Halfway to heaven in a hot-air balloon

Photograph by Preeti Verma Lal

As the balloons flickered and burnt in sync with the music, I stood there looking at the lit Nehargarh Fort perched atop a hillock and the stars that scraped the darkness of the night. I was wondering what it would be to float in the darkness, high enough to stretch my hands and pluck a star. The basket could seat six, and in it a young couple was already cooing in palpable nervousness. I just had the LPG cylinder for company and before I could sing an ode to that aloneness I got a whiff of fragrance in the air. The sequinned singer had jumped into my corner and his fans were shaking hands and clicking pictures frantically. So, I had Jaipur's heartthrob for company. Not bad!

"Oh! You are my passenger. But look, this is my first flight; I have read the flying manual but skipped the last chapter on landing…Anyway, hop in!" I had just put forward my best foot to jump into the wicker basket but Chris Davis, the balloonist from Derbyshire, England, was being irreverent. He had a wicked smile and some cryptic messages scribbled on his hand - all eerie enough to jolt the daylight out of a novice flier, but within those few seconds I had already hopped in and found myself squeezed between four propane cylinders, one ground crew and yes, the impish Davis.

It was the first international hot air ballooning fiesta in India and the crowd at the sandy field near Vidhan Sabha in Jaipur was getting boisterous. It was early morning and pick-up trucks loaded with the balloons' wicker baskets were screeching into the field that was crowded with men, women and children of such hues that you couldn't separate the haggardly from the royal. Yes, there were the participants - 50 of them from 11 countries that included beefy cops, an exquisite nurse, a prosaic nuclear physicist, a chirpy marine engineer and nearly 40 ground crew all wearing Incredible India T-shirts…..

As the wicker baskets were unloaded and the balloon's envelope spread on the sandy stretch against the rising sun, the curiosity increased. Local cops with batons were trying to shoo away the slovenly kids, but they could not do much to discipline the stray dogs that had joined the melee. Children shrieked and dogs howled as Russell Collins, the good-looking music publishing professional, from Gilford, South London, pulled the inflator fan that spewed cold air into the envelope that was hand stitched by a seamstress in Bristol, England, over five weeks. The green and grey envelope that lay flat on its back till a while ago gradually inflated and took the shape of a bloated paunch. Brown's teammate Sarah Bettin walked inside the balloon that once fully inflated matched the size of a shamiana that could host a 1,000 guests (technically, the total space of the balloon's envelope is an incredible 1,80,000 cubic ft.). Imagine 18 such 30-metre high giants clamouring for space against the azure sky!

The enthusiasts were baying for the organizers' blood, they all wanted to get into one of the 18 balloons and I could see those envious eyes staring brazenly at me. Himanshu Sharma and Jai Thakore of E-Factor, the event management company, were assiduously saying 'No' with smiles, warm handshakes and 'next year promises' but standing inside the three-seater (you can't actually sit, but it is called a seater) I had to deal with things - my camera, notebook, a flustered heart and my dupatta that was flitting furiously in the wind. Yes, there was the naughty Davis who was still telling stories. "I probably won't go, you will have to fly with the ground crew, but let me tell you that once when the President of Bolivia wanted to fly in my balloon, gun-totting security men hovered around me till I said yes and off-loaded my multi-billionaire friend…." Thankfully, while moulding me out of clay God had forgotten to pack fear in my petite frame, so despite Davis' scary stories and wicked grin I continued to smile. That did it. Davis threw his arms towards the balloon made of 6,500 metres of cloth and in exasperation said, "Okay, okay, you brave soul… I give up, but you need to practice landing. Bend your knees, hold the rim of the cylinders and duck…The landing could be bumpy, so learn the survival trick now."

Before I had done rounds of knee-bending, I could hear Phil Dunnington, who holds the Guinness record for having flown in a hot air balloon in 84 countries, belting instructions to the balloonists, his one-liners interspersed with a young girl's squeaky request to the public to stay away from the balloons. I don't know how many paid heed to her request, but a lot sure ogled at her midriff that peeped from under her pink top. And then within seconds, Davis cranked the burner to pump in more hot air and I could feel the ground missing beneath my feet. As the balloon inched up, all those who were eyeing me jealously looked smaller and I was suddenly reminded of Gulliver's encounter with the Lilliputians, but nobody shouted Langro Dehul san. The beginning was so smooth that I did not realize that I was unfastened and if I took two steps backwards I would have fallen with a thump on sand. It felt amazingly safe and from up in the skies I merrily clicked pictures of the streets of Jaipur, of other 17 balloons dotting the early morning sky, students in blue uniform waving frantically from the playground, curious onlookers - their necks craned wondering what had happened to the otherwise staid Jaipur sky. The balloon was sailing with the wind and we had already touched roughly a 1,000 ft. Happy that all was well, Davis kept looking slantingly at the walkie-talkie while narrating his encounter with Princess Diana near her castle in Chatsworth.

Blissful up in the sky, I forgot to time how many minutes we had done or how many kilometers we had sailed. On ground I saw a lovely patch of green and the walkie-talkie cranked - "That's where we would land, the pilot balloon has thrown the marker." Perhaps it was Dunnington's voice, and suddenly Davis pulled out what looked like a poultice. I was wrong, it was a marker, sand tied in a piece of white cloth with Davis' name scribbled in red. Nearly 35 minutes and seven kms in the balloon, it was time to touch down. Some balloons were already being deflated on that patch and when ours was barely 100 ft from the ground, Davis threw the marker and screamed, "On your knees, we are landing. It would be bumpy." I recapped my knee-bending lesson, held on to the rim of two propane cylinders and waited for the bump. Bump it was, we landed with a thud, but the balloon dragged on a little on the dewy green and I held on tight. Those seconds seemed like eternity but we finally landed a few metres away from the marker (the trick is to land as close as you can to the pilot marker).

"See, I had told you, I forgot to read the landing chapter in the flying manual…" Davis clung to the ropes and pulled back his wicked grin. I hopped out and looked up at the sky where I was sailing a few minutes ago. It felt like heaven, just that I did not catch any angels up there. Nor did Davis' team win that coveted bottle of whisky for the best marker or the holiday package for the winner. But Davis promised he would help me catch some angels from the fluffy clouds at the event next year.

If I was looking for the angels in the morning, the night before at the mud-spattered Chougan Grounds I had seen the balloons glow in the dark night like fire-spitting dragons. A tall, beefy Britisher in camouflage trousers, black T-shirt and rasping voice was screaming "Off, Off, Off, Evens Flicker, Odds Burn" instructions to a jumble of avid balloonists. He had to scream, for in the background a singer in sequinned white dress was entertaining the crowd with the latest chartbusters. As the balloons flickered and burnt in sync with the music, I stood there looking at the lit Nehargarh Fort perched atop a hillock and the stars that scraped the darkness of the night. I was wondering what it would be to float in the darkness, high enough to stretch my hands and pluck a star. I was shook out of my reverie when Sayantan Sinha, the PR person, walked me up to Collin's balloon where you could see burner sputtering fire; the heat enough to singe you. The basket could seat six, and in it a young couple was already cooing in palpable nervousness. I just had the LPG cylinder for company and before I could sing an ode to that aloneness I got a whiff of fragrance in the air. The sequinned singer had jumped into my corner and his fans were shaking hands and clicking pictures frantically. So, I had Jaipur's heartthrob for company. Not bad! And as the balloon went up, the Nehargarh fort looked at an arm's length and the stars just a lazy walk away. While the cooing couple stuttered about their kismet of flying with the heartthrob, Collins kept cranking the burner and I tried counting the stars.

That night on a hot air balloon the stars strayed away from me. When I jumped out all I could find was a silver sequin from the heartthrob's jacket stuck on the strap of my camera. I had asked for the stars, but for moment I will do with a silver sequin. There's always a tomorrow…

Published in India Today Travel Plus, April 2006.

Contact: Preetivermalal@gmail.com