I’m finally up in the hills of Kumaon again. Why finally? It is only 300 kilometres from Delhi, and I believe (somewhat erroneously) that I just need to jump into my car, or even slide gracefully behind the wheel and then Mad Max across the Indo Gangetic plain. But life is rarely as simple as they make out in detective novels where everything can be thrown aside to catch the murderer. As it should. Even if that means neglecting your daughters. Well, if you’re a detective I suppose it’s sort of alright. I’m not a detective. Nor do I have murders to solve, thankfully. When my daughter Number 1 plans to visit Delhi, or flit by for a couple of hours I stay in town. I bake her a sour dough bread. I treasure the fragmented half hours of connection before she flies off again. My plan is to leave for the hills the day after. But Rosie, the ginger cat with the temper of Garfield, has other plans. She extends her evening jaunt from one hour to thirty six. She is coming with me, as is Bilbo. Neither of them take kindly to the six hours in the car. She has watched the carton packing and bag stuffing through narrowed eyes that said, I’m not having this. And she went. I had to wait an extra day, casting many anxious glances at the Air Quality Index numbers on my phone, feeling trapped, coughing, choking, timing my walk/run for when the AQI is marginally better. You can read about my fitness journey at my other SubStack, Fine Wine .
On Sunday I packed the car as dawn broke, caught both cats and put them into their carriers with a liberal sprinkling of catnip and set out. A little later than I wanted to because I had to empty out the fridge and make coffee for the journey. The new highway has ruined my coffee plans. I would set my sights on Gajraula for my coffee fix. It is a strip of eateries on the highway, about one third of the way to the Kumaon from Delhi. The new highway has no turn offs to these breakfast/coffee lunch places. If you’re very careful you’ll see the makeshift (and muddy) opening on the side of the road over which you can throw your car if it’s a four wheel drive. Mine isn’t. On earlier trips I quite stubbornly took the turn off much earlier than needed, driving three kilometres through villages dodging cattle and dogs to get my coffee. Post coffee I had to get back on the highway. I would anxiously peer along the road to find an opening, usually makeshift and four wheel drive compliant.
It doesn’t seem worth it anymore. I just brewed a nice pot of coffee at home and put it in a thermos. I gulped it down at the toll gates where we inch forward to give money to the government for building race tracks that don’t allow travellers to stop for a meal. Before I could begin to worry about loo breaks - the coffee shop was also where I’d stop for a quick loo break, it had to be quick because the complaining felines were in the car. No, you can’t walk them on a leash like dogs. They are neurotic and scratch very hard when they attempt a panic run from you because you have so cruelly taken them with you to a home with a garden. So, the toll plazas (why is that row of money eating gates called a plaza?) have loos after you go through them. You’ve already lost momentum so you can stop, use the loo, change the music track, drink some water and, since enterprising people have set up little roadside stalls you can buy chips (I don’t) and possibly cola. I’ll check what they have the next time.
The cats were peaceful, the mustard fields a sunny yellow, the sugar cane bright and bushy and we bowled along, singing a song.
Photo by Patrick Shaun on Unsplash
The best part of the journey is when I can finally turn off the highway and continue on the scenic route. The roads are narrower, definitely bumpier but I get to experience village life even if it is only as I drive past. I saw a shiny black buffalo, a freshly painted house in Barbie Pink, the whiff of cowdung (I love that smell, it is so wholesome and no, I’m not joking, nor is it a Hindu thing. I mean it is supposed to be purifying but that isn’t what I believe). There were many weatherbeaten men on motorbikes, their loose white pyjama legs flapping in the wind, thin ankles exposed, and trees along the road rustling their leaves at me, providing shade as I passed below them. There were a few overloaded trucks I had to try to overtake, in a desultory way. They were bristling with sugar cane sticking untidily out of them taking up three times the space of the original vehicle. But it was worth it. Everyone was peaceful, hardly anyone honked and it was as if all us travellers knew we couldn’t really get anywhere in a hurry. It was meditative in a way the highway can never be. It adds only one hour to the journey and is definitely worth it. The cats prefer it too.
Do you prefer the highway or the scenic route?