Stop…Please…Both of you…Let’s refocus. We have to try and not get derailed. Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?

The Husband: Yes, let me. It was a pretty normal evening. I came home early enough. She was a bit late than usual. Probably purchasing that huge torch on the way over….

The Wife: No unsubstantiated accusations or assumptions. We have talked about it many times. Now who is the one not following the rules?

Yeah…okay…not again please…She is right though. You don’t know what it was so let’s not succumb to conjecture.

The Wife: ….and if you must know, we already had that torch.

The Husband: So why were you late?

The Wife: It needed new batteries.

I must insist…this is about finding a common ground for discussion…please continue.

The Husband: Well….as I said… a fairly mundane day. We had dinner at about 9. I was tired so I went to bed early. She probably took advantage of that…yeah ok…anyway, I remember waking up and there she was, kneeling on my bedside with that huge torch just lighting up her face as she stared at me like one of those dolls from horror movies. Don’t laugh. You see, she still doesn’t care.

Please, let me finish.

The Wife: Oh, you would have laughed too, if you had been there. He yelped….and yes, yelped not yelled…like I imagine our six-year-old son would have.

The Husband: That is not the point here. You are so juvenile.

The Wife: Well, it should be a point….and I am not juvenile; your reaction to a harmless prank was though.

Why did you do it?

The Husband: Why do you think? This is the sort of thing that gives her pleasure.

The Wife: Stop behaving like a child. It was nothing.

It was pretty harmless, though, like she said. You don’t think so?

The Husband: Of course, but let’s not mask over the fact that it was very mean spirited.

The Wife: Now you just are embarrassing yourself.

No he isn’t…let’s be a little more generous here. Go on.

The Husband: Thank you.

But why do you think it was mean spirited?

The Husband: I didn’t at first. Even she would agree to that…

The Wife: Not particularly

The Husband: …the point is, I felt a little embarrassed initially, but the more I thought about it…and the ensuing events after that, convinced me that it wasn’t simply a “harmless prank” as she puts it.

No…I must stop you before you interject again…let him finish what he has to say. You shall get your chance.

The Husband: The first part is the effort. She sat in that position near my side of the bed for I don’t know how long. It wasn’t as if she prodded me so that I woke up. She waited for it to naturally happen. And she has bad knees.

The Wife: It wasn’t that long. About forty minutes. And my knees are fine. Better than yours I suspect.

The Husband: Let’s kneel right now; both of us. We’ll see who can stay that way the longest.

The Wife: You’re being a child again.

40 minutes, I must say, is a lot of time. Your knees must have started hurting, irrespective of their condition.

The Wife:  Well yeah but that wasn’t the toughest part. The light of the torch really burned my eyes, but I couldn’t risk shutting them because he could have woken up at any moment. They started watering from the strain. Don’t look at me like that…Let me assure you, it was all worth it.

The Husband: Don’t you think that this is psychotic behaviour.

The Wife: Hey, I think one should be committed to the cause.

This is a little unusual for sure…But, ok, let me ask you again. Why did you do it?

The Wife: I like pranks

The Husband: That’s not true! You just like to prank others.

The Wife: Isn’t that the point?

The Husband: I mean, you don’t like pranks when you are the victim.

The Wife: Oh please! What you did, wasn’t a prank.

Wait a minute here, you pranked her too?

The Wife: It wasn’t a prank.

The Husband: Why don’t we let him be the judge?

The Wife: Gladly! It was a weekend, but I had some work in office. He was probably getting bored at home…


The Wife: Right…I got a call from our son. He was speaking in a very weird voice…

The Husband: I told him to “talk like a grown-up”

The Wife: and he said that something is wrong with Dad. Please come home quickly.

Oh I see…

The Wife: Exactly! So I rushed home and the two of them were just sitting in the living room, playing Monopoly.

The Husband: And then she got so mad, yelled at me for like an hour, that too in front of our son.

Well, it was a bit of an extreme prank

The Husband: See! He agrees it was a prank.

No…I mean, let’s not get caught up in terminologies. Prank or not, I am sure you can understand why your wife got angry. She must have been so worried on the way over.

The Wife: I was! I could have had an accident on the way over.

The Husband: And I could have had a heart attack the other night.

The Wife: You nearly did.

The Husband: There she is laughing again. Everything is a big joke for her. She even told our son about her little prank.

The Wife: So what? He is our son, not a stranger.

The Husband: You told our neighbours too

The Wife: Well, technically, they are not strangers either.

Okay, let’s pause and unpack this. Did you feel embarrassed about your son and your neighbours finding out that your wife pranked you.

The Wife: He sulked for days…

The Husband: I did. I am not particularly proud of the way I yelled out…

The Wife: Yelped

The Husband: Yelled out. It’s not fun to see your own son laugh at you.

The Wife: He is six. He has probably already forgotten about it.

The Husband: But I haven’t. Not to forget our neighbours. It was humiliating.

And how long after this incident did you decide to prank your wife.

The Wife: Not a prank.

The Husband: A few days later. I was angry and just wanted her to feel what I was feeling.

And did you feel better afterwards?

The Husband: Not exactly. She was more angry than scared. That sort of ruined it.

The Wife: That’s because it wasn’t a prank! It was a very poor joke.

The Husband: Well I am sorry I don’t have your level of expertise in this! Or your decades of experience.

Decades of experience?

The Wife: He is exaggerating of course. Just a few years of experience. Have you seen that show “Just for Laugh?” I used to work for them.

I have seen it, yes. You were on that show?

The Wife: Not on TV. I was one of the writers.

How long ago was this?

The Wife: About 9 or 10 years. I was still working for them when we got married.

The Husband: I remember you had just started working for them when we met for the first time.

The Wife: Yes. You had loved that about me. You thought it was very cool.

The Husband: I did.

The Wife: Remember the first time I had pranked you…

The Husband: I had loved it. I told everyone about it.

The Wife: And not just the first time.

So, what do you think has changed?

The Husband: I don’t know. It just…seems harder to laugh at myself now.

Did it have anything to do with becoming a father?

The Husband: I don’t think so. Did it?

The Wife: You did become progressively more sensitive to this.

The Husband: Why couldn’t you have just stopped?

The Wife: I didn’t want to give up that part of myself. A part of us, really.

Would you like her to stop?

The Husband: Yes…No…I don’t know.

How would you feel if he asked you to stop?

The Wife: I would be a bit disappointed…yes. But…it’s not that big a deal. We are talking about pranks. They are supposed to be silly, supposed to be things that people laugh at. If we start taking them seriously, then I suppose it is better not to do them at all.

The Husband: That just makes me sound like such a spoilsport.

The Wife: That wasn’t my intention.

Have you both noticed this in other aspects of your marriage? Things that you both used to like or agree with before but don’t do so anymore.

The Wife: Oh, that’s a dangerous question.

The Husband: I don’t know. Small things maybe.

The Wife: We don’t watch movies together anymore. Can’t tolerate each other’s tastes.

The Husband: True.

What are your individual tastes?

The Wife: He likes all the Marvel stuff. I like most movies except them.

The Husband: I like some of the others too.

The Wife: But you wouldn’t want to see them at a Theatre with me.

The Husband: Not always. But I do sometimes.

The Wife: Grudgingly.

The Husband: Well it’s tough to be accommodating and enthusiastic at the same time. And you don’t watch my movies with me either, by the way.

The Wife: Those are not movies.

The Husband: See! That’s not fair. I could say the same thing.

The Wife: But in your case it wouldn’t be true.

Now then, let’s ease off. And, in the past, you both would have agreed to go with each other, right?

The Husband: More times than not.

The Wife: And not grudgingly.

The Husband: Almost willingly.

Does the change bother you?

The Wife: A little bit. Now that I’ve been reminded of it.

The Husband: But those were early days. I…I know it sounds bad. But, surely, it’s natural for such changes over the course of a relationship. Isn’t it?

It doesn’t sound bad. That’s why I wanted to bring it up. It’s perfectly okay to not get excited about the same things that you used to.

The Wife: But how do you know this course doesn’t go on and on and….

The Husband: …and make many more changes. Permanent changes.

Well that’s why you two are here, aren’t you? To rein it all in.

The Wife: Yes

The Husband: Yes

When was the first time you began to feel that your relationship was going a bit awry?

The Husband: I don’t know if I can place it specifically. It was gradual.

The Wife: When our son was born.

The Husband: Really?

What makes you say that?

The Wife: Well, not when he was born. Maybe it started at the time and I didn’t notice. But definitely when he turned around 3 or 4 and started having basic conversations with you. You just became so uptight and so particular about things.

The Husband: I wanted to be a good father and just not slip up in front of him.

The Wife: You so overdid it; you weren’t yourself. It was as if you were trying to be someone you wished you were.

The Husband: And that’s a bad thing? To be better than oneself?

The Wife: Not at your own expense. You just vanished. You went away from me.

And you did not mention any of this at the time?

The Wife: I was just confused. He was trying so hard…I didn’t want to…

The Husband: I was trying hard because I wanted to and also because you weren’t.

The Wife: Excuse me?

The Husband: I was nervous. I was trying to do the best I could. And…you just seemed so casual about it. Even a little dismissive. I am sure it was all a joke to you. Everything’s a joke to you.

The Wife: Only if it’s funny.

You felt she was dismissive of your attempts to be closer to your son.

The Wife: That wasn’t what he was doing. And I wasn’t dismissive.

The Husband: Yes

What do you think he was trying to do?

The Wife: I don’t know. There was an element of fantasy to it. It just bothered me, and yes, I tried to play it cool but only because he was so rigid and fixated.

Did you feel neglected?

The Wife: Maybe

The Husband: You were envious of our son?

The Wife: What you were doing to him could never invite envy. But you became distant, ever so slightly, every day.

The Husband: Maybe, but only because I wanted to be close to him and be the best father I could. I don’t care if that means I was being, as you are implying, inauthentic. I wasn’t trying to be distant.

Do you two realize that you both are principally in agreement with how things transpired? But label them differently.

The Wife: Isn’t that obvious?

I mean, you more or less agree on each other’s allegations, but just don’t see them as that. You agree that while he was trying to be more involved with your son, you took a backseat and a casual approach to parenting. And he agrees that his actions were not really in sync with his personality, which might have alienated you a bit. So, in a sense, you are taking each other’s accusations and reframing them as natural or obvious responses to the situations in which you were. What does that tell us?

The Husband: That we are both right and wrong?

No. You see what’s right and wrong differently, which is perfectly okay. But what’s not ideal, is declaring it as right or wrong in your own head and not having a conversation about it and letting it become a point of contention, only for it to come out years later on a day like today.

The Wife: So, we should communicate more? Is that your million-dollar diagnosis?

Are you looking for a million-dollar diagnosis? One simple trick or solution that will put you two back on track?

The Wife: That would be helpful.

The Husband: Of course we are not.

The point is not to tell you to communicate more. You rightly alluded that that is obvious. But to make you realize, through an example of conflict that you yourselves presented, how your lack of communication let fester a simple misalignment of views. And to ask the bigger question – what stopped you from talking about this with each other?

The Husband: Avoiding a conflict

The Wife: Evidently, more like postponing it.

Until it becomes something bigger than it is. More contentious. Are you afraid of hurting each other, thus avoiding a difficult conversation to not inflict emotional pain?

The Husband: That certainly doesn’t seem to be the case during these sessions.

The Wife: You do bring out our worst sides.

Seriously, think about it. All couples fight. It’s natural.

The Husband: We did fight sometimes. It was never very serious.

The Wife: And we managed to resolve them too. That always helped.

The Husband: You were always much better at resolving our disagreements. As usual, saw the funny side of things. That was good.

The Wife: Until it just wasn’t so funny. And it became more and more difficult to resolve them. I guess that’s when we started to avoid the conflicts.

The Husband: I suppose we thought we were good at this, until it became difficult and we discovered we weren’t.

Let’s go back a bit. The time when you both started to feel it was getting difficult. For you it was more markedly so after your son was born. But you said it was gradual and couldn’t point to a specific event. But did that gradual nature also began post your son’s birth?

The Husband: Maybe. I think so, yes.

The Wife: Are you trying to pin all our difficulties on our son, when he is clearly the only good thing we have with us right now.

The only good thing?

The Wife: You are reading too much into that.

No, I am just reading it differently. I think when you say “only”, you mean “obviously”. It doesn’t take any energy to think of him as a positive example of your marriage. So, after his birth, he has replaced all other examples you would have had.

The Husband: This does feel like you are blaming him for our troubles.

That is not my intention. Children can often be inflection points in a marriage. I am trying to see if that’s the case here. It is obviously not your child’s fault.

The Wife: Yes, it’s all our fault. We are well aware of that. Thank you very much.

The Husband: So, what if that’s the inflection point? We cannot go back. This is where we are right now.

And it is where many couples find themselves after they have had children. So, there’s no reason to be too dispirited. It’s good that you two have recognized that there is a problem and chosen to address it. The idea is not to go back before the inflection point but to learn from those times when you both mostly saw eye to eye and employ that in the present.

The Wife: So basically, learn from the time he used to love my pranks.

The Husband: Not again.

The Wife: Learn from the time he had a sense of humour.

The Husband: I grew up and matured while you still behave as if you are in your twenties.

The Wife: I’ll take that as a compliment. And please don’t equate being matured to being humourless.

The Husband: You know what I mean. Don’t take a sentence literally only when it suits you. And after all that we have discussed, is it just this that upsets you? That I don’t find you as funny as I used to?

The Wife: Not just that. But it’s what you always liked most about me. Without it, I don’t know what I have.

The Husband: No…that’s not true…that’s not the only thing.

The Wife: What else then?

The Husband: Sorry?

The Wife: What else did you like about me?

The Husband: Come on. That’s not fair.

The Wife: Hard to think of any, right?

The Husband: What if I asked you the same question? It’s not as easy as you might like to believe.

The Wife: Well, it should be. But it isn’t. Isn’t that a problem?

You both are expecting a bit too much out of yourselves right now. It’s good to strive for ideals when you are sailing in calm waters. Difficult times need a more practical approach.

The Husband: Yes, we’ll do it.

The Wife: You are always too enthusiastic about “being practical”.

The Husband: Isn’t that what you always liked most about me? And so, what am I without that?”

The Wife: Touché. Alright then, towards practicality. But not without a bit of humour.

Good. I would say that’s a nice point on which to stop for today. See you next week.


The Way to Khajjiar

We had been walking for over three hours on the rough tarmac that swerved around the hills of Dalhousie when, quite unexpectedly, we arrived at the crossing that the old man at the bus station had told us to look out for. On our right, the road continued to climb further until it disappeared into a blind corner. It was, however, the dusty gravel path on the left that held our attention. We stood there for a little while, passing a bottle of water between us, until our breaths regained their natural rhythm.

“The final stretch,” said Kunal. “Three kilometers”.

Ajay’s brisk laugh betrayed his exhaustion and he gently slapped Kunal’s back. I just smiled silently and took another sip of water.

About ten minutes later, the path widened and we could see a huge metal pole barrier some distance away, beyond which stood a couple of huts overlooking a field where groups of small children and women were binding wooden logs and sticks into bundles. I noticed a man standing next to the barrier who seemed to have spotted us as well. A few meters above his head, adorning the barrier like a crescent shaped crown, was a board that said – “Welcome to Lakadd Bazaar”. The man gave us a wave and we walked towards him.

“Are you looking for a place to stay?” he asked us when we were still quite a few steps away from him. Despite the cold, he was very lightly dressed. His thin frame leaning against the pole formed a very amusing image, as if he was just about to launch into a particular circus act. He looked at us expectantly.

“We already have a booking,” replied Kunal. “The forest rest house at Kalatop. How far is it from here?”

“Oh. Very good! Ah…it is fifteen minutes away. Follow the path behind those houses,” he said, pointing to the small huts that I had noticed from afar. “Do you want to do a trek through the forest? It starts from behind the rest house. All the way to Khajjiar.”

“We are here specifically for that trek,” smiled Ajay. But we just walked all the way from the bus station. It has taken us about three hours.”

“Oh not right now. It is too late. I can take you tomorrow morning. It’s the best time to do it. Note down my number and give me a call tonight.”

“How much would you charge?” asked Kunal.

“800 rupees for the trip. That’s our standard rate. We conduct paragliding and rock climbing too for the same rate.”

We promised to call him by evening and continued on our way. The tarmac had disappeared the moment we had turned left at the crossing, and had taken with it the last remaining vestiges of the moderately urbanized surroundings that we had initially walked through. We encountered many small children on our path, who I presumed were heading back to the Lakadd Bazaar from the forest, with huge bundles of wood on their shoulders and heads. There weren’t any adults accompanying them. Their faces were extremely cheerful and happy and they couldn’t stop talking incessantly. One of the groups even tried to engage us in a conversation and it was rather obvious that it was part of some game of theirs. They left us soon, almost shrieking with joy and laughter, no doubt having played their joke on us.

Though we were quite tired after this walk, our steps had suddenly quickened. The soft dirt felt much better under my feet as compared to the tarmac. None of us was saying a word and there was a sense of heightened expectation as we neared our destination.

The guide’s estimation had been more or less accurate. We entered the gates of the Forest Rest House around 20 minutes after we had left him at the barrier. It was around 4 in the evening. The dirt road had suddenly given way to a beautiful and evidently well managed small estate, with large gardens spread all around us interspersed with numerous old cottages. We were taken to our room by a smiling porter who informed us about the timings for tea and dinner, which he was quick to point out could be served to us in the room itself if we wanted. We threw our backpacks in one corner and then fell on the large double bed. It was just about big enough for the three of us. My feet and calves immediately started to hurt.

I was the first one to wake up. I tiptoed outside our room and sat on the front steps of our cottage. It was dark and cold, and the only reason I could discern the outline of the surrounding mountains was that I knew they were there.

“It is really cold,” remarked Kunal with his head sticking out the door of our cottage. I turned back and nodded at him.

“I am enjoying it.”

“Well I am going to ask that guy to get us our food. Are you hungry?”

“I guess I will be when I see the food.”

“I can see it already. I’ll wake up Ajay. Let’s discuss about tomorrow’s trek.”

“Yeah. We should call that guide. He seemed friendly.”

“That’s his job. Anyway, come inside before you enjoy yourself a bit too much.”

I leaned against a brick column and continued to gaze into the darkness. I started stretching and flexing my legs in front, which were still in the process of recovering from the day’s walk, though now the pain was soothing and infinitely more welcome. I began to feel very optimistic about tomorrow’s trek.
When I went back to the room, Ajay was still in a bit of a drowsy state while Kunal was busy on his phone.

“Just go outside once,” I said to Ajay. “Quickest way to feel completely awake.”

“I want to take my time.”

“Food! The trek! The guide!” said Kunal, looking up from his phone. “Let’s decide things. It is 8 already. I am calling them for the food.”

The guide must have been quite near the rest house because he knocked on our door just five minutes after I had called him.

“Do you live nearby?” I asked him as he entered.

“Oh no. There is nothing nearby. I live in the town below. Right near the bus station from where you all walked this morning. I am staying the night here with the guards.”

“We wanted to finalize tomorrow’s trek,” said Kunal.

“Ah yes! We should start early. It is around 12 kms and begins just at the edge of the rest house boundary. All the way to Khajjiar through the forest. It is called the Switzerland of India! And we didn’t give that name, it was the foreigners.”

“What is your best rate?” asked Ajay.

“The rates are fixed here by the forest authority. January to December, with or without snow, the rate is 800 for less than five people.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It is simpler.”

We all looked at each other with an expression that suggested we agree to the guide’s proposal.

“Is it okay if we start by around 9 in the morning?” asked Kunal.

The guide smiled. “As early as you can manage. I’ll be right here. You only have to call me.”

He left around the time when one of the workers arrived with our tray of food. It comprised of Rotis, Dal, Paneer and some salad, all cooked in the way one would expect at home, which was exactly what had been told to us. Although our journey had tired me a lot, I wasn’t excessively hungry and ate lesser than I normally would.

The next morning, I was once again the first to wake up. It was around 8. I sat at the front porch and looked at the scenes around me that I had only been able to imagine and sense last night in the darkness. But perhaps an even bigger difference than the sights were the sounds. The morning was quiet with a somewhat lethargic feel to it, interrupted only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustling move of a squirrel, while the night had seemed to compensate for its lack of visual presence by a chorus of insects’ calls.

We had a quick breakfast of Maggi and coffee after which we settled our entire account for the stay as we weren’t going to return. The guide was waiting for us at the reception, wearing the same smile and perhaps even the same clothes. He took us behind the reception building that ran along the forest’s border where a small wooden gate marked the beginning of our trek.

“This shall be fun,” he announced rather theatrically.

The change in scenery, though had been quite perceptible from outside, was still quite sudden and very welcoming. The narrow and dusty path, in less than a hundred meters perhaps, led to an even narrower and dustier route where we were sandwiched between tall and entwined trees. It took me a while before I realized that we were actually heading downwards so that soon our rest house was perched upon a hill high on our left.

“We are going down initially?” I asked

“Oh yes. It is a 6 kilometer downward slope until we reach the stream. From there we will climb 2 kilometers before covering the final 4 kilometers on a straight level.”

We were all walking in almost a line as it wasn’t possible to comfortably walk side by side. The guide was at the front while the rest of us seemed to be automatically changing our positions from time to time.

“Where are you from?” he asked

“Delhi,” said Kunal. “All of us, though I now work in Bangalore.”

“Most of the people coming here are from Delhi or Punjab,” he said. “Just a month ago, we had two families from Punjab who were living at the rest house. They weren’t interested in this trek. Each of the three nights they stayed, they would sit in the garden with their food and drinks while we had to ensure their children didn’t run off into the forest. Such horrible children…”

He stopped and picked something off the ground. It had a conical structure with small serrations that somewhat resembled the gears on a bicycle all over its exterior. He handed it to us.

“That’s a cone. They fall from the trees and are buried under the snow. It is how the forest goes on.”

We stopped and took turns to hold the cone in our hands before I tossed it into the inner reaches among the trees. The moment I had stood still, a dull pain had somewhat started from my toes and traversed the length of my legs. I hadn’t noticed it while walking.

“What kind of trees are these?” I asked

“They are mostly Deodar,” he replied. “Their quality of wood is renowned. They don’t rot for years. But I was telling you about those two families. I wanted to ask them why they had travelled all the way to this beautiful place only to experience it as one would a park in whatever dreadful city they came from. And their three fat children….”

Our mild and gradual descent deeper into the enveloping forest continued at quite a fast pace. Apart from the noise of the leaves and twigs getting crunched under our feet, and the intermittent squeak of a bird, it was the guide’s voice that seemed to soar through and become a part of the setting itself, to the point where it would have started to seem unnatural if he wouldn’t have been speaking. The rest of us merely exchanged glances from time to time, which acknowledged the fact that we were quite enjoying his performance. The pain in my legs, though not excessive, was fairly constant, and in quite an ironic way, the very thing causing the pain was helping me to not focus too much on it.

“…there is no signal here, of course, apart from Vodafone in a few corners. I don’t know why. There are no poles. Once a young couple, acting too modern, thinking they could do the trek without a guide, got lost inside here for hours. When finally one of their phones connected, the only thing they could tell us was the shape of the trees around them. Imagine that! We found them eventually, of course, but I almost felt like…Can you hear the water?”

It took us another five minutes before we could make out the sound and another fifteen before we arrived at a small wooden bridge below which we could spot the trickling water meandering between the huge shiny rocks that had most of their surface covered by moss or algae.

“The water is clean and fresh. You can rest here for some time and fill your bottles. The ascent begins straight after that. Watch out now, the path here is very slippery. You’ll probably fall but that’s ok.”

We followed his footsteps as there was no clear defined path that he was taking to reach the shallow stream. Every leaf or piece of wood that I brushed along the way was damp and started sticking to my hands and clothes. I put my hand on a rock to steady myself as we slowly reached lower and lower, only to slip and fall towards my destination, my backpack rather awkwardly getting flung almost over my head. The earth was soft and damp enough to ensure that the fall was simply a humorous incident.

“Hands are of no real help,” said the guide, waving both of his near his head as a mime artist would. “You will all fall. If you don’t, it doesn’t mean you have good balance. You are simply lucky.”

“Do you still fall?” asked Kunal. The guide laughed.

“Of course not. I really have good balance. Unmatched in all of Dalhousie. It took me years of falling to develop it.”

He was right. By the time we reached the point where we could sit on the rocks in the middle of the stream and rest, all three of us had tripped on an average at least twice during the way, so that we had to take off our socks and walk around barefoot while our shoes dried.

The area was beautiful and picturesque, almost like a small refuge from the wilderness surrounding us, so that when we looked around at the enveloping green hills that rose quite sharply away from where we were seated, it seemed that we were in the very heart of the forest.

While we rested on those rocks, the guide was prancing around quite comfortably, apparently bidding his time until we felt ready enough for the climb.

“Now we’ll see how fit you are,” he said and, as if on cue, my attention was once again captured by the pain. “Let’s go. The initial ten minutes would be the hardest.”

The climb was steeper than I had imagined. The stream fell further and further below at a staggering pace. The distance between us all also began to grow as Kunal surged ahead with apparent ease, followed by Ajay who looked as if he was struggling but clearly not as much as I was. The guide meandered between all of us from time to time.

“We get groups who come during the winter when a thick layer of snow covers the entire area. That is just a completely different experience. We ask only the fittest to walk in the front, as they have to make the path for the rest to follow. It is much easier to walk on trampled snow…….Don’t have too much water. Have a small bite of chocolate if you have one. That’s better than water.”

I nodded and gladly accepted some from Ajay. Even though it hadn’t been long since we had started, I really wished to stop and sit down for a bit but knew that it would then be even more difficult to continue.

“We should finish this stretch without stopping too often.”

But we stopped every few hundred meters, perhaps more on my account than anyone else’s. I was lagging behind and they would wait for me to catch up to them. I would have felt embarrassed about the situation if I had the energy to do so.

The two kilometer distance marking the end of the climb came and went, and the path leveled to a more manageable contour, but the fatigue that had set in seemed beyond recovery. My legs, feeling quite independent from my body, continued to fall on the ground one after another, being carried forward not by will, but by momentum and adrenalin. Kunal and Ajay sped further and further away until I could neither see nor hear their footsteps. The guide, rather dutifully, was giving me company.

“You can go along with them,” I said rather magnanimously but the guide only smiled.

“What work do you do?” he asked me.

“I’m an engineer.”

“My son has just started going to school.”

It was strange to hear him suddenly speak of his family and for some reason I found it rather hard and almost fantastical to picture him as a father. But he seemed to have left his jocular tone for the moment and was speaking in a sedate voice. I found myself drawn in by the conversational manner of his speech.

“He very much disliked it the first few days. My wife had to almost shut him out of the house to make him go. Now I think he enjoys it.”

“How old is he?”

“Five. He is very quiet. My father says that’s a good thing. He said that the only thing I could do was talk and that’s why the only thing I could be was a guide. And a vegetable seller….Give your bag to me…”

“No no. It is fine,” I said and slipped my fingers through the shoulder straps. For a moment the increasing pressure on my shoulders seemed like a good diversion but then soon all the sources of pain compounded and acted together, creating an almost burning sensation that ran across my body. The trees, the rocks, the sky, the path, all lost any sense of meaning or importance. Sheer physical fatigue took hold over me in midst of all that beauty and my eyes drooped towards my feet, refusing to lift or deviate in the slightest. I almost expected to see my shoes in tatters with my toes having cut through the fabric. I smiled, as much as I could without disturbing the muscles of my face, on noticing the almost perfect condition in which they were, albeit just a shade darker because of the moisture in the dirt. I became almost fascinated with the movement of my feet. Their symmetry and coordination seemed to confound me, more so now since the numbness had turned them into complete strangers who I was finding very hard to rely on. During all of this, the only exterior presence that pierced through the haze of pain and inconvenience, was the guide’s voice.

“You are a vegetable seller too?”

“In the months when we have no tourists. This can never be a permanent job. I am dependent on you. My uncle was a vegetable seller. It is very easy. But the real fun is here. I don’t even like vegetables that much.”

“How much further,” I asked.

“Ten minutes.”

“Do you never get bored of this walk?”

“I always have different people with me. Last year, we had a young lady who wanted to camp for a week near the stream. We would bring her food from the rest house, and every evening she took out her guitar and sang while we sat and listened to her. She had a great voice, almost like the one you hear in movies. She even asked us to sing and we sometimes did. She said I was a good singer so I started singing more often. I even sing to my son but he doesn’t like it. Do you sing?”

I could have told him I didn’t, or even implied the same through a shake of the head, but at that moment my ears picked up the rather welcoming sound of a vehicle that I couldn’t see.

“Almost,” he smiled.

“Do you get people like me?” I asked, finding a little energy for a self-deprecating joke now that it was almost over.

“Always. At least I don’t have to carry you.”

I felt quite inclined to accept that as a bit of a saving grace. The path we were walking on rapidly widened and become more and more devoid of grass as we approached the main road. There, at the junction where the two met, Kunal and Ajay were sitting under a tree. They started cheering as I approached.

“Good news,” said Kunal. “Now we walk a bit on the main road before we reach the lake. A few hundred meters.”

Ajay laughed and pointed to the place next to him.

“I am not sitting,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, we stepped down from the road and onto the green patch of land that had the famous Khajjiar lake in the center with hills rising in the backdrop. There were a few people around, most of whom were scattered at the edges of the field where the small eateries were set up. The lake lay all by itself in the middle, with only some stray animals for company. Even from the distance we were at, I could notice the dark and murky colour of the water. The guide gestured towards a wooden board that stood a bit to our left in the shape of an arrow with the words “Switzerland 6194 km” written on it.

“That’s the distance between Khajjiar and the capital of Switzerland,” remarked the guide on following our gaze. “In that direction.”

I finally relented and sat on the grass, letting out quite an audible sigh as my legs almost convulsed with relief. Ajay paid the guide and he shook our hands before taking off.

“Thank you,” I said to him. He smiled, turned around and almost ran up the steps to the main road, on his way back, I assumed, to his home in the city.

“Maybe this is how Switzerland was when they made the comparison,” commented Kunal.

“More likely, this place was just much better.”

“There are food stalls here,” I said. “Once food stalls are set up, nothing can save a place.”

“Some people actually drive up to here,” said Kunal. “What a waste! At least our journey was worth in itself. Otherwise it would have just been….”

“Painful,” I smiled.

We all laughed and sat at the spot for almost an hour before getting a cab back to the railway station. I fell asleep as soon as we sat in the cab, only to wake up during the middle of the journey when both Kunal and Ajay were sleeping. It was still early in the evening and the cab had just entered the city from where we had started our ascent yesterday. The station was another two hours from here.

I looked out of the window at the people bustling around the market area, the tourists interspersed with the locals, meandering through the little shops lined at the edges of the streets. I let my head fall back and eyes lose focus, so that it all started appearing as one big moving mass of activity, dissolving in a maze of colours and emanating a myriad of sounds, among which I thought I quite distinctly heard the sharp and loud pitch of a vegetable seller.

A Year Later

The path between Half Moon and Paradise was riddled with huge black rocks that felt smooth under my palm. It was early in the evening as we made our way through those rocks – up and down, constantly using our hands to steady ourselves; putting our trust in the robustness of our slippers – and the advance of the tide had only just started to become noticeable. The sea lay on our right, undisturbed except for a small boat, carrying not more than five passengers and gliding through the water towards our intended destination. One of the five gave us a nonchalant wave.

“Why do people do that?” remarked Aryan, as he replied with a quick thumbs-up.

“Maybe we should sit down for a bit,” I said as Aryan continued to stare at the boat.

“The purple rocks are just beyond that cliff,” he replied. “Why don’t we sit there? The view is much better.”

For a little while, during which we continued to climb through the rocks amid the slow gushes of sea water, we could still see the boat being pulled by its sole oarsman, until it disappeared from view behind the very cliff that hid those purple rocks.

“Tomorrow let’s take the boat to Nirvana,” suggested Aryan. “We didn’t the last time.”

“We could,” I replied.

It took us another ten minutes before we found ourselves on the other side of the cliff with the patch of purple rocks staring at us from afar. The color of these rocks was in extreme contrast to that of the surrounding area, which was basically an envelope of green and blue.

“It reminds me of what you had said last time,” said Aryan as we sat down. “It is like falling down a rabbit hole.”

“I hadn’t said that. It was Kunal.”

“Oh, yes it was. I forgot.”

Little crabs scurried around on the purple rocks and through the little streams of water in between. I felt a little uneasy by their sudden bursts of speed between moments of absolute stillness.

“I don’t think I can get tired of this sound,” said Aryan, lighting a cigarette and pointing his fingers towards the incoming waves. “I am becoming used to it, but still not tired of it.”

I smiled and slowly shook my head as he held the cigarette in his outstretched arm, just a few inches below my left shoulder.

“When did this happen?” he asked as he retracted his arm.

“A few months now.”

“Well,” said Aryan, taking a long draw, “we can’t linger much longer. I don’t want to be going through those rocks after the sun has set.”

“Yes. Finish your cigarette and then we’ll go,” I said,” my eyes fixed on a crab that had just started to climb a rock after emerging from a shallow stream of water near my feet.

We left the purple rocks and I felt much better. Half an hour later, Paradise beach came into view, and our tired feet quickened until we could feel the softness of the cool sand beneath our feet. We removed our slippers and walked with them in our hands. I was happy to notice that the boat wasn’t present there. It must have gone straight to Nirvana.

“It is just as you expect it,” remarked Aryan.

It was. It was completely deserted, except for one makeshift tent that lay perched on a small cliff top towards our left where the beach met the hill. It was small and serene; just like it was last year. However, at that time, there had been three of us and we had expected nothing.

“The Israelis are few in number,” I said. “I see only one tent.”

“I can see one guy in the water,” said Aryan as we placed our bags containing our wallets, phones and sleeping bags near a rock. “There were more at Half Moon though. Anyway, let’s take a dip.”

We took off our shirts and walked towards the water. It was cold and I quickly took a few dips to make it bearable. I stayed near the beach but Aryan, being a better swimmer, went further. The Israeli was far deeper and towards his left. Aryan waved at him and he waved back.

The seaweed that would intermittently brush against my legs made me uncomfortable. I got tired of the water and waded back towards the beach. As I didn’t want to get mud on my shorts, I stood there for a while to let them dry. Aryan waved at me, probably wondering as to why I wasn’t in the water. I just pointed towards the sand in reply, as if to say that I was fine here. But I knew I wasn’t because all of these little things were annoying me very much; annoying me all the more because I couldn’t remember any of this annoying me last year.

I finally sat down and waited for him, thinking about things I could say when he came back. The sun was very near the horizon now, having reached the stage where I could easily look at it without hurting my eyes. I lay on my back and stared at the sky.

The sound of splashing feet woke me up. At first, I felt a little disoriented because the sun had set, lending a much different colour to the sky. I sat up and saw the Israeli walk towards me with a smile on his face. Aryan was still in the water.

“The crabs will start exploring you if you stay still too long,” he spoke in a very clear and concise accent.

“I didn’t mean to sleep.”

“The sand is like that,” he said with a shrug.“I’m Jaron.”


“Are you with that guy?”


“I’m here with my friend Yael,” he said and pointed at the tent that we had seen earlier. There wasn’t anyone to be seen.

“He’s probably asleep. You guys would be staying the night?”

“We will. We only just got here.”

“That’s good,” he said and felt around his shorts to see if they were dry. “You should join us later.”

“Thanks. We might.”

He lingered for a bit, glancing towards the sea from time to time, where Aryan seemed quite content at just being pushed around by the waves. At first I thought that he was going to sit down and I hoped that he wouldn’t. Then, all of a sudden, he just nodded at me and walked away.

I felt hungry but decided to wait for Aryan to get back. He took his time, like I knew he would, while I sat there in the sand, just looking at and listening to nothing.

He returned after a while and immediately fell on the sand beside me.

“You’ll get muddy,” I warned.

“It doesn’t matter. It’ll dry. Do you want to eat? I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get the food,” I said and walked towards our bags, returning with two burgers that we had bought at one of the shacks on Half Moon.

“We should have got something to drink too,” said Aryan as he took a bite. “This is great.”

We just sat there and did nothing, except watch the relentless roll of the waves and hear the water crash on to the rocks. It was what we had planned to; last year we had done the same. The beauty of Paradise had been enough and there hadn’t been any need for conversations.

“The Israeli guy met me when you were in the water,” I tried. “His name is Jaron.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Aryan. “What did he say?”

“Just that he is here with his friend Yael,” I said and pointed towards the cliff where their tent stood. We could see the two of them standing outside with a horde of thin wooden logs kept in front.

“They are trying to make a fire,” said Aryan. “We should give it a try too. It looks great. Maybe tomorrow.”

“We could,” I said. “By the way, he has invited us to come over.”

“He is a different sort,” said Aryan. “Last year, none of them even seemed interested to talk to us.”

“Yeah they didn’t,” said I.“I don’t know if he meant it.”

“It might be fun,” said Aryan. “It will get cold in a while. A fire would be nice.”

But before the cold, there were the stars. They always came before the intense cold and that was perhaps the best time to be on Paradise. This was a different kind of beauty than what the day presented. The blue of the water, the green of the trees and the black of the rocks all slowly went away. The colours didn’t matter much anymore. We could still hear the sea; that was the same. Now we were lying on our backs, looking at the stars and I was feeling much better.

“Until you come to a place like this,” said Aryan, “you would never realize the impact of pollution. They are just so many stars.”

“Can you make out a constellation?” I asked.

“I’m bad at that,” he replied. “I once memorized the layout of Ursa Major. It was the most obvious one. It’s all gone now. Kunal knows a couple. He is good at this.”

“He knows more than a couple,” I said with a laugh. “And he could never stop talking about them.”

“Yeah,” said Aryan. “It is funny what can grab someone’s interest.”

Their fire was burning nice and steady now and we could see the reflections of the flames in the water. I looked towards them and saw that the two were sitting outside their tent near the fire. One of them was playing a small guitar. Maybe it was a ukulele. I couldn’t make out whether he was singing or not because I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the sea.

“Can you hear what he is playing?” asked Aryan. I noticed that he too was looking towards them.

“No. He is playing too softly,” I said.

“Do you think it is cold enough now?” he asked with a smile and got up. “Should we?”

“We could.”

We stood up, searched for our slippers that were buried in different locations in the surrounding sand, and walked towards the cliff. It took a while for them to see us approach. Eventually, one of them, most probably Jaron, waved and pointed towards a particular section of the hill that we could use to climb up. It was difficult to see in the dark and we had left our phones in our bags next to where we had been sitting. We climbed slowly, using our hands from time to time, until the path was clear and wide enough for us to feel comfortable. We finally stepped on to the cliff and now I could clearly see their faces illuminated by the flames. It was Jaron’s friend Yael who had the ukulele in his hand. He wasn’t playing at that moment.

“It is good that you came,” said Jaron. “This is my friend, Yael.”

Yael stood up and shook our hands before assuming his position beside the fire.

“He doesn’t speak much English,” said Jaron and Yael nodded.

My eyes fell on their tent, which basically consisted of a large piece of cloth hung over a protruding branch of a tree and then fixed to the ground using bricks. The entrance was uncovered, but the interior wasn’t visible because of the dark. It was much less impressive than the makeshift houses of the Israelis living on Half Moon.

“It’s a nice tent,” said Aryan.

“No no,” replied Jaron. “It cannot stop the rain and keeps flapping in the wind. But sit down, sit down.”

I sat next to Yael, who was keenly looking at his ukulele and gently plucking on the strings, creating a discordant sound that, when I started to focus on it, seemed very loud. He caught my gaze and held his ukulele out in front.

“Oh no,” I gestured. “I cannot play anything.”

The warmth of the fire felt nice and here one could clearly hear its crackle over the sea in the background. We were all silent for a bit and then Yael started to strum louder and slowly broke into a rhythm that Jaron, by the look on his face, clearly recognized.

“He is making a mockery of it,” he laughed and then spoke in Hebrew to Yael, who smiled but continued to play the tune rather seriously. “It is Od Lo Ahavti Dai. In English that would be I haven’t loved enough,” he explained to us. “It sounds so different on a Ukulele.”

It sounded ok to me and I looked towards Aryan who too seemed to be enjoying it. Yael continued to play, while Jaron passed over some sandwiches that were wrapped in a foil. I declined but Aryan took one.

“Have you guys been to Gokarna before?” asked Jaron just as Yael finished.

“Last year was the first time,” replied Aryan. “It was just after our graduation.”

“You get holidays after your graduation?”

“We had a month before our jobs started.”

Jaron nodded. “We get a holiday after our conscription period is over. We heard about this place in the army. That’s where we met.”

“Did you like the army?” I asked.

“Yael still does,” he said and Yael nodded in agreement. “He wants to join it again when we get back.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. Not the army, though. For now I am here and this is nice.”

Yael picked up the ukulele once again and started strumming, but gently and without any real purpose.

“How is this place the second time?” asked Jaron.

“Different,” said Aryan and I looked at him. “The previous year it was new and there were three of us.”

“Our friend Kunal,” I explained. “He couldn’t get away.”

“But it’s as beautiful.”

“Yes,” agreed Jaron.“We have been here for two weeks now, half of which we have spent on Paradise. When do you guys leave?”

“We reached today,” I replied. “Another three days.”

“You’ll stay the nights here?”

“Today at least,” said Aryan. “That was the plan. We might go to Nirvana tomorrow.”

“Ah..we’ve been there. It is too long a beach. One feels very small there.”

By now the sand had swallowed my feet up to my ankles. The fire was dying a bit but the warmth could still be strongly felt on our eyes and faces. It was very comfortable there. I stopped talking and just heard Jaron and Aryan converse. They were doing it very easily.

It was only when Aryan put his hand on my shoulder that I realized that I had dozed off. Yael was still strumming his ukulele and the fire was now burning well. Jaron and Aryan were smiling at me.

“The sand gets to you easily,” said Jaron.

“Let’s go back,” said Aryan. “It’s late.”

I was a little embarrassed and quickly nodded to both Yael and Jaron before getting up. My left foot had gone off to sleep and it was a little difficult going down the same path we had come through before. Away from the fire, I started to feel cold and, on reaching the place we had sat earlier, we immediately unpacked our sleeping bags and unrolled them on the sand. Inside, it was not as comfortable as on the cliff, but it wasn’t that bad.

“They were okay,” said Aryan.

“I suppose,” I replied. “Yael was weird. It seemed deliberate.”

“Maybe it was. But Jaron was fine.”

“Yeah. You guys talked a lot.”

“It wasn’t much. You slept.”

I was glad he didn’t look towards me when he said that. But then it wasn’t so easy to turn our heads within those sleeping bags.

“We should definitely go to Nirvana tomorrow,” I said.


“It would be something different.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. I turned my head and stared at the stars, not feeling too sleepy. For a moment, after I had been staring for a long while, I thought that I made out Ursa Major, but I was mistaken.

In Our Time

The young boy didn’t need his mother’s help to wake up that morning. Despite the cold, which ensured that the process was gradual and unpleasant, he prevailed with what he deemed as a satisfactory display of early morning courage. He had managed to sleep soundly amid intermittent dreams about the coming day and about what it promised to entail. He sat up on his bed and, ignoring the silent pleas of his left arm that lay well ensconced within the warmth of the thick quilt, used it to draw the curtains aside from the window above his left bed post. The view increased his excitement even further and made him leap from his bed on to the cold floor.

He immediately regretted this unplanned leap and climbed back in. Another look outside restored his enthusiasm and he stayed still in that position until his mother arrived. She wasn’t surprised to see him awake.

“Yes,” she said with a wry smile. “Everything’s closed.”

The root of his excitement, confirmed by the most reliable source he knew, made him laugh loudly with pleasure. He affected his mother alike.

“Everyone is at home then!” he exclaimed.

“Yes” laughed his mother. “But they are all sleeping so be quiet.”

“I’ll wake them,” he said and started to remove his quilt.

“You may try,” she said but then stopped him. “But I better not see you outside this room without your socks and sweater.”

Some moments later, having appropriately clothed himself, he rushed inside his elder sister’s room. He began prodding her on the back, gently at first and then, realizing that the quilt was softening his finger’s impact, with much greater intensity.

“What is it?” she asked in frustration.

“The snow! We’ll be at home today.”

The sister, in accordance with the universally accepted way of displaying disappointment, tried to bury her head deep within her pillow but then, remembering that she was a rebel, sprang from the bed and looked inquiringly at her brother.

“Are you sure?”

“Mother just told me.”

“This is perfect.”

“Yes,” the boy beamed with pleasure, still too young to understand the devastating simplicity of sarcasm. “I’ll wake up father.”

After her brother left the room, she retrieved her cell phone from somewhere within the folds of the quilt and texted her friend. The two had a forty minute conversation about the misfortune that had befallen them that day, the inadequacy of the government’s snowfall mitigation techniques, and how all of this was their parents’ fault.

During those forty minutes, the boy tried, rather unsuccessfully, to wake his father. The only responses that he managed to elicit out of him were “So you will all be at home today” and “Let me sleep. I love you”. This was followed by long and deliberate snores that finally made the boy leave the room in search of his mother.

The mother had been rather busy all this while. She had been trying to think of activities that would engage her son and hence act as effective channels for his burgeoning enthusiasm. She knew that he wouldn’t get very satisfactory responses from either his sister or his father and would then eventually rely on her.

No house should suffer the misfortune of having all of its members present inside at the same time, she thought. It leads to such conflicts of interests.

She saw her son leaving his sister’s room with a surprisingly happy disposition. It wasn’t something she generally expected whenever he did venture near that area. He waved at her and, using small brisk leaps to propel himself, entered inside the adjacent room. She smiled at him and then frantically turned her attention towards the television. She realized, at that moment, how she had always underestimated its importance. She said a quick prayer to the Gods of Unwholesome Entertainment, apologizing for her ignorance, and switched it on. A sea of black and white dots danced mockingly in front of her. She said another quick prayer that mostly contained curses for the Gods of Unwholesome Entertainment along with a derisive footnote for the Gods of Weather.

While the Gods reviewed the mother’s contradictory prayers and tossed them into the “They don’t know what they want” pile, her phone gave two sharp beeps. It was a message from her boss who wished her a very good morning and expressed his concern about the weather. He then reminded her of the irregularities in the media budget that they had come across yesterday, and how, after much thought and consideration, he had taken an executive decision that made it solely her responsibility to make the necessary rectifications. He hoped that she wouldn’t let her inability to reach the office deter her and that she would provide him with the corrected data by tonight.

“Mother? You look red.”

“Oh,” she replied, noticing her son. “It is the cold I suppose.”

“I thought the cold makes a person blue.”

“Well it makes me red. Now, could you wake them?”

“Yes,” he said triumphantly. “Almost.”

“This is perfect.”

“That’s exactly what she said,” he smiled.

An hour later, they were all seated at the dining table, a bowl of cereal in each of their laps and a Monopoly game board lying between them. Two other board games, “Life” and “Scotland Yard”, lay beside the boy who really felt as if he was in charge of things. Ever since he had heard about the impending snow storm, he had prayed for this day. The Gods had tossed his prayer into the “They know what they want but we cannot give it to them because they will just want more” pile. In fact, on such occasions, they always ensured that the wish wasn’t fulfilled coincidentally through natural means lest it be attributed to the effectiveness of the prayer. But the boy didn’t know that yet.

The minutes progressed and so did the little coloured pieces on the board – both using similar cyclic trajectories that relied on repetition for progress.  The boy kept them all together, made them smile and occasionally laugh. He didn’t notice the similarity and the lack of spontaneity in their laughter. But for a few moments, spread intermittently and lasting merely seconds, the rest of them managed to focus on him and forget each other.

So it was quite a telling coincidence when the very moment that Chance provided his sister with a “Get out of jail free” card, her cell phone rang. She excused herself and galloped back to her bedroom. The boy, well familiar with the longevity of such phone calls, looked in dismay as his well constructed plan for the day suffered a major dent from a rather regular occurrence that he had somehow forgotten to account for.

“I suppose we should wait for her,” said the father and then gave the boy a quick pat. “I do need to finish at least a chapter today. I love you.” With that he rose, smiled at them both and retreated to his study.

“They shouldn’t take long,” said the mother. “We’ll play later. Why don’t you read your book?”

“I read my book every day,” he replied with a dismal look. “I don’t need snow to read my book.”

The mother tried to think of something comforting to say but her mind was too occupied by her boss’s message and the opportunity that this sudden interruption now presented. Even something as obvious as guilt, which usually manifested under such conditions, was finding it difficult to become a part of her thought process.

The boy walked back to his room, climbed inside his bed and looked outside through the window.  It was almost noon by this time and the heat of the sun had started to melt the upper layer. But the process was so slow and gradual that it would be completely undone by the chill of the evening.

The boy closed his eyes and prayed for the snow to melt and the roads to clear so that he could go back to school tomorrow and be with his friends. The Gods received the prayer, compared it with the asker’s previous entry, discovered the contradiction, and tossed it into the “They don’t know what they want” pile.

The End of Something

The old man rowed effortlessly and I wondered how hard it actually was for him. The water was murky and the weeds grew almost till the surface. It was a forty minute ride and we had been on the boat for just over five minutes until then.

“That’s where the Chief Minister lives,” spoke the old man, breaking our silence, and then continued with a chuckle, “It used to be a prison.”

“Is that true?” smiled my wife.

“Oh yes,” he replied with satisfaction. “That’s how it is.”

I looked over to where he had been pointing and spotted the green roofed house that stood on the hill to our far left. It looked nothing like a prison. My eyes soon wandered away from it and drifted from one Shikara to another. There were many that evening on the lake.

“This is the busiest time of the year,” said the old man. “A month later, it will all be empty.”

“What do you do then?” she asked.

“I make handicrafts. My son does it now. My eyes are not sharp anymore.”

I leaned back until my head hit the soft red cushions but then got up immediately as, in that position, the sun shone directly on my face. It didn’t seem to bother my wife though who, with the sunlight bright across her face, lay comfortably on my right.

“Have you been here before?” asked the old man.

“No,” answered my wife. “We are here with our friends. They are in another Shikhara.”

Another boat, much smaller than ours, appeared on my wife’s right and then kept pace with us. In it sat just one man, much younger than our oarsman. He let go of his oars for a bit and spread a thin cloth in front of us in which he started to place many little trinkets. The old man slowed down until both the boats were almost at a standstill.

My wife picked up a few rings, examined them and then put them back on the cloth. The seller didn’t say anything and seemed to wait for my wife to give him some sort of indication. She didn’t, so he packed his items, wrapped the cloth and quietly rowed away.

“This is the floating market,” explained the old man. “You can get jewelry, clothes and even food here. It is all very good.”

We had taken a right turn and entered into a narrow section of the lake with a line of houseboats forming a border towards our left. There were many people on the houseboats, most of them either sitting on the decks or leaning against the balustrades. They were mostly foreigners, though I could see a few Indians as well.

“They have such interesting names,” remarked my wife.

It was true. Each houseboat had a board attached to its front, on which were written some names like “Monalisa”, “Queen Victory”, “Lake Castle” and others. At the end of the line, just before the lake turned further right and back towards the direction from where we had come, there was one houseboat that caught my eye. It was called “The Rose Gate”. It was about the same size as the rest of them, but still rested on a larger area. It seemed unoccupied except for one man, most probably its owner, who sat on a stool near its entrance, leaning against a large semi circular gate on which huge red roses hung amidst a thick green bush.

“They only look good,” said the old man, noticing our gaze. “Those roses attract everyone. But they have no fragrance. It is such a waste.”

We were now well inside the market. Apart from the little boats, which glided around us, there were many little shops standing on stilts. The old man directed our boat towards many of them, and their shopkeepers smiled at us and displayed what they had to offer. However, my wife shook her head on every occasion. The old man looked at me a few times but didn’t say anything.

There were many Shikharas in this region and, for a little while, the old man forgot about us and focused on making his way through the crowd and back towards where we had started from.

“I am the oldest rower here,” he said as he brought the boat to a halt. “For everyone else, there is a queue. But none for me. I taught most of the boys here.”

I smiled at him as he handed me a rope that I used to get off. He asked me to pull it well to stabilize the boat while he helped my wife. I handed him his money and we walked away towards the stairs that led to the road. He pocketed it and sat down near his boat, looking a bit glum.

We had to wait a while for our friends to come back, so we sat on those stairs. They waved at us cheerfully as their boat came near and then quickly walked towards us. She was wearing one of those earrings that the young man had shown.

“That was fun!” he said as we started to walk towards our taxi.

“Yes,” replied my wife. “It is such a scenic place.”

“But the water’s too dirty,” she said.

“Too many weeds,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said. “Our boatman told us about that. He said that until a few years ago everything was clean and beautiful. But the weeds have been neglected and now they have spread and grown too strong. He said that it wouldn’t last.”