Dispatches from the misty mountains
Anchor
secret window
Dispatches from the misty mountains
photography Prathap Nair
22 00
april april2015 2015
Sweeping meadows, terraced fields with exotic mountain flowers, the mighty Himalaya in the backdrop and a life that is utterly simple are what the village of Kalap offers
Perched among crags in the Garhwal Himalaya, Kalap offers magnificent vistas of hills with snow-dusted deodar forests and a glimpse of life in a mountain hamlet. Words Prathap Nair Photography Anand Sankar
“Namaste,”
a short, fine-boned man in his thirties greets me while simultaneously tapping my shoulder to draw my attention. His curls are bleached golden by the mountain sun and his shy nature keeps him from looking me in the eye. Beyond him, the snaking road curves further and disappears past the corner of the mountain. I am more disoriented than dishevelled after an eight-hour journey through the winding roads of the Garhwal Himalaya to reach a dusty mountain town called Netwar. I am visiting Kalap, a village settlement perched in the Garhwal Himalaya opposite Kedarkantha on the Har Ki Dun
24
april 2015
pilgrimage route, high above the banks of the Supin river. Golden-haired Guddu will be my host during my two-week stay as I spend my days in the village, getting to know family after family and exploring the hiking trails around Kalap, bordered by mustard fields and their bright yellow flowers. The bus has been delayed, which means I can’t undertake the five-hour trek the same day from Netwar to Kalap. We decide to spend the night in Netwar, where Guddu’s children go to school, squeezing in with them in a singleroom shack. I catch the first glimpse of Kalap when we hitch a ride in a jeep to cover the short distance to reach the trek’s starting
point. We begin the trek by crossing a makeshift bridge over the Supin. The river roars ferociously and its jade waters look menacing. My overweight backpack weighing me down, I negotiate boulders scattered on the path up towards the village etched along the belly of the mountains. I arrive to the welcoming ‘namastes’ of the village children. In the village, I slowly get used to the rhythm of mountain life—the two meals a day of mostly dal-bhat and rotis, the open-air toilet, the nipping cold in the shade even if it’s otherwise bright and sunny, and the ice-cold water running non-stop from the village communal pipe. Each meal is accompanied by a generous helping of homemade ghee, which is so delicious it makes me salivate in retrospect even days after my trip. Time is a blur here. It could have been a pesky Monday or a wayward Saturday. In the absence of electricity and other creature comforts, I keep a handwritten calendar. I mark a cross against each date to keep a tab on the passage
of days so as not to miss my scheduled return to civilisation. Each day, I sit on the terrace of Guddu’s house, reading, complacent in the company of mountains and the morning sun slowly carpeting them. At daybreak, streaked laughing thrushes cackle, announcing dawn, while bees stir from their brief nightly hibernation. The fields are tilled, women go about their daily tasks of collecting firewood, using a bamboo basket tied to their backs, and children play gully cricket while ponies and cattle languidly trudge their way to grazing pastures. In every sense, literal and metaphorical, this is living on the edge. The mountains drop down to impossible descents and each house is perched in a craggy corner. The village itself has no basic facilities and any emergency requires a four-hour trek down the hills to reach the plains. Being a stranger in the village, I attract attention, which I welcome. Conversations happen with amazing fluidity. I am smiled at and each time a conversation happens, an invitation to the house is inevitable. On one such visit to april 2015
25
Kalap, a mountain village lost in time, dates back to the days of the epic Mahabharata
26
april 2015
Guddu’s neighbour’s house, I taste the ravioli-like dumpling called goshua that is stuffed with a mixture of jaggery and roasted millet-like grain. He takes me around the village, explaining things—construction is in progress for a new temple, the village’s hydro-powered wheat mill runs fulltime during the harvest season, and the cattle have become a menace, grazing on the wheat crop. Back at Guddu’s house, his grandmother insists on having a conversation with me in a local dialect that I only half understand but her intonations are clear when there is a question. I ask her to repeat the question and scramble for an answer. When there has been snowfall the previous night, the persistent invitation is to eat ice or baraf. It is like a code of ritual that needs to be complied with as soon as a guest arrives. So I get asked, “Baraf khaya (did you eat ice)?” and, upon my negative answer, I am offered baraf. It is the gola of the hills, as it turns out. One day, I witness its making. Coriander, peppermint, garlic and other spices are collected from the fields and pounded with the local version of tamarind that is extracted
28
april 2015
from the apricot tree sap. Everything is pulverised and mixed with the ice thoroughly before being scooped into little bowls. Neighbours and not-so-neighbours stop by, seek and accept the crunchy, sour delight. The ‘baraf khana’ event extends over conversation and when the crowd reluctantly disperses, one among them has already curled up in the sunny corner for a nap. Much along the same lines of foraging for fresh spices, each evening I see gangs of children hunting along the ridges of mountains for all sorts of hill greens—nettles, hill mustard greens, ferns and so on. There is really no need to grow vegetables in the village, as Guddu’s wife, Pathuli, tells me. And the hari subzi, green vegetable dish, tastes so flavourful it even makes me forget the monotony of the meals. One evening, over dinner in Guddu’s kitchen filled with wood smoke from the double chulha, we consider what can be grown in the village—vegetables and grains—but is not because cattle and wild animals such as porcupines and wild boars eat them up. The villagers are no longer disciplined, Guddu tells me. There is no control over the cows and goats.
photography YATISH VT
While the weather in Kalap is seldom warm, the people usually are—welcoming travellers into their little hamlet
It used to be that there were a lot of potato fields. Anything will grow here but will not survive because people either harvest them before they are ready or animals do, Guddu adds with resignation. Meanwhile, in the outside world the weather is unpredictable which, according to Guddu, is: “Pahad ka mausam aur Mumbai ki fashion par koi bharosa nahin (the weather in the mountains and Mumbai’s fashion can never be predicted).” On a weather-worn, cloudy day, we take a trek along the pine forests and waterfalls that rip through the silence of the mountains. Rhododendrons in bright red are beginning to bloom and other little flowers are peeping their heads out as winter is drawing to a close. Villagers from the upper reaches, who migrate to Kalap during the winters, return to their settlements with their belongings—children, cows and their newborn calves, and dogs. It had snowed the previous night and the bridle path was covered with snow two feet deep. The clouds had grown thick and it began to drizzle. Though only at a slightly higher elevation than Kalap, the village of Kharba is located in a valley. Very few families
inhabit the village and many of them have a second house in Kalap—a refuge during the harsh winter. After visiting Guddu’s other house in Kharba village and comforting ourselves with extra-sweet chai, we return. Before the walk back, I say a little prayer to the deodar tree whose fat, scaly trunk is punctured with coins for good luck. I ask for favourable weather on my next trip so I can trek to the bugiyals (alpine meadows) of Vijay Dhar at 13,000 feet in the Garhwal range. For now, I trek back to Kalap slowly, getting drenched by the powdery rain, collecting porcupine quills and watching vultures sitting on dead trees, soaking wet. It must be two weeks since my arrival. I still spend hours simply gazing at the mountains. Once, when there is a burst of green smoke rising from the pine trees on a distant mountain—pollen season with the trees releasing a fine powder dust—I call Guddu to show him the phenomenon. He looks at it, smiles incandescently and proceeds with his chores. The key to living in the mountains is to be aware of the breathtaking beauty around you, yet not let it interrupt your daily life. april 2015
29
Navigator Getting There Kalap is 250 km from Dehradun. Dehradun is well connected by air and rail from all major metros. Shatabdi Express departs from New Delhi every morning at 6:50 and buses ply from Kashmere Gate ISBT. An early morning bus leaves Dehradun and reaches the bazaar town of Netwar at 4 pm. Kalap is a five-six km trek from Netwar. Where To Stay The only option is quite basic homestays run by locals. Visit www.kalap.in for more details or call Anand Sankar on (0) 9886781587/75791 90749. He also offers trekking packages around Kalap.
The villagers of Kalap depend for their food supply on the greens and vegetation that the hills provide
30
april 2015
april 2015
31
secret window
Dispatches from the misty mountains
photography Prathap Nair
22 00
april april2015 2015
Sweeping meadows, terraced fields with exotic mountain flowers, the mighty Himalaya in the backdrop and a life that is utterly simple are what the village of Kalap offers
Perched among crags in the Garhwal Himalaya, Kalap offers magnificent vistas of hills with snow-dusted deodar forests and a glimpse of life in a mountain hamlet. Words Prathap Nair Photography Anand Sankar
“Namaste,”
a short, fine-boned man in his thirties greets me while simultaneously tapping my shoulder to draw my attention. His curls are bleached golden by the mountain sun and his shy nature keeps him from looking me in the eye. Beyond him, the snaking road curves further and disappears past the corner of the mountain. I am more disoriented than dishevelled after an eight-hour journey through the winding roads of the Garhwal Himalaya to reach a dusty mountain town called Netwar. I am visiting Kalap, a village settlement perched in the Garhwal Himalaya opposite Kedarkantha on the Har Ki Dun
24
april 2015
pilgrimage route, high above the banks of the Supin river. Golden-haired Guddu will be my host during my two-week stay as I spend my days in the village, getting to know family after family and exploring the hiking trails around Kalap, bordered by mustard fields and their bright yellow flowers. The bus has been delayed, which means I can’t undertake the five-hour trek the same day from Netwar to Kalap. We decide to spend the night in Netwar, where Guddu’s children go to school, squeezing in with them in a singleroom shack. I catch the first glimpse of Kalap when we hitch a ride in a jeep to cover the short distance to reach the trek’s starting
point. We begin the trek by crossing a makeshift bridge over the Supin. The river roars ferociously and its jade waters look menacing. My overweight backpack weighing me down, I negotiate boulders scattered on the path up towards the village etched along the belly of the mountains. I arrive to the welcoming ‘namastes’ of the village children. In the village, I slowly get used to the rhythm of mountain life—the two meals a day of mostly dal-bhat and rotis, the open-air toilet, the nipping cold in the shade even if it’s otherwise bright and sunny, and the ice-cold water running non-stop from the village communal pipe. Each meal is accompanied by a generous helping of homemade ghee, which is so delicious it makes me salivate in retrospect even days after my trip. Time is a blur here. It could have been a pesky Monday or a wayward Saturday. In the absence of electricity and other creature comforts, I keep a handwritten calendar. I mark a cross against each date to keep a tab on the passage
of days so as not to miss my scheduled return to civilisation. Each day, I sit on the terrace of Guddu’s house, reading, complacent in the company of mountains and the morning sun slowly carpeting them. At daybreak, streaked laughing thrushes cackle, announcing dawn, while bees stir from their brief nightly hibernation. The fields are tilled, women go about their daily tasks of collecting firewood, using a bamboo basket tied to their backs, and children play gully cricket while ponies and cattle languidly trudge their way to grazing pastures. In every sense, literal and metaphorical, this is living on the edge. The mountains drop down to impossible descents and each house is perched in a craggy corner. The village itself has no basic facilities and any emergency requires a four-hour trek down the hills to reach the plains. Being a stranger in the village, I attract attention, which I welcome. Conversations happen with amazing fluidity. I am smiled at and each time a conversation happens, an invitation to the house is inevitable. On one such visit to april 2015
25
Kalap, a mountain village lost in time, dates back to the days of the epic Mahabharata
26
april 2015
Guddu’s neighbour’s house, I taste the ravioli-like dumpling called goshua that is stuffed with a mixture of jaggery and roasted millet-like grain. He takes me around the village, explaining things—construction is in progress for a new temple, the village’s hydro-powered wheat mill runs fulltime during the harvest season, and the cattle have become a menace, grazing on the wheat crop. Back at Guddu’s house, his grandmother insists on having a conversation with me in a local dialect that I only half understand but her intonations are clear when there is a question. I ask her to repeat the question and scramble for an answer. When there has been snowfall the previous night, the persistent invitation is to eat ice or baraf. It is like a code of ritual that needs to be complied with as soon as a guest arrives. So I get asked, “Baraf khaya (did you eat ice)?” and, upon my negative answer, I am offered baraf. It is the gola of the hills, as it turns out. One day, I witness its making. Coriander, peppermint, garlic and other spices are collected from the fields and pounded with the local version of tamarind that is extracted
28
april 2015
from the apricot tree sap. Everything is pulverised and mixed with the ice thoroughly before being scooped into little bowls. Neighbours and not-so-neighbours stop by, seek and accept the crunchy, sour delight. The ‘baraf khana’ event extends over conversation and when the crowd reluctantly disperses, one among them has already curled up in the sunny corner for a nap. Much along the same lines of foraging for fresh spices, each evening I see gangs of children hunting along the ridges of mountains for all sorts of hill greens—nettles, hill mustard greens, ferns and so on. There is really no need to grow vegetables in the village, as Guddu’s wife, Pathuli, tells me. And the hari subzi, green vegetable dish, tastes so flavourful it even makes me forget the monotony of the meals. One evening, over dinner in Guddu’s kitchen filled with wood smoke from the double chulha, we consider what can be grown in the village—vegetables and grains—but is not because cattle and wild animals such as porcupines and wild boars eat them up. The villagers are no longer disciplined, Guddu tells me. There is no control over the cows and goats.
photography YATISH VT
While the weather in Kalap is seldom warm, the people usually are—welcoming travellers into their little hamlet
It used to be that there were a lot of potato fields. Anything will grow here but will not survive because people either harvest them before they are ready or animals do, Guddu adds with resignation. Meanwhile, in the outside world the weather is unpredictable which, according to Guddu, is: “Pahad ka mausam aur Mumbai ki fashion par koi bharosa nahin (the weather in the mountains and Mumbai’s fashion can never be predicted).” On a weather-worn, cloudy day, we take a trek along the pine forests and waterfalls that rip through the silence of the mountains. Rhododendrons in bright red are beginning to bloom and other little flowers are peeping their heads out as winter is drawing to a close. Villagers from the upper reaches, who migrate to Kalap during the winters, return to their settlements with their belongings—children, cows and their newborn calves, and dogs. It had snowed the previous night and the bridle path was covered with snow two feet deep. The clouds had grown thick and it began to drizzle. Though only at a slightly higher elevation than Kalap, the village of Kharba is located in a valley. Very few families
inhabit the village and many of them have a second house in Kalap—a refuge during the harsh winter. After visiting Guddu’s other house in Kharba village and comforting ourselves with extra-sweet chai, we return. Before the walk back, I say a little prayer to the deodar tree whose fat, scaly trunk is punctured with coins for good luck. I ask for favourable weather on my next trip so I can trek to the bugiyals (alpine meadows) of Vijay Dhar at 13,000 feet in the Garhwal range. For now, I trek back to Kalap slowly, getting drenched by the powdery rain, collecting porcupine quills and watching vultures sitting on dead trees, soaking wet. It must be two weeks since my arrival. I still spend hours simply gazing at the mountains. Once, when there is a burst of green smoke rising from the pine trees on a distant mountain—pollen season with the trees releasing a fine powder dust—I call Guddu to show him the phenomenon. He looks at it, smiles incandescently and proceeds with his chores. The key to living in the mountains is to be aware of the breathtaking beauty around you, yet not let it interrupt your daily life. april 2015
29
Navigator Getting There Kalap is 250 km from Dehradun. Dehradun is well connected by air and rail from all major metros. Shatabdi Express departs from New Delhi every morning at 6:50 and buses ply from Kashmere Gate ISBT. An early morning bus leaves Dehradun and reaches the bazaar town of Netwar at 4 pm. Kalap is a five-six km trek from Netwar. Where To Stay The only option is quite basic homestays run by locals. Visit www.kalap.in for more details or call Anand Sankar on (0) 9886781587/75791 90749. He also offers trekking packages around Kalap.
The villagers of Kalap depend for their food supply on the greens and vegetation that the hills provide
30
april 2015
april 2015
31
