Unchanged

My mom would lock the door once and check it thrice (In America thrice is “three times”). While my dad disagreed with this strategy he did prefer it over coming back after driving a few miles. Meanwhile, as they debated, my brother and I would race down the stairs with the car keys in hand. My brother was older so he would get the keys. Not to mention he was also much bigger which meant I always ended up catching up. All that running would ensure that my shorts ride up on my thigh. I was never able to figure out why my mom wanted me to be chubby but then wear equally ill fitting clothes to show off the rotundity. Of course, I hadn’t yet been introduced to vanity so it did not really matter. On good days, my brother would let me clamber up onto the driver’s seat of an old green Fiat. Once there, my legs dangled on the bench seat and were no way close to the required pedals of motion. The steering wheel was large enough to ensure I don’t see anything beyond it and the horn was small enough for me to press it. Over the years as I built my vocabulary of feelings, I realized that must have been happiness. Eventually my parents would come down and my brother and I would jump over to the back seats. My mom, like always, packed a lunch. By now, we had known well that it would be potatoes (lightly sautéed with cumin seeds), chapattis and a default mango pickle. My brother and I would rise up in protest of such a bland meal but we both knew that halfway through the trip we would be finishing it all up.

The seven peaks are entirely debatable. Must be a matter of faith.

This is how trip to the Goddess Temple of Vani would start. Vani is a small village around 60 km from Nashik. In this village lies a mountain with seven peaks. And atop this mountain lays a temple where a Goddess dwells. The climb up the mountain involved an 11 km stretch of zig-zag roads and hair pin bends. And astonishingly, our aging Fiat would take us about 2 hours to get us there if not more. But those were vastly simpler times; when we would sing in the car as mom watched the road more attentively then my driving dad. I am not sure if my Dad had a singing voice but he certainly was confident of the lyric which was enough for most of us. As we reached the bottom of the hill at Vani, along with my Dad’s rising tempo our Fiat would start heating up. Being water cooled, meant that we had to let it cool down before we begin the ambitious 11 km hill climb. This would prove as the opportune time for my mom to set up lunch and for all us ‘boys’ to relieve ourselves wherever we deemed fit in the open surroundings. My day would pop the bonnet and slowly fill water in the radiator. Meanwhile my brother and I would starting rolling potatoes inside the chapattis and eat them like a wrap. While my mom did not particularly care for our eating styles she was glad that food was entering our system. Eventually Dad and Mom would eat up too and we would all have gulps of water that had been sufficiently warmed by the Indian sun. I have always disliked warm water. The climb would begin. The engine clearly showed signs of stress. My mom heightened her vigil on the road and warned my dad of ever object that seemed to approach us from ahead. Not surprisingly, my Dad was very annoyed with this sort of internal warning system. Meanwhile, my brother and I would simply marvel at the changing altitudes and how things began to look smaller down bellow. Tired and rattled we found finally reach the top of the hill and the bottom of a long climb up the stars to the temple. This was typical. Reaching the Gods, or at least the famous ones, in India, either involved atrocious waiting times in the que or a 400 calorie burn up a long set of stairs.

Atonement begins here.

But the mountain was crisp and clean. The foliage shined in the sunlight. And I loved counting numbers. So without hesitation we would begin our accent. My brother darted up, showing off his longer-then-me legs, while I conquered each step with an increasing number count.

View from the top: Sage hill and the Western Ghats

And each year this count would change as they renovated the access paths. Eventually, our Fiat was replaced by engine that wasn’t water cooled and could make the entire journey in one go. The potato lunch was forgotten and the bucket seats replaced the benched sofas. Travel time was down to an hour. Air conditioning had made weather irrelevant. And my legs grew too. Not only were they long enough to reach the clutch and to drive but also to finish the 400 stair climb in about 20 minutes or lesser. My parents were relegated to the back seats while my brother and I took turns to drive. However, even now, my mom still locks the house once and checks it thrice. I still get in the car first. And this will always remain our trip to Vani.