The Hills Are Alive...

Well, for one thing, the Himachali hills are alive with the sound of rushing water from the clean streams that hurtle noisily downhill. Cascading over rocks and boulders, alive with trout, criss-crossed by rickety bridges and precarious looking "jhulas", the rivers are a constant, delightful soundscape in Himachal.

The hills are also alive with the sound of birdsong. And the skies are often full of flocks of griffons wheeling slowly overhead, riding the thermals.

The hills are also alive, it must be admitted, with the occasional honking from the dilapidated-looking buses that wheeze their way up a hill and then down a hill, and then up and down again, following the tiny roads that are the lifeline of the valleys.  As an aside, favourite Himachali bus company, is the one with the Barbie-doll-pink-coloured buses, with "God Valley" emblazoned proudly on the front. But to put the God Valley buses' honking in perspective, their noise is nothing, repeat nothing, compared to the gratuitous horn blaring in our cities. Drivers honk up here in Himachal at curves in the road, to warn the pedestrians, the sleeping dogs, the cows/goats/donkeys that God Valley is on its way.

The hills are always alive with the sound of little children walking to school, laughing, chattering and politely greeting visitors with "Namaste," but more often than not with the ubiquitous "Hi".

But more than anything the hills are alive with people asking "Kahaan jaa rahi hain aap?" ("Where are you going?")

None of the standard "What is your country?" that greets you in most of India.

None of the "What is your good name?".

And off the record, ne'er a child has asked for chocolate/toffee/pencil/money.

But in a part of India where people walk so much, up and down the steep slopes of their valleys, it makes sense that people are curious as to where one is going.

But here's the rub.

I have been taking the greeting at face value, and so have dutifully replied "Gushaini" or "Nagini" or "Banjar," or wherever I was headed on that particular day.

The follow up question after "Where are you going?" is "Kyun?" ("Why?") and I have spent the last week explaining either that I am exercising or training or in one case, just to vary the conversation, I said I was practicing for a competition.

All the exchanges were met with grave courtesy, and in the case of a porter coming back from the Great Himalayan National Park, as I was heading into the park for a run, he said with a big smile "Hello Madame you are very fast".

I presumed he was not talking about my morals.

Imagine my chagrin when I learned, towards the end of my stay in Himachal, that I had not been replying accurately.

Not at all.

Here is the correct way to answer those greetings.

Apparently when you are asked where you are going,? ?you don't necessarily have to give your destination.  You can of course be literal, if you really are walking to town or to the market. But if you are just out, like that, for a stroll or a run or a walk, you can simply answer "aise" (just like that). You don't even have to speak at all, if you don't feel like it. Just use that amazingly useful Indian hand gesture, whereby you turn and open your palm upwards, leaving the gesture and the answer vague and open.

Once it has been established that you are not heading to the market or into town, but are just out and about like that, the next question is "Why?" It might seem a tad superfluous, but the answer to the question "kyun?" should then again be "aise" (just like that) at which point, apparently, the command "baitho" ("sit") will follow, and you then settle down for a natter.

How foolish and how literal I have been, boring the good villagers with my running schedule, when all they wanted to do was stop for a chat.

So chalo, next time I am stopped and asked where I am going, I know the answer.

Aise.