Wanderlust

One must mention right at the outset that the best of my friends happen to be Bengali and so is my wife. Recently the two of us drove up to Uttarakhand for a short holiday and found that the hills were alive with the sound of Bongs. The following is a record of my humble attempts at making sense of them.

The first sign that betrays their presence, as one arrives at the GMVN guesthouse, are the dusty Tata Sumos in the parking lot. Every available chair in the lobby, the plastic chairs on the lawn, the railings and bushes are festooned with lungis, towels, vests and socks hung out to dry.

The staff is as sluggish as garden lizards in the morning. As we wait to check in, the manager is shuffling through a file and questioning the cook about a discrepancy in the inventory. The number of eggs purchased does not tally with the dishes of egg curry served in the dining hall. The cook is sulking and our enquiries regarding the availability of lunch are met with a rude &ldquothere will be dal, roti and cabbage.&rdquo

The room we are ushered into is basic. But the sheets are clean and the view stunning. One sinks gratefully into the cool, damp bed. The ears get slowly accustomed to the ringing silence after the long brain-rattling ride. It is so quiet one becomes aware of the sound of one&rsquos breathing. This is too good to be true

You bet. The very next instant one is jolted awake by an ear-piercing &ldquoBabaaaa...&rdquo and the patter of little feet. The magnificent panorama of Himalayan peaks is rudely interrupted by a little creature from outer space, wearing a weird assortment of ill-fitting insulation and a balaclava. This creature is running from window to window cupping its eyes and peeping into every room. Following it is a large bespectacled creature with an indulgent smile. He is walking with a swagger, wearing a similar costume, the baseball cap on top of the balaclava marking him as leader of the troop. Close in tow are several portly females in woollen gloves with open, wavy hair, loudly discussing yesterday&rsquos meal and its unpleasant after-effects on each individual.

This is followed by a group of studious-looking elderly creatures and earnest-looking boys in baggy insulation, carrying optical recording instruments of various vintages. They are pontificating on the Latin names of the flora and fauna they have just encountered. The words one catches above the babble are bhishon, bhalo and interesting. Lastly, there is a girl in bellbottoms and streaked hair, carrying a pink bag. She lets out a scream for the benefit of the little creature that has already clambered halfway up the hill. &ldquoAaiieeee Pokhooon...Thaandaa leeegeee jaaabeee...&rdquo

The arrival of the troop seems to have magically restored the circulation system of the hotel staff. Next morning, there&rsquos a discrete knock on the door. It&rsquos the cook, a glint in his eyes. In addition to cabbage there might be deem for lunch, he whispers.

After lunch we collapse on the few deck chairs that do not have wet socks draped on them. The edge of the deck has a line of trees interrupting the 180-degree panorama. There is, however, one gap from where a clear view would have been obtainable. The hotel management could not let this opportunity pass. In their wisdom they&rsquove planted a crude signboard showing all the peaks (with their names and altitudes) just here.

A crowd of eager balaclavas cluster around the faded signboard, animatedly pointing to the barely legible names. They then photograph the actual peaks through the trees by contorting themselves in impossible ways. Finally, one of the elders instructs a boy to take a &lsquoclose-up&rsquo of the signboard as it is better than the real view.

Early next morning I make my way into the kitchen to demand tea. In the half gloom of the soot-blackened kitchen, I detect familiar masked figures. Each has a Horlicks bottle of tea leaves, carted all the way from home, and is waiting his turn at the gas to brew it to perfection. When I request the cook to send up a pot of tea, they exchange knowing looks and stare at me as though I&rsquom from outer space.

In the afternoon as one takes a stroll up the hill, there is a group haggling with the ponywalas. One outraged gent wags his finger at a ponywalla and tells him not to cheat &ldquoIndian tourists&rdquo. Later in the evening, one is having a quiet tea at a small dhaba. Sure enough, there is one from the same group demanding to be served rice and fish curry as though it is his birthright. When the shopkeeper declines, he sets about trying to convince him how profitable it would be to revamp the menu. The owner nods and smiles in good-natured embarrassment. He knows no one has ever won an argument with a Bengali.

What is it that drives the ubiquitous Bengali tourists What incites them to take wing from their natural habitat and to descend in droves on far away destinations like squawking migratory birds There seem to be four essential polar points or forces of tension which seem to drive their relentless internal combustion engine. Paradoxically, these very forces also seem to pull them simultaneously in opposing directions. Let me explain.

The first pair of forces is Exposure and Insulation. The Bengali tourist is eager to expose himself to new places and experiences, and yet too shy to give up the safety and security of the familiar. On the one hand there is a greed for tasting it all, on the other, there is also a fear of ingesting too much more than one can digest. So the new can only be allowed in limited doses through the controlled aperture of the balaclava and the comforting cocoon of daily ritual.

The second opposing pair of forces has to do with seeking Discovery and Confirmation. The Bengali tourist is forever eager and curious to seek and discover the unknown. Ever suspicious, he is equally anxious to &lsquoconfirm&rsquo earlier reports and hearsay, to fulfill a greater purpose of self-development and education. He wants to explore and document the novel but is also deeply gratified and relieved to verify for himself that Chowkhamba does indeed have four peaks like he has heard countless times before.

What is my advice to lesser mortals who are not seeking Exposure, Insulation, Discovery or Confirmation, who just want to have a quiet time to calm their jangled nerves and restore their sanity Go where no Bong has ever gone before. I know that&rsquos difficult