One Night at Jalori

 

Shimla, Shoja left behind

We climbed up to the Pass,

To find a jewel in the hills,

Of meadows and green grass

Layered hills in fading blues,

Smoked a bit of cloud,

Far away, there was some snow

For the mountains’ always proud

All around the hills were sprayed

In yellow, purple, blue - 

Periwinkles and the primulas - 

And cobra lilies too

Solitude had no human sound,

Though the fairy winds did blow

While grazing cows tinkled their bells,

As a stream did gush below

There was something calming in the air,

Pine-scented and so lush,

The age-old hills reminding us,

Where was the need to rush?

An orange sun set timelessly,

A red dusk left behind,

All it took - one evening

To cleanse a wearied mind

With night came darkness to the camp

But there were wonders more, 

The clouds of Akash Ganga rose,

To thrill as n’er before

A bonfire crackled, bringing back

A bit of earthly glee

Where cinders stopped and stars began

All seemed a reverie

But then a bit of noise when came

A few sardars so late,

Full of song and mirth and rum,

Their joys packed in a crate

‘Gurgaon lands gave us wealth,’ one said,

‘Our hard-work days are done,

But even then, when did we stop

To have a bit of fun!’

But they were tamed by the hills as well,

There was quietness once again,

While the hill-man cooked and told us tales,

Of the mountain sun and rain

Rotis burnt, aloo subzi

Yet, a meal we won’t forget

The hills had taught us all by now

To dote on what you get

And with the night came stories more -

All lost in the hilly tales,

Of emerald lakes, and angry bears

And tragopan, magpie, quails

How long it went, I remember not,

It feels like a cherished dream,

The ocean far today, yet fed

By a distant Himalayan stream

Look back, what else, yet wake again

With peaks and hills and grass

The last time I had seen the gods,

Resting in the Pass...

24th April, 2021

I have written before, and I write again, that one needs to be really blessed to see the Himalaya - its icy peaks, shining in a clear-blue, crisp, morning sun. That view of the gods waking up is not meant for everyday mortals. And if you get to see that view, even once, there is an awakening and you are trapped. For the mountains become a part of you. Then, you need to make that pilgrimage again and again, till you are freed when you truly become a part of the mountains. 

Till then, you have to make do with the humdrum of everyday life with memories. Sometimes, these can be so immersive that daily life feels like a mirage, reality reversed up until that moment when you last saw the Nanda Devi glistening from the Mayawati Ashram, or the Swargarohini blessing you on a bugyal. For me, time stopped perhaps at Jalori Pass - the last time I saw the snow clad peaks smiling at my pilgrimage. So simple the world in oaks and pines, yet so full of riches that even a common man turns a yogi-king. Yet, there is need for more purification in that eternal sanctuary.

Strange as these times are, the Himalaya has become a true pilgrimage, testing us, teasing us, and silently training us, wherever we are, to become worthier. That when the time comes, there is no more need for blessings or luck. Until then, we all need to sip from the pensieves of our minds and continue to see the valleys and the glens through the montages of our memories. Until then, we need to wake up and be able to see Kedarnath and Kailash right outside our everyday window, to truly realise that lesson that everyday is a pilgrimage….

Images: Author's archives