Himachal Pradesh

Himachal Pradesh – A Lyric From A Poet's Dream

Hidden away from the mainstream, the incomparably beautiful north western Indian state of Himachal is fashioned of the stuff from which dreams are woven, a place created in the mind of a poet in love. For sheer geographical diversity, few places in the world are as richly endowed. Low rolling hills, just a couple of hundred metres above sea level, gradually soar to touch the core of the western Himalayas. The state encompasses in its fold, a series of magnificent valleys, temperate forests, and towering peaks, some of which never lose their perennial snows. The land offers tremendous seasonal variety. Beginning with summer, the weather gods provide the gold and sunny days during which bird songs and gurgling mountain streams blend in a strange, enchanted symphony. The exuberance of the monsoon transmutes the landscape into a verdant miracle. It alternates between swirling mountain mists and the soft, silky, soothing, sibilance of falling rain. Then comes the snowy, brooding silence of winter, when the higher altitudes are locked in snows and only brave and skilled trekkers venture forth to delight in the white, unsullied and virginal beauty of the land.

For most travellers the route to Shimla, the state capital, passes through New Delhi, in a pleasant journey on a quaint, narrow gauge train. However, instead of a direct trip to Shimla, I decide to invest a couple of days in Sunni, a town so tiny that it often doesn’t feature on any map, even though it is only a few hours away from the capital. I am eagerly looking forward to spending a few days at the palace of the erstwhile ruler of Sunni. An urbane, retired civil servant, he rents out a few rooms on the upper floors of his home. These are spacious, reasonably well furnished and offer panoramic views of the valley and the not so distant blue hills, and at very reasonable rates. The sense of tranquillity and the quietude of the soul, come gratis. The few travellers, who take a break at Sunni, are pleasantly surprised to discover that the little town has its own subtle way of helping big city tourists recharge their mental batteries. Its laid-back pace of life marches to a gentle, relaxed drum beat. The ‘royal’ haveli (mansion) is a unique architectural gem. It is small when compared to most palaces of former rulers. However, its five storeys are imbued with an old world ambience of personal space and sepia toned elegance.The palace at Sunni has the mantra I require to calm  frayed, jangled nerves.

At dawn, I catch a bus for the state capital, Shimla. With nostalgia and comfort skilfully inter-laced, the city beckons every passing visitor with an invitation to share its inheritance of a bygone era and its enduring charms.  As the summer capital of the Raj, it possesses some of the finest gems of colonial architecture. However, the edifice that leaves me lost in wonder with its renaissance inspired style is the former Vice-regal Lodge (now called the Institute of Advanced Studies). Its Burma teak interiors are as impressive as its gracious grey sandstone exterior.

. Eating out in some of the restaurants in Himachal, offers some exhilarating moments. The chefs at the Vacera Resorts in Manali, the Hotel Chanakya at Dalhousie and the Palace Hotel in Chamba create some memorable culinary experiences. However, dinner at the Oberoi Cecil in Shimla is the piece de resistance. The quality of the meals is outstandingly gourmet. In consonance with the service and the general ambience, every meal is transformed into a gastronomic epiphany. Perhaps what helps, is the muted music, the whispering waiters, the soft lighting, and the old world ambience. All of these are collectively designed to making dinner an unforgettable experience.

Viewed from across the intervening valley, Shimla offers an unusual picture of a hill city. Its multi-coloured houses appear to be built one on top of another.  The over-riding impression is of a magnificent juxtaposition created from a rainbow palette. I take a few quick, horizontally framed shots to get the feel of the Shimla skyline. Then with a sense of growing familiarity, and using a vertical frame, I swoop in with a 600 mm lens on the neo-gothic cathedral of Christ Church.  The long reach of the telephoto lens brings me into an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation with the ultimate in co-existence: The church has a mosque as a neighbour and both are snuggled close, abiding in amity, one complimenting the other.

The tourist season is still a while away, and I have the mall to myself. I sit on a cast iron bench, a little below the church, and watch the sun drop below the hills on the horizon. I am astonished at the swiftness of the vanishing light, and the unseemly rush of the darkness taking over the world around me. I look up and observe the night gather deep, and the stars come out bright and twinkling. The darkness, the night, its stars, and all the spaces between the stars appear to stare at me. Waiting and waiting. I sit there wishing I could muster a meaningful, profound remark. Instead, I sit in awed silence. Much later, I head for my hotel room, leaving behind me a flood lit church.

On the second evening, I head for Kullu, stopping briefly at Mandi, renowned for its 81, old and exquisitely carved stone temples. The local populace proudly declares that every lane in the town has at least one temple. Visiting 81 temples is an overwhelming mission, so I restricted myself to the well known and the impressive, and head for the Ma Bhimakali Mandir. The Guru Govindji Gurdwara is a recent construction, but seen from across the Beas, its an inspirational sight.  At an altitude of 12,000 feet, the Shikara Devi Temple offers a magnificent view of the world. Looking from there, I realise how important is the role the River Beas plays in the fertile green valley of Kullu, cradled between the Dauladhar and Pir Panjal mountains.  With its abundance of apple orchards, limitless fields of golden mustard, verdant mountain meadows, and placid lakes, it is easy to appreciate why Kullu is called the Valley of the Gods.

  

 

Two days later, I hire a taxi and am on my way to Manali. I make a one-hour stop at Naggar from where the valley appears immeasurably spectacular.  I am tempted to visit the Roerich Art gallery at Naggar, displaying several magnificent paintings of the Russian maestro. However, I am running behind schedule and instead, sally forth on a 4-hour trek through the Chanderkhani Pass to visit the remarkable village of Malana. The journey is challenging and includes some kilometres of very taxing terrain. However there is a sizable and very trying stretch where I am offered the option of travelling on yak-back, which I gratefully accept.  The locals believe that Alexander the Great passed this way on his march of conquest. To protect his interests in this area, he commanded some of his men to remain behind. Most of these soldiers married local women, creating a unique society with its own political and judicial systems. Himachali folklore claims that Malana possesses the world’s oldest surviving democracy. I reverently touch some of the strangely robed figures on the elaborately carven woodwork of some of the homes. Examining these, I am inclined to believe the local legend of these unusual people.

 

The inhabitants of Malana are a hospitable, and very handsome people.  They smile easily and are remarkably at ease as I point my camera at them. I would love to spend at least one more day in Malana, but the nagging, gnawing thought of my taxi waiting at Naggar, obliges me to return, as planned. Assuring them that I would mail copies of my pictures to them, I reluctantly wave goodbye to my new friends. My taxi driver Sundar Singh is visibly nervous and apprehensive at my unexpected eight hours’ absence. However, as he spies me, his anxious face breaks into a massive smile. To celebrate my safe return, he insists that we adjourn to the nearby tea stall and clink ‘king-size’ glasses of tea. Later, with a less than innocent smile, he hints that local protocol requires the visitor to foot the bill for the festive bash. I chuckle at his naive artfulness as I fish out my wallet.

By the time I reach the town, it is dark. I check in at the unpretentious Rohtang Manalsu Hotel. My room is large, comfortable, but without any frills. The toilet is immaculately clean. A hot shower leaves me rejuvenated in body, while a double Scotch-and-soda miraculously boosts my flagging spirit. I order a light, almost Spartan dinner, and thereafter dally a while, savouring the sensual feel of a wafer thin brandy snifter warmed between my palms. Then I head for bed, certain I shall fall asleep even before my head touches the pillow.

That night, with the magic of Malana still fresh in my mind, I dream of the triumphant march of the conquering Greek army. My trusted Nikon is set on continuous mode, and purrs happily as the village of Malana laughs and enthusiastically clasps the handsome young Macedonian to its bosom. However, my gossamer dreams of nubile feet dancing to the jingle of ankle bells, of happy laughter, and of joyous revelry, are regrettably short-lived. They dissipate with the persistent knocking of the hotel waiter, bringing me my early morning ‘bed tea’.

Manali is situated at the head of the Kullu valley and is bounded by serene, regal mountains on three sides. From mid-April to June, its undulating meadows present a wondrous panorama of multi-hued wild flowers. Walk a couple of kilometres out of the town, and you are surrounded by spectacular panoramas of deep azure skies, the ubiquitous yellow-gold carpets of mustard fields,  and alpen-glow, the reddish gold light on the summits of snow covered mountains at sunrise and sunset.  With eyes closed, point your camera in almost any direction, and you are guaranteed a visual miracle waiting to be frozen forever on film.

My favourite spot in Manali is the Hadimba Devi Mandir. According to popular myths, Hadimba was a local girl of incomparable beauty and unparalleled virtue. However, she was compelled to live with her brother, an evil demon. The god Bhim (of Mahabharat fame) learned of her plight and not only liberated her, but also made her his bride, and presumably they lived happily ever after. Today she is revered in the whole valley as the Mother Goddess.

The temple is dedicated to Hadimba Devi and stands on a hillock, enclosed by a heavily wooded dell of gigantic deodar trees. In contrast to some of the other temples of Manali, the Hadimba Devi Mandir is a sombre, black, and grey wooden structure, its roof covered with brazen sheets. The temple area is pervaded with an extraordinary ambience. It soothes the mind and sends the heart soaring on flights of immeasurable inner freedom. It is a sanctuary, where a weary soul could spend its remaining lifetime, unaware and unmindful of the rest of the world hurrying by on its frantic, frenetic flight to nowhere.

At 5.00 the next morning, I catch a cab for Kangra.  The journey is long and taxing, but the scenic beauty of the land is breath taking. Kangra valley lies nestled against the river banks of the Ravi and is known for its richly ornamented temples, its handicrafts and above all, for its splendorous landscape. The unspoilt, tranquil valley provides breath-taking views of the surrounding mountains.

For two days, I trek along the river photographing its exciting landscape. The town folk are friendly and hospitable. To get a fleeting experience of life in a Himachali home, I spend two nights with a local family. The woman of the house is a striking old lady and amazingly unselfconscious before my camera.  On the morning of the third day, before my departure, I offer to pay for the warm hospitality. My host smiles and gently but firmly declines my well-intentioned offer. His smile, without the utterance of a single word says it all: his hospitality is not for sale. A truly gracious people.

My Himachal odyssey is complete as I head for Chandigarh to catch my flight home. I reflect on my fleeting sojourn through Himachal, and softly, very softly, like a white paper lantern on a night wind, I relive my journey, my eyes not connected to my body, but linked only my heart. I realise that I have been exposed to an awe-inspiring spectrum of scenic splendour, serenity, and serendipity. I have seen the sparkle and heard the murmur of mountain streams. I have walked on narrow pathways through lush forests exploding in a thousand shades of green. I have watched glorious sunsets behind towering peaks. I have stood in old temples and heard the haunting whispers of their timeless silence. However, my most cherished memory of Himachal is the laughter and camaraderie, the graciousness, and the warm hospitality of its gentle and happy people, which I was privileged to share.

Somewhere in Himachal I lost my heart.