The Kabuliwallahs on the Pilgrim Path

The Power of a Story

This is a different sort of post – neither about the Camino, nor about hiking. This week’s events put that out of my mind. I keep politics out of my blogs, and news- but this is different, it a story about a story writer – the great Tagore, and a Kabuliwallah.

I’ve read this story of a vendor from Afghanistan in Hindi and Engiish, as a child, as an adult, and now it sprang instantly to mind in the way the brain throws up random links – on hearing the torment unroiling in Afghanistan. All through Indian history, the Afghans have been plunging down the mountains, as invaders, as refugees, as sellers of dried fruit, shawls and nuts. And growing up in India we had a complicated relationship with the idea of Afghanistan, wasn’t that where the all conquering Mughal dynasy came from originally? Didn’t the tribesmen repeatedly raid Kashmir? Then why were the actual people who we met from Afghanistan so simple, kind and charming?

Which is what this story is about – there is enough angst, misery and pain in the news, sometimes this is so overwhelming that in our safe homes,  we cannot comprehend the loss, the terror and the pain.  And we may be we are guilty of forgetting it, just as Mini forgot Abdur Rahman, the Kabuliwallah who was her great childhood friend and purveyor of treats.
I’ve never read this story without tearing up and feeling my heart break a little, and apart from the pain of the Kabuliwallah, it is the hardening of the child’s tender heart, the forgetting of friendship and the loss of father that moves me, the master storyteller Rabindranath Tagore may never have seen Kabul, but he knew people and loss.

On a personal note, do you know that I once was almost kidnapped in Kabul as a teenager? More on that later.

In this story, the statistics fall away to reveal a father and a daughter and a piece of paper that binds them.
That is the power of story – here is an extract, and you can click the button to download the complete story, truly an irisdescent gem.

“These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams,—the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent life of far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Kabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see—but at some such point Mini’s mother would intervene, imploring me to “beware of that man.”

Mini’s mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria or cockroaches, or caterpillars, or an English sailor. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Kabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.”

Don’t be timid like Mini’s mum, read the story for yourself.

Click the button to read the complete story. It will download as an .epub file that you can read instantly on your device. No optins needed.

Kabuliwallah – A Story

This is a different sort of post – neither about the Camino, nor about hiking. This week’s events put that out of my mind. I keep politics out of my blogs, and news- but this is different, it a story about a story writer – the great Tagore, and a Kabuliwallah.

I’ve read this story of a vendor from Afghanistan in Hindi and Engiish, as a child, as an adult, and now it sprang instantly to mind in the way the brain throws up random links – on hearing the torment unroiling in Afghanistan. All through Indian history, the Afghans have been plunging down the mountains, as invaders, as refugees, as sellers of dried fruit, shawls and nuts. And growing up in India we had a complicated relationship with the idea of Afghanistan, wasn’t that where the all conquering Mughal dynasy came from originally? Didn’t the tribesmen repeatedly raid Kashmir? Then why were the actual people who we met from Afghanistan so simple, kind and charming?

Which is what this story is about – there is enough angst, misery and pain in the news, sometimes this is so overwhelming that in our safe homes,  we cannot comprehend the loss, the terror and the pain.  And we may be we are guilty of forgetting it, just as Mini forgot Abdur Rahman, the Kabuliwallah who was her great childhood friend and purveyor of treats.
I’ve never read this story without tearing up and feeling my heart break a little, and apart from the pain of the Kabuliwallah, it is the hardening of the child’s tender heart, the forgetting of friendship and the loss of father that moves me, the master storyteller Rabindranath Tagore may never have seen Kabul, but he knew people and loss.

On a personal note, do you know that I once was almost kidnapped in Kabul as a teenager? More on that later.

The Power of a Story

In this story, the statistics fall away to reveal a father and a daughter and a piece of paper that binds them.
That is the power of story – here is an extract, and you can click the button to download the complete story, truly an irisdescent gem.

“These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams,—the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent life of far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Kabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see—but at some such point Mini’s mother would intervene, imploring me to “beware of that man.”

Mini’s mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria or cockroaches, or caterpillars, or an English sailor. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Kabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.”

Don’t be timid like Mini’s mum, read the story for yourself.

Click the button to read the complete story. It will download as an .epub file that you can read instantly on your device. No optins needed.

Delicious Himalayan Food

“Dhabas” or roadside food stalls serve generic Indian food on the Valley of Flowers route up to Ghangaria, and onto to Hemkund, and there’s simple free food at the gurudwaras, at guru ka langar.” One you are in the higher mountains, you may find that you have to eat vegetarian food, however, it is delicious, though limited, and there seemed to be little in the way of real local food. Be adventurous – Try to eat food that is freshly prepared rather than the odious 2-minute noodles.

Do carry hand sanitiser, and maintain a good distance from the vendor and other hikers while eating.

Trail Mix

We made trail mix, and divided it up into individual portions, one or two for each day. Carry protein bars, nuts or trail mix to supplement the food, as you may not feel hungry, despite the delicious food available. This way you avoid the inevitable cross-contamination.

A mix of nuts, dried fruits and seeds make a sustaining snack that give you a boost of energy. when you dont want to stop, or even don’t feel too hungry, and when climbing up to Hemkund, you need sustenance, and the altitude may suppress your appetite.

Water

The only water I would recommend is bottled water, and do remember to brush your teeth with it as well. If you don’t want to carry and drink bottled water, typically called “Bisleri” by its brand name, you will have to drink a lot of masala chai or tea, which is not a bad thing. There is no alcohol on sale in Ghangaria, but even if you carry it in, it is not advised at high altitudes. And Ghangaria is high altitude at 3000 odd metres.

At the end of a long day of trekking, there is nothing more delightful than hot pakodis and jelabis, washed down with steaming cups of tea. You can also get hot toast and butter in most restaurants in Ghangaria. While you can get free food, mostly khichdi, or a sort of risotto at the Gurudwaras, this spartan peasant fare can be topped off with gulab jamuns or hot jelabies from the dhabas outside. I also saw mounds of samosas stacked up and waiting for hungry pilgrims or trekkers.

Khichdi

Free food

At home we giggle over risotto and the gentrification of a plain peasant dish, that is the first food given to toddlers. But in the high mountains, that is its chief feature, khichdi is easy to digest, and a healthy mix of protein, carbs and fats to give you energy on a long walk.

Which brings me to the last food that is ubiquitous on the trek, aloo paratha or kulcha, is flatbreads stuffed with a spicy potato mix, and served with a chickpea curry. On the first evening we relished it, but after a few days, it palled, so much so that I took to eating toast and jam.

It could also have had something to do with the mild attack of Delhi Belly. There is nothing quite as terrifying as an upset tummy on a trek. But it turned out that my fears were unfounded.

If you would like a few of the Himalayan recipes, they are a reader’s bonus, you will find the link in The Valley of Flowers. The book is pretty exciting too! Go read it and let me know, there are more food tales in it!

There is also a recipe book for you to taste the food right from your own kitchen. Click the button!

The Valley of Flowers, The Ultimate Guide to an Adventure Trek in the Upper Himalaya.

Extracts from the book – The Valley of Flowers

Mountain Blooms

High in the mountains, among windswept peaks and gleaming glaciers is a hidden bower that touches the sky. Like a fragrant benediction among the sacred peaks of the Himalayas, it remained hidden until the last century. Despite the ancient pilgrim paths nearby, this valley stayed the exclusive preserve of flower-munching mountain goats and silent shepherds on their way through the valleys and passes to the dry hills of Tibet.

 The rocky path to the high-altitude glacial valley is steep, slippery and soggy. To see the flowers, you must trek through the rains of the monsoon into the swirling cloud-covered reaches of the upper Himalayas. Even then entrance is restricted to a few short daylight hours. Dusk is but a brief interlude before darkness falls like a curtain when the sun slips behind the towering walls of the gorge.

A magic location

The Valley of Flowers National Park is in Garhwal, in Chamoli district, about 595 kilometers from Delhi. The tiny national park, all 87.5 square kilometers of it, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, as is the nearby Nanda Devi National Park.

The closest airport is about 300 kilometers away, Jolly Grant Airport near Dehradun. The nearest railway stations are Haridwar and Rishikesh, 276 kilometers away. From Rishikesh the only access is by road along the sparkling Ganges, until the confluence at Devprayag where the road clings to the steep sides of the Alaknanda valley.

The northwest to southeast aspect shelters the valley from winds from the frozen north. Open to the wide skies in the summer, the heat from the golden sunlight melts the glaciers that cover the ground for most of the year. But this is India, with it’s magical life-giving monsoon. 500+ different varieties of alpine flowers explode into bloom from June to August. The flowers germinate, bloom and seed in a 12-week period, in this sky-tossed valley nestled among the spectacular peaks of the Himalayas.

At an altitude that varies between 3000 to 3600 meters, drained by the Pushpavati, it is tiny, barely ten kilometers long and two kilometers wide. This does not seem difficult, but at this altitude you are 3 kilometers vertically up in the sky. It can be hard on lungs, knees and feet, make sure you acclimatize before you go. 

A Seasonal Feast of Flowers

Snow and ice cover the Bhyundar valley or Valley of Flowers from October to May. This includes access to bustling Ghangharia which turns into a ghost town from October to May.

You can trek from early June until the beginning of October, check exact dates, as it depends on the ice melt. The best time to visit is from mid July to mid August, when the flowers are in full bloom. This is also the wettest part of the year, so add time for road closures.

Day temperatures of 15 to 20 degrees C, falling to 8 to 10 degrees C by night, make for a cool trek. Layer clothing as it can get warm when trekking.

Flowers include the majestic and protected Brahmakamal, lilies, anemones, primula, and blue poppies. The blooms come in all colors and sizes and change from month to month in subtle waves of color.

Anemone, Geranium, Marsh Marigold, Primula, Potentilla, Aster, Lilium, Himalayan Blue Poppy, Aconite, Delphinium, Ranunculus, Corydalis, Inula, Saussurea, Campanula, Pedicularis, Morina, Impatiens, Bistorta, Ligularia, Anaphalis, Saxifraga, Lobelia, Thermopsis, Trollius, Aquilegia, Codonopsis, Dactylorhiza, Cypripedium, Strawberries and Rhododendrons, Anaphalises and Potentillas, the unfamiliar names hide the sheer beauty of the flowers. These are not the names of dinosaurs, but flowers.

In May when the ice retreats, sweet scented primulas cover the rocky terraces in blue and snow-white anemones light up the valley floor.

With the arrival of monsoons in July, pink and red varieties of flower flush the valley with rosy hues. Balsam, Wallich Geranium, and River Beauty, dominate, although there are plenty of yellow, purple and white flowers.

From late July to the end of August, Pedicularis, Potentilla, Ligularia and many other yellow varieties appear.

More information in the Appendix.

Thinking of walking? Read the book for now! 

Today is Day Seven, and the after one day up at the Valley of FLowers we take the right fork to hike up to Hemkund

If you missed the beginning, go back and read.

Extract

Reaching for Heaven

With one last pull and push on my trekking poles, the last switchback is negotiated and ducking down beneath the blue tarps, I enter a narrow path lined with shops selling goods and shawls to offer at the shrine. Gleaming silken shawls in pink, orange and purple jostle hard steel bangles, and other offerings.

Up the stairs and one last right turn, and the sacred destination is mirrored in the emerald waters of the lake.

Hemkund Sahib

The lake reflects the green slopes, rocks and the clouds, and only a splatter of raindrops interrupts the perfect image in the water. A circular group of peaks crowd around the lake, and down from them creep thin threads of glaciers.
The seats in the shed are welcoming and dry, and I join the rest of the pilgrims shucking off shoes. I lean back, the weight off my feet, and I take a large breath of the thin pure air before tiptoeing into the lake. Wait.
There is a guy who goes on and on – shoes off, socks off, shirt off, hiking pants off…stop please. Cheered on by his friends, he tiptoes in looking for a flat spot in the rocky floor of the lake, he wades out slowly into the freezing water, before a sudden plunge, a faster leap up, and a splashing rush to the shore. His friends laugh and chuck a towel at his shivering shoulders.
I lift a doubtful foot. I’m not proving any points here. I dip an uncertain toe into the frigid waters and beat a quick retreat. The only ablution today will be back in the hotel – that wood–scented hot water in the bucket seems a treat.
Some water is to be looked at, and some to be bathed in, and ne’er the twain shall meet.
A forlorn Laxman temple nestles up to the gurudwara, one of the only shrines dedicated to Laxman alone. It is locked up, a concrete box enclosing a dark alcove with a barely visible idol.
In the open shining halls of the gurudwara, the Guru Granth Sahib is being chanted.

I like Sikhism, the object of their veneration in the temple is a book – the ultimate Guru.

The Lake and the Spear

Hemkund, the name derives from the words Hem (“Snow”) and Kund (“bowl”). The tarn is surrounded by seven snow– wreathed peaks. and since you are at 4600 meters, they don’t seem too much higher than you. This is a lake dangling in the sky, held up by threads of waning glaciers and cupped by a bowl of slotted shale.
I half hope that a Sikh King Arthur Singh will appear on a rearing horse and toss a gleaming Excalibur into the still waters, with the Lady of the Lake seizing it and disappearing into the depths of Hemkund Sahib with scarcely a ripple.
In a surreal time shift, a Sikh priest in flowing saffron robes and a towering turban strides barefoot out of the temple, his medieval magnificence completed with a shining spear flut- tering with tassels of gold. Behind him, the chants from the Gurudwara fade into silence. The spear is ceremonial only, there will be no impaling of heretics today. Neither will he toss it into the lake. His stern face relents as I ask for a photo with him.
There was no way to do a parikrama round the lake. Stern warnings prohibit this is in multiple languages, so we line up at gurudwara, place our shoes carefully in a row of lockers and enter the temple barefoot and with our heads covered.

Valley of Flowers

The Power of a Vow

The clouds and threatening rain make the steep path slippery and dangerous. But I prefer to walk, despite the importuning of many muleteers. I do not understand how mules judge edges and heights, but I’m unwilling to risk my neck and life to the broken toenail of a recalcitrant mule. The mules are mostly well fed and well looked after, caparisoned with colorful braids and ribbons. There’s always a lead mule, who decides the stop and start times of the meandering way. While mules are not allowed in the Valley of Flowers, they are allowed here, a boon for the many older pilgrims.
I will walk downhill leaving the glaciers and clouds to enter the lush forests of the valley below. On my way down, I stop to talk to a grey–haired grand- mother, her head wrapped in a dupatta, borne up on both sides by teenage grandsons, every excruciating step of the way. She had a long way to go, but her grandsons, with their barely there beards and downy moustaches, shrugged and said she had refused a pony or porter, as she had made a vow to walk – barefoot. Nearly there, I smile.

I lied.

#ValleyofFlowers Day Six Aug 6th 2019

What it feels like to achieve a goal – whether reaching the valley 4 kms up in the sky , or publishing a bestseller about it at the height of a pandemic – brilliant. Never give up on a dream.

EXTRACT

Darshan

It’s not a coincidence that this feels like worship. Ten thousand years of awe well up in me. A lingering legacy from ancestors who gazed at these mountains and wove them into a lasting mythology. Darshan is a two-way action, you look at God and He looks back at you.
From me “I am here, Lord”, and in reply, a simple all-encompassing “I am”.
Above me lush green meadows soften the harsh edges of the peaks, and the entire valley lies ahead. The sun comes out on a verdant flower-speckled space ringed by snowy peaks that look close enough to touch. As we are so high, the peaks – a picture-perfect range of snowy peaks like the cupped hand of God. “I will hold you in the palm of my Hand.”

Baman Daur or The Boulder Gate

The towering boulder marks the visual start of the valley. It’s where everyone sits down for a picnic lunch. A group sit down and begin handing round hot drinks, cold drinks and food, with laughter and a lot of clutter they eat and make merry.
I leave.
We will eat on our way down, time is too precious to waste on picnicking. Not that I don’t enjoy picnicking, thanks to my adventurous parents, I’ve picnicked from Kashmir to Kanyakumari, and Amritsar to Arunachal Pradesh, but given the narrow sliver of time in this valley, I’d rather be walking. Alone or with my friends, in this space, I am not inclined to talk to strangers.

In the footsteps of fate

Pushing onwards, the meadows lush with a green never seen on the plains, fragrant embankments of flowers, through it all the sound of running water. We are now treading in the footsteps of the early explorers like Frank Smythe and Joan Legge.

Frank Smythe, an early twentieth-century mountaineer, discovered the valley and then returned here to camp for months recording and gathering plants. Was he a mountaineer or a technical writer? What a glorious way to produce a manual! Or a travel book.
In a classic real-life twist of the six degrees of separation, only two degrees separate Frank Smythe from myself. In a spot of research, I find that he contracted malaria in Darjeeling….And he was in Darjeeling to plan another expedition with Tenzing Norgay, and as every one who lived in Darjeeling knows, you would always bump into Mr. Tenzing Norgay, either at a school or college talk, in the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, or on the Mall or Chaurasta in “Darj”.
Frank Smythe may be forgotten in his homeland but he is remembered with fondness and admiration in both Hindi and English, at the ECO center in Ghangaria, where you can watch a short documentary about the Valley of Flowers, and his journey.

Much as I love his book, I do think it is time that the 21st century book about this magical valley is written by a brown-skinned woman – aka me

Read it now and join me on my journey.

Coming to the Himalaya and trekking has a true Russian doll effect – you keep unpacking more and more layers to your inner self and how it relates to you, your life and future. In this featured photo, its a literal image, Im taking the photo in the window, and the mountains are looking back at me – in a reversed panorama. On this fourth day of the adventure, we reach almost there – Auli in the high himalayas, for a day to acclimatise. but read on.

If you missed the beginning, go back and read.

EXTRACT

The Marooned Goddess

Dhari Devi – the women’s shrine is set in the middle of a roaring torrent. It’s raining, but that’s no excuse, we head down to the temple accessed only by a walkway and wonder how people visited here before this bridge existed. Did they swim out clutching desperately to mud pots, did they take boats that battled the swirling waters that threatened to suck them down to a watery grave?

The covered walkway allows us to flip back our hoods to feel the breeze in our hair, and raising our hands we tinkle the myriad brass bells that festoon – both sides of the walkway, announcing our presence to the goddess Dhari Devi. It’s a women’s shrine, rare in the Himalayas, so we head into it for privileged blessings, and after that out again to cross the suspension bridge to the village at the other side.

A mist floats on top of the river even now, late in the morning, as the river thunders around the curve. In the roar is the creak of the rope and the dull thumps from the cable car, and I strain to hear the still small voice of the Spirit that created this mysterious web of water and earth, and brought me here to create this perfect moment.

First Views of the Snows

We whirl through Chamoli, only stopping to take pictures of the road signs that we see for Joshimath and Gobind Ghat. The reality of places that were mere dots on maps, send a thrill through me, and my friends laugh at the peculiar things that excite me. I wonder at the early explorers tracking through these paths and woods with only the peaks and stars to navigate by.

At Pipalkoti, in the cleft of the valley, we see it, the snow peaks of the Himalayas at last, wreathed in clouds, but unmistakable in their glow as they float across the sky. We stop and lift our eyes to the far horizon. The twisted crossing is filthy and rubbish-strewn, but look up for the view. 

From here on the chatter quietens, as the road narrows and the gears grind for the serious climb towards to our final stop for the day. The road is steep, and the valleys plunge into infinity. Peeking over the side, the road below is a tiny thread that switches back in infinite loops above an invisible stream that gleams when vagrant rays of sunlight make it to the valley floor.

Magical Auli

At last the road ends, literally. Up steep flights of stairs with broken treads, pay attention as the steps are of irregular heights. But for now, the “boys” from the resort come down and carry our bags up to the the log cabins with the most magnificent views of the Himalayas. Even the late afternoon clouds and mist cannot fully obscure the jagged pyramids of sloping rock topped with snow peaks.

From Kamet, to Neelkanth to Nanda Devi, all the abundance of peaks leaves us silent.

The view draws us out from the rooms, and we’d like to meet the other people here. The camp is packed with trekkers, and many of them seem to be from Bangalore. We meet people who have common acquaintances. It is camp time definitely; as we need to wait for the hot water boilers to be fired up, and in the cabins the weak lights and charging points betray their solar origins. But we have lights – and the phones and other equipment charge, unlike earlier explorers, who used flickering candles or lanterns that spluttered in the wind.

At dusk, the camp is wreathed in a ghostly mist, but later in the night the mist clears and before us like magnificent ships of the night the mountains float in the moonlight. The Neelagiri massif sits astride the horizon, and to it’s right, Gauri Parbat and Hathi Parbat hover in the distance, while closer to us Dunagiri raises a toothed spear to the sky.

There is a little snow on the peaks, but what a wonder it would be in the winter when clearer nights and more snow would create a winter wonderland. The wide windows of the cabins look out on the view, framing them like a giant TV screen. But we are really here, not simply watching it on the television. And tomorrow more views and the first trek with flowers awaits us.