Clouds in the valley...

It is over 45 degrees. The mid-day sun bakes the helpless earth, the blue seas the only salve. When the wind blows, there is little relief, rather a hot gust of summer scorches us further. Standing under the compassionate shadow of an eucalyptus, I feel heavily drained of energy, but my mind receives a sudden jolt, and all the stupor dissipates away. I remember instantly of the one place in my experiences where a similar dry summer was everyday life - not Kolkata with its humid extravaganza or Mumbai with its seaside smile, but northern India, more particularly, Lucknow. Summers in Lucknow were a simulation for a blast furnace – the blazing sun, the angry loo, the desiccation in the air were stifling. I remember assiduously pouring water in my water cooler – an old contraption of a motor that would spray water on a curtain of straw, which in turn would be blown by a fan – though scientific, it added little respite. If summer had a version of ‘When it rains, it pours…’, well, this would...

Chapter II - Gwaldam Every night, when unsettled, I have gazed up on a starless sky, To see upon that emptiness, A twinkle, that would make me sigh… ‘If you really want to lose yourself in these pine-scented hills, head to the temple atop the hill next to the Tibetan monastery. And if you want to tread on a larger pilgrimage, head to the Badhan Garhi temple, croyez moi - believe me, the views will absolve you of all your mortal sins.’ I listened earnestly, trying hard not to let my jaws drop in surprise.  For the tips were way beyond my Outlook Traveller guide book. And the tips were not coming from a local guide - it came from a Monsieur Vincent - an eighty year old Frenchman I happened to chance upon a hill, on an early morning in Gwaldam. ‘How long have you been here?’ I couldn’t help asking. ‘Not long, I came last week, but yes, this is my eighteenth year straight that I am coming to the Himalaya, and the fourteenth in Gwaldam.’ I was flabbergasted. ‘You have been coming here ...

    C hapter I - Kausani In the mysteries of the Milky Way, Will you remember, a spark of earthly light? Perhaps, if you could hear the mountains sing, In that twinkle on the hills at night... ‘What is that light twinkling on the hills?’ I asked Sharmaji. The pitch black canvas of the night was punctuated by just one sparkle, far away and elevated. ‘That is the village of Gwaldam,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Gwaldam?’ I tried to trace that name in the atlas of my mind, but failed, ‘ What’s special there?’ Sharmaji laughed. His guffaw was that of a mountain veteran, who had all the opportunity to escape to a fatter paycheck, but had decided long back to submit to his love for the mountains, for his home, and trade money for happiness. ‘For you travellers , it can either be another tourist spot, or if you can love these hills, it is another memory, waiting to be etched. It is like a flake of snow, just like my Kausani - once you hold it, it will melt. Yet you will get that feeling ...