Down memory lane (Journey to Cherrapunji & Dawki): - Last part

After watching Nahakalikai waterfalls that disappeared again by passing clouds, we proceeded back. Meanwhile, I had a small talk with the tour operator ‘RONG’ at Shillong and renegotiated our tour further to Dawki. As we managed to save a lot of time by skirting some view points, I thought to drive another 90 kilometres to Dawki.  As such Cherrapunji and Dawki tour are two different tours and take at least two days that I clubbed up to a single day. Guys with spare time make this tour in a couple of days staying in between Cherrapunji and Dawki to see and enjoy the beauty of Meghalaya

as much as possible. (As if we have no time to spare; don’t we have enough time as retired couple?)

I was wondering that if I would have been in a time wrap, then this place is simply unknown to me. Except a few kilometres road to Nahakalikai was not same what it was earlier. A single potholed street is converted now to a smooth two lane highway. Except the Khasi boys and girls, all are different, though boys and girls sport western attire now. Traditional khasi attire is for ‘photo shooting’ only. Poverty level is not improved as expected. Most interestingly, Cherrapunji lost its place of world’s most wet place. Rain does not come here too often. Numerous waterfalls have dried out, standing like Dinosaur fossil. But, tourists flock in those lovely places to enjoy whatever left of this once beautiful place the ‘abode of clouds’, the Meghalaya!!

At lunch time we returned to the same Duwan Sing Syiem Bridge. This bridge is unofficially entry point of Sohar/Cherrapunji to view the picture post card type of panorama that Meghalaya Tourism advertises. So, all the tourist loaded cars are seen standing here for enjoying those breath taking views. A good lunch house is there. We had our lunch along with the driver ‘Bon’. And we proceeded towards Dawki. That meant going back towards to Shillong and turn right at Laitlyngkot for another 59 Kilometre drive towards Bangladesh Border. Slowly, in every villages Churches and their spires are visible. I started reading the names of churches but was not surprised to see which faith of Christianity did not make road inside this hilly area. There is a ‘Presbyterian’ Church standing with ‘Church of India’ (Protestants). Other churches like ‘Methodist’, ‘Sixth day Adventists’ are also standing tall. But, I have not seen any Mandir or Masjid on the way wherever we drove. Probably, not built on main roads!

Out of curiosity I searched Wikipedia and had my answer: - Religion in Meghalaya is closely related to ethnicity. Close to 90% of the Garo and nearly 80% of the Khasi are Christian, while more than 97% of the Hajong, 98.53% of the Koch are Hindu.

At the 2001 census, out of the 689,639 Garo living in Meghalaya, only 49,917 followed their original religion (Songsarek) down from 90,456 in 1991. 9,129 of the Garo were Hindu (up from 2,707 in 1991) and 999 were Buddhist (up from 109 in 1991). There were also 8,980 Muslims.

Unlike the Garo, a significant number of the Khasi still follow their original religion (Niam Shnong / Niamtre). Out of the 1,123,490 Khasi, 202,978 followed the indigenous religion (slightly up from 189,226 in 1991). 17,641 of the Khasi were Hindu (8,077 in 1991) and 2,977 were Muslim.

A number of minor tribes live in Meghalaya, including Hajong (31,381 – 97.23% Hindu), Koch (21,381 – 98.53% Hindu), Synteng (18,342 – 80% Christian), Rabha tribe (28,153 – 94.60% Hindu), Mikir (11,399 – 52% Christian and 30% Hindu), and Kuki (10,085 – 73% Christian and 26% Hindu). But to us all are khasis, though Jaintia & Garo hill people are distinctly different in all the senses.

The road to Dawki passes through the spectacular hilly road and is much sharper than previously encountered. After each turning we never knew where would be the next turning left or right! The Bolero was doing good progress with an average of 40 kilometres per hour speed miles ate that way. Villages after villages passed bye with spectacular sceneries that were distinctly different at every turn. Temperature was getting gradually warm slowly as we were going down the hill.

We are approaching some small town on the way; particularly the small town of Pongtung was beautiful. Set up at the end of a hillock, the place was full of activities of town folks. As there was a time constraint on us, so we did not stop and enjoy a cup of tea with local guys there. The road was getting much more treacherous with bends and bends. Someone told me that most treacherous of all the passes in European circuits is Targa Florio’ circuit of Palermo, Italia. But, I think this part of the highway can challenge it. In this part of Highway there is no guard rail, no illuminated flash points, and no white painted marker. Only you have white coloured mark at the centre that also got faded at many places.

 Further down the hill, we came to a small town, Wahkdait, teemed with full contingent of visitors and all modes of tourist cars. The road then was near horizontal though winding. At every turn ‘Bon’ was showing the Bangladesh borderline. Then we came to a old derelict cable Bridge manned by Semi Automatic lanced Border Security Force Jawans. The bridge was constructed over a spectacular clean water river named Dawki River and there is a confluence where another river ‘Goyain’ from Bangladesh meets that flows further to Sylhet District of Bangladesh.

From this part of India I could hear Bengali songs on loudspeaker and Azan from Mosque calling faithful Muslims for evening Namaz. Some activities are seen right on the river bed on sand with some temporary structures erected there. Also, saw some people are crossing knee deep water to reach there. The water at Dawki River is so clean that fishes are visible from the top. Even boats seem to be floating on air.

Road beyond this was in a bad shape full of potholes and single lane only. Slowly we reached Tamboli border check post of India Bangladesh border. Several tourists from Bangladesh was also seen loitering there. Thanks to BSF and Bangladesh Rifles we are allowed to go to ‘No Man’s land. We were introduced to Bangladesh tourists and I switched over to my Dhaka dialect and accent. Momentary meeting was good enough to remain in the mind for a pretty long time.

We did take some snaps with Bangladeshi tourist who too ventured No Man’s Land. And this will remain as a sweet memory.

The return journey to Shillong too was quite exciting. Sun was vanishing behind the mountain at faster speed than anticipated and at around 5 PM, the road became dark. With the vehicle continuously going uphill we were suddenly encircled with deep non penetrating white cumulous cloud. Visibility became roughly 10 feet. Nothing was seen where the vehicle was going. Only white mark painted at centre of the road was visible. But that did not stop the driver to slow down. As usual he was driving like hell without listening my repeated cautions. This situation was there for at least 20 to 25 Kilometers. There after cloud did not bother us.

We were coming to journey end. Next day we went back to Guwahati for our onward flight back to Kolkata. We very much liked the place and hope we will once again come back to see this place. We are already planning to visit Arunachal and visit ‘Lake of no return’. Lake of no return is in Burma and is 5 Kilometers from Indian Border. No Passport or visa is necessary as there is no one to ask for. So, this is the end of this story.

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Down memory lane (Journey to Cherrapunji & Dawki): -

Part- 2

A

fter we had a brief stopover at Shillong Peak and Elephant falls, we proceeded towards Cherrapunji. The road was of two lane traffic. Vehicles running were sparse and journey was pleasurable in the hand of an efficient Khasi driver who goes by a single name guere du nom ‘bon’. The driver could speak broken Hindi and played a role of a guide too. The road was good enough to maintain a good speed at an average of 40 KMPH. Roughly 30 KM from Shillong, there was a diversion, Umtyngar. We took the right turn towards Cherrapunji. Left turn goes to Dawki and Bangladesh.

 

Meghalaya is basically an agriculture based economy with tourism as second fiddler. Unlike other tourist place, a visitor never feels the irritation of paying tolls, entry fees, and municipality taxes repeatedly here at Meghalaya. Never ever we were asked to pay any levy anywhere. Though, we were asked specifically at the places of visit entrance fees for vehicle and camera phone. The charges were miniscule and affordable. But, there were no charges for toilet or refreshment fees in those places. The charges were not collected by Meghalaya Govt. but the local bodies for their revenues.

Meghalaya has huge deposit of many minerals. Bad planning, greed and putting least concern on environment are creating more problems on ecology rather than fast growth.  Coal was extracted on ‘open cast mines’; consequence, miles of hills were simply vanished leaving a permanent scar on the surface, streams, branches and waterfalls from this pristine country side! Some of the coals were transported to Assam plains by Lorries creating more issues than solving. Interestingly, most of the extracted coal was exported to nearby Bangladesh, profit gone to the pockets of traders and Govt. with Meghalaya populace left with banana (No doubt this is a banana republic). Had there been underground mine shafts for coal extraction, then this type of gross destruction of natural habitat flora and fiord could have been avoided. There would have plentiful of upstream and downstream projects creating jobs that would have been unprecedented in the demography of Assam/Meghalaya. The N.E. states turning to arm struggle due to the lacunae of central planning and state’s indifferent attitude towards different tribes have taking their toll, here. No doubt this hilly country is deprived of wild animal now. Gone were those days when wild elephant and leopards were roaming in this part of the country. All for the sake of greedy mankind!

 

Meghalaya also has good limestone deposit. Incidentally, I was engaged in the construction of the one and only one Cement Mill in undivided Assam in the early seventies. With coal locally available for ‘incinerator’ this cement mill was constructed to produce good quality cement. But, look, how politics entered here. Cherrapunji was world’s most rainy day record holder and Cement Mill was constructed right here knowing very well that Cement is hygroscopic in nature. Thus causing a good quantity of rejection! All the required Sulphuric acid transported from far off places like South Bihar with railhead at Guwahati! In the early seventies, rail journey included train on broad gauge, then crossing River Ganga at Faracka then changing to Metre gauge rail at New Bongaigaon. Hell of a connectivity! The flawed project had its end, it was closed. Under the ruling of Supreme Court coal extraction was stopped totally, with no coal and scare sulphuric acid availability with more heads per tonne of cement produced this white elephant had its pre-determined end; as expected!

 Some mining activity was also observed on the way to Cherrapunji. Excavators, tippers, Bull dozers as well as portable Jaw crushers were seen working and Lorries are getting loaded. Upon enquiry, I was told that stone chips are for making building and 90% goes to Bangladesh as they do not have any hill for quarrying.  (Wrong! Chattogram hill track and East of Dinajpur, Hilli are full of hills to pull down! The traffics to Bangladesh were not visible in day time; probably they were smuggled out in bulk in dark!)

 

Also, there is good deposit of Uranium in Meghalaya. Surprisingly, local populace demanded to develop Uranium mines and allied projects for uplifting of their state. Again political needs are FAR more emphasised rather than general need and country’s requirement.

I was thinking all these while enjoying ever changing scenario gnawing on the panorama. Pictures below depict the great hill side beauty of this part of India. Beautifully but naturally curved valleys, its gorges, precipices and serpentine road all around give an ever engulfing pleasure that travellers cherish. On every turn the scenery is same. White Cumulus cloud formation is embracing romantically with the mountain. No matter why this country is named as Meghalaya!

As I have some other plan for the day so we have skirted some of the view point spots that driver was taking us. Gradually, some of the destruction of mankind inflicted on Mother Nature is visible. On vast hill ranges fully grown trees are simply vanished leaving some scrubs and bushes!  The destruction of forest started during British Raj and accelerated at the ensuring period run by Assam Government, corrupt bureaucracy, inept Govt. Officials, opportunistic middlemen and greedy traders. Perhaps this could be the reason why Cherrapunji needs water supply from outside now-a-days! Tragedy of a place better known has highest rainfall area! Miles after miles same scenario is visible practically disturbing a casual visitor like me. Only distraction from this wanton destruction of natural resources is the beauty of the landscape and its ever changing cloud formation. Low level cloud passing over the roads enveloping the car was a spectacular scene.

Around noon, a sharp turn brought us straight to a bridge. Couple of cars were parked there. The area sports a restaurant and a wash room. But, turning to left side we saw the spectacular scene of a gorge. We snapped some pictures and mentally noting the point, keeping in mind to have our lunch there while returning. 

Gradually, we approached the town and we turned right towards Nahakalikai waterfalls view point by passing Ramakrishna Ashram. The road from that junction was single lane though we did not face any problem as traffic was sparse.  We were told that viewing the falls is a matter of luck as most of the time cloud formation use to be thick enough to make the waterfalls invisible. We were upset that cloud was there but to our charm it got lifted and we had eye full of its magnificent view and feed for camera! Here we met a couple who helped us snapping our photo and we also reciprocate taking their group photo. The place is as usual sports small commercial activities, a restaurant followed by curio shop, unknown herbs were also sold here including cinnamon.  A funny group of young boys also came there. Those boys and girls were more interested to have their group photos instead of viewing the valley down there where cloud was slowly but steadily clearing out. We were standing there observing the cloud formation slowly getting cleared and slowly revealing the divine beauty of waterfalls. The flow was only one that created a pond down below. We were told by ‘Bon’ that in rainy season there use to be many waterfalls along with this one.

To continue

Down memory lane – (A journey to North East)

I

 was driving a left hand drive Second World War army surplus and disposed Willy’s Jeep on 2^nd gear, continuously climbing uphill on the single lane winding and gruelling road towards Cherrapunji. Incessant rain was splashing on us, the canvas cover hardly given us any respite or shelter. It seemed night would never end, an insane idea hell bent on reaching a godforsaken place, at the construction site of a cement mill instead of staying in any warm Shillong Hotel! Whole of the road looks like over flown river bed and hillocks at road side looked like thousands of waterfalls water gushing with heart stopping sound!

Mother once said, ‘son, ‘wherever you go, visit nearby places of interest, otherwise, you may not get a second chance; again.’ So, along with a couple of friends and a drunken Driver John we visited Shillong, the summer capital of erstwhile undivided Assam, to see the hill station and a movie. Coming back to Cherrapunji was a damned stupid idea of mine; never knowing the journey could be such dangerous!

Driving under such conditions of rain, cold climate and black Nimbus cloud flowing through the valleys as if cloud had all the time in the world to pass through the road. With twin fog lights ‘on’ along with two large Marshalls, illumination was restricted just a couple of feet. Then it happened, I held the steering wheel with enough taut to keep the jeep steady as it had a flat front tire! We came out in that rain and changed the tire. There was no point in waking up that Drunken John and I started driving again. Then, to add salt to the injury, a perceptibly large boulder rolled on our jeep and hit the punctured Stepney at the right side shoving the jeep at the verge of the precipice; what a perilous journey it was!

But, it seemed that we were not the only creature in this part of the world venturing into this weirdest weather of all; a lone leopard jumped just before our jeep and vanished. That followed with lots of discussion among us if that wild animal is hungry, if yes, then who it will feed on. Someone suggested John’s name. But our laughter vanished as jeep again developed another puncture. We frantically called John and kicked him to wake up. That genuine SOB said why you guys do not use the spare wheel? When we said that wheel was already fitted in and there was no spare, what a great man that John was. That ‘Bheem Pahelwan’ practically ripped open the punctured tire and shoved elephant grass and made it strong enough to run! All within three to four minutes! What a sweet memory it was! But that John extracted cost of a bottle of wine from each of us as compensation. Had it been a normal weather I would have enjoyed the beauty of driving the mountain road with lots of pleasure.

That happened many years ago, but memory seems to be vivid with every moment of those days and particularly the driving that night to Cherrapunji. The beauty and natural panorama of North East is unchallengeable, be it Arunachal, Meghalaya, Manipur, Mizoram or Tripura.

Almost thirty eight years gone, we are now at the same road on 4^th December I and Tapati happen to visit North East again. The germ of an idea built up in the month of June when I came across Spicejet fare  from Kolkata to Guwahati and return cheaper than 2^nd AC! The tickets were booked, planning was made as fast as hurricane tour, visit N.E. in six days that included flying in and out, and back to Kolkata. I was eager to see the same road to Cherrapunji but seating in passenger seat rather than driving myself! At the gamut of the whole plan this time it is also meaningless as we had all the time of the world being a retired couple. But wise man said ‘you can change everything in your life but character & attitude never changes!

This time climate was ideal, not very cold, little warm in the day time, journey was splendid. It’s a long haul on the road north east to Shillong but the motorway is modern and we got a driver with Maruti D’Zire, the car usually driven by the tour operators here. It ate up the miles through Jorbat, which we reached in one hour. The drive gave us a chance to see the great limitless horizons of Meghalaya seen from the mountain top that impress the South Indian visitors who are accustomed to smaller dimensions.

The winding road from Guwahati to Shillong is of four lanes smooth enough for jolly ride.  At certain place on the way we stopped car and went out to see the valley down bellow that we just crossed. The scenery resembles Furka valley near Interlaken or Bernina Pass, may be St. Bernard Pass.  Interestingly the drivers are law abiding citizen following strictly traffic rules. There was no double parking or in traffic jam, there was no formation breaking & jumping on others on wrong side of the road creating further problem. The three hour journey to Shillong is memorable. Also, memorable the breath taking scenery of cloud covered with dashes of sunlight at Omium Lake. The Lake is a large one situated in pristine forest laced with wild bamboo growth. Though the lake is manmade still it does not show any trace of artificial creation. The enterprising Khasi girls are found to be  selling hot tea and snacks from their make shift kitchens; the boot of WagonR!

At Jorbat cross road we turned south and ran for fifty kilometers over middle field, with more endless horizons under a robin’s-egg blue vault of sky, until we reached the bluff called Tamulikuchi, where the middle field drops to the deep Valley. As we started down the twisting gradient we drew in our breath in amazement. Far below lay the valley, rich and lush, its open floor strewn with many beehive shaped huts, the cottages, surrounded by cattle shed, cattle pens, and vegetable gardens. Some of the cottages were perched on the side of the GS Road but most were scattered across the floor of the valley. Timber smoke eddied from their central smoke holes, and even from that height and distance we could make out the tribal boys tending small groups of humped cattle, and women bent over their garden patches. This, I thought, was North East, at last. It must have looked much the same when the Mon-Khmer, founder of the Khasi nation, later on merged with British India Empire. The road bucked and twisted down the bluff and into the Surma Valley. Across the valley was another range of hills, and in their center a deep cleft, through which the road ran. This is the entrance of Shillong!

The heartthrob of Shillong for every tourist, local guys, and tour operators is Police Bazaar. It is a business place for common guys, with a Mall or two thrown in! Police Bazaar road is off limit to any vehicle. The road has a flow of people whole day as if public are coming out of Cinema hall at the end of show; continuously! You will fall in love with the place instantly. Several wares were on display on footpath for you to pick up, anything or something. I picked up a ‘golf cap’.

I managed to get a good deal for tomorrow’s Cherrapunji tour. So, on 4^th December morning at 0830 we started our journey for sightseeing at Shillong and Cherrapunji though I did not tell anyone what else was there in my mind!

The tour operator’s name is RONG, he corrected me to say that is not colour as we say, I smiled at him and said ok, ok baba you are no Wrong (‘mistake’) either. That smiling Khasi young man could smell some odd in my way of talking and suggested to avail a ‘Bolero’ at the same price instead of Maruti 800 that I contracted. How suggestive he was, that I felt while returning in the night.

The first port of call was Shillong Peak. Marvellous place, but we did not waste much time, took some snaps and appreciated the scenery. Immediately, we left for Elephant falls at Shillong. The steps down the falls ground too precarious for us to climb down that too under the canopy of cloud! So, we had a cup of tea and snapped the small flea market there. The ever smiling girls were too smart to count money but one does not feel cheated. Off late, tourism is the money spinner for the Christian missionary trained and educated tribal. Thereafter, we did not bother to waste our time in visiting many places of not so interesting to save time. Straight way we left for Cherrapunji.

Racing towards costal Orissa, India

I

t was one of those Decembers when it seemed that the Sunshine would never end. The three-mile promenade of Jagannath Puri, backed by trim lawns emblazoned at intervals with tricolour beds of salvia, alyssum and lobelia, was bright with nags and, on the longest beach in the east of Orissa, the gay bathing tents still marched prettily down to the tide-line in big, money-making battalions. Music, one of those lilting accordion waltzes, blared from the loudspeakers around the Olympic-size piscine and, from time to time, echoing above the music, street urchins undulating their hips to the tune, a man's voice announced over the public address system that Sanjeev Panda, aged seven, was looking for his mother, that Namita Patnaik was waiting for her friends below the dock at the entrance, or that a Nalini Iyar was demanded on the telephone. From the beach, particularly from the neighbourhood of the three playground enclosures –Jai Hind', Ashok and Chokadala - came a twitter of children's cries that waxed and waned with the thrill of their games and, farther out, on the firm sand left by the now distant sea, the shrill whistle of the physical-fitness instructor marshalled his teenagers through the last course of the day. The honeymooners are trying their best to prove themselves how shy were they in their two piece bikinis. Vendors were displaying their merchandises; hot samosas, tender coconuts, Jhal Moori mixture all available while disturbing the coolness and serenity of the beach at that time of sunset.

It was one of those beautiful, naive seaside panoramas for which the Bay of Bengal beaches have provided the setting - and inspired the holiday makers as well as pilgrims for more than a thousand years ago.

To me, sitting in one of the concrete shelters with face to the setting sun, there was something poignant, ephemeral about it all. It reminded me almost too vividly of youthfulness - of the velvet feel of the hot powder sand, and the painful grit of wet sand between young toes when the time came for me to put my shoes and socks on, of the precious little pile of sea-shells and interesting wrack on the sill of my bedroom window ('No, we'll have to leave that behind,. It'll dirty up your trunk!'), of the small red coloured crabs scuttling away from the nervous fingers groping beneath the seaweed in the rock-pools, of the swimming and swimming and swimming through the dancing waves - always in those days, it seemed, lit with sunshine - and then the infuriating, inevitable 'time to come out'. It was all there, my own childhood, spread out before me to have another look at. What a long time ago they were, those spade-and-bucket days! How far time had come since the freckles and the Cadbury milk-chocolate Flakes and the fizzy lemonade & Vimto! Impatiently I pulled my shoulders out of slouch and slammed the mawkish memories back into long-closed file.

The sun was getting lower. Already one could smell the December chill that all day had lain hidden beneath the heat. The cohorts of bathers were in quick retreat, striking their little camps and filtering up the steps and across the promenade into the shelter of the town where the lights were going up in the cafes. The announcer at the swimming-pool harried his customers: Hello! Hello! Closure in 10 minutes!, Swimming pool is closing in 10 minutes!' Silhouetted in the path of the setting sun, the two rescue-boats with flags bearing a tri colour were speeding northwards for their distant shelter. The last of the gay, giraffe-like sand-yachts fled down the distant water-line towards its corral among the sand dunes; the night is setting fast here!

In a matter of minutes the vast expanse of sand - the tide, still receding, was already a half mile out - would be left to the seagulls that would soon be flocking in their hordes to forage for the scraps of food left by the picnickers. Then the orange ball of the sun would hiss down into the sea and the beach would, for a while, be entirely deserted, until, under cover of darkness, the prowling lovers would come to writhe briefly, grittily in the dark corners between the bathing-huts and the sea-wall. And now, up and down the beach, the Nulias/lifeguards gave a final blast on their horns to announce that they were going off duty, the music from the piscine stopped in mid-tune and the great expanse of sand was suddenly deserted.

ALMOST EXACTLY twenty-four hours before, I had been nursing my car, the old Rover 90, a 1966 model - the 'R' type chassis with the big 6 cylinder, side valve engine and a 13:40 back-axle ratio - that I had now been driving that vintage for two years, along that fast but dull stretch of NH5 between Cuttack and Bhubaneswar that takes the Bengali tourist straight to the Orissa coastal area crossing consecutive four massive rivers; Subarnarekha, Baitarani, Brahmini & Mahanadi. I was hurrying safely, at between eighty and ninety, driving by the automatic pilot that is built in to all rally-class drivers, and my mind was totally occupied in writing a letter with the fate of my partnership with my cousins in the business that we were associates and getting nothing in return.

Of course, reflected, as I nursed the long bonnet of my car through a built-up S-bend, I would have to rewrite a lot of it. Some of it was a bit pompous and there were one or two cracks that would have to be ironed out or toned down. But that was the gist of what I would dictate to my cousins when I got back to the office the day after tomorrow. And if they argue and talk sentimental non sense, to hell with them! I meant it. By God I did.

It was then, on a ten-mile straight cut through a forest that it happened. Triple wind-horns screamed their banshee discord in my ear, and a low white FIAT Padmini tore past me, cut in cheekily across my bonnet and pulled away, the sexy boom of its mono exhaust echoing back from the border of trees. And it was a girl driving, a girl with a shocking pink scarf tied round her hair, leaving a brief pink tail that the wind blew horizontal behind her.

If there was one thing that sets me really moving in life, it was being passed at speed by anyone; and it was my experience that girls who drove competitively like that were always pretty - and exciting. The shock of the wind-horn's scream had automatically cut out 'George', emptied my head of all other thought, and brought my car back under manual control. Now, with a tight-lipped smile, I stamped foot into the floorboard, held the wheel firmly at a quarter to three, and went after her.

100, 110, 115 MPH, and I still wasn't gaining. I reached forward to the dashboard and flicked up a red switch. The thin high whine of machinery on the brink of torment tore at my eardrums and the Rover gave an almost perceptible kick forward. 120, 125. I was definitely gaining. 50 yards, 40, 30! Now I could just see her eyes in her rear mirror. But the good road was running out. One of those exclamation marks that the NH5 use to denote danger flashed by on my left. And now, over a rise, there was a Temple spire, the clustered houses of a small village at the entrance of long bridge of River Mahanadi, the snake sign of another S-bend. Both cars slowed down - 90, 80, 70. I watched her tail-lights briefly blaze, saw her left hand reach down to the floor stick, almost simultaneously with my own, and change down. Then we were in the S-bend, on cobbles, and I had to brake as I enviously watched the way her de Dion axle married her rear wheels to the rough going, while mine own live axle hopped and skittered as I wrenched at the wheel. And then it was the end of the village, and, with a brief wag of her tail as she came out of the S, she was off like a bat out of hell up the long straight rise and I had lost fifty yards.

And so the race went on, I gaining a little on the straights but losing it all to the famous FIAT road-holding through the villages - and, I had to admit, to her wonderful, nerveless driving. And now a big Road sign said Cuttack 5, Bhubaneswar, Puri 75', and I wondered about her destination and debated with myself whether I shouldn't forget about Puri and the night I had promised myself at its Puri Hotel Restaurant for lobsters, sumptuous Diner and just follow where she went, wherever it was, and find out who this devil of a girl was!

The decision was taken out of hands. Cuttack is a dangerous town with cobbled, twisting streets and much slow traffic, Cycle Rickshaws. I was fifty yards behind her at the outskirts, but, with this big car, I couldn't follow her fast slalom through the hazards and, by the time I was out of the town and over the Bhubaneswar-Puri left hand crossing, she had vanished. The left-hand turn for Puri came up. Was there a little dust hanging in the bend? I took the turn, somehow knowing that I was going to see her again.

I leaned forward and flicked down the red switch. The moan of the blower died away and there was silence in the car as I motored along, easing my tense muscles. I wondered if the ‘Supercharger’ had damaged the engine. Against the solemn warnings of Rover, I had had fitted, by an expert at World Ford of Calcutta, an Arnott supercharger controlled by a magnetic clutch. Rover had said the crankshaft bearings wouldn't take the extra load and, when I confessed to them what I had done, they regretfully but firmly withdrew their extended guarantees and washed their hands of their bastardized child; forever. This was the first time I had notched 125 MPH and the rev. counter had hovered dangerously over the red area at 4500. But the temperature and oil were OK and there were no expensive noises. And, by God, it had been fun!

Foolish chaps are of the character for the reminiscences of old scenes! I was of no exception! That was 1972 and sometimes I used to feel that I made myself a complete fool enough to follow a girl driving madly. (Girls driving in city were rare scenes then and on highway a lonesome girl driving like hell was a rare scene.)

 

Decades after, driving my Opel ASTRA accelerating over 100 KMPH on NH 45 towards Pondicherry, I was overtaken by a car driven by a young girl once; I instantly remembered my foolish and fearless driving an old hog of a car, Rover decades earlier. Instead of switching on overdrive, I simply smiled and allowed the car (Lancia Fulvia) to vanish in the thin air!

So many changes! One does not get lemonade or Vimto cold drinks. Neither Rover 90 is seen anywhere, nor FIAT Padmini on highways! But the sleek Lancia was great, a rare sight in India. Opel Astra which can go up to 150 KMPH, at ease, is also gone to history.

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