Winter

I just finished reading ‘The Lord of the Rings‘. I have posted on this blog rarely because I was really trying hard to finish the novels. It is cumbersome sometimes to concentrate on reading when you have so much of other work going on in your mind. I feel that the fact that our brains can multitask is sometimes a bane for us. For some nights, I used to have the book in front of me, and I knew I was reading it, yet my thoughts were focused on completely different paths. But anyway, the books are done, and so in eleven months of this year I have finished with A Dance With Dragons (the last part of A Song of Ice and Fire by George R R Martin), the entire Shiva Trilogy by Amish, A Prisoner Of Birth by Jeffrey Archer, Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie, Deception Point by Dan Brown, and Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy by Tolkien. That is a lot of reading, per se, and it perhaps explains why I have posted almost only half of what I posted last year, but to be fair, I had read only four books last year (the first four parts of A Song of Ice and Fire.) For now, I am done with the genre of fantasy for the time being, and I do not intend to return to it soon.

That being said, December is almost round the corner, and winter is slowing creeping its way up trees onto frosted leaves, spreading its fangs around snowy streets, and making ice flakes out of waterfalls in the misty mornings. I have written really less this year, and looking back, I think the write-up that is closest to my heart would be the most recent ‘Call of the Mountains‘. I had initially thought of naming it ‘And the Mountains Echoed‘, inspired by Hosseini’s poignant novel by the same name, but it seemed too much of a plagiarism more than an inspiration, and so I changed my mind, though I did include the title in a sentence, because it was too dear to let go off. That’s the problem with me; I cannot let go of things easily. But it is okay, I am learning, and this year has been a lot of learning for me. If you’ve followed me this year, you would have noticed I have repeatedly hovered around the idea of dreams in my posts. Though somewhere at the back of my mind I might have done that intentionally, I think it is just that I have been intrigued by them lately, and probably that is the reason I’ve been writing about it. I finished watching the last season of ‘Da Vinci’s Demons’ this year, that was the only television show I followed apart from the regular ‘Game of Thrones‘. But then since the latter is slowly deviating from the novel, I am slightly disheartened and am not as excited about it as I used to be. For example, earlier this week they released their poster for next season, yet I had almost expected the exact thing to be. The show was about unexpected twists, but sadly it has failed to offer that of late.

Let me get back for a moment to the ‘Lord of the Rings‘. If any of you out here are yet to read the books, go grab a copy today. Tolkien has created a magnificent world, with extraordinary character development and spell-bounding chapters. At the end, I could only wish that there were yet another instalment of the book that I had yet to read. But then, all good things come to an end, and so with this. But now that I have done a lot of reading, and will probably read only a little more this year, I intend to write a little more in December. I am going on a one-month trip to Suwon, so the next time I post, it would be from Korea. I hope I can take out some time during the weekends to keep this blog updated, for the last thing I want is to kill this blog out of inactivity. I already have the next book on my mind. I am going to start reading ‘To Kill A Mockingbird‘ soon, but not today, not just now. I need some time to absorb Frodo and Bilbo, and Sam and Pippin, and Aragorn and Gandalf, and the Fellowship, and Lothorien and Mount Doom, and Gondor and the Shire, and Saruman and Sauron. I wish there was more about Sauron in the text; I had expected at least half a chapter where he would be in first person or at least in third, so that was a little disappointment, but then, it is a classic book and is a legend, and probably I am not fit, not yet, to critique Tolkien, and would probably never be.

In verses, I have tried to go back to square one, spending time writing more of love tales than fantasy, and the last three poems do exactly that. When I wrote ‘For I Will Walk‘, I was not sure I was doing the correct thing; it felt as if undoing years of trying to overcome an obstacle and finally banging it head on, and not crossing it at all; but in the end it all turned out good. You have liked it, and that is all I care about. In case you’ve missed out on some of my latest posts, I did manage to wrap up with the ‘Return‘ series that I had started last year. It took me more than a year to finish it, owing to several distractions, but somehow I joined the strings at the end.

So much for now. Let’s join over a cup of coffee sometime later, when you and I can wrap ourselves in a quilt and sing a song of dreams and love. Good bye!

Flee From This World

The night was old, the sky was grey,
Yet I kept walking through the fields of hay.
The sky turned red, the dawn was here,
Yet I kept walking, my end was near.
The birds came out, and chirped out loud,
I kept walking, face hidden under a shroud.
For hours I walked at a stretch,
None to talk with, none to walk with,
None to break bread with,
None to share mead with.
The meadows were green, and yellow were its flowers,
Yet I kept walking, I had to reach the towers.
The meadows ended, and I swam across a river,
My clothes wet now, and I felt a shiver,
Yet I kept walking, my end was near,
And everything that I held so dear,
Was stolen from me, never to return,
Yet even so I walked, never taking a turn.
The day was old now, the sun overhead,
Not a place to rest, straight my path led,
Me to roads yet untraveled, yet undiscovered,
Yet I kept walking.

For I had not a destination,
But a wish deep within,
To flee from this world as far as I could go,
And so I kept walking, even so.
By night and day, and day and night,
I kept walking, knew I did right,
By leaving all behind, whatever I had,
Did not care if it made me happy or sad.
Now the sun was behind the hills,
I walked across farms, away from the windmills,
I knew not where I’d reach,
I cared not about it either,
And death did not scare me,
Nor hunger neither.

The night draped the skies,
In a blanket of stars,
And only then did I sleep for a while.
Tomorrow I’ll walk again,
Cover many more miles yet,
Until I reach a world,
Where people are happier,
Where love is in plenty,
And where life is full,
As it should be,
No killings, no fights, no bombs, no terror,
For that is where I dream to be,
But I know that for now,
Such places exist only in my dreams,
But I know that sooner or later,
Such places I will come across,
And such things I will see,
That’ll make me believe,
That humanity still exists,
Somewhere.
Maybe not in this world,
But someday soon, I’ll find a home,
Where I’d love to live.

For I Will Walk

For I will walk those paths again,
Only this time you won’t be there,
And can you blame me?
Yes, you could, but deep within,
You’d cry for you know,
How much you’ve wronged me,
Day and night,
And the cycle continues,
A vicious one,
Engulfing one and all into it,
I was probably just another prey,
But you hunted me down well,
And that made all the difference.

For I will walk those paths again,
Though I really don’t know,
Where they will take me,
For the last time I walked,
You had blindfolded me,
And I knew you’d take me right,
That faith, that mistake,
But now I know,
I must go,
Come what may.

For I will walk those paths again,
And hope to find,
Another lost soul,
Looking out to find her way,
And maybe we’d hold hands,
And comfort each other,
For we both know how it feels,
To be stranded in a desert,
Knowing you’ll die soon,
And nonetheless striving,
To see it to its end,
Or at the least reach an oasis,
And that is not tough,
And I promise you,
I can do that.

For I will walk those paths again,
Paths which you can never walk,
For you might know the ways,
But you don’t have the keys,
To the gate that lies,
At the other end,
The gate to solace,
And freedom and happiness.

For you’re a captive,
Of emotions such as hate,
One that’ll pull you back,
Much like a spring,
The more you go,
The harder you come back,
And it serves you right,
For love you I not,
And I pray to the gods,
Those that might listen to me,
That you stay so forever,
And slowly forget that love even exists,
For you are not meant,
To love or be loved.

A Brighter Color

I sit in a dark room, silence all around,
No one knows the pain deep within,
I have kept it to myself,
Not wanting you to know,
For fear of troubling you,
With my baseless fears.
I fear, and do you know that?
I fear, that I might lose you again,
For my life has for sheer luck,
Given me another chance to be with you.
But the rose that had withered off,
The black rose that you’d last seen,
It’s still the same,
And will be, forever.

For love you I not anymore,
But I cannot ignore you either,
Such is the trauma in the lives of lovers,
Who can think all they wish,
That they have moved on,
Yet only a sentence,
Or sometimes only a song,
Is enough to rekindle,
All that was lost,
And much is not lost,
For you are still there, and so am I.

But let bygones be bygones,
Let a new rose bloom,
Let us let luck decide its color,
For when the night is blue,
And full of stars,
When we’d be drinking,
To wash away our scars,
We’d probably lie in one another’s arms,
For you are still there, and so am I.

I sit in a dark room, silence all around,
But will you fill it,
With lights and noise?
I hear clamors, yet only in my mind,
And the light through the windows,
Come warily at those times,
When I think of you the most,
And light my lap,
Does that ring a bell?

For now I must stop,
Yet I pray you, come back,
Forget what can yet be forgotten,
And let us turn our lives,
Into a merry affair,
For when all is said and done,
The black rose will still be,
Hidden in a pocket deep somewhere,
Wishing it met another of its kind,
Only a brighter color.

Return – Chapter 8 – Finale

Losses are what make us what we are. A lost cause this was. There could be no good ending to this, not even a satisfactory one. For I had thought of something and it turned out completely different, though in a way it had all been my fault. But so be it. I had learned to cope with myself, with the problems that I created for myself, and then never solved them for I was ever too afraid to face them. As I sat silently at Irtiqa’s grave, someone patted me on my back. I turned around. It was Shaena. I looked at her teary-eyed. She looked at me silently. No words were exchanged. But we did speak. Our silence had given words to thoughts in our minds. And we both knew what the other was thinking. And yet we kept quiet, waiting for the other to start speaking. I knew I should have begun, but somehow I had made up my mind to never strike a conversation by starting it on my own. And so I pretended to be dumb, looking at one’s grave now, while the other stood behind me.

When I turned back to look at her, I was spellbound for a moment. For it was not Shaena who stood, but Irtiqa. And she looked poignantly at me. “Irtiqa,” I gasped for words. But none came. For now was not the time for words. “Do not make a decision in haste,” she said. I asked, “What do you mean?” but by then the moment was gone. The face had now changed. Now stood my mother in front of me. It was as if someone had plotted to show me my entire past through her. “Come back, home,” she whispered. I knew it was a lie, a dream, a manifestation of my wishes and a by-product of my dreams, for the same woman had shut her doors on me only a while back. I rubbed my eyes. It was Shaena again.

“Here’s the key,” she said, “to your home. It’s yours now.”

For a while, I stared blankly at her. Only when it hit me like a rock on the head that I fumbled on the ground. “You do not mean what I understand, right?” I asked. I felt like shouting loud and hitting my head against the ground, but now was not the time for foolishness. “Give speech to tongue,” I shouted, “What do you mean?” She looked at me teary-eyed now. “She said you should come back home. Those were her last words.” And throwing the key at me, she ran across the street and I saw her changing into a silhouette and then only a shadow of the past. No, another death was not something I could handle at this moment. Not now. What had happened of my life? Was this the way it was supposed to end? Hadn’t I better plans when I first started? My head was throbbing now, and I fell to the ground. As the world around me started to fade, there was only one thing I repented about. This return.

…

Return – Chapter 7

Life goes on. It must, and it will. I had already known what the result of my feat would be, and was well aware of the consequences, or at least the end product. So it did not come as a surprise, much like how the breeze blows through trees, making a whisper, but never staying for long. I thought about the day when Irtiqa and I talked about seasons. ‘Autumn is for leaves what spring is for flowers’, she had said. The things were different, the work was the same. God works in mysterious ways, he does the same things to different entities, and yet we love one and don’t like the other; without any reason actually, because we have no reason to like one over the other, or do we? Such silly questions went on in my mind, for now I had nothing to think about, and more importantly, nowhere to go. My family was gone, and Shaena was gone. And Irtiqa, well, she was there, I knew it for sure somewhere deep in my heart, but it couldn’t become of me to look for her and go back to her and tell her all what happened and tell her the truth and that I loved her as much as I had ever loved Shaena, probably more, and that all this was a mistake that I should never have done. I knew already what would have happened. She would smile, as she always did, then go back to her life and leave me to my own. She would never ask me to go away, but somehow she’d keep herself away from me, to the point that her being or not being did not matter to me anymore, and that was okay, for that was exactly what she had wanted to do. And the other people in my life, oh, where were they now? How were they? I had no clue, and yet here I was, in a land far away, with no clue of where I would sleep that night, or who I would talk to, or what I would do, or what I could think. Life was just so.

I walked down to a tavern and the kind lady filled my mug with a fresh draught of wine. I gulped it down and banged the mug on the table. She filled it again. This happened for a couple more times when I realized that I did not really have the money to pay for my drinks. I looked on both sides, and suddenly ran out. I needed to run as fast as my legs would take me, for I had not enough to pay. But the wine made me stagger, and I could not run properly. I fell, bam on the ground, mud on my face, and I lay there. I don’t know how long I lay there, but I was sure I fell asleep. Because I dreamed. Irtiqa came around. She was now sitting beside me bandaging my head. It hurt. I held her hand and she held mine, looking deep into my eyes. And then she hugged me. It was almost as if I had forgot the effect it had on me. I grasped her with both my hands, and I was crying, I knew I was crying, probably wailing loud enough, but I couldn’t hear my voice, and that was when I knew I was dreaming, because Irtiqa, she would never see me again, nor would I. For that I would have to wait unto death. For she was dead.

I wondered how long I would stay alive now. I had no one to go to, no money to spend, I had wasted myself on the last drink, and now I had nothing to do, and the night was still young. There was only one thing I could do, and do that did I. I walked back to the tavern. The old lady looked at me with disgust, then spat on my face. I did not move. I looked at her, and perhaps she noticed my eyes, or maybe she saw through me, saw what my heart felt at that moment. For even so at that moment, a tear dropped simultaneously from both our eyes. I walked up to her, and held my ears as a sign of apology. And I waited for her reaction.

She smiled. Perhaps this return was worth it.

Call of the Mountains – [4]

Read the previous part in Part 3.

[7]

After a long drive that seemed to go on forever, we finally reached Chandratal. Among lush green fields we walked bare-footed, and shouted loud and clear and there was no reply, for there were only us there. We lied down on the grass now, which was slightly moist with last night’s dew, yet it felt refreshing to lie down, the sun’s rays beaming upon my face, a warmth long wished for, and the breeze slowly making its way across the valley, streaming through my hair, I could have fallen asleep and never got up again. A bit later, we walked down towards the lake. On my left was a cirque, going on for miles and miles. On the right loomed high mountains. And in front stood magnificently the Moon Lake. A crescent shaped lake, half of it reflected green of the mountains and the other half reflected the blue of the sky. It was one of the most picturesque moments I have ever had in my life. It was enthralling to imagine that we would be here the entire day, though I had no clue what we would do, since there was absolutely nothing else to do here. We climbed up a hill and walked down a dale, and then we lay flat for a while again. High above in the sky a lark made rounds, persistent enough, yet never swooping down.

Earphones in my ears, the song now playing was ‘Stairway to Heaven’ by Led Zeppelin. The guy said, ‘There’s a lady who’s sure, all that glitters is gold’, and I dreamt of her again. She came ever so frequently in my dreams in this trip. Never had I known that she would overpower my thoughts so much, but there she was again, clinging to my dreams, like a spider to its web. “There’s a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure, ’cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.” As I lay there thinking about the times I had misinterpreted what she said, as she my words, thoughts took shape of reality. It was as if each incident re-enacted itself in my mind, with ever so slightly a change, showing alternate endings. Yet the line that has always gripped me would be, “there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there’s still time to change the road you’re on.” How many times must I change my road? How many times must I switch between the two alternates, never able to see where it takes me, the end forever taking different forms and figures, such that I must always be in darkness, never knowing which path I should have always stuck to.

We started walking back now. Ahead lay our tents, though we had to look for them awhile. The rest of the day went pretty much uneventful. We had a meagre lunch of rice, pulses and some boiled potatoes. I slept for a while but it was too cold. I came out. My friend had gone down to the river beside. I did not feel like going, not even laze about there. I went and sat in the bigger tent, the one which was warm, but only because the guy constantly burned some coal in there. Already I could see the sun hiding behind the clouds. It would rain soon, I thought. No, the guy in the tent replied. It never rains here. Too cold. Only snows. Great, I thought. That was probably the last thing I wanted on this trip. It had been great till now, but now I was a bit frustrated. Probably it was the lack of communication, perhaps it was just sheer homesickness, or perhaps the wind was too cold and my brain had stopped working. The latter seemed the most plausible, because my head was already bursting, as if someone hammered on it from the inside. I was told it was because at this height, oxygen does not reach the brains sufficiently, causing the excruciating pain and also a numbness. Great again, I thought. Exactly what I needed to top my anxieties.

We also met some other travellers out here. A French who had been here for a couple of days now wanted tips whether to go to Kaza or Kalpa. He had started the trip in the opposite direction, and so we knew what he anticipated and he knew where we were going. He was a friendly guy, though he talked really less. He had a map where he had marked all the places he wanted to visit and all those he had already been to. As we sat around the heater warming ourselves and sipping tea in plastic cups, the manager-cum-cook narrated the famous Spitian folklore about Chandratal. The story goes back to more than a hundred years ago, when a lazy shepherd in the village of Rangrik decided to go to Chandratal as he had heard a lot about its beauty. It was far from where he lived and a difficult trek but he thought it would be excellent to escape his wife and her nagging. So he left and walked for many days over mountains and passes. Finally when he was almost worn out he caught sight of the lake. It was indeed beautiful and he was so moved he sat down to play his flute and was soon lost in its music. When he opened his eyes a fairy stood before him. She said, “Hello, Gangrup, I am the Chandra Tal fairy.” She told him how his music drew her to the shores of the lake, and that she had fallen in love with him. She asked him to come and live with her in her kingdom under the lake. “I will love you and keep you happy, if you play your flute for me and love me,” she said. So Gangrup went with her to her underwater kingdom and they were very happy there through summer. Then as winter came the fairy asked Gangrup to go back home. He was unhappy and didn’t want to go as he knew he would miss her. The love he had received was everything for him, and he knew his life would never be the same at home. But she said he would have to go, but he could come back next summer. She would miss him too and await his return. But she warned him not to tell anyone about them else they would never be able to be together again.

Gangrup’s family was overjoyed to see him as they had thought he had perished on the way when he did not return for months. Winter set in and Gangrup drank and slept as always, doing nothing else. One night when he was really drunk his wife was nagging him about some work she wanted done, he turned to her and said: “Shut up woman, don’t nag me else I will go away to the Chandratal fairy. She loves me.” Saying so, he downed his drink and passed out. The next morning he remembered what had happened and started to wail out loud. Everyone was concerned and kept asking him what happened but he just kept weeping. He passed the rest of the winter in mad grief and as soon as summer set in he left for the lake.

When he finally got there he took out his flute and started to play. Soon enough the fairy emerged. She said, “Good bye Gangrup. You’ve broken your promise, and in doing so, my heart.” So saying she left. Gangrup fell to his knees and called after her. A while later she emerged holding a bundle. Gangrup was overjoyed thinking she had forgiven him, but she said “This is our daughter, born of our love. Take her back with you.” Gangrup looked down at his daughter and gasped. She was the ugliest thing he had ever set eyes on, covered in warts and boils and was very ill. He didn’t want to touch her but then filial love won and he took her along. However she died on the way. Broken hearted, Gangrup took her all the way home. His family was stunned when he told them she was his daughter from the Chandratal fairy. He buried her and built a memorial for her in the house. From then on his luck changed and his family became rich. After all, the little girl was also a Nortin (fairy). His line is still alive today though they have moved to a new house (the old house still stands in ruins). They moved the memorial to the new house too and it can be still seen today.

As he finished narrating the folklore, the cook slowly stood up, and now we went back to our tents to sleep. The night was cold. Minus five degrees was the temperature and we were almost freezing. My head was pounding ever more and to sleep was very difficult. Still somehow we snatched a few hours of sleep for tomorrow our going would be tougher. When I woke up next, it was early in the morning and the clock had just struck four. We packed our bags and got ready to leave. We were going to have a long day ahead, and hopefully we would reach home if we could somehow make good time. But our journey had not seen its end, and more places lay ahead before we’d finally sleep comfortably on our beds.

[8]

We started our descent now. The road was bad, and our car moved slowly. At many places we had to get out and push the car so that it reached level ground. At many places, the waterfalls intersected the roads, and being early morning, we stepped over ice-flakes made by the waterfalls. My socks were wet, and I had to remove them, and they instantaneously became numb because of the cold. After a long while, we finally came to the intersection of the Chandratal route with the Kaza-Keylong route. Here we took a U-turn just before the Kunzum pass. Our next destination – Lahaul Valley.

Across the Lahaul Valley we sped, though the road was still stony and the going was nonetheless difficult. It would be so until the next mountain pass, after which the road would get better. Lahaul is greener than Spiti, and a bit more populated. Now and then we spotted travellers. These travellers usually preferred cycling on these routes, and all of them either had high-tech bicycles or heavy motorbikes. After a couple of hours or more, we finally reached the Rohtang Pass. The road would be better here onwards, they said. I could hardly have wished for anything else in the world. Rohtang actually means a pile of corpses in the local language, and the name was so given due to the number of people dying in bad weather trying to cross the pass. The pass provides a natural divide between the humid Kullu Valley with a primarily Hindu culture (in the south), and the arid high-altitude Lahaul and Spiti valleys with a Buddhist culture (in the north). The pass lies on the watershed between the Chenab and Beas basins. We had now left the Sutlej in its course and had joined to follow the course of the Beas. It is said that the Mahabharata, a great Indian epic, was written on the banks of the Beas river. A diversion of the road takes one to Leh, though that was not the road that any of us save one really sought to pursue. And pursue it we didn’t. We would now make our way down to Manali, pass through Kulu and finally cross Chandigarh on our way back home to Delhi.

At Manali, we stopped finally, because no more could we stay hungry. Nestled in the Beas River Valley, which had followed us all the way from the Rohtang, this small town is the beginning of an ancient trade route to Ladakh and from there over the Karakoram Pass on to Yarkand and Khotan in the Tarim Basin. Once we were full and I had got back into the car, instantaneously I fell asleep. The journey had been tiring and we were ever so close to the end, and yet my eyes would not stay open for it had now not rested for over a day. I slept and dreams clouded my mind. I was now in a shackle, legs and hands tied. A hookah lay in front of me, but it appeared to have been used up long ago; the coal was not burning anymore. I looked up to see a small window, which allowed a tiny amount of light to come in, but only enough that I could see the walls of my room. It was a tiny one, the walls of broken cement, and the floor was only dust. I tried to stand up, but the weight of the cuffs held me down. I appeared to be hungry, and there was some food in a plate beside, but flies hovered on it, it seemed the plate had been here for a long time. I tried dozing off, but sleep would not come. I heard shouts outside, some ceremony was being held, or maybe a battle-cry? I did not know what it was, for I had no idea where I was. Then I heard the sounds of my door opening. Looking up, I saw his face. It was him. All these years I had been looking for him, and here he was. So he wasn’t dead after all. In this strange country, I finally found him again. “Where are we?” I asked him. “Hell,” he said. I smiled. The years had turned his sense of humor to a sour satirical one. The day was growing old now, and we sat inside the cell. He had brought some pieces of coal, and we smoked the hookah until we were both very high. I knew he was dead, I saw him dying, seven years ago it was, but he was here, maybe I was dreaming? I pinched myself and it did not hurt, so I knew I was. But I could not get out of the dream. My eyes would not open. What kind of sorcery was this? I asked him, and he only smiled. “You’ve been defeated,” he said. “You have been defeated, my friend”. I did not understand, and he did not want to explain, so I just let it be. Then the doors opened again and two soldiers came in. Now they held me tight, and asked me how I came here. I told them I did not know, and one of them held me tight and started shaking me with all his might. Bam, the dream was gone. I was awake now, and we had crossed Kulu already.

The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful, we stopped once for tea, and another time for dinner. It was late night when we finally reached Chandigarh. Here we changed our cab, and hailed one for Delhi. Home would be a reality soon. Only yesterday it seemed a distant possibility. It was four in the morning when I finally reached home. I laid eyes on my precious. It had been waiting all this while for me. I jumped upon it, my precious bed. For years now, I would remember this trip. Sometimes moments are created when you least expect them to. I honestly had far lesser expectations from this trip than what it provided. The walk-man was playing ‘Leaving on a Jet-plane’ now, and I welcomed the lullaby as I dozed off to sleep.

Well that was all about my trip. I did overshoot the length I had thought I would limit it to, but sometimes less is not enough. I will be back with more posts soon, and till then, keep reading! Bye.

Call of the Mountains – [3]

Read the previous part in Part 2.

[5]

Kaza. Temperature 10 degrees. From mountains we had now descended to plain valleys, though we would go through mountains again soon, but for now the day was growing old and we needed to rest, for sleepy and tired we were and much in need of food. Kaza is the biggest settlement you’ll encounter in this empty corner of the planet. At a height of 3650 meters (11980 feet), this is the largest township and commercial center of the valley. Kaza is beautiful. I really do not have any other word for it, because it is just that. Beautiful. It feels a bit like a small frontier town with an easygoing pace. Jagged mountains rise on either side while the river coils across the valley floor like twisted locks of Medusa’s hair. The colourful new Sakya Gompa stands just above the main road in New Kaza (south of the Kaza Nullah), while the ramshackle bazaar and whitewashed buildings of Old Kaza spread out on the north side of the stream. We stayed here overnight, at a half-hotel half-home, and the manager was the chef as well, allowing us to have proper food after a very long time. Dinner consisted of chapatis (unleavened flatbreads), as well as pulses, chicken and some vegetables. We almost welcomed it akin to a feast. After a sumptuous dinner that seemed to go on forever, we finally retired to our rooms, to make plans for the next day.

Here we were divided. We had two options to pursue with. While three of us wished for one of them, the other three wanted to continue with the opposite option. The first option was this. We had come all the way from Shimla to Kalpa to Kaza, and we could retrace our paths and go back home. This seemed viable, because now we knew the way and though the road wasn’t much of a road as it was a muddy lane, we could still make-do with it. The other option was to complete a full circle, that is, go along straight and come out through Chandigarh. This road was mostly much better than the first option, but for several hours in the beginning, the path was going to be unbearable, with stones and rocks and waterfalls crossing through our paths. It would be difficult to pursue, but again it would take lesser time than its opponent. And therefore we were now divided in our opinion.

After hours of discussion and coaxing each other, we finally decided to continue with the second option. So tomorrow we would leave Kaza and move north ahead and we would spend a day at Chandratal, after which we would continue our trip back home. After gulping down a cup of hot tea, I made my way back inside my blankets. I had called up home in between, after almost a day. It is reassuring to see how much our parents care for us. Though this is really personal, I thought I should share it out here. My mother was so tensed for the fact that I had not called her up, because she did not know I was out of network, so she just assumed something horrible could have had happened with me. When I finally got a chance to call her up from the phone of the hotel’s manager, she burst into tears. It took me a while to get her back on her nerves, but that was one moment I realized how much really they love us, albeit the fact that they do not really try much hard elsewise to profess it, and do not frequently show enough gestures, so that we take them for granted, but then these small things happen, and the love comes oozing out, much like water out of a nozzle that has been kept pressed for long. I did not realize when I fell asleep.

I was again amongst my school friends. We were walking up a hill. The grass was tall, almost of our height, so that we could hide amongst them. But we held hands, lest we got lost. The going was tough, the incline was rough. The sun glimmered through the grass. When we finally reached the top of the hill, we saw a couple of dwarves hanging out. They had a barbeque in front of them, and were eating huge chunks of chicken with both their hands, smacking their lips, for the pieces were so huge the sauce splattered on their faces as well. They wore strange hats, huge and conical towards the top. One of them kept his beard in a strange fashion, tying it up under his chin, so that it looked almost as if it were an elephant’s tail. The other had no beard, but the left half of his face had a painting, more like a tattoo, which was an intricate design showing a dwarf fighting against a mammoth. Now we came close to them and they looked up towards us and smiled. We smiled back at them. They invited us to sit and have some food. But we had only taken a step forward when suddenly their faces went white; they looked aghast. Suddenly there was a bright streak followed by a roaring thunder. The fire went out. Looking behind me, I saw a huge falcon now making its way towards me. I ducked in time, and the falcon’s claws thrust into the first dwarf. Now it bled profusely, and the other dwarf looked at us and spat, clearly angry. And then he stood. Out of the blue, he started growing. Now he was a man. Now a giant. Now he loomed over all of us, his shadow covering miles. He raised his foot. One step forward and we would all be under his feet. As his foot came trampling down on the ground, my eyes opened. It was morning. The night had faded out and the sun was now gleaming on the mountains of Kaza. It was time to make our next move.

[6]

Early in the morning it was and it was a Saturday when we left for the last segment of our trip. Soon this would all be over. Soon we would be back home and these drives would be etched in memory forever. But for now, it was not the end that made me emotional, but the scenery around. The vegetation had grown scanty again, and very stony was the road too. Atop a hill to the east stood the Key Monastery. Called Kye Gompa by the local people, this 11th century creation stands at an altitude of 4166 meters (13668 feet). Though this monastery has been attacked time and again, by the Mongols and by the Dogras and by the Sikhs as well, it still stands proudly. The walls of the monastery are covered with paintings and murals, an example of the 14th century monastic architecture, which developed as the result of Chinese influence. Key monastery has a collection of ancient murals and books, including Buddha images. But running out of time we were, and so we turned west, towards our destination.

We now crossed the village of Rangrik, a scantily populated village but beautiful all the same. I pulled down the windows a bit, to feel the fresh morning air muffled by the scent of autumn. A huge twenty-five feet statue of Lord Buddha overlooked us. Now I saw men-in-arms slowly creeping out from behind the statue. I rubbed my eyes. They had all vanished. Perhaps it was just a figment of my imagination. A couple of people here and there, who smiled gleefully at all the passers-by, but other than that, the village was pretty scarcely populated. We had now reached the outskirts of the city. In a while, I would be seeing my first mountain-pass ever. We were coming close and I was excited about it. Above us loomed lofty mountains. And somewhere in between hid the Kunzum Pass.

We had still time to reach the eastern Kunzum Range of the Himalayas. Already I was hungry, but these roads weren’t ones where one could find a morsel to chew. I sat back for a while, listening to songs, introspecting how much this journey has had an effect on me. For one thing I was sure of, that I had become more patient and tolerant than I was a couple of days back. And the other thing I knew was that I had made some good friends. Sometimes, you do not realize the value of people who are around you, unless they are the only ones who are there. Though there hardly was a chance of us not surviving this trip and getting back safely, just in case we met with a landslide or an accident or anything, they would be the last faces I’d see in my life. And that thought was a mixture of comfort and anguish, of solace and grief. This was a new experience, one I had never felt before; probably would never feel again as well, well, unless I undertook another trip like this which had so much to give back yet in such a short while. Looking out into the skies, loomed with lofty mountains, some covered in ice, some in grass, some only rocks, some jet-black while others had a muddy tint to them, some shining, some silent and overwhelming, there were so many kinds of them, all crammed up in this small uninhabited corner of the world. Perhaps the best things are the most difficult to find, and perhaps we can never know what all good things exist unless we really try hard to find them, and it held true for stuff deep within our hearts too, but now was not the time to think about hearts and emotions, because I did not want to get upset in the midst of such a blissful day. We were now driving at a pretty slow pace, because the road did not allow much speed, and if we sped, our heads bumped against the roof of the car. But soon enough we would reach the Kunzum.

Kunzum Pass. Separating Spiti and Lahaul valleys, it is situated at a higher altitude than Rohtang Pass, which is at an elevation of 13,054 ft and also serves as another gateway to Lahaul and Spiti. Kunzum Pass offers spectacular views of Bara-Sigri, the second longest glacier in the world.  Also visible from the top of the pass are the Chandra-Bhaga mountain and Spiti valley. The presence of chortens and prayer flags signify a strong Buddhist influence in the area. Also popular, is the Kunzum Devi Temple where all vehicles must stop to pay respects to the goddess. And so did we stop. We now saw the Chandra-Bhaga mountain, in the cradle of which lied our destination for the day, Chandra-tal. We met another band of tourists, who were headed towards Spiti. A group of youngsters out on a road-trip. Perhaps we should have made this trip back when we were in college. But then I had no idea of such a place. And even if I had, it would be too far. The pass was serene. On the other side lay the Lahaul valley, but we would not be going there until tomorrow. For now, we needed to keep pace, and reach Chandratal on time. Our driver had finished his prayers to Kunzum Devi, and we now sped forward towards Losar, where we would stop to have breakfast, for now we were all desperately in need for food. We sped now. The road was easy-going and our car was making good time. In a short while, the vegetation increased, as did the population and we knew we were about to reach inhabited grounds again. The Losar village is located adjacent to the Indo Chinese border, and lays claim to being the last habitable land before one crosses over to China. Much similar to Ladakh in appearance, the cold desert offers its visitors magnificent views, mountains draped in multiple colours, and breath-taking vistas, with the beauty of the place almost unparalleled anywhere else. We stopped here for a while and had a meagre breakfast, which was all that they could offer, but even so I was happy for after many hours my stomach finally heaved a sigh of relief. And then we happily chirped our way ahead, talking a lot, singing songs and eagerly looking forward to reach the Moon Lake as soon as possible.

Read the final part in Part 4.

Call of the Mountains – [2]

Read the previous part in Part 1.

[3]

That night I dreamed I was lying in darkness with nothing around me. Far and wide I could see nothing, and I was somewhere on the ground under the naked skies. I could see a few stars but there was no moon. The stars shone brightly, but one by one they started fading. An eagle flew right above my head, and its eyes were fixed on me, much as if it wanted to carry me with it to its nest. Its claws now fastened grip upon my feet, and in a moment I was flying high. I shouted for help, but there was no one around, and suddenly we rolled and now I was sitting on the eagle’s back. It was swooping down into the river. I would be drowned I knew. I frantically tried to loosen its clutch, shouting for help all the while. That was when my eyes opened. The night was old when I woke up. The sky was grey and in a while a sun would be up behind the hills, turning them from grey to orange. We needed to make haste. Packing our bags, we left the guest house even as the sun glared in red. It was morning already.

Now we climbed down the mountains, the car toiling its way slowly through the rugged terrain. Having overslept in the car yesterday, I wanted to stay up to see the road that led to Peo. And saw it I. Huge mountains on both sides, with tracks cut into them so that only two vehicles could cross at a time. We were climbing down a huge mountain, rocky and stony, and there was no sign of vegetation for miles and miles. No trees, not even a shrub, and hence no birds in the sky. Beside a twin mountain loomed high into the skies, same terrain, only rocks. Now we saw deep trenches in the mountains, which were made for mining; they were closed now, but would open up soon in the afternoon. The road was stony, and it was not a proper road. There were no proper roads at this height, because they would never be completed before the winter, and when the ice came down with all its might, covering the mountains from top to below with a sheet of white, like the shroud on a corpse, the roads would vanish deep into it and never come out, so that in the spring the local people would dig into the mountains once again, cutting roads for their convenience. The local people around here who were responsible for this styled themselves by calling them ‘BRO’, though it was only an abbreviation of ‘Border Roads Organization’.

The twin mountain which had been parallel for some time now started converging. In a while we would be shifting to that mountain, taking almost a U-turn in the beginning, but then moving on left towards our next destination. We had finished our climb-down from this mountain, and now we were to climb the other to reach at the top of it. Once there, we would cut into a valley, our next destination, Spiti Valley. But before that we had miles to cover, and we would be crossing the Hangrang Valley, with the famous Nako lake.

The sun was almost directly above us by the time we reached Nako. At an elevation of 3662 meters, the Nako lake is surrounded by willows and poplar trees. We stopped here for a while, for now we wanted to trek. After spending some time at the lake, which was serene and blue, and we saw birds, after a long while, and the water was cold, stark cold, yet it was refreshing and reminded me of years past by at another lake where I had been with other people, and she was there… oh how I wished I was back with her and that she was here, how I wish things had not been the way they were, but now was not the time to ponder over the past, for what lay before me was the prettiest lake I had ever seen so far. We climbed up a nearby hill, it was stony, but had turfs of grass; it reminded us that we were at a much lower altitude now. Now we were hungry, we hadn’t had a morsel to chew or bite since we woke up, and so we stopped by a nearby hut. It was a hotel to be precise, but it had only one table, and a small kitchen where a boy who knew how to cook only small things sat. We had rice and dal, the simplest of all foods possible. There was no other option. Fancy things were not available at such places. So we must needs make-do with whatever we could lay our hands on. After a lunch that seemed to go on forever, we finally got up and made preparations to move ahead. Already it was past afternoon. Our next stop would be at Spiti.

[4]

I was walking through a cave. The road was stony, and I was barefooted, such that the stones pricked my underfoot. The path was narrow and even so it was lined in the middle with molten coal, all black. I was walking through a mine. After what seemed hours of walking I finally saw a streak of light. The cave was coming to an end. I scampered towards the light. Now I stood at the brink of the world. Far far below me a river meandered across a stony bed. I could never reach there, it was too low. I slowly spread both my hands, even as a bird spreads her wings before its flight. As I closed my eyes, I could feel the sun heating up my eyes and small shapes walking about in my eyes. And then the push came. Before I could see who it was, I was falling down, down into the chasms. I knew that touch; I recognized it from caresses long back, but why would she push me? Now I opened my eyes, and the river was still far. I could see crows flying below me, but in a while I would be much closer to ground. Now I sped, the acceleration was taking effect. I sped towards the ground and even so, a hand came out of the river, grasping me and pulling me towards it. I tried to break free, but the grip was too strong, and now it held my shoulder, and I was shaking, shaking in trepidation, and then suddenly there was a jerk, and I woke up. Bad dream. Our car had come to a halt. We had entered the Spiti Valley.

The Spiti Valley is a desert mountain valley located high in the Himalaya mountains in the north-eastern part of the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh. The name “Spiti” means “The Middle Land”, i.e. the land between Tibet and India. The valley and surrounding region is one of the least populated regions in India and is the gateway to the northernmost reaches of the nation. After travelling for hours, we finally reached level ground. Here the road became wider, though not yet proper, and a vast expanse of green meadows stood in front of us. It almost felt as if I was in a scenery from Heidi where she stood at the foot of the Alps. The air smelled fresh, and it was growing colder. Now we came across small villages, with populations varying from fifteen to twenty. I wonder where they send the children to study, or what they do for a livelihood. In all the roads that I travelled, never once did I come across any school. I opened the window to feel the breeze, and the dust raked up by the rear tyres gushed in with it, and I realized I shouldn’t have opened it in the first place. We were now driving through the Spiti Valley, one of the most picturesque valleys in India. I spotted yaks in a field which was greener than any I had ever seen. Ahead, the Spiti river (which would later become the Sutlej) shone a deep blue. Deeper than the sky. It was almost as if a waterfall of indigo rushed into the river from the top of the mountains. We walked up to the riverside now. Spiti River originates from Kunzum Range, which is located at a height of 16,000 ft above sea level. The side scene of this river is absolutely perfect for cinematography and spectacular scenery. A number of Indian movies have been shot at by this riverside. The silence of this river deeply describes Buddhist culture and monasteries.

Sometimes, silence is all one needs. The water was cold, and I dipped my hand in it, waving it slowly forward and then back, seeing the ripples, and my face I saw clearly in it, the water was so transparent, and so clear; and so beautiful it was, and the stones below, as if there were no water, but only a thin blue film protecting them. My thoughts wandered back to what seemed like an entirely different life. Now I saw her, dancing upon the rocks in front, but she was only a mirage, yes, I knew that. But she smiled at me, the same old smile, and raised her arms forward, suggesting me to come over and hug her. But I knew, it was only a mirage. For she was thousands of miles away, thousands, and no matter what happened I could not meet her. Not now. Not soon. I looked at my phone. It had been two days since I was last in network. Cut off from the rest of the world, I realized that this life is not really that bad. Sometimes, disconnection is all one needs. Disconnected from the world, one can reflect on himself. Even if I had tried I could not get back in touch with my family or friends. What then was the use of such advanced technology and communication systems when they were in fact not even accessible everywhere? And tragic more was the realization that I in fact liked the absence of the technology. Sometimes, silence is all one needs.

Sitting there in silence, talking once a while, minds meditating, all I could think of was one thing. Sometimes happiness and peace trigger certain other emotions, and the cycle continues until the mind runs into a particular memory with which it feels most at home. That was exactly what happened with me. At this point, let me introduce to you my accomplices in this journey. We were six of us, the mad one, the stupid one, the neutral, the photographer, the lover, and me. While I will talk about them much more later, there was one thing I had realized in this duration. We can never learn enough about anyone. I saw the adventurer in them, the desire to travel, the desire to seek more, the wish to encompass the world, the will to do anything required in order to achieve their desires. We talked about things wild and things undiscovered, we talked about wishes unfulfilled and dreams that we chased, we talked about our sorrows and what made us happy and when we were done talking, we got back into our cars, for now the sun was almost about to start its course behind the mountains, and the stars would soon be busy with their work, lighting up the skies with almost an equal brightness, as if they wished to compete with the sun, and were almost tired of losing to it. An exhilarating happiness ran through me, and I shouted loud and clear. And the mountains echoed. Now the engines made a rum-dum, and we started moving through mountains again, at some points the crevices allowed sunlight to pass through as if a thin ray was all that remained of the sun, and at some points the mountains were so cut that they were both atop our heads and below our feet. Thus we began our trip to Kaza, the headquarters of Spiti.

Read the next part in Part 3.

Call of the Mountains – [1]

[1]

No man ever steps in the same river twice, for he is not the same man and it is not the same river. Of late, I have come to believe in the verity of this statement. Experiences make us what we are, as what we are not. So it is that I have decided to talk about my newest experience in this post. My travel to the mountains. And beyond. This post is a conglomeration of things that have happened over two weekends, and therefore might seem a bit disorganized here and there, but I will try to end up by joining all the strings together so that you can fall in love with my journey as much as I did.

Let me first tell you about my trip. I undertook two trips on consecutive weekends, the last weekend of September and the first weekend of October. The two trips were as different as they could be from one another, and the kind of experiences that I have gained during this period is one that I am going to carry in my memories for a lifetime. The first weekend was not any different from a normal family trip. We went out to a hill station nearby called Mussoorie, drove across mountains, went to monasteries and waterfalls and stayed at a hotel relaxing for most of the time. It was a classical family trip, the main motive of which was not really to visit a place but to sneak out of our home and snug ourselves at a cozy place. This hill station, situated in the foothills of the Garhwal Himalayan ranges, is also known as the Queen of the Hills. Being at an average altitude of 1880 meters (6170 ft), Mussoorie, with its green hills and varied flora and fauna, is a fascinating hill resort. Commanding snow ranges to the north-east, and glittering views of the Doon Valley and Shiwalik ranges in the south, the town was once said to present a ‘fairyland’ atmosphere to tourists. The highest point is Lal Tibba with a height of over 3000 meters (9800 ft). Well yes, some of the information here is from the internet, but that is just so you know a bit more than the fact that I really enjoyed my trip out there though we hardly did anything out of the blue.

There are a lot of places in Mussoorie and the area around that are worth visiting. For one, it houses the oldest church in the Himalayas, St Mary’s. A majority of the population at the outskirts of the city are Tibetan, and one can find a blend of Tibetan culture in the growing tourism industry out there, with Tibetan temples cited as top tourist spots. Special schools exist solely for teaching Tibetan children. 13 kilometers from Mussoorie is also the famous Kempty falls which is nearly 1364 meters above sea level. Our road-trip to Kempty Falls was quiet and serene. Seldom we found a car that came from the opposite direction, and the hills and trees around gave a sense of closure, such that it seemed we were hidden from the world.

On our way back, we stopped at the Robber’s Cave. Robber’s Cave (locally known as Guchhupani) is a river cave formation located approximately 8 km from the centre of Dehradun City. The cave is about 600 metres long, divided into two main parts. The cave has a highest fall of about 10 meters. In the central part there is a fort wall structure which is now broken. It consists of an extremely narrow gorge formed in a conglomerate limestone area on Doon Valley’s Dehra plateau. It is a natural cave formation where rivers flows inside the cave. We waddled ourselves through the water, reaching to the innermost point of the cave. People were taking showers in the waterfalls. Outside the cave, there was a river café, where the tables and all were placed on the stones in the river. It was an exciting visit, one that will stay in my memories for long.

Though the main bulk of the trip extended for only little more than two days, it was a really fun trip. We got back home safely, but this was only the beginning for me. I started preparing eagerly for next weekend, which would, as I later realized, be the best trip of my life.

[2]

Fast forward one week. If the excitement I reached last week was at level 1, I would notch it up to level 20 for this week. This trip has by far been one of the best trips in my life. We went on a road-trip to the yet unurbanized areas of Himachal Pradesh. We travelled overnight from Delhi to Shimla on a Wednesday, and reached Shimla early morning next day. We then hired a car and drove from Shimla, the capital of the state, to Narkanda. We didn’t halt there, because we had better and bigger plans and needed to execute them. Moving ahead through hilly roads, with mountains on both sides, and the cold air lapping through our hair, the six of us might have had different perspectives and different memories, different attachments with what happened around us, yet there was a common string between all of us – peacefulness. We moved ahead to Rampur, a small city on the highway. Once upon a time, it was one of the largest hill states during the British rule, now a small part of Himachal. We stood at the porch of a hotel, at a height of 4429 feet, the Sutlej running below, the sun now glimmering across and the green hills serving as bodyguards to the white mountains far behind. Getting back into the car, we sped for our next destination.

Sarahan. We had driven a 170 kilometers since we started in the morning. We needed to rest. The sun was now high up in the sky, glaring down with its heat. But at a height of 2313 meters (7589 feet), the heat was hardly the problem. It was cool, a breeze blowing at a moderate speed. The cold climate is suitable for apple crops, and we found loads of apple gardens all through our way. Now at the top of Sarahan, we had come to see the very famous Bhimakali temple, dedicated to the mother goddess Bhimakali. Down below at a distance of seven kilometers, the Sutlej made its way silently to the south. According to a legend, the manifestation of the goddess is reported to the Daksha-Yajna incident when the ear of the Sati fell at this place and became a place of worship as a Pitha – Sthan. Presently in the form of a virgin the icon of this eternal goddess is consecrated at the top storey of the new building. Below that storey the goddess as Parvati, the daughter of Himalaya is enshrined as a divine consort of Lord Shiva. The temple complex is huge and an eerie silence encumbered it. It was almost as if we had been transported to another century sometime far behind, where the world was still lush green and where the birds still ruled the skies. Now we felt insatiably hungry, having had only morsels of biscuits in the morning. We stopped by, and ate until our bellies could store no more. And then we moved ahead.

Tuning out the voices of people around, I turned up the volume of my walk-man. Songs. The terrific thing about songs is that it can take you down memory lane in the strangest ways possible. The song that was playing now was ‘Khamaj’, taking me six years back when a friend of mine had first suggested that song to me. And then it all came back in a rush, all the memories, all the people, everyone, friends, classmates, phones, texting, coaching classes, love, stupidity, embarrassment, the night I had asked her out, the drama, the silence, fast forward, the night she asked me out, rewind, the stuff that happened in between, everything in a gush and then all blacked out. The song changed. Now my thoughts transported back to college. I realized that I have made so many friends, and have unmade so many of them, that I really do not know what I have been doing all this while. Do I really care about the people that I have right now? Will they also fade away, like the pages of a novel, never read again once the novel is done with? I had once thought about writing a novel, and had also sketched out a plan, but then what happened? I don’t remember, but I couldn’t ever get down to really writing it. Such is my life. Plans and plans and yet nothing comes out on execution. Wasteful it is, and I needed to fix it, as soon as possible. I made a mental note to start with the novel once I got back home. But that was far, and now ahead lay many miles to cover. In my mind, ‘Five Hundred Miles’ hummed on its own, and I didn’t try to block it out. Someone was saying something, but it was so much soothing to not listen to anyone, to not pretend I was listening, to just close your eyes and take a walk down memory lane, that I did not even try to open my eyes.

It was afternoon when we left. We were moving higher now, into the Kinnaur district. We were to next halt at Rekong Peo, the headquarter of the Kinnaur district. But we had time still, and it was far up, another 90 kilometers. I decided to take a nap, for my eyelids were heavy and in dire need for sleep. I did not realize when I fell asleep, but when I woke up, we had covered a good distance. Our driver was an experienced one, and he had made good time, even for the road which was on such rough a terrain. But it was still smooth, compared to what was to come later in our journey. But let me not move ahead of time, and we will cross the river when we come to it, but for now, I realized we had already crossed Peo, and were on our way to Kalpa. Kalpa is a small town in the Sutlej river valley, above Recong Peo, among apple orchards, pine-nut forests and the stately cedars. It is located at the base of the Kinnaur Kailash snow-capped ranges. The Shivling peaks rise up to 20,000 feet (6,000 m). I later came face to face with the peak as our guest house had a perfect location, situated right across the Kinnaur, with a direct view of the mountain. We saw its hue change from white to red and then to black with silvered ice tipping its peak, as we dozed off to sleep, and witnessed it growing back from silver to red in the morning as we woke before the morning sun could rise in the east behind us. Once we crashed on our beds that night, it was as if the air around had been sprinkled with a scent that could induce anyone to sleep. It was a comfortable night, and we huddled in small beds, sleeping under quilts. Hardly did we know that this would be one of the last such nights that would be this comfortable. But for now, our minds were clear, we had had a sumptuous feast for dinner, starters followed by a main course, and music blaring in our rooms, and for a while we tried to keep ourselves awake, but to no avail. Sleep came in like a monster at night. And that was how our first day had come to an end.

Read the next part in Part 2.