"Ay kuddi kee kurdee payee hai?"
What's this girl doing?
" Fotuan khich dee payee hai."
She's takings photos.
"Fotuan? Ithey?
Photos? Here?
"Aaho, phullan dee."
Yes, of the flowers.
I hear these words crouched between a rock and ground, trying to get a good shot of the blue poppies I had spotted. Flattered by being referred to as 'kuddi' (girl), I decide to move my body out of its contorted knots, turn and face the two conversationalists. The glaring sun hurts my eyes as I try to look up.
"Phullan dee fotu kyon kud rahe ho, saadi fotu kuddo."
Why are you clicking the flowers? Take our photo.
Even before I can straighten up and face them, the two pilgrims have issued me with their request as if we've known each other for years. Maybe we have.
I try to explain why I photograph flowers and impress them with how rare the Blue Poppy is and how lucky we are to see it growing here. They are not impressed.
They straighten up and get close to each other to strike a pose.
"But I won't be able to send the photo." I tell them as they pat their kurtas down and stand stiff as sticks to indicate they are ready.
"Koyi gul na puttar, twanu phullan de naal naal saadi we tasveer mil javegi".
No worries, child. You'll get our photo along with your flowers.
So I click and show them the screen afterwards.
They beam like the sun.
They are pilgrims who come to Hemkund Sahib every year. They don't need any climbing gear or fancy hiking boots. Their faith is enough.
They don't understand my flower photography, but they are curious. I share my love of flowers. They share their faith in Wahe Guruji. We exchange nods and smiles and carry on our own paths.
The cold mountain breeze carries their words towards me as they walk away from me,
"Phullan dee fotu...?"
Pictures of flowers...?
''One step at a time," encourages Yashpal, our guide. A group of pilgrims, walking ahead, are singing shabad kirtan (hymns and religious songs). Their voices ring out clear and strong in the crisp morning air.
from mother nature to eat only as much was needed.
I loved it when our guide (who is from Garhwal) sings 'Nihal' in a typical Punjabi accent --you know when the 'hal' is elongated to 'haaal' and the 'aa' sound dips deep in the end, comes up for air and lands strongly on the last 'L' making it ripple through valleys leisurely. As if our sound knows the truth- Sat Sri Akal-- that Truth is the Timeless One.
Bole So Nihaal had kept me going. And continues to as I scramble the last half kilometre to the Gurudrawa. The sun scorches. The thin air forces me to gasp open mouthed for breath. Snippets of kirtan from the Gurudwara waft down, energising my tired legs.
The long, long, path.
At last. Hemkund Sahib ji.
Sitting in the Gurudwara...
At first, my tears hang on-
aware we are not alone.
The first drop escapes
reluctantly,
ashamed at
such public display of weakness.
What will Arshia think?
Guru ki baani floats on cold air.
Tiny puffs of smoke escape the kada prasad-
I extend my palms, right over left
to receive
the sweetness waits
for my fingers to
pass the prasad through my trembling lips.
I taste all the Gurudwaras of my childhood.
The tears come thick and fast-
openly,
shamelessly.
pass the prasad through my trembling lips.
I taste all the Gurudwaras of my childhood.
The tears come thick and fast-
openly,
shamelessly.
The shabad kirtan breaks through my pores
with such meaning, such intent
I stifle a sob, but it escapes anyway.
No longer a trickle, I'm a torrent
the tears flow, follow
jubilantly
Why am I crying?
Is it the thin air?
Am I mourning the past?
Or worrying about the future?
None of the above. None of the above.
I hear a whisper.
Be the being
this, this, this
Am I mourning the past?
Or worrying about the future?
None of the above. None of the above.
I hear a whisper.
Be the being
this, this, this
be in the moment-
dear human being
I'm in the moment so completely.
with all my senses
and
senselessly,
that I've forgotten the rules and the norms.
It is time for us to leave.
So I leave.
Downstairs, I put my shoes back on.
Yashpal nods from the other side of the shoe counter. Go back, he says. You're not done. I take my shoes off, run back up the stairs as if love awaits.
The crying goes on.
Now, the Granthis are putting Guru Granth Sahib Ji in Sukhasan
Satnam, Satnam, Wahe Guru ji
resonates
I scrunch up my cold toes on the carpet to warm them up.
My time to be at peace.
How long?
Always.
"Sometimes, it's just time to wash away all that has build up inside."
says Yashpal when I finally join the rest of my group to take a dip in the glacial cold water of the sarovar (lake).
After the dip, we sit in the sun to dry our hair.
Langar prasad is kichhdi and sweet tea; not hot, but I am grateful.
Can you see a beak in this peak?
On our way back, my camera and I explore a bit more of the surroundings.
'B,' the next.
'C,' the third.
And they carry on. They've obviously heard us chattering in English and decided to either review their letters of the English alphabet or just show us that they know the language, too.
Reluctantly, we head back to Ghangaria. My camera always delays me.
I end up being the last person to join my waiting group. I don't mind;)
On my way back from Hemkund Sahib ji, for almost an hour, I am the only human among these mountains.
It feels really, really special.
The Brahma Kamal
Watering hole for the humans...
I've added a tint to this shot.
And watering hole for the donkeys who carry pilgrims and supplies.
The sun was about to set when we reached Ghangaria.
The view from the last bend before we reach camp reminds me of Japanese poster art.
We are told foot massages await. Yes, these are the perks of trekking in India, especially, if one happens to be on a route of pilgrimage.
And the lady who makes it possible- the treks and the foot massages- is my dear friend Aparna
If you are curious or interested, here's the wikilink that tells you more about Hemkund Sahib.
I hope to see you soon with a tour of the last Indian village.
Soak in the sun, or sleep in the shade -- have a great weekend. xx
