Goecha La: An unforgettable journey (Concluding Part)

February 13, 2014, 12:27 pm

≫ Next: Uncle Sam’s cappuccino: 10 notable experiences in the US

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On the way back: From Kokchurang to Tsokha

“Often the best guys are just those that can suffer longer, who don’t give up. And it’s so easy to give up, when you’re on a mountain and it’s really hurting” — David Millar

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Continued from previous post...

Day 6: From Lamuney (13,693 feet) to Goecha La (16,000 feet) and back to Kokchurang (12,096 feet)

I woke up to an empty campsite on the pass climb day. Eti had woken me up when they left around 3am. I had refused to go and gone straight back to sleep.

I crawled out of the tent with some trepidation: What if I found a clear sky and realised that the rest were enjoying some superb out-of-the-world view of Kanchenjungha? But for the first time, the weather was in no mood to disappoint me. It was just as gloomy as it had been the day before.

I immensely enjoyed the solitude that morning. It seemed as if I was the only person in this vast, mighty landscape (though I knew some of the crew must be inside the small log-hut nearby that served as the kitchen as well as their sleeping quarters). There was no sound to be heard except for the wind beating against the tents, the foaming water of the river and the faint tinkling of the yak bells.

I went about the daily tasks totally relaxed that morning. For the first time in the trek, I was not fighting World War III. There were no whistles and no marching orders. And I relished the break.

I went to the hut looking for Dinesh the cook, hoping to get something for breakfast. Someone woke him up on seeing me. “Hi, can I have something to eat?” I asked him. “Of course you can,” Dinesh said triumphantly. That was his standard line. Sometimes I felt Dinesh was the male incarnation of Goddess Annapurna. Feeding mankind seemed to be his sole purpose in life.

Primulas at Kokchurang. Pic: Eti Kynjing

Dinesh was very happy to see me free enough to eat my fill, not being rushed into the next climb. “Sit down,” he ordered like a warden, “Today I will make sure you eat properly.” Both he and Tashi were forever complaining that I was not eating enough. Both seemed to be 200% sure that I wasn’t getting enough energy because of that.

As I ate, I asked him if the team would see anything in this weather. He dismissed the possibility with a confidence that made sure I did not lose my appetite. I don’t remember what all I ate — or rather what all Dinesh fed me — but it took me half an hour to finish it. Finally he was satisfied and let me go.

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I started packing my things at a leisurely pace — even the sleeping bag had become tame by then. I was still in the tent when I heard voices. I realised the others must be back and then I heard Kuntal calling out to me from outside the tent. The moment I peeped out, he said very excitedly, “Urmi, don’t be disappointed. No one saw anything.”

I couldn’t help but feel pleased. I hadn’t told Kuntal I wasn’t going; neither did he ask me anything. But he knew how disappointed I would be if I missed out on the ‘real thing’. “We went till View Point 1. But the weather was terrible and it started snowing. We had to get everyone back,” he went on.

“You know, Tashi said ‘This Urmi is the smartest. She did not risk it in this weather,’” said Kuntal. I laughed. Had the skies cleared up by chance, Urmi would have been the stupidest. It was just a gamble that had paid off. Before leaving Kuntal said, “Eti wasn’t feeling too well. Take care of her when she returns.”

I was worried for Eti because we’d have to walk till Kokchurang after an early lunch. When she finally returned to the campsite, Eti looked like someone who had been exhumed three days after burial (I probably looked the same, just that I never had the courage to look at myself in the mirror).

Mostly, she was depressed and demoralised. She hadn’t even liked Samiti Lake. “It looked exactly like Tshangu Lake (in East Sikkim),” she grumbled. She had been there a few months back.

I wasn’t surprised. Most of these mountain lakes look beautiful due to the reflection of the sky and surrounding mountains in the water. And that view is not available if there’s no sunlight.

A patch of snow on the way from Kokchurang to Tsokha

Eti said she had a headache. “Get some sleep,” I told her. She was not getting enough rest; it was apparent from the dark circles, which had been growing bigger by the day. She did, and did not even get up for lunch. I did not coax her; I already knew what it was like from my Thansing experience.

Tashi, who was ladling out the food, was heartbroken. He was very fond of Eti and looked miserable when I told him she was slightly ill. Eti finally woke up and had the bread that had been packed as breakfast for the morning trek.

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It had started raining by then and there was no sign of it letting up. Both of us hoped it would, because otherwise, we would have to test our fantastic raincoats, something neither of us wanted to do. It also meant we would have to climb down in the rain, not at all a very encouraging proposition.

But we were soon told that we would leave camp at the right time, whatever the conditions. Glumly we started preparing for that. While choosing to carry only our windcheaters, we had obviously thought what we would do to cover our heads. My jacket (which is partly woollen and partly waterproof) has a hood and I had planned to wear the windcheater over the jacket. Unfortunately Eti’s had none. So she — hold your breath — had planned to put on a shower cap!

Now she fished it out of her bag, slowly put it on, and started admiring herself in the mirror she had picked up in NJP. I watched her silently through the entire process. In fact, I can still see her when I shut my eyes. There she was, sitting with her legs spread out in front of her, her belongings lying in a mess all around, with the shower cap on her head. When she finally looked at me, we stared at each other for a couple of seconds and then, burst out laughing. 

“What are we doing here Urmi, amidst all these people with all their wonderful gear and superhuman strength?” she croaked. “I have been asking myself that question since Day I,” I tried to look serious. “I’m yet to find an answer.” We looked at each other again, and once again, we burst out laughing. “Don’t laugh so much,” I tried to look serious again, “Or they’ll say we have AMS.” Another explosion of laughter.

I can’t remember how long we kept laughing. Suddenly, we heard voices calling out to us from outside the tent. We peeped out to find that the men had come to pack the tents! Usually that was done when the team had vacated the campsite. We were totally taken aback. It was still raining hard and it appeared that while we were laughing like madwomen, most of the team had left for Kokchurang.

Hastily, we helped each other slip on our raincoats, both furious that no one had bothered to wait for us (C’mon, girls will be girls. We are used to a bit of pampering). The raincoats came down to our feet and were big enough to accommodate our daypacks (and my camera) too. And then, we started for Kokchurang as fast as our legs could carry us (and that was not very easy given that we had five layers of clothing on apart from the raincoat). Eti was in no mood to stick to “mountain rules” and asked me to walk with her.

We grumbled all the way to Thansing, which we completed in surprisingly quick time. And then began the more difficult descent to Kokchurang. All this while we were on our own, with no sight of either our trekmates or the crew. Somewhere midway from Thansing to Kokchurang, we found Dinesh, Tashi and another Nepali chap Dondu waiting for us. It had stopped raining before we had reached Lamuney and the “walk in the rain” is something we will cherish forever. Thankfully, the leucoplast held and the raincoats worked. 

Dinesh accompanied Eti while Tashi was allotted to me. After a while, he started hurrying me up, infuriating me even further. While trying to climb down fast, I slipped on the stones. As I tumbled sideways, I broke my fall with my hand, but not without hurting my arm. Now I exploded. “Stop rushing me. I won’t go any faster than what I feel is right for me. You can go ahead if you are in a hurry. As it is, if I injure myself, you are the one who’ll have to carry me down on a stretcher. Now take your pick,” I told him angrily. Tashi did not dare rush me after that.

Our little party made it to Kokchurang in reasonably good time. Eti and I sat and sulked on the bench inside and Pradeep looked at us with some concern. “You guys are not drenched, are you?” he said. “No,” we sulked in unison.

The beautiful and mysterious forest on the way from Kokchurang to Tsokha

I heard that Kuntal had been taken ill, probably struck by AMS, after the morning trek and had been whisked away to Kokchurang early. Finally, my concern for him cooled me off. I later asked him why no one had told us before leaving. He claimed the announcement had been made. We probably missed it because we were in the tent, busy laughing our heads off.

Day 7: From Kokchurang (12,096 feet) to Tsokha (9,650 feet)

This was the day I had been dreading because it essentially meant passing my bete noire Phedang once again, and climbing down that awful track. The previous evening, Pradeep had, as usual, flashed all his teeth and announced, “Guys, tomorrow is another long day.” But there was something more. He had now drawn up a list of people he wanted to start off early. Not surprisingly, my name was on top of the list. And, I was in absolutely no mood to do it. Because it essentially meant getting up before 6am, which we were already doing.

As usual, I woke up at 6 the next morning. I did not even want to get out of my sleeping bag. I watched Eti dragging herself out of hers for the morning tea, for which the mad whistle was blowing in full force. We had slept in the trekkers’ hut and the ‘dining room’ was right outside our room. I saw Eti walking out with her mug like a zombie. “Won’t you brush your teeth first?” I suggested. “I’ll do it later,” she said gloomily before walking out.

I always skipped the first round of tea and therefore, stayed put in the sleeping bag. Eti returned after a while. The breakfast whistle was blowing in full force by then. I saw her walking out with her plate. “Hey, where are you going? Won’t you brush your teeth even now?” I said, surprised.

“No I won’t. As it is, who will admire our pearls in the middle of World War III?” sighed the great Miss Eti, who makes it a point to brush her teeth twice a day as religiously as she reads her Bible. Then she looked at me and, as it had become a habit by then, we burst out laughing.

I finally dragged myself out of the sleeping bag and made for the river flowing nearby with my toothbrush and toothpaste. Pradeep was standing right outside. “You are setting off to brush your teeth NOW? I had told you yesterday that it was going to be a long day,” he was furious. So was I. “You say that EVERY day. What’s special about today?” I fought back valiantly. “I say that every day because every day is a long day,” he retorted. “Besides," he said, "why do you have to brush your teeth anyway? I don’t brush my teeth whenever I’m out on a trek. I will brush them when I’m back in Yuksom.” 

I thought for five seconds. But I could not think of anything remotely civil to say to him. So I left defiantly, with my toothbrush and paste for company. Pradeep looked exasperated and Dinesh and Tashi, who were sitting behind the tables ready to feed the world, looked very sad. But I couldn’t care less.

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I had thought that toilet sheds at Dzongri would earn the ‘worst of the lot’ title, but the ones at Kokchurang took the cake. They were exact replicas of the ones at Dzongri with an extra feature. None of the doors had a latch. I entered and exited all four of them stupidly, looking for one with a latch. Finally I accepted to my horror that none had any.

I held the door all the time, fearing every second that one of the yakmen or crewmembers would kick it open. Thankfully, no one did. I went to Eti and asked her how she had managed. “Oh god, I held it all the while,” she giggled. “So did I,” I said and we were once again in splits.

Finally I left for Tsokha, but feeling surprisingly light. After a while I realised I had left my daypack in the hut. Kuntal volunteered to get it. He knew I would take double the time anyway. I don’t remember much about the day’s trek except for the fact that the rain had made it horribly slushy. At Phedang (which, as far as I’m concerned, again took an aeon to reach), we stopped for lunch and then, started down that dreadfully steep trail to Tsokha.

I looked down from the top of the trail and thought nostalgically about the days when I used to have vertigo. The trek seemed to have cured it along with a host of other maladies. I was looking at this filthy ‘flight of stairs’ — full of mud and dung blended together into a perfectly squishy mix by all the hooves and feet going up and down — that seemed to lead straight down to the deadly depths of hell.

I sighed and started off. I remember slipping on the mud somewhere and landing on the step itself in a sitting position. “If I had to fall, why didn’t I go all the way down?” I complained. I got up and hadn’t taken even two steps down when I heard a ‘sqeeeesh’ followed by a ‘thud’ right behind me. Kuntal had managed to slip at exactly the same spot where I had. “I did not fall completely. I broke it, unlike you,” he protested when he heard me giggling.

Another time, when we were doing a particularly narrow section of the trail, I slipped and tumbled dangerously towards the gorge. Though I managed to regain my balance easily, from a pull on my bag I realised that Kuntal had grabbed it. “Would you have managed to stop me from falling just by grabbing my bag? My arms would have probably slipped right through,” I said. “Who said I was trying to save you? I was trying to save the bag so that I would have some evidence that I tried to save you,” he said, tongue firmly in cheek.

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At Tsokha, we got the trekkers’ hut. But since there was not enough room for all, tents were also set up. Eti and I chose the tent. Our tentmate found an empty tent and left and the two of us finally had some privacy. Eti had some ABBA songs stored on her mobile phone and we had a good time humming along to ‘Dancing Queen’ and ‘The Winner Takes It All’. We felt like winners anyway.

Tashi reading a newspaper and testing my knowledge on the trail from Tsokha to Yuksom

The post-trek party was held in Tsokha itself because apparently the crew disappears once they are back in Yuksom and it’s hard to drag them back from their families and friends then. We had a special cake baked by Dinesh and it’s one of the best I have ever tasted (and it’s not only because of the circumstances I was having it in). He had no fancy oven to bake it in and how it came out so deliciously soft and moist only Dinesh knows.

There was a dance, too, by all the Nepali guys — Tashi, Dinesh, the yakmen and porters — and Kuntal joined them. Both Eti and I wanted to join too (we are never too tired of a dance), but since no one else seemed game, we felt awkward. Besides, I couldn’t be sure that with all those sore muscles, I would not look like RoboCop dancing.

Tashi used to hum a song, ‘Simple Simple Kanchi’, all the time and for the first time, we all heard the full version of the popular Nepali film song as they danced to it. [I heard it during my stay in Gangtok, too, and loved it and ‘Resham Firiri’ so much that I downloaded them the moment I returned home. ‘Simple Simple Kanchi’ is still my ringtone.]

It was a wonderful evening.

Day 8: From Tsokha (9,650 feet) to Yuksom (5,700 feet)

We set out at a leisurely pace the next morning. Very soon, I found myself all alone. I thought maybe it was an easy route, so there was no one to watch over me. I did not bother much. The weather was sunny now, as we had got while leaving Tsokha on the way up. In fact, we got clear weather in Kokchurang, too, much to the disappointment of the team. It came just a day too late.

I ambled down the road with my mind in a sort of emotional vacuum. I was neither sad nor happy. I wondered what I had got by climbing up and down 9,000 feet in such conditions? There was no spectacular view that people who travel in the comfort of cars miss. A part of me wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. But there was another that simply did not want to leave these mountains. It wanted to be lost in these hills, these forests, without a care in the world.

But my philosophical musings were short-lived. I found Dinesh, Tashi and Dondu waiting for me round a corner. Oh god, not again, I thought miserably. They played with me, sometimes disappearing down the track and reappearing somewhere else. I pretended to ignore them, but they refused to be ignored. Finally, realising that I was in no mood to hurry up, getting busy with my camera round every corner, Tashi seriously took up the job at hand — to ensure that I reached the lunch spot, Mintogang, on time.

Soon, I was alone on the trail with him. I decided to bombard him with the questions I kept asking Kuntal every day. “What is the distance we are covering today?” I demanded. “Char (four) kilometre,” pat came the reply. “What?” I stopped in my track. “Char kilometre?” I asked stupidly. “Yep,” he said with a deadpan expression. “I believe I have already walked much more than 4km,” I protested. “No no, it’s been only one kilometre,’ he insisted.

The trail from Tsokha to Yuksom

I looked at him hard. Either he was mad or I had gone mad (when I had left Kolkata I had not been mad enough not to know the difference between one and four kilometres). Maybe all the daily bouts of AMS had done something to my brain. I tried to figure out if he was joking. But he wore his deadpan expression very convincingly. Finally I had an idea. “Are you saying it’s 4km as the crow flies,” I asked. “Yes,” he said after a brief pause. “Well, I’m not a crow. I don’t fly,” I replied, trying to copy his deadpan expression. “Tell me the distance on foot,” I said. “Umm, chhey (six) kilometre,” said Tashi. I gave up.

I asked Kuntal later about the mystery of char kilometre. “It was Tashi’s ploy to keep you walking,” he laughed. “What ploy?” I was surprised. “He was pretty certain you’d simply sit down on the road and refuse to walk if he told you the actual distance,” Kuntal explained. I was angry as well as amused. “But what is the actual distance,” I asked. “Seventeen kilometres,” he said.

After a while, Tashi started hurrying me. Finally, after keeping it from him for a long time, I told him that I had been having some trouble breathing. He didn’t say anything but looked uneasy. “Will it help if I hold your hand and give some support,” he asked finally. I wasn’t too sure it’d help, but didn’t want to disappoint him and agreed. Once I did, there was no stopping Tashi. He dragged me up and down those mountain tracks as if I were a trolley bag. What a sight we must have made! A young lanky Nepali lad marching valiantly through the hills and a half-dead, unkempt woman tottering behind him like a rag doll.

To pass time, I decided on some small talk. I asked him how old he was. “Twenty,” he said. “Oh, you’re about as old as my nephew,” I said happily. But Tashi was crestfallen. “How old are you?” he demanded. I told him. He looked shocked. “Why aren’t you married yet?” he enquired. I knew it was coming. Eti had already had the experience. “What to do,” I tried to look sorry. “All the good men are taken.” But Tashi was dead serious. “No, no, you must get married,” he insisted. Finally, I changed the topic.

The subject veered to my job. Tashi wanted to know what I do for a living. “I’m a journalist,” I said. “A reporter?” he asked. “Not really,” I said, “I’m on the desk.” As I expected, he did not know what it meant. I explained it to him as best as I could. He was still not satisfied. Finally, he took a copy of the newspaper I work for from a passing yakman. And I had to show him what pages I work on and explain in detail what all I do on the page. Still not satisfied, he asked me the meaning of an English term. I tried my best to explain it in Hindi. At long last, he looked pleased. I hoped I had passed the test. 

When we reached Mintogang, many of the team were still there, having lunch. Tashi triumphantly went to eat his meal. He had done what Kuntal couldn’t do; he had brought me somewhere on record time. “He was dragging me as if there was a tiger after us,” I joked with my teammates. “But even if there had been a tiger, I would have said, Tiger sonny, please eat me up, I am not taking one step further.”

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Post-lunch, Kuntal was back with me. It was an easy route and neither of us was in a hurry to get back. We chatted along the way.

“So, how many injuries are you carrying back,” he asked. “Two sprained ankles, a torn thigh muscle and a sore arm,” I replied. “Not bad for a first-timer,” he laughed. “And wait, there’s this funny-looking boil I have on my left wrist,” I said.

After a good look at the boil that was nearly dry by then, he asked, “When did you get it?” “Sachen,” I said, “While going up.” He only said “Hmm” in reply. “What? What is it?” I asked, knowing that he was keeping something from me. “It’s probably leech,” he said finally. “It seems to have sucked blood for an entire night till it dropped.”

“But I never saw it,” I protested. “Thank god for that,” he smiled mischievously. “The trees of Sachen were spared.” What’s it got to do with the trees?” I said. “Had you seen the leech, you would have screamed all the leaves down,” he started laughing.

We stopped for a break near the Sachen campsite. Kuntal told me to go ahead and said he would catch up. I turned towards the trail and saw a beautiful bright-blue bird straight up ahead peering out of some bushes. It was probably a blue whistling thrush, though I can’t say for sure. The IH site promised that there were lots of birds to be seen on the trail, but so far, I had seen none. Very slowly, I took the camera out of the bag and was removing the lens-cap when Kuntal, who was turned the other way, made a noise. I froze. The bird flew away right in front of my eyes.

Kuntal turned around and saw me standing like a statue. “What the matter?” he asked, puzzled. “Nothing,” I said and started walking.

When I reached the spot where the bird had been I looked down at the valley towards which had bird had flown away. I scanned the green mountains for a tiny speck of blue somewhere, but the bird had gone for good. And along with it, my only chance of photographing a bird on the trail.

The trail winds its way up the hills

Kuntal caught up with me soon enough. “So, you have nearly completed the trek,” he said. “How are you feeling now about those demons?” I thought for a while. What had seemed like a festering wound eight days back seemed like a faint scar from a long-forgotten injury now. Probably the demons couldn’t keep up with me during the Phedang climb. But I wasn’t sure if they would return once I went back to my usual life in Kolkata. “Don’t worry. Remember I had told you, you would win your battles? You’ve already won this one. I’m sure you will win that one too,” he smiled.

Finally, we could see the huts of Yuksom down the hill. I had made it all the way and back, without the aid of a stretcher. 

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The first thing I did on getting back was to take a shower. But before that, I stood for a full five minutes admiring the things we take for granted in our daily lives — little wonders like the wash basin, the commode, the taps... The bathroom looked like one at a five-star hotel.

My hair seemed like a rainforest. Stupidly I had taken only one pouch of shampoo to the bathroom. It vanished without a trace like a weak river in the rainforest. Desperately I started rubbing a bar of soap until finally, some of the grime was washed off my hair. 

I had forgotten one pair of track pants at home and was left with only two. Both were beyond use unless they were probably washed with 10kg of detergent and I still had four days of stay left in Gangtok. I unzipped the legs off my cargos and wore it like shorts. (I later bought a pair of track pants in Gangtok to return home looking civilized enough.) 

We were given our certificates after dinner and Pradeep made a little drama of giving mine at the end, making it a special mention, and I hated him for that. We also bought T-shirts with the message “Bloody Hell! I did Goecha La!” as mementos.

Then, as Kuntal had already told me, the young lot of us went to Tashi’s house nearby for a ‘tumba party’. ‘Tumba’ or ‘tongba’ is a Nepali alcoholic drink made from fermented millet. Thirteen of us along with Pradeep and Kuntal squeezed inside Tashi’s modest kitchen as his sister prepared our drink. She stuffed the millet (already fermented) inside cylindrical bamboo vessels and poured boiling water in it. We were supposed to use straws to drink the water and once it was over, more water was put, until all the alcohol was gone. There was also some delicious chicken to go with the drink.

Two of us were sharing a drink each and since Eti did not like it, it fell on me to finish off ours. I got very high very soon. So did Ram. Finally, he said he had had enough and wanted to return to his lodge. “Wait,” ordered Kuntal. “Are you sure you know your way back?” “Ram nodded like an obedient pupil. But Kuntal, drunk as he was, was adamant. “Show me which way you’ll go.” Ram gave him a detailed description. Finally satisfied, Kuntal let him go.

He came back and squatted next to Pradeep on the floor. There was no space left on the benches. The two of them sitting on their haunches, huddled next to each other, sipping their tumba — it’s a picture that still brings a smile on my face.

I was supposed to be the first to leave the next day. It was a shared taxi that the lodge owner Subba-ji had arranged and the car was to pick me up at 6am the next day. Pradeep and Kuntal started teasing me: “You’ll never make it that early after drinking so much tumba. You’ll go with us again on our next trek.” I was really worried about the getting up part. Kuntal promised to wake me up at 5.

Finally, we left for our respective lodges around midnight. The drunken lot of us laughed and joked and cussed all the way back. At our lodge, Eti and I asked Pradeep how much we had to pay for the tumba. He and Kuntal said it was a treat from them. But we refused. We were very happy just to have been at the party.

Saying goodbye. In the background is 'Kancha Cheena'. Pic: Eti Kynjing

Unfortunately, the tumba parties stopped from the next batch. Apparently Subba-ji objected saying people create a ruckus later. I suspect Eti and I were partly responsible for that. Because, back in our room, we laughed for half an hour, packing our stuff and generally being happy that we were alive, with no broken bones, and the fact that we had returned walking on our own feet and could still stand on them. Even Kuntal and Pradeep heard us from their room at another side of the lodge.

Obviously no one knew that Eti and I are perfectly capable of laughing like drunkards even when we are perfectly sober.

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Kuntal turned up exactly at 5am to wake me up though I had been awake for an hour already. Then, he promptly went to his room to doze off as if he had been drugged.

My driver arrived at 5.40am instead of 6 and started yelling for me to hurry up. I happily picked a fight with him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular chap and I must have looked comical arguing with him in my 5ft-3inch frame. Finally, Subba-ji intervened and stopped us from tearing each other apart. Eti was worried that I should go off “alone” with his man and his helper and said her goodbyes looking very concerned.

After a bone-jarring, nerve-wracking and spine-chilling 6/7-hour ride in the rickety cab with 11 other passengers, I landed up in Gangtok in muddy shorts with swollen feet and bleary eyes. The driver — who looked very much like the villain Kancha Cheena played by Sanjay Dutt in ‘Agneepath’ — was not exactly the monster I had thought he was. He brought my backpack down from the top of the car himself and simply grunted when I reached for it. Without a word, he walked off towards a city cab, loaded my backpack in it and told the driver where to take me. Then he walked off before I could thank him.

I slumped back in the taxi. All the bones, muscles, arteries and veins in my body seemed to be giving up, but I still had three days of sightseeing and a paragliding plan ahead of me. I wondered if I’d be able to pull it all off. But well, that’s another story altogether.

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Eti turned out to be slightly less shameless than me. It took her another month to decide that she wanted to trek again. (A little bit of craziness and (mis)adventure is in our system I guess.) And so, we are planning World War IV this summer.

Kuntal was right. Even after I returned to Kolkata, the demons of the past year did not seem to bother me. And they have not bothered me since.

So hopefully, the next time I’m in the mountains, I will only be chasing the angels.

THE END

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Uncle Sam’s cappuccino: 10 notable experiences in the US

April 24, 2014, 4:20 am

≫ Next: Chandraketugarh: A missing piece in the Bengal puzzle

≪ Previous: Goecha La: An unforgettable journey (Concluding Part)

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My US trip in 2011 happened by chance, when a childhood friend who stays in Massachusetts invited me and I said ‘Yes’ on a sudden impulse. Otherwise, the US was nowhere on my priority list of ‘places to visit’ for the next several years.

It’s not my favourite of trips, mainly because I’m not exactly a ‘city person’ and more of a ‘nature person’. But the trip, which covered much of East Coast, had its moments and experiences — both good and bad. The bad ones ensured that instead of some sugary syrup, Uncle Sam treated me to a strong cup of cappuccino to relish for life. Smooth, creamy, foamy, sweet but with a hint of bitterness. Here are 10 ingredients that made my cuppa: 

1. Niagara Falls

It was a precondition for my visit. I had told my friend very clearly, “I’ll come only if you show me the Niagara Falls”. And she made sure that I did, for which I’ll forever be grateful to her.

It’s very difficult to express in words what it’s like to stand before something so marvellous, so gorgeous, so colossal… I can just go on and on with the adjectives. The river, plunging in beautiful milky-white cascades, crashing into the rocks below with an ear-splitting sound before flowing out in torrents into the greenish blue waters below, the spray of cold water hitting the face like an electric current, the nesting gulls straining their vocal chords to beat the roar of the river — it’s an overwhelming experience, one to cherish forever.

The mist from the Niagara Falls shrouds the buildings on the Canada side

The Niagara gave me a gift — a chance to appreciate her beauty both in rain and under the sun. The evening we reached the falls, the sky was overcast and a strong mist was rising from the river, shrouding even the tallest of buildings on the Canada side in a thick blanket of clouds. It started raining soon afterwards, a time we utilized having dinner. The lights from Canada had been switched on by then and the most overwhelming memory I have of that night is the walk back to the car, marvelling at the play of the colours from the lights on the mist, and even on the clouds overhead, and the relentless rumble of the nearly-invisible falls, all of which made it seem more like a dream than reality.

The next morning bore no trace of the showers and a bright and sunny Niagara greeted us. We opted for two of the various attractions that are offered to tourists — the Maid of the Mist and the Cave of the Winds. The Maid of the Mist is a ferry ride that takes tourists to the base of the Horseshoe Falls — one of the three parts of the Niagara; the other two being American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls. Seeing, hearing and ‘feeling’ the Horseshoe Falls up close and personal is a mind-blowing experience.

The Cave of the Winds lets tourists go up a flight of stairs right up to the American and Bridal Veil Falls. A strong jet of water crashes right on the ‘Hurricane Deck’ — the highest point of the stairs — and tourists can enjoy a shower that is, mind you, anything but gentle. Cave of the Winds also lets tourists get a close view of the gulls that nest near the base of the falls. However, those who hate getting wet had better stay away from both attractions. The raincoats are just for show.

Like all big falls, Niagara too boasts of a permanent rainbow. Where you find it is your luck. I found it right on the deck of the Cave of the Winds — two feet away from me. 

2. JFK International Airport and the mystery of the Air Train

Much before the overpowering sweetness of Niagara, Uncle Sam had sprinkled a dose of bitterness in my cup — in fact right at his door, JFK International Airport.

Finding myself in one of the world’s largest airports on my debut foreign trip was an overwhelming experience in itself. Plus, I had to take the connecting flight to Boston, which needed me to find my way to the domestic terminal from the international after completing the immigration procedures, take care of the luggage, find out the American Airlines counter, complete the procedures there and board the plane. All this in 2.5 hours minus the mandatory cut-off time for boarding. Though I originally had 3.5 hours to take the connecting flight, the Kolkata-Delhi-New York flight was delayed by an hour, leaving me with only whatever time I was left with.

I found myself at sea. My friend was more or less sure I wouldn’t be able to take the connecting flight. “They don’t let people take it,” she said, meaningfully.

But I had to try. The immigration went fine. At the Air India counter, there was no one to help. I asked the person at the next counter and she said, “Oh he’s somewhere”, with a motion of her hand that could mean he was, well, just about anywhere — in the airport, in London, in Kolkata... I stood there helplessly for 10 precious minutes before he arrived. The good thing was, he said my luggage would be put on the AA flight and I only had to “catch it”. Catching it, as I had been told, was the most difficult part. 

A roadside stall in New York

I enquired my way to the domestic terminal and again, found myself at sea. I had hoped to find counters of the airlines on the same floor as I’m used to seeing in Kolkata. I found none. I saw a group of staffers standing around chatting and asked one of them for directions. She told me so curtly to “take the Air Train” that I hardly had the courage left to ask her where I’d find this fantastic thing. “Third floor,” she said brusquely before turning back to the all-important task at hand — chatting.

I started the hunt for the stairs/escalator, looking completely lost, when I bumped into the guy who had sat by my side on the plane all the way to New York. During all those 17 hours, we had never talked. Now, both looking equally lost and nervous, we broke into a grin people usually reserve for the best of friends. We were so relieved to find each other.

“Are you looking for the Air Train?” both of us blurted out together. And then we started laughing. Whew! Now we had someone else along with whom we could find the marvellous train that probably chugged on thin air.

There were several people who were also looking for the Air Train, as we could figure out from their conversations. Funnily, all had been told about different floors on which to find it! All of us took the escalator to the first floor, which was deserted. We went up to the second and here, the two of us decided to ask a friendly-looking guy sitting at the nearest counter about the Air Train.

“You’ll find it on the first floor itself,” he said and even elaborated what the Air Train was. “It passes by all the terminals and goes around in a circle. So you can take a train to any direction, you’ll reach your terminal,” he explained with a smile. He was one of the few good persons I met at JFK.

We found the tracks on the first floor all right and eventually the train arrived. My companion had to take the flight to Chicago and had more time on hand than I had. He got off at Terminal 8. I was alone again. Mine was next, Terminal 9, where I found myself on a deserted platform with not a soul or a signboard in sight. Luckily, I spotted at the nick of time a couple going down the stairs at one end. I literally ran after them. After walking down a long and winding corridor, I again found myself at sea. But now I simply decided to follow the couple. By sheer luck, I found the AA counter. I was too scared to even look at the watch by now.

Times Square

But the ordeal was far from being over. We had to queue up before the only few automatic boarding pass machines that were working. It was a long queue and most passengers, being tourists, had no clue how it operated. A fellow passenger helped everyone out with the machine even as the JFK staffers sat at a nearby counter, chatting. My luck was bad; the pass didn’t get generated. Instead, a slip came out of the machine and the helpful guy told me to take it to the staffers, who, he said, would generate the pass manually.

I went over to them and had to call out to them thrice before they paid any attention. Without doing anything, they pointed at another guy in a corner. I again stood in the queue at this man’s counter, who seemed to be having a grand time chatting with a passenger as I watched the clock ticking away like a time bomb. It was evident from my body language that I was in a hurry, but even though he passed a few glances at me, did nothing to speed up his ‘work’. 

Finally, when I gave him the slip, he calmly said: “You can’t take the flight. It’s too late.” But I would have none of it. “Please don’t say that,” I said as politely and as coolly as I could manage. “My luggage is already on the flight,” I said, hoping that it was. “Is it? Ok, then you’ll have to run.” “Fine, I’ll run. Just give me the boarding pass,” I pleaded. Thankfully, he did.

Funnily, every time I flew to a city on the trip, my terminal was invariably at the fag end of the row. Running down the walkalators kind of became a habit, starting with JFK. I was the last one to board the flight to Boston, just in time before the door closed. I called up my friend to let her know I was on the plane. She was elated. “You have done what very few people can do,” she said.

I can’t tell if it was racism or the JKF staffers simply take pride in being jerks, but it was certainly not a nice experience. Very bitter espresso. 

3. Madame Tussauds, New York

On way to planting a kiss on Johnny Depp's cheek. Oh c'mon, Johnny Depp is Johnny Depp, even if it's only a wax model!

I haven’t been to any other Madame Tussauds yet apart from the one in New York. So, I don’t know how tourists are expected to conduct themselves in the others. What I liked best about the one in New York is that tourists are allowed to touch the models and have as much fun as they want to, even if it means a bit of damage to the models (I found the wax scratched off the nose of one).

As I stood wondering loudly to my cousin if we were allowed to touch the models, the voice of a staffer, who was sitting motionless like a statue himself in a corner, boomed: “Yes, you can. No problem.” I nearly jumped out of my skin because I had thought he was a max model too! Anyway, it ensured that I had a gala time for the next couple of hours, posing next to the crème de la crème of the world of movies, music, sports, religion, politics and even fiction across the world. It was a nice big spoonful of cream added to Uncle Sam’s coffee.

Planting a kiss on Johnny Depp’s cheek — never mind that it was only a wax model — was an extra dollop.

4. Meeting a Rama‘kh’rishna fan right outside Harvard

It was the very first day of my visit and my friend and her husband had taken me out for a trip to Harvard and MIT, the seats of academic excellence Boston is proud of. I was terribly jet-lagged, having slept very little on the flight, and we went into the Starbucks outlet right outside Harvard mainly to keep me awake.

At a nearby table was this bedraggled old man with a scraggly beard and unkempt hair. As my friend and I chatted and sipped our coffee, he kept watching us with much interest. Finally, he came up and very politely asked us where we were from. When we said that we were all originally from India and I had just arrived from there as a tourist, he looked very happy and started talking very excitedly. I couldn’t figure out immediately what he was saying, but some of the words sounded very, very familiar in a funny kind of way.

Suddenly, they made sense. He was talking very animatedly about Ramakrishna Paramhansa, Vivekananda and even ‘Ramakrishna Kathamrita’ (The Gospel of Ramakrishna), but his American accent had twisted all these words horribly out of shape. On the one hand, I was very happy to find an old American with so much love and respect for two of the finest men my land has produced, on the other, I was ashamed that I knew not even 5% of what he did about them.

Harvard University campus

Worse, I simply could not keep my eyes open. The more he rattled off ABC-ananda and XYZ-ananda, the more I thought of the old Tom and Jerry film where a sleep-deprived Tom uses clothes-pegs to keep his eyes from snapping shut. I felt like doing the same.

My friend, belonging to a family of Ramakrishna Mission followers and being familiar with the accent, got into a solemn discussion with him as I fought valiantly with my eyelids that threatened to take the plunge every two seconds. Whenever the old man glanced at me, I thought he looked very disappointed with my lack of knowledge in the subject and my apparent disinterest in it too. Maybe he expected all Indians to be encyclopaedias on Ramakrishna or to be his followers or both.

Finally my friend’s husband, who had gone out, returned, and seeing the sorry state I was in, came to my rescue. He said we needed to get going as there were lots of things left to see, which was true. When we told the old man we had to go, he looked very sad. He’d evidently wanted the conversation to be a bit longer. Anyhow, this unexpected encounter with an admirer of a man who was the epitome of the ‘milk of human kindness’, that too halfway across the globe, added just the right amount of milk to the coffee.

5. Quechee Gorge, Vermont

I loved Vermont in general and Quechee Gorge came as the icing on the cake. Not visited by too many tourists, it was quiet and serene and the hike down to the river and back was a lovely experience altogether for a nature-lover like me. Sitting by the river below, the landscape reminded me at once of our very own Dooars — the Himalayan foothills — except for the vegetation that was markedly different. Another touch of sweetness to the cappuccino. 

6. Roads

Green Mountains

They say the journey is more important than the destination. I couldn’t agree more. Being someone who has ‘enjoyed’ rides down some of the worst mountain roads in their worst of conditions, the roads in America seemed as smooth as whipped cream. Be it the drive from Massachusetts to Vermont alongside the Harley Davidson gangs that my friends have nicknamed machhi (fly) because of their constant ‘drone’; or from Vermont to Niagara, crossing Lake Champlain — car and all — in the ferry; the overnight ride back to Vermont from Niagara; or the bus ride from Boston to New York — I enjoyed them all immensely. The best was perhaps the drive from Boston to Vermont through the lovely Green Mountains. 

7. Whale watch, Boston

This was another prime attraction for me. Not only did I enjoy the ‘whale-watching’ experience, I loved the catamaran ride as well. And before that, the experience at the aquarium, where I saw creatures like anacondas, seahorses, seals and penguins for the first time outside NatGeo.

Spot the whale. Unfortunately, my camera batteries had run out by the time they came closer

At the whale watch, we were told that mainly three types of whales are to be sighted — humpbacks, finbacks and minkes. However, we saw mostly one kind, apparently the most common one. Unfortunately, I can’t remember any longer what kind it was and since my camera batteries ran out much before I saw the whales up close, there’s no way of finding it out from pictures either. I could take only one shot of a whale just before the batteries died out, but it was at quite a distance. But the gentle giants gliding past a few feet away, occasionally snorting out a spray of water — it’s an image I’ll have stored in my mental camera forever.

The only tough time I had was getting used to the “nine o’clock” and “four o’clock” instructions. Unfortunately, whales do not sit on a deck chair and wait for you to find it out and then say ‘Hi’ before diving back into the pool. By the time I’d make a mental note of the ‘time’, place it on the clock and then place it on the sea, the whale would move to a different ‘time zone’. So, until we got very close to the whales, there were a lot of disappointments. But overall, a sweet experience. 

8. Jackson Heights, New York — mini-Bangla

This one was a total surprise. At the fag end of my visit, when I was already very homesick, the visit to Jackson Heights in New York — a settlement mostly comprising immigrant Bangladeshis and Indian Bengalis — came as manna from heaven.

That's neither Kolkata nor Dhaka. It's New York

Even as we entered that part of the city, the first thing that caught my eye was a State Bank of India ATM. I’d never thought an SBI ATM could give me so much happiness.

And then they all started appearing one by one — the newspaper stall with copies of The Times of India and Hindustan Times on display, the shop selling lehengas and sherwanis, Premium Sweets with its signboard in Bengali, Haat Bazaar Restaurant, Subzi Mandi and the delightful shop-window signs — hilsha (it came with an exclamation mark), danta, kochur mukhi, kochur loti (sorry, I can’t provide the English terms for these).

One of the sweetest of experiences in the trip — sweeter than the khejur gur (date-palm jaggery) my cousin’s husband bought from one of the stores. 

9. Museums and monuments

What America cannot offer in terms of heritage and history, it makes up with its museums and memorials. And though these lack the depth of the centuries, the inadequacy is masked under a polish of grandeur and hype. Much like the milk foam on a cappuccino.

Vincent Van Gogh's 'Shoes' @ Met Museum

Though I could not visit all of the museums because of shortage of time, I tried to visit the ones on subjects that are close to my heart. That included the Metropolitan Museum of Art and The Museum of Natural History in New York, the art museums — the National Gallery of Art and Hirshhorn — in Washington DC and the Air and Space Museum apart from the usual tourist attractions like the National Cathedral, Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam War Veterans’ Memorial and Washington Monument. 

Of these, the Met Museum was the best. Being an art lover, it was on my must-visit list. Apart from the works of some of the greatest masters down the history of art, it treats visitors to art and sculpture from across the world cutting across eras. Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Indian, Chinese, Burmese, French, Mexican, African, Polynesian — the list is endless. I made sure I visited the Indian section that has a good collection of artefacts from Bengal, too. Sadly, only a minuscule section of my countrymen can set eyes on them.

A Pal dynasty artefact @ Met Museum

Another museum that impressed me, quite unexpectedly, was the Ellis Island Immigration Museum for its remarkable black-and-white photographs and beautiful bronze figurines. The art museums in DC, the Air and Space Museum and the National Cathedral were very good experiences, too. 

10. Food and lifestyle

 The US visit was very special in terms for food. It was here that I tasted my first calamari, my first beef steak, my first sushi, my first hash brown and a whole lot of other things I don’t even remember the names of now. As my friends and cousin competed with each other to treat me to new things at nearly every meal, most of the stuff has escaped my memory without making a mark. Except for the ones that I really enjoyed.

The Mexican dinner in Boston was one of them. Apart from the steak, the ambience, the music, the dish of beans that tasted so much like our very own ghugni, the sudden dance by the waiters, crushing under their heels the peanut shells that visitors are supposed to dump on the floor — it was a memorable experience. I also remember clearly the sushi treat at a Japanese restaurant in New York and before that at the restaurant in DC, which offers the largest spread I have ever seen. And then, the salad at Niagara — I had never known that a ‘salad’ could be more filling than a creamy dish of pasta and contain chicken, pork as well as beef. But perhaps the best of the lot was my first American breakfast in Boston.

Portraits of early immigrants to the US. @ Ellis Island Immigration Museum

“To know your country, travel abroad,” Syed Mujtaba Ali wrote in ‘Deshe Bideshe’ (At Home and Abroad). I had to travel halfway across the world to appreciate our staple food. Always fond of Continental fare, I was pretty sure food would be the last thing that’d bother me. Halfway through my trip, I realised that my entire system was wailing for daal-bhaat (rice with lentil soup). My friend in DC even cooked it for me after an entire day of work and sightseeing. I couldn’t have been more grateful to her even if she had treated me at the finest fine-dining restaurant in the world.
The US trip also made me appreciate one thing about my own city — the Kolkata underground. I was stunned to see the piles of empty paper soda cups and takeaway plates stuffed under the seats in the New York Subway. I saluted then, for the first time, the staffers of the Kolkata Metro who have managed to keep it spanking clean for three decades. It’s a humongous task in a country like India.
The New York Subway also taught me something about us Indians — that we are a far more accommodating peoples than Americans. Not more than six persons will ever sit in an eight-seater Subway bench, even if those who are standing are jostling for space. In our Metro, people will make sure that an eight-seater bench contains eight persons. Sometimes, even a ninth one will squeeze in somehow. It's an accepted thing (though some do grumble under their breath).

Bronze figurine depicting lifestyle of early immigrants to the US. @ Ellis Island Immigration Museum. Doesn't the escalator in the background strike a dramatic contrast?

But there’s one thing for which the New York Subway really stands out — the diversity of its passengers. New York’s cosmopolitanism is nowhere more apparent than in its Subway. In every seat, you’ll find all the six passengers different from each other in terms of ethnic, geographical or religious background.
Talking about the takeaway plates, one thing I did not like about the US lifestyle was people’s over-dependence on packaged food. And with the quantity that is served — I had trouble finishing even a kiddie meal — no wonder obesity is a big problem there. Even an ice cream seemed like a full meal.
And with the number of questions that are asked for choice of toppings, I would nearly forget where I was and for what by the time it would be over. 

11. People

Yes, I overshot the list. But then, coffee is not coffee without its aroma. Nothing is said about a country unless something is said about its people.

Though my trip started with a bad experience at JFK airport, I hardly faced any harassment or rudeness after that. In fact, most of the people I spoke to or sought help from seemed rather friendly and more than eager to do their bit to make life easier for me.

That goes for the cops, too. Both in Washington DC and New York, where I did a bit of sight-seeing on my own, I had to ask around for directions and sometimes the cops came forward on their own and offered to help when they saw the lost look on my face. One even shared his tragic story with us in New York when we asked for directions to Wall Street. Apparently he was from Bronx and knew nothing of Manhattan though he had been posted there. He spent a good five minutes apologizing and explaining things to my cousin and me.

The mention of cops reminds me of a funny experience in New York. Having seen so many Hollywood potboilers with a cop as the hero, I was super-excited at the idea of seeing the NYPD while on my way to New York, which was the last stop of my trip. Only minutes after the bus rolled into Madison Avenue, my prayers were answered and I saw a few cops and a couple of police cars by the side of the road. Eager as a child, I couldn’t wait to find out who or what they were after. A terrorist? A high-profile thief? Or at least a common thief? When I finally spotted their object of interest, I was highly disappointed. It was a bicycle, with the front part twisted out of shape, lying near a lamppost. There were at least 5-6 cops standing around it, examining it with deep concern. What in the world are they investigating, I thought, feeling dejected. Whether the bicycle hit the lamppost or the lamppost hit the bicycle?

A kid enjoying himself (or herself?) at a fountain in NYC

But usually, they were very polite. In fact, one thing that struck me about the people of US in general was their courtesy. Even a waiter at a restaurant will not take the order without starting with the mandatory ‘Hi’ and ‘How are you?’. Nothing wrong with that, except that sometimes it seemed forced and came without the slightest hint of a smile. And sometimes, it came at the cost of other important things, like precious time, when you have to catch a flight and are already running late. In fact, I must have appeared rude to some people because, like in India, I would go straight to the point while buying things at a shop or asking people for something.

But amid all the civility, there were also exceptions of the strangest kind. One was a ‘gentleman’ I saw in the cafeteria of the Met museum, who was sipping coffee at one of the tables with a friend, his feet comfortably placed right on the table! I don’t know if this is acceptable public behaviour in America; in India he would have been branded uncivil, to say the least.

Another was a girl in her late teens who was sitting next to me at the Boston airport. She couldn’t keep still for a second. This moment she squatted on the chair, then suddenly jumped up on her trolley bag, then leapt back on the chair, putting her feet up on the bag... all the time talking to someone on her cellphone. I noticed that even Americans looked uncomfortable at her behaviour.

The third was another young woman, fondling herself... that’s right... fondling herself bang in the middle of the road in New York. I was the only one who stared at her wide-eyed; no one else spared even a glance. My cousin, who hadn’t even noticed her, seemed totally unconcerned. “Some sort of attention-seeker,” she shrugged. If she’s indeed seeking attention, I thought to myself, she is not doing too great here. Had she done this in India, she would have no doubt attracted a lot of attention, though I'm not sure she would have enjoyed all of it.

This man makes music out of wine glasses. @ Washington DC

But then, these were exceptions. Another thing I liked about the people was that they are mostly very easy-going and have a good sense of humour. “Ladies and gentlemen, we welcome you to Hawaii,” the airhostess declared on the flight to Boston. “Oops! Sorry, you’ll have to make do with Boston,” she added quickly, as the passengers broke into a polite laughter. I can’t imagine any airline in India doing that.

Then, there were those people — both kids and adults — having a good time taking a shower or wetting their feet in the water of a fountain in New York. In India, such public fountains are more likely to be ‘secured’ behind a thick iron chain or better still, a steel fence, making them out of bounds for the public. Here, fountains are only meant to be watched from a distance.

But the people who impressed me much more than anyone else did in the US were the street entertainers —mostly musicians. My trip happened at the peak of recession. My friends explained that many of these street entertainers had lost their jobs, and were basically ‘begging’ to make a living. I remember a few of them particularly well.

Outside Met Museum @ NYC

One man in DC — I don’t know if he was among the recession-hit — played music with his bare fingers on wine glasses. It was beautiful music. All he earned was a few dollars that people dropped in ones and twos in front of him.

Another was a man in a wheelchair I saw at Boston Commons, flying a kite with a fishing rod! He had a placard pasted on the back of the wheelchair, declaring his financial status. But instead of squatting on the road with a begging bowl, he was providing some sort of service to people and asking for his remuneration with dignity. 

“That’s what will strike you here. Even the poorest of the poor will look washed, have a clean shirt on his back and try to earn his living rather than beg,” my friend’s husband had said.

To me, it is people like these that make the spirit, the essence of America. The aroma of Uncle Sam’s cappuccino.

Chandraketugarh: A missing piece in the Bengal puzzle

May 9, 2014, 1:48 am

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This road is not merely a road. It's 2,500-year-old history. Underneath lie the ramparts of a fort

The unmetalled track makes its way through grassy mounds of earth, sometimes winding past rows of tall trees, sometimes hiding under a mask of vibrant green and sometimes laying bare a random layer of red bricks, before losing itself abruptly in a sea of jute fields that surround it on three sides. It’s the middle of monsoon. The green is lustrous, the earth soft and the sun gentle. It could be a prototype of village idyll.

I stand on the track, facing north, and look at the lush green fields below. It’s harvest time and the men are cutting the crop, tying it up in bundles and stacking them neatly on the track, readying them to be transported. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself in a time machine. I turn the clock 2,500 years back.

As the hands whirr backwards, the track, the trees, the calm fields fade out and make way for a rich, robust town full of life. It’s a fort-city and I’m standing on the brick ramparts. Immediately below me is a bustling hub of potters, their ware stacked up neatly against the rampart. It’s peak hour for trade and well-dressed men adorned in necklaces of colourful beads animatedly haggle for a good bargain. About a mile ahead, the spires of a massive polygonal brick temple proudly hold their heads high. Signs of opulence are evident in every corner of the ancient city.

Voices of men wake me up from my reverie. A few more piles of the crop have arrived to be dumped on the rampart, which the vagaries of time have reduced to a nondescript village track that goes nowhere. Much like the story of Chandraketugarh.

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Tryst with the past 

It was sometime in 2010 or ’11 when I first chanced upon Chandraketugarh while idly surfing the Net on a night shift at work. It was like discovering hidden treasure in the backyard of your house where you have lived forever.

When I excitedly told my senior about my ‘finding’, he said it had already been written about several times. “But we can always do another story on it,” he said. “Please count me in if you go,” I begged. He agreed.

ASI signboard at the site (click to enlarge)

Several months later, when I had nearly forgotten about this conversation, he suddenly told me one day, “I’m going to Chandraketugarh for a story. Do you want to join in?” Do I need say what my answer was?

So, early in the morning on July 8, 2011, he picked me up in the office car and we set off on our date with a slice of Bengal’s history. We had a third person in the team — my colleague’s cousin, who is an archaeologist.

Around 9.30am, we stopped for breakfast at a modest roadside eatery — a shack rather — called Sobuj Restaurant (‘sobuj’ literally means green). Our ‘green restaurant’ had a delightful ‘red board’ (instead of a ‘rate board’) that promised interesting items like ‘sanruiss’ and ‘bonchop’ on the menu, but unfortunately, only the mundane luchi-tarkari was available at that time.

Even as we ate our breakfast, I didn’t know how close we were to our destination. In about 10 minutes after we started again, we were in Berachampa — the modern gateway to Chandraketugarh — merely 38km from Kolkata, under Deganga police station in the district of North 24-Parganas. 

The road forked off here, with one going straight, another going left and the third going right. We went right. The road was quiet, surrounded by tall trees and green fields, no shops or dwellings in sight apart from a small shack that served as a tea stall.

In about five minutes, we came across the first Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) signboard, declaring the ‘protected’ status of the site. The signboard itself was grand proof of how well protected the site actually is. Its iron frame rusting away, the moth-eaten board declares that this ‘P__TECTE_ _ONU____’ is of ‘national importance’ and lists the actions — much of it indecipherable — that can be punishable under the laws of the land.

We got off the car there and walked ahead to find another ASI signboard in Bengali that bans picnics on the ‘protected monument’. Though I had already read up about Chandraketugarh, I couldn’t help but wonder what it’d be like for someone who chanced upon this site. Mounds of earth, jute fields, and a tree-lined village road off which grazed a cow and on which frolicked some goats and kids. Anyone might ask, “Where exactly is this ‘monument’?” The answer is, “You’re standing on it.”

A beautiful tree-lined path leads to the fort's 'ramparts'

A little way ahead, on either side of the unmetalled track were the last of the ASI signboards, one in English and one in Bengali, both giving the same message. I will produce the message verbatim because it says a lot about Chandraketugarh, though not everything. Here it is:

“This extensive site comprising an earthen fortification is popularly known as Chandraketugarh being named after a mythical king Chandraketu. Excavation by the Ashutosh Museum of Calcutta University from 1956-57 to 1965-66 revealed continuous sequence of culture divided into six periods from pre-Mauryan to Pala times.

Famous as a repertory of exquisite Sunga terracotta, the site has yielded silver punch marked coins, cast copper coins, coins of Kushana and Gupta periods, beads of different materials, bone objects and many other antiquities. From the nature of ruins and finds it is evident that Chandraketugarh was a prosperous early historical urban settlement.”

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Buried treasure

Potshards and bricks are everywhere

At first sight, the red bricks peeping out of the surface of the unmetalled track make it seem as if the road had been metalled once and years of neglect have worn the top layer off. There seems nothing extraordinary about the bricks. But once you know that they are thousands of years old and you’re actually standing on the ramparts of a fort that might have been built 2,500 years back, it’s a strange feeling.

When I compared Chandraketugarh to buried treasure, it was no exaggeration. Treasure — of the historical kind — is buried just about everywhere in that area. Like the oriental monarchs of yore, King Chandraketu must have been pretty munificent, too. His ‘garh’ (fort) has to this day loyally continued with that tradition, scattering its riches and jewels liberally all around. And that is the biggest problem.

We knew about the potshards. So, we started looking for them immediately once we were on the rampart. But no one has to look too hard. They are everywhere, peeping out of the earth — big and small, some plain, some moulded with a striped pattern on the surface.

As I said, it was mid-monsoon when we went. With the topsoil washed away, more and more of the potshards had come up on the surface. There was literally an overdose of potshards. Our archaeologist friend said he believed there was a hub of potters in this part of the fort, next to the rampart. “That could explain so many potshards,” he said.

Can you see those bricks? Those are the bricks of a centuries-old fort rampart

“How can you tell if these potshards are new or old,” I asked him. “These could have come at a later age, from bhnars (earthen tea cups) too,” I said. “No, these are old,” he said, and snapped one of the shards in half. “Look,” he said, pointing at the cross section. It was coal-black. “Had it been new, the cross section would have had the colour of the surface,” he explained.

But the potshards are the cheaper jewels, put on mega sale for the proletariat. There are more expensive ones, priceless actually. Earthen figurines — dancing girls, yakshis, couples making love, Hindu deities, the Buddha, floral patterns, animals like rams and elephants, playthings and plaques — are mined in hundreds daily from the 2.5sqkm fort-city that is spread across 11 villages today.

And these priceless antiquities — our past, our 2,500-year-old heritage — leave the country every day for buyers in the First World, making a few people here richer by a few lakhs every time. You’ll find them on sale on Christie’s and Sotheby’s. But I’ll get back to that later.

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Heritage on sale

A freshly dug excavation site on the rampart, by the side of the track, had already caught our attention. One of the villagers who use the track as an access road to their jute fields told us the people who had been digging the site had left just before the monsoon. Had the ASI renewed excavation at Chandraketugarh then? It seemed so.

The fresh ASI excavation site that we had seen then

The only extensive excavation that has been carried out in Chandraketugarh ever since it was discovered nearly a century back is by the Asutosh Museum of Indian Art, as the ASI board mentions. The site was found accidentally in 1906 when locals found relics while digging tanks. A local resident, Tarak Nath Ghosh, immediately requested the government to investigate the area. A year later, ASI’s A H Longhurst visited the spot and found a huge number of bricks and pottery, but strangely reported that “the ruins are of little or no interest”.

Two years later, in 1909, Rakhaldas Bandyopadhyay, who would go on to discover the ruins of Mahenjo-daro more that a decade later, visited the site and published his opinion in the Bengali monthly Basumati. Finally, in November 1920, the government announced a few mounds of Chandraketugarh as ‘protected places’ under the Ancient Monuments Preservation Act.

But it was apparently Kalidas Dutt, an author of the archaeology of southern Bengal, who inspired Deva Prasad Ghosh, Kalyan Kumar Ganguly and Kunja Govinda Goswami to take notice of the site. It was due to their efforts that the site was finally excavated by the Asutosh Museum.

Post-2000, some excavations have taken place, but none at a major level.

The trench that we found was also a small one, around 10 feet by 12 feet and about a foot and a half deep. We scanned it to see if we could find something, but there was nothing.

Four local kids were watching us intently as we went about our job. Presently, my senior approached them and after a little small talk, asked them if they had ever got anything from the mounds. It wasn’t too difficult to get them talking and the eldest of the lot, aged around 12, admitted that they regularly get stuff from the site.

He pointed at an ordinary-looking mound right behind the spot where we were standing and said a little bit of digging can get one figurines and beads from underneath. Did he have any that he could show? The boy said he would have to get it from home and ran along.

Chandraketugarh beads offered for Rs 130

We spent the time scanning the mound for something more than potshards — at least beads — but found nothing. It didn’t take long for the boy to return. He had four beads, two amber-coloured and two black-and-white. The black-and-white ones were cylindrical in shape and of the two amber-coloured beads, one was spherical and the other barrel-shaped. The question was, were they genuine?

My senior asked the boy if he would sell the beads. He replied that his uncle was on his way and we would have to strike the deal with him. The skies were already overcast and soon, we were caught in a sharp spell of rain. As we ran for our car, we found that out of nowhere, a bunch of men had gathered nearby, under a temporary thatched-roof shed.

The rain let up within minutes and we went out and met the men. One of them was the boy’s uncle. They looked at us suspiciously. My senior went straight to the point and asked if they would sell the beads. The man asked for Rs 130, which we finally refused, considering that we were not sure of their genuineness. But think of it. The price of pieces of Bengal’s history — Rs 130.

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Mysteries of history

If Chandraketugarh is a missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of Bengal’s history, Chandraketugarh itself is a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. And there are some pieces that may be a part of the puzzle, or may not. In short, every piece, every story leads to nowhere, just like the rampart-turned-village track, as I’ve said before.

First comes the question: Who was Chandraketu? The undisputed answer: A mythical king. Now what is the local myth associated with King Chandraketu? He seems to be most famous for having a conflict with Hazrat Syed Abbas Ali alias Pir Gorachand, who came to his land to spread Islam.

Apparently King Chandraketu had magical powers. When the Pir asked him to adopt Islam, he showed the Pir a trick. He produced champak (champa) flowers on a fence (bera in Bengali) out of nowhere, giving Berachampa its name.

The road (fort ramparts) that ends abruptly, just like all stories associated with Chandraketugarh

In fact, all the 11 villages comprising Chandraketugarh today — Berachampa, Rankhola, Ghorapota, Dhanpota, Chuprijhara, Singerati, Shanpukur, Jhikra, Mathbari, Hadipur and Gazitala — have some association with the myth. For instance, Rankhola gets its name from the word ‘rann’ (war); apparently the battle between Chandraketu and the Pir was fought here. Ghorapota and Dhanpota get their names from ‘ghora’ (horse) and ‘dhaan’ (paddy) respectively, for apparently housing the stables and the granary during the king’s reign.

What interests me in all this is the fact that Gorachand seems to be a historical character. His mausoleum (unless it’s a hoax) and dargah lie a few kilometres from Chandraketugarh, in Haroa, where a fair is held annually. The question is, how did a historical character and a mythical one land up in the same folktale?

Secondly, a lot of Bengal’s history is known today. It dates back to prehistoric times, at least 20,000 years back. Stone-age tools have been found in the state. The people find mention in the Puranas and the Mahabharata. Known history says that Bengal (the geographical boundaries changed from time to time) was sometimes unified into a single powerful kingdom, sometimes split up into small independent ones and sometimes merged into a central kingdom, say during the Mauryas or the Guptas.

Except for a period of around 150 years from circa 625 AD to 750 AD, when Bengal suffered under what is called the ‘Matsyanyaya’ — a state of anarchy where the big fish eat up the small fish, that is petty chieftains fought one another for power in the absence of a central ruler — there is a record of Bengal rulers. But it’s also true that much of the history in the Pre-Gupta times is obscure.

Chandraketugarh was, however, inhabited even 800 years back. The artefacts that have been found at the site range from Pre-Maurya (600-300BC) to Pala-Chandra-Sena (750-1250 AD) periods, including everything in between —Maurya (300-200 BC), Sunga (200 BC-50 AD), Kushan (50-300 AD), Gupta (300-500 AD) and Post-Gupta (500-750 AD).

All these jute fields and much more have to be acquired if the ASI wants to excavate the entire site

The question is, how did all of it completely vanish from local collective memory? Instead of all the ‘real’ rulers who reigned over this region for 1,500 years, how did a mythical king manage to stake claim over the fort-city?

Now comes the third piece of the puzzle. Or rather, a piece that may or may not be a piece of the Chandraketugarh puzzle but is a tremendously strong contender. Ptolemy’s Gangaridai. Several ancient Greek and Latin historians — including Megasthenes, Diodorus Siculus and Plutarch — suggested that Alexander withdrew from India fearing a joint counterattack by the mighty Gangaridai and Prasii empires. The latter is located in present-day Bihar. But where was Gangaridai located?

According to Ptolemy, Gangaridai occupied the entire region covered by the five mouths of the Ganges and the royal residence was in the city of Gange. There are several accounts of Gangaridai — Greek, Latin and Egyptian, spelling it sometimes as ‘Gangaridae’, ‘Gandaridai’, ‘Gangaritai’ or ‘Gangaridum’ — but all suggest that it was located in the deltas of southern Bengal.

The city of Gange has never been found. Is Chandraketugarh the lost city?

Its geographical location suggests so. The discovery of a large number of seals with images of ships implies that Chandraketugarh was a port city. Though it’s nowhere close to a river today, the site’s located in the delta of the mighty Ganga, which is notorious for changing course.

Besides, even today, the site lies merely 10km north of the dying Vidyadhari, which used to be a strong navigable river once that opened up to the Adi Ganga, the original course of the Ganga which has been reduced to a mere canal now. Through this route, the kingdom of Chandraketugarh could have had easy access to the sea.

Now comes the fourth and last known big piece of the puzzle: Khana-Mihirer Dhipi (the mound of Khana-Mihir) — the only site that saw massive excavation by the Asutosh Museum in the 1950s and ’60s, which revealed a massive polygonal north-facing Vishnu temple dating back to the Pala Period (previously thought Gupta Period). And it’s this site that we presently headed for.

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Astrologers' mound

Khana-Mihirer Dhipi or Varaha-Mihirer Dhipi lies a couple of kilometres to the north of the rampart. We took the road back to Berachampa and went straight, that is the left-turn we should have taken if we had gone from Kolkata.

The plan of the site (whatever we know of it) became very clear to me now and so did the enormity of the task the ASI faces if it has to excavate it. At one end lies the rampart and at the other the temple. In between lies kilometres of jute fields, houses, shops, roads, ponds — lives of people in short. And the ancient city was by no means restricted to this. So essentially, if the ASI has to go ahead with the excavation, all this has to be acquired and the aggrieved paid and resettled.

The question in the fourth piece of the puzzle is, how did Khana, Varaha and Mihir come to be associated with Chandraketugarh? Varaha-Mihir (some say it was one person, some say it was a father-son duo) was one of the Navaratnas (nine jewels) in the court of Chandragupta II, also known as Chandragupta Vikramaditya. He (or they) was an astrologer, mathematician and astronomer.

Khana was apparently Mihir’s wife, who cut off her tongue when it turned out that her perfect predictions were putting her father-in-law to shame. There’s no historical evidence that Khana existed. Even Bengal, where Khana is a household name for her verses (Khanar bachan) related to agricultural advice according to weather conditions, doesn’t claim her as its own. Bengali folklore goes that Khana was born in Sri Lanka. Varaha-Mihir lived in Ujjain.

So, how did they end up in the middle of the great Chandraketugarh puzzle? No one knows.

The temple-site was well secured behind an iron guard wall, though we found no security guards at the site. The ASI signboards were present here, too, and in better condition than those at the rampart site. The site was quite massive, with multi-layered brick walls cropping up from the grassy mounds in an apparent haphazard manner. Huge trees had grown roots deep into the walls in some places, blocking excavation work there. In other places, square or polygonal structures could be made out.

After spending some time here, we retraced our way back towards the rampart and stopped at the only tea-stall on that road, which I have already mentioned before. Our aim now was to find something about the smuggling racket that thrives just as robustly as trade did in the ancient city. 

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A little adventure

All six pics above were clicked at Khana-Mihirer Dhipi

As we sipped our tea, we tried to strike up a conversation with the stall-owner and the few other locals in the stall. We had to be careful not to seem too prying and look like harmless tourists, just curious for gossip. 

We did not have to try too hard. The stall-owner woman turned out to be quite talkative and within moments, all the information was pouring out. She had been approached by the ASI people, who wanted to dig up her pond, in which several relics had been found. But she had not agreed… But there are unscrupulous people who regularly sell the relics and some have become rich overnight… They have built big pucca houses for themselves, bought cars and started businesses...

We asked her very carefully if she would take us to someone who had a lot of relics. We said we were researchers and seeing the relics would help us a lot. She agreed quite readily. 

Within minutes, we were walking down the road to a village. As I walked with her, she pointed out one of the houses that had been built with the ‘relics money’. The two men followed us a little distance away.

She brought us to a large two-storied house that looked freshly painted. The man of the house was away to offer the evening namaaz (prayers) at the local mosque located at a stone’s throw. We could see him from where we were. Someone went and told him about us and he was visibly uneasy. We saw him discussing the matter over with some other men. We had become nearly sure that he would turn us away when he sent word asking us to wait. The friendly stall-owner went back to her shop.

We were asked to sit outside the main house, in what looked like an under-construction warehouse. We had learnt our roles by heart then. My senior was a professor of history and I was his student. His cousin was a researcher. I had even taken care to dress up in salwar-kameez instead of my usual jeans and tees so as not to attract undue attention. And now, all that carefulness was coming to good use.

That's a combination of history and 'fake history'. All left to rot together in cement sacks in the open

But sitting in that eerie windowless structure with only a couple of openings high up near the ceiling and an opening at the side for a door, we felt quite uneasy ourselves. “It seems straight out of a Kakababu-Santu adventure,” said the archaeologist (referring to the popular children’s mystery-adventure series in Bengali by Sunil Ganguly). “You could be Kakababu,” he told my senior, “I could be Santu, and what was that tomboyish girl who featured in some of the stories?” “Debolina,” I offered. “Yes, Debolina. Urmi could be Debolina,” he went on.

My senior didn’t say a word. We were all thinking of the same thing: What if they suspected something amiss and locked us up? These were smugglers. And we did not know to what extent they could go to keep their illegal dealings under wraps.

I looked around and let my fertile imagination take wings. If they did hold us captive, they were likely to post sentries at the door, which had no shutters. It was the only route out of that 15ftX15ft room. There was no way to reach the skylights, which were a good 15 feet off the ground. Even if we did manage to reach it, it was doubtful if we could squeeze our way through it. If anyone could, it was I, being the slimmest of the three. But even if I managed to somehow squeeze through that hole, I’d have to jump 15 feet down. Doing it without breaking at least a few bones seemed unlikely. And if I pulled that one off too, I would actually land up in the courtyard.

I can’t remember how long we waited for the man, but by the time he arrived, I had leapt 15 feet up, squeezed through a tiny hole, jumped 15 feet down, dodged the sentries, run all the way to the police station and was well on my way back with a huge police force to rescue the two men.

Five of these pieces cost Rs 500. The 'price' of priceless treasure

The man went straight to the point: “What do you want?” My senior gave him the fine story we had concocted as the two of us tried to give him that butter-won’t-melt-in-our-mouth expression. Finally, he seemed convinced. He led us into the courtyard and to some cement-company sacks lying at a side.

Nothing had prepared me for what came next. He undid the strings off the mouth of one of the sacks and revealed its contents — bits and pieces of terracotta figurines covered in a layer of dry or fresh mud. A bust, a head, two legs, a hand, a part of the waist… they kept pouring out. Centuries-old heritage stuffed in a cement sack left out in the open to rot in the rain and the sun. I wanted to strangle him.

We took some of the pieces out and tried to see if we could make a complete figurine. Some came close. We found a Ganesha idol whole. The archaeologist asked for a toothbrush and scraped some of the mud off the pieces. They looked beautiful.

But were they genuine? We already knew that side-by-side the smuggling racket runs an even more profitable racket of fake artefacts. We had no way of knowing. My senior chose five pieces to buy. The deal was struck at Rs 500.

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Any hope?

Terracotta plaques in Dilip Maite's private museum

All three of us let out a sigh of relief once we left the house, crossed the two-foot bridge on the drain that separates it from the road, and were back on the street. The ‘sting operation’ had gone well.

Our next and last stop was the house of Dilip Kumar Maite, one of the two self-made custodians of Chandraketugarh relics in Berachampa. With some asking around, we found our way to his house, very close to the bus stand.

Maite, who must be about 80 now, spoke to us at length about the smuggling racket, the apathy of the authorities and the available literature on the history of Chandraketugarh as I clicked photographs of his enviable collection. Terracotta plaques with floral patterns, a flower vase, Buddhas, deities like Durga, Shiva and Ganesha, demons, terracotta globes of various sizes that could have served as weights for trade, bead-necklaces and seals with Brahmi inscriptions — his private museum has it all.

The other local collector, who, like Maite, is authorized to collect these artefacts, is Asad-uj Jaman. However, we could not meet him.

It was nearly 4pm when we left for Kolkata — no lunch, looking as if we hadn’t bathed for days, with eight hours of office work ahead of my senior and me. But it’s one of the best memories I have from my career in journalism so far.

Chandraketugarh Seals with Brahmi inscriptions in Dilip Maite's private museum. Similar seals were found in Mohenjo-Daro, too

My senior took the five terracotta pieces to the state directorate of archaeology for registration. The archaeologists said that at least two of them were fakes and gave them back along with the advice not to venture into Chandraketugarh for at least the next 10 years.

Within a week of the story being published, one of the big fish in the smuggling racket was arrested. And six months later, in January 2012, came the government’s decision to declare Chandraketugarh a ‘heritage village’.

But sadly, by October 2013, we had gone back to the old smuggling story. That was the last story our newspaper carried on Chandraketugarh. And we are still waiting for that ‘heritage village’.

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(I have referred to some sites for information on the history of Bengal and Chandraketugarh. The links are here:
1. http://www.historyofbengal.com
2. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Bengal
In anyone thinks some of the information provided in this piece are incorrect, please feel free to let me know.
And here is the link to the story my senior did after our Chandraketugarh trip.
http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/ml.asp?Ref=VE9JS00vMjAxMS8wNy8yMyNBcjAwMjAw&Mode=HTML&Locale=english-skin-custom )

Paragliding in Sikkim

May 22, 2014, 11:25 am

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Paragliding in Ranka, East Sikkim

When I had settled on the Goecha La trek, I had decided almost at once that I would spend a few days in Gangtok after that. Apart from the Nathu La-Tsangu Lake experience, the main reason behind the decision was paragliding.

Facilities for this sport were launched in Sikkim only recently, in 2011 or 2012. I knew about it in details from subbing the copies from Sikkim. I thought being that close and letting go of the opportunity would be silly.

I searched all over the Net and finally found a way to connect to the Sikkim Paragliding Association (SPA) on Facebook. They have a page by that same name. Though my trip was well away in May 2013, I sent a message as early as January 28, asking them for contact numbers and if May-end was a good time for paragliding.

My pilot Tashi adjusting the camera. Behind us is the drop from where we would have to jump

For the next three months, I got no reply. Finally, when I had nearly forgotten about it, I got a message from them on April 23, saying May-end was the prefect time for it and gave me the contact number of Rajdeep Thapa (09735017094) who I’d have to get in touch with once I was in Gangtok.

I left Yuksom for Gangtok on May 20 after the Goecha La trek and had planned the paragliding experience the very next day. My colleague in Gangtok had made all arrangements for me — car, lodging and sightseeing — and though he himself was out of station, had asked a friend to help me out with everything.

I called up this friend and told him I wanted to go paragliding. He — as well as my colleague — thought it was inadvisable. For one, the weather was terrible, as we had already experienced through the trek. Secondly, my feet were swollen beyond recognition. They looked like two puffy buns with five tiny bloated projections jutting out of the end.

In fact, not only were they swollen like balloons, my feet were all blistered because I had stupidly discarded by trekking shoes for a pair of floaters after the trek. I realised later that for swollen feet, shoes are the best option. They give it a good cushion and prevent further damage.

For the moment, however, my feet were not in good condition. But I was adamant about paragliding. And my colleague and his friend thought — for good reason too — that I was mad.

That's the other side. Spread like an arc behind us is the unfurled parachute

On the evening of May 20, this friend of my colleague called up to say he wasn’t being able to get any contact numbers for paragliding. I happily gave him Thapa’s number. After a while he called up to say it had been fixed and the car would pick me up from the hotel the next day, that is, IF the weather improved.

As they say, fortune favours the brave. In my 13 days of stay in Sikkim, I got good weather only on three days. In Tsokha during the trek — both on the way up and down. And, on May 21 — the day of paragliding.

It was nice to wake up to a sunny day when the weather was what mattered the most. My driver, Chandan, picked me up at the right time, around 9am. And we set off for Ranka, around an hour’s drive from Gangtok, where all the paragliding in Sikkim is done.

Before taking me to the paragliding office, however, Chandan stopped at the Ranka Waterfall Park, a tourist attraction, which, despite the fact that I simply could not wait for the paragliding experience, seemed pretty nice. Don't miss is if you go to Ranka for paragliding.

Chandan knew the way and after we left the park, he drove straight to the Fly Sikkim Adventure office at Reshithang in Ranka, East Sikkim. The place didn’t look like anything from where paragliding could be done and I couldn’t help but wonder how exactly things were supposed to go. Apart from the few paragliding offices that line the road, nothing else was to be seen.

I was given a grand reception at the centre, firstly because I was wearing the ‘Bloody Hell! I did Goecha La’ T-shirt bought at the trek and secondly, because I had to tell them I was a journalist when they asked me what I did for a living. At once, I had become a hero. They even clicked my picture, probably for their little ‘Hall of Fame’ gallery that’s found in most such touristy centres. 

The terrifying wait for 'favourable winds'

There were two options for paragliding — ‘medium fly’ and ‘high fly’. The charge for medium fly was Rs 2,200 and for high fly, something like Rs 4,000, though I don’t remember the exact amount. I opted for medium fly. I had wondered how I would take pictures while paragliding and now, they gave me an option. I could carry a video camera for an extra charge of Rs 500. I thought it was a good idea.

It appeared that I would have to travel to the spot from where the jump would happen in a car provided by the paragliding centre while my car would wait at the spot where we would land — the sports stadium in Ranka. The car was an SUV with an open-topped trailer and I’d never seen anything like it before.

I got into the car with six other men and there were another 8-10 of them in the trailer. Chandan, who I had entrusted with my camera, reassured me repeatedly that he would be there at the stadium and that I should not worry. I stifled a chuckle. I wasn’t worried. He was. And visibly so. Though I had no clue why.

I couldn’t help but wonder, though, why so many guys were needed for one person to paraglide. As we drove up a steep hill for around 30 minutes, the car stopped about midway at a small hamlet, where all the guys in the trailer got off. Now it made sense. These guys were hitching a ride — possibly a daily routine in a place where public transport is non-existent. I was the day’s first customer and hence, they had got their first ‘shuttle car’.

The final push off the edge

The car finally stopped in front of a huge structure that looked like another stadium. We did not go inside but took a flight of stairs going up the side. As the guys ran up the steps, I made my way up slowly, panting and grumbling. What is it with stairs and me, I thought dismally. I had returned from the trek — which had been all about climbing stairs — only two days back. And here I was, climbing more of them.

I reached the top — as usual out of breath — to a pretty scary sight. The top was a gravelly, inclined surface, with a sheer drop at one end. The guys were already at work, unfurling the parachute and preparing the safety gear for me.

I saw one of them ambling towards the sheer drop and wondered with some trepidation what he was up to. It appeared that he had selected that incredible spot to relieve himself. I marvelled at his choice. Of all the places we were in for the past half an hour — the office, the hamlet where the guys in the trailer got off, outside the structure where were now — he had preferred to take a leak from the edge of a sheer drop of a few hundred metres. “Men!” I thought.

Meanwhile, the guy who was unfurling the parachute had managed to entangle it in a wire fence near the top, eliciting a sharp glare and muted invectives from one of the guys. I guessed he was the pilot. I asked him if my guess was right. He said yes. “What’s your name,” I asked. “Tashi,” he replied. “Oh, I’ve already met another Tashi in this trip. Is that a common name here,” I asked. “Yes,” was all that came again. He wasn’t a man of too many words.

And, airborne

My phone, which was in my pocket, started ringing. It was Chandan, sounding very frantic. “Madam, have you reached? Are you safe?” he said in one breath. “Yes I’ve reached. Everything is fine,” I replied, still puzzled why he was so anxious for my safety.

By then, three or four guys were strapping the safety gear on me. I looked quite ridiculous with a small seat dangling behind me, at knee-level. And now what they said made my hair stand on end. I’d have to walk down that gravelly path towards the sheer drop and have to sit down in that seat just before the jump! My pilot would be behind me, of course, strapped to me and the chute. But that was little consolation.

I doubted if I could do all that. It sounded terrifying to say the least. But the guys allayed my fears very sweetly. “We’ll walk with you all the way to the edge,” they said. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” they kept saying. “What if I can’t sit down on time,” I asked. “It will happen naturally,” they said. “There will be a jerk and you will fall into the seat.” It did not sound too reassuring.

Finally I told myself that if these guys could walk with me all the way without a parachute, I should be able to do it, for I at least had that benefit. All done, we waited for “favourable wind”.

That wait was one of the most nerve-wracking 60 seconds of my life. The video camera was already recording. It was at the end of a stick, which I was holding and was also strapped to my gear. When I see my expression now in that video, I can’t stop laughing. I looked like a goat being taken to the slaughterhouse.

Through the trees

And then suddenly, without a warning, we were all walking towards the drop. My heart was nearly in my mouth as I approached the edge, but then, without realising a thing, I had slumped into the seat. There was a lot of shouting going on around and I feared for a moment that the jump had gone wrong. But then, within a couple of seconds, we were in the air.

I let out whoops of delight as we soared a few hundred metres above the ground. Even as we were air-borne, Tashi adjusted the straps of my safety gear and the camera pole and asked me if I was fine. I was not merely fine. I was on seventh heaven.

I cannot say what it was like paragliding. I’m not eloquent enough to express that kind of feeling in words. It was like flying I guess, like getting wings. Getting a bird’s-eye view of the hills was only a tiny part of it. One of the best experiences I’ve had so far — on a par with the Niagara Falls experience. I did not stop grinning from ear to ear for a single second in the video.

I kept chatting incessantly with Tashi like one-way traffic. I doubt if he said more than eight words in those eight minutes. I see from the video now that he was constantly trying to figure out how to give me a good experience, take me close to the trees, reading the winds, adjusting the chute. He told me once he would take me close to the treetops. “Ok,” I said, “Just don’t get stuck in the trees.” And we laughed.

Behind us is the stadium where we'd land

I believe Tashi gave me a longer ride that what was promised, which they sometimes do. Midway through the flight, he probably noticed my swollen knees and feet. “Can you straighten your legs,” he asked. I did it without a hassle. “Good, you’ll need to do it while landing,” he said. We went around the area in circles and I could see the stadium below where we were supposed to land.

As we came down circling through the air, he told me to straighten my legs when were about 20 feet off the ground. It was a smooth landing, like a plane. As it’s supposed to be, I landed on my behind, which was well protected by the seat. Everything had gone perfect.

I could see Chandan running towards us and told me very excitedly that he had clicked the pictures as I had asked him to. We went to the office, which was not even a kilometre away, in our car. There, I was given a CD of the video camera recording. I was also asked very politely if everything was fine and given a feedback form. They had not given me a reason to give low scores for anything at all.

Back on Earth after eight minutes in heaven

Once we were back in the car, Chandan told me he was relieved to see me safely back. “But why were you so worried,” I asked. “Madam, you went off with so many men all alone. I was so worried,” he let it out. I started laughing. “This is their living Chandan,” I told him. “If people give a bad feedback, will they be able to run a tourism-centric business? They gave me absolutely no reason to suspect anything amiss.” 

And it was true. If you visit Sikkim, the paragliding experience in Ranka is highly recommended for anyone with a spirit of adventure and stomach for heights.

Go fly. The sky is the limit.

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Contact numbers for paragliding in Sikkim

Rajdeep Thapa: 09735017094

Arun Gurung: 09851588593

Fly Sikkim Adventure office: 09197207767

Rafting on the Beas: An edge-of-the-seat experience

July 3, 2014, 10:48 am

≫ Next: Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part I)

≪ Previous: Paragliding in Sikkim

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The Beas in Kullu. Looks placid, doesn't it? Wait till you hit the rapids

When I told my editor that I was on my way to Himachal Pradesh for my second Himalayan trek and an accompanying trip, she asked me what adventure sport I had in mind this time. “Last time was paragliding. What’s now,” she asked. I told her very disappointedly that I did not have anything particular in mind. Little did I know then that someone somewhere was chalking out a fine plan to whet the adventure-loving appetites of my two companions and me.

Three very bleary-eyed women boarded the car for Manali from Kalka station at 4.30 in the morning. I had hardly slept at night because all my nerves were, as usual, super-alert that we’d have to get off so early. Plus, I was supposed to call up the driver once we reached Chandigarh at 3.30am so that he’d set off for the station. Eti and Rita had also not got their full quota of sleep (and kept dozing in the car). All of us wanted to reach Manali early so that we’d get enough rest before the trek that’d begin the next day. But, as I said, destiny had other plans.

The driver, who initially had no idea we were trekkers, got a hint once he saw our luggage — three rucksacks, as many daypacks and trekking poles. He was a fine jolly man; just that he spoke too much. “Your luggage has made me very happy,” he declared. “People come with so much luggage that it doesn’t fit in my small car,” he went on. “You must be adventure-lovers. Would you like to raft in the Beas in Kullu on the way?”

My eyes lit up at the mention of rafting. I looked at Eti who looked back with gleaming eyes. Neither of us can swim. Rita, who can, kept silent. I asked the driver, Sandeep aka Kaku, how much they’d charge and how long it’d take. “It’s only a matter of half an hour,” he said, assuring us that we’d reach Manali comfortably in good time. “They’ll charge you around 1,000 for 6km,” he said.

“Ok,” I gave him the green signal. “Stop in Kullu for rafting. We two will do it for sure,” I told him gesturing at Eti and myself. “Do you expect me to sit and watch?” finally Rita spoke up. And so, it was settled.

Waiting for the rafts to be readied

We reached Kullu around 1pm and Kaku drove us straight into what looked like a resort. It was called ‘Nature Park, Jhiri’. “Are we seriously going rafting,” Eti asked. “Yes,” I said, surprised. “I thought we agreed on that.” From the look on Eti’s face, I knew she wanted to do it but was slightly apprehensive. “Let’s not let go of this opportunity,” I told her, “No one knows if we’ll ever get this chance again.” It did not take too much work to convince her.

There was an awning under which several men sat lazing. There didn’t seem to be any takers for rafting. One reason could be the accident in the Beas that had taken place only a few days back in which some 20-odd students had been swept away. It had happened when water was released suddenly from a dam, apparently without warning. We had crossed the accident spot on the way and the search for bodies was still on.

Kaku did not seem to have much sympathy for the students. “The driver had warned them,” he claimed, his loyalty towards his professional brethren apparent. “Because of their stupidity, the driver has got into trouble. He had told them not to get off. They did on the pretext of using the toilet,” Kaku claimed. I told him mildly that they were just kids and that whoever released the water from the dam should have been more careful.

Anyhow, one of the men under the awning sat behind a plastic table and was booking the tickets. Kaku later told me he was a murder accused and out on bail! He said the charge was 1,000 per head for 3km and 1,200 for 6km. We argued (we didn’t know his legal status then) that Kaku had given us much lower rates. The murder accused and his colleagues claimed that usually there are more people in a raft and since there was no other client right now, we’d have a raft solely to ourselves. They also argued that there would be another raft only for our safety, which had been made mandatory now.

However, after some haggling, they agreed on the rates stated by Kaku. I thought instead of paying Rs 800 for 3km, it was far more feasible to pay Rs 1,000 for 6. Eti and Rita agreed, too, after some initial hesitation from Eti. So we chose 6km.

Later, however, Polu bhai, who I met on the trek, told me we had been overcharged. “I’d have arranged for you to raft 6km for Rs 500/600,” he claimed. 

Anyhow, we were told that we’d be taken to the starting point in the resort’s car and we’d raft our way to the resort, where our car would wait. Kaku made me take off my trekking shoes and seeing me do it, Rita took off her floaters, too. Eti had her floaters on, which none of us noticed.

The car took us to a spot 6km upstream. The Beas looked calm and serene under the midday sun and I wondered what the ‘white-water rafting’ experience would be like in such placid waters.

It was not too difficult to walk barefoot on the mostly-sandy riverbank, but I noticed Eti’s floaters then. “Why didn’t you take them off,” I asked her. “Floaters shouldn’t matter in the water,” she pointed out. “But Kaku was insistent that we take off our shoes,” I said, and accosted him. “You had sneakers on,” he said. “You could have told us that we could wear floaters and I’d have taken it out of my bag,” I told him, very cross now. He looked very apologetic.

By then, the rafts were being brought down from the top of the Omni. After some deliberation, we were made to walk a little further upstream to a spot, which the men thought was more conducive for starting off. We were helped into our lifejackets, in which I felt I couldn’t breathe. With the helmet on, I felt like one of those wooden dolls that can only nod their heads. The only difference was that I couldn’t even move my head. 

Just before setting off

We were given a rubber bag in which we could put our valuables if any and seal it up. It could be fixed to a rod passing horizontally down the middle of the raft. I had given Kaku my camera to take pictures as we rafted down the Beas, but now, our rafting guide Tony invited him to join us too.

Kaku, a man from Shimla, had never done it before and he was extremely reluctant to do it now. He was most probably invited so as to maintain the balance in the raft as we were three and there would be two persons sitting on one side and one on the other. Finally, Tony convinced Kaku to join in. And so, my camera went into the sealed bag as well.

We sat on the edge of the raft in a half-circle — Kaku and I on one side and Eti and Rita on the other. Rita and I were in the front with Eti and Kaku behind us respectively. Tony stood with the oar in the middle with his assistant behind him.

Tony showed us how to lock our feet in the space between the floor of the raft and the base of a cylindrical seat running horizontally down the middle of the raft. It was a painful and uncomfortable exercise with the legs bent at an awkward angle to each other.

Tony now asked us if we wanted to row as well. Only Rita was game. I was asked to hold tightly the end of the thick rope that ran around the edge of the raft and hung loose right in front of me. Rita would also have to do it whenever told. The others were asked to hold on to the rope wherever they were sitting. Rita was given some instructions on rowing.

After around 30 minutes of preparation, we were finally ready to go. I was still adjusting myself to the suffocating lifejacket, helmet, my uncomfortable edge-of-the-seat position and strangely locked feet as we set off, the waters still seeming quite tranquil. Tony rowed to the middle of the river and then turned it downstream. Rita was rowing too and constantly blabbering in her overexcitement.

And then, I saw the rapids. A white mass of churning, foaming liquid approaching us straight out of nowhere with hollows in between, towards which our raft was happily dashing. I had been particularly apprehensive about wet clothes because there’d be no time to dry them before we’d start the trek the next morning. Kaku had told me they’d get a “little wet”. Though I knew that was an understatement, nothing had prepared me for the drencher that came when we hit the rapid.

In a split second, we were all soaked to the bone. Rita’s blabber amplified ten times, Eti joined her in mindless screaming and suddenly, I felt I needed to see a shrink. Two days back, I was in Kolkata; I had travelled on a train for 21 hours, in a car for 9 hours and now, I was in the middle of a river, in a raft, getting myself drenched to the bone with my second Himalayan trek about to start the next morning. None of us had a clue when we’d reach Manali.

With our guide Tony, after the 6km water coaster ride

“I will see a psychiatrist the moment I get back to Kolkata,” I announced, but no one was listening. Rita was in a world of her own, blabbering away constantly, “Chappu chalao, chappu chalao (row the boat, row the boat).” Eti seemed slightly saner, though she was also shouting away gleefully as we hit one rapid after another. Everything looked surreal.

I looked at Kaku. He looked mortally terrified and after a while, asked Tony to take the boat to the bank so that he could get off. Tony grinned from ear to ear and the three of us protested at the top of our voices that he could not get away by putting us in such a “life-threatening situation”. Kaku looked miserable.

Initially I was so scared that the waves would throw me off the raft that I kept squatting inside every time we hit the rapids. After a while, Tony turned the raft so that I couldn’t see the rapids approaching. It helped. When we hit the first rapid this time, I realized the waves weren’t strong enough to throw me off-balance. From then on, I stayed put in my position and enjoyed the edge-of-the-seat (literally) ride more than I did in the initial few minutes.

The other raft — the one for our security, whatever that meant — had only one youth in it and was ahead of us. We wondered how he’d ensure our safety if all or any of us met with an accident. The guy even lost his oar when we hit a particularly nasty rapid later on. We felt the chap himself could so with some security.

Everything went fine until Tony brought us to the middle of some calm waters and asked us if we wanted to take the plunge. Eti and I said we couldn’t swim. “Everybody can swim here,” he claimed. “Even those who can’t swim.” My jaws dropped and Eti went cock-eyed on knowing about this strange quality of the Beas. However, neither of us was willing to be a guineapig to test the veracity of Tony’s claims.

Rita was more than willing to take the dip. Tony told her she’d have to jump in but hold on to the rope that went around the raft. She did accordingly and apparently had a grand time until Tony told her she’d have to come back on the raft. I could see some rapids approaching ahead.

Tony told her he would drag her at the count of three and she’d have to jump up at the same time. We watched as Tony counted till three and gave the pull. I thought Rita had made it into the raft before, horrified, I saw her slipping back into the water. Tony, who had also thought that Rita had made it, had returned to his rowing position in a split second. And now, I saw Mr Mouse turning into Mr Lion.

In a jiffy, Kaku had leapt up from his seat next to me and grabbed a strap on Rita’s lifejacket. At the same time, he kept shouting for Tony to help her up because he couldn’t do it alone. Tony joined him in a second and thankfully, before we hit the rapids, they had managed to drag Rita into the raft. Dripping wet, she looked like a freshly caught blobfish (she’ll kill me if she reads this) flailing about on the raft floor.

I was relieved when Kaku returned to his seat because I had kept fearing that the raft would overturn as four of them were on one side and I was the only one holding fort on the other. He was furious and told Rita she should have been more responsible. Rita was furious that her belt had snapped during all the dragging and pulling. She blamed Kaku for triggering a panic.

Nature Park, Jhiri, the resort which has the rafting facility

Tony blamed her for not jumping on time. “I can usually manage. I couldn’t this time because you are slightly…” he stopped just short of saying what we had guessed. “Slightly what? Say it,” Rita’s thunder challenged a sheepish-looking Tony. “Slightly heavy,” I completed Tony’s statement.

I was getting very irritated now. I felt Rita was being annoyingly ungrateful. Kaku had shown his mettle and kept his wits about him when Eti and I had failed to act on time. Even if we had, we wouldn’t have been able to pull Rita out of the water. True, she wouldn’t have drowned, but she could have been swept away by the current if she’d lost her grip on the rope. She could have hurt her legs badly in the rocks had the raft hit the rapids before she was back in it. That would have messed up our trekking plans big time.

After a while, everyone calmed down. And within a short time after that, we were back at the resort. It took us more or less half an hour to cover 6km, which we felt had been a good idea after all. Three kilometres would have been too short to enjoy anything at all.

We had to dig into our rucksacks already to find a change of clothes and by 2.15pm, we had set out again for Manali, one set of our clothes dripping wet and stuffed into plastic bags. Little did we know then that the day’s adventures were not yet over and more was waiting for us in Manali. But that will come later.

If you are in Kullu or Manali, don’t miss the rafting experience in the Beas. I haven’t had the opportunity to raft in Rishikesh, which is famous in India for the facility, but both Kaku and later Polu bhai claimed that the Beas in Kullu has more rapids than the Ganga in Rishikesh. True or not, the Beas experience is worth a try.

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Contact for rafting in the Beas:

Kullu Beas River Rafting Association,

NH-21,

Village: Pirdi,

PO: Mohal,

Dist: Kullu

Charges: 

6km: Rs 1,000 per head

Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part I)

July 17, 2014, 12:20 pm

≫ Next: Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part II)

≪ Previous: Rafting on the Beas: An edge-of-the-seat experience

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The Beas. Taken somewhere on the way to Manali from Kalka

“I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. I do not wish to go below now”

— Henry David Thoreau

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Within days of returning from Goecha La I had decided that I’d certainly trek again. Those who have read my Goecha La series know under what circumstances I completed it. The mighty Himalayas had set me free of a mental baggage, and that gave me such a high that every trek seemed worth doing.

Chadar (a winter trek on the frozen Zanskar river in Ladakh) was one. It was coming up in around eight months and I wondered if I’d get leave from office. Then Ram, our friend from Goecha La, went for the Kashmir Great Lakes trek and on seeing his pictures, Eti and I decided that this WAS it.

However, as the state of euphoria gradually wore off, I started thinking with some reason. I decided that I didn’t want to do another tough trek before ensuring that my fitness levels had reached a certain standard. I looked up the Indiahikes and Trek The Himalayas sites and decided that the Hampta Pass trek would be a more sensible option for me.

It was one of the very few treks that were marked ‘easy’ and at the same time, the trail looked beautiful. Besides, I had never been to Himachal and the temptation of clubbing a trip with the trek was too much for me to resist.

I told Eti about my decision and asked her what she would do. She was disappointed about my cancelling the plans, but said she wanted to join me instead of doing the Kashmir trek on her own. I promised her that if she wanted, we’d do Kashmir some other time. It has been on my wish list for quite some time and five years back, I even suffered the agony of a Kashmir trip being cancelled on the day of journey.

However, the question now was, what trip to club with the five-day trek. I had always wanted to travel to the Kinnaur area of Himachal Pradesh and decided to give it a try provided it wouldn’t take too long. I asked Eti if she wanted to join me. She agreed, but not before I emailed her pictures and detailed brochures of Sarahan, Kalpa and Sangla.

And so, it was settled. Hampta Pass trek and an accompanying trip to Kinnaur.

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I booked the trek for June 14 around end-January, with Indiahikes again. And then, as I started going through the details of the trek on their site more meticulously, I started getting panic attacks. All the days seemed fairly easy, except for the third day, which involved crossing the pass over to Spiti Valley.

“That seems to be the ‘Phedang day’,” I messaged Eti. (I measure trek difficulty levels now in terms of my bete noire Phedang.)

Mountains of Himachal come alive under the first rays of the sun

Smartened by the Goecha La experience, Eti had a word of caution, too. “Their (IH’s) ‘easy’ can very well be our ‘strenuous’,” she messaged.

I looked up the site again. About the third day, it said: “8-9 hours easy to moderately steep ascents followed by a sharp descent.”

“If they write 8-9 hours, for me it can be 12 hours or more,” I messaged back, now in sheer terror. “Why do we do this to ourselves? Are we masochistic?” I wrote again.

“No, we are insane. And we are hell-bent on proving that to the world too,” came Eti’s message along with a crying smiley. It seemed we were perfectly well on our course to fighting World War 4.

But this time, there was to be someone else to fight World War 4 along with us. My friend and former colleague Rita, during the course of a casual chat one day, asked me what my next travel plan was. When I told her about Hampta Pass, she said she loved the way I travelled religiously and wished she could do it as well. I told her she could always join us. After some initial hesitation, she said she would — only for the trek though.

After a lot of deliberation, Eti and I decided that we’d book one way by train and one way by flight to save time. Eti feared she wouldn’t get enough leave from office, having taken quite a few in the year already. In January itself, we booked our return flight tickets for June 23 from Kullu’s Bhuntar airport to Delhi and onward flights to Kolkata (for me) and Guwahati (for Eti).

We still had no idea whether the Kinnaur trip would be possible in the four days — June 19-22 — we had in hand. We simply decided that if it weren’t possible, we’d travel elsewhere in Himachal. That would effectively mean not booking any hotels — that too in the peak tourist season in the mountains.

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Right after I had returned from Sikkim, I had consulted a specialist about the breathing trouble I had faced during the trek. He assured me that I did not have a major problem and though he prescribed an inhaler, he advised me to get a bit of exercise, like swimming, to improve my breathing. I had continued to walk around 3km on the way to office regularly after the trek and in January, my niece, who lives in the same house as us, bought a manual treadmill.

Jawans of the Gurkha regiment out on their morning jog

Very enthusiastically, she invited me to work out on it as well. It did a world of difference. We put it on a reasonably steep incline and initially, I couldn’t even take a 100 steps without gasping for breath. Within a month, I was doing 1,500 steps at a stretch, working out regularly for half an hour and had lost much of those extra kilos.

Towards the end of March, I signed up for swimming classes and everything went fine for five days before disaster struck. I tripped on the escalator in the Metro on way to work, hit my foot against the sharp metal edge of the step and broke my right big toe.

When my doctor declared that it was “more than a hairline fracture”, my first question was if I could do the trek that was barely 2.5 months away. He looked at me with very sad, soulful eyes, but said nothing. I guessed it meant “yes”.

My doctor, who is also my uncle, worries for me just about as much as my parents do when I make my crazy travel plans. But he’s also one of the happiest when I complete a trip or trek and one of the keenest listeners of my travel tales. He gave me a healing period of a month, which would be the end of April. So, if everything went fine, I’d still have more than a month to prepare for the trek.

But my troubles were far from over. Around mid-April, owing to an awkward posture, a back pain originating from a congenital defect, which has the potential ability to confine me to bed, was suddenly back. I did not dare to tell my doctor about it because I knew that this time, his answer would probably be “no”. I quietly started taking the medicines he had prescribed on earlier occasions and prayed that it would help. Thankfully, it did. 

However, I also told Eti and Rita that I might have to cancel the trek if the back pain wasn’t completely gone. Both said if I cancelled the trek, so would they. We agreed that in the worst-case scenario, we’d all just go on a trip to Himachal.

By the end of April, however, the bandage came off, the toe had reasonably healed and the back pain was more or less under control. But my spate of injuries continued. On May Day, I went out for my first proper walk since the fracture, tripped and fell all over again. This time, I hurt my left knee so badly that the wound refused to heal until I took antibiotics.

My unkind relatives joked that these days I was more often seen crawling on various Kolkata roads than I was seen walking. Jokes apart, all these injuries were taking a toll on my confidence and I kept fearing that the next injury was just round the corner. Thankfully, that was the end of it and by mid-May, all the various injuries had healed enough for me to feel positive that I was still doing the trek.

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One of my favourite mountain flowers. These grew in abundance in Sikkim too

I had already booked the train tickets for June 11 for the three of us on Kalka Mail and also the return ticket for Rita on the same train for June 19, the day Eti and I would presumably leave for Kinnaur. But once I started asking my traveller colleagues about the possibilities of the Kinnaur trip, everyone seemed to agree that it was impossible.

But why not? I pointed out to them that if we went to Sarahan from Manali on the 19^th, Sarahan to Kalpa on the 20^th, Kalpa to Sangla along with a day trip to Chitkul on the 21^st and from Sangla to Kullu on the 22^nd, we’d make it. It was the unanimous opinion that Manali to Sarahan wasn’t possible in a day. Apparently no driver would do it; a break in Shimla had to be taken.

I just clung on to a faint ray of stubborn hope when one of my colleagues gave me the phone number of Vinkal Hada, apparently one of the best drivers of Himachal with a dedicated fan following to boast. “If anyone agrees to do it, it will be him,” said my colleague, who was himself about to do an epic journey in Himachal just a few days ahead of us. I looked up the Net and found several people on travel sites endorsing Vinkal.

I called him up with some trepidation, fearing he would turn down the proposal at once. But when I told him about the plan, he said casually, “Ho jayga” (it can be done). I could not believe my ears and repeated it, stressing that we’d have to do Manali to Sarahan in a day. He again said “Ho jayga”, but added that it’d be a long day. I was nearly jumping with joy.

I told him that we’d also need a car from Kalka to Manali on the 13^th and he quoted a total sum of Rs 24,000 — Rs 18,000 for the Kinnaur trip and Rs 6,000 for the Kalka-Manali trip. When I told my colleague about this, he said Vinkal was overcharging.

He then gave me the number of the travel agent with whom he was doing his trip, but this man seemed shell-shocked on hearing of my plan. He straightaway said it was impossible and I wasn’t too keen on pursuing matters. It was more important to me that I had an uncomplaining driver who would help me complete the trip pleasantly. Besides, Vinkal had also told me I wouldn’t have to make hotel bookings and the driver he would allot to us would take care of it. That was what we needed.

I had to pay Vinkal an advance of Rs 5,000 and emailed him our itinerary. He sent a mail a few days later, confirming our trip.

The only thing left was booking the hotel in Manali. I entrusted Rita with this job. IH had already given us some suggestions and we settled on a hotel that had the most reasonable charges and was apparently very close to the Manali bus stand, from where we’d be picked up for the trek on the 14^th. It was called Thakur Palace and owned by someone called Ravi Thakur, whose contact number IH gave us.

When I called him up first, he said we’d have to pay an advance. Eti called him up next and this time he said we could pay an advance if we “wanted to”. I don’t know what exactly Rita told him, but after their final discussion he assured her that she’d “only have to give him a call and the room would be ready”!

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Mountain roads, take me home...

Though I had almost all the gear from Goecha La, I was adamant about not doing another trek in my Woodland bricks. I knew I owed at least 40% of my troubles in Goecha La to those unyielding, unbending pair of Hadean rocks. I started hunting for something more pliable.

One of my colleagues suggested Adidas. I looked it up on the Net but there were no reviews. The pair — the only ones labelled ‘trekking shoes for women’ by the company — seemed to be a new product. Shortly after recovering from the fracture, I went to their store and luckily found the pair for my size.

The first thing that struck me about the shoes was the lightness. They seemed just like the usual sneakers. But the grooves looked very much like my Woodland bricks (the only good thing about it). The only negative about the pair was the lack of ankle support. It had low ankles. And the price was quite exorbitant.

But the first two qualities made it look like a good option. The sad part — I’d have to find out for myself exactly how it’d work in the Himalayan terrain.

I can’t resist the temptation of narrating a funny incident here. To try out the Adidas pair, I took off the sneakers I was wearing and got the shock of my life. The two socks I had on were from two different pairs. I didn’t know how I had managed it, but the only saving grace was that the two socks complemented each other. One was grey with a black border; the other was black with a grey border.

I looked sheepishly at the attendant who kept a straight face and went about his job like an automaton. Or maybe he thought it was a style statement. I too pretended that absolutely nothing was wrong. I don’t know how they reacted after I left the store, but I simply couldn’t stop laughing. Either I was turning into a crazy genius — or simply crazy, minus the genius part.

The shoes, however, proved to be a fantastic buy and I highly recommend it for its lightness and firm grip, though one has to forego ankle support. Apparently Nike and Reebok have similar shoes for lower prices though I can’t tell how good they are. Rita bought a pair of Bata Power shoes, which, for a much lower price, apparently gave quite a good grip, too.

I had hopped on the treadmill the very next day after my bandage came off. And I was happy to see that despite being totally out of action for one and a half months, I hadn’t lost my breath. Later, I substituted this workout with climbing stairs. By June, I was doing 50 times up and down one floor of stairs — essentially climbing up and down 50 stories — at perfect ease.

But was it good enough? My mother, who has an uncanny knack for predicting anything relating to me, told me it was. “You have worked hard enough this time. You’ll be just fine,” she said. And with this, I left home on June11.

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Eti had flown down to Kolkata and on the way to Howrah station, I gave her a little conducted tour of the city. And at 7.40pm, three very excited-but-anxious women left the city on Kalka Mail.

Kuntal, with whom my friendship had lasted beyond Goecha La, kept giving me tips till the last moment along with frantic reminders like, “Don’t forget your inhaler this time”, “Have you remembered the raincoat?”, “Carry knee caps (which I didn’t)” and the like.

Somewhere on the road to Manali

He also gave a very useful suggestion — to have trout in Manali. I told him our trek leader was someone called Akhil and Kuntal said he knew him. “Akki? He’s a very nice chap. He’s from Manali. His father owns a grocery store there. Akhil’s a big-time smoker. Ask him about the trout. He knows a very good place. It’s on the way to Hadimba temple,” Kuntal messaged.

So, even though poor Akhil still had no clue that I existed in this world, I knew enough about him to feel like a seasoned RAW agent.

I spent time on the train learning some Jaintia cuss words from Eti. It always comes in handy while trekking on rough terrain with near strangers who may think badly of you if you cuss in a language that everyone else understands. I especially needed them to beat the stress on the ‘Phedang Day’.

Vinkal had not given me the driver’s contact number yet and when I called him up from the train later that night, he said to my utter shock, “Oh, do you need a driver for the 13^thalso?” “I had told you and it’s also written in the mail I sent you,” I panicked. “Ok ok, don’t worry. I’ll arrange something,” he said.

It was worrying because I had read about the “transport union problems” in Kalka, due to which cars are not readily available unless booked in advance. Even buses are available mostly from Chandigarh and there are no direct services from Kalka to Manali. Plus, we would be getting off the train at 4.30 in the morning and the idea of fumbling for our way then was hardly inviting.

After some nail-biting moments, Vinkal messaged me the number of “Mr Kaku”. It sounded so formal that while calling him up I wondered what to address him as. Was ‘Kaku’ his name? Was it his surname? Addressing him “Mr Kaku” sure sounded funny.

Later, I realised drivers in Himachal have a penchant for adding the “Mr” before their names. Vicky, the driver with whom we did the Kinnaur trip, had a recorded message on his phone that said, “Mr Vicky is busy right now. Please call later.”

Finally, I decided on Kakuji and Vickyji — it sounded infinitely less weird. In fact, later I found out that both are their nicknames. Kaku’s name is actually Sandeep and Vicky’s Rakesh. But they have this thing for using their nicknames with the ‘Mr’ prefix.

Anyhow, Kaku sounded very polite and even called me up to say he had reached Kalka on the night of June 12. He told me to give him a call once we reached Chandigarh, which would be around 3.30am, and he’d set off for the station. But, then came a surprise. “Madam, if anyone in Kalka asks you where you are from and where you are going say you are from the excise department and are on your way to Shimla on government work,” he said.

I was totally taken aback. “But why?” I asked. He said it was to deal with some “union problem”. Since I already knew about it, I didn’t ask him too much. But Eti and Rita were not amused. “Why shall we lie? How will we produce an ID card if they ask for it,” they questioned. “Let’s see,” I said.

Inwardly I wondered how three women with rucksacks and trekking poles would pass off as “excise department officials on way to Shimla on government work”.

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We reached Kalka on perfect time. Kaku himself called me up and asked how he’d recognise us. “Look out for three women with backpacks,” I said. He came up the moment we left the exit. Once we were settled in the car I asked him what the “excise department” thing was all about. “Shhhh,” he said. “Later,” he whispered.

I looked around. There was not a single soul to be seen. It seemed there was no end to feeling like a RAW agent!

As we drove off and entered Himachal barely minutes later, Kaku looked more relieved. He explained then that the transport unions in Haryana — under which Kalka falls — do not like drivers from Himachal “taking away” their passengers. “But they usually don’t mess with you if you are a government official,” he said.

The Beas near Mandi

Within half an hour, we were in the mountains. We caught the sunrise from the car, drove past Gurkha regiment jawans on their morning jog, stopped for a breakfast of delicious aloo paranthas in a joint aptly titled Fauji Dhaba, drove through a 3km-long tunnel, enjoyed a terrific rafting experience in Kullu (see previous post), which made us ravenously hungry and so, we asked Kaku to stop for lunch.

“Do you want to eat at a restaurant or a dhaba will do?” he asked helpfully. “Stop whichever is first. Just STOP,” I said feeling like I could eat an entire elephant. He stopped at a dhaba called Green Shadow. The plateful of plain curd I had there post-meal tasted one of the best ever.

We had targeted reaching Manali by 3pm and we knew our rafting experience had messed our schedule up royally. I was mostly keen on reaching Manali early so as to visit the Hadimba temple that afternoon itself, just in case we found no time after returning from the trek. But Kaku was in no hurry. When I asked him when we’d reach Manali, he said: “Why? Will you get married this evening? What’s the rush?” There was no option but to keep mum.

Apart from the initial hour or two, most of the road till Kullu was quite boring. In fact, it started feeling like the mountains only once we left Kullu. Besides, it was so hot that it seemed like the plains. “Himachal is reeling under record heat this year,” Kaku said unhappily.

But after Kullu, travelling through the mountains, along the Beas, was a beautiful experience. As we neared Manali, the snow-capped peaks popped up from nowhere and the beautiful and vivacious Beas gradually came up from its deep valley to flow a couple of feet below the road-level. We finally reached Manali at 5.30pm.

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I must say Manali disappointed me. As we entered the famous hill town, the mountains and Beas promptly disappeared behind a wall of hotels and shops, a sea of people and a train of honking cars and buses. The hotels and shops seemed to be literally stacked on top of each other. No nook and corner has been spared and I wondered how they came up with different names for all of them.

We drove down the lanes and bylanes off Mall Road in search of Thakur Palace but there was no sign of it. Hardly anyone had heard of it either. Someone gave directions but we still failed to spot it. It was hardly surprising. Even a herd of elephants could have hidden unrecognised in those piles of hotels and lodges.

Search ops were still on for the 20-odd students who had been swept away by the Beas near Mandi after the sudden release of water from a dam

Rita tried calling up Ravi Thakur, but the calls strangely went unanswered. After making two rounds of the roads, Kaku seemed a little restless. “Can I drop you off near the bus stand since you are saying the hotel is close to it? I have to return to Shimla,” he whined. I felt quite like asking him if he was getting married that evening and what the hurry was, but refrained from it. We agreed to his proposal. It seemed a better idea to go looking for the hotel on foot.

He dropped us off by the bus stand and leaving Rita to guard our luggage, Eti and I set off on the hunt. We took the road at the end of Mall Road where we had first got the directions to the hotel. After only a little bit of asking around, we finally spotted the hotel, in a narrow bylane turning to the left from the road. We heaved a sigh relief.

We went in and told the boy at the counter that we had made a booking with Ravi Thakur. He went inside and brought with him an unpleasant-looking man. With a frown he asked us what we wanted. We repeated what we had told the boy, but he said there was no booking.

Eti and I exchanged glances. “Why don’t you ask Ravi Thakur?” Eti said. The man said Ravi was out of town and could not be contacted. “However, there is a room left and you can have it,” he said. “The charge is Rs 2,200.”

“But Ravi had told us the room rent is Rs 1,000,” I said. “Look madam, Manali is full today. We have this room and the rent is 2,200,” he snapped back.

At that, I made up my mind. Instead of staying in this hotel that boasts of rude staff, I’d rather stay on the road. Or even pay up Rs 22,000. But certainly not here.

Eti was still probably in two minds, but I had already walked out of the hotel. We thought Ravi’s not taking our calls made perfect sense now. The opportunity of making a fast buck in peak season was too much of a temptation to let go of.

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As we walked out into the lane off Mall Road, we debated the possibility of not finding even one room in this plethora of hotels. It seemed absurd. The first hotel we went in said at once it was full. We then decided to look in the smaller nook-and-corner lodges. On the other side of the road, in a small private lane next to a big shop, we saw a small signboard saying ‘Reception’ for Hotel Star Inn.

Inside was a man who looked like he was either of Nepali origin or from one of the northeastern states. Very surprised, he asked us where we were from. He looked even more surprised when Eti said she was from Shillong. “I’ve never had anyone from Shillong here before,” he said. It turned out then that he was from Darjeeling, but settled in Manali. So, he was likely to be Nepali.

“Both of you speak very good Hindi considering the fact that one is a Bengali and the other from Shillong,” he smiled. We accepted the compliment graciously, still wondering whether we would get a room or not. Then he said, “I am expecting some guests in a few minutes. It depends on how many rooms they will need. There are three rooms available.”

Eti and I decided to wait. As the nail-biting minutes ticked by, the man introduced himself as Sanjay Rai. “Manali is exceptionally crowded today. I have refused so many people (which we saw him doing). People are going down all the way to stay in Kullu,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ll arrange something for you.”

After nearly half an hour, the ‘guests’ arrived. They needed more than three rooms, but Rai said he had no more than three to offer. “What to do,” they said. “There’s hardly anything available. We’ll have to adjust.”

As they made their way up the stairs, our hopes seemed dashed. We were about to walk out when Mr Rai told us to wait. “I have another room,” he said. “It’s on the top floor and it doesn’t have an attached bath. At least see it.” Neither of us was keen on a room without an attached bath; nevertheless we climbed up the stairs that would have given the Phedang trail an inferiority complex.

Into the 3km-long tunnel

Huffing and puffing, we reached the room, which otherwise looked all right except for the fact that there were piles of towels and bedclothes stacked up on the dressing table. Evidently they used it as a storeroom.

Rai also showed us the bathroom, which was in a corner of the balcony and to go there, we had to go down the corridor and past three rooms. Apparently it was the ‘exclusive’ bathroom for our room.

Eti and I agreed reluctantly, for, by the look of things, there seemed not too much hope. As it is, we were tired after our two-day train and 13-hour car journeys, forget the rafting. When we came down, we told Rai that our friend and luggage would have to be brought from the bus stand. “Let my worker come, I’ll send him,” he said.

As the minutes ticked by, I felt something was wrong. There was no sign of the ‘worker’; Rai went up again when one of his employees called and seemed to be in no mood to come down. Finally when he came, he seemed to be in a quandary. Finally, he let it out. “Sorry, I can’t give you the room. A police officer is coming with his wife. I have to give him the room.”

We had nothing left to say. It was past 6.30pm, getting dark, and we were stranded in a jam-packed Manali without a hotel and without a car that could take us somewhere else. And we were hardly left with any energy — more mental than physical — to renew the hunt.

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But Rai wasn’t done. “I have made an arrangement for you in a hotel not too far from here. Come and see the room,” he said and walked out. We followed him tiredly, wondering if something would go wrong there too. After going further down the lane, he took a left, probably the turn right after the Thakur Palace bylane.

The hotel looked fine and the room, which was in the basement, was nice, cosy and airy. The rent was Rs 2,500. I was initially apprehensive about the hotel being, what seemed then, quite a long walk from the bus stand. I did not want to carry my rucksack too long on my weak back. But Rai gave me a mild scolding. “If you let go of this one, god knows if you’ll find a room in Manali tonight.” Finally we agreed.

Rai left us after giving his card and telling us we could call him up if we needed anything at all, even if it was in the middle of the night. We thanked him profusely as he bid us goodbye.

We told the hotel staff that our luggage and friend would have to be brought from the bus stand. They told us to wait at the hotel and two men left on a bike saying they would hire an auto on the way back.

View of Manali from our hotel rooftop

We waited outside. Five minutes passed, then 10, then 15 and yet, there was no sign of Rita or the two men. It was merely a 10-minute walk. Finally, we saw the bike returning and as it drew near, our jaws dropped. The guy in front had one of the daypacks slung in front; Rita was riding pillion with a rucksack on her back and holding two daypacks in two hands.

She was, understandably, furious. “Is this a way of bringing luggage?” she fumed. I looked at bystanders through the corner of my eyes. They were trying to stifle a smile, very unsuccessfully. I tried to calm Rita down, saying the luggage and she were supposed to arrive on an auto. The biker said autos had refused to make the short trip.

But what about the rest of our luggage? Rita said the other chap was guarding them. “Ok, let the two of them bring the rest now,” I told her. But Rita proved to be a real sport and hopped back on the bike. “No way, I’ll get it. There’s no trusting these nincompoops,” she said as they rode off. After a while, they were back with the rest of the luggage.

She had one rucksack on her back and held one in her hands as she made her way down the stairs to our room. I told her to give me my backpack at least, but she refused. I asked her to give it to the hotel staff, but she refused again. “Let these buggers feel ashamed of themselves. What do they think? We are women and can’t take care of ourselves,” she thundered.

I don’t know if he was indeed ashamed, but one of the staff members hurried over and pleaded with her to give him the bags. But she was adamant and carried them all the way to the room.

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The first thing we did on settling down was to leave our wet clothes (thanks to rafting) to dry. Both Eti and I had a string each and we tied them up to make a long clothesline that extended from one end in the bathroom to another in the bedroom, taking a V-shaped turn at the door.

What a sight it was! Every time any of us had to use the bathroom we had to either duck under the clothesline or jump over it. We obviously did not allow the hotel workers to enter the room when they brought our meals or something else and snatched it from them at the door. They were awfully curious to find out what was going on and kept peeping surreptitiously every time they came.

Later that night, I came to know from our IH contact that Ravi Thakur had met with an accident, which is why the hotel staff were acting up. We felt sad for suspecting Ravi and knew now why he had not taken our calls. She asked us if some of our trekmates, who would arrive the next morning, could freshen up in our room. I told her we had no problem though ultimately no one turned up.

Another side of Manali. Seen from our hotel rooftop

I spent much of the night doing aerobics on the bed. Since neither of my companions was willing to sleep in the middle, I volunteered, but woke up in the middle of the night feeling very warm. Since we were sharing one blanket, I had no way of throwing it off because both Eti and Rita were fast asleep snugly holding on to it. I had never mulled this strange possibility. Finally, I jumped up over the blanket and slept for god-knows-how long before I woke up feeling very cold. Then I had to slide right back in. It was a strange night.

The next morning, we had been told to take heavy breakfast and reach “Rambaugh Circle” at 11am. From what the hotel staff had told us, it was somewhere near the bus stand, a little way up from it actually, and “only a 5-minute walk from the hotel”. But we had also decided that on the way, we’d book a room in Rai’s hotel for the night of June 18, when we’d return from the trek.

We stuffed ourselves with bread, butter and jam as our clothes lay drying under the sun by the window on a stool, a chair, a table and every possible movable item in the room. There had been no time for either trout or Hadimba temple and I could only hope that we’d get some time on the way back. Finally, around 10.15am, we stuffed the semi-dry clothes in our bags, checked out of the hotel and started the hike towards Rambaugh Circle.

Continued in Next Post

Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part II)

August 11, 2014, 1:05 am

≫ Next: Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part III)

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On way to Chika from Jobra

“Occasionally I have come across a last patch of snow on top of a mountain in late May or June. There’s something very powerful about finding snow in summer” — Andy Goldsworthy

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Continued from previous post... 

Rambaugh Circle turned out to be at the other end of Mall Road, from where the road forks out and the one on the left leads towards Hadimba temple. As we approached the crossing, we saw a few youngsters with backpacks and guessed — rightly — that they were part of our team. They turned out to be one of the various groups from Mumbai. One of them called up our trek leader Akhil and he told us to enter the park that Mall Road straight led to. That was Rambaugh circle.

Manali Mall Road, just outside Rambaugh Circle

Many of the team members were already there. I saw a lean guy constantly busy on the phone and guessed it was Akhil. He was in army-fatigue-print cargos and a cap with sun-protection flaps on three sides that shadowed much of his face, leaving only the lower part clearly visible. Except for one occasion, that’s how I — and probably everybody else — saw Akhil for the next four days.

As the rest of the team kept arriving in ones and twos or in bigger groups, I went and introduced myself to Akhil. I asked him who the ‘sweeper’ was. With most of the team being bubbly youngsters, I was pretty certain I would need the services of the sweeper this time, too. And I thought I might as well make friends with the guy with whom I was likely to spend most of the next four days!

But Akhil said there was no sweeper. “There are other staff members, but I am the only team leader ma’am. There’s no sweeper,” he said.

“Firstly,” I said, “please don’t call me ma’am. Call me Urmi.” Akhil said: “Ok, Urmi ma’am.” To take revenge, I started calling him ‘Akhil Sir’ later. He completely stopped addressing me after that.

Then I asked him how many of us he would be managing all alone. “This is a big group,” he said. “You are 37 in all. Plus there will be around 40 porters and other staff.”

Top view of Manali

Thirty-seven! But isn’t 24 the largest group size usually? “Yes,” he said. “There was a problem during registration and extra people got registered for this batch by mistake,” he shared. I couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. The more the people, lesser the peace.

I asked Akhil next whether we’d be able to cross the pass. The IH correspondent had already given us the bad news that the first batch hadn’t been able to cross the pass over to Spiti valley because of “record snowfall” (along with record heat!) this year. The Chatru road to Chandratal was closed as well. So the first batch had gone back the way they had come. Was it our fate too?

Akhil looked at my eager face and said very apologetically, “There’s still a lot of snow. We won’t be able to cross the pass.” Seeing my face fall, he quickly added, “Even the local shepherds haven’t been able to cross the pass yet this year. I don’t think anyone will be able to cross the pass for another 25 days at least.”

Jobra Dam

But that was little consolation. There is something wrong between the Himalayas and me. Every time I’m on a Himalayan trip, something has to go wrong. Something — the best part usually — remains incomplete. In Uttarakhand, it was Kedarnath; in Ladakh, it was Nubra valley; in Goecha La, it was Kanchenjungha itself and now, it was Spiti Valley, Chandratal as well as the return via Rohtang Pass.

One day, I hope to stand in front of one of the Himalayan peaks and declare a la Beatrix Kiddo alias Black Mamba in Kill Bill: “Mr Himalayas, you and I have unfinished business.” In our case, it would be “several unfinished businesses”.

The only good news Akhil had for me was that we’d be able to see some snow from the first day itself. I went and shared this with some of our trekmates. This brought some cheer because by then, most of them had got the bad news.

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Day 1: Manali to Jobra dam by car; 4km trek from Jobra dam (8700 feet) to Chika (9800 feet)

A rough map of the Hampta Pass trek

It wasn’t before 1pm that in groups of eight in each car, we left for Jobra from the Manali bus stand. After crossing the bridge over the Beas just off the bus stand, the cars went on relatively plain land for around 15 minutes before starting to climb up a steep gradient round hairpin bends.

On the way, the cars stopped for permits and I got the opportunity to take a nice top-view of Manali. The driver later claimed photography was not allowed there. I argued that neither was there any signboard to say so, nor had anyone stopped me from taking the shots.

After going up some 40-odd bends, we reached the Jobra dam, from where the actual trek was supposed to begin. The rest of the IH staff and the porters were already there. On one side of the road was the dam and on the other was the trail leading through some beautiful woods that looked inviting at once. From the Jobra dam itself, we could see a snow-capped peak looming in the distance, towards which we would presumably be walking.

We spent some time there submitting our documents — an ID proof, a medical certificate and a disclaimer stating something like ‘I know about the risks of trekking and will not hold IH responsible even if I die’. As I stood in the queue, one of the young guys asked the porters, “Bhaiya, where is the washroom?” Though he put the question in Hindi, he used the word ‘washroom’.

Starting off from Jobra

I looked at the porters. I can bet a million bucks that they wouldn’t have looked more stunned even if they had seen a herd of triceratops passing by. Seeing them tongue-tied, I interjected: “For the next few days, it’s better if you forget that something called a washroom exists.” The guy did not comment, but the porters grinned from ear to ear.

We then handed over our rucksacks to the porters (whoever wanted to) and also had the option of leaving behind unwanted luggage in Manali (cloakroom facility) in charge of IH. Akhil then gave us a briefing saying we’d walk for some time, take a break to have a local snack and then start again. “Today’s trek is not too difficult,” he said. “We should be able to do it in two hours or less.”

Finally, we set out around 2.30pm from Jobra.

Siddo, a local snack made of almond paste dough and a poppy seed paste filling

The terrain was slightly rocky, but quite easy to walk on. We met the river — the Rani Nullah (or Hampta Nullah) — after a while and she was to be our companion for the rest of the trek. It was a beautifully forested trail that opened out briefly into a clearing after a few minutes of crossing a bridge on the river before disappearing into the forest once again. The snow-capped peak was clearly visible again from the clearing.

After walking for around half an hour, we stopped at a well-shaded spot in the forest for a detailed briefing by Akhil and a taste of ‘siddu’ — a local snack made of almond paste dough with a filling of poppy seed paste. It was much like a dry momo and went with a delicious chutnee.

As we relished our siddu, Akhil introduced the other IH staff members — Polu Thakur, Panna Thakur and Chander Thakur. (There seemed to be an overdose of Thakurs in Manali. Even our driver Kaku was a Thakur.) Akhil said Chandan was his assistant. Polu bhai, he said, had completed mountaineering courses and assured us that we were in safe hands. We were asked to introduce ourselves, too.

Through the deodar forest

Akhil gave us a few tips on how to use our trekking poles and how to hold the rucksack — not by the long straps as most of us were doing, but by the small strap near the neck specially made for the purpose. “Otherwise you’ll end up tearing the straps,” he said. He also told us how to pack the bags — to put the heavier stuff in the middle and leave the top and bottom lighter. “Otherwise, the balance gets messed up and you will hurt your back.”

We had not got such lessons in Goecha La since the entire team, expect for Eti and I, had been experienced trekkers. The trek leader hadn’t bothered to take the trouble only for the two of us.

Lessons over, Akhil now asked if any of us smoked. I looked at Rita at once, but she sat there with an angelic expression on her face. I knew why Akhil was asking this; Kuntal had already told me that Akhil was a big-time smoker. “Rita may find a smoking pal in Akhil, but I doubt if her stocks will last till the end of the trek then,” Kuntal had messaged along with a laughing smiley.

Seeing no one owning up, Akhil finally said in his usual good-humoured way: “Ok, I presume no one smokes. But even if someone does, they won’t do it near the campsite. They will do it out of sight of the other trekkers. Smoking and drinking are not allowed by Indiahikes.” There were muffled giggles all around.

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The meadow on way to Chika

It was around 3.30pm when we started off again. The trail continued for around 10-15 more minutes through the forest, which mostly housed deodars. Akhil and Polu bhai later told me that it also houses pines, jamun (berry), oak (green and yellow varieties), maple, walnut and birch (bhurjipatra) in the upper reaches.

The forested trail led straight into a vast green meadow. We seemed to be at its far side and it continued the way we had to go, but we did not take that route. We crossed the meadow instead and on the other side, where the Rani Nullah was flowing down to meet the Beas somewhere downstream, we met out first patch of snow.

I was surprised because I hadn’t expected to get it so early into the trek. It was a patch of old, hard, muddy snow, which acted as a bridge over the river. There was an IH member standing to guide us over the snow patch and he kept telling us not to veer too much towards the river. At that time, I had only guessed that there was a risk of the snow giving way under our feet.

The Rani Nullah/Hampta Nullah

I know now from the pictures of later batches that there’s a foot-wide bridge of wooden planks on the river there. But when we went, the five-metre-wide (or more) chunk of solid snow had covered it completely. That’s precisely why we were being guided over the invisible bridge as closely as possible so as to cut the risk of the snow giving way. None of the trekkers probably had a clue that there was a bridge underneath.

The snow patch made a moderately steep gradient, up which we would have to climb to meet the trail again, which went up a gentler gradient. This was the first test for my new shoes.

My fitness had so far not given me a reason to complain. Unlike Goecha La, where I had started gasping for breath 10 minutes into the trek, I had been walking here for around 45 minutes and was yet to feel even remotely tired. True, the Goecha La trail starts off much steeper than the Hampta Pass trail, but still, it felt good.

Crossing the first snow patch

As I started climbing up the patch of snow, I noticed that the shoes were slipping slightly and asked one of the IH members if it was normal. Thankfully, he said it was. “The snow is hard and it will slip slightly. Unless it’s slipping too much, it’s ok.” My shoes seemed perfectly fine.

After the snow patch, the trail continued through grassy undulating tracts dotted with rocks and interspersed with brief thickets. We crisscrossed our way through large flocks of grazing sheep and as we went on, we started meeting large patches of snow on the slopes, off which water was trickling to form torrents that made their way down to the river. Up ahead was the snow-capped peak, and the river never let us out of sight. Behind us cascading down the hills were the tall deodars and, what Akhil told me later, rhododendron bushes. In all, calling it ‘beautiful’ would be an understatement. 

The trail was remarkable different from the Goecha La trail, which is much more forested in the first two days. In fact, the first campsite in Sachen is in the middle of a rain forest and though it has its own beauty, it restricts the view and doesn’t tell you where you are going until you are a few feet from your destination. Trekkers do not get to meet the meadows until they reach Dzongri on the third day.

To put it poetically, if the Goecha La trail is like this mysterious veiled woman who will entice you with a whisper, a motion of her finger or a rustle of her robe, Hampta is like a lively, cheerful teenager who will giggle, dance down her tracks and wave and shout at you to follow her towards the snow-capped Himalayan peak on the horizon. 

Through rocks and flocks of sheep

The only steep (slightly) ascent we experienced on the first day was up a grassy slope. As I hiked up, I noticed the difference in my breathing. Unlike Goecha La, where I would start panting within five minutes of a climb, I went up the slope relatively easily, stopping a couple of times to catch my breath, which didn’t take more than a minute at the most. Most importantly, I could take deep breaths even while walking up, which had been completely impossible for me at Goecha La. 

We had walked for only around 2 hours after the siddu break when we saw the Chika campsite. And we had all been walking at quite a leisurely pace, with shutterbugs like me stopping for lots of photo breaks.

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Towards the mountains

Nestled amid the mountains, with the Rani Nullah gurgling past and flocks of sheep grazing past the tents, Chika made a dream campsite. It gave a fine view of the snow-capped peak, behind which, Akhil told me, was the Indraquila peak (16,000+ feet). Layers of deodars swathed the mountains we had left behind. And the ground was strewn with wild spinach, which grew everywhere just like grass.

Only in one trek, Eti and I had had a tremendous role reversal. We had been the rookies at Goecha La; here, with 95% of the team first-timers, we were the ‘experienced’ ones! We had been among the first to reach the campsite. And I did not feel half-dead either. I remembered Dr Bichkar telling me at Sachen, “I can walk for another few miles, but you can’t.” This time, I knew I could.

We were greeted at Chika with delicious watermelons and tea, which was followed by steaming hot Maggi. After the rest of the team arrived, Akhil gave another briefing, explaining how to use the toilet tents. “No one will use water. It will make the tent even stinkier. Soak the toilet paper in water and your job will be done,” he said, drawing chuckles and giggles from all around.

Peeping through the clouds

We were all getting to like Akhil. He had an open face, intelligent eyes and a very good sense of humour. He said whatever he had to say very plainly but with a dash of his own brand of wit. Later I found that he was also very dutiful and went around the campsite every morning with his first-aid kit, asking everybody how he or she was feeling and even dressing people’s feet. He was nearly always present at the toughest stretches of the trail, helping trekkers cross it, and worked as the ‘sweeper’ himself unlike some other team leaders who designate their deputies for the purpose. To me, Akhil was perfect leader material.

Akhil also told us to keep en eye open for bears. Apparently the previous batch had sighted a bear (I don’t know what kind) from the Chika campsite further up the trail. “No one will go to the toilet tent alone at night. They will take someone along,” he said.

The white-capped water redstart

Immediately someone asked, “And what will that poor other person do if the bear comes?” “Shout at the top of his or her voice,” Akhil grinned.

After a while, I went and sat down by the river. There was still some daylight left as being in the west of India, sundown doesn’t happen in Himachal before 7.30pm in summer. It was slightly cloudy, but not very cold. We were mostly dressed only in tees of varying thickness. It was windy though and I could feel the chill by the river.

Though later I saw pictures of the Himalayan Griffon vulture being posted by a member of the previous batch, we didn’t spot any. I only sighted a white-capped water redstart by the river, though from quite a distance. I took some shots but owing to the low light and the distance,

none came out too good despite my 50X zoom.

Wild spinach grew  everywhere at the Chika campsite

It was pitch-dark by the time dinner was served and I was pleasantly surprised to see that IH has made a lot of changes in the quality of food it serves — in fact, it has gone overboard with it. Not only has it increased the number of options — e.g. included both rice and chapatti in the menu apart from two kinds of curry/dal — it has, more importantly, incorporated fruits and milk in the diet. Breakfast always comprised bread with butter and jam, milk-cornflakes, and sometimes even omelettes, pancakes or porridge.

Thankfully, the oily puris and paranthas that we were sometimes served at Goecha la were completely out.

After 13 months, it felt nice to crawl back into a cosy Alpine tent and slip into a sleeping bag once again. This time, however, we did not get liners, but were asked to mark our bags so that we could pick up the same one every day. We hardly cribbed this time as we went about the minor tasks by the light of our torches.

From the tent at Chika

At Goecha La, every small thing had seemed daunting. Rolling and packing the sleeping bags had seemed so tiresome that I had named it World War III, which has stuck to the trek like an epithet. This time, packing the sleeping bag was no sweat at all. Even the toilet tent did not seem so repulsive like last time, though I still felt like a dog (rather bitch) heaping the loose earth into the pit with my feet every time.

Surprisingly, Eti and I were actually feeling a little sad. We had nothing to crib about. That essentially meant no excuse to enjoy our crazy, drunkard laughs.

Rita adjusted to camping life well for a first-timer, though the altitude was bothering her. She had a niggling headache, which a dose of paracetamol couldn’t take care of. And she was also having trouble breathing — just like I had had at Goecha La, and with the same effect, too. It was slowing her down.

Both Eti and I woke up around the same time — around 6am. There were no mad whistles this time and no one hurried us up. But we went about our morning tasks just like we used to the last time. By 7.30am, both of us were ready for the day — sleeping bags rolled, rucksacks packed, though breakfast was probably served a bit later. I even took some time to sit by the river again hoping to catch the redstart. It was there, but so far that it did not give me a very good shot.

And it was time to move to the next destination...

I can’t remember at what time we were supposed to start off (probably 9am), but I recall clearly that only Eti and I were standing at the designated spot at the exact time like valiant, hardened warriors. Daypacks on our back and trekking poles in hand, we looked exactly like those statues at war memorials of the soldier with the helmet on his head and hands resting on his rifle. Many of our trekmates were still lazing about, some were having trouble with their sleeping bags, others were dilly-dallying...

I realized then that Goecha La had battle-readied us for life. But ironically, that’s also why World War IV will probably never happen.

Continued in next post

Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part III)

August 18, 2014, 12:58 am

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On way to Balu Ka Gera from Chika

“Earth and sky, woods and fields, lakes and rivers, the mountain and the sea, are excellent schoolmasters, and teach some of us more than we can ever learn from books” — John Lubbock

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Continued from previous post...

Day 2: Chika (9,800 feet) to Balu Ka Gera (12,000 feet) 

The second day promised to be longer and more action-packed than the first. We could expect to be amid more snow and closer to the mighty Indrasan peak (6,221 metre/20,410 feet), but before that we would have to cross two fast-flowing mountain streams on the way. For an aquaphobic, it wasn’t a very pleasant prospect.

The first river crossing

The first crossing was barely 5-10 minutes from the Chika campsite. We had been asked to take off our shoes and tie the laces to the straps of the backpacks. I took no risk and put the shoes in a plastic bag and stuffed it in the bag. We had to secure the trekking poles to the straps of the backpack as well. The only stupid thing I did was to keep the camera bag hanging round my neck as usual.

As I went about the preparations, I kept sneaking glances at the stream. It wasn’t too deep; I could see the rocks underneath and it did not seem more than knee-deep at the most. But it was swift and made rapids where the water hit the rocks. It did not look inviting at all.

But it had to be done. So, instead of wasting time, which was likely to only increase the anxiety, I decided to just go for it. We were told to hold hands and make a chain to cross the stream, though IH staffers had placed themselves at strategic points where they could give us a helping hand. I ended up being the third in the chain with two other girls leading and several trekkers following me.

I rolled up my pants to the knees and took the first step from the rocks into the water gingerly. God! It was ice-cold. And then suddenly, before I could even realise what was happening, I was being dragged into it headlong by the two bravehearts leading the chain!

Marsh marigolds by the rivulets on the other bank of the stream

The rocks underneath were slippery. And through the churning water, I could hardly make out where they were. I had to feel them with my feet, which had gone numb within moments of hitting the water. I was also worried for the fractured toe. The good part was that even it pained, I was not in a state to feel it.

But the two bravehearts gave me no time to feel my way through the water. They were dashing through it like a bulldozer.

“Ruko, ruko,” I kept screaming. ‘Ruko’ happens to be one of my favourite Hindi words. It stands for both ‘stop’ and ‘wait’. And I often find myself in strange situations where I have to shout ‘ruko, ruko’ at the top of my voice. But no one was in the mood — or even situation — to either stop or wait. The human chain seemed to have a brain of its own and it was cutting through the water like a chainsaw.

Stumbling and slipping, somehow I kept up with the chain, negotiating the rocks, braving the current and turning a deaf ear to the constant shouting by the IH staff to “not look down at the water” because it would “make us giddy”.

The trail gets rockier and steeper

I had already had that experience years ago, in 1995, when I had gone on my first trek from school. We had had to cross a river much wider and swifter than this one. And I had nearly staggered my way through it like a drunkard despite holding on to a rope. Thankfully, this time I did better than that. 

Finally, after what seemed like ages — though it must have been 10 to 12 minutes at the most — I was on dry ground again. It took all of us a while getting back sensation in our feet under the sun.

Despite rolling them up above the knees, the legs of my pants, like everybody else’s, were soaking wet. That reminded me of my beloved camera and I nearly freaked out when I found the bottom of the pouch wet. Thankfully it had not penetrated to the camera itself. At the next river crossing, I wrapped it in plastic and put it in my bag along with the shoes.

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Water meets snow

Once I was back in my element, I looked around and realised it was a beautiful spot with a carpet of marsh marigolds spread out a little off the bank, where tiny rivulets of melted snow were making their way down to the Rani Nullah.

From here, the trail became rockier, steeper and tougher. The snow patches kept increasing in number and so did the number of streams flowing out of them. But the tract was still green and adding to its lustre were clusters of purple iris.

As we kept going upstream, the Rani Nullah gradually disappeared under a thick cloak of snow. But it was summer and holes were starting to show in the river’s precious winter garment. A few more weeks and it would vanish completely. There were distinct cracks in the snow already and it had broken up in chunks in places, revealing the gushing water underneath.

This was the reason we had to veer off the usual Hampta trail that continues right next to the river. To bypass the frozen stream, we had to climb a little up from the trail. We got to walk on the frozen river, too, but that was further upstream where the snow was still thick and hard.

We kept crossing one stream after another, jumping over the rocks, and I never managed to do it without getting my shoes wet. Luckily, the weather was good and the shoes would always dry under the sun at the campsite. Or, I would have had to make do with squelchy shoes every day.

Very soon, we came across the first patch of snow that we’d have to cross. We had to follow the footmarks that had already been made by the IH staff and place our feet exactly on them as far as possible. The slope did not make it very easy.

After crossing several of them and with some tips from Akhil and others, I gradually realised the trick — one has to place the foot as ‘straight’ as possible. For instance, if the downward slope is from left to right, one has to dig in the left part of both feet while walking to keep the balance. It will be the right one if the slope is from right to left. But it’s easier said than done.

The tattered winter garment of the river

The worst part was stepping on the snow patches from the rocks or vice versa. The spots where the patches ended were the most vulnerable. Very often, the snow could not hold our weight and simply gave way. It happened with me twice. Both times I was lucky enough to get away with no injury.

But one of our trekkers wasn’t so lucky. He fell and injured his knee in the rocks beneath. He completed the trek, though it must have been very painful because it later turned out to be a hairline fracture.

All through the walk, the mountains, which looked more like a massive wall of snow, beckoned us from behind the undulating ground that led straight up ahead. It seemed that we’d bump straight into it if we simply kept going. That’s the mischief of the mountains. No one ever manages to hit the wall.

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A couple of hours after starting off, we came to a small waterfall in front of which the path was blocked by a huge chunk of snow, one end of it jutting out over the rocks in a mere 1/1.5-foot thick layer. We would have to jump on to it from the rocks; there seemed to be no other way out.

A walk on the snow

When I arrived, ice axes were being tested on the jutting-out layer of snow, probably to check its strength. On being sure that it was strong enough to allow all of us to pass, the IH staff and other helping hands started making a pile of small flat rocks just below the ‘snow bridge’. The pile would serve as a step for jumping on to it.

Eti asked me to come along as she prepared to cross the bridge, but I refused. No photographer worth his or her salt would miss the chance of clicking this fantastic part of the journey.

The stone step was wobbly from the beginning. And it started getting wobblier with every step as one trekker after another used it jump on to the snow bridge. After the eighth/ninth trekker, it completely disintegrated and the last one just about managed to escape a fall.

Looking back: The green Chika was far away by now

I wondered if the step would be rebuilt, but the idea was cancelled. So, the rest of us had to jump on to the bridge off a single rock, though there were two men to pull us up. It was a much better idea than the shaky step.

Around half an hour later, we stopped to have our packed lunch on a grassy spot that was teeming with the purple iris. It overlooked the valley and was surrounded by snow patches and lofty mountains. I don’t know if Art Davidson, who famously wrote that he climbed mountains “to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in peace”, had enjoyed his precious meal here, but I have never felt happier nibbling on dry chapatti rolls coated with only a thin layer of jam.

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We came to the second river crossing around 45 minutes later. The water was deeper, the current stronger and on taking one look at it I got butterflies in my stomach. I wondered if we’d cross this one in a similar fashion, but no. The staff felt it was too risky to let us do it by ourselves and they took us one by one to the other side.

The river flows under a thick coat of snow

When I stepped into the water, two men holding my hand on either side, it seemed the human chain had been better after all. Because, paying scant regard to the laws of physics, both were pulling me in opposite directions and expecting me to walk straight — that too through slippery rocks, a terribly strong current and freezing water. And to top it all, I wasn’t supposed to look down.

I simply don’t remember how I managed to reach the other side — once again shouting “ruko, ruko” at the top of my voice — but I got an idea later from a fantastic picture Eti took of me crossing the river. I looked exactly like a convict being dragged to the gallows.

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On the other bank, the soggy ground, crisscrossed by thousands of tiny rivulets, was strewn with clusters of marsh marigolds and the Himalayan meadow primrose. We were now in Jwara at 11,000 feet.

As we kept going higher, the flowers gradually disappeared. It was all rock and snow now with patches of dry brownish-green grass on the slopes. Even the ubiquitous jungle crow had deserted us long back.

Will we hit that massive white wall ahead?

Sometime later, we had to tackle a steep climb. I was already halfway up when I realised the situation. The gradient was around 75 degrees (or more) in certain sections with no rocks to step on — just slopes of loose pebbles and dry grass.

While walking I had inadvertently joined a group of guys from Mumbai. I was just behind the one who was leading them. His name was Devansh and he gave me a helping hand as he did to his friends, too.

A little way up from where we were, we saw one of our trekmates trying to negotiate one of the thousands of rivulets that we had to keep crossing. But walking across a stream is one thing. Crawling across one, however small it might be, is a totally different ball game altogether — that too with the ground sloping at a 75-degree angle behind you.

The poor chap was down on all fours. He tried to crawl over the stream once, failed, tried again, but went back. Again he tried to clamber across it… He was setting a totally new benchmark for “try, try, try again”.

The spots where the snow ended and rocks started were the most dangerous

I could have stared at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed for several hours, only to find out how he finally succeeded (he must have, because all 37 of us reached Balu Ka Gera). But given the situation I was myself in, this was no time to enjoy a spectacle. One slip on the loose pebbles and I would go tumbling down all the way to the frozen river below, which was likely to crack up and send me down into the icy water, making me a fine spectacle for others.

I tried to figure out a way to bypass the stream. Looking carefully, I saw that we had already crossed it once. It was flowing down diagonally and obviously had taken the easiest gradient down. So following it was the best route no doubt, but then we’d have to keep setting new standards for “try, try, try again”.

The only way to avoid the stream was to climb up a very steep vertical section. I saw that Devansh had come up with the same idea and was already on his way up. He saw me following him and asked very doubtfully, “Are you sure you can manage? It’s very steep.”

Crossing the snow bridge

Any other time and the feminist side in me would have flown off the handle, but this was no time for isms. I simply said, “Let me try.”

The worst part was that the trekking pole was of no use in this situation and had actually become a burden as it kept one hand partly occupied. It was better to climb on all fours, using the hands to grip whatever provided a grip. Strangely, it didn’t seem all that tough. With a bit of help from Devansh, I made it in fairly quick time.

I suddenly remembered my days at Goecha La, especially Phedang, and smiled inwardly. I had indeed come a long way. But the tests were far from over.

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From here, the snow patches started getting longer and more frequent. Most of them continued all the way to the frozen river. Some of the stretches were on such a steep slope that it was difficult maintaining balance.

One of our trekmates had taken just a few steps on one when she slipped. Instinctively, she dug her fingers into the snow and hung on for dear life until two guides ran to her and helped her up. Yes, they could RUN on snow, though they had none of our fancy gear. Instead of trekking shoes, most of them had flimsy canvas footwear.

The lunch spot with purple iris

Stopping to catch my breath on a rare dry patch, I found a group of our porters taking a break on the rocks. They were looking intently at something towards the river. It was one of their men. The lone figure was inching his way up the frozen river with a 20-25kg load on his back. He was struggling a bit to come down a slope and was taking his steps gingerly. One misstep and he would tumble down with the heavy load on his back.

As I watched him with bated breath, his friends next to me were least concerned. They actually cheered him on to fall. Every time the man slipped a wee bit, they roared with laughter.

But the porter kept his balance and with slow, measured steps, crossed the treacherous stretch and continued on his way to Balu Ka Gera. Denied the opportunity to enjoy a fine show, his friends — looking very disappointed — got going, too.

At Goecha La, mules and yaks were used to carry our stuff. For Hampta, usually mules are used, but since these animals cannot manage on snow, porters had to be hired for us. Only man can go everywhere.

Crossing the second river

These Nepali porters are an amazing community by themselves. I have never seen them let go of an opportunity to laugh out loud, even if it’s for utterly sadistic reasons. They will carry the heaviest of loads in the toughest of terrains with a smile and, at the same time, lend a helping hand to struggling townsfolk like us.

All the Nepali helping hands we had met at Goecha La were all-rounders. They could all cook, work as guides and porters and evacuate the ailing/injured on stretchers down precarious mountain trails if necessary. And, they can sing, dance and make merry with equal ease. Trekkers and Himalaya-lovers down the ages have had the same experience with these men.

“Learn trekking from them. These men are the best trekkers in the world,” Akhil had told us. “But they are rustic folks and their manners may not always seem agreeable to you. Teach them etiquette. Share with them your urban ways of life. Interact; don’t avoid them.”

It’s one of the best things I have heard in my brief trekking experience.

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A little while later, I found Akhil waiting for us at one the longest stretches of snow. He started escorting us one by one across it and after a while, we realised it would take a long time if he had to keep coming back for everyone by turn.

All rocks and snow now

One of the trekkers then came up with a useful suggestion — why not cross the patch holding hands like we crossed the river? Akhil agreed.

It was difficult because the slope was somewhat steep. To make matters worse, some of the guys were not wearing the right shoes. Neither did they have trekking poles, which were helping us keep balance. Those who had the right shoes and poles could have managed by themselves better than they did in the chain, but it certainly helped those who didn’t.

Akhil led the chain, followed by two girls, then me and behind me were Devansh and some six/seven other youths. Midway, Devansh fell and I felt guilty to have let go of his hand after all the help I had got from him. I had not been holding his hand too firmly. Not much harm was done, though, and he got up himself and we continued.

A tumble on the snow

With slow, measured steps — and me getting ample opportunity to shout “ruko, ruko” for the third time in the day — we finally crossed the stretch. We were all proud of this little bit of teamwork.

At the penultimate stretch, Akhil, after accompanying me for a while, said: “You can do it yourself. Go slowly while I help the others.” I crossed it carefully without any mishap and was so buoyant by the success that at the next and final stretch, though there was someone to help everyone across, I decided to go it alone.

I was halfway across when I slipped sideways. I dug the fingers of my right hand into the snow at once and hung on till the person who was escorting the trekkers came back running and helped me up. The rest of the walk to Balu Ka Gera, which was just minutes away, went fine. It had taken us seven hours since we had started off from Chika.

A lone porter makes his way up the frozen river

The campsite was like an oasis in a desert. With barren snow-covered mountains on both sides and the mighty Indrasan peak looming ahead, the only greenish patch was the campsite. It was right next to the river, which was not frozen here. Even in the harshest of conditions life finds a way. Growing all over the green stretch were blue and white anemones, which gave Balu Ka Gera a breathtakingly beautiful look. We had to trample them all the time while walking and it would break my heart.

Eti was already there and we grinned at each other as I went and sat down on the rocks beside her and polished off a couple of chocolate bars. “It was one **** **** of a day,” I winked, finally getting to use the Jaintia expletives I had learned from her on the train. But I felt happy that despite the seven-hour walk, I was still not half-dead. I knew I could still walk a few kilometres more.

Continued in next post

And finally, Balu Ka Gera

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Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part IV)

October 9, 2014, 9:55 am

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Team on its way to Hampta Pass. Looming straight ahead is the Indrasan peak

“I love to sit on a mountain top and gaze. I don’t think of anything but the people I care about and the view” — Julian Lennon

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Continued from previous post...

The next morning, that is the third one of the trek, I woke up with a burning sensation on the back of my right hand. The night had been quite cold — with the temperature dipping to 1-2 degrees Celsius — and we had had to put on 3-4 layers of clothing, gloves and woollen caps.

Balu ka Gera campsite

At first I thought the glove had somehow caused the burning sensation. When I took it off, I couldn’t find anything amiss initially except for marks caused by the wool on the skin. But the skin felt tender. After a while, blisters started appearing all over it and kept growing alarmingly in size.

All I could guess was that it was sunburn. I had used sunscreen on my face but not on my hands. And now there was nothing I could do about it. I had no medicines for sunburn and the mobile phone had no signal so that I could call up my doctor.

Other trekkers gave some advice on what available medicine I could use which would help reduce the damage. But nothing really worked and over the next two days, it only kept getting worse.

The previous night, Akhil had asked how many of us wanted to go to the pass in the morning. If we did not want to go to the pass, we could go straight to Jwara. Those who’d go to the pass would have to go down to Jwara as well. There was a Cinderella-like condition too — everyone would be allowed to hike till 12 noon. After that, they would have to come back from wherever they were.

Balu ka Gera

I had been in two minds. Not because I had doubts whether I’d be able to make it to Jwara alive, like I did at Goecha La. But simply because I wasn’t sure I really wanted to go to the pass. Crossing Hampta Pas had been my target, not returning from it midway. I asked Akhil what peaks we could expect to see on the way. “None,” he claimed. That was even more disappointing.

Working against daily deadlines all year round is bad enough; I did not want to put myself through a deadline on a trek as well. Spending some quality time at Jwara with myself — and my camera — seemed like a far better deal than spending 9 hours staring down at my feet, which I was likely to do while walking on snow.

Eti tried to persuade me to come. But I had made up my mind. Akhil said a couple of guys in the previous batch had seen a wolf and that gave me some motivation. But it seemed highly unlikely that the wolf would present itself once again at that exact spot for my benefit. And it didn’t.

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They were supposed to leave at 7.30am. Ultimately, they left well past 8.30am, as far as I can remember. Rita, whose condition was worsening by the day, was in no position to go. I was worried for her — she had a constant headache and nausea, wasn’t being able to eat anything at all and hardly slept at night.

If I ever woke up at night, I would invariably find Rita sitting with her head in her hands. As a result, she would keep falling asleep at odd hours, like on reaching the campsite after the day’s trek. Obviously, she would not get sleep at night after that. And thus the vicious cycle continued.

Close-up of the Indrasan peak

Even I had not been in such a bad state at Goecha La. I used to be extremely tired, but not sick like her. I asked Akhil if we should evacuate her to Manali as she was clearly suffering from AMS. He said it wasn’t necessary. “Her fitness is not up to the mark. Had she been fit, her body would have adapted itself easily to the altitude. If she stays here for a couple of days, her body will adjust,” he said.

The only problem was, we could not possibly stay in one place for a couple of days.

Apart from Rita and I, a couple of others did not go for the pass either. We watched as the rest of the group walked in a straight line towards the pass, looking like ants against the vastness of the background, especially the magnificent Indrasan peak, and gradually getting tinier and tinier until we could see them no longer.

As we prepared to leave camp, some of them returned from half way. And together we left for Jwara. Some IH staffers consoled us saying we could always come back and do the trek with IH once again for Re 1 — its policy for incomplete treks. But every place revisited means forgoing something else.

I took one last look at the Indrasan peak. Mr Himalaya had done it again. He had sent me back disappointed.

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Day 3: Balu Ka Gera (12,000 feet) to Jwara (11,000 feet)

I expected the day to be an uneventful one and wanted to reach Jwara as soon as possible to gift myself some leisurely time in the lap of the mountains. But Polu bhai had other plans. 

Rita sledges down as Polu bhai keeps watch

While coming up, we had bypassed the frozen river by climbing higher up the bank. But now, we went down the frozen river itself. Climbing up on snow was tough; going down was even tougher. Even though the porters held our hand and helped us climb down the tricky slopes, we slipped and took a tumble at times.

When we were a little way down, Polu bhai asked if someone had a plastic sheet. One emerged out of nowhere. He then said we could all slide down the slopes on the sheet by turn. Immediately, our sad little party was beaming with excitement.

He chose a place fit for the slide, placed the sheet on the slope, and sat down in the front and asked one of the trekkers to sit behind him. Shouting and cheering, they sledged down to the bottom of the slope.

Leaving her there, Polu bhai immediately ran up the slope with the sheet and repeated it with someone else. The man’s energy was infectious. Every time he came back for one of us, he ran up the slope, the effortless grin never leaving his weather-beaten face.

To save time, Rita and I decided to go down together. I sat in the middle. It was terribly awkward sitting behind a man I hardly knew, clinging on to him, my legs spread wide apart. For a brief second, I tried to imagine myself doing this on Kolkata streets, on the Metro maybe, and cringed.

But this was the Himalayas. It doesn’t give you much time to be embarrassed. “Aa jao,” (come on),” came Polu bhai’s encouraging invitation. And within seconds, we were roaring down the snow-covered slope on the magic carpet-like plastic sheet. Polu bhai had turned the mighty mountains into an entertainment park.

Jwara campsite

No one seemed satisfied with one ride. Like kids, they started badgering him, “Polu bhai, I want to slide from here,” “Polu bhai, I want to climb up that slope and slide from there…” With that unfaltering smile, the man obliged everyone, first checking every time if it was safe enough for the slide.

I did not ask him, but he insisted that I climb up one slope and slide with him from there. Immediately someone wanted to slide from there as well. Even Rita forgot her illness briefly and seemed to be having the time of her life.

But like all good things in life, there was an end to the snow-covered slopes too. And finally back on our feet, our happy little party trooped towards Jwara.

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The Jwara campsite was barely half an hour from where the snow-covered slopes ended. We were nearly in sight of it when I found Polu bhai and one of the trekkers resting by the trail. I was about to cross them when Polu bhai called out to me: “Come, join us.”

“The campsite’s minutes away,” I told him, not stopping. “What’s the hurry?” Polu bhai smiled. Take a while to sit here, enjoy the view of the mountains…this is the fun of trekking after all…why run around all the time?” I wondered why there was no Polu bhai at Goecha La, where I was perennially being hurried (and harried).

It was lunchtime when we finally reached Jwara. I sat down and ate the food that had been packed for us — bread pakoras, an apple, two boiled eggs — while trying to make friends with one of the scraggly shepherd dogs. I tried to lure him with one of the dry chapatti rolls of the previous day, but he refused to eat straight out of my hand. Then I threw bits on the ground towards him, every time putting them a little closer to me. This tactic succeeded. He took the final few bits from my hand.

My new friend, the dog, keeps watch over his master's sheep

He followed me around for a while and I thought we were now friends. But the next time I tried to draw him towards me with a bait of biscuits, I had to repeat the process all over again. He wouldn’t eat them out of my hand straightaway.

When the porters were setting up the tents I asked Polu bhai to teach me how to do it. When we were settled, I went up the slope a bit and sat down on a flat rock.

It was nice and sunny, with an azure sky dotted with fluffy white clouds behind the lofty mountains. The river flowed a little distance away with a bed of Himalayan meadow primrose and marsh marigolds growing around the rivulets that met it from the slopes. The only voice I could hear was the shepherd’s who was calling out to his sheep from time to time. The animals grazed on the green grass all around me while a couple of them lazed on the snow patches on the slopes. And three tiny little white butterflies fluttered around my feet. Bliss!

After some time, I was called to have lunch. When I said I had already had the packed food, the cook laughed and said, “It won’t do you any harm to have some of the khichdi.” So, it was lunch no. 2 of the day.

I lazed around with the camera all afternoon and our team members — except for four and Akhil — returned by 5.30pm. It appeared that 11 had reached the pass. Eti had been very close when she returned and so were several others. It seemed some people had had a very close encounter with an avalanche. Someone called it an “iceberg”!

When I asked Akhil about it later, he said he hadn’t seen it happen but that it was probably a ‘cornice’ that had fallen in front of the trekkers. “A cornice is an overhanging chunk of ice. It’s usually when a cornice breaks off and falls that an avalanche is triggered,” he explained. “Luckily for us, this one did not trigger an avalanche, or we could have been in serious trouble,” he said.

Jwara campsite

Meanwhile, it was a very anxious wait for the group of four and Akhil for the entire evening. It grew dark and some of the porters went a little up the trail to look for the little party. But there was no sign of them until it was around 8.15pm or so, when finally, we could spot their headlamps at a distance, fluttering in the dark like fireflies. It wasn’t before 8.30pm when they finally reached the campsite.

Akhil later said “it was nothing”. “When we cross the pass, some trekkers spend much of the night doing so and reach Shea Goru in the early hours of the next day,” he claimed. He might be used to it, but even a seasoned trek leader like him was so tired that he did not even have dinner that evening and straightaway went to bed.

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Day 4: Jwara (11,000 feet) to Jobra (8,700 feet)

This was to be a long day and we were told that we would take a different route than the one we took while going up. I was dreading another couple of river crossings, but Akhil said we wouldn’t have to cross it even once if the snow bridge still existed. I fervently hoped that it did.

Though the Jwara campsite had been grassy, our tryst with the snow-covered river was not yet over. The snow was melting rapidly and it was particularly risky where the snow ended and the rocks began. I was contemplating the task at hand in front of a massive snow stretch when the porter in front saw me and encouraged me: “Come on, I’ll hold your hand. It’s not tough.”

Crossing the snow bridge on the way back

He was carrying, like all others, two backpacks and some more stuff. And yet, he supported me continuously through the stretch, leaving the ‘footmark trail’ to me and walking on the unstable snow a little above. We covered the stretch very comfortably.

Later, when we came to a steep climb up some “tree root-steps”, another porter similarly offered to help me when he saw me stopping for a little rest. I was merely catching my breath and did not really need his help, but he was so eager to help that I could not say no. After a while, I realised that I was the one actually leading the way! But I did not have the heart to disappoint him and said nothing.

The highlight of the day was crossing the snow bridge once again. It had been melting away since we left and we found a huge chasm about 3 feet wide in the middle of the snow. Steps had been carved out for us to climb down and we safely crossed it one by one with help from the IH staff.

We bid the river goodbye temporarily once we had climbed up the steep “tree-root” trail. From there, we had a grand view of the mountains behind us and the meadows below, where horses, mules and sheep were grazing.

We walked down the undulating grassy trail that sometimes went down steeply to the rivulets and climbed up again. Eti and I had been walking together that day and somewhere on the way, we saw a tiny little animal that looked very much like a meerkat. It stood on its two hind legs and within seconds, shot off along the grass.

Up the steep ascent

“Click it, click it,” Eti was shouting very excitedly. But my SX50 was out of battery. My old A580 was in my backpack and the animal was too quick to be clicked with a primitive digicam. The porters laughed too. “How will she click it? It’s too quick,” one of them said. Right then, a group of trekkers came stomping down the hill and the animal vanished out of sight, probably shooting off straight into its burrow.

I asked the porters what it was. “We call it a ‘musa’,” one said. I asked Akhil later about it. I described it as best as I could. It was around 8/9 inches tall, stood on its hind legs, had round ears jutting out of its head, brownish in colour with a slender build. It looked like a cross between a squirrel and a rat but bigger in size — much like a meerkat. 

But Akhil was clueless. “Was it a field rat,” he asked finally. I told him politely that I knew what a field rat looked like. “Then it could have been a marmot,” he offered helpfully. “No, it was much smaller than a marmot and looked nothing like it,” I said.

Even Polu bhai had no answer. It took me a lot of Googling back home to find out what it was. It was in all probability a mountain weasel and I’m 99% sure of it. The 1% doubt remains simply because I couldn’t photograph it.

Flocks of sheep graze below

Shortly after our encounter with the weasel, we had a steep descent to tackle. From the top of the trail, the trekkers down below looked like ants. It was perhaps the toughest thing I had encountered in the entire trek. Eti had sore thigh muscles from the previous day’s trek, while I had pulled a thigh muscle sometime during the day. So we were both having difficulty going down.

It took us quite a while climbing down the trail that had not only loose rocks but also sand and gravel — an ideal cocktail for the shoes to slip. Polu bhai later said had the rains started this trail would never have been an option.

When we finally reached the bottom, we realised we were in same meadow that we had crossed on the way from Jobra to Chika on the first day. Only this time, we were far deeper into it.

Concluded in next post

Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Concluding Part)

October 16, 2014, 9:53 am

≫ Next: An evening in Manali

≪ Previous: Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Part IV)

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Down in the meadows on way to Jobra, the last campsite

Getting to the top is optional. Getting down is mandatory — Ed Viesturs

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Continued from previous post...

Of all the different kinds of trails that one encounters in the mountains, the meadows happen to be my favourite. I enjoy greenery much more than I enjoy snow. So obviously, I wasn’t in a hurry to reach the Jobra campsite (I’m usually never in a hurry to reach anywhere actually). I relished the meadow walk. Eti preferred to stay back with me.

On way to Jobra campsite

It was she who drew my attention to the cobra lilies (also called snake lilies) that grew in abundance in the meadows. Panna Thakur, one of our trek guides, later told her that the cobra lily has a potato-like root. “He said people get swollen throats and faces if they eat it,” Eti told me. I checked the Net later and found that the cobra lily is indeed a part of the arum family.

We took our own sweet time to cross the meadow, stopping for photo breaks, appreciating the cobra lilies and watching kids (not the human kind) at play. We could see some of our trek-mates at a distance. They stopped from time to time and like us, did not seem to be in a hurry either.

When we finally ambled up to the point where the meadow ended and the thickets began, we found Panna Thakur waiting for us. He explained that the campsite was supposed to have been there, at the opening of the meadow, but since another group had already taken it, we would have to walk up to the point where we had had the ‘siddu’ break on the first day. That was the campsite for the night.  

“We could have easily walked the entire way to Jobra dam and returned to Manali today,” I told Eti. The dam must be only about 15/20 minutes from the campsite.

The cobra lilies (or snake lilies)

It was around 3-3.30pm when we reached the campsite and most of our trek-mates were already there. Some of the tents, though, were still being pitched. After settling down in our tent, Eti and I were sitting on a flat rock, gobbling down a plateful of Maggi each, when Panna came. We (mostly me) wanted to have a taste of the local drink chhang (millet beer) — like we had had tumba at Goecha La — and we asked Panna how we could get it.

“You want to drink chhang?” he grinned foolishly. We weren’t surprised. In a country like India, city women looking for a crude local drink is not a very everyday phenomenon. He quickly added that he could send one of the guys down to the Jobra dam and get it right then if we had a bottle. I gave him one of my two water bottles at once. (And for the next four days, I went around Kinnaur with water in one bottle and chhang in the other.)

Eti also had another idea. “Why don’t we ask him if he can arrange local food for us in Manali tomorrow?” she said. I agreed at once. She told Panna and he promised to make an arrangement, but unfortunately he never called after we reached Manali.

Presently, when we were talking about local food, he suddenly said in his usual quiet, timid way: “Have you noticed the big ants here?” Loving to experiment with any kind of exotic food — especially non-veg — I was delighted thinking the locals eat the ants (it’s common among some tribes). “Do you eat them?” I asked very excitedly.

Campfire at Jobra. Last evening of the trek

He looked very confused and moved his head in a way that could mean a nod or a shake, yes or no, or anything else. Then he said, “No, I was saying these ants bite a lot. Be careful they don’t get inside your tent.

Eti had already jumped up from the rock, but I stayed put. I felt stupid and furious at the same time, my prospect of tasting ants going up in smoke. After he left, Eti and I were in splits.

“Oh God, for a moment, I thought you would pick up an ant and pop it into your mouth,” Eti was roaring with laughter. “How would I know that he would suddenly jump to biting ants in the middle of our conversation about local food?” I protested.

The bottle of chhang, however, came after a couple of hours and that was some consolation.

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Rita arrived after some time, with Polu bhai and Akhil. She and Polu bhai sat down a little distance from our campsite as Akhil went to get a plate of Maggi for her. “Come and sit with us,” Polu bhai called out to me. In ones and twos, some of the others joined us as well.

As we talked, Polu bhai revealed that he had suggested to IH that the Hampta trek be cancelled this year till the end of June at least. “I knew that several teams would not be able to cross the pass this year because of the snow. But they refused,” he said.

He also told us that there’s another trail right behind where we were sitting. It would mean going south from Jobra instead of going east towards Hampta. “It’s a beautiful trail, with snow, a lake and nice view of the mountains,” he said. “Everyone would have gone home content, completing the trek, but that was not to be…” 

Polu bhai also said that he would try to arrange rappelling for us the next morning, but was not too hopeful. “Every member of the last batch did it successfully. But it’s the original campsite, at the opening of the meadow, that’s conducive for rappelling, not this one. But I’ll check,” he said. Unfortunately for us, the rappelling didn’t happen either.

Jobra campsite

But a campfire was on the cards. Eti, Rita, Polu bhai and I chatted away in our tent till it got dark. Rita was feeling very down about her health condition and I kept telling her that I had had immense trouble on my first trek as well. Polu bhai, too, tried to cheer her up: “You came down today all the way on your own feet. There was a very fat guy in the last batch who gave up midway and we had to carry him down,” he claimed.

But Rita was not in a happy state. She threw up later that evening, had a tummy upset and the headaches followed her all the way to Manali and left her only after she was well on her way back to Kolkata on train.

The campfire was already raging when we joined the others. Some of our trek-mates were singing and dancing and it seemed quite a tame campfire until our Nepali porters — who were so far sitting very quietly — were asked to dance. They needed no further coaxing.

Four or five of them jumped into the middle and started off their wild jig as someone played songs on their mobile phones. ‘Dance like no one’s watching’ is a motto that these mountain folks have taken to heart like no other. But even as I enjoyed their boisterous moves, I — and Eti too — missed the post-trek party at GoechaLa. I missed those far restrained-but-rhythmic moves, the Nepali songs that they sang as they danced — and Dinesh’s cake.

It’s been 16 months since the Goecha La trek. ‘Simple Simple Kanchi’ still happens to be my ring tone.

The buffaloes decided to investigate the toilet tents. Thankfully, no one was inside

The campfire was followed by a dinner that included gulab jamuns as a special treat. It was the last evening and everyone was sharing his or her experience and future trekking plans over dinner. This had been a mostly inexperienced team and many had had injuries and mountain sickness — nausea, tummy upsets, headaches — but everyone was already planning a future date with the Himalayas.

Of them, one girl particularly impressed me. Only six months back, she had signed up for the Chadar trek — a weeklong difficult-level trek on the frozen Zanskar river in Ladakh. She had fallen so ill that she had had to be hospitalised. She had now completed Hampta and was already planning to go for Chadar again next year.

I have already seen many experienced trekkers, thanks to the Goecha La trek. In comparison, this girl was nothing special. She was neither a fast trekker nor one with technical expertise. But her spirit and love for the mountains make her one of the best trekkers I have seen so far.

I watched them silently — another group of Himalaya-lovers in the making. Thirteen months back, Goecha La had converted me as well, despite all its tortures. And just like these youngsters, it hadn’t taken me long to decide that I would keep trekking in the Himalayas for as long as I can.

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Day 5: Jobra campsite to Jobra dam and drive back to Manali

Saying goodbye to our porters. At the Jobra dam

We left camp around 11am to an overcast sky and it started drizzling a little after we left. The morning had been uneventful except for a small incident when a woman’s buffaloes decided to explore our toilet tents. Thankfully no one was inside when one of the animals ripped one open with its horns. One of our trek helps chased it away before it could do much damage.

I was now anxious to get back to Manali as early as possible to check out as much of it as I could before leaving early the next morning. The peaks of the surrounding mountains were covered in mist and they looked very much like the floating mountains of Pandora in ‘Avatar’, as one of the youngsters mentioned. It took us not more than half an hour to reach the Jobra dam, where the cars were waiting to take us back to Manali.

And through rain and mist, we headed back to Manali

From the peppy Hindi film songs playing on the car stereo, it wasn’t difficult to get the feeling that we were heading back to civilization. We were actually dashing back to civilization, with the cars whooshing down the 40-odd hairpin bends like a roller coaster. The mountains surrounding Manali and the layers of pines cascading down the hills were shrouded in thick mist, making it all seem like a dream.

Everyone was upbeat; we simply couldn’t stop grinning as we hummed along with whatever song was playing in the car. I looked at a very happy-looking Eti and said: “Fasten your seat belts because this is not the end of your roller-coaster ride. It’s just the beginning.”

Our date with Mr Himalayas was not yet over. Kinnaur was calling us.

THE END

An evening in Manali

January 1, 2015, 10:03 am

≫ Next: Of Naga Babas and Chillum-waale Babas

≪ Previous: Hampta Pass: On a Himalayan High (Concluding Part)

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The Beas at Manali

What do you do if you have only half a day to spend in Manali? You are spoilt for choice actually, because the hill town in Himachal, which is a popular tourist destination as well as a gateway to several other destinations, is worth spending quite a few days in.

While those who wish to simply relax in the lap of the Himalayas prefer to stay in the quiet and serene Old Manali wrapped in its old-world charm, most adventure tourists head for Solang Valley 14km away, where there are skiing (in winter), paragliding, parachuting, zorbing and horse-riding facilities. But we did not have that much time.

We had only the afternoon and evening left to enjoy Manali after returning from the Hampta Pass trek. While Eti and I were to leave for Kinnaur early the next morning, Rita was to leave for Kalka to take a train back to Kolkata. So, we had to make the most of the few hours that we had.

On way to Hidimba Devi temple

The only advantage we had was that we were staying very close to Mall Road, in Hotel Star Inn. Its general manager, Mr Sanjay Rai, had been a godsend for us, arranging our stay in a packed-out Manali the evening we had arrived, before the trek. Though we had stayed in a different hotel then, we had booked a room in Star Inn for the post-trek stay. Indebted as we will always be to Mr Rai, I must confess that our stay in his hotel turned out to be quite miserable.

Firstly, the door lock was defective and I had a very difficult 25 minutes later that evening, trying to get someone to open the door. I had returned to the hotel alone, leaving Rita and Eti at the mall. The door would not open and I had to hunt for a hotel employee for 15 minutes — climbing up and down four steep flights of stairs a couple of times — before the room service guy turned up.

First came his advice: You could have called the room service number. I explained as patiently as I could help that since I was locked out of the room, I had no access to the phone. “Oh right,” he exclaimed, showing all his teeth and wrestling with the lock. After a five-minute battle, he managed to open the door. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he showed all his teeth again and exclaimed: “See, that was no sweat at all!”

Fruits on sale in Manali. Pic: Eti Kynjing

I looked at him closely and said with a very sweet smile, “Please show me again how you did that. You know, just in case we need to go out again…” and slammed the door shut. I knew very well that there was no need for all three of us to leave the hotel together again. But it felt fantastic to see him toil for the next five minutes.

The second part of the sad story was reserved for the two other girls. Due to a misunderstanding, they had bought some soup for my dinner but nothing for themselves. When they called up to order dinner in the hotel, they were told nothing was available. Not even bread and butter. Rita was prudent enough to ask a hotel guy to get her some bread from outside, but Eti was so furious that she went to bed in empty stomach. 

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Trout tales

Coming back to the main story, I personally had a couple of agendas for Manali. First was to visit Hidimba Devi temple; second was to taste trout. We decided to tick the second one off the list as early as we could.

So, once we returned from Hampta, Eti and I dumped our bags in the hotel and left in search of trout. Rita, who had suffered through the trek, refused to go and had lunch in the hotel. We had already noticed a couple of restaurants on Mall Road advertising trout in big bold letters. We headed straight for one of them. Thankfully, it was available.

A delicious dish of trout

We later found out that the fish is available for only a few hours in most of the restaurants, basically till the day’s stock lasts. And there’s quite a high demand for it because of the novelty factor.

Trout is not a fish indigenous to the rivers of Himachal. It was introduced by the home-sick British more than a century ago, during the colonial rule, so that they could enjoy trout fishing like they did at home. The Himachal government in independent India has continued to breed it — both the brown and rainbow varieties.    

For those who might be interested in having trout in Manali, I won’t suggest any particular restaurant because it’s available in quite a few of them. But I’d suggest that you order a simple dish of trout that uses minimum embellishments. We ordered two dishes — one fried and one baked. Both had minimum spices and allowed us to enjoy the subtle taste and flavour of the fish, which are quite delightful. Even a non-fish-lover like me polished off an entire fish in no time.

Unfortunately, poor Rita, who joined us at the Mall later in the evening, did not get it at dinnertime. It was all gone. Neither did Eti and I get it at the Kullu hotel next to Bhuntar airport where we stayed the night while returning from Kinnaur. So, if you wish to try trout in Himachal, it’s best not to leave it for dinner, especially in the peak tourist season.   

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Photo op with an angora rabbit

Eti and I left the hotel again around 5pm for Hidimba Devi temple, which is 4km from Rambaugh Circle at the end of Mall Road. As we walked down Mall Road, we were suddenly accosted by a couple of women holding big white furry rabbits with long ears. From pictures, I knew these were the angora rabbits.

Posing with an angora rabbit

Angora wool is used to knit, among a host of other things, Kullu shawls. The pure ones cost a bomb and find few takers. So now, they mix a bit of angora in normal woollen shawls. Despite costing more than the regular woollen shawls, these are quite affordable.

These mixed shawls are easily identifiable, as the angora bits appear as white spots in the body of regular wool. When I bought them, I did so only because they looked pretty and I had no idea that these white spots were the rabbit’s fur. It’s quite possible that the animals are tortured in the process of being sheared of their coat. 

However, let’s get back to Mall Road. The first woman asked for Rs 20 to allow us to hold a rabbit and get ourselves photographed. High on a trek and an imminent Kinnaur road trip, Eti and I agreed. The photo op went well, with the two of us clicking each other by turn. But the second woman, not ready to let go of the opportunity to make some fast bucks, sparked off trouble. 

Catching me unawares, she suddenly thrust her animal into my arms and suggested that we both hold a rabbit each and get ourselves photographed together. We refused and when I tried to hand her rabbit back, she looked at me menacingly and said I would have to pay her Rs 20 for holding it (for 2 seconds). Thankfully, before my head could heat up thoroughly, the first woman intervened and asked her to leave.

Such photo ops are offered in several tourist spots, including Hidimba Devi temple. One can also get clicked riding a yak. It’s especially fun for kids — and a few mad adults like Eti and I, who simply refuse to grow up.

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Abode of the ‘demon goddess’

Hidimba Devi temple

Auto-rickshaws (tuktuks) are available from Rambaugh Circle to take you to Hidimba Devi temple. But for a mere 4km ride, they charge Rs 100 (at least that’s what we were charged on the return journey). So, unless you nourish a complete hatred for exercise, it’s much better to take the 30-minute walk through the pines and giant deodars.

Hidimba Devi temple is unique because of its deity. Hidimba (or Hadimba or Hidimbi) was a demon married to Bhim, the second of the Pandavas (the five brothers who are the heroes of the epic Mahabharat). She’s probably not known to be revered as a goddess anywhere else in India.

Now for some stories (source: ‘Triloknather Pathey’ (On way to Triloknath) by Umaprasad Mukhopadhyay). Himachali folklore says someone (not sure who) flung Hidimba towards the spot where the temple stands now and she fell and broke her thighbone. The local word for thigh is ‘dungia’. Hence the village was named ‘Dungri’ and the temple, which is located on its fringes, is also referred to as ‘Dungri temple’.

Very strangely, in the diametrically opposite end of India — Nagaland in the east — Dimapur is claimed to be the land of Hidimba, too. Apparently it was originally named Hidimbapur, which was gradually reduced to Dimapur.

Himachali legend says that around 1500AD, Sidhpal, a scion of the ousted Kullu royal family, started living in a village near Bajaura. He learned one day that if someone worshipped Bijli Mahadev — the deity of a temple located on a nearby mountain — with water from the confluence of Beas and Parvati rivers, his or her wishes would come true.

The plaque outside Hidimba Devi temple. (Click to enlarge)

The night Sidhpal performed this ritual, he dreamt Bijli Mahadev telling him to go to Jagatsukh where his wishes would come true. Sidhpal did accordingly.

A few days later, Sidhpal was on his way to a local fair when me met an old woman with a heavy load on her back. Sidhpal offered to carry her load. After a while, the old woman said, “What a great man you are! Now come, climb on my shoulder.” As she said so, she started growing bigger and bigger in size. “Now, look around. You will rule over all the land that you can see from my shoulder,” she said.

The prophecy came true and Sidhpal indeed became the king of Kullu. The old woman was Hidimba and thus she became the presiding deity of the Kullu royals. Sidhpal’s son Raja Bahadur Singh built the temple in 1553, which is declared on a plaque placed in the temple complex.

Umaprasad, who visited the temple sometime in the 1950s, writes about the eerie surroundings of the temple hidden behind giant deodars, its compound deserted except for the pretty priestess, and the bloodstains left by regular animal sacrifice.

Sixty years on, we found the structure just as he had described — a three-tiered wooden pagoda-style structure still partially hidden by the giant deodars — but nothing of the eeriness, all thanks to Mani Ratnam’s 1992 film ‘Roja’ that catapulted Hidimba temple to instant stardom. A visit to Manali today is incomplete for tourists without a trip to Roja’s “Kashmir ke bhagwan” (‘God of Kashmir’. Manali was passed off as the trouble-torn Kashmir in the movie in which Hidimba temple played a significant role). At 7pm, we found it teeming with people.

The ibex-horn decor on the walls of Hidimba Devi temple

The temple, which was declared as a monument of national importance in 1967, is a modest structure, only around 80 feet high, with carvings on the wooden beams and pillars depicting, among others, Hindu gods and goddesses like Shiva-Parvati and Vishnu-Lakshmi. Interestingly, there are some Buddhist motifs too and apparently, a Buddhist monastery used to stand on the compound once. What is most eye-catching, however, is the décor of ibex horns hanging on the outer wall.

We could not inspect the temple for long since it was getting late and also because it was too crowded. But Hidimba Devi certainly heard our prayers. There had been some doubts over the Kinnaur trip with rumours that the road had been closed. While we were at the temple, Vinkal called up to inform that the road was very much open and we’d be leaving 8.30 sharp the next morning.

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Rendezvous with a romantic soul… and a little shopping

The shops lining Mall Road are good for picking up a few souvenirs, ranging from Kullu shawls, Kullu and Kinnaur caps, Tibetan handicrafts and dry fruits apart from the regular woollens like sweaters, mufflers and the like. We shopped, too. And what came free with it was a tête-à-tête with Aashiq Ali.

The first shop we went into was one for dry fruits, where Eti stayed put for the next one hour. Our next stop was one for Kullu and Kinnaur caps. Another 30 minutes. As we left the cap store, the shop opposite caught our eye. It was called ‘Kullu Kashmir’ and we went in because both of us wanted to buy some shawls.

The carvings on the beams and pillars are a fine example of local woodwork

The light-eyed guy behind the counter at the end of the store called out to us. As he started showing us shawls, he asked us where we were from. When Eti said Shillong, he said he hadn’t heard of it. Not unlikely since most common people in India are ignorant of its northeastern parts.

But when he told me “You’re from Kolkata? Now where is that?” I was quite surprised since it’s among the most well known cities in India. Yet, I patiently told him, “It’s in West Bengal.”

“Is it now?” he said, and I saw then that he had a twinkle in his eyes. He revealed then that he had lived in Kolkata till about four years back. He seemed to have fond memories of the city.

“Where are you from? Are you a Himachali?” I asked him then. His features and pale complexion somehow seemed different from the locals, who are more of the pinkish kind of fair. It then turned out that he was a half-Afghan. “My mother is Afghan,” he said. And how many generations ago had her family left Afghanistan? “Oh, she is a first-generation migrant,” he said, as we picked our shawls. 

“So, did you like Manali?” he asked. “No,” I said, “It’s way too crowded.” “Yes, it’s very crowded this year because of the heat in the plains. Come around August. It will be empty. You will like it then,” he smiled.

Aashiq Ali. Pic: Eti Kynjing

I was already starting to like the young man. He seemed to have a way with women. Every time Eti or I tried a shawl or a stole, he would compliment us in chaste Urdu: “Masha’Allah! Bilkul Katrina Kaif lag rahi hai aap!” (By God's grace, you are looking exactly like (Indian actress) Katrina Kaif) or “Chaar chand lag gaye!” (Roughly translates to ‘four moons have been added to your beauty’).

Eti got very suspicious of his motives and whispered to me, “Is he flirting with us?” “No,” I laughed. “He’s just trying to sell us his goods. And he’s a damn good salesman.”

Young as he was, there was a certain innocence in his demeanour that left me with no reason to feel offended. He also kept joking with and teasing the other staff members, who seemed to be jobless because he attended to all the customers — mostly all of them women and many of them regulars — with his trademark sense of humour and what is referred to in Urdu as ‘aashiqana mizaaj’ (romantic temperament).

No wonder all these women keep coming back, I thought.

So, when he finally revealed that his name was Aashiq (which literally means ‘lover’), we refused to believe him. “You are kidding,” I laughed. But he looked dead serious. “No really. My name is Aashiq Ali,” he insisted. “But the card says Faroukh,” Eti pointed out. “That’s my elder brother,” he claimed, the twinkle back in his eyes.

The Manali Mall at 10 in the night

When we finally left the shop, loaded with bulging shopping bags and having been treated to ‘special chai’ (tea), it was already past 10. Most shops were still open — making the most of the tourist rush — and Mall Road was teeming with people. I bought a walnut-wood knife from a handicrafts shop. But the meeting with Aashiq Ali left a pleasant aftertaste for both Eti and me. 

Whether his name was really Aashiq is immaterial. He was aashiqui (romance) personified — in keeping with the mood of the mountains. I won’t endorse the shop for its shawls; there are plenty of them in Manali. But ladies, if you want a dose of romance with your shawl, you know where to head.

And gentlemen, don’t forget to keep an eye on your girls when they shop from Aashiq Ali.

Of Naga Babas and Chillum-waale Babas

January 22, 2015, 11:49 am

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The Maha Kumbh Mela in Allahabad in 2013

The festival that attracts the second-largest congregation of Hindus ended last week. Gangasagar Mela is the annual ‘fair’ held on the sankranti (last day) of the month of Poush (January 14/15) in the Hindu calendar, when millions of devotees take a holy bath at Gangasagar — the confluence of the River Ganga and the Bay of Bengal.

According to Hindu mythology, it’s at this spot that the 60,000 cursed sons of King Sagar were absolved of their sins and attained moksh (salvation). So, every year, common Hindu men, women and children congregate at Sagar Island, some 100km south of Kolkata, along with hundreds of sadhus (Hindu holy men, though not everyone in a saffron robe is holy), hoping for an end to the tortures of the cycle of birth, death and rebirth.

Surfing through the pictures of sadhusposted by our in-house photographers, my finger automatically stopped on the keyboard at the sight of an old ‘friend’. There was no mistaking him — ash-caked face, greyish-yellow beard and hair, with a hint of baldness at the front of the head, save for a clump that’s still left in the middle. And those bloodshot eyes! How could I ever forget them!

Though the photographer had restricted the image to the chest, I knew he was a Naga sadhu— the highest order of Hindu holy men who give up everything, including their clothes, in search of moksh (‘Naga’ means ‘naked’). This babaji, however, was not exactly ‘naked’. Unclothed as he was, there was a very expensive ornament resting firmly on his ash-coated head — quite out of place with his ascetic look. It was a high-end headphone.

So, he hasn’t yet lost his lust for the good things in life, I mused. The ornaments seemed to have got fewer, though. When I had met him — around two years back at Kumbh Mela, the largest congregation of Hindus — he had on sunglasses, a bracelet on one wrist and a couple of expensive watches on the other.  

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It was February 2013 and I was in Allahabad in Uttar Pradesh with two other journalists and a journo-turned-PR agency owner to cover the Maha Kumbh Mela, which happens once in every 144 years. Not only was this the opportunity of a lifetime, it was even more special because we were guests of the UP government.

However, it was the fag end of the festival and most of the punya snans (holy baths) were already over. Moreover, due to some inauspicious planetary positions, most of the sadhushad already left for Varanasi, some 120km away. So the famous Kumbh Mela crowd was relatively thin. 

We were disappointed, but determined to make the most of the one-and-a-half-day visit. We three journos left the hotel at 5am to click the lights of the fair from the Shastri Bridge. Then we went down to the banks of the river to catch the devotees taking the holy dip at sunrise and followed it up with a general recce of the fair ground. I even managed to get chased away by the cops for trying to click the bathing devotees, flouting a court order.

We returned to the hotel for a quick breakfast and left again, now joined by the PR guy. This time, one of the two journos (I’ll refer to him as ‘S’) made his intention clear — to hunt for Naga babas (Naga sadhus) and chillum-waale babas (ones who smoke pot). I silently supported him; no trip — and no album — of Kumbh Mela can be complete without a photograph of the naked sadhus taking a holy dip or one of them smoking pot. The others did not seem to have a problem either. And so began our search for the babajis.

‘S’ was the one to do the asking around. And every time, he went straight to the point: “Excuse me, where can we find the chillum-waalebabas?” Many looked shocked; some thought we were insolent little brats out to have some fun at the expense of the holy men; some genuinely had no clue.

Finally, someone pointed out the akharas(sadhus’ camps) to us. They seemed a good 2km or so from where we were, the vast expanse of the riverbank making it easy to spot them from this distance. The man also cautioned, “I doubt if you’ll find anyone in the akharas. Most have left. Try the Junah Akharas (the camps of Naga sadhus); maybe you’ll find someone.”

We thanked the man and valiantly made our way up the sandy riverbank. By now, the PR guy (I’ll call him SD) was starting to panic a little. “Do we have to go that far?” he muttered. He looked at me and the other journo, ‘K’, for support. Not getting any reply, he let out a sigh and trudged along.  

‘S’ was at his don’t-care-ish best. The police had built makeshift wooden platforms about 10 feet off the ground for keeping watch over the devotees. Finding one unmanned, ‘S’ climbed up quickly for a few shots. And he stayed put for a good 15-20 minutes, leaving ‘SD’ in a sweat. “If the cop returns, he’ll be in for trouble,” he muttered.

The best part was, we did not even have the special passes that had been given to the Press for covering the festival. Our hosts had not bothered to arrange it for us. And we had refused to let any representative of the government accompany us. It would mean some obvious checks on our movement and we were not ready to let that happen.

All of us heaved a sigh of relief when ‘S’ finally came down, the cop still nowhere in sight. And we resumed our journey towards the akharas.

Somewhere on the way, I stopped for a few clicks. When I looked up from the camera screen, I saw both ‘S’ and ‘K’ missing. Puzzled, I asked ‘SD’ what they were up to. He quietly pointed at a corner of the fair ground. Both journos were running at top speed towards something — or someone. At first I could not figure it out. Then I noticed a frail old man in saffron robes sitting under a tree. A probable chillum-waale baba!

By the time SD and I had made our way to the sadhu, ‘S’ had made his request. I had missed the exact manner in which he had done it. Maybe he said, “Babaji, please smoke pot, we’ll watch and photograph you.” However, sadhu baba was obliging. He had already brought out his chillum and was arranging the ganja and the other ingredients.

I sat ready with my camera trained on babaji, ready to capture him with the wisps of smoke that’d emerge from his mouth and nostrils as he’d exhale. But when he started smoking, I was zapped. The smoke was either invisible or he simply gulped it down. I took shot after shot and every time, the smoke was missing.

The steps of attaining 'nirvana'

Babaji, however, made a big show of a ‘high’. His matted hair was tied on the top of his head in a bun. As he crossed phase after phase of nirvana (read ‘high’) with every puff, he tossed his head from side to side in a frenzy, shaking his locks loose. At the climax, he looked up at the sky with an expression that seemed to declare to his spectators, “Look, I’ve attained moksh”.

It had the desired effect. The audience let out a gasp of wonder.

A final gulp of water and babajiwas done. The chillum was then passed on to the bhakts (devotees) who had gathered to watch the spectacle. ‘S’ took his share of the puff though the rest of us declined politely. Babaji seemed very happy with all the attention. He bid us goodbye with a smile.

“What a showman!” I thought as we continued our journey for the next target — Naga baba.

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'Holy' men abound

By the time we reached the akharas, it was well past lunchtime. SD muttered something about lunch once, but getting no response from any of us, he fell silent, looking very miserable.

The akharas were a maze and we now had the task of zeroing in on the Junah Akharas. ‘S’ was till going on gallantly. He entered akhara after akhara and came out shaking his head. In some of the camps, we could see sadhus taking their afternoon nap and every time we feared they’d come chasing us. “Be prepared to run,” whispered SD, the perennial cynic, now hungry and glum too. 

At one of the akharas, a cop accosted us. Though he was in plainclothes, Indians know a cop when they see one. Even a tiger without its stripes may be mistaken for something else, but not a cop, whatever clothes he may be in. He looked at us very suspiciously and asked a little sternly, “Who are you? What do you want?”

I immediately put on my most innocent expression and I’m pretty certain the others did too. I debated if we should tell him the truth. I stole a glance at the others. They were all caked in dust from head to toe and I was surely no different. Even our eyelashes were white with dust. We looked tanned, dirty and hungry and I wondered how the cop would take the news that we were state guests! He’d probably think we were lying.

But ‘S’ was unshakeable. He went straight to the point. “We are looking for Naga babas. You know, the ones who smoke pot (his appetite for chillum-waale babas was insatiable)…” The cop’s frown eased now and he had a hint of a smile on his lips. He had evidently taken us for tourists out to have some fun. He gave us directions to the Junah Akharas and also told us we were unlikely to find any sadhus there. “Phew!” was all SD said as we left the akhara.

Devotees being given a free meal at one of the akharas

A few paces ahead, we found a man selling chillums. They were made of clay and had beautiful carvings of gods and goddesses on the surface. And they came as cheap as Rs 10 apiece. I wanted to buy some souvenirs and asked for seven chillums. A sadhu squatting next to me was also buying chillums. He was shocked.

“You smoke pot?” he asked me. “No,” I said. “Then why are you buying these?” he asked again, the astonishment refusing to leave his eyes and voice. “These are for friends,” I replied, amused. “Do your friends smoke pot?” he asked again, still surprised. “No,” I lied. “Then WHY are you buying these?” he repeated.

I kept quiet because I knew his questions would just go on. Even as we walked away, he kept muttering to himself and to anyone who cared to listen (no one did actually): “I can’t understand…why is she buying chillums!”

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When we finally reached the Junah Akharas, it was well past 2pm. We peeped inside, fearing to find it empty, but it was not! There were quite a few sadhus inside — walking around, chatting, sitting cross-legged on small makeshift stages… And, there were Naga sadhus too! Hurrah!

‘S’, ‘K’ and I went to meet the sadhusas SD waited for us near the entrance. While ‘S’ went straight for a Naga sadhu, ‘K’ and I strolled up to one who was still clothed — in a saffron robe. Maybe he would renounce it in another few years.

We showed our respect and he raised a hand in acknowledgement. He spoke some words of wisdom though my attention was completely taken up by the Naga sadhu seated on the next podium, where ‘S’ was already making himself comfortable.

I wondered if he’d let me photograph him. Naga sadhus are infamous for their temper. They are unpredictable and can get very rude and even violent if they sense someone making fun of their nudity. Besides, many of them are reputed to be dangerous criminals hiding from law. I wondered what kind of ‘sadhu’ this one was.

After a few minutes, ‘K’ and I took leave from the first sadhu and joined ‘S’ in front of the Naga sadhu. One glance up close and I knew he was no ‘holy’ man. He had sunglasses on, a bracelet on the left wrist and a couple of expensive watches on the other. He was unclothed and to top it, had an erection. I admit that I wouldn’t have had the courage to venture that close had I been alone.

As ‘K’ and I pretended to show respect, he patted us on the head with a peacock-feather fan as a mark of blessings. And, he gave us a smile that had nothing holy about it.

The Naga sadhu

Slightly encouraged, I asked him why he had sunglasses on. “Why are you wearing glasses?” he asked me instead, the smile not leaving his face. “Because I’m short-sighted,” I replied. “Really?” he said. “Show me your glasses.” I obeyed.

He took off his sunglasses and that’s when I saw his eyes — small, cold and bloodshot. Seeing him put my glasses on, I said: “I have very high power. You won’t be able to see a thing.” He went ahead nonetheless and exclaimed, “That’s right, I can’t see a thing.” “Neither can I, without my glasses,” I said and asked him to hand them over. For a moment I feared he wouldn’t, but thankfully he did.

It’s highly likely that he wouldn’t have given my glasses back if they had served his purpose. He was probably short-sighted, too. But thankfully, my power was too high for him.

Now I asked him if I could photograph him. He immediately agreed and even posed. But the moment I was done he asked me what ‘dakshina’ (offering) I had for him. I had put my purse along with the chillums in the camera pouch. He looked intently as I tried to take out my purse. And then, he saw the chillums. What followed was an action replay of the grilling session I had already gone through with the sadhu while buying them — “You smoke pot?”… “Your friends smoke pot?”… “What will you do with a chillum?”… etc…
Finally when I took out a 10-rupee note from my purse, he was furious. “Put the money back. I don’t need money,” he thundered. I was wary at once. “What do you want then?” I asked. He pointed at the yellow sapphire-studded gold ring on my index finger, and said, “Give me that.”

I glanced at ‘K’, who looked much calmer. “How can she give you the ring babaji? We are students. Can she afford this? It’s a gift from her dad. He’ll be very angry with her. Do you want that?” she demanded.
I gulped. Students! By Indian standards, we had reached the age where our kids would be students!

Naga baba, however, was too angry to realise that. “I don’t know anything. You either give me that ring or I won’t have anything from you,” Naga baba fumed. ‘K’ and I were already crawling backwards and before he could say or do anything more we jumped off the podium and joined SD, who looked quite amused.

There was nothing much holy about the 'holy' man, though

“You girls were so busy with your Naga baba that you missed another drama,” he chuckled. Apparently he had clicked another of the Naga sadhus as he came out of his shack. SD had used flash and this had infuriated the sadhu, who apparently blamed another photographer for the ‘insult’. “He started cursing the man, who had no way but to seek forgiveness. That calmed babaji. The poor guy paid for my sin!” SD was in splits.

We wanted to leave now, but ‘S’ was still not done. He stayed put for another 10 minutes or so and when he came back, he declared with a smug look on his face: "I have my story." (Unfortunately I never saw it.) Thankfully, our Naga baba had moved on to other ‘devotees’ and paid us no further attention.

Meanwhile, I got a message from my senior, “How’s it going?” “A Naga sadhu just asked for my ring,” I messaged back. “He wanted to exchange rings with you?” back came the cheeky reply. “No exchange offer. Just one-way traffic,” I sent back. 

When we finally left the akhara, it was past 4pm. None of us had the nerve to go back to the hotel and tell our hosts that we wanted lunch now. More so because SD had switched off his phone after repeated calls from the hotel. So, ‘K’ bought a bunch of grapes and the four of us shared them. And then we washed them down with some ‘holy’ water from the taps of an empty akhara. But it was one of the best afternoons I have spent in my not-so-long career in journalism.

After all these months, the memories of that afternoon came rushing back in a second, thanks to a chance photograph of our Naga baba at Gangasagar Mela this year. I wondered if I should go and try to seek him out, only if to ask him, “Can you recognise me babaji?”

But then I thought, some things are best left to memories.  

Ladakh: A Photo Story (Part I)

February 5, 2015, 8:50 am

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The Ladakh trip happened almost on a sudden impulse in 2012. I did not own my beloved Canon SX50 then. So all these pictures were taken on the Canon A580, a very basic digicam. But Ladakh is such an amazing land that the quality of your camera doesn't matter. Even if you close your eyes and shoot, you're bound to get something. Here are some of the best shots from Ladakh, a land I can go back to again ... and again ... and again...

Buddhist stupas on way to Hemis monastery from Leh, a distance of 45km

Hemis monastery, which existed before 11th century but was reestablished in 1672

Statue of Padmasambhava in Hemis monastery

The River Indus on way to Thikse monastery from Hemis

The Indus

The magnificent Thikse monastery, 19km east of Leh. It's one of the largest monasteries in Ladakh

View from top of Thikse

Statue of Maitreya Buddha at Thikse. It's 15m high (two stories)

Druk White Lotus School, which became famous as 'Rancho's school' among tourists, courtesy the movie '3 Idiots' in 2009. A year later, it was destroyed in the terrible Ladakh floods. When I went, it was being rebuilt

A pond where fish are bred. Opposite Shey palace

The Shey Palace. 15km from Leh, Shey used to be the summer capital of the kings of Ladakh

Singhu Ghat, by the bank of the Indus, is a tourist spot

A village in a valley. A very common sight in Ladakh

Crossed the snow line. On way to Chang La (Chang Pass)

Chang La at 17,586 feet (5360m)

Buddhist prayer flags at Chang La

On way to Pangong Tso (Pangong Lake) after crossing Chang La

On way to Pangong

View of the mountains

Frozen lakes on way to Pangong. This was early-June

A frozen lake on way to Pangong

The rugged Changthang region, which falls mostly in Tibet but extends till Ladakh

Beauty of Changthang

A herd of Kiang/Kyang, Tibetan wild ass. Changthang is famous for them

Himalayan marmot

Desert within an hour of snow. That's Ladakh. Changthang region in the east

Pangong Tso, a saltwater lake, is a prime attraction in Ladakh. Many believe it's a remnant of the Tethys Sea, which existed in the Mesozoic Era in the spot where the Himalayas lie today. Many of the lakes in Ladakh and Tibet are saltwater lakes

The beautiful colours of Pangong. There are probably not too many lakes in the world that are such a riot of colour

Brown-headed gulls at Pangong

Brown-headed gulls at Pangong

Pangong is famous for changing colours every few minutes!

Two third of Pangong lies in Tibet while only a third lies in Ladakh. Straight up ahead is Tibet

More frozen streams on way back from Pangong

  Click here for Part II

Ladakh: A Photo Story (Part II)

February 5, 2015, 9:38 am

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Here's the second part of the Ladakh journey in pictures (click here for Part I). One of the most breathtaking and photogenic places in India.

Confluence of the Indus and Zanskar

Ladakhi dancers

Himalayan magpies in Leh

Flowers are not frequently seen in the rugged terrain of Ladakh. Here are some orchids that we found while out on a walk in Leh

On way to Tso Moriri (Lake Moriri)

On way to Tso Moriri

On way to Tso Moriri. It takes an entire day to make a trip to and from Leh. The road is terrible. BUT, it's worth it

In some place, there's no 'road' and it's one roller-coaster ride

But the sights are heavenly

Tso Kar, on way to Tso Moriri

And finally, Tso Moriri. It's also a saltwater lake, just like Pangong

Pashmina goats graze near Tso Moriri. Their fur is used to knit the famous Pashmina shawls

Frozen lake near Tso Moriri

This one's on song

A spot near Tso Moriri where we stopped for lunch

Bharal near Tso Moriri

This was an incredible hot spring. Every 15 minutes, it goes from a bubbling pool of water to a bone dry rock surface. And then, the cycle starts all over again!

Danger lurks at every corner. Three of our cars had passed when this landslide happened. And the rest of the cars got stuck. Thankfully, it decided not to crush us into a pulp!

View of Leh town from the Leh palace

Leh palace

China Diaries 1: A Hanging Temple And A Walk On Water

February 19, 2015, 8:14 am

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Xiankong temple, popularly known as China's hanging temple

“It’s shaking,” I heard ‘U’ say as he walked gingerly up a narrow bridge that joined two sections of the structure. At least three/four other men were with him on the bridge. “Are you kidding? It’s been like this for hundreds of years,” said one of the others. “No I swear, it’s shaking,” ‘U’ said again.

 

It seems to have been carved into the rock surface

I kept my distance. To think that we were in a 1,500-year-old temple perched on a sheer rock face, ‘suspended’ some 50 metres off the ground, was scary enough. To be on a shaky bridge with a bunch of full-grown men was not a welcome idea.

We were in a wonder of the world. Though not officially on the list of ‘wonders’, Xuankong temple in China’s Shanxi province certainly seems like one to visitors. And no matter how many adventures you have been in and how many spectacular structures of the world you have seen, it’s bound to leave you awestruck.

The courtyard

The colourful wooden temple — which has the distinction of being the only shrine that combines the three traditional Chinese religions — Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism — appears to have been carved into the rocky surface of the Heng Shan (Heng Mountains). Though many believe it’s supported by scores of red-coloured wooden shafts in the front that appear to be inserted into the rocks below, in reality they happen to be only for show.  

The story goes that when the temple was built — sometime around the 5^th-6^thcenturies AD — people refused to venture inside because they thought it would comes crashing down. So, the monks had the shafts inserted so that people thought the structure had enough support.

But apparently many of the shafts don’t even go into the rock; they simply hang from the cliff, just like the rest of the temple. The only supports the temple has are apparently the cross rail and flying beam inserted into the rock.

Narrow steps lead visitors up the three tiers of the temple

To be fair, I did not feel the bridge shaking when I walked on it later, a few paces behind the men. Many in our group hadn’t even ventured inside. First, there were some steep steps to climb, where some beat a hasty retreat. And then, the sight of the narrow, rough steps cut through the rock surface scared away a few others.

But for those who braved it, it was one incredible experience. The initial stairs lead visitors to a broad courtyard from where the steps get narrow, leading gradually up to the three tiers above. In most places the stairs or the passages aren’t wide enough to fit even two persons side by side, and in a few, barely so. And, in some sections, the steps are plated with iron, making it a very risky business if one were to slip.
I remember one such flight of stairs, probably the one leading to the second floor. There was no one behind me and the men had gone a few paces ahead. The final step, a steep one, led straight into a wall; the passage started towards my right. And, there was no handhold.

View from the top

I imagined for a second that I was trekking in the mountains as usual and took the step, groping for whatever I could on the wall. Thankfully, I landed on the passage safely. I looked below and realised that had I slipped, I could have had a few broken bones, if not worse.

No wonder then that the Time magazine listed Xuankong as one of the “ten dangerous and magical buildings in the world” in December 2010. And magical it is, despite the dangers. Especially spectacular is the view of the surrounding Heng Shan that one gets from the balconies as one gets higher up the structure.  

The statues are placed in niches on every floor

The statues of Buddha are placed in niches on every floor. The interiors are semi-dark even at daytime and if you look carefully, you’ll see that the inner wall of the structure is actually the rugged rock face of the mountain. The rocks jut out from everywhere actually, and while going down, we often had to duck under the overhangs. But all of it together makes Xuankong a temple like no other.

But there was an even better experience waiting for ‘U’ and me, the only two journos of the group. It was November and Datong, the city in northern Shanxi which is the base for travelling to Xuankong temple, was recording day temperatures at 6°C and night temperatures as low as -9°C. The tank in front of the temple was frozen solid.

On the way down

As we made our way back to the team bus, we saw some locals down on the frozen tank. Then we saw three of our team members on it too. That was enough invitation.

Though there were guardrails along the side of the path, we crossed it and got down on the frozen tank. There were some locals who voluntarily helped me set foot on the slippery ice. The ice looked solid but in some places it was crystal-clear and I wondered whether it was really as stable as it looked. Going through the ice into the freezing water was the last thing I wanted on an official trip to China.

‘U’ went deep into the tank first and asked me to take some snaps. Then it was my turn and as I walked to the spot, I saw a local guy with a broad grin approaching me. “Does he have to get clicked exactly where I’m standing?” I grumbled and started walking a little away. But I was surprised to see the guy following me. “He wants to get clicked with YOU,” ‘U’ chuckled.

Some parts of the stairs are iron-plated

“What? Why?” I said, but did not have the heart to turn the guy away. So, his friend clicked away as he stood by my side with his teeth shining bright, and ‘U’ giving me a cheeky grin throughout. Pictures taken, I was about to walk away. But they were not done. Now it was the friend’s turn to get clicked with the lady. And so, I had to bear with the action replay.

“Wherever you go, India or China, men will be men,” I told ‘U’, who looked highly amused.

Up from this side of the tank, ‘U’ wanted to get down on the other side. The ice was cracking and as I had climbed up, some of it had broken off the edge. But not willing to be left behind, I followed him reluctantly. Our three teammates had already left the ice cracked on this side. So I went about the task more carefully this time and avoided the stretch. 

Walk on the frozen tank in front of the temple

Very soon, we were joined by three other teammates, who chose exactly the cracked stretch to descend on the lake. I told them to watch out because the ice was slippery and cracking. But they seemed to pay little heed. And the result did not take long to come. One of them had taken only two steps when he came crashing down on the ice face down.

This was the final call and all of us went up now, without waiting for a disaster. But the experience was worth the risk. For this China trip, I had had to sacrifice a long-awaited trek to Chadar — a walk on the frozen Zanskar River in Ladakh, India. So this sudden and unexpected ‘walk on frozen water’ had come as a gift from God. It was like a glimpse of Chadar, which, I hope, does not have to wait too long to catch a glimpse of me.

A final glimpse of the temple and the frozen tank

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China Diaries 2: Date With The 17-Metre Buddha

February 26, 2015, 6:05 am

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Rows of 13 pillars on each side welcome visitors to the caves

It was late afternoon when our bus rolled into the parking lot outside the Yungang Grottoes complex. The sun was already casting long shadows of the parched poplars lining the roads, making me anxious about the prospect of photographing the Buddhas.

My research ahead of the China trip had told me that the grottoes were the next best thing to look forward to in Shanxi after the Xuankong hanging temple. The complex — a UNESCO World Heritage Centre — is reputed to have 252 caves in all with 51,000 statues that reflect the first peak period of Chinese Buddhism art from the 5^th to 6^thcenturies AD. And Buddhism being a 2,000-year-old link between India and China, the grottoes were of particular interest to me.

The model of the Bodhi tree

In a quirk of fate, Buddhism, which spread to countries like China, Sri Lanka, Cambodia and Thailand from India, flourished in these nations, but gradually lost out to Hinduism in India itself. Around 2,000 years back, missionaries from India took Buddhism to China and cave art like those of Yungang came around 500 years after that. For me, it was like seeing a reflection of my own country in a different geographical as well as historical zone.

Inside the complex, a neat path with a row of 13 beautifully carved pillars on each side takes visitors to a model of the Bodhi tree, under which the Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment.

Sculptured wall murals on way to the caves. These are recent additions

The path goes around the tree and surrounding it are two semicircular walls on each side, adorned with murals depicting slices of the Buddha’s life. All these are, however, recent additions to make the site more attractive to tourists.

From there, battery-operated cars took us further inside. We took the cars in batches and the short journey was quite pleasant, but by the time we reached, the light was almost gone. Behind a low inner wall and up a short flight of stairs, we could see some hills and some pagoda-like structures. But where were the ‘caves’?

Entrance to the grottoes

As the clock ticked by, I grew more and more restless. The guide spoke English with a thick Chinese accent, which I found very difficult to follow. And now, he chose this very unfortunate moment to speak in details about the grottoes, much of which made no sense to me whatsoever.

At the bottom of the stairs were the Chinese guardian lions. The male has a pearl under his paw while the female has a cub under hers. A climb up the stairs brought us outside the pagoda-like structures that seemed to be embossed on the rocky surface of the hills.

A further speech by the guide and still, no sign of the ‘caves’. And, the sun seemed to be in a particular hurry to go to bed that day.

Caves 5 and 6. These have the best statues. Don't look like 'caves', do they

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he led us into the ‘pagoda’. The path was narrow, the interiors semi-dark and we were some 20-odd people walking into it at the same time. All I could initially see was something that looked like a massive elongated cylindrical structure placed horizontally.

Even as I got closer, I took me time to realise how big the statue really was. And a gasp of wonder left me automatically when I got the full view, for which I had to throw my head back as far as it could possibly go.
I had realised by then that the ‘pagoda’ we had seen from the outside is nothing but a gate that leads into a cave. And inside it, towering over us was the colossal statue of a rock-cut Buddha, sitting cross-legged. The ‘elongated cylindrical structure’ — at least 5/6 metres in length — was nothing but the Buddha’s folded legs. 

The caves at the back. You can take pics here

Sadly, we were not allowed to take pictures, not even without flash. I felt even more disappointed because the pictures of the Buddhas in the Yungang grottoes were all over the brochures handed out to us. And, there was artificial light in the cave, too. We were told we could take pictures at the open caves, which were at the back. I knew that by the time I would reach those, the light would have been gone completely.

Anyhow, the guide told us that the statue in front of us was 17 metres tall. Quite a bit of its colour was gone. We were told that natural dye had been used to paint the statue, including gold dust, traces of which were still visible. There were two other big Buddha statues — at least 7/8 metres tall — on either side of the main figure, but were completely dwarfed by it.

Many of the rock-cut sculptures have been damaged

The sculptures are everywhere — on the walls, ceilings and the arches

The cave — number 5 — was packed with rock-cut sculpture. Depicting slices of the Buddha’s life, every inch of the walls, the ceiling and the columns around the statue was adorned with murals. The guide said the smallest Buddha figurine in the cave was merely 2 inches in height and pointed it out to us.

One of the 10+ metres tall Buddha statues

As he gave us a guided tour of the cave, telling the stories associated with the murals, I noticed that some of them had changed from what we know them as in India. Not surprising, given the 2,000-odd miles the stories had travelled. And, the guide referred to the Buddha as ‘Sakyamuni’, a name we are familiar with in India but do not use frequently.

Another massive statue

Something that has always intrigued me about the Buddha is how he has been ‘adopted’ by the people as one of their own in every country his religion has spread to. I experienced it particularly well at the Met museum in New York, when I saw Buddha figurines from different places and eras — Cambodia, Thailand, China, Afghanistan — one after the other. The Chinese Buddha looked Chinese; the Cambodian Buddha looked Cambodian; the Gandhara (from Afghanistan) Buddha had Aryan features and so on. Is this the case with any other founder of a religion? Probably not. For instance, I think Jesus looks the same everywhere. The Indian Jesus has never looked Indian.
Anyway, the guide led us next to a couple of other caves that also had the pagoda-gates. The Buddha statues in these, too, were massive, but nothing in comparison to the first statue that we saw. Some of the statues and wall murals looked damaged — many of them very badly — and China is currently in the process of restoring them. A set of caves was closed to tourists because of that.
The pagoda-gates have probably come at a later date (I’m not sure of this fact), though I personally would have preferred to see the grottoes as what they are — caves. This wish came true at the set of caves at the back, which are still in their original shape. We were told we could take photographs of these, though, as I had feared, the light was nearly completely gone by now. But the massive statues of the Buddha — several of them over 10 metres tall — left us awestruck.

Yungang Grottoes

Location: 16km west of Datong city in Shanxi province

How to reach: Datong is an hour’s flight from Beijing. You can hire a cab or take a bus from Datong

Time: Go in daytime with a couple of hours in hand to enjoy the caves in detail. The caves close at 5pm.

Ticket: 130 yuan per head

China Diaries 3: 24 Hours in an Ancient City

March 5, 2015, 10:20 am

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Pingyao Ancient City: A shopper's paradise

Something that had disappointed me immensely about Shanghai was the fact that it was difficult to find anything really ‘Chinese’ about it. If you ignore the Chinese signboards, it looks like any other commercial Western city — the same flyovers and skyscrapers (pointing at which the guide said, ‘Manhattan of the East’), the clothes people wear (‘Paris of the East’), the same old malls with the same old brands… where was the ‘Chinese-ness’? 

Into the city in battery-operated cars

Being from a city like Kolkata — which, despite all its drawbacks, is famous for having a character of its own, thanks to its incredible 300-year-old history — I wanted to see the ‘Chinese-ness’ of China, not how much it has started resembling the West. But for that, one has to go to the provinces. For me, it happened in Shanxi.

The province has held on to a lot of its ‘Chinese-ness’, which we got to see while touring it, but the best we could observe it was at the Pingyao Ancient City. The 600-year-old walled city itself is now a tourist attraction with a UNESCO World Heritage Centre tag which gives outsiders a taste of Chinese banking, administration and judicial systems and its architectural styles. But we got a bonus on account of being journalists — visiting a couple of Chinese homes in the city and interacting with a few locals.

The Shanxi scarves are something to buy as a souvenir

Like the Yungang Grottoes, polluting vehicles are not allowed inside the well-preserved ancient city that was built by Emperor Hongwu of the Ming dynasty circa 1370. From the bus, we had to board battery-operated cars that took us past the city walls and dropped us off in a narrow lane hemmed by ancient brick houses with the typical slanting tiled roofs.

In fact, the roofs of Shanxi houses are unique; they slope only one way — towards the courtyard. The logic comes in a couple of Chinese sayings that translate to something like: “Four flows of water running to the hall” or “Nourishing water won’t flow into the farmlands of others”. It’s a practical solution in a dry and dusty province like Shanxi.

Oh yes, tiger skins are available too!

Amid the grey of the walls, the other predominant colour was red — the characteristic Chinese banners and signboards we are so used to seeing in Chinatowns the world over. The short walk up some narrow lanes led us out to a broad path that may well seem like paradise to a shopaholic. The path was lined with ancient buildings, many of which have been turned into stalls that sell anything from trinkets to tiger skin.

Yes, tiger skin. It sells openly since China has clamped no ban on its trade. Many of the tigers poached in India are meant for markets in China. When I first saw the skin, I got a shock. Then I wondered if it was a fake. One of our team members went up and asked and confirmed to me that it was very much genuine.

The city wall

We were first taken for lunch in the restaurant of Yunjincheng Hotel, where we were to put up for the night. It is a heritage building that has been turned into a hotel, much like some of the forts in our Rajasthan. It offers the traditional Chinese way of living — including the furniture, décor and even the umbrella — but wrapped in the comfort of all modern facilities.

View of the city from the city wall

The lunch was also a little different from what we had had so far. The seating arrangement was in the traditional style — benches were placed around a square table with two persons on each bench, making it a total of eight persons at each table. The food was very good though I would have loved to taste some street-food that was being sold by the roadside hawkers, who also sold a lot of other tempting stuff. But we were so very well fed by our hosts all the time that I never got the chance to try out the street-food apart from in Shanghai.

Post-lunch, we were first taken to the city wall. The 6.2km wall, with an average height of 10 metres, is said to be more than 2,000 years old. The most attractive things at the site are the life-sized metal sculptures of an archer, a labourer and a couple of watchmen, which serve the same purpose as the Madame Tussauds wax models. They make great photo ops.

Archer vs boxer: The statues make good photo ops

Our next destination was the magistrate’s court. There is a lot to see inside the complex — the magistrate’s Spartan living quarters, his kitchen, his courtroom and the even the ‘religious’ site of the Tower of the Fox Immortal (a celestial being), which no other government office in China houses. But probably 50% of the space is taken up by the display of the gruesome torture methods of ancient China.

Ancient city is for the ancients now. Most of the residents are senior citizens. Their children have left long back

From wooden boards for spanking people for minor offences to macabre and ingenious items to rip off limbs and strangle or slaughter people, it seemed ancient China had taken giant strides in inventing every possible method of tormenting, maiming or killing its convicts and suspects — just like in medieval Europe. Even better, every instrument displayed is accompanied by sketches that explain in graphic detail how it was used.

This was, however, not in our schedule and thanks to my fellow journo ‘U’, the two of us had left the group and ventured into the unseen areas of the complex on our own. When we went back and told our teammates about our ‘find’, the guide looked very displeased. “We hadn’t included those in our schedule because many fall sick,” he said. Luckily, both ‘U’ and I were born with fairly strong stomachs.

The magistrate's courtroom

Our next stop was the Rishengchang Draft Bank, which was very close to our hotel. It was the first ‘modern’ bank of China and dates back to 1823. It invented a cheque system using some very advanced methods of screening, including hidden signs that are very similar to the modern watermark. Even as Rishengchang went on to open branches across China, another 21 exchange shops came up in Pingyao. After 108 years of its inception, Rishengchang went bankrupt and shut down, thanks to the war and the advent of modern foreign banks.

Rishengchang Draft Bank

Our guided tour over, we went back to our hotel, rested awhile, had dinner and then told our host that we’d like to talk to a few locals. It was ‘U’s idea and he wanted to write his story on Pingyao. Our host said he would act as our interpreter and so, even as I mournfully watched the two other women of the group walking around with bulging shopping bags, we went hunting for residents who have been living in the city since birth.

The roads were nearly deserted by now and the hotel opposite ours had red and blue lights on that cast beautiful hues on the paved path. Our host first took us to a shop that sells the famed embroidery of China, many of which look like paintings. The owner said she is a resident but not for long. Her shop is 20 years old, when the government started developing tourism in the city. That’s when she started this small business of hers besides farming.

A traditional Chinese dinner table laid out for 8 persons

The shopkeeper, however, took us to another woman’s house further inside the city and two of our teammates joined us because they thought our job was highly adventurous. The woman’s house was a modest structure and my host told me that I could look rude if I took pictures, though the woman seemed more than keen to be photographed. Anyway, it turned out that she, too, had not lived in the city since birth.

The elderly couple we visited in Ancient City. The central heating system was amazing

As we were being led to another house a little distance away, we met an elderly woman on the road who, on seeing that we were foreigners, said very sweetly that she wanted to sing and old folk song for us. She gave an energetic performance and after thanking her for this unexpected treat, we made for our destination.

We now met an elderly couple. The man said his family has lived in the city for generations. They were traditionally farmers but now he’s retired. We came to know that most of the residents of the ancient city are senior citizens. The younger ones leave for greener pastures and the elderly have been left behind — the usual scene the world over. “We love the city; we don’t want to live anywhere else,” said the elderly gentleman.

A walk in Pingyao Ancient City at night

The home itself was incredible. It seemed no bigger than 15ftx15ft, but there was an air-conditioner, a fridge, a washing machine, and a huge flat-screen plasma TV set, apart from a modest bed. But the most amazing of all was the central heating system — the only traditional item in the room.

It was an oven just beside the bed and from this oven, on which boiled a kettle of water, there was a pipeline that transferred some of the heat to the upper and central parts of the bed. And so, when the outside temperature was near-zero degrees Celsius, the inside was warm and cosy and the bed kept its occupants wonderfully snug.

China's famous embroidery is another possible souvenir

As we came out of the house, the man pointed out a door on the other side of their narrow bylane. This was their ancestral house, he said, claiming that it was 1,000 years old. “Likely to be an exaggeration,” said our host. The couple said they shifted to this new home after the old one became uninhabitable.

Our day ended with whatever shopping the four of us could manage in such ‘ungodly’ hours, that is past 8pm. The Chinese love to go to bed to early, the time when the evening just about begins in India. We regretted not having enough time to survey all those fantastic items that were on sale all day, but at least we had got some insight into the Chinese-ness of China. It was worth it.

China Diaries 4: Five-Plateau Mountain

March 12, 2015, 11:24 am

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The Wutai Shan (Wutai Mountain) temple complex. The snow-clad peak on the horizon is the North peak of Wutai. It's the highest point in north China. The white stupa, symbolic of the complex, belongs to the Tayuan temple

The river came as a welcome break from the monotonous trip

The first things that attracted my attention at Wutai Shan (Wutai Mountain) were the magpies. I had seen their nests all through the 4-hour journey from Taiyuan — little spots of black (that looked like hives) in the middle of the trunks of the poplars lining the road, just where the boughs branched off. It was mid-November and the poplars were as dry as a bone, bereft of everything green. And the surrounding mountains were as dull as the poplars. It was pretty in its own way, but monotonous.

Inside Pusading temple complex

The first sight that broke the monotony was a peek of the snow-capped North peak of the Wutai. At 3,061 metres (10,043 feet), it’s the highest point in north China. And as we got closer to our destination, a river caught up with us from nowhere and put an end to the dreariness of the journey.

The lively river — which flowed parallel to the road, opposite to our journey since we were going uphill — was frozen in parts. There were patches of green around the river on which cattle grazed. And below nearly every tree that lined the road I could see a magpie, pecking insects from the ground or the tree trunk.

Leaving Pusading. Check out the beautiful paintings

We were finally at Wutai Shan — the Five-Plateau Mountain (wu=five, tai=table/plateau). Apart from being the proud owner of the Roof of North China, Wutai is also home to the “largest international Buddhist ashram of China”, says the guidebook. And it is this complex with its innumerable Buddhist temples — or monasteries — that we headed for after having lunch at Youyi hotel, where we were to put up for the night.

Our bus took us straight to the top of the complex. We were told that it’s better to walk down rather than walk up the three layers of the complex, which involves climbing some 1,000-odd steps. The first temple complex we entered was Pusading, from where the snow-clad North peak was clearly visible.

The 108 steps of Pusading

The complex — a UNESCO World Heritage Centre — was beautiful, clean and well maintained. The colourful Buddhist prayer flags and prayer wheels, the skilfully painted wooden beams and pillars, the Buddhist paintings adorning the walls and ceilings, the massive incense burners, the pines in the complex — and even flowerpots placed on the veranda — everything added to the beauty.

Our Chinese hosts had already told us how to differentiate between the Han Buddhist monks and the Tibetan ones — from the colour of the robes. The Tibetan monks’ robe is maroon, while the Han monks’ robe is saffron, tan or blue. The Han Buddhist monks at the complex did not look very happy as the tourists trooped in; even I could feel that the inherent tranquility of the place was being disturbed.

A monk's journey up the 1,000-odd steps

It was bitterly cold. The maximum temperature on that day was –3°C. The night temperature was to be –12°C. There were patches of snow here and there — at the foot of the pines, in the cracks of the paved pathway, in the lawns dotted with clumps of dry grass… The magpies were here too, flying in and out of the pines. And there were scores of pigeons on the roofs of the temples that were tucked in every corner of the complex — but in a neat geometric pattern.

Xiantong temple complex

The way down from Pusading monastery comprised 108 steps. After that the way went down even further, though the steps were not very steep. We were lucky to be going down. But for the devotee, life is not so easy. We found a monk making his way up the steps painfully, inch by inch, prostrating at every step in obeisance to his Lord. It looked very similar to some Hindu rituals.
The next we entered was Xiantongtemple, one of the earliest and most famous in the Wutai complex. Here, for the first time, I saw a Buddhist nun. She stood outside as the monks prayed inside a hall. Pines shaded the courtyard and the afternoon sun peeped in through the branches, creating a stunning chiaroscuro.

We made our way through the Xiantong temple complex, up to the dazzling Bronze Hall at the top. It’s named Bronze Hall, but gilded in gold. Unfortunately, the Beamless Hall was closed and so we couldn’t see the famed pagoda and the life-sized praying monk statues inside it.

Xiantong temple complex

We made our way further down to the last layer, where the prime attraction is the Tayuan temple. The 75.3-metre-high (247ft) white stupa at Tayuan temple has come to be the symbol of the Wutai temple complex.

Here, I found a direct India link. The Garan Hall is dedicated to King Prasenjit, his son Prince Jeta and Anathapindika (or Sudatta), “a wealthy merchant from Sevatthi in ancient India”, reads the plaque. They were “among the first who protected the power of Buddha and built Buddhist temples”. The hall was built during the reign of the Qing dynasty (1644-1911).

Another temple of note is the Manjusri Hall, dedicated to the presiding Bodhisatva of Wutai complex — Manjusri or the Bodhisatva of wisdom. Apparently, the hair of Manjusri is preserved in a shrine within the complex.

The Bronze Hall, which is gilded in gold

The sun was nearly down when we left for our hotel. It’s impossible to visit all the temples in a day, though I must say that unless you are a devout Buddhist, you may not really have the urge to visit all the temples. Most of them look quite the same.

The perfect end to the tiring day came for me around 8.30pm, when I was already planning to go to bed. The doorbell rang. It was my fellow journo ‘U’. I had skipped dinner that evening for a snack of fruits. He first asked me if I was all right and then, if I wanted to go out to “have a taste of –12°C”.

“These people keep scaring us about the cold. Let’s see what it’s like,” he said. I immediately lapped up the idea.

A magpie basks in the afternoon sun

Two of our teammates walked out with us, but went back after a few minutes. Dressed in four layers of clothing, I did not feel too cold. Neither did ‘U’ seem too bothered. We walked for around half an hour. The roads were deserted and the only other living souls around were a couple of our Indian teammates, with whom we crossed path once or twice.

It seemed to be a dead town. All was quite apart from the occasional call of an animal, which sounded like the neigh of a horse. The shutters were down though some of the neon lights were on, adding to the eeriness. Finally, spooked by the silence and concerned about the safety of his female colleague, ‘U’ insisted that we turn back.

But I think in the entire day at Wutai, I had enjoyed this walk the most.

How to reach: Wutai Shan is 4 hours' drive from Taiyuan and 3 hours' drive from Datong. Both are well connected by flights to Beijing.
Where to stay: There are some good hotels, but not too many. It'd be wise to book in advance
Best time to go: Summer or spring when the mountain is green. It's a bit dull during fall

Shanghai Noon

March 19, 2015, 10:53 am

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The famous Shanghai skyline, which has cropped up only in the last 26 years, seen from the Bund across the Huangpu

The pride of Shanghai — the Jin Mao Tower (basting syringe), the Shanghai World Financial Centre (the bottle-opener) and the Shanghai Tower (the whisk)

Shanghai is a city of flyovers, skyscrapers, malls, international brands and designer stores — in short, it’s like any other modern glittering city. If you are easily dazzled by man-made magnificence, Shanghai is eye-popping stuff. More incredibly, the skyline of Shanghai, which it now promotes as the ‘Manhattan of the East’, cropped up only in the last 26 years. However, if you’re the type that’s not impressed with concrete jungles, Shanghai is bound to disappoint you.

The older skyscrapers have been dwarfed by the trio. But amid all the grey of the concrete, there's colour

Our tour guide Phillip did not seem to endorse the mindless express urbanisation of Shanghai, which was catapulted from the status of a quiet, exotic fishing town to the fastest growing city in the world almost overnight. (Phillip wasn’t his real name. All Chinese tour guides take on a Christian name to make it easy for foreign tourists to pronounce them.) “We are so close to the sea. And Shanghai is gradually subsiding. Maybe one day the sea will gobble us up,” he mused as he led us to the Bund — the showpiece riverside of the Huangpu.

The Bund is one of the best places in Shanghai. And my favourite was its wall of flowers. A good thing about Shanghai is that despite all the grey of concrete, there are frequent specks of colour and nature to give your eyes some respite. Be it the dividers, rotaries or random manicured stretches along the road, they are decorated with beds of carefully chosen flowers. And, they are evidently well maintained.

These add beauty to the concrete jungle of Shanghai

At the entrance to the Bund is a statue that may people mistake as that of Mao Zedong. It’s actually of Chen Yi, the first mayor of Shanghai. The Bund is a great place to sit and enjoy the gentle river breeze and wallow in the grandeur of Shanghai, if you can ignore the madding crowd that is. You can take ferry rides on the Huangpu and enjoy the sights even better, for the Bund has a unique characteristic. It’s the boundary line between ‘old Shanghai’ and ‘new Shanghai’.

The Oriental Pearl TV Tower seen from the aerial walkway

‘Old Shanghai’ is the city’s colonial past — marked by grand neoclassical architecture — while the vertically growing ‘new Shanghai’ is its future. One after another, super-skyscrapers have mushroomed in Shanghai’s Pudong district. So rapidly has the skyline changed that my photographs of the Shanghai skyline look remarkably different from the ones taken by my colleague merely two years back. The Huangpu and its Bund are silent spectators of this spectacular human feat.

We had already seen the ‘pride of Shanghai’ — the three tallest buildings of the city, including the Shanghai Tower (632m/128 floors), the Shanghai World Financial Centre (492m/101 floors) and the Jin Mao Tower (421m/88 floors) — up close in Pudong the previous evening. We saw them from across the Huangpu now — much like tourists see Manhattan from the ferry on the way to the Statue of Liberty.

The Bund wall and the statue of Chen Yi, the first mayor of Shanghai

“They are the three kitchen tools of Shanghai — whisk (Shanghai Tower), bottle-opener (Financial Centre) and basting syringe (Jin Mao Tower),” Phillip said (I wondered if it was a joke but he did not even smile). The resemblance was quite close though, especially the bottle-opener.

The trio has now dwarfed all the older skyscrapers of Shanghai. The previous evening, Phillip had also showed us a building, which had a very interesting colour on the façade of its portico. “This colour, which is a cross between gold and shit, stands for the nouveau riche in our culture,” Phillip had said.

The Bund wall

Another impressive building in Pudong is the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, which has observation decks — including one with a glass floor — apart from a revolving restaurant. It looks particularly stunning at night, lit up in shades of blue.

We walked along the Bund — which is no more than 1.5km — after which Phillip led us across the road into a garden that leads to Chinatown. That’s right. Shanghai has a Chinatown too! My sister, who had messaged me in the morning to know what my schedule for the day was, was astonished. “Chinatown in China!” she message back.

The Bund divides Shanghai's colonial past (left) and its future, which is growing vertically (right) at an express speed

From what I understood, it’s a tourist attraction. Shanghai seems to have shunned everything Chinese — whether by design or destiny I don’t know. Clothes, brands, architecture, lifestyle — Shanghai looks like a clone of a western city. All you have to do is ignore the physical features and the signboards written in Chinese. (China is yet to catch up on its English lessons and is currently in the process of setting things right, we were told. And going by Shanghai’s record, it won’t take them too long, I believe.)

The girls were simply wrapped in international designer brands. Ninety percent were dressed identically — skirt with stockings or denims, faux leather jacket and leather boots — had a designer backpack and perennially fiddled with their smartphones. The last bit went for the guys too, though they somehow seemed less fashionable compared to the girls. Phillip told us Shanghai is the ‘Paris of the East’.

You can buy lots of souvenirs from Chinatown, but remember to bargain hard

Even at the malls, we failed to find a single Chinese apparel label. Until we went to the districts, we never saw anyone dressed in anything that looked like traditional Chinese clothes. Also missing in Shanghai proper were the traditional Chinese buildings.

Chinatown makes up for all these ‘inadequacies’. Here, things are overwhelmingly Chinese. Narrow lanes are hemmed in by Chinese-style buildings that house stores, restaurants, cafes and sundry other attractions. The abundance of stores, where suddenly everyone seems to remember to put on their traditional attire, makes it pretty clear that it’s nothing more than a tourist attraction.

We had an hour to ourselves and were told to meet near the Starbucks outlet. I went off on my own, buying gifts and mementos, for which you can be spoilt for choice. From Chinese silk scarves, traditional Chinese clothes, metal statuettes and Chinese swords to mundane stuff like magnets, tees, key rings and trinkets, there is no dearth of objects you can splash out on. However, remember to bargain a lot because things are grossly overpriced. I’m not very good at it and was duped royally.

Shanghai's Chinatown

Our afternoon ended with a sumptuous meal at one of the restaurants in Chinatown. The food was, however, ordinary and the famous Mandarin Fish was smelly. I won’t reveal much about it right now because I intend to dedicate a post solely to Chinese food.

I yearned for a glimpse of the ‘real’ Shanghai, which, my colleague had told me, our hosts would try their best to keep us away from. However, the next evening, I did manage to get a feel of it — the lanes, bylanes, nooks and corners that can still remind one of an old exotic fishing town — but that’s another story altogether, which will come in my next post. 

Shanghai Nights

March 30, 2015, 3:04 am

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Nanjing (pronounced Nanking) Road

“You’ll lose your way,” was the first thing we heard when I and fellow journalist ‘U’ said we wanted to return to the hotel and explore Shanghai on our own. We were at the China International Travel Mart in Pudong New Area and our hotel was in Jing’an district, very close to the temple by the same name.

“No, we won’t,” we said very coolly. “Just give us the directions. If you don’t, we’ll find it anyway,” we added even more coolly. Our host relented. There was another Chinese gentleman in our group who seemed to have more faith in us. He pointed out our current position, destination and the corresponding Metro stations very meticulously on the map and gave us thorough directions.

Our host also wrote down something in Chinese on the map and told us to show it to someone in case we didn’t find the Metro station. Apparently it was the sign for the Metro station in Chinese.

“Take care of the lady. She’s your responsibility,” our host told ‘U’. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of the gentleman, too, though you haven’t asked me to,” I told him, not too coolly now. With an impish grin from ‘U’, we thanked the duo and left.

Inside a Shanghai mall

We were supposed to find the Huamu Road station. Just outside the venue, we met a bunch of young women and I showed one of them the map. We had been told that most of the youngsters follow and speak English. I pointed at Huamu Road station on the map and asked her where it was. She gave us very accurate directions — which we found out later — in English.

The station was about a 10-minute walk and we found it without a hassle. On the way, however, ‘U’ saw the Metro logo and the corresponding Chinese letters on a signboard. “Look, it’s totally different from what he has written on the map,” he pointed out. “I’m sure it means something else, maybe ‘These two are good for nothing’ or something like that,” he said and we had a good laugh. 

The station looked very similar to the Metro stations we have in Kolkata. It looked like a proper ‘station’ unlike in New York where you have an escalator hidden somewhere in a corner of the sidewalk. I could never find them.

The Oriental Pearl TV Tower

Anyway, the ticketing system stumped us. Neither of us had ever used a ticket-vending machine. In India, we still buy tickets from human beings at counters and my friends and cousin had provided me with cards during my US stay. To top it, the instructions on the machines seemed to be in Chinese.

We loitered about helplessly at the station for a while and realised there was no help forthcoming. There were long queues in front of the machines and we could not even take a good look to figure out how these worked.

Finally, I noticed that one of the machines was out of order though it was still switched on. On inspecting it, I found that there was an option for English instructions, too! And on probing a little further, I realised it was pretty simple, touch-screen technology. “C’mon, we can do this,” I told ‘U’ and joined the queue.  

When our turn came, I managed to get the tickets pretty smoothly, only faltering once, when the guy standing behind me came to the rescue. First hurdle crossed, we darted to the platform.

It was the last station and hence, there could be only one train to take, making our job slightly easier, ‘U’ pointed out. The train came and all the people got off. Then all the waiting passengers got on. We did too, but I was still a little unsure. So I found a young-looking Chinese guy, showed him the map and asked him if the train would go to Jing’an Temple station. And then the drama started.

Hop on to one of these buses for a tour of Shanghai

To my utter misfortune, the guy did not speak English. But he was not ready to disappoint the lady either. So, his response was an excited mix of rapid Chinese and very vigorous shaking and nodding of the head and hand gestures. Unfortunately, I understood none of it.

And I have a very bad habit. When I don’t understand people, I stare at them wide-eyed and open-mouthed, which imparts the message without fail. It did this guy too. And he got very hot and red and frustrated. All the nearby passengers stared at us, too, making the poor chap even more flustered.  

I looked at ‘U’ for help, but he disowned me completely. The Chinese guy tapped me on the hand to draw my attention. He showed me the map. We were on Line 7 (Orange). He kept pointing at the Green line (2).

I pointed at Jing’an Temple on the Orange line on the map as well as the route map on the train. He nodded, but again shook his head. He held up his index and middle fingers together in a V shape — obviously he meant two. But I had no clue what “two” he meant. Line 2 went to Jing’an temple as well, but so did Line 7. What was his problem?

By then, I knew for sure that we were on the correct train, but I couldn’t make him understand that either.

Jing'an Temple. Unfortunately, it was closed and we couldn't venture inside

A couple of stations later came the junction with Green line. He got off and vigorously gestured to us to get off. But we stayed put. For a moment I thought he would drag us out of the train. Finally, very disappointedly, he watched us through the window as the train chugged off the station.

I heaved a sigh of relief. “What do you think you are doing, harassing a poor Chinese guy like that?” ‘U’ said in mock derision.

Both of us found seats after a while. ‘U’ promptly dozed off, but I kept thinking what the poor Chinese guy might have meant to say. Finally, after ages of solo brainstorming, it dawned on me. I woke up ‘U’ and told him very happily, “Look, it’s a couple of stations fewer to Jing’an Temple on the Green line compared with Orange line. That’s the “two” he was trying to tell me.”

“He could see that we are tourists. Why complicate things unnecessarily?” ‘U’ said very glumly and dozed off again.

Our chow mien being prepared

Just to veer off the topic for a while, my experience on the Shanghai Metro told me that Shanghai is far from being a cosmopolitan city. There is no better place to figure this out than a huge public transport system like the underground railway. NYC’s cosmopolitanism is very evident on the Subway — if you look at one seat, the six persons seated will be from six different races. On the Shanghai Metro, people were mostly all Chinese.

Anyhow, we got off at Jing’an Temple station and found our hotel quite easily. And after half hour’s rest, we left for Nanjing (pronounced Nanking) Road, where we had been told we could find street food (which I wanted to taste) and lots of other attractions.

We had already been at Nanjing Road for dinner at a restaurant the previous evening. It’s a beautiful street, with the trees and buildings decorated with colourful light bulbs. We had been told that a 5km stretch of Nanjing Road is closed to traffic and is a tourist attraction with food and other stalls in the middle of the road. However, our host had also warned us that this stretch was quite far from our hotel, where Nanjing Road West started. But we were not to be put off.

Probe a little and you'll find these lanes and bylanes where you'll get some delicious foodstuff

We started walking at a brisk pace, hoping to reach the tourist-attraction stretch as early as possible. The showpiece road was lined by stores of well-known international brands — apparel, jewellery, accessories… There were also bakeries that sold Chinese versions of Western items like cakes and pastries, but nothing that looked quintessentially ‘local’.

As the evening wore on, more and more pedestrians joined us. The girls especially were in their fashionable best (I have already given a description in the last post). Unfortunately, the sidewalk is also meant for bicycles and its battery-operated motorized avatar. It was quite chaotic and the two of us went with the flow.
The carriageway was choc-a-block with vehicular traffic. And, amid all the regular hatchbacks and sedans was a Ferrari! It gave me a start with its trademark engine sound both times it passed us by. 

Our tour guide Phillip had ‘boasted of’ Shanghai’s chaotic traffic the very first day we had gone out. Unfortunately, each and every prediction of his regarding the time we would take to reach our destination had failed. We had never been stuck in inordinately long traffic jams and had taken much less time than he had predicted.

“We, Chinese people, used to ride bicycles. Now, we have graduated to cars. But we drive our cars like we used to ride bicycles. We follow cycle rules to drive cars,” he had joked. Now, we finally got an idea of what he had meant.

The shop where we got the fake Rolex for 130RMB (Rs 1,300 / $21)

No driver stopped even at signals. At the crossings, the two of us would wait for the cars to stop when the signal turned red. But none of them did. Then we would find the locals simply jump on to the carriageway and walk across nonchalantly. Inches away, the cars would screech to a halt.

Coming from cities like Delhi and Kolkata, the two of us are perfectly used to unruly traffic of the highest order. But nothing had prepared us for Shanghai. In India, at least cars stop at signals. Finally, we also started turning a blind eye to the speeding cars and jumped on to the carriageway, hoping fervently that the drivers would slam the brakes on time. They did every time. 

But the stretch closed to traffic never came. We walked for around an hour, with me keeping a hawk eye on all the streets that branched off from Nanjing Road. But there was no sign of what we were looking for. Finally, we decided to veer into one of the roads that led off Nanjing Road.

We walked down the road, found a road parallel to Nanjing Road, crossed it and went into the narrower streets. The shops here were the regular stores — grocery, hardware, regular apparel… As we walked, ‘U’ suddenly said, “Have you noticed? There are no off-shops. Don’t people here drink?”

I realised now why he had so gladly accompanied me on my quest for street food. He was on Mission Alcohol!

 

A lane leading off from Nanjing Road

I did not mind. It was on my agenda too. One of my colleagues had told me about the local alcoholic drink that comes in bottles that look like Chinese vases. I wanted to taste it.

After a while, we found an off-shop. But neither did the shopkeeper speak English nor did the bottles have English labels. We had no idea which was what.

We walked a little more and went deeper into the alleyways. At the next off-shop, we found the vase-like bottles and they were not too expensive either. A 500ml bottle came for 23RMB. The alcohol content was 55%. I later found out it’s called ‘baijiu’.

As usual, the shopkeeper lady did not speak English. But ‘U’ seemed desperate now. “Let’s buy one. How different can it be? We’ll mix water and drink it,” he said.

But I decided to ‘ask’ the lady as best as I could. I knew “shui” means water in Chinese. I pointed at the bottle, said “Shui? Shui?” and pretended to stir. Then I held up the bottle to my mouth and said “Glug glug?”

To my utter amazement, she understood my question! Shaking her head, she pointed at a whiskey bottle and said “shui”. Then she pointed at the bottle we wanted to buy, put it to her lips and said, “Glug glug glug.”

The message was clear: Don’t mix water. It’s meant to be drunk neat.

Shop at these narrow alleys leading off from Nanjing Road. If you can bargain, you can get a good deal

‘U’s mission complete, now began our hunt for street food. Very close to the off-shop, in one of the alleys, I finally found what I was looking for. In rows sat vendors by the roadside, selling chow mien, dumplings, grilled chicken and other foodstuff. As we inspected the alley, there were also shops selling sesame-topped cakes, pies and other exotic bakery items. The fish and vegetable markets were close by, too.

This was the ‘real’ Shanghai — far from the glitter of Nanjing Road and Pudong’s skyline. The people looked ‘real’, not like mannequins that have fled Calvin Klein or Zara showrooms. But alas! None of them spoke English.

We bought some bakery stuff. They keyed in the price on the calculator for our benefit. Thankfully, the calculators have English digits, not Chinese.

The stall selling chow mien was fascinating. There were rows of different kinds of meat and veggies. We watched and realised people can pick whatever ingredients they want in their chow mien. This is not what we get in Kolkata, where everyone is dished out uniform stuff, though you can ask the cook to leave out something you don’t want.

I pointed at the noodles and asked “How much?” The woman, who was probably the stall owner, keyed in ‘7’ on her calculator. “7 yuan?” I asked. She nodded. “That’s not much, though expensive by Indian standards,” I told ‘U’, who looked sceptical. I asked for one plate of chow mien, packed.

Nanjing Road

The cook, a youth of about 22, started off at once with the wok. The woman then pointed at the rows of shredded meat and gestured ‘two’ with her fingers. Not yet recovered from the muddle of “two” earlier in the day, I was now stuck in another one. But I guessed she meant we could have two kinds of ingredients in our chow mien. So I pointed at two kinds of shredded meat.

The cook put those in the wok. Then the woman pointed at the veggies and again gestured ‘two’ with her fingers. By now, I had the feeling that something was wrong. “I’m telling you, they are looting us,” said the ever-cynical ‘U’. I ignored him and pointed out two veggie ingredients. And they went into the wok as well.

But the woman still looked very unhappy. She kept pointing at the shredded stuff and looked as me curiously. But I shook my head, now completely unsure of how things worked. The cook also told her something, after which she fell silent. “I’m telling you, they’re looting us,” ‘U’ whispered again.

When the packet came, I handed the woman a 10-yuan note. She looked at me open-mouthed and then keyed in ‘15’ on the calculator. “But you said ‘7’,” I said, surprised. She started gesturing so frantically that I thought it wise to pay the bill first.

‘U’ looked at me with this “I told you” look even as I was trying to add things up. Then it struck me. “Okay, she said 7RMB for only the noodles and 2 for each of the other ingredients,” I said as we started walking back to the hotel.

Nanjing Road

“Right. I’ve figured it out already,” ‘U’ sulked. “But then, it was not her fault. She was constantly gesturing ‘two’. We misunderstood,” I laughed. But ‘U’ was certain we had been cheated.

Though that evening, we could not find the stretch of Nanjing Road we had been looking for, we visited it the very next evening — our last one in Shanghai — when we were taken there along with our team. It looks very similar to NYC’s Times Square. Blazing lights, glittering decor, busy roads with a lot going on at the middle — touristy tram rides, hawkers vying for tourists’ attention, tourists trying to get the best deal and locals taking a break from the monotony of their everyday lives.

A woman selling the famous Rolex fakes that are impossible to separate from the originals accosted us. One of our team members wanted to buy one. He handed over the charge of bargaining to ‘U’. I can’t remember the original price she had asked for. It was probably 300RMB. ‘U’ brought it down to 130. It did not take her too long to agree.

She led us down the narrowest of alleyways, into a gifts shop, up a rickety wooden staircase, into a small room behind a locked door. Some of those who had joined us wanted to turn back, but I valiantly led the way, even the faintest scent of adventure never failing to attract me.

Pudong skyline at night

Inside were rows of ladies’ handbags and the Rolex fakes. The guy who wanted to buy the watch kept his original next to the fake of the same model. Nothing seemed different. An American team came in soon after us and the woman took us outside to take the payment. She would charge the American much higher for the watch.

Many of our teammates bought gifts and mementos at Nanjing Road — electronic toys, local clothes, magnets, shoes, bags. But again, bargaining is the key word.   

Personally, I had enjoyed the previous evening more, walking down the unknown streets of Shanghai. The chow mien had a taste of home — it was very similar to the stuff we get on Kolkata streets. Baijiu is one of the best local drinks I have tasted so far — strong but bearing a very sweet flavour. And the bakery products were quite delicious.

That was the closest I came to the ‘real’ Shanghai. And it didn’t seem all that different from home.