‘A little bit, yes! Today we ran too much.’
Today we made progress.
Chapter 18
My big thing in college was to go on a trek. At least once. Everyone I knew had walked and climbed great distances. I liked the sound of it, the sense of adventure it entailed.
I mentioned it to Andrew one weekend. The following morning, we were headed to Ramanagara of the seven-hills elevation, where one of Bollywood’s iconic films was shot some four decades ago.
It was a staggering sight. An imposing 3,000 feet above ground level, it was home to a few temples and the bald-headed eagle. The town sat on Bengaluru’s fringes.
I was in baggy tracks and sports sandals; I didn’t own a pair of sneakers then. My backpack had a packet of biscuits and tissues; Andrew had thrown a bottle of water into it. That’s how prepared we were.
Had we registered for the trek, we’d have known that in the last decade, there had only been night treks in the summer, but we didn’t want to spend the ?1,000 each that would’ve taken care of the guide and refreshments. Instead, we decided to go on our own.
It was blistering hot – the hottest day in March in 40 years. We were not the only barmy souls on the trailthough, but the only ones without caps, and as far as I could see, I was the only girl around.
We climbed several hundred steps – not steep uphill, but it was hard work – before we hit the trail. A narrow path that led to the clouds, it was an extraordinary sight. I’d have enjoyed the grey and green collage a little more had it not been 10 a.m. with a sharp sun beating down on us. I could feel the beginnings of a headache. Andrew was engrossed in clicking photographs and suggested we should walk some more and stop at a stall where they served refreshments. The more we walked, the denser the foliage around us became, but there was no shed or shelter in sight. We heard the voices of people though, which kept us going. Maybe there was something in the next 100 yards. A wine store and a nail bar, too!
We had walked for almost half an hour when we saw a group of guys. They told us they were headed back as they hadn’t carried enough water with them. The regular vendors weren’t there either because, in the summer, there were only night-time treks.
We turned back, too.
Andrew was sweating profusely, a steady stream; the front of his tee was wet, and the back was in a similar soaked state. He sweats buckets anyway, but this was way off even for him.
My head felt like it was splintering.
‘You need to hydrate,’ he said, suggesting we stop and replenish.
I dunked half the bottle of water and gave him the rest. He opened the biscuits I had carried and gave me two. I ate one and then threw up everything I had ingested. What a waste. We had just one bottle of water. Andrew forced me to drink the rest of it, saying we’d find some shop or theother at the base, where we had parked. I was sobbing. I’d never known physical pain that bad.
I don’t know how, but we managed to get to the end of the trail. I remember seeing the steps, painted a garish blue, before I passed out.
When I came around, I was in a moving vehicle. My father’s. Andrew had blasted the aircon and was singing with the radio, something he never does. I was lying down in an almost-flattened seat; he was driving like a rally driver.
‘What happened?’ I asked. It felt like I had missed half the highway chase.
‘We’re going home.’ He was loud.
‘Lower the volume, you won’t need to shout.’
‘No,’ he shouted. ‘I need it to get us home.’ He was singing again; he had cranked up the decibel level. He patted me with his left hand; it was wet.
‘How did I get here?’ I didn’t think he had heard me.
‘I carried you.’
‘Down the 300 steps?’
He continued to sing. The nineties chart-toppers were playing on a bad stereo, and Andrew was driving like a man possessed.
The view from my position – I was on my back – was lovely. It looked like Bengaluru was a tree-lined avenue. My mother had told me that was the city she had grown up in during the seventies. Was this some kind of a time-warp race we were in?
I spotted my backpack in the far corner and pulled out the biscuit packet. I offered it to Andrew, but he preferred to sing.
‘Don’t get up, Myraah,’ he screamed, ‘just rest.’
I wasn’t trying to get up.
