JOIN USHome to some of the most important holy places in the country, Garhwal can surprise visitors with its beauty and simplicity. Ashis Dutta describes his visits to Garhwal over the years.
“I do not want to go to any tirth yatra, even if it is to the Garhwal Himalayas,” I said. “I am an atheist,” I clarified. But mamaji was not someone to give up so easily. He knew his way with a 21-year-old self-proclaimed disbeliever. So, on a bright May afternoon back in the early 80s, along with mamaji’s entourage, I was in Muni-ki-Reti — the part of Rishikesh where most of the yatris would converge in those days for their onward journeys to the char-dhams (four pilgrim centres of Kedarnath, Badrinath, Gangotri and Yamunotri).
Although I did not enter the temple in Kedarnath on that trip, I did go back there decades later. The second time around, I touched the rump-rock of Shiva inside the sanctum. Kedarnath does not have the traditional lingam, but a pyramidal rock in the shape of a bull’s rump. Having undergone a minor shift from an atheist to a spiritual agnostic, I closed my eyes and recited Shankaracharya’s Shiva-Panchakshara-Stotram. When and how is another story for another day.
Beauty of the hills
Was I stumped by the beauty of the Garhwal Himalayas, like love at first sight? Not quite. On that first trip, the swirling road from Rishikesh had my head reeling. A couple of passengers in the bus throwing up did not make matters easy. Sick-bag, what’s that? And the mule ride from Gauri Kund to Kedarnath was so painful that when I alighted at the mid-point choti of Rambara for respite and a roti, my knees were still bent like the way they were while astride. I could hardly walk. Finally, when we reached Kedarnath, the tour guide informed us that the GMVN travellers’ lodge had been damaged by an avalanche the previous night, so we had to make do with makeshift arrangements — “For one night only, Sir.”
The next morning, when I came out of my shanty, shivery, night-joint, the world was bright and covered in snow. Against the whiteness, the sky looked a shade bluer than sky-blue. The mountain to the north, the Sumeru — on which the Pandavas had walked up towards swarga during their maha-prashthan — was dazzling in the morning sun. A little mountain stream danced down a couple of yards away from me before jaunting, swerving and babbling into River Mandakini. Then, all of a sudden, my flouting mind, breaching its contract with the sceptic head, prompting me to yell out: “If there is heaven on earth, this is it.”
So, I kept coming back to the Garhwal mountains over the years, time and again. Every time, I discovered the mountain and its people anew. The Garhwali people are simple to a fault, with a faith as gigantic as the mountain range they call home. On one occasion, sitting around a chai shop in Joshimath, I innocuously asked them the location of the technical starting point of Ganga and was met with bemused stares. Finally, a man of 80-something, with deep freckles and a ramrod straight demeanour, gave me a wide toothless smile and a gentle nod, and said, “Ganga Mai? She comes out of Mahadev’s jata. From where else?”
Moments like these appear just as suddenly at unknown bends of the journey in Garhwal, leaving me without words or thoughts. But the words and thoughts do seep in, albeit slowly, turning mental rocks into clay. It is hard, then, not to view the whole of Garhwal as a shrine where one needs to enter leaving the chappals of ego outside.
Trudging up those treacherous slopes, I wondered if the mountain provides an elixir which keeps eluding me. The 70- and 80-year-old men and women from all across the country, some stooped with age, chant, “Jai Kedar, Jai Ganga Mai,” while they march up to their gods. Their steps show no sign of tiring, and their voices are buoyant like fluttering temple flags. All the while I did not realise that the Garhwal mountains, stoic as they appeared to me, were unhurriedly fashioning me, pebble by pebble.
One such pebble was laid while I was driving up from Haridwar to Pauri, a small district town. Those were the days of Ambassador cars, and my rickety one was lumbering up the Siwalik Range. It was already late in the afternoon and I wanted to reach Pauri before dark. “Another hour’s drive, Sir,” declared Mohan Lal, the driver, as he switched off the groaning of the engine and added, “Sahab, chai pi lijiye.” I figured that his rattletrap of a car required cooling down more than I needed garam chai.
Unusual encounters
We stopped by a roadside tea stall. On both sides of the road were thick forests of teak, birch and trees of a hundred other varieties I did not know of. Above them, to the north, the snowy peaks glistened in the last rays of the setting sun. The tea-stall was nestled in a small clearing by the side of a frolicking mountain stream that danced its way into the fold of the forest. Garam chai arrived in earthen pot. The first sip put my senses, deranged by the swirl of the mountain road, back on track. Lazily my gaze followed the stream from where it appeared by the overgrowth to the far left, and in a swerve, ran away to my right and into the depth of the forest. Then, my gaze suddenly froze. An elderly man was standing on a rock that jutted out of the stream. From where did he appear? His features were dark, his mane unkempt, and a single piece of white cloth covered his body. He was smiling at me.
I hesitated to smile back and looked the other way. Then, on a second thought, I turned towards him and beckoned. He hoped and skipped from one rock to another on the stream and was ashore in a moment. I was startled by his sudden agility. Hunger can make one fly, I reasoned. I asked the chai-wala offer the old man a cup of tea and a quarter pound of loaf and charge them on me. The chai-wala smiled shyly at me and declined, “Nahin Sa’ab.” I was dumbfounded. What audacity! Instinctively, I resolved to do something. Suddenly, I remembered the fruits in the car. I went up, fetched the bag of fruits, summoned the old man and handed it over to him. All eyes were on me. The old man, saying nothing, just smiled and nodded. If I wasn’t already flabbergasted by the chai-wala, I didn’t know how shocked I was about to be.
The old man took the fruits out from the bag, one by one, and handed them to the chai-wala’s three little children, who, having appeared from nowhere, were merrily dancing around him. He offered one to Mohan Lal, and one even to the chai-wala, and they both happily accepted. He had the gall to offer me one, which I turned down indignantly. The old man distributed the entire stock and retained just one mango for himself. Then, he smilingly nodded at me and started to walk back towards the forest.
“What is all this?” I demanded of the chai-wala.
“Sahab, please no get angry. He is Mauni Baba,” said the chai-wala, with the gifted fruit in his folded hands.
“What Mauni Baba?” I exploded.
“Mauni Babas are saints who no speak. He a great yogi, Sahab. He lives deep inside the forest, beyond this mountain, and very rarely comes out in the open.” I was silent. He went on, “Baba no take cooked food, Sahab, so no chai for him.” I fathomed the declining-of-the-chai episode.
“But why didn’t he take all the fruits I gave him?” I was surprised at my insipid voice. “Sahab, a sanyasi no save; not even for the next meal. He took only one mango he eat now, and gave all away.” I stood speechless. Was the Garhwal mountain with its forests and streams mocking me? I turned around sharply and ran towards the stream. The cheerful stream rippled along, but Mauni Baba was gone.