by GAURAV PUNJ
A village of tattooed women
The uphill trudge continued. I had checked on the first-timers during the break, especially Mushtaq bhai, who with his, how should I say this, bulk, was more susceptible, at least as per perceptions. But we didn’t account for the fact that he lives and works in Himachal, and walking in the hills is almost a daily ritual. Rujuta’s strength-to-weight ratio principle was at play here. Mushtaq bhai had the strength to carry his weight easily and that’s all that matters. In fact, he turned out to be the biggest asset on the trek. He knew so much about the vegetation, why things grow in particular conditions, the peculiarities of trees and plants around us, etc., that walking beside him was akin to shadowing a walking talking Nat Geo channel. I, and a lot of us in the group, just absorbed all the gyan.
Just before reaching our campsite we passed the village of Birthi. As old goes, this one was right there at the top. Ancient is the correct word to describe it. The houses were of wood and a bit of stone, and were unique in their style and look. Passing through the narrow alleys of the village we could hear plenty of giggles and murmurs. Without looking up one could guess it was the village women amused by our clothes, our way of walking, our reason for walking, pretty much everything about us. Neeta was part of the group and so goof-ups were guaranteed. One came promptly. As she was panting her way up the alleys, resting frequently with her hands on knees, an old woman remarked in a clearly pitying and sarcastic tone, ‘Bimaar ho?’ That was cue for the rest of us to burst out laughing and seeing us do that the villagers warmed up to us.
We could only see women and children, lots of them. The features were striking, very ‘different’. Women, especially the older ones, lounged in the verandas and Rujuta approached one such group. They were fascinated by her hat, her sunglasses, she in turn with their many piercings and tattoos. She requested them for a photo and they gladly accepted, posing, opening up the top buttons of their blouses to reveal their multiple tattoos (photo on page ix in the inserts). At such moments, the only thing that I can think of is how and when, as a society, did we let go off this openness, this bindaas attitude and become a less evolved species? Alas, satellite TV will soon come to this village as well and they will then ‘learn’ how women behave, talk and act from serials made in ‘modern, progressive’ India.
Where brides rule
Like all remote Himalayan regions, Jaunsar-Bawar has been traditionally a very open and equal society. In fact, if we go by a few rituals, women hold a higher place in the scheme of things. Girls choose their grooms and he has to pay the bride’s family money to compensate for their loss of an asset. Better still, divorce is completely accepted and in fact encouraged if the girl wants it. Of course, these customs are changing fast as the ‘modern/ progressive’ culture penetrates the region.
When we trek, these are the moments you wait for, moments that refresh you, make you laugh, amaze you, take away the physical pain and leave you with happy memories. Passing through Birthi village refreshed all of us, even Sangita and Sarika, as they forgot to make their customary mid-day complaints, taken in as they were by the women of Birthi. To make matters better, just above the village we came across a sea of white flowers, all sprouting from the crop planted by the villagers. Mushtaq, our expert, didn’t waste a second to tell us that it’s poppy, harvested illegally by the villagers as no one from the government ever comes here, and it provides them with some much needed cash. Several of us, drawn by curiosity, picked up a few flowers and stems and were given a demo of how it’s distilled down to its more potent, commercially available form. Out of scope of this book.
Soon we were at the first campsite. Ah, the joys of reaching a campsite after a few hours of hard trudging can only be compared to the best things in life: the arrival of your cousins to spend summer vacations with you, the arrival of rain in the last over of a match just when you are about to lose to bitter rivals, the ... okay I’m getting unnecessarily philosophical, but it truly is a special feeling. It was the same here as people who had been dragging themselves suddenly started running around barefoot, behaving like school children out on a picnic, finding their breath and voice and asking the cook for tea and pakoras. Friendly banter followed as everyone dug into their memories of the walk and took digs at each other for what they might have done or said while in an exhausted state earlier in the day. Typical campsite stuff.
The second day of the trek was easier, shorter and comparatively less eventful. We entered a thick jungle and walked all the way till the tree line, just under it rather, and pitched our campsite. I did notice, we all did, the scarcity of water sources on this part of the trek, for no apparent reason. The campsite was a nice opening in the upper reaches of the jungle and we could sense we were just a short distance from getting above the tree line where we would start seeing some snow vistas. So the evening was marked with a heightened expectation of the next day and the only noteworthy incident at the campsite was Atul’s hilarious attempts to enact the movie Shalimar as we played dumb charades.
The ridge between Rupin and Supin
It took an hour-long uphill trudge on the third morning to come out of the jungle and onto the fabled ridge separating the Rupin and Supin valleys. Just as we stepped out of the jungle and onto the ridge we heard the flapping of big bird wings and kind of guessing what it could be rushed ahead and luckily got a glimpse of the magnificent khaleej pheasant, the king of Himalayan birds and a very rare sight. We had come out just under an outcrop of rock called the Vijay Top, marking the start of the long ridge between the Rupin and Supin valleys. As we waited for the rest of the group to catch up, we were witness to the following conversation between Atul and Tikam, our strict, no-nonsense, second guide.
Atul: Abhi kitna dur hai campsite?
Tikam: Bahut.
Atul: Yeh jagah bada acha hai, aap to bade lucky hain aap idhar rehte hain.
Tikam: (Grunts an ‘hmmm’)
Atul: (Desperately trying to win him over) Aapke liye to bada easy hoga yahan chalna.
Tikam: Aap log bahut slow hain, hum thak jaate hain wait kar kar ke.
Atul: (Grunts an ‘hmmm’)
As Atul gave up talking to him, and the others in the group arrived, we resumed our walk, now more or less on a flat trail along the ridge. We were at around 3000m and the rhododendrons were everywhere, in fact both sides of the ridge were full of the pink rhododendrons flowers, interspersed with some other bright yellow and red flowers. It was quite an experience walking amidst this riot of colours and even the distant thunder and cloud build-up was ignored by all of us. I must not forget to mention that, due to the lack of stream water on this stretch of the trek, two porters were assigned to carry twenty-five litre cans of water all the way so we could fill our bottles directly from them. Their strength, stamina, and most importantly joy in doing this job was straight from the ‘Karm kar, phal ki chinta mat kar’ principle of the Bhagvad Gita.
We had left the villages behind on the first day itself so it was just us and the occasional shepherd with his sheep, goats and the sheepdogs. Every time I see these proud animals, going about their work without a bother, I unfairly start comparing them to their domesticated counterparts in the cities and they seem to be a different species altogether. A lot of people in my groups go ‘Awww….’ and ‘Soooo cute’ and all that, but they also know they can’t treat them as they would a city dog: it’s the sheer aura they exude. The Spiti incident, when we were chased by a sheepdog, is an exception, and mostly they just want you to move on with life and leave them alone.
Move on we did and finally reached the campsite perched on one side of the ridge with one trail continuing towards the Supin valley and the other climbing up to the Bharadsar lake. Since we were above the tree line, the site was pretty exposed and vulnerable to wind and storms coming from either side. A photo of this campsite is on page ix in the inserts. Our plan was to keep the next day as a day of options: you could eithe
r choose to stay there and rest or climb to the lake and back with the rest of the group. No point in forcing people to come for tough stretches on a trek when there is an option of staying put and resting it out. This way one gets to enjoy the trek and not become a victim of ‘have to do this at any cost’, where the cost sometimes is an end to your trekking career (not because of injury but just the sheer physical exhaustion that overtakes the intangible pleasures of trekking). So we had a discussion about this during dinner and roughly half of us decided to go to the lake the next day at 5 a.m. sharp, while the others would stay back.
And it comes
Now, imagine this scene. It’s deathly quiet on a moonlit Himalayan night. Half a dozen colourful tents are pitched on a ridge and appear from afar like little dots. The occupants are sleeping as comfortably as is possible at this altitude and in a sleeping bag. Slowly the distant clouds roll over, cover the moon and then the ridge and surrounding mountains. It gets dark, very dark. Soon, the first flash of lightning appears, momentarily lighting up the tents, followed soon by the thunder. Then the second, third and fourth, followed by drops of cold rain. The tent people are still snuggled in their warm bags, either oblivious to all this, or more likely, pretending to ignore it. With each round of lightning, the space inside lights up in the colour of their tent, orange or yellow. It’s like someone is switching on a bulb for a few seconds and then switching it off. They turn around in their bags, slightly concerned.
Then the wind comes. There aren’t any trees so it sneaks in without any warning. The tent cloth flaps, mildly first and wildly soon after. The rain, feeling left out, picks up the intensity and is now pelting down as hail on the tents, which now appear even smaller on this grand stage, insignificant props in a battlefield. The lightning, the wind and the rain, the elements are all revealed and the quiet night is anything but. The occupants of the tents are wide awake now, clutching their partner’s hand or supporting the tent fabric, the millimetres of matter between them and the outside. Some of them call out to their neighbours, but soon realize that their voices are no match for the din created by the flapping of the tents. Depending on how one looks at it, it’s exhilarating, scary or plain nuisance preventing one from sleeping.
From afar, if you could see through the rain and clouds, you would now see tiny figures moving around the tents, tightening the cords, piling extra stones on the anchors, checking the zips and shouting words of encouragement. They are the brave guides and porters, checking on each and every tent. Did I not tell you about the principle of karma they work by, rather live by? Just doing our duty, they would say nonchalantly the next day.
The storm rages, time loses its significance, the tent people make peace with their situation, some even try to sleep, and things take their course. Just when it seems like the storm has it in it to last forever, the distant glow of dawn appears and taking its cue, the wind slackens, the hail loses its sting and the clouds start to roll onwards for their next show, somewhere down the valley. It becomes quiet again, but the scene is very different. The storm seems to have left the colour white behind as everything gets a coating of hail and snow, the ridge, the tents, the mountains (photo on page x in the inserts). Disturbed by the sudden quiet, some of the occupants venture out of their tents and seeing the sea of white start jumping and screaming like prisoners on a life term set free unexpectedly after an overnight coup. Soon, the bitter cold of early morning brings them to their senses, and they, like others who already have, snuggle back into their bags. It’s been an exhausting night being a silent and insignificant witness to a show put up by the elements, and they all need to re-establish their worth by snatching sleep back from the fleeting night.
***
Reality check
Sangita Maheshwari with Atul
Commercial Manager, Lactose India
It was our third day of walking, rather climbing! At least that’s all I felt I was doing! But anyway, we all reached the campsite at a respectable hour (read 4 p.m., just before it starts getting dark). Had our daily quota of chai and pakoras and debated the next day’s climb to Bharadsar Lake. I was dead on my feet and had decided that I’d had enough. I’d climbed high enough to prove I could do it and now I wanted to spend the next day chilling (literally) while the more ambitious ones sweated it out to the top. I wasn’t going to see the legendary lake tomorrow and found instant company in Sarika. She too was ready for a day of R&R.
After dinner we all called it an early night (not that we have any choice up there). In my tent I started having second thoughts... Am I just being lazy? Would I go back down and then regret not having seen the lake (that would have been bad as I simply wasn’t going to walk back)? I decided that I would decide whether or not to go in the morning and drifted off to sleep. Only to wake up to the sounds of canons blasting! We were in the middle of a terrifying storm. The time was around 11 p.m. and the thunder and lightning were so intense that I actually began to wonder if the gods had decided to punish me for even thinking of not going to Bharadsar Lake! I was simply terrified (and trust me, so were the others in their tents). The fierce winds howled with such force that it was a miracle we didn’t fly away in our tents. The furore just went on and on and on for what seemed like forever. A few hours into the storm, Swamiji (our guide) and the porters came out to check if we were all okay and we barely managed a squeak! Thunder rumbled from one end to the other and lightning lit up our tents every few minutes.
And then came the morning after. We got out of our tents at 6 a.m. to the most beautiful scene ever. Clear skies, a carpet of snow and absolute calm. It is a sight that will remain with me forever. Beauty in its most raw and sublime form. But one thing was certain – neither I nor anyone else was going up to Bharadsar Lake.
***
And so it transpired on the third night of the trek. The storm though, left behind a stunning morning and we gaped at the snow-covered mountains all around us, some of them being lit gradually by the morning sun. When the last person emerged from the tents and we all huddled around a fire started by the porters, it was already 8 a.m. There were sheepish glances all around, and no one mentioned the climb to the lake.
Swamiji spoke to me in whispers, ‘Mushkil hai, it will be slippery because of snow.’ I knew that, so asked him, ‘Toh kya, seedha neeche chalein?’ ‘There is one more trail,’ he remarked and seeing me sit up, continued, ‘It passes through beautiful meadows and reaches the village of Pithari, and then the road. Very rarely has a trekking group been there.’ ‘Is it very pretty, worth spending two days?’ ‘Yes, it is.’
Armed with this new information I approached the group and told them about it. People were excited, relieved actually, that they didn’t have to climb through snow or stay at this campsite any longer, and if the new trail was as nice and easy as I was saying, even better. So the decision was made and everyone dispersed to his or her tent to get ready for the day’s walk. Paulomi though came up to me with tears in her eyes. ‘Why can’t we go up to the lake? It’s so disappointing.’ ‘I know, but the guides are saying it isn’t safe and I have to go by their judgment.’ ‘But then where is the challenge? I came on this trek to challenge myself, I have hit a plateau in life and in my workouts. This was supposed to be the time when I push myself out of my comfort zone. I can’t believe this.’ ‘But we can’t fight the mountains,’ is all I could say. She will make peace with this situation soon I was sure, but I was reminded of how different our motivations and take-aways can be. Us humans, I tell you.
There are meadows, and then there are meadows
Comforted by the thought of easy walks over the next two days, the group was in a happy zone and as we started the walk, everyone had their story of the previous night to share. There were plenty of exaggerations, additions and modifications of the facts, of course. Gusts of laughter and flashes of cameras accompanied us as we retraced our path a bit and then got on to the new trail that would take us to the most
unexplored part of this unexplored region. The guides had called it ‘a walk through meadows’ and as soon as we reached the first one there was a collective ‘Wow’. It was a small meadow, compared to what we were going to see soon, but stretched from the trail to the edge of the cliff and we could walk all the way to the edge and even look down. Since the walk today was a short one, this then became our lunch stop, and for some, a nap stop.
Meandering through open pastures we reached the campsite on a huge meadow called just ‘Pachi Thach’ or ‘the meadow behind’. Facing the peaks of the Swargarohini and Banderpoonch range from right to left, and the glacier from which the Supin river starts, this campsite rivals the best known and exotically named ones in the Himalaya (photo on page x in the inserts). The happy zone we were all in was pushed up a notch or two higher just by being at this place. Everyone took off their backpacks and sat for a while, gazing in awe at the 270-degree panorama. The Supin river, a trickle as it emerges from the glacier right in front of us and then flowing down the slopes, was a breathtaking sight and a lesson in river origination few books can teach. Swamiji and Tikam joined us and told us about their climbs on the peaks we could so clearly see.
The next day was equally easygoing and the meadow where we camped was called the ‘Badi Thach’ or ‘the big meadow’. It was incredible that such beautiful meadows exist so close to the road-head and are so untouched, unknown, unexplored. If not for the enterprising team of local guides we were trekking with, who had taken it upon themselves to promote their region as a trekking option and in turn earn an alternative source of income, no ‘explorer’ would have bothered to come here.
