Saturday, December 7, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Shimla And Nearabouts.
Last week (wrote this in May 2010) I drove to Shimla along with wife and kid. Had a fine time really. The plan was to leave home in Ghaziabad at 4.00 am sharp, as I didn't want to get caught in traffic which builds up on the highway during the day. We decided to retire for the night early, so that one could (especially me the driver) get some rest ahead of the long drive.
Well that was the idea, until a phone call from my sister-in-law to my wife at 10 pm enquiring about the trip shook me out of my just- about- to- fall-asleep stage, to never be able to fall asleep again. Ditto for wifey. Instead of tossing and turning in bed for a few hours of elusive sleep, we decided to leave earlier than planned. So we woke up our sleeping 9 year old son, and took out the car and pointed it in the direction of Shimla and left home at 2:45 am.
NH 1 is a pretty good road and I basically focused on the black strip of asphalt rapidly advancing towards my car wheels, and ensured that my speed stayed between 80 and 90 kms per hour. There were a few other cars headed in a similar direction doing roughly the same kind of speeds. It was all very comfortable, and my only worry was that I should not at all feel drowsy- something I accomplished quite easily by the sheer weight of responsibility-wife and kids' lives in my hands kind of pressure. Sonny boy was asleep for most part of the drive during the night, wifey bravely stayed awake for a couple of hours before dozing off to sweet slumber on the seat beside me. Soon it was Beatles on the car stereo, NH1 and me. Towns came and went(the by- passes let you escape the innards of the towns-Sonepat, Panipat, Karnal, Kurukshetra and Ambala from where one branched off to NH22 and the road to Zirakpur and Kalka.
By the time it was about 8.30 in the morning we were in Kalka and beginning to climb. Everyone was fully awake now, and we were taking in the noisy, narrow and ramshackle lanes of Kalka town even while climbing all the time. Soon it was genuine hill territory and we kept on climbing steep mountain sides with wifey and kid growing more and more alarmed. Shortly afterwards we were going downhill towards the town of Solan, famous for its brewery and mushrooms I think. I made a mental note to buy some mushrooms on the way back home.
Any ways it was climbing time once again, and I was busy doing what I love the most, driving in the high Himalayas through pine, deodar, rhododendron and oak country-nothing in the world can match that. The sky was a deep blue, I could hear the piercing cry of mountain birds and the change in altitude made my ears get blocked.
We stopped at Dharampur for the mandatory breakfast of aloo ka parantha and sweet tea, and resumed the journey fully refreshed. The rest of the drive up was again through spectacular terrain; thoroughly enjoyable except for the fact that every ten minutes a truck, or a humongous Volvo bus the size of a Jumbo Jet, or other assorted large vehicles would come down from the opposite direction in what appeared like subsonic speed.
They would proceed to hurtle wildly towards you and exactly at the moment of passing by, tip the body of their vehicle dangerously close to that of yours (like one might tip a hat to a lady). Just when you thought that you would be pushed 2000 feet down hill they would swerve away.
My wife shrieked every time that happened (I swore loudly a couple of times myself and by the time we reached the outskirts of the town, wifey was seriously contemplating taking the plane for the return journey!
Pilgrims' Progress
I go to the mountains for several reasons. For the scenery, for the fresh air, for the colonial ambiance of some of the hill towns and even for the quaint bakery shops and tea stalls that abound in such places.Very rarely is it for pilgrimage. But this time it was different. I, wifey and kid were to pay obeisance at the shrine of Vaishno Devi, some five thousand feet above sea level. It was going to be a 12 kilometer trek uphill and back. I knew that it would probably be harrowing for my city bred 10 year old son, but I was sanguine that it would not be that tough for my wife and myself. Especially myself, as I remembered not finding the Dehradun-Mussoorie trek, which was roughly the same distance all that taxing, even as a boy.
So we set off from our hotel in Katra town in a three-wheeler that took us to the point, from where the trek started. Right at the start we had to pass through the first of many security checks- a sad necessity in these troubled times. The path ahead went through a scraggy and rocky terrain bereft of a thick foliage. On both sides were innumerable stalls and shops hawking everything from prodigious quantities of walnuts to pooja samigri to of course the ubiquitous T-Series outlets selling devotional CDs-thanks to the pioneering efforts of the late Gulshan Kumar who single handedly changed the face of Indian entertainment industry and reverentially attributed his phenomenal success to the Goddess Vaishno Devi's blessings.
I bought a rough wooden staff for my son for ten rupees, which he for most part of the trek waved in the air, rather than use it as a walking stick. I had to reprimand him a couple of times, when he very nearly took out the eye of one or two of our fellow pilgrims! It was an arduous climb up, the effects of which soon became apparent, especially on the little one who began to plead for rest every five or six minutes. We obliged him almost every time for we realised how tough it must be for him. Regular recourse to potato chips, and fruit juices in tetra packs had to be resorted to with unfailing regularity to keep his flagging spirits up. On our right flowed the Ban Ganga river in the ravine below. It probably originates in a mountain spring if not in the snowy regions on top of the nearby mountains.
The track was pretty well delineated, and though it was early March there was a fair number of pilgrims making their way up. There were youngsters, newly married couples, very old people being carried up in palanquins each one of which rested on the shoulders of four runners each, families with small children in tow, and small babies strapped to the chests of their fathers. Then there were the wanna be cowboys scurrying up the trail at break-neck speed on what they thought were horses, but were actually mules( a cross between the horse and the donkey known for its sturdiness and load bearing capacity). People would hire these and hang on for dear life as they galloped up the mountain side, while the owners or keepers of these animals tried to rein them in by tugging at their tails. None of the riders had any experience with riding horses of course, and had no clue about the mortal danger they were in. The pedestrians had to get out of the way anyhow jumping over drains, mule dung or sometimes another pilgrims foot. I remember having to wash off the spittle that a mule who had brushed its mouth on my jacket left behind, while careening past.
Up we continued to walk along with all the other devotees who were carrying red pennants, their foreheads sporting the red mata ki chuni, as they rent the air with jai mata di, zor se bolo, sare bolo, main ne suniya, singh savari, jai mata di! Everyone joined in with gusto as it lifted your spirits immensely. It was akin to the wave of enthusiasm that would probably engulf spectators at a foot ball game on effecting a Mexican wave. Soon junior was nearly at the end of his tether and we decided to let him ride a mule till Adkunwari which was a little more than the mid way mark. Now he was the proud cowboy for a little while.
At Ardkunwari we had an insipid lunch of rajma chawal and after a short rest it was back to trudging up the mountain side. Soon we were on the new track about a kilometer shorter than the traditonal one. It had been hewn out of sheer mountain face and was covered with thick chir-pine foliage. This created an ethereal and sometimes eerie shadow on the path ahead with the occasionally strong breeze beginning to make us feel quite cold. Every now and then we would come across retaining walls built to stabilize land -slide prone walls of the mountains. Sometimes there would be warning signs painted on them to caution people to keep moving and stay out of harm's way. And these were exactly the spots where noisy Neanderthals from the plains would scramble up these precarious walls and have their mates photograph them in all their moronic bravado.
We were really tired now and eagerly looked ahead in the distance in the hope of sighting the Bhawan the hallowed building that housed the sanctum sanctorum. From a distance we could see choppers approach our hill every minute or so- it was the last few flights of the day, ferrying those pilgrims who had been lucky enough to get seats on them on the booked for months route. Occasionally we would come across the rare electric three wheeler ostensibly meant to carry the handicapped and ailing. We would glance at them enviously hoping that they wouldn't mind carrying two very tired adults and one exhausted child pilgrims to the gates of the shrine. They didn't oblige of course though I daresay their passengers did not look the slightest bit incapacitated!
Absolutely exhausted and dishevelled we reached the portals of Vaishno Devi shrine at about 8 pm, only to be informed that the shrine would temporarily close at 8.30 pm for the evening arti. This in effect meant that there would be no entry into the shrine for sometime and that meant a backlog of waiting pilgrims, that would delay matters by 5 to 6 hours. In the meantime one had to deposit all leather items on one's body including wallets, belts and purses in a locker, a simple enough activity, but it took one about four hours to accomplish- barefoot and in what appeared to be freezing temperatures dressed as we were in summer cottons.
Eventually we made it inside the Bhawan. Here onwards one walked on in a cold serpentine passage that sometimes went up and sometimes down and at other times through cold water that was dripping down the walls. Eventually we had our moment of epiphany inside the sanctum sanctorun, a place radiating with peace and postive vibes. We were there for about a minute, in which time we glanced at the three pindis representing the meditating goddess, and had our foreheads pasted with the ceremonial tilak by the highly dignified priest wearing a resplendent turban.
As we moved out of the Bhawan, no longer constrained by the queue a wave of relief swept through us on the accomplishment of a much postponed pilgrimage. One took a bit of vicarious pleasure in the plight of the still queued up pilgrims who were tiredly but patiently waiting for their moment of divine contact. We were through! The time was 1.30 am.
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