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Knocking on
heaven’s door ANANDA BANERJEE is imbued by the transcendent spirit of the Spiti Valley as he rumbles along in his 4X4, gathering moments for his album and experiences to last a lifetime
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t 3,978 metres above sea level, we had hardly expected the Delhi Chaat Bhandar to do brisk business with tourists in rented snow gear waddling like penguins across the expanse of Rohtang La. But then, who is to stop the ubiquitous march of civilisation? Particularly when it offers goodies after a long trek for those climbing down or refuelling those going up? It is when we cross this most visited mountain pass that the mighty Himalayas begin to have a tighter grip of us, them rising above and around us, all frosty and cold, turning purple, brown and grey with the changing sun, their summer barrenness making us aware of the truth that’s been peeled to the core. Patches of snow and ice from the glacial melt still cling to the wildflowers and grasses that have sprouted along the roadside as our 4x4 jeep stumbles across a narrow muddy track into the rain shadow area. Workers struggle at odds to keep the road going and we are greeted by the joyous juley (a traditional Tibetan greeting), even getting a high five from an exuberant young man. That’s survival for you, the spirit of living that brings out the prettiest flowers from the dry dirt and keeps locals happy despite their deprivation. Down below in the valley, the Chandra river roars, tearing down boulders, hurling rocks and kicking up sediments which make it look a treacle-grey. If you ever need to measure the force of nature, then get here. And feel the power as the river does several loops, twists and turns, swamping everything in its path, moving every pebble it touches, spewing out its energy and taking the world along with its belly-churning gush. We reach Batal, generously covered in dust that the rocks crushed by the river have turned into over time. The Chandra is frothing white, panting and foaming. A couple of makeshift dhabas by the riverside nourish all passersby for the great adventure ahead. This Himalayan hospitality tells a lot of the giving nature of people in a hostile terrain, people who believe that you cannot stand up to Mother Nature in isolation, that you need to help each other out, that good karma will help you climb the heavens. As the clouds make a speedy crossing overhead, and freezing winds send shivers down the spine, we are mesmerised by the surreal landscape of this cold desert. Across the different hues of dull browns and grays, life is plenty in this vast expanse of emptiness. But such is the camouflage of both the prey and the predator that you can hardly spot them. Redstarts, rosefinches and wagtails flutter into our horizon even as a Himalayan Griffon soars above us and a Lammergeier perches on the hill side. Perhaps, they have been sent to lead us to our destination. In these surroundings lurks the star of the show, the snow leopard, which is near impossible to track in the rock
and scrub habitat. Locals say if you stake out at the villages by night, you could see it slip by as it often targets the livestock for food. During the day, we content ourselves with its prey, the herds of Himalayan blue sheep or bharal which come down to the river to drink. Another favourite prey is the magnificent Siberian Ibex, which we find grazing along the moist patches of small streams, their gorgeous antlers giving them character. As winter nears, male ibexes clash and lock these magnificent horns with each other for the right to mate with wanting females. The other mammalian star attractions of this mystical terrain are the endangered Tibetan Wolf, the Tibetan Gazelle, the Red Fox, the Himalayan Brown Fox, the Tibetan Wild Ass, the Musk Deer and the Himalayan Black and Brown bear. Of course, there’s the constant company of inquisitive marmots and mouse hares, who all step out of their small holes by the rocky path to have a peek at the strange visitors on their land. If a cold desert is so rich in fauna, then there must be a sustainable variety of flora to maintain the ecological balance. Over the years botanists have found a wide range of medicinal plants like ratanjot, ephedra, seabuckthorn, ateesh, bhutal, cottonwood and artemisia. While seeds of ratanjot are used in the treatment of cholera, dysentery, toothache and gum ache, ephedra guarantees relief from
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bronchial asthma. Seabuckthorn has a wide range of uses in treating gastric ulcer, cardiovascular diseases, cancer, mucositis and radiation damage. Ateesh cures malaria. Nature is clearly the miracle healer here.
THE GATEWAY Along the drive, we find the summer ice melt away in cascades that flow over the road. While it makes negotiating the terrain hazardous, it helps us cool our heels as well as the jeep tyres. The ride is tough on the human body and the engine and both have to perform in tandem. Any lapse of concentration on our part could end in disaster.
This part of the Himalayas is snow-bound for most part of the year. So it’s hardly a surprise that we find ourselves negotiating between two walls of ice, crumbling and softening with the sun. We have to be very careful while taking the turns, not knowing whether we are curling the edge of the road or driving over the overhang, which could give way and send us crashing down the cliffs, like straws in the wind. But 11 km of crawling on the shoulder of the trail takes us over a breath-taking river basin into the magnificent moon-shaped lake, the Chandra Tal. Staring at us is a turquoise crescent pool surrounded by the Chandrabhaga and Mulkila massifs. After the prolonged monotony of the craggy ranges, this is a magical oasis. The lake mirrors the swathe of creation, burning with the sun, shimmering with the moon and stars, stilling with mountains under a clear sky and rippling with the wind. It’s like a celestial nymph who is being watched over by the Himalayan guards who will never let lesser mortals spoil it. A shepherd brings his sheep to drink and graze on the tender grass around it while the sun bends over the horizon. And I rue the fact that I won’t be here in a couple of days when it will be full moon. They say the lake dazzles like mica, as if a part of the moon has indeed fallen from the skies. It glitters in unearthly light, shining (Left) Chandratal. (Below) The River Chandra
(Above) The monastery overlooking the Ki village. (Below) Prayer flags
up the snow peaks. And though you can’t see them, locals, who are more blessed than us, seem to have had a glimpse of the fairies that come down to dance then. According to legend, this lake is where Indra’s chariot picked up Yudhishthira, the eldest of the Pandava brothers, for his ride to heaven. Yet another story goes that the daughter of the Moon and the son of the Sun were in love. They wanted to meet but this was very difficult as they came into the sky at different times. So, they decided to meet on Earth. They chose to meet near the Baralacha Pass. Unfortunately, when they descended, they landed on both sides of the pass and still couldn’t meet. They wept in the sorrow of parting and turned into two lakes, Chandra Tal and Suraj Tal. As their water swelled, they gave birth to two mighty rivers — the Chandra and the Bhaga — which finally met at Tandi. I envy the few campers relaxing in their tents and trace my steps back to the jeep. There are miles to go. Back on the rugged road, I encounter trekker Ben from Newcastle, England, in need of a lift till the point of detour. He believes that a physical climb will bring him that much closer to spiritual ascension. It’s a straight climb to Kunzum Pass at 4,590 metres, the gateway to the Spiti valley. A panoramic view of the Bara Sigri, the second longest glacier in the world, awaits me on the other side, straddling the Chandrabhaga range like luscious cheesespread. Ben’s right. It’s a spiritual moment, sizing up this greatness against our pettiness. From here it is a gradual descent in loops to the Spiti valley, aptly described as a “world within a world” by Rudyard Kipling. The combined forces of wind, sun and snow have chiselled the mountains here into wedge-cut pinnacles, breathtaking gorges, canyons and fierce features that can only be compared to a harsh moonscape. It’s a veritable no man’s land in its splendid isolation and elemental entity.
Spiti, originally pronounced piti, was, however, considered the middle land, historically a part of Western Tibet known as Nariss Korssum. In the 11th century AD, Nimagon, the king of Nariss Korssum, divided his kingdom among his three sons of which Spiti and Zanskar together formed a separate kingdom. Later, Ladakh took over the suzerainty of Spiti and Zanskar, and the area was governed by Nono, the younger brother of the king of Ladakh. Losar, the first village from this end, welcomes us and we sign up, a mandatory rule for all visitors and their vehicles. The Spiti river runs alongside as we head for the district headquarters of Kaza. Luck smiles along the way; a Tibetan Red Fox sprints across in a flash and disappears somewhere. They say Tibet is a sprint away from Spiti, a day’s walk. We settle into the warm hospitality of the Banjara Camps for a much-needed rest. By virtue of its closeness to Tibet, it’s but natural that Buddhism is a marker of daily life here, be it in the five monasteries of Ki, Tabo, Dhankhar, Kungri and Tangyut, the chortens that line our way or the flags that flutter the goodness of “Om Mane Padme Hum” throughout the Spiti valley. After ample rest and making sure that the body is well acclimatised to the higher altitudes, my explorations begin with Ki, a short drive from Kaza. From a distance, the village and its towering monastery appear to have jumped out of Tolkien’s wonderland — an assortment of white-windowed cubes clustered together like a conical castle on a hillock overlooking the river and the surrounding valley. It’s like an orchid burst in a dry desert, the Ki village, full of cheer and colour. We get an excellent view of Spiti valley from the rooftop of the Ki monastery, like a bridal trail unfurled over brown pews. Strangely, we find a trishul implanted here.
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Tibetan Buddhists worship Lord Shiva with equal fervour. Anyway, they happen to be closer to Mt Kailash than we ever will be. Inside the monastery, I befriend a lama to walk us through a maze of narrow corridors and steep, dark staircases. There’s no particular logic to the layout, each part seeming to have grown over the years. Or maybe, it is a microcosm of our philosophical quest for the truth. We could go around in circles and still not get closer to Padmasambhava. It takes a while to adjust to the darkness inside but these dimly-lit prayer chambers are a storehouse of rare murals, manuscripts, thankas and ancient musical instruments, all cocooned in a womb eternal. Time changes outside where villagers are keen to know about life in big cities and Bollywood superstars. I realise that materialism is never an enemy of spirituality, provided the former is subservient to the latter. This is why locals have readily taken to mobile phones to stay connected to the outside world, understand its temptations, so that they can detach their pristine lives from it. Alternatively, they communicate their philosophy to us. Education is a must in these parts, seen as it is as another path to enlightenment. Local men and women are very communicative and informed. To spread Buddhism in the A monk with a conch and new world, lamas are given much freedom. Gone are the days of strict rules and denial. Now, they are allowed to keep gadgets like mobile phones and digital cameras and are permitted to go home in case of an emergency. “Religion should be adaptive, or else it would cease to exist,” says a young monk. Perhaps, this explains why religious custom is greatly valued in the Spiti valley. In every family, the first child is the protector; he has to take care of the family, business and is the sole inheritor of belongings. It is mandatory to send the second child to the monastery so that there is an enlightened soul in each family. If you don’t, you have to pay up a fine of Rs 20,000. The third child gets nothing at all. Guess this makes for an effective family planning policy and prevents destructive division of resources in a hostile land. Besides, you can maintain a balance between need and desire. There are close to 300 lamas of all ages and sizes at Ki. And apart from daily prayers and duties, they come together every day at eight, twelve and six o’ clock for
breakfast, lunch and dinner respectively. I get a tour of the monastery kitchen where dinner is being prepared and as soon as the clock strikes six, a lama rushes out to the courtyard to blow the conch shell. His cellphone rings simultaneously, distracts him from the job at hand, but the combined trill has a rustle of burgundy tumble out from the hidden chambers. The monks quickly line up to fetch their meal. We decide to leave and following a tip from one of the lamas, go across to the other side of the river to watch the setting sun light up the monastery with its last burst. The light is gone. Or is it flickering in your soul?
DALAI LAMA’S BLESSINGS Kaza is gearing up for its biggest moment, the inauguration of the New Karzey Tenggyud Lhundrub Chokhor Ling Monastery by His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama, who will also bless the great Avalokitsvara Initiation. We are a good two days ahead of the event but the few hotels and guest houses here are already overbooked. We wander around the old quarters of the market place that is bustling with both tourists and vendors. We get sandwiches and cakes from the German Bakery, an enterprise which draws in the predominantly foreign tourists with its credible nomenclature and settle for some hot dumplings at the Yak Café. It is here that we run into Ishita mobile Khanna and Sunil Chauhan, the two social entrepreneurs who are working for the sustainable development of the Spiti valley by linking local economies, conservation and development, notably through home stays and handicrafts. They put me through to a homestay at Komic, the highest village linked to a motorable road at 4,587 m. Certainly a divine intervention. It is a couple of hours of steady climb above Kaza, easily another 1,000 m up. Komic literally means “the eye of the snow cock,” probably an indication of its strategic positioning and its bird eye view. This quaint little farming village houses 84 people across 13 households and even has a monastery. My host Tsering welcomes me to his spacious traditional home. All Spitian houses have a similar structure and shape. The walls are limestone-white with a paste made from a stone they call karsi that is baked in an elaborate process known as “sho chhak shey.” A stroke of red ochre is painted just beneath the roof, like a protective band. The roof itself is stacked with penjar, or chopped branches of a bush, all very eco-friendly.
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(Above) The Kaza monastery. (Right) The wolf’s den
I settle down in a largish room consisting of a double-bed and a sitting area. We are the second batch of guests this season and exchange pleasantries with family elders over generous helpings of tea. Tsering’s house may be removed from civilisation but not its obvious benefits; there is a phone, dish TV, an LPG gas burner and a cassette player. The kitchen and the dining area form the core of the house where all family possessions are displayed and where the family is meant to assemble. Over dinner, we ask Tsering about the Tibetan wolf that runs these parts. He tells us it is common to spot it in winter as in summer it moves to higher and deeper pastures where most shepherds move with their livestock. He promises to take me to its abandoned den in the morning before going down again to Kaza. The wind picks up pace and the small trek seems an endless journey as I huff and puff my way up. We turn to look at the village but it has long disappeared below the rolling hills. Out of sheer desperation, I ask Tsering a few times when his “just around the corner” will show up. An hour later, we come across a biggish hole. Tsering quickly dives in, clears up the entrance and even takes my camera along. We quickly nickname him the “wolfman” as he slips into its murky depths and gets us pictures that reveal how big the den is from the inside. We realise both he and the wolf share the same primal instinct. Tsering accompanies me back to Kaza. Midway we stop to admire another small village over a patch of meadow called Lanza. Surrounded by snow-capped peaks, this village has also readily taken to the concept of home stays. It has hosted a group of bikers, all on their Royal Enfields, who are revving up at the huge Buddha statue lording over us. Back at Kaza, I thank Tsering and bid him good bye. The rest of the day goes in arranging a pass to witness the grand ceremony at the monastery. The town is bursting at
the seams with buses and hired jeeps spilling out of their tops while pilgrims on foot trickle in from everywhere. The new monastery dazzles in red and gold and is moulded with festoons and banners as monks get busy in last-minute touches and flourishes. A young boy runs around waving a flag and shakes his hand with everybody. The frenzy is palpable. His Holiness arrives a little after 10 in a chopper, sending the waiting crowd into a tizzy. The young and the old, dressed in their best, just want a glimpse of him. The Dalai Lama is, after all, believed to be the reincarnation of the Buddha in Tibetan thought. To see him during one of his rare public appearances is a step toward bliss and absolution. Tibetan dragon trumpets, conch shells, cymbals and gongs cook up a thunderous pitch as he takes centrestage. After a brief cutting of ribbons and unveiling the monastery prayer hall, he greets everyone with a serene message of love and peace. Yet he seems human when he sits down to enjoy the local dance programme in his honour, when he bends to fasten his shoe laces, when he oversees the refreshments being served to each and everyone present. Who says divinity cannot rest in our earthly souls?
A MONK’S TALE Still a long way to cover, we move out of Kaza and run into a group of American climbers who have just returned from the Pin Parvati pass. Vince Poscente, a former Olympian, now motivational speaker and author of
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(Above) Celebrations in Kaza and His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. (Below)The camping ground just out of Kaza
bestsellers such as The Ant and The Elephant, welcomes us to share his camping ground. Clearly, he lives his mantra, helping me set up my tent. The Himalayas are a great motivation to enhance human capability, he says. And hence he brings in groups every year. It’s an early dinner at the camp side, exchanging notes about each other’s journey. Some of us stay awake to see the moon rise and flood the camp ground and the surrounding valley with its celestial light. Kurt, a fellow trekker, brings out a Tibetan flute and tries to conjure up a tune. The rest dance to his beats, asking me to teach them some Bollywood dance moves. May be we are God’s chosen ones tonight. Instead of his fairies. We wake up early but find Vince and his team have already taken off. But he has been kind enough to leave behind his support team to take care of us. We follow the Spiti river and soon enough cross the village of Lingti where it is joined by the Lingti river. Further ahead, at Attargu, it is joined by the Pin river flowing from the valley it is named after. A small cantilever bridge is the only gateway to the Pin valley. At Shichling, we take a turn to climb to the Dhanker monastery. The road is steep but metalled and the sharp turns are fairly negotiable. With every turn, the view gets better and better. The clouds drop a shadow now, the wind blows it over around the arc of a cliff. The same mountain side begins to look different in a matter of minutes, a menacing dark grey portending evil one moment, a bright sunnyscape the next, leading us into a
The Tabo Monastery and (inset) a monk setting up oil lamps for prayer
promised land of sorts. A few more turns huge complex of nine temples, 23 chortens and I get a bird’s eye view of the confluence and caves was founded in 996 AD by the n May to October are the of the Spiti and Pin rivers, a picture postcard great scholar Lotsawa Rinchen Zangpo. This ideal time to visit Spiti. moment with the old monastery as an is often called the Ajanta of the Himalayas n Carry cash from Shimla or Manali as no facilities for onlooker. because of its exquisite wall paintings and currency exchange are Dhankhar, originally called Dhakkhar, stucco statues. In Trans Himalayan available in Spiti. literally means “palace on a cliff.” It was the Buddhism, Tabo’s sanctity is next only to n Only BSNL works in parts earlier capital of Spiti and was adorned by a Tibet’s Tholing monastery. Over a thousand of Spiti. No other network. stunningly unique and precariously balanced years old, the statues and paintings retain n http://spitiecosphere.com/ http://banjaracamps.com/ fort which is now in ruins. The monastery most of their original sheen. After consists of a number of multi-storeyed circumventing the entire complex, I meet up buildings perched together, giving a fortress like with the only lama whom I find polishing an array of oil impression, much like that of Ki. Founded between 7th lamps in a chamber next to the giant prayer wheel. The and the 9th centuries and now on the world heritage list, rest have gone to Kaza to see the Dalai Lama. As Tabo’s locals have managed to whip up an intense awareness sole protector at this moment, he plays the perfect host, campaign to save its treasures of rare scriptures, thankas not letting us go till we have had lunch at his kitchen. and mandalas. All along the road we find posters of “Save The village may be sleepy but there is a PCO, a the Dhankhar” plastered everywhere, a constant reminder primary health care centre and a provisions store that of our duty and debt to our past. With all the lamas busy keeps 75 per cent of the goodies that you would find at with the Dalai Lama at Kaza, we find our own book of your neighbourhood mom and pop stores. A woman runs revelations in its innards. Tabo’s most popular restaurant. She has a gas cylinder, We head towards Tabo following the river and human mixer grinder and a washing machine too! It is here that habitation again. The road is wide and reasonably wellwe pick up directions for Geu, where the mummy of a metalled here, which allows me to zip past villages with monk has been preserved down centuries. It is our last lush green agricultural plots where people grow barley and object of desire before we leave the Spiti valley and get on a local variety of black pea. with our individual journeys of life. After the citadels of Ki and Dhanker, Tabo takes me by Another round of hectic driving follows but on much surprise. It looks like a gigantic anthill, coated in ochre better roads than the Rohtang-Kunzum stretch. The terrain mud, perhaps conceived as a strategic camouflage. This makes a clean break as we drive through canyon country,
Did you know?
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Air India has frequent flights from Delhi and Pathankot to Bhuntar (nearest airport). By Rail: Chandigarh is the nearest broad gauge railhead that is wellconnected to major cities. By Road: There are two overland routes to get to Spiti — Delhi-Manali-Kaza (approx 763 km) and DelhiShimla-Rekong Peo-Kaza (approx. 790 km).
(Above) The Canadian cyclists and (Below) The Geu Mummy
roads tunnelling through perpendicular drops and we skirt steep gorges and burrow through rocky overhangs. The river Spiti is now in a different mood as it jumps downstream to meet the furious Sutlej, which, even from these heights, is loud enough to send a chill down your spine. Only a solitary bird swoops down to be startled by its surf and soars up again. It’s surreal, this terrain, scarred and weatherbeaten, furrowed wise, like the old tribal chieftains. There’s no traffic for miles on end till we meet two mountain bikers, Canadian sisters, driven by sheer energy and passion. As I get inquisitive about the efficacy of their cycles, the younger one gives me a demo. It had everything I could ever imagine with a fascinating 27 gear shift to negotiate steep climbs. No matter what the method, in the end we are all chasing a common goal. As I climb up towards Geu, locals volunteer directions for the mummified monk. It’s a given what I have come for. The mummy was accidentally discovered by members of
the Indo-Tibetan Border Police while clearing debris and setting up camp after an earthquake in 1975. Carbon dating and further research puts the mummy to be of a 45-year-old lama from the last quarter of the 15th century. The monk was probably a practitioner of Zogchen, an extreme form of meditation that involved tying his neck to his knee to free the body and transport his mind to a higher plane as supreme sacrifice for his people who were reeling under drought and famine. Continuous meditation and fasting before attaining nirvana, the body was probably devoid of all juices and any bacteria, which preserved the body with no chemical embalming for more than 675 years! And there he sits today, in a small hut separated by a glass pane, with his hair intact above the forehead, as if still meditating for his land and people. Nothing would have been a better sign-off from Spiti than to be imbued with his spirit. I carry it in my heart before turning back home. I carry it in my soul still. o
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