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MAGAZINE
India Abroad
December 4, 2009
The International
Weekly Newspaper

In
Shiva’s
arms
BIJOY VENUGOPAL
 At Rudraprayag, the confluence

In the arm
M6 TRAVEL of the Alakananda and Mandakini
rivers, sacred waters from two
streams of faith - Badrinath and
Kedarnath - merge

O
Shiv
ff National Highway 58 at
Rudraprayag, about a mile’s drive
from the uproarious junction of two
mountain rivers in the Garhwal
Himalayas, stands an unimposing
walled garden planted with crotons
and overgrown with invasive weeds.
At its center, a white concrete plaque unceremoni-
ously marks the spot where an Indian-born hunter
of Irish descent shot a leopard in 1926. Beside it, a
signboard in the green-and-red flag colors of the
Uttarakhand forest department informs us that this
was no ordinary animal: the cat had haunted the
valley for eight years and claimed 125 human lives.
A man-eating leopard in these unrepentant urban
environs? I imagine a shadowy creature, dappled
with rosettes, stalking me. It’s pointless: the growl I A trek to Tungnath, one of the high
hear emanates from multi-utility vehicles zipping
on the macadam behind me. Shiva shrines in the world, to catch
In the 1920s, long before the muddy glare of sodi-
um-vapor lighting and the glowering beacons of last breath. Text and photographs:
wireless towers had confounded Mother Nature’s
circadian rhythm, the Himalayan night must have
offered more grist for the imagination. Under
starlight, fancy eloped with fact and spawned many
myths around the beast. But this much we know to
be true: villagers refused to step out of their homes
after sundown for fear of being the leopard’s next
quarry. And that was bad news for Rudraprayag, an
important halt on the routes to the sacred Hindu
temples of Kedarnath and Badrinath.
When the British government in India announced
a reward for killing the man-eater, bounty hunters
turned in many leopards, claiming each one to be
the culprit. Meanwhile, the death toll mounted. In
desperation the British Parliament turned to Edward James drops his finished creations delicately into an enormous
Corbett, a railway contractor and a crack shot who lived in wok of sizzling oil that browns them into crisp samosas.
Nainital in the adjoining Kumaon region. Jim Corbett accept- Three ceiling fans spin giddily inside the dormitory of
ed the offer on two conditions: that all rewards for killing the the Rudra Guest House run by the Garhwal Mandal Vikas
leopard be withdrawn, and that other hunters trailing the cat Nigam, a government-owned tourism agency that offers
be ordered to stop. In his gripping memoir The Man-eating reliable budget accommodation. From its courtyard I take
Leopard of Rudraprayag, Corbett chronicles his dramatic in an unbroken view of the gorge about a hundred feet
two-year pursuit of the big cat before he gunned it down at below, where the deep-green Mandakini (which rises near
this very spot. Kedarnath) is consumed by the foamy wake of the silt-
Every year a fair is held to commemorate Corbett’s achieve- laden Alakananda, a major headstream of the Ganga that
ment, and some village elders cling to the belief that this spe- springs near Badrinath.
cialist hunter of man-eaters and pioneer conservationist
(India’s largest national park, the Corbett Tiger Reserve, is
named after him) was a holy man sent to rid them of an evil
spirit. The younger generation, however, seems to have grown
unmindful of this aspect of the town’s history. My friend
Sahas had to instruct our driver, a road-raging boor, to slow
down lest he missed the memorial.
~~~
Rudraprayag is today the headquarters of an eponymous
district in the Tehri-Garhwal region of the northern Indian
state of Uttarakhand. At 4 pm, it is hot and stuffy in the mar-
ketplace and the air is rank with diesel fumes. Flies flirt with
my eyelashes and nostrils. At the drugstore where I stop to
stock our first-aid kit, the teenage shopkeeper does not lift his
eyes up from the playlist he is shuffling on his cell phone.
Nearby, overflowing rubbish bins invite dogs and donkeys to
rummage for surprises.
My delusion of the Corbettian Himalayan hamlet has evap-
orated and found a place alongside other disappointments –
fetid gutters gurgling beside the highway, deforested land- A deserted s
slide-scarred slopes crowned with modern temples the color nomadic, mo
of unappetizing confectionery, and hummocks of garbage and to lower altit
polythene bags where crows and kites bicker over morsels.
Yet, in other ways, Father Time has not grayed for the last Washed b
thirty years. Tacked to the pillar of a wayside temple, a Rudrapraya
Garhwali film poster for Meru Gau [My Village] has artwork fluences, of
redolent of an age bygone when Indian cinema was besotted Forty-two
with nationalism. Vendors hawk vegetables and fruit on Devprayag,
Tungnath, the highest
wooden carts, shooing away wandering cows that pause to Bhagirathi,
Shiva shrine in the world,
inspect their wares. In a sooty teashop, a hirsute cook in a 435 miles fr
is one of the five sacred
grimy sleeveless vest rolls parathas while his slick-haired From Ru
temples collectively
apprentice shapes dough into cones, tucking a dollop of takes us 25
known as the Panch Kedar
spiced potato into the hollow of each one. Sealing the ends, he 4,500 feet a
arms of
hiva
f the highest and holiest
d, to catch the monsoon’s
ographs: Bijoy Venugopal
About a mile's climb from
Tungnath is Chandrashila,
over 13,000 ft, which
commands a view of the
snow-capped peaks of
Trishul, Chaukhamba,
Neelkanth, Kedarnath and
the most revered of them
all - Nanda Devi
PHOTOGRAPHS: BIJOY VENUGOPAL
fall makes the trail to Kedarnath unwalka-
ble, the deity is brought down in a ceremoni-
al palanquin to the Omkareshwar Pith tem-
ple at Ukhimath and worshipped here till it
is returned to the mountain shrine in mid-
May. Another Shiva idol, from the shrine at
Madhyamaheshwar, is also housed here in
winter. Both Kedarnath and
Madhyamaheshwar are among the five
sacred Shiva shrines known collectively as
the Panch Kedar (the Five Kedars – Kedar
being a local name for Shiva). The others are
Tungnath, Kalpeshwar and Rudranath.
Legend holds that the Pandavas, protago-
nists of the Hindu epic Mahabharata, having
decimated their cousins the Kauravas in the
great war at Kurukshetra, wished to atone
A deserted shepherd's corral in Chopta, Chamoli district, Uttarakhand. Shepherds are for the sin of fratricide. They arrived in the
nomadic, moving with their flocks to higher pastures in summer. In winter they move back Himalayas to seek Shiva’s blessings but the
to lower altitudes where they keep their flocks in corrals such as these. Lord, disgusted with the horror of war,
changed form into a bull to avoid them. His
Washed by the sacred waters of two streams of faith, pursuers saw through his disguise and gave chase. In the scuf-
Rudraprayag is the fourth of the five sacred prayags, or con- fle, the bull was dismembered. Its body parts reappeared in
fluences, of the Gangetic riverine system in the Himalayas. various regions of the Himalayas – the hump at Kedarnath,
Forty-two miles southwest, at the final confluence in the arms at Tungnath, the face at Rudranath, the navel at
Devprayag, the Alakananda joins the clear waters of the Madhyamaheshwar and the locks at Kalpeshwar. The head, it
Bhagirathi, the source stream of the Ganga which has flowed is believed, emerged at the Pashupatinath temple in
435 miles from Gaumukh at the lip of the Gangotri glacier. Kathmandu, Nepal. Pilgrims consider a circuit of these
From Rudraprayag, our bus crosses the Mandakini and shrines to be auspicious.
takes us 25 miles to Ukhimath, a village of terraced rice fields Our destination is Tungnath, the third Kedar, and my pur-
4,500 feet above sea level. In October, before autumnal snow- pose is religious only in a pagan sense. To walk the wild
THE MAGAZINE
India Abroad December 4, 2009
A male Himalayan Monal,
the state bird of
Uttarakhand, surveys its
kingdom at dawn
Himalayas, breathe their bounteous air, encounter their
wildlife, their trees and wildflowers, rivers and springs, and to
be at the mercy of their elements is pilgrimage enough for me.
The timing of our trip is significant. In late September, the
monsoon gathers its weakening winds to drench the
Himalayas in a final burst of rain. Last November, I followed
the monsoon on its return journey through the southern hills
of Tamil Nadu (Chasing the Other Monsoon, Magazine, May
1, 2009) and now, I am here to witness the spectacle of its
retreat from the Himalayas.
~~~
The trail from Chopta, the gateway to the pilgrim route at
the base of the mountain, to its summit at Chandrashila,
skirts the Kedarnath Musk Deer Sanctuary and is a haven for
birds, particularly that magnificent pheasant – the
Himalayan Monal (Lophophorus impeyanus). The trail also
commands spellbinding views of the Greater Himalaya, par-
ticularly the snow-crested peaks of Chaukhamba, Trishul,
Nilkanth, Kedarnath, and the tallest and most majestic of
them all – Nanda Devi.
We check into the GMVN guest house in Ukhimath. The
snow-capped crown of Chaukhamba (23,419 feet), gilded by a
dying sun, presides over the twilit horizon. An enormous
moon climbs to the centre of the sky. In the brief interval
between the power outage and the grunt of the generator
kicking in, we enjoy an ephemeral glimpse of the untainted
Himalayan night. After a simple dinner of rotis and dal at the
guest house kitchen, we turn in.
And we wake to a glorious morning. On the horizon,
Chaukhamba is cruddy with clouds but the sky above us is
clear. We hire a jeep for Sari, from where we intend to explore
Deoriya Tal, a mountain lake at 8,000 feet.
From the roadhead, the lake is about a mile’s climb through
forests of oak and chir pine. Our city-slicker lungs, not yet
acclimated to the altitude, protest. We make a labored ascent
up the cobbled path, 2,500 feet above Sari, distracted occa-
sionally by tortoiseshell-patterned butterflies, cooing turtle
doves, orange mushrooms and a squadron of Himalayan
Griffon vultures.
From a glade we glimpse the gigantic massif of
Chaukhamba. The path opens into a manicured lawn. We ask
the forest guard, who collects our Rs 40 entry fee, if he uses a
lawnmower but he assures us that the landscape artist is
Nature herself.
~~~
The lake is jade green, its limpid surface rippled by translu-
cent trout. Skirting it is a walkway shaded by oaks wearing
jackets of fern. Ringlets of moss dangle from the boughs like
permed tresses while lemon-yellow warblers twitter in the
canopy. Purple geraniums, yellow daisies and dead rhododen -
dron leaves carpet the ground.
We leave our backpacks at a shack where a Garhwali boy is
stirring a pot of Maggi noodles. His guests – Bengali tourists
– are arguing loudly about the conduct of a relative who has
slipped into the bushes to relieve himself. The said party
emerges presently, looking refreshed. We order
parathas and go away to explore the lakeside, 4M8

M8 TRAVEL
careful to avoid the spot from where
4M7 our friend emerged.
Clouds building up in the sky sully our
view of Chaukhamba. After lunch, we retrace our
steps toward Sari hoping to walk the five and a half
miles back to Ukhimath. The exercise proves more
ambitious than imagined and we are grateful to a
passing motorist for dropping us back to the guest
house.
At the cottage, I peel off my socks to find my left
instep caked with blood. The culprit, a leech, must
have latched onto me as I crossed a stream on our
descent to Mastura, halfway to Ukhimath.
After a muggy night, we wake at 5 AM to the fine
patter of rain on the tin roof. At first light the valley is
enveloped in mist. The drizzle has delayed our bus to
Chopta. When it arrives we are lucky to find seats.
The bus is a cramped little box that barely lets us
tuck our knees in. Below its windscreen is embla-
zoned the curious legend ‘bhook hartal’ (Hindi for
‘hunger strike’). Ruskin Bond, in his travel anthology
Delhi Is Not Far (Penguin, 1994), traces the genesis of
the inscription to a protest undertaken by the people
of the local villages.
Until a few decades ago, buses that passed through
Ukhimath en route to the Chamoli district headquar-
ters at Gopeshwar (25 miles away) originated in
Srinagar (46 miles away) or Rishikesh (113 miles
away) where they filled up with pilgrims and arrived
too full to accommodate local passengers. Frustrated,
the villagers pressed their demand for a separate bus
by threatening to fast unto death. The authorities
yielded, the villagers got their bus, and the phrase
stuck.
~~~
The 11-mile bus ride to Chopta, where we will spend
the next five days, winds picturesquely past the vil-
lages of Makkumath and Duggalbitta. Our ears pop
as we gain altitude. The fog parts to reveal dense forests of iar every trail we have walked. We explore the deserted
oak, pine and deodar interspersed with sprawling meadows
or bugyals.
At 9,600 feet, Chopta is all of lodges and teashops. Our
bus pulls up outside Bugyal Restaurant where a bearded,
dour-faced man is frying bread pakoras in a giant karhai.
His muscled colleague stirs heaps of noodles in a skillet.
Singing lustily, a sharp-featured waiter serves us tea.
The weather calls for three layers of clothing. It was
sunny until yesterday, the musta-
chioed restaurant owner tells us
ruefully. Weekends, he says, bring
the most tourists. We learn that
every smidgen of accommodation is
taken. Just as we begin to worry, a
wiry chap with a slender moustache
and shifty eyes announces himself.
Birbal Singh Chauhan, we soon
learn, is a fixer. How exactly he is
gainfully employed we never get to
know, but he is clearly an important
man. His ear glued to his cell phone,
he fixes us up at a lodge run by his
brother. Then he sends a message
with a mule driver to secure a roof
over our heads for our last night in
Tungnath.
Our lodge, one of the best avail-
able in Chopta, has no electricity
save a solar-powered lamp. There In 1926, the sleepy village of Rudraprayag shot
are thick quilts on our beds but we into fame as the location where Jim Corbett
prefer our sleeping bags. Wood-fired shot a man-eating leopard that had taken 125
hot water can be had on demand lives over eight years
should we muster the guts to bathe.
On the wall, hand-sized spiders
meditate sullenly.
~~~
On clear days, Chopta offers an amphitheatric view of Then we see the glow of his cigarette fade into the dark-
snow-capped peaks but the rain robs us of that pleasure. In
other ways, though, it works its charm. Roaming the forest
pathways, we discover how mist makes instantly unfamil-
A Korean-Canadian
man picks up trash left
behind by pilgrims at
Chandrashila, Chamoli
district, Uttarakhand
In the arms of
Shiva
winter corrals built by shepherds, get on our bellies to pho-
tograph wild mushrooms, crawl under crevices to protect
our cameras from the rain, and cup icy spring water in our
numb hands. And yes, we delight in the occasional spell of
sun.
We encounter few trekkers. Most visitors are pilgrims or
casual tourists and they bring with them an irksome atti-
tude of apathy. Even as volunteers from a local self-help
group patiently collect garbage in
large sacks to be carried downhill on
mules, the pilgrims continue to trash
the place. There is something single-
mindedly abject about the way some
people travel hundreds of miles in a
bus or a car without as much as
glancing at the scenery, making a
quick dash to a temple on horseback,
defiling the serenity of the moun-
tains with noisy conversation, and
scattering litter without a care.
We spend four days in Chopta.
After a reconnaissance of the route
to Tungnath, we decide that the only
way to reach Chandrashila by sun-
rise is to travel the two-and-a-half
miles from Chopta on mules.
In circumstances eerily similar to a
pre-dawn hostage swap, we leave
our room before sunup, hoist our-
selves onto mules in pitch darkness,
and meekly follow instructions to
lean forward in case our mounts
decide to shake us off. We see no
faces, understand nothing of what is
spoken, and identify only vaguely the sleep-roughened
voice of Birbal Singh Chauhan as he rasps instructions.
ness. Our mules lurch forward with a clack of shod hooves
and a jangle of bells. We hold on tight and try not to inhale
the equine effluvium rising richly behind us. Only a half
THE MAGAZINE
India Abroad December 4, 2009
hour later when dawn lights up the trail do we see the
faces of the mules or their driver.
I wouldn’t trust myself to do this anywhere else in
the world but in Garhwal.
~~~
Tungnath is gray and spare. At 12,073 feet, the
highest Shiva shrine in the world is believed to have
been built a thousand years ago. Wind and water have
nibbled at it. Standing against a backdrop of grassy
cliffs with a white flag fluttering above its wooden
spire, it appears as aloof and solitary as a fortress.
Flanking the paved street leading up to the temple
is a string of stone huts roofed with slabs of slate.
Most are abandoned or serve as overnight shelters for
mules. Others, used as teashops and restaurants, have
beds at the back for travelers.
Mr Fixer has arranged our stay at Devloke Hotel run
by Naveen, a bearded Garhwali wearing earmuffs, for
the princely tariff of Rs 100 a night. Naveen’s other
guest, a red-haired Catalonian woman, is seated
beside his smoky woodstove pulling on a brown beedi
and trying to learn the recipe for dal. “You must
install a chimney,” she tells him, blinking her stream-
ing eyes.
At a teashop nearby, two sadhus exhale blue clouds
from a chillum of hashish. One of them is busy with
needle and thread, fashioning a cloak out of a woolen
blanket. They blink at the mist philosophically and
tell us that they intend to walk the rough forest trail
to Badrinath, nearly 70 miles away. The middle-aged
owner of the teashop also takes a few puffs and,
unsurprisingly, his parathas turn out to be the best we
have eaten.
~~~
It is nearly 7 AM. The white peaks are ablaze. The
gradual gradient to Chandrashila, 13,386 feet, is well
above the tree line. Close-cropped grasses and clumps
of juniper are the only vegetation. With few natural
barriers to tame it, the wind chafes at us.
A Monal pheasant calls. Vultures soar at eye-level. A red
fox stops to glare at us and disappears into the hillside.
Flocks of small birds rise like dustballs. A stone shrine ded-
icated to Nanda Devi, goddess of the mountains, peeks out
of the fog.
We are at Chandrashila. And we are not alone. A party of
Korean-Canadians has arrived well before us. One of them,
fiftyish, is seated shirtless on a cliff edge meditating on the
rising sun. Another heaps rocks into cairns, placing a
marigold at the base of each one. A third goes about pick-
ing up trash left by pilgrims. They are here for ten days, one
of them tells us, to practice mind control.
But for the wind hissing in the grass, it is overwhelming-
ly quiet. Something about Chandrashila silences even the
crows. Yet, there is a palpable throb in the air. I am not sure
if it is the blood singing in my ears or the vibration of a
higher energy, but it is innervating.
The warm sun in our faces, our lungs pumped with fresh
air, the glorious vista of snowy peaks and rolling green
meadows all seem to announce that we are very close to the
nirvana we were seeking.
We are in the arms of Shiva.
~~~
At dusk, a clear moon rises over Tungnath. Sahas and I
spend our last night in the mountains, listening restlessly
to the rustle of rats on the plastic sheet that serves as the
ceiling of Devloke Hotel.
A mule harrumphs outside. Across the wall, the
Catalonian woman hums a tune.
Sleepless, I step out at 3 AM wearing Sahas’ headlamp on
my forehead. The proud swathe of the Milky Way spangles
the sky. Silvery peaks glow ghostly in the distance. The
monsoon has retreated.
I am bearded, not having shaved for a week. My hair
drops to my shoulders. A scarf, wrapped serpentine around
my neck, flaps in the wind.
A mule-driver asleep near the hearth wakes startled. In
the blazing white glare of my headlamp, his eyes are
saucers and his hands are clasped.
He is forgiven for thinking I am Shiva. n