Page 3..The glamour.

"The boys are leaving for the long trip"...

The excitement was palpable in the shrill cries of kids running alongside; in the eyes of friends who had chosen a smoother journey; in the handshakes of elders who had seen more adventurous days than that cloudy, humid and warm day of July 26th of the year when the 9s turned to 0s.

I left the familiar sights of my well-explored street for undiscovered sounds, smells and sensations of a journey I had prepared myself for..mentally and physically. Other travelers were saying their goodbyes as well. Their parents and relatives were made of stronger material than my protective guardians.

They looked more at ease than me- I started having doubts about my preparedness. Were my two bags enough? The strawbox that I had fitted to my bike.. Was it spacious enough to contain the riches that I would be picking on my way? Were 2 sheets and a blanket enough? Would 3 pairs of suits and 2 turbans and 2 caps along with a pair of wraparounds and towels see me through the 7 days of life in the not-house? I was having doubts. And they were well-founded save for the fact that there a bit too much.

Compared to the 1 kg luggages of my sensible co-cyclists, I was towing a 15 kg cycle loaded with another 8 kilos of comfort-stuff. It worked the other way round. I was already a liability instead of the resource-person (money wise and in terms of theological advice) I was assumed and expected to be. Still, the glow of glamour and glory surrounding us didn't reveal this. And 7 of us lined up our horses infront of the mosque at afternoon prayers.

Two of them, Mujju the Dark and his shadow Annu, started showing signs of withdrawal. Exasperated by their light and shade games, the other head behind this expedition, Mujeeb and I, calculated the possible expenses and set out to arrange the sum. We paid the patrons another visit seeking material blessings. Luck, used to being with us, smiled on seeing us strive. A 500 rupee note struggled out of the gentleman's chest pocket into our waiting hands. Yes, that is what we would need to reach there- it was sufficient for two persons to survive on for 7 days.

We hadn't haggled with time; it had progressed on its way and the late-noon prayers were closing in. We could not postpone our departure nor could we cycle in the dark. Smiles began to disappear and those who had come to see-us off started losing their enthusiasm. Yet, we could not leave as news had reached. That, another trio, fired by the show of interest by bike-riding boys, had decided to accompany us. So, while another round of packing, dressing, leaving and seeking blessings was on in the community, we sweltered in the shade of the withered palm in the mosque premises. Regular worshipers who had expected us to have covered 25 kms by the time they returned for their late-noon prayers weren't much impressed to see our bi-cycles 5 mts from where we had parked them 2 hours ago.

It was just too much. We could not wait there for ages. It was decided and implemented- good or bad, we won't be in town for a minute past 5 PM. So, having offered our prayers, we set off with a round of special prayers administered by our beloved Imam (prayer-leader) and amidst resounding slogans proclaiming the greatness of Allah and pleas for help from his Beloved, The Last Prophet. Seven boys, with a sparkle in their eyes turned back to see the gleaming faces of exuberant kids of the local madrassa and the benign smiles of the grey-haired ones.

And then..

Kalahandi is one of the most picturesque places in the country depending where you were born..for, one's homeland is always beautiful to oneself..no matter how the people live or how the land is ravaged by famines and floods alternatively and whether nature's gifts are being taken care of.

I love its remaining unexploited forests, its residual cheerful people, blazing sunsets, purifying showers and the washed countryside thereafter. July offers all these at random. The 10 days of cycling practice that I had planned, to habituate myself with the rigours of long-distance laboured journey..was thus a panaroma of all these. The dark-dark clouds, that assembled before assaulting the ground with waves of rain, held me in awe with their companions- the dazzling lightning and the growling thunder. They were my friends in childhood during the months of rain..

My grandfather was a great guy. Migrant, hunter, settler, cultivator and builder- he had it all- the Neanderthal basics. Roughness came with the package. Now, he knew how to preserve things. All sorts of sundry items of daily use, many years old, could be found in his quarters. He had passed away in 1996 after waiting to see his 23rd grandchild break into the world. No, the kid didn't cause it. She arrived 9 days later on my birthday- May 8. Among the things that received my grandpa's attention and care, was a 1975 Raleigh bicycle. Still in use by his fourth son, my uncle the school inspector; this now-neglected mode of conveyance caught my eye. I sent it to be serviced by the most reputed bicycle caretaker in the town- my neighbour, Yunus. Along with a hefty bill, he delivered a shining piece of machinery- my ride.

News spread that the prodigal son of the Khan clan would be taking on the harsh geography, a harsher climate and the harshest critics of his physical abilities. Boys at street corners scoffed; relatives started visiting; counselling sessions became more frequent; parents looked for better explanations to questions on my sanity and I prepared my stuff for the journey. The team consisted initially of a few veterans, some new adventurists and yours sincerely.

In the run-up to the D-day, boys, threatened by dads and coaxed by moms and advised by everyone else, continued to dwell in uncertainty. Expenses were another hurdle as the sojourners were yet to taste the pangs of livelihood. Now, we sought sponsors and cycles for the ones without one. And slept blissfully the night before leaving. Except me. My mom pleaded with me to cancel the trip, as is her custom that precedes each of my tours. Unaffected, i fastened the belts on my ride.

The humid day for departure dawned with a dull drone. I left home with the reluctant blessings of my granny and a broken-voiced Khudahaafiz from mother.

The redemption..with smiles. Part 1

My cousin is a regular Alexander. Among his feats are raiding fruit laden trees and defying the sun in countryside playfields. The other cousin specialised in hijacking family two-wheelers for our expeditions to the hills and cremation grounds. With such illustrious partners, I was expected to complement their acts with a suitable achievement of my own. Being physically inferior, emotionally weaker and unfortunately younger than them both, I was miserable in spite of all the fun we had.

Over the years this misery sought to dissipate itself. Unsuccessful attempts at proving my athletic side only fuelled the passion. I shone indoors but that was not enough. If you are taller than your cousins, you will have to prove it in the same frame. It was irrelevant that I excelled them at the board exams. The colleges I attended went unregistered and so did the rising pile of certificates. I had to accomplish something with my torso! And 2000 AD was an abnormal year as cocoons split.

As soon as my 12th ended in a dramatic fashion, the new wings itched for practice. I was totally consumed by the fervour to discover the sheer treasure Islam holds. The traditional educational structure appeared monochromatic compared to the soaring rainbow of spiritual pursuits. Friends lost hope of my return to the café while some concluded I have embraced celibacy. Since, theology classes were due some months later, I agreed to meanwhile enrol for the Bachelors programme. Still, the walls of my residence seemed oppressive. I was a born rebel whose resolves hardened with objections.

My eldest cousin’s resume boasted of two cross-province cycling tours. They were so timed that the journey terminated at a famous saint’s shrine on the day of his annual death anniversary. The process was gruelling in itself and June-July are the least pleasing months in this part of India. The previous year hadn’t seen any dare-angel willing to brave the furious summer sun which had downed almost 1900 people in our state. The sun’s mood had dampened after that because of the increasing workload of frying earthlings every year. Guess that’s why it decided to grant us a short reprieve before setting 21st century on fire. And I chose not to disappoint him. Rather it was an impulse. Me on a cycling trip. The sloth’s sprint. This tag was set to be reworded