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.