Sirop de Vanille

Here, click to read part I and II.

The black Swift carried us to Kufri, which by the way, is a place with no soul. It has been plundered and colonised by the tourism industry. It’s overcrowded, it’s dirty, it’s full of ridiculously dressed north Indians who simply want a cooler climate with the same snacks, the same facilities and the same stench. Everything is for sale in Kufri. Everything. To them, we were hopeless, aimless souls who wanted to go to Chail, where “nothing happens”. We were heading for ‘em luxury tents in a village called Alampur near Chail. We somehow left Kufri behind, despite all its attempts to hold us back: traffic jams, fights with idiotic rude cab drivers, oh! even a Yak spotting! But we carried on, undeterred, we HAD to get out!

Fairy creatures guided us, they made it rain for us. The world was far far away and we were driving on a beautiful narrow, curving road through a pine forest. The sun couldn’t touch us, the air was intoxicating and washed over us in soft waves, we were staring in awe and amazement. The road to Chail was a pathway to surreal yet haunting gorgeousness.

The drive ended, we parked and sent our luggage off to our tent! The plan was to get away from people: the hordes of tourists who had found this little paradise. So, after a steaming cup of tea, some directions and discussions, we headed off for a trek in the hills. I did so in my floaters and socks! Impromptu trips are so much fun! We walked, people… we did. We walked right into a dance practice for a cultural function! We had inadvertently walked in on a group of teenagers practicing a group dance for a mela, where they were to perform a folk number the very next day. A cassette player played forgotten tunes, the boys stood in one row and the girls in another. They danced, we watched and applauded, tried to click photographs with our camera phones, wished them luck and walked on.

The path was welcoming and well trodden, it beckoned us, inviting us to sing songs, to listen to stories; stories of visitors before us, tales of dusty footsteps that created the narrow path over the years. The golden sun played hide ‘n’ seek, disappearing when needed, re-appearing when we least expected. I winked at the gorgeous sun and forgot meaningful warnings, ‘Careful, the recently shed leaves might be slippery’ and I sulked and crawled in faulty footwear.

That’s when we saw him, a not-so-tall, lanky fellow; we peered and tried to focus on what was hoisted on his thin shoulder and exclaimed, “Is that a rifle?”; “Oh my God! He’s carrying a rifle!”; “Is he going to shoot the monkeys!”. While we tried to follow him, he sprinted on the slippery slope, rifle in one hand, a tree branch in the other, he slid from one slope to the other shouting orders at his pet langoor! Guiding him, egging him to attack other monkeys. We stared, rooted to our spots, for we were shocked and curious! We had to know what he, the hunter, was up to. This mowgli meets bounty hunter kept us spell bound, he was guiding his watch-monkey (dog?!) to guide the wild monkeys away from plantations and gardens. He slithered away with a few yells and we, the city walkers, could do nothing. Not even click a decent photograph.

Fairy creatures guided us with wild strawberries, lady bugs and rambling roses – promising us spectacular views. We crossed barriers meant to dissuade leopards and tigers from entering tiny pastures and villages. We could see Shiva’s silhouette against the burning sun, we could see the trishul soaring high above. We could feel a chill creeping on us, it was not an ordinary temple, not a place of worship. It was built for sacrifices and fire and smoke. Three concentric circles contained two over-fed calves that stared and dodged us. The Shiv Mandir was fearful, negative and nothing like any other building I’ve seen before. It celebrated and revered the Destroyer, not the merciful Lord.

I started recalling all the stories I’d heard of him, had he ever been merciful? Was this really what he stood for? Scared sacrificial beings, chillums, bongs and firewood? In order to love him, to submit to him, do they really need the opium, the bhang and the hash? Does it make it easier to kill? To celebrate destruction? While we tried to lighten the mood, by calling the temple, “Psycho Mandir”, a huge bone spotted near the temple didn’t really help! We were silent, contemplative and trying very hard to get away when we saw, a congregation of monkeys! Apparently, they meet, rather collect to celebrate births and mourn deaths (for their sake, I hope it was a birth). Now we had to rush and get away from the monkeys and psycho mandirs!

While the fairies giggled at our flight, we decided to rest. We sat on milestones and tiny boulders and stared at the azure skies bowing in greeting to the tall Himalayas. We saw the valleys celebrate the rains in joy and we saw the lush green preening, adorning it all. We sat in silence and stared. The silence in the hills is warm, comforting and palpable. The silence keeps a million secrets, hides many stories and tales, tucks them away in the many layers, trails and paths that make the hills. It is this silence that makes you breathe, lets you forget and compels you to smile. It makes you wonder, makes you step out of a cosy tent and huddle around a bonfire to hear whispers of unfinished, ever evolving stories. It makes you notice the trees pregnant with lush fruit. It was the silence that made us nibble on almost ripe apricots and plums, in the golden hue of candle light, and think of nothing but the twinkling of many, many stars strewn across the utterly dark skies.