There’s something wonderful about wolfing down a hot bowl of instant noodles outdoors on a freezing winter morning, with the majestic Himalayas in the background. These are memories in the making.
We started from Chandigarh, heading to Rampur in Himachal Pradesh, our first leg in the much-anticipated snow leopard expedition to the Kibber Valley. While the elusive Ghost of the Mountains was a priority, I was determined to check an important item off the list - the Pahadonwali Maggi. Translating this to English - Maggi of the Mountains - dilutes the flavor. It’s akin to adding too much water to your instant noodles, making it flavourless and watery.
A break in the eight-hour journey to relieve bursting bladders also presented an opportunity to try the instant noodles advertised in bold by the restaurant’s proprietor. Having placed our orders, we waited in eager anticipation as the chef busied himself in the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans reassuring us that our food was on the way.
Though the temperature was likely to drop as the day and journey progressed, I took off my jacket, feeling the warmth of the soft, mid-morning sun on my arms. The gentle breeze from the mountains reminded me of the teeth-chattering cold that awaited us, but that was for later. Right now, I greedily eyed the stainless steel bowls as the server made his way to us.
The steam rose steadily as I rolled a forkful of the deliciously unhealthy food and took the first bite. The medley of flavours warmed my soul as I shoveled another forkful, the mild heat from the chopped green chillis complementing the sweetness from the tiny bits of carrots and peas. The Pahadonwali Maggi lived up to every bit of the hype surrounding it and then some.
Among the ten of us, we polished off several bowls of the noodles, scalded our tongues as we glugged down the just-off-the-stove tea, and patted our satiated stomachs in satisfaction. Oh, what a happy group of travellers we were!
A few hours passed as I dozed, chatted with my fellow travellers, and soaked in the gorgeous sights of the snow-capped peaks at a distance, as we made steady progress. It was almost time for lunch.
I stretched my legs, my stomach still full from the noodles and chai. I had little appetite for lunch. But first, I needed to use the toilet.
“Down the stairs,” said the owner, who was also the chef and the server, all rolled into one. I stared at the rickety contraption anxiously. The stairs were essentially uneven planks, hastily nailed together and supported by rusty railings. With no choice but to go, I gingerly placed my foot on a plank, one careful step after another, my bladder protesting desperately.
Closing the stubbornly heavy door behind me, I looked around. A chipped bucket, accompanied by a broken mug, stared back in forlorn silence. I tried the flush before getting down to business. Nothing happened.
“That’s not good,” I thought, as I peered into the bucket, looking for water to pour down the toilet. There was water, alright, but it was frozen solid! What a conundrum!
“The water is frozen!” I yelled, hoping the jack-of-everything owner, chef, and whatever else he was, heard me.
“Oh!” came the response, followed by several giggles. Not from the owner, but my friends who seemed amused by my predicament.
I implored them to get help, for I knew that the call of nature was not mine alone. Sooner or later, they’d have to use the loo too. So it was in everyone’s best interest to find the man who could bring us a bucket of water.
“Madam! Use the other one. There’s water in there!” he said, before going back into the kitchen.
The “other one” was parallel to this stall, but separated by a wall, which meant climbing up the stairs, then going over to the other side, and climbing down a similar flight of equally hastily put-together stairs. At least, this one had water, stored in a 5-liter can that must have contained cooking oil in its previous lifetime.
Well, enough about frozen toilets and dangerous stairs. It was time for some hot soup.
The temperature had dropped rapidly to sub-zero levels, and the prospect of something hot was enticing. The vegetable hot-and-sour soup I had ordered was rapidly cooling down. Determined to finish it before it turned into ice, I wolfed down a generous spoonful.
My esophagus was on fire! It felt like sulphuric acid disintegrating my insides. I coughed, choked, and cried all at once. What was in the blessed soup?
“You ordered ‘hot and sour’ soup!” said the owner, indignantly. “Hence the green chillis!” Clearly, he did not feel the need to justify further.
I ordered some buttered toast to absorb the God-awful spice, pointing out that I only wanted butter on my toast and nothing else.
The others in the group didn’t seem to be doing so well either. From the expression on their faces, the lentils and roti were nothing to write home about. The dal looked insipid, and the rotis had turned into frisbees due to the weather. Although only one person seemed to be wolfing down his food like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten.
Curious, I peeked into his plate. A reddish-brown mound of rice with bits of vegetables was being consumed at a rapid pace. I wasn’t sure whether the colour came from the spice or an enthusiastic hand with food colouring. Either way, it isn’t something I’d recommend on a road trip, especially when the roads are long and winding.
I felt sorry for his companions. Imagine being stuck in an enclosed space with someone who’s just eaten a heapful of extra-spicy food, belched in satisfaction, and proceeded to swallow nearly half a dozen boiled eggs like a snake emerging from a long period of brumation.
Needless to say, the remainder of the journey to our first stop in Rampur was not so pleasant for the occupants of the said car. Our egg-swallowing glutton gave them plenty of reasons to keep the windows down, despite the frigid weather!
Nearly in time for evening tea, our exhausted but excited group reached Rampur. After a sumptuous dinner at the hotel, we made a beeline to our respective rooms, eager to get some rest before starting for Tabo the following morning.
As I crawled under the blankets, the warmth of the day’s Maggi, chai, and stories lingered. Ahead lay colder nights, thinner air, harsher terrain - and somewhere beyond, the silent presence of the Ghost of the Mountains.
For now, though, sleep came easily. The real journey was only just beginning.
