap textbooks or secondhand narratives of soldiers on leave. Those days, booksellers in this part of the country don't deal with travel guidebooks. In all my ignorance, I pack a sweater in my luggage - a cumbersome and warm woollen garment. Since I took all the trouble to carry it that far, I tried wearing it while travelling in a state transport bus from Barmer to the heart of the Thar desert. Those days buses don't come with air conditioning. I almost dehydrated myself to death. Didn't somebody say the heat of the desert is the opposite at night?
Even though my Hindi was limited to 'ka-kha-ga' and 'a-aa-ee', the boastful youth in me often made me strayed from the group. Eventually, I lost my way in the busy street of Jaisalmer along with a friend who must be equally stubborn or stupid. We were in a situation where no Hindi means no talking. It felt like the whole Jaisalmer refused to talk to us or don't speak English. We approach a white man dressed in a black sadhu gown. Luckily, in American English, he pointed us back to where our bus was parked. We were quite pleased not because he pointed us back but for the fact that an American understood our northeast manufactured English. It took a foreigner to guide Indians in an Indian city. Ironically, the purpose of my visit was about national integration.
On our way back, we decided to take a tour of the national capital, Delhi. We request a known college student, who is now a senior IFS officer, to take us around. From the railway station, we hired Tongas (a light horse-drawn vehicle commonly used those days) and took a grand tour of the capital city. I was proud and felt complete to have the privilege of touring the capital of my country. On the other hand, it must have been quite an unusual sight to see a bunch of chinkies grinning away with their eyes visibly asleep on Tongas. We attracted the attention of almost every passerby.
In our onward journey to Rajasthan, we briefly halted at New Delhi to catch a Rajasthan bound train. I went to the city in a rickshaw, bought a hotshot camera (a pocket-size analogue camera) with sufficient roll films to cover the whole journey. There was no ATM or internet banking. If you don't have enough cash on you or you are pickpocketed, then you are done. I must have taken too little money or spent beyond my means, I ran short of cash on our return journey home. Though I was too ashamed to admit it, my friends came to know about it. They paid for my food, some generously and others grudgingly. I don't blame them. After all, our mission was national integration.
On reaching home, the first thing I did was get the photos printed. Unfortunately, nothing visible came out from the hotshot camera. The camera, which was probably the reason I ran out of cash, friends had to bail me out, and I am not proud of it till these days yields me nothing. I had bought a non-functional camera at the price of a brand new one.
Somebody had spread the rumour that we were lost and never made it to Rajasthan. Our parents were worried to death. We were only a bunch of class 10 and PUC (the equivalent of class 12) passed or appeared or failed age group with no experience of travelling on our own. I am still looking for that rumour monger.
Note: If you laugh or smile at any point of reading this story, please let me know with a comment or reaction. Your response will make me consider myself an accomplished writer of short comedies. 😁😁
