Mount Kailash

This day that year.

Touching HIS feet- Charansparsh


I used to wonder about the experience of visiting a popular religious place. This wonderment had arisen from the various second person,third person experiences I was told about or I had read. As a result I started imagining the experience after reaching these divine abodes. I used to start thinking I would experience tremendous energy or visuals or some out of the way encounter. I guess I was 'conforming' myself to other's experiences, I didn't want to be left out; hence I started creating them (in my mind) and believing them.In-between I had seen a movie called 'Everyone says I'm fine'; what remained with me was the female protagonists state of mind. The male protagonist of the movie is a hair dresser who can read everyone's thoughts whom he physically touches; the only exception to it is this girl. She is this exceptional creature whose mind is sparkling clean, there is not even a speck of thought. I was so impressed by that state of mind where there is actually no state of mind...what would a person actually feel? How is it possible that there wouldn't be a single thought? I yearned for it. I even started 'practising' it! Yes with persistence I achieved that state of mind for maybe a fleeting second- just enough for realisation but not for evaluation.
Buddhist monks practice this same state of mind. When they achieve it, the mind is free of any thoughts and hence in any sense of time- past, present, future. The mind is then free to roam and this is how they look into their own past lives, their futures. The mind becomes the observer, and observes it's own state or non state.
This wasnt a 24/7 continuous process, I completely forgot about this experiment of mine for months. But it was there, always there somewhere just behind the everyday existence. It was definetly not there when I was climbing towards charansparsh; infact no thought except the self doubt of whether to go ahead or just turn back flashed my mind while climbing in that oxygen deficient cold desert! But when I reached the place, that was it. I didn't even realise it then that I had gone blank. I was registering everyone and their movements around, but what was I feeling, thinking, contemplating then? No, I don't remember it. This is like my holiday in Singapore, I was so crazy shooting it through the lens that I don't remember anything. Anything seen with 'my eyes'. I remember reaching Charansparsh and LO sir coming from behind and giving me a pat on the back. I remember so many people doing so many things. But me.....I was there and not there. People meditated, performed their rituals, I made myself a part of all that and still....we turned back. We rested for a while in between to take in the sun setting on Kailash. Someone was saying something about red bull, someone offered it to me? Someone was talking about golf courses? I was there! Then why do I 'feel' I wasn't there? Just before the camp there were two local boys smiling up at us, did this bring me out of my reverie? Did their extreme, pure, unadulterated joy reach me? At the camp everyone came out to congratulate us. There was a cloud of happiness all around, everywhere. I actually didn't know what to do. How to celebrate? Was there anything to celebrate? Then why this happiness? This lightness of being?
Well, when there is no closure in the thought process only one thing comes to rescue- a bar of chocolate, Mars :-) That empty wrapper in my hand and the taste in my mouth lingers on... Till I find the answers....

Diwali

There was buzz in the town of Ayodhya.... After a long wait of fourteen years their beloved prince, Ram was returning. Oh! The excitement! The joy! The bliss that spread over the town like a warm blanket in this pink cold of Autumn. And then came the news- He is coming on Amavsya! The new moon night! These were the days without street lights. How would the prince reach his palace? Howwould he find his way? And that's when one of the bright brains of the town said, " Let's all light diyas in front of our homes. This way the whole street would be lighted. And in turn the whole town!" Oh wow! The buzz was now transformed into an energy of unprecedented proportions.
And then arrived Ram. With his consort Sita and younger brother Laxman. As they came near Ayodhya, all three were surprised! "how come is the while town glowing like a star?" squeaked Sita. Ram with his abundant patience nudged his surprised wife and brother towards the town. And here they came to the beautiful sight of bejewelled Ayodhya. With diyas. With flower strings. And the smiles of this blessed town. As Ram, Sita and Laxman started towards their palace the atmosphere turned their joy into bliss and contentment!
Yes this is the story of Deepavali, told and retold to me every year. It is only now that I realise the meaning behind it. Today as I light diyas on this dark night, I guide Ram, his righteousness, Sita,her moral uprightness, and Laxman with his loyalty to my home and hearth. To me and my mind. To light up my character.
May this Deepavali light mine and yours too! :-)

Me n Nehru

Why I like Nehru?

No, not for any reasons given by any current politicians, historians, academia's. Or for any reasons by anyone else.
Yep. It's personal. It's individual. Very!
My hero. His hero. Are the same! Noooo, it isn't Salman Khan :-P
Ashoka, the great! Yes the man who lived for moral law and social justice. An emperor. An Upasak of Buddhism. And much more.
Coming back to Nehru. Yes he was as much into Ashoka as me. And that is because what cut through that emperor 2250 years ago cut through Nehru and cuts through me. THE MORAL DILEMMAS OF LIFE.
Nehru as the first prime minister brought in his hero into every Indian's life. Through the national emblem. Through the Ashoka Chakra. Interestingly the Ashoka Chakra is the Dharma Chakra, the wheel of morality. Nehru consciously renamed it as 'Ashoka' to remind you and me of the emperor who brought in moral law and social justice into society. So today on the birthday of someone with whom I share my hero, I remember OUR HERO.
I hope this is the gift you wanted, dearest Chacha Nehru :-)

Four rivers- the tear offering place for Gods.

Part3 Bhagirathi 

We bid adieu to Yamuna the next morning at the town of Barkot and immediately got on the road running along Bhagirathi. And immediately came the loud chant,
" Bhagirathi maiyya ki Jai!" -  Long live mother Bhagirathi
That was Chaudhariji, our super driver. I immediately turned my attention to Bhagirathi, flowing alongside. And the first thing I noticed about her was how levelled she was. We all know that water is one element which finds it's own level. Always. (That Physics classroom-nostalgia!) Same could be said about the Bhagirathi. At every step of her journey she seems to find her level and maybe this makes her more approachable by humans. This gentle disposition, deep glens and an open valley with tiers of cultivation complete a picture of  Bhagirathi. Thus where Yamuna had her riverbed barren full of boulders, stones and pebbles, Bhagirathi had her gentle slope filled with fertile soil and a way, albeit imaginary to approach her. Her bank was lined with small temples all the way. A Goddess more approachable?
This is a unique feature of Hinduism. We or more more precisely our ancestors, those genius philosophers humanised all the abstract concepts of the universe and created as such a parallel world of Gods. Here each God is a stakeholder in nature. And their inter-relations further explain the phenomenons in nature. Here Shiva is matter and his consort Shakti is energy. And they intermingle to teach us the concept of energy and matter. Hence in the next step Shakti becomes the earth(matter) and Shiva her all encompassing atmosphere(energy). Isn't it more beautiful to learn about these so called scientific concepts in those poetic lines? And today we call this 'mythology'. Myth is it? Coming back to the Bhagirathi, we were passing many tiny hamlets one after the other. At such a tiny hamlet Chaudhriji called out to us to look out at a plaque. This was Nakuri. Nothing special, except that this is where Bachindri Pal comes from. The first Indian women to climb Mount Everest. Awe. Respect. Admiration. It would be futile to say anything further. We moved ahead. Crossing the densely habituated valley we reached the town of 'Uttar' Kashi. Or Benares of the north. It even has its own 'Vishwanath' temple. This is also home to Nehru Mountaineering Institute, the alma mater of Bachindri Pal. But more about it later. Past Uttarkashi, our destination for the day was Harsil. A place famous for it's natural beauty, and these days an important defence establishment. On the way we passed an 'ashram'. This belonged to a self appointed seer, Pilot baba. I was told he was a fighter pilot with the Indian Air Force before turning to spirituality and has many followers all over the world. Good for them. Or him? I was half listening to all this as it would have been a crime to even miss a moment of the passing scenery. We had now reached what is called the higher reaches of the Himalayas, the deciduous had given way to the Deodhars, Silver firs, Spruce, Birch and Pencil Cedars. The Bhagirathi had started undergoing a subtle change. Gone was the motherly look, here she had started inspiring awe. Her gorge had started to form. And in this state we reached Harsil. A place which still has slate roofs. Though housing modern telecommunications network under it. The facia is still intricately hand carved. And the enclosure is still a beautiful mix of two textures- wooden pillars and stone walls. We moved to our nth GMVNL guest house of the trip. As usual these government properties are at the pick of the locations. We dumped our luggage and moved out to the garden just besides the Bhagirathi. The garden was beautifully maintained with well placed gazebos. Beyond the fence was the Bhagirathi  running with force and beyond her was the dark green of the Deodhars. We all assembled in one of the gazebo with tea and pakodas, the natural beauty and the atmosphere to surround us. There was jest and gossip, laughter and smirks, stories and personal narratives, essentially everything fun. Later I moved out. For a one to one conversation. With Bhagirathi. It was informative to hear something from her, to share something with her. She assured of her presence here and now. There and then too! And true to her promise her sounds could be heard throughout the night, her presence was omnipresent.
The early morning short ride next day from Harsil to Gangotri through the dense forests of Deodhars is one of the very best I have experienced. It had an atmosphere to bring goosebumps. And the mystic, eeriness increased when we reached Asia's second highest bridge. It is built over the most terrific sight I've ever seen. The gorge of Bhagirathi. Gorges have always inspired awe in me. Their sheer depths represent the timeline of the relationship between the mountain and the river. Thousands of years of the river's perseverance. And to take all this in a moment of time overwhelms me. Where the heart goes dhak- dhak, at the speed of Rajdhani, as they say in India. ( Rajdhani is the fastest train in India.) With this settings we entered what is called the 'Bhairav' Ghati ahead. Bhairav is the most aggressive form of Lord Shiva, the god of destruction. And accordingly the nature here had moulded itself. With treacherous cliffs hanging on both sides, and the slopes covered with dense Deodhar forests, it was difficult to guess the time of the day. In between a speck of sunlight used to steal through the dense foliage above. It brought more of a shock than relief at the presence of light. But everything passes. Always. And we were out of this valley to land in the chaos of a typical Indian temple town. Tourist buses and jeeps, along with heckling pilgrims and shouting hawkers, everyone at once jumps on you. As if to present extreme obstacles which would make the God's sighting even more sweeter. Here Gangaotri is touched by motorable roads even under extreme geographical features. This brings more and more pilgrims in the absence of any trek by foot. More of the types who put out a bejewelled hand of their SUVs to throw away a wrapper on the roads. ( a la Arvind Adiga) 
The way leading to the temple and the bathing ghats was lined with the usual memorabilia. Outside the temple premises offerings comprising of a rose, and petals were being sold. Only two of the all had a white rose. I had to have it, my white Rose! I pounced on it. And it was mine. Victorious we moved towards the ghats- those purposefully created 'approach' ways to the river. A pilgrim takes these steps down, in all humility, towards that flowing stream of life. He offers his prayers to the God. Yes the God and not the river. It is this 'flow' that carries all his prayers to the God. The river messenger. The different platforms were abuzz with pilgrims. Offerings were stacked along the platform along with prayers. Ofcourse because this is a special river. The river that descended from heaven and the one which ascends back. What better way to send your prayers to the Gods residing there? Your own 'registered' Speed Post. Direct to Home, DTH service! I too posted my 'baggage'. Feeling light, I hopped on up towards the walking platform.  With that spring in step we decided to explore the place. 
A serpentine path along the river was the only one in sight and we followed it.Just after a few meters and a couple of bends the madness of religion was left behind to enter that world of Himalayas and his rivers. There were a few Ashrams or monasteries sprinkled here and there but they were inhabited by ascetics endorsing seclusion. Hence the world around right now only consisted of the path, the pilgrim and the pines. They,on one side trying to reach the heights of Himalayas and the Ganges on the other side running away. It was tempting to sit here, philosophise, contemplate. Even doubt and investigate. But instead of that passivity we moved ahead. Ahead, much ahead, beyond many turns the path opened up into a small, regular platform. A ghat actually, I came to knew later. Here, feeling like one has left the world and it's inhabitants behind, and arrived at it's edge, where the seas open up into the space, Sudha and I halted. Stopped. Settled. As Sudha took her place on a boulder, I moved towards the pebble trodden river bed. I had a task. To collect pebbles, not just any but ones submerged in the flowing river, and bring them back for my mom. I started collecting them, one after another. Selecting one here. Rejecting another there. Selection, rejection. Again. And again. Repetitive. After a while it became meditative, like going into a trance. I looked back, to see what Sudha was doing. Instead my eyes fell on 'the writing on the wall'. Krandan Ghat- the tears offering place for God. Zapped, I re-read again. I never cease to amaze at discovering the ingenuity of those unknown forefathers and their thought process. Their philosophies. And their provisions to 'connect'. To God, to nature, to fellow living beings,and to our inner selves. I collected my stones together and went back to sit on the boulder at the Ghat. I wanted to cry. Those tears of joy. And those of sorrow. To flow. Into this river, herself in flow. A very different emotional state came over me. That intoxicating state where one clings to pain. Everything internal. Reasoning with one self, of victimhood, suffering, injustice, loss. Anything external. Here I became melancholic. Saratchandra reasons in 'Srikanta' that when pain is devoid of fear it becomes pleasurable. I feel this is a state humans find more comfort in, and are actually addicted to. Happiness, is fleeting. It is that horizon, which one constantly aims for. And pain that continuous companion on this journey of life. After a while it becomes a habit and then a friend. I was thinking of all those moments of pain, when I lost something, someone I loved. Even if devoid of tears, I wanted to offer all that pain here. To god? At what purpose was this offering? To create that ideal state of mind, devoid of any thoughts?
Amongst all these questions walked a old, wrinkled lady on the ghat. Sudha and I were both observing her. She was wearing old, faded clothes; carrying rosary beads, a tumbler for water, some Basil leaves and a rugged shawl. There was also a square, woven, sitting mat. She went near the river, placed all her belongings down and folding her hands started her prayers. Who was she? What was she doing here? As she finished her ablutions and prayers Sudha went besides her and started a conversation. The lady lived the life of a migratory bird. She had a full and happy family somewhere at the foothills. She played her role of a loving grandmother, a disciplined mother and responsible head of the family during half of the year. Then she has made a conscious decision to spend half her year here at Gangotri.
Far away from loved one's. 
Minus 'moha'. 
Without any belongings, other than her clothes. 
Minus 'dikhava'. 
Without money to sustain herself. 
Minus 'maya'. 
Living on the goodwill of others.
Minus 'aham'.
By this time she had finished her ablutions and prayers. She blessed us both, giving the Tulsi patta and prasad. And with that she went away leaving me behind, here on the Krandan Ghat with so many varied thoughts. In the spontaneity of the moment I loved her way of life. Enough to maybe even emulate it in time. Thinking about this experimentation I wondered if Hinduism isn't a chemists lab, to discover that route towards one's spirit whether through lifestyle experiments or through the Krandan Ghats. Collecting the memories of this place to construct a Krandan Ghat within me, to visit whenever those tears would want to find a place to God I started back towards the world.
Tracing our way back along the same route we arrived in Uttarkashi by evening. I checked and was told that the Nehru Mountaineering Institute was closed for the day. With nothing to do Sudha and I went in search of some chai and samosa. Having had our fill with some converstaion with the locals we were back at the rest house where everyone was ready to make a visit to the temple dedicated to Shiva. A twin of the famed Kashi Vishwanath in Benares. Finding our way through narrow lanes, dodging cows and cars alike we reached the premises. Religion not being on the top of the group's priorities every one made their way back to the rest house after the darshan. Except me and Ananda. We decided to attend the 'aarti' or the evening prayer about to start. Taking our place inside the Sanctum Sanctorum I began to observe the other participants. About ten to twelve locals were already gathered. The women were sitting on one side and the men on another but the whole place was buzzing like a community hall. One person, maybe a local lawyer was discussing a civic issue with two ladies and they inturn prodding him to take it up seriously. On the other side. Three men discussing about some pavement on the banks of the Bhagirathi which had come off. And then on some common topic everyone used to join in. Even the priest with his preparations of the prayer ongoing contributed. And amidst all this buzz and discussions, conversations and cacophony there was Shiva. Sitting in the middle, serene as ever, taking in all that was said. The whole scene was so contradictory that it took me a while to take it in. The contemporary and the ancient, the dialogue and the rituals all gliding hand in hand...  And then the prayers started and as if there never existed this plurality- all melded into one. That one chant in his praise. To the accompaniment of the prayer bells. Everything became singular.  Me, my thoughts, God, the others, their thoughts, the chants, their sounds. Ek omkara.
Back at the rest house Sudha and I contemplated about the day, watched some old Hindi movie songs, had lots of fruits for dinner. And a good, naughty laugh over the 'warm Lenin' provided to us. A perfect travelling day.

Four Rivers- the abode of flowers

Part2 Yamuna

The Mussorie Express dropped us at Haridwar railway station and made her way ahead to Dehradoon which is the last railway station at the foothills in these parts of Himalayas. Our destination for the day was Rishikesh, around 30kms away from Haridwar. At Rishikesh we settled at the GMVNL guest house which is a perfect base in this riverside town. We had the whole day to relax and loiter around Rishikesh. The only task being walking down to the GMVNL office and complete the registration of the trip. Once that was done we moved towards the Ganges. This time our explorations took us to various ghats. After enjoying the various scenes played out and the famous 'Ganga Aarti' in the evening,we were ready to call it a day. We had a early start next day.
The trip started from Rishikesh and after crossing the beautiful forests of Rajaji National Park reached Dehradoon. Here we picked up our guide for the trip. Now we were moving towards Mussorie, that beautiful hill station, home to the delightful Mr. Ruskin Bond. But obviously we weren't    going to go calling on him! Busy man that he is! We passed bye Mussorie to reach the Kempty Falls, quite a famous tourist destination in these parts. It didn't impress me. Too artificial. And here after crossing this point the Yamuna came into view. Frankly on first sighting she was quite listless, and looking at her stream I wondered how she reaches Delhi, miles away! Now our route was all along her river bed, which started spreading out. But the stream had the same strength. Right here on the crossroad with one road going towards 'Gangotri', the source of Ganges and the other being our prescribed one taking us to 'Yamonotri', the source of Yamuna is the town of Barkot. We had a simple lunch here at the GMVNL guest house under the trellis beautifully adorned by blooming Bougainvillea. 
Pleased, we started for the next part of our journey. Our driver, Chaudharyji informed us of the schedule ahead, first a place called Phoolchhatti, then Hanumanchhatti and then the stopover for the night, Jankichhatti. So many 'chhattis'. I was wondering what they were?
By this time we were in the aura of the Himalayas. The bus was climbing, huffing and puffing at the altitude( or attitude?) of the Himalayas. The green tops were peering down at us- here comes another gang of admirers! Of ho! And me sitting on the cliff side was peering down at the Yamuna flowing along with us. As if assuring us not to worry, she will guide us to our destination. Who needs GPS and Siris here where since time immemorial nature has it's own way of guiding it's own! We crossed a quaint iron bridge, and a tiny hamlet came into view. Hardly a cluster of ten to twelve dwellings and small shops. Phoolchatti it was. We were going to take a long and relaxed tea break here as we were too ahead of schedule. The time was around four in the evening and the sun had already started to send his slanting rays towards us. We all had started glowing in it like the gold in a jeweller's display window. Really, this Mr. Sun is a charmer. As soon as we got down we rushed towards the quaint bridge to click pictures. Of us. Of the gurgling Yamuna. Of the green mountains which turned blue further and further away. Of the cow on her way back to her home and hearth. Of all of us together? Mother nature and her Bacchas! After this photography session we moved around the place. At the start itself was a small tea shop with a tiny, old man sitting beside it, giving us a smile. As we moved towards the GMVNL rest house some colourful scarves displayed outside a convenience store caught Sudha's eye. She wanted one of them, designed with the local patterns. We had encountered many local women on the way with their hair tied up in these scarves. She bought one and immediately transformed herself from a 'plains' girl to a mountain belle. All our fellow travellers had already settled themselves in the GMVNL restaurant. We thought otherwise and traced our steps back to that small tea stall. 
"Uncleji, chai milegi?" We chorused.
Before affirming our question he asked us to come and take a seat.
"Andar aa ke baitho to pehle, betaji!" That famous Indian hospitality etiquette.
We took our seats besides his stove, or rather I took my seat and the ever restless Sudha stood beside him busy taking his 'tea- recipe' down. As we started our own ' chai pe charcha' (long before it became an election campaigning methodology!) the regular tidbits came our way. Of how just a couple of days back this route was bustling with pilgrims and we were lucky to enjoy the nature in this quietude. These parts are amongst the most important of the Hindu Pilgrimage sites and see a huge rush of the faithfuls in the month of May and June. We were here in the first week of July precisely for this reason. And also now than later to avoid the heavy rains which would lash the place in a fortnight. We then came to knew about his life story, not much different from the others in these region. He comes from the foothills of the Himalayas and travels here every Pilgrimage season to earn. His family was down there and like every householder in the world who has to move away from his home and hearth to earn a living, he too was missing them badly. Now, after so much of an intimate exchange we thought it fair enough to ask his name. 
Here comes the shocker. "My name is what it is.", he replied in jest. 
Huh, now I was hooked. Why didn't he just tell his name? What was his name?
" There are millions of names in this world, what is your name?" I prodded him further. 
Not one to duck the challenge, he replied " My name is one of Lord Shiva's name. Now you can keep guessing." Well Indian Gods and Goddesses have innumerable names, enough to name the 1.2 billion population of India.
I had met my match! Really he was talking in puzzles! Sudha and I exchanged an amused glance. In what remote corner of India would one encounter an intriguing Indian, is anybody's guess. Ok, now he enquired what was my name.
 Here I come!
" My name Uncleji, is one of the many of Goddess Laxmi!" 
Aaahh! That look which passed from him to me and back, of one quirky creature to another! Two birds of the same flock.
Bliss! These episodes are the spice of the travels all around. Around such encounters I realised that I'm never an 'independent' traveller but all the brownies I gather on the way are interdependent on every person, stone, cloud, river, tree, mountain,goat I meet on the way. And ofcourse my thoughts about them.
We were ready with our next query, this 'Chatti' business was intriguing us and we asked him. 
"Why is every place called Chhatti here? What exactly does it mean?"
This he didn't return back with a puzzle but shared the story with us. He said," Just as you have come here, on this pilgrimage, you would be staying up at different GMVNL rest houses here and there. Similarly these parts are so pious that even the God's from heaven come down for pilgrimage here. Now when Hanumanji comes, he stays at 'Hanuman chhatti'. When Janaki mayya comes she takes up lodging and boarding at 'Janaki chhatti'." 
" But this place is called 'Phoolchhatti' ", why?I queried.
" Where do flowers come from? Don't they too come from heaven? This place is the abode of flowers!". Thus spoke the wise old man. 
Indeed aren't flowers with their beauty, giving pleasure to themselves and everyone coming in contact with them just heavenly? So true. I opened my eyes to this abode of flowers afresh and the place looked something else this time.
Finishing our tea and talks we started to join the gang. Here they had discovered that behind the guest house runs a path taking us down to Yamuna. Sudha and I shrieked! What are we waiting for? Thus started the walk to Yamuna. On a really narrow path. Hopping on boulders abruptly strewn in the path( this surely must be Yamuna's doing!), we reached a picture postcard. In front of us were strewn boulders and pebbles, big and small, of all colours and hues and then as if to soften this sight behind them was flowing the gushing beauty, Yamuna. She was wrapped in the golden silk, such was the shimmer on her water. All doing of that charmer, Mr. Sun. And to provide an appropriate background to her was the green mountain on the other bank. I was rooted to the spot where I experienced this scene. In a while everyone's shrieks of pleasure brought me back to my senses and I too ran towards the Yamuna.
Leaving behind the shoes, I proceeded towards her, hopping again on these beautiful stones, everyone different than the other. In looks, in feel. Did they have such distinct stories too? Maybe they shared those between each other to pass the time. The infinite time they must have been here and the infinite time they will be here. Oh! There were millions of stones, they would definitely leave the Arabian Nights behind. I left them to their occupation and slowly as I reached the bank dipped my toe in the water.
Urrrrghhh....have I ever felt something so ice cold? It was freeeeeezing! Right here with it's surface shining in the sun, it was literally freezing. Ok Vivi(that's what I call myself when feeling very French) be brave. And here I went into her. The icy cold didn't feel too bad after a while, infact it felt refreshing. Rejuvenating. I sat down on one of the protruding boulders in the middle of the surging waters. It would be an understatement to say I experienced 'Yamuna' then. This is how I will remember her and this is how I will recall her. Whenever I overhear her name in any random conversation, I hope I will be transferred in spirit to this boulder. In the middle of Yamuna. Where I see her and where I feel her. 
It was time to move on. Like always. Did I find everyone in a somber mood or was I imagining it.  Maybe imagining. Because as we reached Janki chhatti, the decibels of the group were back to normal. The temperature had started dipping and we all settled with a hot cuppa of tea and gossip. At the time of sunset we were treated with beautiful views of snow capped peaks, pink in the fading light. As the sun left for the day, we too moved indoors and got everything ready for next day's trek to the source of Yamuna. After the intro between her and me, I was quite looking forward to it.
As always trekking in the Himalayas starts at the crack of the dawn. We covered a distance of few kms by the vehicle. It is a pleasant day trek, around twelve kms in all with maximum height reached around 3292meters. The trek started through the clusters of shops and rest houses mushroomed at the foothill. After about half a km the way is cleared up with both sides lined up with deciduous trees. At this point is the GMVNL rest house where we were supposed to come back for lunch. I peeked inside to see a manicured garden and beautiful poppy fields behind, stretching almost till the continuous rocky mountain range behind. But since everyone had started going ahead of me I brought my attention back to the trek and started walking. One step ahead of other. My most favourite way of relaxation. My way of meditation. The rhythm, the surroundings, the silence. The path ahead doesn't just take you up to a higher altitude but somewhere deeper inside. We start noticing the things along the path, the ferns propping on the rocky outcrops, the wildflowers peeping from behind the intermingling vines, the patterns on the rocks making up your way. And then on the thoughts running across your mind, that strong resolve propping in the mind, some faraway belief peeping from behind the doubts. And the moment that 'doubt' comes into my mind I notice the belief. No, not inside. Outside. Ringing of bells and chanting the Goddess's name all around. At the next turn colours come into vision. A procession of a palanquin carrying an image of a Goddess and her faithfuls passed bye. Here people don't just come for a pilgrimage with tiffins and water bottles, suitcase full of clothes and beddings, parents and children. They bring along their Gods and Goddesses too. And what was I thinking about? Doubt? 
The summit had been reached. Both sides were lined with shops selling the staple of Himalayan Trekkers- tea and Maggi. I was not interested. I had to go and meet Yamuna. As I proceeded towards the source the shops selling snacks gave way to one's displaying all kind of religious fanfare. Bling. Red. Golden. The road ends at a temple dedicated to 'goddess' Yamuna. Yes. Goddess. I find it intriguing,this compulsion of Hinduism to deitfy every natural resource and then in turn humanise every deity! Queer, touching and intimate. There was the usual rush of the faithfuls and the priests, all busy in the elaborate rituals to please the Goddess. I bowed and offered my respects and made way to a path leading to Yamuna. Here she was gushing ahead at such force, it was awe inspiring. And if possible the water was more icy cold than yesterday. 
I performed my rituals for her here to show my belief,in the absence of a priest chanting mantras. To feel her, to touch her, to get lost in her sounds. And thus I bow to my own Goddess. Yamuna.

Myth: Yamuna is considered to be the daughter of the Sun god. And Yam, the God of moral law and death is her brother. Hence this pilgrimage here blesses the faithful with long life. 

Flight of pigeons: Junoon.

Lola and Dali, were house guests with Jaee. When she shared this pic with me I immediately fell for them. They lodged and boarded up with her for two days. All fun and frolic for two days. But Jaee's big plans for Lola and Dali were to set them free. Yes, indeed set them free! This was my friend's beautiful idea to bring these avifauna home, host them and then set them free to soar in their own sky. As much as I loved this couple, I loved the idea. Isn't there something absolutely intoxicating about these words, 'soar' 'high' 'set' 'free' 'independance'? I decided to be inspired by it and immediately went to a pet shop to do my share of work in this 'Independence movement'!
The shop had many cages arranged on the pavement outside the shop. They were stacked onto one another. All full of unimaginable riot of colours on these winged creatures. What a commotion they were creating, cackling to the top of their voice! Was this show for me? Well, I was loving it! A peep into the shop told me that the shopkeeper was busy with a customer there to buy a couple of goldfish. They were engrossed in their conversation about the art of caring and raising them. I was in the meanwhile enjoying my personal opera performance. I'm not much acquainted with the different species of birds other than what are popularly called lovebirds, parakeets, cockatiels, canaries, etc. There were the big brothers too in the form of pigeons and doves. Finally the other customer left with two tiny gold fish and a big smile. 
I started my line of inquiry to the shopkeeper.
"I want to buy a couple of birds."
Here comes a smile of appreciation from the shopkeeper to a prospective customer.
"What kind of birds do you have in mind?"
"Well, such that can sustain themselves."
An eyebrow is raised here.
"What?"
" Well you see I want to set them free once I buy them." I felt like Mother Teresa, Amelia Earhart, and a Agatha Christie adventuress all rolled into one. Haah! What immense satisfaction. A deep sigh escaped me.
Instead of some appreciative noise, I was experiencing deep silence.The shopkeeper instead wanted to confirm the idea I had just blurted out.
" yes! I want to set these birds free. Could you tell me which of them could look after themselves? Be equipped in finding food and shelter?"
"NONE"
"What?"
Now that the shopkeeper had understood the whole act he started patiently explaining to me what I later realised to be a bitter truth.
" M'am look at these birds. Look at their vibrant colours. They are easily spotted by the larger birds and that makes them easy prey."
Hmmm..what he was saying was true. But hey wait a minute....
I rebutted, " Arre! Aren't there beautifully coloured birds in the wild. If what you are saying was true the forests would be bereft of beautifully coloured birds!"
He had his reply ready. Maybe every worldly person has this reply ready. Maybe my parents had this reply ready. Maybe every 'sensible' person I've met had this reply ready.
And all these people have the same concern and patronising tone in their words.
"These birds were raised in a secure environment ( read captivity). They've grown up in these cages. They don't know the outside world. Do you understand the meaning of this M'am?"
Oh yes! I did. Very well indeed! Without a word I turned and left the shop. 
As I lie on my bed at night and look out of the window at the tiny pink flowers which only bloom once a year during the spring, I reflect on today's incident. And beauty. And the vulnerability it causes. Those words 'raised in captivity' ring in my head. Those creatures must be born and raised under protection and utmost care. Now, in their cages displaying their beauty and cackling away; how happy they looked in this secure environment. But do they know the world on the other side of that cage door? Those beautiful winged creatures who soar the sky, dip down to catch the worm, migrate to warmer climates,; do they know about their caged counterparts? It is destiny or that happy accident of birth which has placed them both where they are. So the question I ask myself is who is really HAPPY? The one privileged to experience the secure environment or the one who soars the sky in the wild...
Is it limited to these birds? Am I not in the same boat or rather on the same flight? While being blessed with a secure environment is it really possible to discover ourselves? Does one go on that self reflection trip in the routine of everyday life? Isn't one most attached to one self when experiencing that detachment to the life left behind while travelling? Would I have realised 'my' dreams? How could all this happen if I wouldn't have opened that door of the cage and stepped out in the world. There have been tremendous risks and 'unsecured situations. My heart has beat like a drum so many times! I've been scared to death too but hasn't all this actually chipped me into the person I am. I've made plain, stupid mistakes to even put myself in jeopardy but ( and this is a very important BUT) they have all made me. In the truest sense. 
But isn't it also a chance to test all the virtues and skills, and preaching learnt in that secure world? Something on these lines had happened when I was taking that step out in this world, out of the cage. Out of all protection and security. Out there to discover the world and myself. One fine day my dad had called me from Abu Dhabi. He announced that he is going to introduce me to seven best friends. I was thinking,' Wow! Really, seven friends?' Then he further said that these guys will stay with me for life. 'huh?I was confused now.' I asked, not being able to contain the suspense. 
"Papa, who are they?" 
But he wasn't letting it go so easily. He first asked me for a promise,"You have to make a promise first. Whatever the situation in life you will never take a decision without consulting these seven friends." 
Hmmm...not that difficult to follow? I wanted to know who they were. " Yes, papa. I promise." 
And then he finally said," My dear girl, they are - Mr. Who, Mr. When, Mr. What, Mr. Where, Mr. How, Mr. Which and the most important Miss. Why." 
I knew it! This was again going to be one of my dad's stupid attempt at an 'art of living' discourse. I was annoyed. I wanted real flesh and blood friends! With whom I could hang out, have fun! Not these. 
That was that. I had even forgotten about these friends later until that situation which that pet shopkeeper had described. Of predators and unsecured surroundings. And then as in many situations in life no flesh and blood friend was with me. Here these seven creatures came to me and made me realise the right solution. And after that every time I have opened this cage and stepped out I have been careful to be accompanied with my seven dearest friends! 
So I think it isn't so bad to survive in the outside world if one is really 'prepared' for it. For the sake of it, the sky is visible even through the bars of the sky but for me I want to see it from the horizon to horizon and soar high to even touch it. My sky. My wings. My spirit.


Note: The title of the piece is a book by Ruskin Bond. Which was made into an equally good film titled 'Junoon' meaning 'passion'. I hope the context gets clear after reading the above piece.

Four Rivers - The germ of an idea.

Part1 Introduction

There's a collection of travelogues by Ruskin Bond called 'Tales of the open road.' It is as delectable as his other works but what interests me in this book is his numerous trips through real India. Most of them in the Indian state of Uttarakhand where he has spent  his life in the lap of Himalayas. In one of the essays he describes this particular 'trail' of following the four major rivers of the state. 
Uttarakhand is basically a crisscross of Himalayan mountains and rivers. Out of this, all small or big rivers in the end merge to form the Ganges, before it leaves the state for the plains. The only exception is Yamuna. Ruskin Bond on this trail, travelled along these rivers, namely the Alakhnanda, the Mandakini, the Bhagirathi (all coming together to form the Ganges) and the Yamuna. He travelled along them to reach their source. All of them have their distinctive valleys, formed either by the submission of the mountain or the river.
This reading pepped me up to follow these four rivers and experience this unique, interdependent, informal, uncanny, eerie relationship between the Himalayas and it's rivers. I have to admit this also expanded the scope of my thoughts about the Himalayas. I started to also take them in context of their surroundings, namely the rivers, trees and even the living beings in their shadow. Earlier, mostly on my treks, I had been very subjective about the Himalayas. It was all about what they meant to me and in some minuscule way what I meant to them. The awe and respect they inspired in me, the humility they taught me; and the love I had for them. It was all very personal and private till now.

It was as usual, Sudha who was my partner in crime. We booked our trip with GMVNL, a branch of the state tourism who organises the transport and accommodation in this state of extremely remote destinations and difficult travel conditions. The state of Uttarakhand is on the border of India and Autonomous region of Tibet. Till the start of 1960 there was hardly any road network here to talk of. The place was as remote as end of the world with travellers crossing steep ravines and deep gorges all as an adventure either to reach a mountain peak, a pass or on a pilgrimage. Albeit even in the absence of motorable roads this state was full of walkways and paths trampled by millions of pilgrims from time immemorial to reach the numerous Hindu shrines the state is sprinkled with. Then there were the famous English Sahibs like Jim Corbett in Kumaon who used to move on foot getting rid of man-eaters or 'Pahari' Wilson who's horse's hooves are still heard on the bridge he helped built in Harsil. Then there were the daredevil surveyors of the East India Company who lived on the edge,literally and carried out the unending and crucial job of surveying and mapping the most inaccessible parts of India. This was a world of mystique and legends where very few ventured. They had to be mad adventurers or religious zealots, such were the demanding conditions of the place.
It all changed during the 1962 India-China war. The absence of a road network proved extremely disastrous as no basic support could be provided to the defence forces on the border. Even their movement till the frontiers had become difficult. Hence after 1962 there was a scurry in developing the infrastructure within the state. The Border Roads Organisation or the BRO as it is more commonly called was formed. And since it's inception the BRO has executed the job of making even the remotest corner on a steep cliff of an Himalayan peak accessible if it is strategically important for the country. The life and struggles of a BRO officer, the permanent presence of adventure and difficulties, the working itself of the organisation is a subject less explored. Shouldn't it be a study for nationalists and humanitarians? I wonder.
Coming back on the road to be travelled, the above background information was necessary to establish the story of today's tourism here. During the days of pathways and walkways and long treks on them, the British had built a network of rest houses at intervals for their Sahibs. Post Independence these were taken over by the state government tourism department who maintain them now. They are in such remote parts on various treks that one is amazed. Thus here even the most arduous and tough treks are tea house treks, i.e minus tents and with basic living conditions. At the end of the day's stretch one reaches the comforts of a rest house with a chowkidar! What bliss! With all the old world charm! Ofcourse there are trekkers who prefer tents,but I would take my tea-house trek anytime.  On the basis of these and the intricate road network the state government tourism department, the GMVNL is the best bet to organise and guide through the travels and treks here. Thus having ticked out the main thing on the list,we started our trip from Delhi.
I usually follow this plan of spending a day in Delhi before every trek. All the Himalayan trekking base camps whether in Garhwal or Kumaon or Himachal have a train,road,air connection through Delhi. I prefer to benefit by this situation by taking an early morning flight to Delhi where if one reaches by nine, the whole day opens up before me to explore my favourite historic city- the city of ruins. I then take the conveniently scheduled night trains to my trekking base camp destination thus avoiding spending a night in the infamously unsafe Delhi for girls. This time Sudha and I had decided to honour Sultan Feroz Shah to be our host. The reason being this master builder had in his time discovered and placed Emperor Ashoka's 250 B.C.E sandstone pillar in his fort-palace in Delhi. This pillar glows and gives the illusion of being made of gold. And how much did I wanted to witness this spectacle! But alas! It was the month of July and hence Delhi was sitting comfortably under a blanket of dark clouds. The pillar glows only in bright sunlight. We still visited it, remarked on the ancient 'Brahmi' script. After spending an relaxing afternoon on the beautifully maintained green lawns in the premises and an even more fun evening at Connaught place we were ready to board the Mussorie Express which would take us to Haridwar, the foothills of Himalayas in the morning. Here starts this trip- where I discovered not only the different traits of nature but myself too! As always the external exploration coinciding with the internal discoveries.