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Road Trippin’ with an Infant Ally: Srinagar-Leh-Manali with a 9 Month Old

Riding the MountainThis wasn’t a chuckle. It was a loud gurgle expressing a form of delight she had never before displayed. Stretched on her stomach, lying first in her mother’s, then her father’s lap, she had been lowered closer to the water so that her tiny hands could touch it. Who would have imagined that our nine-month-old baby would find such joy running her hands through the placid Dal Lake in Srinagar on an evening boat ride.

Parents are usually judged by their ability to be responsible and caring, certainly never for being adventurous. When the opportunity of a road trip from Srinagar to Leh and back through Manali presented itself, we knew our accompanying infant wouldn’t mind. After all, her travels had begun from the womb, as the only companion on her mother’s work trips to Amritsar, Ludhiana, Jaipur and as part of an entourage on a wildly rushed pleasure trip across Europe.

Ladakh, though, was different. At this high-altitude region, adults were known to experience terrible sounding things such as Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). Parental phobia (discretion?) would consider it an unwise trip choice with a child. But in reality, and as our research prior to the trip showed, children older than three months can adapt to high altitudes as well as adults can. Our infant would actually come out better.

As we left the verdant views of Srinagar behind and began our slow ascent to Leh, our daughter showed us a precursor to what became a routine throughout the 10-day trip. She was rocked to sleep by the undulating motions of the car and raised her head every time we stopped, as if to ask, “Where are we now?” She posed atop a boulder in Sonmarg, got onto a gondola after bracing serpentine peak season queues at Gulmarg and displayed discomfiture only at the top when the cold winds blew.

Her smiles weren’t dampened like ours by the treacherous road leading to Kargil, our second night stop after Srinagar. En route to the town made famous by war and victory, we broke our journey for a windy visit to Vijaypath, the war memorial in Dras, which was followed by tea watching the sunset and the owner pointing in the direction of Tiger Hill, whence the enemy had come. Over the last few kilometres leading to Kargil, the lights on the road went out. The only sound, in what was late evening but seemed like the dead of night, was that of the river rushing beneath us as the tyres turned on the edge of the road that was nearly a rubble. This was National Highway 1D, an erstwhile Central Asian trade route connecting Srinagar-Leh-Yarkand.

RidingBack on the road the next day, we faced a blockade for a couple of hours, which threatened to undo our trip and made all adults churlish for good reason. The child, however, remained curious, sleepy, hungry by turns, helping us forget the situation. Entering Leh was a study in how awestruck nature can leave you, with its varied hues and stunning topography. Those who fly in directly to Leh need one day of acclimatisation. For precaution, even road trippers popped pills to keep their heads steady. Our girl stretched her arms in the wind and squinted at the sun, getting the driver to admit never having seen (in his 20-year driving life) a child enjoy a road trip so much. As we traversed high-altitude roads, her cheeks reddened by the sun and wind and body kept hydrated as suggested by web research, she had begun to resemble the children of the mountains. People wanted pictures with her at the Hemis Monastery and watching her made a woman at the Stok Palace Museum lament leaving her grandson behind.

Road trips nearly never stay true to course, least so when taken with a young companion. But they certainly promise (im)perfect adventures—whether in the form of a yak ride through a secluded open field, raucous cries at a double-humped camel’s face, special prayers and blessed intonations from a monk or when a moment of quietude beside a picturesque lake is punctured by shuffling sounds of a tiny hand, lifting a stone to devour.

This article appeared in The New Indian Express

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No boxing about

Six months, ten extra kilos and (relatively few) sleepless nights after I gave birth two years ago, I had become accustomed to being told that I don’t look like a mother. I’m not sure if that translates to my being too young, too in-control or too fond of strumming air guitars.

In a nation whose collective consciousness defines a mother as a self-sacrificing creature with oodles of pity to dish out, there is no room for funky mamas. Lose the hair, gain the weight and perfect the hassled look. Do not fit into old jeans, sing zeppelin to the baby and have a post-delivery glow.

Also prepare for everyone and their neighbours giving you advice about this and that. Especially take the shield out for the “I’ve raised two kids” and “in our time…” attacks. They’re flung by possibly well meaning oldies, all of whom think it’s either their way or juvenile delinquency as far as child rearing is concerned. Smiling politely gets you off easy. Doing your thing in the end makes it better.

Some people will tell you motherhood is a test of tolerance. Yes. A test of how much of adults-gone-berserk-over-baby you can tolerate…looks like this one, talks like that one, sleeps like god knows who. From finger length to laughing style, everything is up for grabs and everyone has an opinion on it. Nobody’s listening to “but all babies do that”.

Meanwhile, the baby in question is not mama-glued. She is a global citizen who enjoys the company of disparate folks of the family variety, loves outings of any kind and does things her way (no like papa, like mama for her).

If looking the part is half the job done, I’m getting no medals (who made people in charge of these anyway?). I hope to never wear the sentimental-schmuck-meets-hassled-mother cloak and fit into a box marked ‘best mums’.

What I will happily do is tell stories, go places, write diaries, pass on sexy black dress, give ash-dispersing instructions (at exciting enough holiday-place) and train her ears to stay the hell away from the likes of Justin Bieber.