Bengaluru. January 6, 2012. It was just another day for most Bangaloreans, but for me it was the start of a walk across India, Day 1 of a six-month adventure. Inspired by Anna Hazare’s countrywide anti-corruption movement, eight of us — with support from Bhumi, a Hyderabad-based organisation — set out to create awareness in smaller towns and villages.
From Bengaluru, we took the highway, heading towards the Bay of Bengal. Walking through the countryside of Karnataka, we watched farmers working in their rice fields or tending to cattle, lost in time. The humid breeze blew cool on our faces, as the swaying trees on the roadside waved in greeting. We kept up a good pace, walking for eight hours and covering 30 km each day. At around six every evening, we would try to find a place to halt for the night.
Days later, a salty breeze, tinged with the smell of dry fish, told us we were in Puducherry. We headed for the beach and watched the sunset through the coconut trees, before sleeping in boats moored on the beach. We were woken at 3am by fishermen, for it was the first day of the fishing season. We helped them pack their fishing nets and set off towards Chennai. As the sun blazed down unrelentingly, the heat forced two in our group to abandon the walk. Even the prospect of rejuvenation at an upscale beach house in Chennai failed to convince them.
We plodded on, after a comfortable day spent in feather-soft beds, back to dusty asphalt, but interesting conversations with passers-by on the road to Andhra Pradesh (before Telangana was carved out of it) brightened the picture. Quizzical brows greeted us, followed by philosophical advice on how to devote our time and energy to finite goals, instead of a ‘frivolous journey’. We smiled and went fishing in a trickle of a stream, the only oasis in the dry land we found ourselves in.
At Hyderabad, we lost another fellow-traveller. We still celebrated with a hearty meal and much-needed sleep. The countryside beckoned and we responded with renewed energy, back to the grind that we loved by now. We walked on parched earth, with bald trees and scrawny birds high in the dry skies for company. We waved at passing trucks, cycles, carts, bullocks, dogs and children, giving them our best smiles.
Frequent and free refreshments offered by bystanders, entertained by our travel tales, kept the spring in our step. Our anti-corruption message collapsed, as people were not interested, but that did not stop our preaching. We eventually decided to keep off the highways and stay on smaller roads, seeing the real India as we walked across it.
We crossed dams and rivers to get to Gadchiroli, the forest district in Maharashtra. Naxalite rebels are active here, but we saw uniformed men decorated with medals and badges, extorting bags of vegetables and other provisions from local traders. After a night in a zoo-cum-hospital, we turned towards the Arabian Sea, passing through Nagpur and Pune and tracing a national highway through the Khandala hills to finally reach Mumbai.
Our journey to Gujarat was punctuated by naps under banyan trees. By the time we reached Madhya Pradesh, the group was down to half its strength. It was also in Madhya Pradesh that I considered life as a farmer — possibly swayed by the sight of golden wheat under an orange sun. The pull of Chambal, the river that inspires both awe and fear, and its ravines nipped my pastoral dreams in the bud and we marched on.
Four months and a week later, we were in Delhi and down to just two of us. Uday and I ventured onwards to greet the Himalayas. We covered the fertile agrarian land of Punjab and Haryana, crossed Chandigarh and headed towards Himachal Pradesh. Just ahead of Dharamsala, a bolt of lightning ripped through the night sky, allowing us a glimpse of the majestic Dhauladhars.
It was at Amritsar — the serene Golden Temple, to be precise — where Uday and I decided to part ways. My mind had raced ahead of my feet, and I walked the foothills of the Himalayas. At Udhampur, I met a man stranded after an accident. Everything he owned lay scattered in the dust — goats, trunks, mattresses. But that didn’t stop him from sharing a cup of tea and biscuits with me. I continued through the hills of Jammu, sleeping at roadside dhabas, crossed the Jawahar or Banihal Tunnel and entered Kashmir Valley.
After a day in Ratnipore with a family of bakers — who even washed my dirty jeans — I reached Srinagar and spent the night in my sleeping bag on the bench of a bus shelter, with fighting stray dogs for company. Further up, at Sonamarg, I was welcomed by snow-covered meadows.
I entered Kargil after spending a night at a gurudwara, trekked towards Dras and on to the Khardung-la pass 5,359m above sea level. Another 200 km and 10 days later I reached Hargam, close to the China border, where I ended my walk.
(As told to Saurabh Yadav)
Anoop Shekar is an architect currently based in Rome