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TIME OUT

Himalayan wonders

Photo: Saikrishna

Inspiring vistas: The view from the deck.

To most of us, the “Himalayas” evoke visions of lofty, insurmountable, snow capped peaks; the adventure of conquering mount Everest; of religious fulfilment — Kailas, Badri and Kedar; of Tibetan monks, yaks and the Yeti! The Himalayan mountain range is also lovely to view from a distance, and this is precisely what I am doing, as I sit on the deck of my “home-stay haven” in the Kumaon foothills. Family and friends who frequent these hills have raved to me about the unspoilt beauty; the communion with nature; the fresh air and the companionable silence that envelops this region. Needless to say, I had to visit the land of Corbett and take it all in myself, and here I am!

If you are not averse to train travel, then that indeed is the best way to get here. The Ranikhet Express departs sedately each day at 10.40 p.m., leaving behind the bustle and din of the Old Delhi Railway Station. As I sleep and dream about walking in the hills, the train snakes its way to its final destination Khatdogam, getting there at 6.15 a.m., a most agreeable journey. A friendly taxi owner welcomes me on arrival (pre-arranged through my host), and we set off for the ride up the hills. Khatdogam is a sleepy hamlet, the railway station and shopping area being the main claims to its fame. Clearly I am not alone; a number of holiday makers disembark here and board taxis to varied destinations: Nainital, Bimtal, Sattal, Ramgarh, Mukteshwar to name a few. My destination is, however, a trifle exotic — a remote village at 7,000 feet, called Bhallard, a two-hour car ride from Khatdogam, with the perfect view of the entire Himalayan range.

The climb begins almost as soon as we exit the railway station. A drive up the hills never fails to exhilarate and with bountiful flora and fauna, the Kumaon are among the most picturesque. I discover, however, that the summer months are most difficult for hill folk. Water is in short supply until it rains in July, and the higher one is, the more difficult it becomes to tap ground water. Most hill people therefore collect rain water (which is mercifully bountiful) and use it right through the year. “Use the bucket and not the shower” is the advice given to me and sure enough we spot hill dwellers trekking with cans to fetch water and others using roadside hand-pumps. Driving up from the station, we pass a narrow and steep gorge, the bottom of which is a river (sadly dry). “It will fill up when it rains, is the driver’s nonchalant remark, reminding me yet again, about our rain-water dependence as a nation and the scant regard we have for water conservation.

As we drive upwards, deodar trees abound. Yet, one can see urban desolation beginning to scar this beautiful landscape. Not just the larger townships we pass, Bimtal and Ramgarh; but also several smaller villages, are fast becoming “concreted”; brick and mortar being used in abundance, to create “resorts” targeting the urban denizen. The effect of such “development” on the environment and its unsuitability (and un-sustainability) is emphasised both in the brown shrub wasteland that surrounds them and by the contrasting beauty of the older “Pahadi design” wood and stone constructions, better suited for “hill living”, as evidenced by their bountiful greenery, lovely creepers of bougainvillea and wild flowers growing between the stones. The pathos of urbanisation does not last long, however, as we soon leave human habitation behind, the climb becoming more beautiful with each passing moment. Indeed, so virgin are some of the roads we take, that we even manage to encounter and surprise an entire family of langur!

Bhallard, a short drive from the better-known Nathuakhan, is soon breached! A couple of winding turns off the main road, we drive past a few ramshackle dwellings, and are soon parked in front of a narrow hill path, with the car not being able to go further. It is 8.15 in the morning, sunny with a cool breeze, the temperature a perfect 20 degrees. On my left, a sheer drop from the path is a large C shaped valley with a steep, shrub-filled slope running down the centre and deodar forests (I learn later that these are reserve forests) on either side. On my right, a short climb from the hill path is a row of pretty cottages overlooking the valley. Bang centre, built in the Pahadi style with stone, yet with red roofs and the colonial feel of a bygone era is my home-stay haven for the week, euphemistically named “Aah! Himalaya”; and I soon find out why!

I walk into a cheery and tastefully furnished lounge with wooden floors, reproduction furniture, pottery and ethnic collectables. An array of human conveniences, while affirmative of connectivity and comfort, even in this distant corner of India, merely serve to distract. The real action is one floor above, in the dining room and deck area, from where I can see rows of green hilltops, and beyond them, through the summer haze, the outline of the Himalayan mountain tops. From this deck, I am assured, are clearly visible, at appropriate times, many a snow-capped peak in the Himalayan range — Nanda Devi and Trishul being most prominent. A beautiful photograph taken from that very deck, by the previous owner, an eminent motor racing correspondent Murad Ali Baig, is displayed as testimony to the view.

The house, we are informed, has played host to several prominent writers including Anita Desai in the years gone by. One wonders what tales this region and these views inspired for them.

As I prepare to set out on an afternoon hike, on the hill path that runs along the valley to Nathuakhan, passing through the deodar forests, I am told to take one of the many walking sticks conveniently displayed in the ground floor hall. “Leopards”, I am told, still populate these parts, one having been spotted sunning itself in the valley below, some weeks earlier; managing also to peek into a neighbours lawn, in the same period. There are also village dogs that chase strangers, and the stick is therefore a useful deterrent, or so I am persuaded to believe.

I soon enter the Deodar forest which sprawls on either side of the path; both uphill and downhill. I keep my eyes wide open for the friendly neighbourhood leopard and encounter instead, several groups of school children returning home, eliciting many a giggle and coy whisper. Perhaps it’s the trendy red spectacle frames I have chosen to sport in what clearly is a mid-life crisis; perhaps it’s the stick I carry, that they clearly feel no need for; perhaps it’s the alien urban persona trespassing familiar territory on a beautiful summer afternoon. Their innocent reactions remind me that they are far removed from the many ills of urban existence.

I encounter several Pahadi women cutting firewood from the shrub and tree stumps (in a sustainable, environment friendly manner) and transporting these bundles elegantly on top of their heads, to their kitchens. I walk past modest dwellings built with stone, complete with rooftops made of interlocking slate stone tiles, and listen to the rumbling of livestock. As I pause to catch my breath, I hear the sounds of silence; the twitter of birds, the rustling of undergrowth as a small animal or reptile heads for cover sensing my presence; the fluttering in the wind of beautiful wild flowers that grow unaided between stones, covering entire rock faces in some places. I am reminded painfully that Mother Earth exists, not because of us the human race, but despite us. These thoughts soon take surreal connotations, as I pass through a small village and encounter in these pristine hills, plastic and foil wrappers carelessly strewn, out of sight from the village, but on the borders of this beautiful deodar forest. What new poison is humankind going to introduce to this virgin land, in the guise of development?

Neither leopard nor an angry village dog do I encounter; the former, of course, with some regret. However, having read about Jim Corbett’s exploits in neighbouring Mukteshwar (The Man-Eater of Mukteshwar), a mere 45-minute drive, I have no doubts that this is cat country indeed, and will live in hope of spotting one during my stay. As the sun goes down and I succumb on the deck chair to the wonderful view, with Pankaj Udhas’ soulful music and Rava Idly and Sambar (rustled up by the housekeeping team as a special welcoming treat for my south Indian palate), I cannot but delight at “The Wonder that is India”. As night falls and a strange tranquillity envelops my senses, “let me see the entire snow capped Himalayan range, and spot that leopard tomorrow” is my parting prayer.

The writer is a senior consultant neuropsychiatrist and itinerant social commentator based in Chennai.

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