In November, I decided to visit Harsil Valley. A picturesque valley with snow-peaked mountains and the last settled village on the way to the Gangotri Dham. It had long been my wish to visit Harsil, and at a time when the water is blue and the wind is cold. Fortunately, November weather matches my conditions perfectly. I booked a homestay with Ishan, whose first line read, "Atop a small 1.5 km hike is our home with beautiful Apple orchards." When I enquired with him before booking, he was quick to tell me that the homestay is not in the valley, but we have to hike a bit to get there. "Although the view from my home is great," he said after mentioning the hike. Hiking wasn't a problem, and I could easily sacrifice my legs for the views in Harsil Valley.
My trip to the Harsil valley started with multiple U-turns, thanks to Ishan, who was confused and did not know the signs on the way. "I am at the signboard that says, Welcome to Bagori village", I said, thinking I have reached because his house is in Bagori. "Where is this signboard? I haven't seen it. I think you went ahead. Come back.", he said quite confidently. After 3 KM, he said I am going in the wrong direction and took a U-turn again. He apologized five or six times as he made me take U-turns two more times before I reached where he met me, and we parked the car.
Ishan met me in Bagori village, near the public parking on the bridge connecting the village to the valley. A few inches shorter than me, younger than me, and with curly hair, he held a blue bag on his shoulders and wore Crocs.
"Do you want to go to the home or wander around Bagori?" he asked.
"Let's see Bagori, then we can go. I am also hungry," I said.
"There is a shop here that makes excellent momos. We can eat it after seeing the village."
"Sure."
Ishan showed me Bagori and its women, who were busy knitting the woolen clothes. Some women were in the shops selling, while some were knitting. Men of Bagori work in cities and other places to maintain a steady income. A beautiful village with walls painted with different faces and graffiti reading "Bagori" gave it a unique touch among other villages of Uttarakhand. Sadly, Bagori has fallen prey to overtourism, which was evident by constructions happening all around the valley. The structure of most of the buildings looked like a hostel or hotel. Bagori lacks accommodation options and only has a few hotels that you can count on one hand. Seeing the tourism growth, locals have converted their homes into homestays, widening their income sources, especially in such unpredictable times when nobody knows how the next crop will turn out. I was staying in one such homestay, towards which we moved after wandering around for 30 minutes and eating two plates of momo in the restaurant Ishan suggested.
The way to Ishan's home was a steep climb of around 1.5 km, which worsened when around 50 large stairs with huge depth came at the end. I was carrying my backpack that had 9 Kg weight, whose effect I could feel on the stairs. I understood why Ishan had been telling me repeatedly that the house is located after a climb. I asked him, "Do you have trouble with other guests?" He said, "When people from Delhi and Haryana come, they take too much time to climb. They stop after every 5 minutes and keep asking me how far the house is now. They usually go down only on the day of checkout." Incidents like these had made him concious and I am sure people would have spoken with a pinch of salt to him regarding this. Once we climbed to his house, we were welcomed with tea and biscuits by his mother.
Ishan's mother was a housewife taking care of their Apple plantations and household chores while her husband worked in Pauri as a permanent employee. Ishan would wander around in the daytime and came back before it's dark as the path went through dense deodar forests - something for which Harsil is famous, and recently saw the protests when road expansion was approved that required clearing these trees. In all the days at his residence, I never saw his mother's head. She always covered it with a blue woolen scarf and wore a blue woolen knitted jacket. She asked me, "What will you have for dinner?" to which I requested her local cuisine. "Rai ki Sabji?" she asked me. "Oh! Yes! Definitely!" I quickly said, remembering the last time I had mustard leaves in dinner. Ishan and I sat down and had a cup of tea. I asked him about the two places I knew people visited here: Lama Top and Gartang Gali. Ishan showed me the Lama top from where we were sitting. It was exactly at our eye level. This meant we had climbed the same as one requires for the Lama Top, and so he was quick to reject it for me. "Go to Gartang Gali and Neylong Valley, they are much better, unique, and you will enjoy them." Coming from the Dayara Bugyal trek just a day before, I myself wasn't interested in Lama Top, especially when I could see the same view just across the road.
"Let's see tomorrow", I said.
"I can take you to a place nearby. It's a small trek, but it goes from within the forest that only locals know about."
"Sounds good!" I said, and we headed for the delicious dinner his mother had prepared. Rai ki sabji and dal helped me through the chilling night where the temperature dipped to around -6 degrees.
The next day, around 11 AM, we headed for a local trek that went through the Deodar forest. It was not a laid-out path, and only locals could navigate along it. Occasionally, we would encounter small water streams that seemed to know their way, zigzagging across the forest. We crossed them by either jumping above them or going on top of the wooden log somebody had placed. The trek was short, around 30-40 minutes. It ended with a huge sprawling meadow which was all brown, signifying the harsh November month. "Here we are", Ishaan said. "Well, let's sit then".
 |
| Ishan and I on the local trail |
We sat in the meadows for more than 2 hours. It was a bright sunny day, and the sun was not showing any mercy. I removed my jacket and put it on my face to save myself from the sun. I lay down, and we both stayed there for some time.
"I am thinking of learning AI", said Ishaan, breaking the silence.
"What in AI?" I asked.
"I want to develop games and movies. I think AI is the future. Don't you think?" he asked me while looking straight towards the snowy peaks, which he says are still unclimbed and unnamed.
"Future for game and movie development?", I asked.
"Yeah. I mean, if I learn AI, I will be able to earn a lot of money. Don't you think?"
The "Don't you think s were making me feel that he wants validation from me for his thoughts. I tried to reason with him that AI is not as quick to eat jobs as he thinks. Human touch is still prevalent in many fields, especially in complex software development scenarios such as game development. He is not technical, by the way. He has studied BA from Delhi University and is one of those guys who are slaves to the Instagram world, thinking AI will take jobs a dozen per day. He thinks AI is something he should learn to stay relevant and earn a lot of money. He doesn't have any other skills and thinks of it as a shortcut to being a millionaire.
After chatting on AI for an hour, I asked him the names of the peaks around. He said most of the mountains we see are not named yet because nobody has climbed them. "The path there, going from between the mountains, will end up in Spiti if we keep walking on that path. That mountain you see", he said, pointing towards a mountain in front of us with a snowy peak, "NIMS students climb that every year. My brother was in NIMS also; they are great, and their course is the best in the world."
"I thought the HMI course was the best", I said, mimicking the words of my sister who had recently completed the course in Darjeeling.
"No way. NIMS is the best. HMI is nowhere close. You will see NIMS people, you will understand," he said, and added two or three abusive words in front. I felt he was emotionally connected to NIMS because everyone he has met or is related to has completed the course from NIMS. He did not know where HMI is, and I thought not worth arguing with him because there was no reason.
"You know, we are sleeping here like this, and this is an open meadow. A bear can come anytime from anywhere," he said to me in a serious voice. He was not joking. Bear attacks have been a common daily news item lately in the Garhwal region. In harsil valley and Raithal, there had been frequent bear attacks, and they had killed a few people in the past month. It was always in my mind from the point we lay down on that beautiful cushion of brown grass.
"Yeah, I know. But I know bears don't attack in such open lands. They are extremely introverted and don't reveal themselves. Certainly not when such an open meadow is there," I said confidently.
"I think you know too much not to be killed," he said and laughed.
After 2 hours, we decided to go back to his house. It was a relaxing day. I did not do anything or visit anywhere. Just read a book in the morning and played with a few dogs. We descended faster than we thought. It was around 3 PM now. We had come down to the area where houses were located, jumping and crossing the same water streams. On my right, I saw the biggest golden retriever of my life. His head was as big as a calf. He looked at me, I looked at him, his tail started wagging, and he jumped the wall of his house and came to me. He jumped on me. He was too big for me, I must admit. Bigger than any Bhutia dog I had seen, and he was a golden retriever! He was too excited. More than any dog should be with a new person. I petted him on his head, and he seemed to enjoy it. Suddenly, he smelt the jacket which I was holding in my hand and put it in his mouth. I pulled the jacket back, but he did not leave. He locked it in his mouth even harder. I tried with full force, as much as I could, considering I do not tear the jacket. His mouth started foaming, and the foam started dripping on my jacket. I tried two, three, five times, but he loved the jacket too much.
"Ishan, he will tear the jacket," I said to him, who himself looked worried. I noticed he hadn't come close to or petted the dog in that time.
"Chachi!" he shouted to the top of his lungs.
A woman came running towards me. Thin, fair, and wearing a white suit that had red flowers printed on it. She wore a red dupatta on her head, and her hands were covered in wheat flour. I guessed she was making chapatis when she came running towards it.
"Monty! Leave!, she said angrily, but the dog ignored. A uniquely English name in such a remote village surprised me.
"Montyy!!!", she shouted.
Finally, the dog spared my jacket with a thick lather foam on its arm. It was so thick that when I touched it, it stuck to my hands and stretched like cheese in a pizza. I saw the woman slapping the dog on its face a couple of times when it was jumping on her.
"He is too naughty!" Ishan said.
"I am happy that my jacket is still in one piece," I said.
"Hmm...Let's go now. Fast. I have to go and meet CP at 4 PM. It's time."
In all the time I spent in Harsil, most of my time was spent talking about CP. A man in his 60s who had booked Ishan's house for 2 day stay. I cannot end this story without talking about CP and his wife and the talks we had during the evenings and nights. But I spare you right now from making this blog a mini book and will take that over in the next part!
Comments
Post a Comment