The Second one...Summit of the Gods

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Himachal Pradesh is the land of inaccessible religious shrines or temples; a fact confirmed when I
visited one of the highest temples in the interiors of the state, Dev Badeogi, trekking from a village
near Sunni, amidst the tall mountains of the beautiful northern state.

The old temple may not be famous, but it is one of the very few which enshrine Dronacharya, of
the Mahabharatha epic. It can be reached only by foot, trekking through several hamlets along the
mountain slopes. We were going to trek to it from a village called Panetu.

From Sunni, Panetu is ?? kilometers far, ?? metres higher, but it takes about ?? hours by car. Sunni
itself can be driven to from Shimla easily, amidst a picturesque road, which also boasts of two
temples; one consists of a lone tiny room, which is believed to contain a natural Shiva Lingam, and
the second is called “Athara Bate Bees” (Eighteen out of twenty) - a temple constructed in the
memory of a tragic bus accident which left eighteen out of twenty passengers dead
A little before Sunni, amongst the many mountain peaks, I was pointed to a tiny speck in one of
the summits, barely visible in the distance. This speck was the destination we were headed for; I
could imagine people even living in that height; let alone pray.

After a place called Tattpani, a little further form Sunni, we crossed a signboard indicating another
road which led to a shrine called “Shiva gufa” or Lord Shiva’s caves. I couldn’t go there this time,
and so was left wondering about the history of the shrine amongst the foothills.
We reached Panetu, where we rested the night in one of the accompanying friend’s relative’s
house.
The next morning, we were ready to conquer the heights. There is no “road” leading to the peak or
the temple, except a trodden path etched out by the frequent use of villagers. The morning sun rays
were intense, even as we started to walk towards our faraway destination. The path initially rises
gradually, but it soon transforms into a steep rocky narrow path, which requires careful treading, as
sometimes, the rocks are loose and there are chances of losing one’s foothold. Initially we crossed
a few houses, (since the paths naturally lead to houses), where the kindly residents looked at us
with curious glances, always offering water or refreshments and a place to rest. Due to our
unfamiliar faces, they all could clearly understand our aim and also could relate to our tired red
faces. From the few conversations had, the hike to the DB was not easy, not even for the locals. It
proved even more difficult for us as we were unused to such climbs,
We stopped frequently, resting below whatever little shade that could be found below overhanging
boulders or overgrown shrubbery, there being no tall trees on the mountain. Each step soon
became an effort, and although we seemed no closer to the temple, it did become tangible after a
while – no longer just a flag. The structure was soon visible, on exactly the tip of the summit, yet
far far away. We reached the top of one mountain, with a majestic panorama around us, only to
see that was far more to climb.
Fortunately from this point forward, the path is cemented, so atleast there was no need to be
cautious while plodding on. After about 2 hours of trekking, sunburnt by the seemingly
concentrated sunrays, we reached the foothills of the mandir. We had arrived but not yet reached -

the final path were about 30 steep steps to the actual temple. The gods demanded absolute
devotion, nothing less and so it is exactly at the summit - not near, not in the vicinity but the
zenith.
At the foothill, where we stopped to freshen up before paying our homage, there is a small village -
colourful houses with brightly painted roofs, stray cows strolling around, a few children playing on
a small green field, by which was a small pond. It looked an idyllic sight. A tap’s cool water
refreshed our tired and sore feet, as our uncontrollable thirst. The final steps were taken barefoot; I
felt a sense of exhilaration as I stepped on the threshold of the elusive temple that had demands so
much from its devotees.
The temple is not the traditional concept of a Hindu shrine – there are not many idols, no loud
clanging of bells, no thronging of crowds, no buying and selling of “Prasad”, no small shops
selling small picture frames of gods. There is none of it; it is an ancient and small wooden
structure, recently been reinforced with concrete and tiles. Around this covered section is an open
balcony on all four sides, fenced with railing for protection from a fall below. The covered
enclosure had a low door, painted and engraved which remains closed for the better part of the
year. It opens only on occasions such as “Sankranti” - it is here that the actual shrine exists.
Having visited the place on the day of Diwali, we were lucky to have a glimpse inside. The shrine
is actually not an idol, but a set of stones, believed to be holy and found in a holy place. I am not
quite so sure about the history behind it.
There were hardly ten-fifteen people present, all tired from the physical exertion of the climb,
waiting for the priests. Soon, the priests of the temple came, opened the “dwars”, burned incense,
and a small yagya with ghee and a little wood, a little distance outside the opened doors. It was
difficult for them to get the holy fire burning, given the extremely windy scene. The devotees
offered their prayers - some brought rice grains, some money and some just agarbatti. What struck
me the most was the silence around - everyone almost whispered, not wanting to break the
tranquility or disturb the symphony of the winds.
The view from the top, all around the balcony is incredible. Sunni can be seen far far below, Sutlej
a sinewy vein moving across the valley, the adjacent and faraway mountains merging with the
skies at a distance. The source of our journey was obscured by so many intermediate hills. I felt
incredible peace - this is how religion should be, personal and away from mobs, with the absence
of sounds encouraging one to look within. The proximity of nature liberates one - harmony with
self is inevitable; to come so far with so less support, can only bring one nearer to a higher power,
be it within ourselves or external. My thoughts revolved around this as we scrambled down,
exhaustion creeping into my exhausted body.
As we completed the seemingly endless descent to Panetu, despite being exhausted beyond
imagination, I felt exhilarated. Not religious by nature, I could not place the reason for such
feelings, but I could not deny them either. After the physically demanding journey upwards, on
standing in the temple on top of the world, I had felt an unknown inexplicable power - of faith
couple with untainted nature. That experience cannot be described; is has become a cherished part
of my memories.

My First Article in Print:) -Rohtang

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Having had the good fortune of being born and brought up in one of the most beautiful and picturesque
hill stations in the world (Shillong), other hill stations have never appealed to me. Whenever I had the
occasion to travel to such places, I found myself disappointed, unable to find anything extraordinary or
different from my home town. Nor surprisingly, it is always the sea which attracts my restless soul –
the waves, the beaches and the evening breezes always reviving my spirits. However, Rohtang was the
single exception to this generalization, which I realized when I visited the place with my parents and
brother during a trip to Himachal Pradesh.
The Rohtang trip began with a bright and sunny summer morning in Manali, which we left soon, to
reach calmer, greener surroundings. Far away, the mountain peaks seemed to entice us - the silvery
white strands of snow contrasting with the barren brown of the multitudinous rocky summits, vying
with each other for attention.
As we left the flat roads and ascended along a meandering road, the magnificent scenery opened itself
to our eager eyes. All around, the greenery could not be lusher, the air could not be fresher and we
could not be happier. The road was built in gentle steps instead of steep gradients, due to which the
uphill ride on the mountain(s) did not feel precarious. Majestic pine and fir trees added to the beauty;
standing tall, proud of the splendor they represented. Manali now was a small settlement in the valley
below, surrounded by the protecting peaks.
As we climbed higher, the foliage thinned, the lushness depleted; barren minor cliffs became more
prominent. The clouds played hide and seek with the sun as well as the mountains, sometimes
shadowing the sunshine while sometimes concealing the peaks. Even more often, the clouds drifted
below, hiding the green valleys, making us feel like we were flying over earth. It was only the
momentary glimpses of the green earth between the clouds which suspended our illusions.
The slight chill in the air increased as we went higher. Initially, we had crossed several roadside shops
which hired out fur overcoats and boots to tourists travelling to Rohtang but we had stoutly refused,
deeming the single layer of warm clothing we had on to be sufficient. How wrong we were soon
proved!
The road below was a thin strand entwining the mountain sides between green carpets, stretching a
long way down. Our driver announced a break in the journey - a place called Marhi.
Marhi is the last point up to which travel is allowed post the Indian summer. It is a tiny settlement,
mostly small restaurants which sold the usual chips, biscuits and beverages and meals. There was a
small Buddhist temple on a hill; it seemed so appropriate to the surroundings – a tiny place to place
your faith in, perhaps here prayers were actually heard and answered.
A hot cup of tea later, we were refreshed and back on the roads. It being the best season to visit
Rohtang and Leh, the narrow road was full. At one point, we had to stop because of a block ahead due
to road restoration. We stepped out to stretch our legs. The view was exquisite - a small winding road,
with a deep but gradually sloped descent on our left and a rocky incline on our right. The green slopes
were sprinkled with tiny colourful flowers growing in patches - vivid hues divert attention from the
invariable green, blue, white and brown...
After a while or so, the block was resolved and we resumed our passage. Marhi had now become
another speck, far below in the panorama. The pines had almost vanished, replaced by a layer of only
grass interspersed by barren rocky terrain. A little farther from the road, grazing yaks could be seen,
calm and imposing in their grandeur. Soon, we could see several tents nearby to the road, more yaks,

some mules and definitely more people. This was the final tourist point – one could take horse/mule
rides, drive snowmobiles on a small snow slope or do amateur skiing here. At our driver’s suggestion,
we drove on. The sky was overcast - it started drizzling a little. After a few minutes, we had to stop
because the road had been dug for repair, making it into a muddy swamp. We had reached the end of
our journey…
The moment we opened the doors and stepped into the grassy slopes, the biting cold hit us like a wall.
The winds blew powerfully yet lovingly, its howling sounds devouring every other sound. We could
barely hold on to our jackets and shawls but I hardly noticed - awed by the landscape around me. The
icy summits which had grown since morning, the absence of human touches, the overcast sky and the
wild gusts of winds which threatened to pull us away from the ground – they all made the experience
surreal. What I loved the most was the absence of sounds, other than of the gale which virtually muted
everything else.
Another incredible scene was that of a flock of sheep nonchalantly grazing nearby, apparently unfazed
by the winds – they seemed so oblivious to their surroundings. Further down, the slope finally reached
the edge, ending into an abyss of nothingness - a straight fall into the rocky plains below. Across this
chasm were more mountains, with vegetation decreasing with distance, up to a point when the
remaining visible slopes did not have green at all, just abundant brown.
Masked by the darkening clouds, the higher peaks were not part of this perfect painting. Luckily, the
clouds shifted sporadically, revealing the white and brown summits – close yet not close enough. White
veins slashed across of the surfaces of all these mountains; flowing water frozen till the next summer.
A thin thread of a different colour winded its way across the slopes of the first mountain across; the
continuity of the road which eventually led to the actual pass and Leh.
Near us, a lone person with a flask in his hand offered us tea which we gratefully accepted. Sipping
steaming tea on a chilly mountain slope, warming our freezing hands with the hot glass, all the while
gazing at the almost unreal scenery – I felt on top of the world.
Due to the slight showers, the temperature had decreased even further. Cold and shivering, yet
unwilling to leave these violent yet serene cosmic elements, we lingered on, braving the weather.
Finally, we reluctantly returned to the car, glad of the comparative warmth inside.
We drove back and stopped at the crowded tourist point. Declining the mule rides, we walked across to
the place where there was a path of mud-stained snow - the first snow I had seen and touched. I did not
find anything remarkable in that place; perhaps I would have enjoyed if I had tried offered snowmobile
and ski rides. Nearby, there stood a miniature version of a Buddhist stupa, where there were hundreds
of ribbons/threads tied on strings across – it somehow looked so neglected.
The descent to Manali took a longer time, the weather having turned morose with fog reducing
visibility. We too were somewhat silent; I guess the solemn Himalayan peaks had cast their spell.
The trip had come to an end, but the memories would be cherished forever – the images of Rohtang and
the emotions they invoked in me at that time, remind me that there is, indeed, heaven on earth…

If Only...

His image will trouble me for days to come; a senior citizen, well above the age of sixty, selling children’s toys - rather whistles, blowing one continuously, without rest, wandering in the busy streets of Connaught place on a sultry April evening. I cannot forget his face, the high-powered spectacles accentuating the despair in his eyes, as he moved from street to street, persistently playing the whistles, as much as his laboured breathing would allow.

His attire seemed to me of the kind that employees in government service have worn for ages - khaki trousers, a checked formal shirt, plain black shoes; maybe testaments of a retired job.

His right knee seemed to have a problem – he sort of limped pronouncedly each step he took. From the moment I saw him, while waiting for a friend at the exit of the metro station, my heart went out to him. I could not (and still cannot) fathom the reason why, a citizen at that age, needed to work at all, (let alone so hard) that too selling trivialities on the streets, drifting from person to person, in the hope of success.

Pausing in front of parents with children, trying to woo their attention with the incessant shrill sounds emanating from the efforts of his wearied lungs - I wonder if he sold any that evening. He was in my sight for barely a minute, as he crossed the road, limping as he was, yet proudly continuing to advertise his ware. However, the sight affected me profoundly to subdue my spirits that evening.

As my friend arrived and we walked along the Connaught place verandah, my mind whirled with helplessness and pity; consciously my eyes searched for the old man. Soon we crossed him again; he was kneeling against a pillar, still playing the whistle, probably resting his exhausted body.

I am not the kind of person who can easily be charitable to strangers; maybe others in my place and state of mind would have definitely approached the tired elderly figure and alleviated his misery in some way – by offering him money or buying his whistles or something else. I did not. I have never done it, I do not know how to - maybe I am very self-conscious. Now I console myself, that had I been alone, I would have approached him. The consolation gives some respite, yet the fact remains that I did not do anything at all. Regret and a tinge of guilt prick me sometimes.

Maybe there was a valid reason he was doing what he was doing, maybe it was for that single evening, maybe he was working instead of his son for that day, maybe… maybe… at this point of time, I can only assume, and console myself.

Unfortunately, the fact remains – people of that age still do need to work in India. This particular instance hit me more, maybe because of the environment where it occurred - a busy crowded cosmopolitan street in the country’s capital. He did not come across as one who had been doing this for a long time; his look spoke more of a quiet desk job at an office, if not at a big post, at least at a post good enough to justify his formal attire. He looked like someone who had spent long years in quiet government service, to retire, if not very comfortably, but enough to go by. And yet there he was – working listlessly, nowhere near the vicinity of comfortable.

Questions hit me - what desperation could lead to such a tiring situation at such an age?

Isn’t there a family who should be looking after him; a son, daughter, niece or nephew?

What desperate situation has he come across?

Why is the system oblivious of his state?

The entire evening, these questions and those few glimpses of him hovered in my head; I could not enjoy the evening guiltlessly.

As we sat to have dinner at this Chinese restaurant, I could not help but feel the elevated air of indulgences; around me, prosperity thrived. A group of colleagues had come in to celebrate a birthday, a family and acquaintances had this big celebration, drinks were flowing, and people were relaxed, some after a hard day of work in front of a computer maybe, some elsewhere. However, would it even compare with the depth of labour that the elderly man was going through every evening, for a long time perhaps?

Life seemed unfair, unjustified in the discrimination there was amongst the populace. Where two to three thousand rupees was just another dinner at a restaurant, it could easily be a week’s earnings for a vendor on the street, a month’s salary for a factory worker, a year’s fees for a child going to school; so much more than a starter, the main course and dessert.

We rarely think of that when we furnish our credit card to settle the bill. When I say we, I mean the new generation of corporate professionals, engineers, managers, amongst others.

I know that most of us do not always splurge so much on expensive restaurants but our standard of living itself has transformed so much, that we tend to spend more. From school times, when the pocket money of fifty rupees per month was enough for chocolates and ice-creams, to college times, when the monthly thousand was sufficient for the spicy roadside chaat and the canteen paranthas (all the more relished because of their being the substitute for the tasteless hostel food) – our tastes have so changed.

The salaries which initially seemed exorbitant and much more than what we could possibly spend in a month, we now consider as paltry; the expenses touching the roof, and the savings touching the floor. This is the power of changing lifestyles; the pair of shoes that I wore for the better part of four Allahabad winters was not Reebok or Adidas (I do not ever remember if there was a brand attached to it), it felt just fine to my hurrying feet. Now, buying shoes implies rounds of all the shopping malls, entering every footwear shop, and trials of endless variations of the same shoes, just with supposed better quality, a big brand name and at least an extra fifteen hundred rupees price. Ironically, now there are lesser opportunities to run, let alone hurry (what with a car), but of course, the shoes have to be branded. My parents flinched when I told them the ticket prices of that movie we watched at PVR the other weekend; after having saved and managed for so many years to provide us the best, spending a thousand rupees on just a movie show was unimaginable to them. We do not think twice. Probably, that attitude is a natural consequence of a comparatively higher salary.

Guilt lingers in my mind, my inaction has troubled my conscience; but that single old man is not the only image

pricking my mind..

The world is unequal; where India is supposed to be a fast growing economy, ragged children beg on traffic signals, whether contrived by heinous individuals selling poverty, or actual despair, is a question, but the result is still the same. Children are begging. Emaciated rickshaw pullers are still cycling in the sweltering temperatures for a daily meal, people are still living without roofs over their heads, people still die of heat stroke or cold, children still work in factories, (it is better than starving to death); it is a tough existence. Yet, for the upcoming Commonwealth games, millions are being spent on ‘modernizing the capital’. The metro rail, no doubt a boon, but how does that assist the thousands not getting a single meal a day? The IPL, no doubt earning billions for the few multimillionaires in India, but how does that help the ten-year old child serving tea at the roadside dhaba? Spending crores on stadiums and other facilities for an international event is justified, but only after the basic human issues like hunger, poverty, illiteracy have been resolved, if not totally, at least to an extent.

Due to the Commonwealth games, the entire city seems to be in a permanent sort of construction frenzy; all around Delhi, the beatification is happening at an unbelievable speed. Handcrafted signposts along entire streets, landscaped gardens, proper direction boards everywhere – they are good developments, but what about the kids who stay in the tents nearby these under-construction streets (offspring of the workers)? Don’t they deserve a better childhood, learning in school and three healthy meals a day? Don’t the workers have a right to decent quarters to stay? Aren’t these issues more relevant than beautifying the streets, or constructing a stadium?

I am not very much into politics, but I do know it is a corrupt system out there. I cannot even begin to imagine the numbers, when I think about the corruption and the profits that so many people have made, courtesy the Commonwealth Games. From a general perspective, we are all part of a corrupt system; rules are for everyone else. You are caught talking on the phone, while driving - you rather pay a bribe to the traffic police officer rather than get a proper legal ticket. You are waiting in a line outside a crowded temple, which opens for only fifteen minutes each morning, noon and evening, you prefer to pay a bribe to go by the backdoor and throng among similar sinners, for a darshan. You board a train without a reservation, then pay the train official extra money (translate to bribe) for a berth (no receipt received mind you). Your pension is not being processed in time, you pay a bribe to the proper government officer and all your papers (which previously seemed to have been incomplete), now magically become complete and the pension is finally received.

Then we complain that this system is corrupt - it is all an endless vicious cycle. No doubt, the government is to blame for this endless give and take, but we too have fostered it by agreeing to abide by the illegal system. Unfortunately, corruption is so deeply ingrained in all the services that a common man’s life becomes a struggle, if one refuses to bribe. In the everyday stream of life, we do not think twice before paying a traffic official a few hundred rupees to avoid a larger penalty or impoundment. Government incomes being so famously low, one might not even consider the act as illegal; some might even liken it to forced charity.

Except, actions do have consequences - every action does. Who knows? Because of that single apparently innocent crime, something wrong is happening to someone who does not deserve it - someone who worked (and still has to work) hard for his daily living - an honest living, still cannot seem to make ends meet. His current life is a hollow existence, limping across streets, even though the worn out body can hardly support it, attempting to sell tiny toys to children (rather their parents).

To this day, I ponder about the old man and the whistles, I wonder if his wandering hopelessly and desperately paid off at all…

I hope to God it did - knowing it for a certainty would help rid me of that subconscious feeling of culpability.

But, I will never know. Perhaps, that is the price I pay for my passiveness.