by Ruskin Bond
A tiny guardian temple dedicated to the god Ganesh spurred us on. Nor was I really fatigued for the cold fresh air and the verdant greenery surrounding us was like an intoxicant. Myriads of wild flowers grew on the hill slopes—buttercups, anemones, wild strawberries, forget-me-nots, rock-cress—enough to rival the Valley of Flowers at this time of the year.
Before reaching these alpine meadows, we climb through rhododendron forest and here one finds at least three species of this flower: the red flowering-tree rhododendron (found throughout the Himalayas between 6000 feet and 10,000 feet); a second variety, the almatta, with flowers that are light red or rosy in colour; and the third, chimul, or white variety, found at heights ranging from between 10,000 feet and 13,000 feet. The chimul is brushwood, seldom more than twelve feet high and growing slantingly due to the heavy burden of snow it has to carry for almost six months in the year.
Those brushwood rhododendrons are the last trees we see on our ascent for as we approach Tungnath the treeline ends and there is nothing between earth and sky except grass and rock and tiny flowers. Above us, a couple of crows dive-bomb a hawk, who does his best to escape their attentions. Crows are the world’s great survivors. They are capable of living at any height and in any climate; as much at home in the back streets of Delhi as on the heights of Tungnath.
Another survivor, up here at any rate, is the pika, a sort of mouse-hare, who looks like neither mouse nor hare but rather a tiny guinea-pig; small ears, no tail, grey-brown fur and chubby feet. They emerge from their holes under the rocks to forage for grasses on which to feed. Their simple diet and thick fur enable them to live in extreme cold and they have been found at 16,000 feet; no other mammal is known to live at a greater height. The Garhwalis call this little creature the runda—at any rate, that’s what the temple priest called it, adding that it was not averse to entering his house and helping itself to grain and other delicacies. So perhaps there’s more in it of mouse than of hare.
Those little rundas were with us all the way from Chopta to Tungnath, peering out from their rocks and scampering about on the hillside, seemingly unconcerned by our presence.
At Tungnath they live beneath the temple flagstones. The priest’s grandchildren were having a game discovering their burrows; the rundas would go in at one hole and pop out at another—they must have had a system of underground passages.
When we arrived, clouds had gathered over Tungnath, as they do almost every afternoon. The temple looked austere in the gathering gloom.
To some, the name ‘Tung’ indicates ‘lofty’, from the position of the temple on the highest peak outside the main chain of the Himalayas; others derive it from the word tangna—to be suspended—in allusion to the form under which the deity is worshipped here. The form is the Swayambhu Ling; and on Shivaratri, or night of Shiva, the true believer may, ‘with the eye of faith’, see the lingam increase in size; but ‘to the evil-minded no such favour is granted’.
The temple, though not very large, is certainly impressive, mainly because of its setting and the solid slabs of grey granite from which it is built. The whole place somehow puts me in mind of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights—bleak, windswept, open to the skies. And as you look down from the temple at the little half-deserted hamlet that serves it in summer, the eye is met by grey slate roofs and piles of stones, with just a few hardy souls in residence—for the majority of pilgrims now prefer to spend the night down at Chopta.
Even the temple priest, attended by his son and grandsons, complains bitterly of the cold. To spend every day barefoot on those flagstones must indeed be hardship. I wince after five minutes of it, made worse by stepping into a puddle of icy water. I shall never make a good pilgrim; no rewards for me, in this world or the next. But the priest’s feet are literally thick-skinned; and the children seem oblivious to the cold. Still, in October they must be happy to descend to Maku, their home village on the slopes below Dugalbeta.
It begins to rain as we leave the temple. We pass herds of sheep huddled in a ruined dharamshala. The crows are still rushing about the grey weeping skies, although the hawk has very sensibly gone away. A runda sticks his nose out from his hole, probably to take a look at the weather. There is a clap of thunder and he disappears, like the White Rabbit in ‘Alice in Wonderland’. We are halfway down the Tungnath ‘ladder’ when it begins to rain quite heavily. And now we pass our first genuine pilgrims, a group of intrepid Bengalis who are heading straight into the storm. They are without umbrellas or raincoats, but they are not to be deterred.
Oaks and rhododendrons flash past as we dash down the steep, winding path. Another shortc ut and Ganesh Saili takes a tumble, but is cushioned by moss and buttercups. My wristwatch strikes a rock and the glass is shattered. No matter. Time here is of little or no significance. Away with time! Is this, I wonder, the ‘bounding and exalting cheerfulness’ experienced by Batten and now manifesting in me?
The tea shop beckons. How would one manage in the hills without these wayside tea shops? Miniature inns, they provide food, shelter and even lodging to dozens at a time.
We sit on a bench between a Gujjar herdsman and a pilgrim who is too feverish to make the climb to the temple. He accepts my offer of an aspirin to go with his tea. We tackle some buns—rock-hard, to match our environment—and wash the pellets with hot sweet tea.
There is a small shrine here, too, right in front of the tea shop. It is a slab of rock roughly shaped like a lingam and it is daubed with vermilion and strewn with offerings of wild flowers. The mica in the rock gives it a beautiful sheen.
I suppose Hinduism comes closest to being a nature religion. Rivers, rocks, trees, plants, animals and birds all play their part, both in mythology and in everyday worship. This harmony is most evident in those remote places where gods and mountains coexist. Tungnath, as yet unspoilt by materialistic society, exerts its magic on all who come there with open mind and heart.
The Glacier
It was a fine sunny morning—oh so many years ago—when we set out to cover the last seven miles to the glacier, Kamal, Anil, Bisnu and I. We were young, hungry for adventure. We had expected this to be a stiff climb, and it was. The last dak bungalow was situated at well over 10,000 feet above sea level, and the ascent was to be fairly gradual.
And suddenly, abruptly, there were no more trees. As the bungalow dropped out of sight, the trees and bushes gave way to short grass and little blue-and-pink alpine flowers. The snow-peaks were close now, ringing us in on every side. We passed waterfalls, cascading hundreds of feet down precipitous rock faces, thundering into the little river. A great golden eagle hovered over us for some time.
‘I feel different again,’ said Kamal.
‘We’re very high now,’ I said. ‘I hope we won’t get headaches.’
‘I’ve got one already,’ complained Anil. ‘Let’s have some tea.’
We had left our cooking utensils at the bungalow, expecting to return there for the night, and had brought with us only a few biscuits, chocolate and a thermos of tea. We finished the tea, and Bisnu scrambled about on the grassy slopes, collecting wild strawberries. They were tiny strawberries, very sweet, and they did nothing to satisfy our appetites. There was no sign of habitation or human life. The only creatures to be found at that height were the gurals—sure-footed mountain goats—and an occasional snow-leopard, or a bear.
We found and explored a small cave, and then turning a bend, came unexpectedly upon the glacier.
The hill fell away and there, confronting us, was a great white field of snow and ice cradled between two peaks that could only have been the abode of the gods. We were speechless for several minutes. Kamal took my hand and held on to it for reassurance; perhaps he was not sure that what he saw was real. Anil’s mouth hung open. Bisnu’s eyes glittered with excitement.
We proceeded cautiously on to the snow, supporting each other on the slippery surface, but we could not go far, because we were quite unequipped for any high-altitude climbing. It was p
leasant to feel that we were the only boys in our town who had climbed so high. A few black rocks jutted out from the snow, and we sat down on them, to feast our eyes on the view. The sun reflected sharply from the snow, and we felt surprisingly warm.
‘Let’s sunbathe!’ said Anil, on a sudden impulse.
‘Yes, let’s do that!’ I said.
In a few minutes we had taken off our clothes and, sitting on the rocks, were exposing ourselves to the elements. It was delicious to feel the sun crawling over my skin. Within half an hour I was postbox red, and so was Bisnu, and the two of us decided to get into our clothes before the sun scorched the skin off our backs. Kamal and Anil appeared to be more resilient to sunlight, and laughed at our discomfiture. Bisnu and I avenged ourselves by gathering up handfuls of snow and rubbing it on their backs. They dressed quickly enough after that, Anil leaping about like a performing monkey.
Meanwhile, almost imperceptibly, clouds had covered some of the peaks, and a white mist drifted down the mountain slopes. It was time to get back to the bungalow; we would barely make it before dark.
We had not gone far when lightning began to sizzle above the mountain-tops, followed by waves of thunder.
‘Let’s run!’ shouted Anil. ‘We can take shelter in the cave!’
The clouds could hold themselves in no longer, and the rain came down suddenly, stinging our faces as it was whipped up by an icy wind. Half-blinded, we ran as fast as we could along the slippery path, and stumbled, drenched and exhausted, into the little cave.
The cave was mercifully dry, and not very dark. We remained at the entrance, watching the rain sweep past us, listening to the wind whistling down the long gorge.
‘It will take some time to stop,’ said Kamal.
‘No, it will pass soon,’ said Bisnu. ‘These storms are short and fierce.’
Anil produced his pocket knife, and to pass the time we carved our names in the smooth rock of the cave.
‘We will come here again, when we are older,’ said Kamal, ‘and perhaps our names will still be here.’
It had grown dark by the time the rain stopped. A full moon helped us find our way. We went slowly and carefully. The rain had loosened the earth and stones kept rolling down the hillside. I was afraid of sporting a landslide.
‘I hope we don’t meet the Lidini now,’ said Anil fervently.
‘I thought you didn’t believe in her,’ I said.
‘I don’t,’ replied Anil. ‘But what if I’m wrong?’
We saw only a gural, poised on the brow of a precipice, silhouetted against the sky.
And then the path vanished.
Had it not been for the bright moonlight, we might have walked straight into an empty void. The rain had caused a landslide, and where there had been a narrow path there was now only a precipice of loose, slippery shale.
‘We’ll have to go back,’ said Bisnu. ‘It will be too dangerous to try and cross in the dark.’
‘We’ll sleep in the cave,’ I suggested.
‘We’ve nothing to sleep in,’ said Anil. ‘Not a single blanket between us—and nothing to eat!’
‘We’ll just have to rough it till morning,’ said Kamal. ‘It will be better than breaking our necks here.’
We returned to the cave, which did at least have the virtue of being dry. Bisnu had matches, and he made a fire with some dry sticks which had been left in the cave by a previous party. We ate what was left of a loaf of bread.
There was no sleep for any of us that night. We lay close to each other for comfort, but the ground was hard and uneven. And every noise we heard outside the cave made us think of leopards and bears and even the Abominable Snowman.
We got up as soon as there was a faint glow in the sky. The snow peaks were bright pink, but we were too tired and hungry and worried to care for the beauty of the sunrise. We took the path to the landslide, and once again looked for a way across. Kamal ventured to take a few steps on the loose pebbles, but the ground gave way immediately, and we had to grab him by the arms and shoulders to prevent him from sliding a hundred feet down the gorge.
‘Now what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘Look for another way,’ said Bisnu.
‘But do you know of any?’
And we all turned to look at Bisnu, expecting him to provide the solution to our problem.
‘I have heard of a way,’ said Bisnu. ‘But I have never used it. It will be a little dangerous, I think. The path has not been used for several years—not since the traders stopped coming in from Tibet.’
‘Never mind, we’ll try it,’ said Anil.
‘We will have to cross the glacier first,’ said Bisnu. ‘That’s the main problem.’
We looked at each other in silence. The glacier didn’t look difficult to cross, but we knew that it would not be easy for novices. For almost two furlongs it consisted of hard, slippery ice.
Anil was the first to arrive at a decision.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s no time to waste.’
We were soon on the glacier. And we remained on it for a long time. For every two steps forward, we slid one step backward. Our progress was slow and awkward. Sometimes, after advancing several yards across the ice at a steep incline, one of us would slip back and the others would have to slither down to help him up. At one particularly difficult spot, I dropped our water bottle and grabbing at it, lost my footing, fell full-length and went sliding some twenty feet down the ice slope.
I had sprained my wrist and hurt my knee and was to prove a liability for the rest of the trek.
Kamal tied his handkerchief round my hand, and Anil took charge of the water bottle, which we had filled with ice. Using my good hand to grab Bisnu’s legs whenever I slipped, I struggled on behind the others.
It was almost noon and we were quite famished by the time we put our feet on grass again. And then we had another steep climb, clutching at roots and grasses, before we reached the path that Bisnu had spoken about. It was little more than a goat-track, but it took us round the mountain and brought us within sight of the dak bungalow.
‘I could eat a whole chicken,’ said Kamal.
‘I could eat two,’ I said.
‘I could eat a snowman,’ said Bisnu.
‘And I could eat the chowkidar,’ said Anil.
Fortunately for the chowkidar, he had anticipated our hunger, and when we staggered into the bungalow late in the afternoon, we found a meal waiting for us. True, there was no chicken—but, so ravenous did we feel, that even the lowly onion tasted delicious!
We had Bisnu to thank for getting us back successfully. He had brought us over mountain and glacier with all the skill and confidence of a boy who had the Himalayas in his blood.
We took our time getting back to Kapkote. We fished in the Sarayu river, bathed with the village boys we had seen on our way up, collected strawberries and ferns and wild flowers, and finally said goodbye to Bisnu.
Anil wanted to take Bisnu along with us, but the boy’s parents refused to let him go, saying that he was too young for the life in a city; but we were of the opinion that Bisnu could have taught the city boys a few things.
‘Never mind,’ said Kamal. ‘We’ll go on another trip next year, and we’ll take you with us, Bisnu. We’ll write and let you know our plans.’
This promise made Bisnu happy, and he saw us off at the bus stop, shouldering our bedding to the end. Then he skimmed up the trunk of a fir tree to have a better view of us leaving, and we saw him waving to us from the tree as our bus went round the bend from Kapkote, and the hills were left behind and the plains stretched out below.
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First published by Penguin Books India 2006
Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2006
Cover photograph by Ruskin Bond
Cover design by Ajanta Guhathakurta
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ISBN: 978-01-4400-072-2
This digital edition published in 2012.
e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-070-6
All photographs, except those on pages 74 and 117 by Ruskin Bond.
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