Tears flow down the speaker’s face as 226 pair of hands clap in unison to fill up the auditorium with a resounding applaud. Standing right at the back leaning against the wall I beam through my ears. The speaker is a young man of 76 just back from a high and difficult Himalayan trek two months ago. Three years before he was completely wheel-chair bound having lost the entire use of his lower limbs due arthritis and lung cancer and all hopes along with. No one expected him to live for long or have a life if at all. What he hadn’t lost though was a simple wish. He is, was my friend Charlie (as I called him) and he would die two years hence. He never went back to the Himalaya, instead in those two years he inspired and motivated thousands of people, filling them up with hope, with impossible dreams and helping them redefine their limits. It is my privilege to have known him in my life. This is his story. Charlie; here’s to you…

My friend calls me one day, ‘Satya, my grandpa wants to meet you.’ I visit his house the next evening. ‘He is crazy and cranky, don’t mind if he says something,’ my friend and his mother caution while leading me to the old man’s room. ‘He has been wheelchair bound for nearly ten years; makes him grumpy.’ My friend’s mother adds conspiratorially. ‘I like crazy people,’ I mutter and enter the room.

He is a gaunt old fellow stuck grotesquely to a wheelchair. I go up to him and say, ‘Hi, I am Satya.’ ‘I know, why didn’t you come to see me before?’ he states. ‘I didn’t know you exist.’ I reply with a shrug. ‘Fair enough,’ he nods, ‘tell me a story; tell me about the mountains you climb.’ I need no further bidding and over the next hour or so I take him atop and across several mountain ranges through several continents. Even as his eyes sparkle in wonder I discern some deep latent anguish in them as well. While I take leave, I ask him what I ask everyone on my first meeting, ‘What’s your wish?’ He holds my hand for a while and whispers, ‘I wish I could walk again.’ ‘That’s a given, you will walk,’ I affirm, ‘what’s next?’ I ask. ‘Really, you think so?’ ‘I don’t ‘think’ so, I ‘know’ so. Wish something more.’ ‘Wish I could climb in the Himalaya like you.’ He says. ‘Brilliant, you will.’ I pat him on the back.

‘I believe you,’ the old man says.
‘I believe in you.’ I say and leave.

Over the next three years I visit him as often as my own gypsy life would allow, telling him more stories and reinforcing his dreams and his self-belief in his abilities. After eight months of our first meeting he leaves his chair for the first time in 11 years. He transforms into a kid, rolls in the grass outside refusing to return home. Much worried for his health, my friend’s mother gives me a frantic call. By now it is well established that for the old man, I am his best friend. I reach the house and am directed to the neighborhood park. I join the old man in his frolic. Together we roll on the grass, chase butterflies, climb trees (I do, he cheers), watch the squirrels, smell the flowers, follow the birds’ chattering and finally at sundown I get him home. He is tired and exhausted, his knee throbs and buckles but he is immensely happy. That evening when I leave him he says, ‘Call me Charlie.’ ‘Charlie it is.’ I nod and leave. Two days later I depart for an expedition.

Three months later when I return and call up Charlie he screams into the phone, ‘I have stopped all medicines and driven all the stupid doctors out. Bahu (daughter-in-law) is using the wheelchair for shifting heavy stuff around the house.’ On his 76th birthday Charlie declares, ‘I am ready to climb, when do we go?’ His family is horrified, petrified and incredulous in various degrees. They plead me to say ‘no’. ‘Sure thing,’ I tell Charlie, ‘we need to dress you up nice and warm.’

In the following summer I drop out of my expedition and take Charlie up on a Himalayan glacier across crevasses and moraines up to 18,500 ft. Huffing and puffing under his backpack Charlie walks steadily, never giving up as I struggle to walk slow enough to stay by his side. His body breaks into sweat under physical agony. His face and his mind is nothing but a bundle of joy. Charlie knows and so do I that each step could be his last but he is not going to give up. He is living and I am sharing his dream. I feel sorry as I feel euphoric at the miracle unfolding right next to me. Charlie fumbles and tumbles, limps and labors and keeps going on. He closes his eyes and wallops on ground as we step on fresh soft snow. He has never seen snow before. We throw snow balls at each other, at other people on the trail. Even I feel a bit embarrassed at his behavior.

The day we reach our high point from where we would return, the sky clears at night. The black moonless sky is sparkling with million stars as comets and meteors scamper every now and then. Charlie pulls the sleeping bag out and refuses to get in the tent. He has never seen anything so spellbinding in his life. Even he quietens down. Our staff has gone off to sleep. I sit with him and trace out the constellations and stars and the mythological figures across the black canvass. We ascend to the heavens and walk through the galaxies. We fantasize and we live our dreams. Eventually the sun rises and we return home.

A week later I call up one of the schools where I conduct outdoor workshops for kids and ask the Principal to call Charlie over for a talk. It is difficult to convince her but she finally agrees. I convey the invitation to Charlie to address the school (kids, teachers, parents) on the next Foundation Day. It is even harder to persuade Charlie.

At the end of a very crude but sincere and passionate talk, where often I had to take over the mike, Charlie got a standing ovation from the audience. Words spread, media picks it up, he gets featured in magazines. Invites follow and Charlie becomes a motivational speaker telling his stories to anyone willing to listen. Soon I make myself redundant. Charlie has the entire stage and the audience to himself. I ask him to drop my mention from his talks. I begin to miss his talks often as I leave civilization frequently. Charlie stands totally on his own feet. He becomes an idol, a life counselor. Hundreds of terminally ill people of all ages learn to dream and live through Charlie. Children emulate his eccentricities and cite his examples when they wish to do something outrageously imbecile. In short, Charlie becomes a hero.

Despite his will to live Charlie dies peacefully in his dreams one night when I am far away climbing a mountain of my dream. When I return home a month and half later, my friend’s mother gives me a sealed envelope that Charlie had left for me. I am extremely happy. I reach home and open the letter.

‘Dear son,’ it says, ‘did you ever wonder why I named myself Charlie!’ ‘I sure did,’ I think aloud. ‘Because you are and will always be my Snoopy and I discovered Peanuts through you. Though Charlie would never say to Snoopy but I will, “Thank you”. May your journey never end.’ Charlie.

That was 12 years ago. My journey keeps going on. I wish Charlie was still by my side.

About the author:
Commander Satyabrata Dam is widely considered as one of the world’s top mountaineer and polar explorers today. He has climbed Mt Everest and skied to North and South Poles and has climbed some of the highest summits of all the continents. He is also a TED Fellow and Fellow of Royal Geographic Society . Satya is a full time adventure and outdoor consultant, author and motivational speaker. Visit his blog at http://satyabratadam.blogspot.com

Island – the word evokes memories of childhood classics such as Robinson Crusoe, The Swiss Family Robinson and Treasure Island. These were some of my favourite books and there have been times I have wondered what it would be like to be actually marooned on an island, cut off from the rest of the world. Well, I live on an island (Bombay), but there is no feeling of being cut off from the world – in fact, it is more crowded and noisier than many other cities, and there doesn’t seem to be the remotest chance of my being marooned on some uninhabited island. So much for fantasies……

However, this vacation brought the fantasy as near to fact as it is possible in these days of faster and more efficient methods of communication, when we visited Poovar.

When my husband first suggested Poovar for our annual vacation, I asked him, “Where on earth is that?” So much for my awareness of places in my own country! He told me to look it up on a map, and that is when I realized that it was an island! That is what began my fascination with the place. The fascination grew when I learnt that it wasn’t just an island. There was a river merging with the sea, backwaters galore and the wide open sea all around! Just imagine – this is a place which is an island, set at the mouth of an estuary, with a beach on one side and backwaters on the other, with small lakes all over! This was a place which captured my imagination at once!

We flew down to Trivandrum, my son jumping with excitement at the sight of the vast blue sea and the deep green palm trees welcoming us to God’s own country. We spent a day at Trivandrum, visiting the temples and palace before heading out to Poovar. Instead of hiring a car, we decided to take an auto, a decision which turned to be wise, as our driver kept us regaled with his pronouncements about all the tourists who turned up.

The auto dropped us at the Poovar jetty, from where we took a boat to the Club Mahindra Floating Palms resort, where we had booked rooms. The ride is free for those who have reservations, but I wonder how many people actually turn up at such a remote place without reservations!

The ride to the resort was a wonderful journey, as we passed fishing boats with locals in them, the backwaters lined with cormorants. My son, who is just getting to recognize birds, squealed excitedly as a kingfisher swooped down to catch a fish, and a cormorant turned towards us lazily, perhaps wondering why humans were staring at them and pointing them out to others!

At the resort, we found that we had not been lucky enough to get one of the floating cottages, but the rooms we got were good, built amidst pools of water, and connected by wooden bridges. This again excited my son, who noticed fishes and crabs in the water, and spent most of the day standing on the bridges, looking out for them!

We spent three days at Poovar – three glorious days, when we did nothing but relax. It was hot in the afternoons, but the mornings and evenings were just right for a leisurely walk. The high point of the stay though was the backwater cruise.

The local fishing boat was itself a novelty, but even more were the fabulous sights. Green was obviously the dominant colour, closely followed by blue, but before this trip, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine so many shades of just these two colours! We took a cruise around the island, observing the darker shades of the backwaters as they merged into the lighter shade of the sea, the whole stretch of blue bordered by the green – lush green grasses and palm trees. It was difficult to distinguish between bluish-green and greenish-blue, and I was as excited as my son when we saw a purple heron disappearing into the foliage.

Amongst all these outpourings of nature were a few rude awakenings too, as we realized that this was not the only resort in this place. There were two others, one recently built, catering to the masses of tourists arriving in the peak season, and more were coming up! As we turned back towards home, lingering a while to see the sun set over the horizon, I could not help, but wonder if the place would manage to retain its identity and abundance of natural beauty a few years from now.

The Viceregal Lodge in Shimla was formerly the residence of the British Viceroy, Lord Dufferin.

One of the most beautiful buildings of Shimla, this Victorian-styled structure was designed by the British architect Henry Irwin.

Construction began in 1880 and was completed in 1888. It served as the headquarters of the country during the summer months from March to October.

It was the first government building to have electricity, with an internal wiring system at that. The futuristic architect also made provisions for an elevator to be installed. Most of the upholstery and furniture in the building have been retained for all these years.

The sprawling lawns conceal a rain water harvesting system beneath them, which is being used till date. The lawns and gardens are well-kept and house a vast variety of flora and fauna.

Crucial meetings with Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru and Mohammed Ali Jinnah were held in this room here during the Indian Independence struggle.

Negotiation papers during the Partition were prepared here, on this very table.

After independence, the building became a part of the estate of the President of India and renamed as ‘Rashtrapati Niwas’.

In 1965, Dr Radhakrishnan established the Indian Institute of Advanced Study here. It is a residential center for research in humanities and social sciences.

The pillars and walls of this building have witnessed events of historical importance. The structure is elegant and regal in every sense and is a must for anyone who visits Shimla.

High, High, what a feeling to fly
Over mountains & forests and seas
And to go anywhere that I please.

The Eagles, sung so beautifully by the famous Swedish pop group Abba, has been a perennial favourite of mine since my college days as it epitomizes the freedom one would love to enjoy – just like the eagles and other majestic birds.

During our trip to Amritsar & Dharamshala, the song kept echoing to me– when we visited Wagah, at the border with Pakistan, and again during our stay in Dharamshala.

As we travelled from Amritsar towards Dharamshala, the fog that had surrounded us was indeed a symbol of the life in the plains. All encompassing fog of a very cold and dreary late morning, making us fearful of our next move, showing us the silhouttes even where none existed, neither allowing us to experience the journey nor letting the feeble effort of sunrays to succeed in warming us. Travelling through such a fog for a distance of almost 100 Kms towards Pathankot was truly an “enlightening” experience that we could not have forgotten in a hurry.

The word “Dharamshala” can have two meanings – one, a place where pilgrims can stay free of cost, and the other, the abode of religion. Dharamshala makes one experience both the meanings of this word.

For the Tibetans, on their long & ever-lasting quest for freedom from Chinese imperialism, Mcleodganj, a few miles away from Dharamshala has been their seat of Government-in-exile, and one can be forgiven if the place is mistaken for Tibet.

On the other hand, a plethora of temples of Hindu deities, an ancient church, a couple of Buddhist monastries and a beautiful institute of Tibetan Art & Culture amidst the snow capped peaks of Dhauladhar range of Himalayas gives it an aura befitting a place that can be equated to an abode of religion.
Adding to the mystique were the sprawling tea gardens, poinsettias in full blooms, dry & rocky river beds, early morning winter sun, towering presence of Kangra fort, occasional clouds, in the words of Tagore, bringing colours to the sunset sky, all pervading silence most part of the day, broken only by the songs of birds – I am sure something like this must have been the inspiration when Gulzar wrote:

Barfili sardiyon men, kisi bhi pahad par, waadi men goonjti hui khamoshiyan sunen

With weather so refreshing the soul was ready to soar – just like those eagles & other raptors who were gracing the skies at Dharamshala – bringing me back to the song Eagles – where I began writing this travelogue.

At Wagah, amid the jingoistic shouting of people from both the sides of the borders and the entire chaos of hundreds of people wanting to get somehow a glimpse of the entire ceremony, the image that remained in my mind was that of the Mynahs & Sparrows, flitting with ease from one side of the border to another – just like the sun which had rose in the morning on the Indian side and was now setting across the border.

The song remained with me in Dharmshala as I frequently observed a large number of raptors soaring in the clear blue sky of crisp winters. These birds seamlessly fly across the mountains and waters and man-made borders as they migrate with the changing seasons and no barrier seems to be insurmountable to them.

Both the images were in so much contrast to the one of the border – with customary check posts and barricades – and of the people at both the sides – so similar in appearance and habits – and yet separated by an inanimate fence, with no soul, which could create such a difference that each one, in an one-upmanship, was screaming out slogans louder than the people from the other country.

And, we the human beings are supposed to be more gifted in our intelligence than the birds and animals.

Closer home, Jaaved Akhtar had penned it down so beautifully for the movie Refugee:

Panchhi, Nadiya, Pawan Ke Jhonke,
Koi Sarhad na Inhe Roke,
Sarhad Insanon ke liye hai
Socho, tumne aur maine, kya paya Insaan hoke!

And isn’t it true even within the border as we, in our personal life too, find more reasons that differentiate us than the reasons that can unite us. May be it is time for all us human beings to be intelligent enough to imbibe some of the attitude of supposedly lesser intelligent birds.

More pictures of the trip are available here.