FOOTLOOSE
The joys of Mana
RUPA GOPAL
|
High in the Himalayas, surrounded by Gods and legends, life is simple and uncomplicated.
|
Photo: Rupa Gopal
Where legends walk: Vyasa’s cave at Mana.
The Himalayas hold untold secrets, a zillion attractions. Sacred temples, tarns, hot springs, holy rivers, unimaginable flora and fauna, and a vast palette of cultures, each existing, effortlessly, as part of a whole. The huge effort in the journey up the mountains to the shrine of Badrinath leaves little energy to see much else. Those able to brave the cold, and the steep climb, venture on to Mana, three km away.
“See you in about three hours,” said my host. Why should a visit to a village just three km away take so long, I wondered, as we set off. The car stops at the base of a hill, and we are at once swamped — “Want guides? Rs.150 only. Want doli? Rs.300 only,” they chant incessantly. The doli is for those unable, or unwilling, to climb up the steep hills of Mana — it is a chair-like basket strapped to the back, the client seated on it, and carried up and down the slopes. It seemed inhuman to use another human in this manner, but the lads were so cheerful, and there were many takers, both women and children.
Lucky strike
A 12-year-old boy, Arjun, offered his guidance for Rs. 50 and he proved to be a winner. Nattering right through, often gasping for breath in between long sentences, Mana became a memorable visit thanks to his entertaining inputs. Panting heavily, we reached Vyasa’s Cave, and Ganesha’s temple. The rock façade here is layered, said to be petrified layers of parchment on which Vyasa’s Mahabharata was written, by Ganesha. A priest sits inside the small cave, in front of a small altar, preaching to a group of visitors. We’re just happy to sit on the ledge outside, gulping in huge mouthfuls of fresh mountain air. Little homes cling to the picturesque terrain .Colourfully dressed mountain women sit sunning themselves atop stone-piled walls, beaming with furrowed faces. Many are busy knitting woollens, or crocheting. Some of the narrow paths have tiny stalls selling these handmade woollen sweaters, caps, socks etc.
Thick floating mists seem to swirl out of the clouds across the high impenetrable mountains all around — a scene that is completely snowbound in winter. The entire village of Mana — man and livestock — goes down to Gopeshwar for the winter months. Thinking that Vyasa Cave was the destination, I was heaving in relief at the thought of the descent. But Arjun had other plans! “I’ll show you Gupt Saraswati,” he said triumphantly, nimbly prancing away. We came to a somewhat dicey path, with a steep open fall on the left. I had to put my foot down as firmly as I could on the loose soil about not going any further. “I’ll take you by another route,” said my valiant champion, determined we should see the best of these hills.
All along the route were clumps of wild thorny clematis, lichens, little patches of mustard and rocks ablaze with colour, blooming with tiny rock plants. I was presented with handfuls of wild daisies and clematis by Arjun. We could gradually hear a growing thunderous sound — the Saraswati was near. And suddenly, there it was, the mystic hidden river, gushing forth with tremendous force from between large boulders, flowing for just a few hundred feet. Both the noise and the spray were mesmerising, the place sanctified by a small temple housing the venerated goddess of learning. Yet another gem was imparted by my saviour — “Vyasa cursed the Saraswati to go underground, She was making too much noise, disturbing his dictation of the Mahabharata,” said Arjun. Geography was so easily subdued by our rishis!
A few boys offer to get me the waters of the holy river, for Rs. 20 a small plastic bottle full. One of them leaps across the rocks, climbs up and down, and finally teeters on the last boulder behind which the river erupts from. He goes down out of sight, and triumphantly reappears a few moments later, waving the filled bottle. We see all this from the tiny bridge above, heart in our mouths. This little bottle is now one of my most treasured keepsakes, brought safely home, an abiding memory of this wonderful journey.
Bridge to heaven
“This is Bhim pul,” says Arjun, pointing to a small gorge with a natural rock bridge over it. Bhim is supposed to have helped Draupadi climb up here by putting the rock in place, on their way to heaven.
The way down fills me with wonder at this unique corner of the mighty Himalayas. Women are busy at the loom, weaving carpets, another is busy trying to sell them to whoever manages to climb up. A row of young girls sit crocheting, on top of a wall. “I’m going to study B.A.,” one tells me. “The last tea shop before the border” says a board. It feels great to stop there for a welcome steaming cuppa, right near the Indo-China border.
A small flat land is being put to good use — Arjun’s friends are playing cricket, using what they can find for equipment. Dhoni is our friend’s hero, quite like boys elsewhere in the country. “No one can play my bowling,” says this little bundle of ego. Perhaps Mana shall produce a cricketing hero soon, who knows. Meanwhile, chubby little children happily push little homemade toys along the path, cherubic in their joy.
Visiting Mana was an untold pleasure, up in the rarefied air, seeing a life simple and uncomplicated. Life leaves little to be desired here, little though there is. An air of happiness pervades Mana, strongly backed by benevolent gods.
Printer friendly
page
Send this article to Friends by
E-Mail
Magazine
