In An Introvert's World #3 Climbing

            Much of my life has been my struggle against fear. Growing up, I had tired myself wondering about how I presented myself to others, contending with how to modify myself, or how to get rid of sport activities (which I was never good at). It was a continuous battle against will, which in my case, was probably too weak. If there is anything that I have not given up before achieving anything worthwhile, it was probably the Civil Services Examination. Apart from that, I have tried learning the guitar, building some muscle, learning the German language – but all of it went into the air at the first moment of despair. How many stories did I delete before I could type the whole thing? I had almost stopped liking myself as a person at one point, and it, I believe, is the worst a person can do to themselves.

Much of the Foundation Course has been different. There have been new, different people – many of them willing to talk to me, while others with whom I wanted to talk. Sometimes, there was a coincidental match – and I would often find it difficult to converse. There have been new, different experiences – many of which made me uncomfortable, from their ability to make me think, or from their requirement to socialise. All the people around me were more learned than me, more intelligent, with their cranium full of wisdom. Some showed it. Some I could easily notice. There was a constant reminder that I am a misfit, that I did not belong here. The imposter syndrome had almost got me. I had been thinking of this earlier, and it was turning out to be true after all.

Two incidents need to be mentioned here: the trips and the village visit. I would love to talk continuously about these, endlessly. Honestly, I will not grow tired. Even my words will not sound repetitive. But I do not have time enough for that. I mean to talk about one of my trips in this article. I will write about the village visit soon, once I am done conquering the dilemma of my observations in that respect.

We set on a trip to Dhanaulti yesterday. The tiny village, probably not with more than a few hundred residents, sits high in the Garhwal Himalayas. Not much far away is Tehri. Dhanaulti saw good snow over the weekend, and we meant to venture into its white peaks. I love mountains. For a good part of my graduation, inspired by Into The Wild, I dreamt of going away to Alaska, and maybe climbing Denali someday. Mountains were white and silent. They looked friendly. The silence was inviting. The romance was incredible. It is possible that the idea of limited social interaction attracted me, but I never imagined going that way alone. Happiness is true, of course, only when shared.

Dhanaulti, therefore, would be paradise. My mates included my fellow officer trainees, Naomi, Tushar and Ravi. The latter two, whom I knew only from a small cycling trip and infrequent sightings on the campus, were physically adept and quite experienced in climbing, though they were not professional climbers. Naomi, a dear friend, was without inhibitions. I don’t know whether she saw any cliffs and slippery mud. She probably saw it as just another challenge. The girl is Athena in person. There was also Shruti, a newbie like me, with very little experience probably in any adventure sport. The last time we went rock climbing, the rocks were hard and wet, but there was no snow. Shruti was the most vocally scared at that time. This time, it was me.

Dhanaulti is over thirty kilometers form Mussoorie. The hills visible on the road were brown. Soon, the oak turned into conifers. Then there were more conifers, some green while others lime. A thin cloud cover gave way for occasional yellow rays that shot onto the land like lasers of mass destruction. Naomi pointed out a blue bird and we missed the presence of a dear bird-watcher friend. Songs were put on. The joyful sky poured serendipitous snow over us. The white fluff settled on our clothes. We changed seats. We struggled for the window seat. The music started out in slow, romantic numbers until Naomi taught us her lesson in patriotism. Soon, we were singing Vande Mataram aloud.

Dhanauti showed its proximity with snow-covered peaks. The brown gave way for greyish white, with a thick halo of fog. It was a single peak. The base was broad, the peak hidden behind the grey. Ice wrapped the mountain like bands on a gift. Soon, there was snow lining the roadside. Then, there was the jam. I opened the car door, cupped a little snow in my hands and hit Naomi. Thus began we.

*

Republic Day was in the air. People waved the flags in the air. Snow fell upon us like heavenly flowers. There were snow fights. Stuck in the jam, amid the pungent fumes of fuel, people set their picnic mats and smoked hookah. Above us rose the shiny mountain that probably had no name, in its complete majesty, unbothered. When the jam refused to bow to us, the three musketeers decided to climb this mountain, and carry the two of us with them.

I wore my favourite white Nike sport shoes that I was proud of. I used to run in them daily. Shruti and Ravi were also in sport shoes. Naomi and Tushar had proper hiking shoes. I had underestimated this component until we started climbing and fell on my nose just a few meters from the ground. My spectacles are still damaged. My wind sweater still bears the gash of mud like blood from a sword wound. At that moment, I gave up.

“Guys,” I urged my fellow adventurers, “my shoes are not meant for this. I am not going up.”

There must have been plain fear in my voice. The mere sight of a slope brings chills to my spine, and I had taken a fall on that slope which was lain with brown snow and murky vegetation, all crushed to an unsympathetic mud by careless shoe-falls. For a few seconds, I had remained hanging on that slope, just a few meters above the road, my hands clutching on to rowdy branches, without any spirit or will to move, to get up, to endeavour or to quit. I cannot help but look back at that time with an ashamed smile.

Shruti came to the rescue. Tushar and Ravi provided much needed hands. Naomi must have cursed and swore from above me, asking me to get my balls back, start behaving like a respectable police officer. I did gather some courage, fixed my shoes bluntly into the slimy slope, held on to sturdy grasses and pulled myself up. The murky slope converted into rocky outcrops. A few meters up and the rock came to be shrouded in inches of snow, some soft like cotton, some hard, some mischievously deceitful. I pushed my legs into the snow and turned around to capture photographs. My companions threw balls of snow at each other. I trembled within and without as they became more and more careless of their height. Above me, the majestic silence of the mountain, still unbothered, still serene.

We moved up. There were obstacles. Spiny branches that we had no resort but to hold to pull ourselves against gravity. Sharp rocks laughing at me. Devious snow sitting like a mean priest, silent in meditation, steadfast, but only over thick but feeble thickets of shrubs. Sneering falls on both side of our way. And the assertive Triad, that with due disrespect to mine and Shruti’s fears, continued their upward march, turning impossible copses into a smooth trek.

One of Tushar’s friends, who had also accompanied us onto the mountain, gave up midway with what seemed like purely incorruptible reasons. “I can go up,” said he, “but will not be able to come down.” His words were wisdom to my ear but, drunk with achievement, I discounted him. A little ahead, a little nearer to heaven, I and Shruti realised that we left sanity behind with him. We were stuck with three persons unrealistically unafraid. They probably did not see the ridges the same way as I did: nothing shorter than the climb to Mount Everest, even though a mere hundred meters above the road. Every sharp cliff seemed to be a rejoinder from death.

“Nothing will happen to you,” Naomi would say, often sensing my fear right out of my face, “if you fall from here. The snow softens the blows.” Under us was a dense outgrowth, armed with its violent thorns; picket-like stony outcrops that would end your life with a minor touch; and a deceptive snow-cover which was impossible to gauged. “No chance I will survive,” I would reply. 

A hundred things were created in my mind by fear at that moment. It was a hallucination of thought, of perception. When my friends played with one another, to the extent of absorbing blows of huge snowballs, standing right on the edge of sharp falls. I found my legs trembling at the sight of them. I do not remember the sting of cold or the way the chilly, foggy wind swept through me, swung through the multiple layers of my clothing. I did not sense that my gloves were wet. I did not care that my shoes were full of snowmelt, that my feet were freezing, that I no longer had the pleasure of warmth. A quick review of that day shows how idiotic it all was, believing myself to be hanging mid-air, when there was probably no reason to not believe in the ability of my organs, to concern myself over non-issues. My enemy, of course, was fear.

 Our will was ultimately tested by snow-laden bushes. Suddenly, all ways seemed to be lost. The peak was within sight, though the climb seemed treacherous. We stood at the pavilion, a plain of snow-covered rock of not more than ten square feet, looking at the bush. The Triad searched for ways. Tushar crawled under the thorny bushes and jumped into a depression. Naomi creeped along the rocky wall and suggested possible ways to Tushar. Ravi soon jumped after Naomi. I laid myself on the pavilion for some respite, hoping that no way forward would be found. I shamelessly shouted for the three to give up. My concerns over the descent were mounting continuously. Shruti sat on an outcrop and indulged in some photo-taking, joyful and confident. The stillness of the atmosphere made way for a balmy snowfall that began to bury me alive. That day, the perils of the possible climb and the timidity of newbies ended the Triad’s hopes of peak midway.

We descended and built a cute snowman on another, broader flat surface a few meters below. The base was named in honour of Shruti, who had shown extraordinary resilience and courage. The national flag was affixed on a branch. Passers-by provided a Himachali cap and a muffler for the snowman. Photos were taken. Snow was hurled into the air. I continued to shake, my teeth chattered uncontrollably. Others enjoyed as I pondered over the routes of descent. More than the climb, I was worried about the descent, even as the Triad continued to say that the descent would be easier. At one point, Shruti told me that “you will make a way”. I sighed.

            The descent began with a test of my courage. What do I hate the most? Feeling helpless, of course. The steep slope was bald. Feeble grass provided no respite. As the fog parted, the sun smiled at us. The snow on the leaves began to melt within a few minutes. Dripping drops turned into steady, invisible rivulets. The rifts and the ditches, the entire mountainside started murmuring with the sound of flowing water. Snow seemed to be revolting. Everything seemed sinister.

I refused to stand. I would crawl down the mountainside, like a baby, even when the decline was more gentle than steep. I slid through the snow. I skidded upon the rocks. Suddenly, Naomi realised that we had forgotten to sing the national anthem. Without a moment’s delay, the Triad started another ascent. The flag was not more than twenty meters above us and the climb seemed prima facie easy but I had had enough. I resisted and when the resistance failed, I dropped my weapons. As the others climbed, I stopped and waited, finding cowardly solace in my solitude, looking at the valley with counterfeit pride. I did not respond to ardent pleas for me to come up but I did not budge. The fear had formed a solid cortex around my heart.

The national anthem echoed through the mountains. It rendered equal respect to a coward. The nation does not distinguish, even when it is weakened by a weak shoulder. I had completed a climb as high as my friends but my will had ultimately surrendered. It was not anguish. It was not a battle against senselessness. It was a defeat. My friends descended down the Shruti Base, helping Shruti overcome the odds. I joined them with my sliding. I slid almost the entire way, the snow my ramp, the stones my gentle obstacles. My ass froze. My fingers lost sense. But I was enjoying. Deep within, I was also regretting that I did not scale the few meters that I already had scaled earlier.

Hardly a few minutes and the honking traffic was audible. A few more meters and the slippery foot of the mountain emerged. We slid down together. We walked on the road. We slapped our butts to consciousness. We squeezed the water out of our gloves. As our bodies got warm, we realised how numb our feet were. The sun went back into its hiding in the fog. The temperature seemed to drop further. On our face was a smile even as we shuddered in the cold.

Naomi soon proclaimed her liking for Shruti, the courageous one, and her deriding for me, the one who lamented and croaked with fear throughout the climb and back. I was helpless, but only through my perception. Maybe I did need ridicule, but after all, what did not kill me has left me stronger. I wonder how this strength will materialise in the future. Words of some gentle woman sound in my ears: climbing is as much physical as it is mental. Thanks Naomi, for nothing shifts things as well as a good insult. No grudges here.