POST IT ALL.

Where have I been, and why haven’t I told you all the stories you’ve been itching to hear? Stories of glory, of things topsy-turvy, of breakdowns and break-ups. Well, I was busy. I’ve just got back from Ranthambore, dodging four dozen truck drivers who thought I just a figment of their opium-fuelled hallucinations. I’ve said my goodbyes to all the jungle clan. I’m free now, though the curse of my grand-uncle for deserting my kind will probably ring in my ears for as long as I live – kind of like a bad tempered Tinnitus.

I haven’t had much chance to tell you about the finish line shenanigans and rest assured, there’s much to tell. First off, we arrived in great style and had several snapshots taken against the magnificent sandstone edifice that’s the Maharaja’s palace. That done, I prowled right into the grand tent that had been set up for me, displacing the mangy cur that was lurking inside it. I needed my eighty winks, after that journey. (Later I did discover, much to my chagrin that this tent was actually set up for the teams, but I’m letting that pass. Again.)

A rather regal outpost.

Sleep was wishful thinking though, because all the teams then insisted on coming in to greet me, and to hand back their keys, docs, toolkits and what not. They had some vertiginous tales to tell, I’ll tell you that. Bandits in Bihar, police escorts in Assam, religious parades in Mathura, traffic jams in Patna. There were tales of makeshift windscreen wipers through torrents of monsoon – a towel held on by ropes by two idiots on either side of the driver, which they swung in uncoordinated movements. Of things lost and found – cameras, girlfriends and dignities. Of tempers and tears. Of ties lost and new ones gained…Oh dear – I’m getting quite emotional at this point. I’ll have a quick dip in the pool to recover and you’ll have a few more quips from me.

The royal digs.

The parade – that lap around the golden walls of the fort was just sublime. As we all tooted off, following the police van that wound it’s way through the mangled mess of traffic, cows and gaping pedestrians, we all felt rather grand, like we right up there on the firmament of great glory along with Sachin Tendulkar, Shah Rukh Khan and the Big B. The only downside of it all was the cramp I got in my right front leg from all the waving to the plebians.

The party – glad I didn’t miss that one, though my fur was very nearly singed by all the fireworks that went off in the front and again at the back of the palace. Team ‘Get it India’ actually let off crackers from the top of their heads in a manner that seemed right on the edge of danger, even for someone like me, who is well used to the nerve rankling business of hunt and kill. Narrowly avoiding the flying sparks that jeopardized my route to the most sumptuous banquet imaginable (I’m still lick-lick-licking my chops at the memory), I made my way to the dance floor to shake a leg or two with all the lovely ladies in saris. Bear in mind that there were several lovely gentlemen in turbans too, but my eyes were on the fairer sex – they’re always more affectionate and everyone knows I love a tummy rub after dinner. The festivities went on for hours, and I did do a jig or two, especially to the songs of the kalbelia, and then to the whole album of DJ Docta Dawe. I was treated to falling turbans, regal capers (the Maharaja was present), unraveling sarees and lost inhibitions. Just another Rickshaw Run party.

Fireworks in more ways than one!

By the end of the night, a few teams had some trophies to show off - not just bruises and cuts resulting from the Run and the party, but actual trophies to celebrate the best fancy dress, the best dancers, the highest charity contribution et al. I missed my team, especially knowing they were keen contenders for the highest money raised for FRANK WATER, but well, I’m sure they’ll be back for another dose of the mighty Rickshaw Run.

Many goodbyes were said as many teams were scheduled to wing their way across to their countries in the unreasonable hours of the next morning. I cast an indulgent eye over them as they staggered into waiting taxis dropping bits of their luggage all over the lobby. They can always create more hangovers on the flight back.

As for me, I crept back into the tent, stretched out and snoozed. I did witness several indiscretions, but I’m keeping mum. I can’t gossip like the monkeys in Ranthambore. I can tell you that for most on the Autumn 2012 Rickshaw Run the adventure definitely did not end in Jaisalmer. 

SO SPLENDID I’VE HAD TO SHUT UP.

Ah…That was a well-satisfied ‘Ah’ by the way. To say that I have been having the time of my life would be an exercise in banality. But it also would express the truth, one hundred percent. This trip has really been up there with the greats. Right up with when my mother (now sadly deceased) took me into the dense undergrowth of our beloved Ranthambore for my very first hunt and kill. 

 More importantly, this trip has been one of those life altering ones. It maybe has wiped out my previous tracks and formed a new path on which I must prowl. For until this time, I had always just flirted with the Rickshaw Run, seeing it as a entertaining dalliance but knowing within my depths that I must return to the jungle. Now, I am not so sure. Maybe the Rickshaw Run is my calling, and I should just spend my years going from one end of my beloved country to another.

Think I'm addicted.

“It’s a drag”, I hear you say. ‘Doing the same triangle over and over again.” On the contrary my dears.  More people waved at me than they have at Shah Rukh Khan in the last 13 days. More tongues have wagged when I passed through villages sat atop my rickshaw than when Prince Harry paraded naked in his hotel room. In the last few days, I’ve paraded through the highly decorated lobbies of the country’s top 5-star hotels with Luke Rachel, Ginnie and Sean. I’ve sat in the lap of luxury and frolicked about quite a bit. Of course, this was to take the edge off the days of driving a three-wheeled tin can through the pot-holed terrain we Indians call roads. Now and then we’ve even mixed extreme luxury with the occasional night spent curled up in the rickshaw. 

I've got fans, alright.

As for the experiences – they were all rather magnificient. I’ve got spa treatment at the Taj Oberoi Taj Mahal Hotel and posed next to the erotic sculptures in Khajuraho. (Seriously - all that trouble to make cubs? These humans need to learn from us tigers.) I’ve taken an exclusive tour of the majestic Taj Mahal, and Fatehpur Sikri.

Of course it hasn’t always been all about luxury (I won’t bore you with any more of that – but oh, the whiteness of the towels I have had, the softness of the cushions I’ve sat on, the freshness of the meat I’ve sunk my canines into…). There were times mind you, when I wasn’t too pleased. Like when we passed through the Panna Tiger Reserve and I found that none of my grand uncles and aunts had survived beyond the millennium. And the few cousins who were around were so fed up of being photographed by tourists that they’d retired recluses in the style of Greta Garbo. So I didn’t really get to say ‘Hi’. But anyway – I did leave my scent and a pugmark or two just so they knew I was there. Then there’s all the cows standing around on the road (who’ve gone from being cute to extremely maddening in my team’s eyes) who I’m still not allowed to eat. In fact, I was once grounded by Ginnie because she found me tucking into a calf atop the rickshaw. I spent the night in the hotel parking lot instead of a comfy bed. GRRRRRRRR.

I'll miss you guys. But can't cry - I'm a tiger after all.

 Anyhow we are in Jodhpur now. Setting off soon for the finish line in Jaisalmer – at the erstwhile home of the Maharaja, the Jawahar Niwas Palace. I have to say I’m excited, counting the hours till I reach, and go back to where I started from. I’ll be sad to say goodbye to Luke, Rachel, Ginnie and Sean but it has to be done. Because it’s just a precursor to the bigger goodbyes I have to say to all my clan in the jungles of Ranthambore. For my mind is made up now – I am giving up the jungle for my Rickshaw Run and this is likely to be the last time I will be seeing them.

READY, (UN)STEADY – LAUNCH!

 

So then the day has finally arrived. I have chosen my steed(s) – two beautifully painted tiger-ricks doubly dipped in glow-in-the-dark paint from the UK. “Tiger, tiger burning bright” – yes Mr. Blake, we will be.

 

Yesterday was the first time I clapped my eyes on my team mates – Mr Sean Curnow and Ms Ginnie Carlier and Mr Luke Ellyard and Mrs Rachel Ellyard from teams ‘Glow Baby Glow’ and ‘Glow Hard or Glow Home’. I have to say the moment I saw them, a warm feeling rose in the very cockles of my heart and the thought flashed in my head – “These were friends I could rely on.” I even felt like rubbing against their legs and rolling over for a tummy rub, but since the local cat was in the vicinity decided not to degrade myself thus. One has a reputation to keep.

On the RRRoaD!

Yesterday was when all the Richshaw Runners decided to trample all over (in the name of dancing) that posh hotel in town - Pinewood. I wasn’t taken to the party for some reason. I would have sulked if I wasn’t so excited about leaving Shillong this morning. I even heard that there were some streakers, though no steaks. At which point my interest waned somewhat.

Dance before you drive.

But this morning on the dot 8 a.m. there was Mr. Matt himself, urging Sean and Ginnie to seat me on their roof rack, there was Ginnie very pretty in a sari (or was it Rachel? - the excitement of the launch has made things a bit hazy) hugging me to her bosom (I actually blushed, but hopefully no one noticed underneath all my fur). At the grand launch, I was formally introduced to all the guests and the 150 Runners, and even though my name was totally mispronounced I was mighty pleased to say the least.

And then…with the tooting of horns, the waving of flags, the break down of rickshaws, the further tooting of horns, the posing for pictures, the hopping out for ‘good luck handshakes’ our very merry and violently colourful procession began the precipitous path down to Guwahati.

Not for the faint hearted.

 My heart did a few violent thuds I must admit, specially when our steed avoided about 14 head-on collisions with large and very unstable trucks, but I’ll have to admit that the way down was perceptibly better than the climb up last time. Though in this case, the danger was that we were being helped along by gravity and other bits of physics so maybe went downhill a tad faster than we should have. But no harm done – my hair may have been raised, but it stayed on. Can’t say this last was that much of a good thing given the sweltering heat of the plains, but one can’t have it all I suppose.

Food fit for the Adventurer - get that protein in.

When we got to the Ginger hotel in Guwahati my team mates spent quite a bit of time complaining, as their expectations had been falsely spiked by some deceptive photography on the hotel website. As for me, I couldn’t care less. I cheerfully put away the two plates of chicken tikka masala that Ginnie and Rachel refused to eat as it might affect their waistline, and tucked myself in for a nice snooze on the sofa. I noticed that Sean and Luke were now referring to me as Sher Khan instead of well, my own name – but since ‘Khan’ did refer to royalty I decided to go with it. I was just pleased I’d gotten off that rickshaw for the night – the one they called ‘Shit Can’ to rhyme with my name. And I am sure that they were just as pleased.

LUCKY STRIKE!

Past glories.

So it turns out that I have been reminiscing a fair amount. Telling you about my last escapade and the one before that...whereas what you're more interested in is of course, what going on now. So let me elucidate. 

 

The thrills and spills of the Rickshaw Runs have always made whiskers twitch repeatedly. I have to admit that this event – and even the murderous Englishmen (I know, I know THESE ones haven't murdered anyone, but their great great grandfathers could well have murdered my brethren) are beginning to grow on me. Not as much as this pesky mould though. I mean really – when will I be dry…?

 
I’ve not chosen a team to join yet, but I shall pick someone soon. Or will they choose me?! The going's been a bit slow here. Yesterday there was some flurry of activity. Rain turned the test driving pitch into a treacherous quagmire, rickshaws failed to start, tempers began to heat and teams poured in thick (some of them literally) and fast. Just another day at the Rickshaw Run I suppose.

Free from the usual cacophony and chaos.

Today, on the other hand - nothing, nada. It's a total strike here, and there's not many out and about on the roads. I could go prowling again, but then, let's face it we're hardly in the jungle. There's glorious foliage in the hills beyond Shillong, but I'd much rather not go too far away from the Rickshaw Run venue. What if the perfect people turned up and I missed my chance to get into their team?

But soon, I will be away. Another fine adventure headed my way. I shall be the first ever participant to complete the sacred loop of all three Rickshaw Runs. I wonder how different this one will be. We'll go right through Assam where loads of humans have been rioting and killing each other. (The jungle twitter however confirms that all the rhinos and tigers in Kazirangha are safe. Phew!) But wonder, will the riot throw a few loose limbs my way? Or am I not really allowed to speculate thus?

Then of course we'll go into Bihar. Will we? Who knows. Depends on whether my team mates are hell bent into going into Nepal. Then we might just have to negotiate another way to Jaisalmer.

Waiting to be unleashed.

Either way, I'm quite excited. I'm waiting Why haven't I run off to Sunderbans I hear you say? Well it's simple really. I've just got rather fond of the Rickshaw Run and the ridiculous Runners. Besides I need a snooze after the mammoth dinner I just consumed. Really, these local children up here are mightily delicious. And someone should tell their mothers not to let them play cricket on the streets just because a strike is on. Who knows who may be about, eh?!

COCHIN TO SHILLONG - FOR THE PRICE OF A PITH HELMET.

So come April and the Cochin box was opened…initially I bristled and
struggled somewhat, ascertaining from their skin colour that these Runners
were again foreigners, worse yet - ‘Englishmen’. Exactly the same type who had hunted, killed and stuffed my great great great grandfather Manisattam Maharaj Sherji and killed and made a rug out of my great great great great grandaunt Maneka Durgeshwar Sher-rani. To put it mildly, I had several bones to pick. But I didn’t want to act straight away. There was an adventure afoot, after all.

The bad old days.

So anyway, a few days later and there I was tied to the top of this rickshaw
called the ‘Great Balls of Fur’ and I had no option but to listen to their prattle and
chattering. I soon found out that they were driving that ridiculous noisy thing
all the way to Shillong. My ears perked right up. For it had always been my
dream to journey to the east, to see for myself the vast territories inhabited by
distant cousins in the Sunderbans and other mighty jungles. This Shillong was
roughly in that neck of woods – so ‘Ahoy!’. Or do they say that only on ships?

All furred up - just what you need in the tropics.

Now to let you in on big secret. The team members of ‘Great Balls of Fur’ on Day
Two began to discuss something that might have thrown a big spanner in my
works. Turns out that they were greatly concerned about my welfare (me being
king of jungle and liking my own space – lots and lots of it, in fact – and they
were concerned if I could quite cope with the noise and busyness of Indian roads,
towns and cities). They even untied my knots in an attempt to release me back
in the wilds. This wouldn’t do, of course. I simply HAD to go to Shillong. I HAD to satisfy that wanderlust.

All the gear for a spot of adventuring.
So then, how did I go from being tentative member of team ‘Great Balls of Fur’ to sure shot mascot? Simple. Bribery. Late at night I got off from the top of the shaw and ran the miles back to Ranthambore. Buried under a banyan tree was a treasure that my great, great grand uncle stole from the Englishman who had
come to hunt him down (and who he subsequently mauled and ate – but that again is an aside). I took it out and took it back to the rickshaw. The next day they found it. The smile stayed on their faces for days to come. One of them wore it all through the Rickshaw Run – an original pith Helmet with maker’s label, Size 6, Wheathampstead 1941 with Broad Arrow stamp. He may not have looked as
cute as the chewed up British general who owned it first – but that’s something
he’d never know – and just as well, because we all know none of our family can
resist a tasty morsel.

RICKSHAWS AND REMINISCING…

It’s damp. It’s wet. I can feel new mould growing on my fur, over the mould
acquired from sitting in the trunk. It’s getting a tad bit tedious now, vegetating on
this balcony waiting for the Run to start. I can’t really fathom what’s going on yet,
but from what I gather, the teams are coming in soon – on the 5th of September.
Can’t wait.

I know I was rather dismissive while referring to my old teammates
in my first blog – firangs and what not I said - but I was actually rather fond of
the first team that got me to Cochin. I remember wandering into that dusty ward
in Jaisalmer, (more in search of a juicy child or two I’ll admit,) and being greeted
by a fleet of rickshaws. All 71 of them painted in bright, beautiful colours, much like peacocks, wine throated hummingbirds, rainbow finches, and what not. My eyes were rather dazzled and while I was thus befuddled I was (am ashamed to say) ‘captured’ by these boisterous Rickshaw Runners.

Pimp thy ride.

 

What a journey it was to Cochin too. Leaving the grandeur of the Maharajah’s
palace (where I was quite at home it must be said) in a fine coating of dust, we
headed southwards. The view from atop the shaw was something to be relished
to be sure. Of course, there were a few hairy moments with oncoming trucks
and cows, but being made of sterner stuff than these Rickshaw Runners it never really bothered me too much. Indeed, it was quite amusing to see my team mates exiting the vehicle more than once with a mild tremor in their limbs. Pathetic.

Mayhem on the roads...and off them.

Upon reaching Cochin the Runners all partied themselves into oblivion, whilst I snuck off to the backwaters to refresh my grimy and ragged coat which was in dire need of a damn good scrub. The adventure had tired me out a little it must be said, and so I willingly let myself be placed in storage for a couple of months of rest and relaxation. Ah! Finally some peace and quiet without the cacophony of horns and the excessive nattering of the foreigners. Though my English has improved greatly as a result. Can't you tell, just from the above? Go on then, pat my back...there, there and...there...

FROM TRUNK TO ATOP A RICKSHAW.

Frankly I do prefer a tropical jungle or a swampy, marshy wilderness. 

But when you’re holed up in a dank, dark trunk for 5 months you take the 

first line that’s thrown at you. I’ve done this before - sitting atop those 
ridiculous machines – those rickshaws - driven by ludicrous firangs. First with 
a couple from Australia, then with some English fools in appalling amounts of
fake fur. But if that’s the only way I get to go back to Jaisalmer, just a jump away
from my beloved Ranthambore, then I’m quite prepared for another journey back.

That tall, bald firang got me out of the trunk. (Think his name is Matt. What an idiotic name. Matt - as in doormat? Rubbish. I on the hand, am called Bhimshen Shamboh Sherji.) May be a tongue twister, but is apt name for a royal. Could be shortened to Sherji, I suppose. As I was dragged out (not very respectfully, I noted) I roused myself from the slumber brought on by months of sitting within that mouldy exterior with only some old Rickshaw Run stickers for company. (And what IS with that tiger they have on their logo? I mean - have they seen a real tiger? Have they seen me?) That caricature remains an insult - but I’m keeping my trap shut till I actually get to Jaisalmer. Don’t want to piss anyone off. Yet.

Adventuring on a grand scale... 
It took me quite a few minutes to get adjusted to the harsh sunlight after the
weeks in Hades like darkness but once I did, I felt the old sense of elation,
similar to the one I’d experience if I spotted a herd of spotted deer on the banks
of the watering holes. Ah – those hunting days! When would they return? In the
meanwhile I had to be content with a sneaky stretch behind the Matt’s back.
Ah, to feel those limbs again, to feel them stretch and limber. What I’d do for a
bit of hunting now - to take a big juicy bite off the tit (ooops – now is that too
rude?) of Matt’s wife. Who announced just the next day that she was allergic to
me and banished me to the verandah of the guest house they were staying in.
Stupid woman. Does she not realize that I could escape any minute? But I might
not bother. I may be king of the jungle but I’m not attempting the 3500 kms to
Ranthambore on my own. No, I’m a royal, and I deserve to be driven there. And
so it shall be.