B is for a Bride in the Land of Gods #AtoZChallenge

"The life of the land is the life of the people."

 - Tahitian Proverb

(quoted from the documentary 'Moving Art' on Netflix)

Dear Readers,

A little background about today's post: The poem that follows captures an unexpected moment which transpired while we (our party of trekkers) were resting after a long and arduous climb in Uttarakhand which is also know as Devbhoomi, the land of the Gods,  for there are many ancient temples located at great altitudes here which are considered essential to visit once in ones lifetime in popular Hindu belief. However, the massive ongoing roadbuilding projects in the area which promise to usher in an era of progress and make it easier to visit 'god' are creating a very different landscape. We were on our way to Kuari Pass in May 2019.

I'm nostalgic about how my home-state used to be before progress knocked on its door.

Devbhoomi (land of the Gods) 

Dry and dusty was the path.

Rocks lay splayed in thirsty gasps.

No breeze,

no shelter,

limited rations of water.

A tree at last

sprouted in sight

and broke our sultry stride.

Rest. Recuperate. Hydrate.

It was time for a break.

We sat strewn around the tree:

all of us humans

helter-skelter

moaning the progress

in painful view:

a mega road that would bring one and all

to the Gods

conveniently.

Our solitary tree 

watched the scene with us,

stoically.

Will the Gods even want to stay on after all the development is done?

I wondered.

She appeared as a red dot, fringed in gold

twinkling with silver.

Like hope on a forgotten horizon, I saw her

beaming into her future.

May I?

I asked.

She agreed coyly and ordered her groom to pose with her.

Click. Click. Click.

Captured. Still. Delight.

Who would've thought a bride

red, sparkling, joyful in high heels,

would appear out of nowhere

to sprinkle colour

on my state's grey and white?

The bride and her groom and the rest of the wedding party had to reach a bus stop about 2 kilometres away to board the bus that would take them to the groom's village. So, they were in a hurry. 

Her silver anklets sang happily as she walked down the hillside in her pretty heels. I remember looking at my bulky boots and laughing at my inadequacies. 

She'd told us that they'd walked a little more than 10 kilometres from her village to reach the point we'd met by chance. 

I do see the point of roads and convenience. But, these communities have sustained themselves and their mountains for generations and continue to do so. I'm sure they are capable of carrying on. I'm sure their wisdom will keep them and their lands safe. But, are  planning boards and economic gurus ready to listen to them? Is progress another name for greed?

 

Do trees need to be cut and mountains blasted? 

We watched the wedding party make their way down merrily. The ubiquitous drunk uncle sang and danced loudly, slowing their progress, while the younger cousins waited ahead. 

As Covid 19 makes travelling back to India and consequently trekking impossible for now, I've been consoling myself with nature documentaries on Netflix. Almost all the ones filmed in recent years question the impact of humans on this planet's resources. I do wonder when we will wake up to the reality of our actions.

Has your hometown/state/place of residence resisted progress to keep green? I'd love to know.

*****

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

A is for Alex and the Bees #AtoZChallenge

"Before beginning to study the sacred texts and constantly singing the sutras, the student should learn to read the love letters sent by the snow, the wind and the rain."

-IKKYU, Zen Master 

Quote borrowed from  'The Book of Ichigo Ichie'

Dear Readers,

For the first post of this challenge, I'm sharing a snippet from my travel memoir of Maunda, a remote village in Uttarakhand, northern India. The motorable road that goes to Maunda ends there. It goes no further. 

I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Arti.

The morning sun sparkled across the slices of blue sky wedged between tall deodars and broad cedars as Alex, Apu and I explored the village and its outskirts with Pradhanji, the village chief, along with a couple of other villagers one day in mid-May in 2019. 

Every leaf, petal, fruit and tree that grew on the path was explored by us (the visitors) and explained by the villagers. If a shrub or tree wasn't used for food, it had medicinal or cosmetic uses. This was Alex's first time in Maunda. Apu and I had been to the village the previous year. After a couple of hours, Pradhanji invited us to his house for tea.

After the downstairs had been looked at and commented upon, Pradhanji climbed the stairs ahead of us and issued a request for tea for everyone in the general direction of the kitchen while beckoning the three of us to follow him upstairs to sit in his sitting room-with-a-view.

It’s a small L shaped room on the first floor with huge Garhwali style windows peering over the valley below. A few plastic chairs and wooden benches are placed perfectly to enjoy the verdant views.

Apu chose to snuggle up on a chair by the window. Alex sat by the door we had entered the room through and I sat opposite Alex, a foot or so away from Apu, facing the door, the back of my chair resting against the wall with a tiny hole. The hole in the wall was approximately an inch and a half in diameter with a broken and blackened circumference.

As soon as I settled into my chair, a bee, a honey bee, buzzed past me, hovered over Apu for a little while before deciding to fly out of the room.

Alex’s eyes watched the bee and widened with surprise.

Before the first bee reached the edge of the window sill, another bee appeared before me, buzzed, took a few curious circles around my hand holding my cup of tea and then followed the first bee’s route out of the window, flying past Apu.

Alex’s eyes were screaming silently by now. His fingers tightened their hold on his teacup.

Apu looked up at me. I smiled.

The trickle of bees had swollen into a steady stream by now. They were busy flying in single file out of the opening in the wall behind me and making a bee-line for the window.

Alex couldn’t hold it in any longer, “Bees! Honey bees!” he stated the obvious with barely hidden disbelief.

“They’re harmless.” Apu mentioned and went back to her day dreaming. She continued to gaze out of the window.

I was enjoying the look on Alex’s face, so I smiled to show him that all was well: he could chill. We had the same look on our faces last year when we'd seen the bees in this room for the first time. I'm not sure our assurances convinced him. Being a gentle soul, he continued to sip his tea but his eyes kept following each bee’s flight keenly. 

“Arre Alex Ji, these bees have lived here for as long as I’ve lived here.” said Pradhanji. “My father discovered this hive when we first started making a few changes to this part of the house--almost fifty years ago. He decided to let the hive be. We’ve all grown used to each other. We don’t bother them and they don’t trouble us.”

Just then, Pradhanji’s little grandson crawled into the room from the door next to Alex. Three bees were buzzing over his head like a noisy halo.

Alex smiled. I could see his eyes were taking in the miracle of symbiosis.

The little one gurgled and crawled eagerly to his grandfather who picked him up, kissed him and set him down again to continue with his crawling.

“What about the honey? Don’t you harvest it?” Alex asked.

“What they make is for them. That’s their food. We get our honey from the hives we farm.” stated Pradhanji.

For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in Pradhanji’s L-shaped sitting room looking out of the sky blue windows that framed mighty deodars and oaks standing tall and proud--all the way into the horizon--as far as the eye could see.

The little one crawled through the chairs’ legs, our legs, while bees buzzed around him like wound up toys.

Shangri-La is alive and well in a village in Uttarakhand where men let bees live in hives built inside houses because their ancient instincts show them how intricately bees and humans are bound together. That day, I was left wondering if they really need roads to open up their minds or  modern technology to teach them how to live and let live. 

But, who am I? I'm a traveller who appears once a year at their doorstep. It's the youth and the elders of this village who'll have to decide how to balance the modern with the ancient; how to learn to keep up with the times without unlearning the songs of the wind, the snow, the bees and the mountains.

(Pradhanji's house in Maunda)

The village of Maunda, Uttarakhand

*****

Have you ever come by a moment of symbiosis such as this?  

You know I'd love to hear, if you'd like to share.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

A bucket full of blue skies: Chainsheel Trek (Part 2) #traveloguesofArtiJain

Day 3 (contd...)

You may recall "Part 1" of this trek from last month's post. Part 2 follows:

We left Mandi Thatch after word of our moody mules reached us. The late start will catch up with us but for now we were enjoying the unbroken blue skies and Ranaji's transistor. 

Incidentally, I wrote and recited a Hindi poem about this tiny transistor and its owner, Ranaji, who peppered our trek with Hindi film music whenever the mighty Himalayas let radio waves reach us. I'll share the link at the end of this post.

Blue: the colour of Shiva, of Krishna, of skies, of oceans, of lakes and of a plastic pale, however, kept us company throughout. Sometimes, silver-grey clouds played hide and seek with the blue but no matter.

Pradhanji (the village leader of Maunda) would stop every now and then to draw our attention to the things growing around. In the picture below, he's holding a tuft of moss growing under this massive rock that is used for its medicinal properties.

Of course, any opportunity to admire Mother Nature's abundance gives weary knees the much needed rest and break.

The trail on day 3 was unique because for the majority of  the 11 km stretch, the mountains and peaks were visible which is rare. In fact, for a long time, while traversing the ridge, we had a panoramic view of snow capped peaks on our left and  and right.  And time enough to pose with them:)

We ate lunch languishing on a log that had once been the trunk of an upright oak. Lunch was veg pulao that day -- deliciously abundant with potatoes, peas, carrots and capsicum. I must've been famished for there are no photos!

Post lunch progress is always tedious as filled tummies slow the legs down, or perhaps weary legs blame the tummy to hide behind an excuse. 

Snow flurries hit us late afternoon. Suddenly, dark grey clouds engulfed the clear blue skies and before we could zip up our rain covers, first fat raindrops and then soft snowflakes tumbled down from the heavens. Distant thunder carried threat of drenching.  There was no shelter in sight. It was freezing. The thought of being wet and cold in the mountains is not too appealing.

The threat receded as soon as it had appeared. All was well again. I'd burrowed my camera inside multiple layers so it didn't emerge till the changing light reminded me of the golden hour: that precious time when the setting sun bathes the world in golden light. It is a photographer's delight.

By the time the sun was rushing to kiss the horizon, we could spot the tents.  We had made it just in the nick of time--another hour late, and we would've missed this bliss.

How they managed it, I don't know, but almost as soon as we reached our tents, the team of Outdoor Monks offered us hot water to drink. Apparently, sipping hot water works on two levels: it not only hydrate the body but keeps it warm too. We will need all the warmth in the world that night. Two rounds of fabulous tea followed the hot water. 

If there's a God, he's tea on a cold mountain top--believe me.

Will we? Won't we? Step out of our tents? The twilight hour was fast receding into darkness. The temperature was well below minus 8 degrees Celsius. We were cocooned inside our tents wearing all the layers we could possibly wear and still it felt cold. 

I'm not fond of closed spaces so the tent is only used when it's absolutely essential: i.e. to sleep at night. I wasn't too pleased about the prospect of waiting inside the tent from sunset to sunrise.

This will be long night, I thought.

Will they? Won't they? Light a bonfire tonight? 
But, how could they?
We were far above the tree line. There were no trees, hence no wood. 

Pradhanji's booming voice mixed with sounds of scurrying activity pierced our tent. I laboured with my cold and heavy boots and stepped outside.

What do I see but a crackling fire and hunched silhouettes of people sitting around it. 

How?

Rhododendron (known as Buransh  locally) can be burnt for fuel even when its wood is green. It grows above treeline and provides the perfect fuel for shepherds on nights such as these.

Nature is truly abundant.

The picture above and below are the best I could do with my camera to capture the miracle I was witnessing sitting around a warm fire, a steaming cup of soup warming my heart and hands.

Sleep was being rather elusive that night. I was ready to step outside before the first rays of sun touched down. 

Day 4 arrived dressed in orange, gold and the promise of warmth.

Sunrise of Day 4:

Someone, we don't know who as no one owned up to it, had left a sock on the rock near the previous night's camp fire. The solidified sock created an anecdotal distraction while we waited for chai soon after sunrise. It sat there on the rock thawing--perhaps waiting for its owner to own it again, once it had shed its icy facade. 

You will know when you see these photos just how rewarding Day 4 was. This, yes, this, we told each other is why we wriggle our toes into frozen socks and sleep like mummies --entombed but wide awake.

Can you spot the ice on the water? We'll come across frozen streams and puddles later on today. The blue of sky is misleading. It was cccccccold!

 Blue so bright -- it hurt the eyes.
But don't be fooled by the sky.
Our bones were chilled
and that is why
as soon as we reached the treeline
Bharat gathered some twigs, wood and twine
And lit a fire so divine.
Thawed--
we felt fine.

 Rest breaks are the best

 Meet the star chef: Surinder

Just how tricky is

tumbling down a hill

Why! 

Ask 

Jack and/or Jill

They'll tell you

Down and Crown

don't belong together

like 

Humility and Pride

The latter half of our tumble aka trek down the mountainside was a tad tricky. Layers kept coming off our backs and getting stuffed into our bags. 

Congratulating ourselves and each other on surviving the cold, we meandered our way through forests of oak and deodar, trying not to look at the reminders of our advanced years, such as this young lad who carried this blue bucket throughout the trek and was dressed in these clothes even on the night of minus 8 degrees Celcius! They refer to us as 'elderly' in these parts. They're not wrong but it hurts. 

"What is blue? The sky is blue.

Where the clouds float through."

wrote Chritina Rossetti.

She was born in 1830.

Poetry never fails to inspire me...

Of the trek, there's more to come

We're not yet done.

There's a night and a day still:

One more bonfire to be lit

One last night in a tent

Under those stars that shine like suns

when the sun 

goes to pay his rent

to the Almighty.

You see--

He's supposed to pay it daily

for he occupies prime property

in the blue sky

up high

where clouds sometimes fly.

***************

Wishing you all a safe and healthy Tuesday.

May you and your loved ones enjoy the bliss of noon, night and day

Here's the link I'd promised of my poetry recital in Hindi:

Thank you for being here.

Much love 

Arti 

xx

Waiting for Mules: a photo essay of our trek to Chainsheel Lake (Part 1) #TravelouesofArtiJain

Dear Readers,

I hope you are all well and healthy.

Today, I'm sharing memories of a trek that I went on in October 2018. As memories are many and wonderful, I've decided to split the travelogue into parts.

Offering part 1 today for your reading pleasure.

The photos were made then but are being looked at and shared now--thanks to my current home-bound journey status, I'm able to look back at the treasures of my past travels and relish them all over again.

I hope you'll join me.

Warm regards

Arti.

The morning temperature read -5 degrees Celsius in Mandi Thatch. Misty fog seemed reluctant to let go of the sun. She wanted another cuddle.  

It was the morning after the night of celebrating Vani's 50th birthday. 

Vani, a dancer, a health coach and an avid trekker had decided to celebrate her milestone birthday in the mountains, doing what she likes best--trekking. And even though October gets cold in the Himalayas, a couple of us volunteered to be part of her birthday celebrations--happily and eagerly.

Apu, as usual, did all the spade work. She sent us the itinerary and a packing list. Looking at the weather predictions, I packed all the thermal vests and leggings I had ever bought from UniQlo and landed in Maunda: a village that will become very dear to us after this trip. 

Outdoor Monks were trusted with the task of taking us to our destination: Chainsheel Lake, nestled in the lush green folds of Chainsheel bhugyal -- a high altitude meadow in the Himalayas perched at 3,600 metres above sea level. As there had been a few unfortunate episodes of loss of life in these parts the previous year, the village Pradhanji and one of his friends, Rana ji, came along with us as local guides.

You can see Maunda's charming Pradhan ji (on the right of this photo) all set to embark on the trek with us.  While we were lugging all the thermals known to us and were kitted out in our carefully thought out trekking gear, Pradhan ji's preparation included packing his phone and  a change of clothes and Ranaji for his part, carried his transistor. 

Our trek started in Maunda.  The khacchar wala (the mule owner) who was supposed to accompany the team did not turn up. So, some local lads from a nearby village were roped in to help out with the trek.

The trail we were supposed to take had not been accessed all year. So, this trek to celebrate Vani's 50th would wear many hats -- as a trial to check out the route, as an opportunity to capture its beauty to promote the village of Maunda as a suitable base to start all future treks from and consequently bring much needed commerce into the village.  All we, the mountain lovers whose souls dwell in these parts, needed was an excuse to pack up and go. So we did.

Six or seven hours of hiking later, we reached Sonawat Thatch, our first camp site, by early evening. 

Tents were set up. Dinner followed a couple of rounds of tea and a young moon shone in the deep Himalayan sky while we rested.

As an early riser and as someone who can make do with four hours of sleep on treks, I can be found outside my tent, waiting for the sun to rise.  The next morning was no different.

For me, every sunrise and every sunset witnessed is like a new book read or a poem told. The alchemy of sun and sky in those hours has to be witnessed to behold. 

Sunrises and sunsets are the best kind of gold to hoard in a life time. I'd like to be the Bill Gates of sunsets and sunrises one day. I'm not kidding. I'm extremely ambitious like that.

The sun rose like a sorcerer that morning and sprinkled Sonawat Thatch with its magic.

The mules, though, had a slightly different point of view. Do you notice the ground frost? 

After breakfast, we loaded our day packs on our backs, slathered on sun cream while the team loaded the mules with everything else--all the essentials needed to spend five nights outdoors, in the Himalayas in October.

Clear blue skies, grove after grove of bare branched birch trees and unending rows of mountains kept our spirits up and vibrant. Mountains come in all shapes and forms. The one we were about to traverse seemed to have suffered a few erosive blows from land slides in the monsoon rains. The path ahead started getting narrower and rockier.  

And then it became dangerous. The only saving grace was that it wasn't raining. We crossed this stretch in single file. The rubble and debris on the path made it slippery at places. But as humans with two legs carrying just the day's supplies of lunch, water and extra layers, we managed to cross over pretty deftly and then whooped a triumphant whoop when we got to the other side. The mules who were following us had a very different experience.

You see, treks are a means of income for villages in the Himalayas where employment opportunities are rare as all developmental policies in India, like in many other countries, focus exclusively on manufacturing and building and hardly ever on preserving and conserving. We are all witnessing the effects of such lopsided, money-making, short-term solution based policies.  Treks in these parts are akin to a co-operative movement: the entire village benefits from it, assuming that the head or pradhan has his people's best interest at heart. 

Mules are loaded up with tents and other camping equipment. Care is taken to ensure they are not over burdened and that the weight is proportionate on both sides. A trekking team is as good as its mules/donkeys. Without them, treks such as the one I go on wouldn't be possible. This also provides earning opportunities to the village youth who would otherwise head out to towns and cities, as is the case in so many parts of India. Thus, emptying villages of youth and hope. 

As you can see, with all this load, it was impossible for the mules to cross the narrow ledge. We didn't know any of this, of course. We had carried on ahead and when there were no donkeys in sight behind us, had decided to wait for them.

It was a very long wait!

We waited and we waited and then we waited some more. First, I went around clicking photos of mountains and trees. Then, I munched on an apple. Then I clicked a few photos of us waiting. That's Apu up there. Now, the thing is that without our mules, we wouldn't be able to carry on ahead. I'm usually lost in my own world so I tend to find out what's going on pretty late. Any stop on a trek is an unhindered opportunity to click. So I click and don't ask too many questions.  When the waiting didn't end for a very long time, I asked.

"They're having trouble with that last pass." Someone said.

All manners of speculations and suggestions fluttered around the group. Pradhanji, for his part, sat unperturbed and Ranaji's transistor rang out ---"Yeh Akashwani ki...seva..." to break the silence when conversations died down: as they do when one is faced with an unexpected change of plans. 

"I can see them." declared Pradhanji, getting up from the perch he was sitting on- on his haunches all this while, smoking.

"Where? Where?" we all erupted simultaneously.

"Ooooh...there....can you see that falan-falan bend ..." he pointed his finger in the direction we'd just come up from.

To say that it took me an hour after he'd spotted the moving mules on the horizon to make out dark blobs of movement far, far, away is no exaggeration. Well, that's what you get when you live in cities---you stop seeing clearly!

A collective sigh of relief followed by a chorus of "kya hua, kya hua?" (what happened, what happened?) greeted the team when they finally joined us in Mandi Thatch, our camp site for the day.

As expected, the narrow ledge had freaked out the mules who rely entirely on their instincts for survival. So, their loads had to be offloaded. Each mule was then cajoled/pushed/perhaps even threatened to cross the ledge, guided by its keeper. The loads were then carried by the team across the ledge and only when the mules felt settled, were they loaded up, balanced and secured (for the second time that day) for the rest of the journey. 

Once reunited, the tents were pitched, tea was made and life returned to normal once again.

That night, Surinder, the chef, excelled far and beyond our expectations. He makes the most amazing food but when he and the team brought out a cake: baked in the tent in a pressure cooker and dotted with candles to celebrate Vani's 50th, it left us all speechless. I still can't fathom how Surinder manages to bake and cook such feasts at such altitudes! The cake was delicious.

Sunset and bonfire, cake and cuppa, songs of 'Happy birthday' sung in English and Garhwali, tum jiyo hazzaron saal... followed by amazing shero-shayari (poetry recitals) by Pradhanji created a celebration like none seen before or since. It was perfect. We went to bed clad in many layers of warmth, both the thermal kind and the fuzzy kind one feels in ones heart when man and nature come together.

The next morning unfolded dramatically. 

"Our mules have gone.... khacchar bhaag gaye...the mules have fled..." cries of wonder and hilarity (the kind one finds in unimaginable situations) tweeted around Mandi Thatch along with birdsong a little before sun rise. 

The morning was bitterly cold.

Siddhartha's thermometer refused to rise above -5 degrees Celcius despite his effort to take it to the 'sunniest' spot around his tent.

After some chaotic kerfuffle trying to figure out the mules' whereabouts, the team figured that they must've made their way back to their village--yes, equivalent to  a day and a half of our trek thus far. A little sleuthing revealed that while the mules' novice keepers took to their grasses to invite sound sleep, the mules had decided to scamper all the way back to the warmth and familiarity of their own haystacks and sheds in the village. Animal instincts are fine tuned for survival. 

Another wait unfolded. But, with hot cups of tea, yummy breakfast and enough warm layers, we were able to crack jokes. Or perhaps, it's the innate optimism of a new day breaking out over the mountains that makes one see everything through the prism of positivism. Or maybe, it was Pradhanji's chilled out vibes that helped. His reaction to the situation was akin to a father's whose son or daughter  has just missed the school bus and he knows he'll have to take his car/scooter out to drop his offspring--a slight deviation in daily routine but nothing to get worked up about. When one is in sync with nature, patience comes naturally.

Khacchar walas (keepers of mules) took off to look for the stars of the trek and to fetch them back. 

As soon as word reached  that they had been spotted and were now being brought back, it was decided that the group would carry on ahead with Bharat, our team leader, while the rest of the team of Outdoor Monks will wait to load up the Moody Mules and follow us.

By then, fog had reluctantly let go of the sun. The long wait for our band of rebels to be found worked in our favour. Slowly and steadily, a bright sunny day began to emerge from the smothering cuddles of Himalayan fog.

Everything sparkled-- snow, stones, shrubs and our smiles:)

A 'happy' birthday girl:)

The pictures that follow were all taken on Day 3 of the trek: we covered 11 kms that day from Mandi Thatch (Bhutaha) to Sarutal. Come along and enjoy the spectacular views. The air is fresh and crisp. Cerulean skies and fluffy clouds are ready to keep you company.

To stand and ponder and stare for hours without any agenda or plans--now, that's bliss in my world. And when one gets amazing chai after a long day of walking and admiring, that's what I call sone pe suhaga:
translation: Gold. Pure Gold.

I'll be back with more bags of gold for you soon-ish. Part 2 of this travelogue promises to blow your socks off -- or rather freeze them--because while we will be climbing higher to get closer to Chainsheel Lake, the temperature will tumble lower.

The views, however, will make it all worth your while as they did for us.

Till then, stay safe and healthy. Smile often and dance whenever you can:)

Happy weekend dear ones. xx