Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal Continues

(Continued from the Heavenly Road to Doditaal)
The illumination was complementing the rhythmical sound of hundreds of rivulets and rainy season streams flowing in the near and distant mountains. It seemed as if this is heaven or at least a utopian world. It was not a dream but a hitherto unseen reality.

The night charmed us and suddenly escaped without answering my very Utopian questions.

The dawn was fascinating again; crystal-like dew drops on a vivid landscape were enticing. I was up early and while sipping tea served in a stained tin cup, met with the unassuming kids and women folk in the village.

The trust building process was quick and the conversation was fluid despite the language barrier.

Around eight in the morning we decided to start for the eighteen kilometre stretch and a 800 metre elevation, through some steep passes to reach our destination, Doditaal.

Our guide, a twenty something young man from the hills, moved swiftly on the slippery roads and made us move as faster.

First two hours seemed easy, it rained and there were plentiful of wild and fresh shrubs that literally paved our path with flowers. At places we came across the majestic white waters of Assi Ganga flowing down the mountains.



This beautiful walk reminded me of the fascinating landscape depicted in the ‘Lord of The Rings’ movies.

The loveliness of the first five kilometres was broken by a series of guerrilla attacks by thousands of impoverished leeches, who had suddenly sprung into life after rains touched the ground.

They were literally piercing into our legs, 10-20 at a moment on each foot.
We had to stretch them and throw every five minutes, or walk for an hour and then pluck them out.

In either case our skin was cut and legs were red with blood.

But locals taught us not to mind the blood and enjoy the nature. This was bad blood that moved out and now the circulation improves with this, they said. We obliged and moved ahead, stopping twice for tea and food.

At few instances the trek path was caved-in or there was no path at all and you could see the gorges down 2,000 feet. We managed with tree branches and ingenious footwork to jump over the space that never existed.

Every time we managed to cross over, it gave us a thrill and we looked back to gauge the width and depth. It was very much like the Indian Jones movie adventures. On the way we encountered no human habitation except a small congregation of makeshift huts where herdsmen from villages at lower elevation had come grazing their cattle the abundant green grass as the monsoon season was on.

Like any hill trek on the Himalayas we come across few aggressive wild Bhotia dogs who often attack you then become your friends after licking your feet and finally follow you for small stretches as long as their territory is marked.



We discovered a small ancient Hindu temple on the path, on the walls of which the name of JJ Irani and his wife were engraved.

We wondered if this is the legendary head of Tata Steel, who steered the company into the new millennium. But obviously, our querry couldn’t have been answered and we left the thought to ourselves.
After seven long hours we finally reached a place where we had to climb down on a moss-laden rickety path and we were told that the lake is almost there.



But we could see nothing for five more minutes. And suddenly there came up a flat piece of land and a small climb. And oh my God what we see! A painting of Monet! Yes it was like that only. A placid, transparent, silent, emerald green lake, the source of Assi Ganga and our ultimate destination was reached.

We were bedazzled and tranquilised and without words. I can't write the experience of that moment but can say my imagination of a heavenly land was similar to Doditaal, thanks to the childhood Chandamama reading. Heaven was like this misty lake, falling clouds and silence....

(The final part will be posted soon)


For the earlier part of the travel visit Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal
(Photographs: Sourav Mishra/Arshad Hussain and special thanks to Tanzeem Patankar for the Assi Ganga and Doditaal photographs)
To see more of the travel visit Tanzeem's blog at http://tazzo-dodital.blogspot.com/

Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal

I think I am a traveller of simpler means and presumably tougher destinations. Though it is difficult to make simpler means match tougher locales I do try, nevertheless. The Himalayas remain my destination number one and in the past six years I been to the mountain range 15 times to be precise. Being in Delhi till 2006, most Himalayan hill stations or treks were an overnight journey but Mumbai increases the time without reducing the interest.



Earlier this year I already had my annual trip to Kumaon in general and Kausani in specific. Somehow I always land-up in that part of the world almost every year.



In August all of sudden I decided to take another break and I didn’t want to go home. I thought of going to Amarkantak in Chhattisgarh to experience the monsoon mud and greenery and roots of majestic rivers. But couldn’t workout at such a short notice.

I felt back on Himalayas again.



It was an unplanned and bad timed trek, but nevertheless I decided to go ahead. My journalism school batch mates and yesteryear Delhi apartment mates joined me. We have bonded as trekkers since a small trek in December 2003 to the obscure Meghaohala forests in Orissa’s Dhenkanal.



Arshad and Sumit are tough trekkers never minding the time or location. In fact the harsh conditions give them more reasons to move forward. I obliged to their decision of going to a lake at 3000 metres on the fragile Shiwalik ranges in Uttarakhand.



We chose a trek leading to Doditaal Lake, an obscure, yet one of the most beautiful treks and more so when it rains. The distance from Delhi and a treacherous road made it longer to reach Uttarkashi, the closest town ahead of the base camp. The city on the banks of Bhagirathi River is of immense religious importance for Hindus. Dotted with ancient Hindu temples and monasteries of different sects, the quaint, saffron coloured town was warm to our arrival, despite the incessant rains.




On the way our car had to stop at a number of places due to damaged roads and falling stones. The falling mist on the road was exiting as well as fearful. A single wrong turn was not affordable. After an arduous long drive, we immediately proceeded to Sangamchetti, the base for the trek to overcome some of the lost time.



After a Maggi masala noodles treat and tea we proceeded on our first phase of the trek, a five kilometre stretch between Sangamchetti and Agora, the last village on the way. We old boys have always preferred treks on our own without porter assistance and exceptional kits. We prefer it raw, though there are some terrains where one has to be with special equipments. This trek was simpler in those terms and we had a guide.



But it rained and streams of water flowed on the precariously narrow roads making it unusually slippery. We were suddenly in the midst of misty rain soaked surrounding by the time we reached the little hamlet of Agora. Generous villagers offered us to sit in their neat manicured courtyards and offered us cream tea prepared from buffalo milk. That gave us an opportunity to relish the breathtaking beauty around.

There were five mountains changing colour every moment, while intense snowy clouds were caressing them with untold passion. The path on the village had bright red and blue flowers intertwined continuously in small patches with fresh rain drops on them, giving the 270 degree view a picture perfect frame. We savoured the beauty for three hours without realising it is already dark out there. Before the unspeakable beauty slipped into the dark night’s veil, we chanced to see a rare rainbow formation.




We could not have more natural beauty for our eyes. End of the day we entered into a house-cum-hotel sort of arrangement by a local woman. It cost us about 300 rupees per person for the food and the stay. In turn we had amazing mountain vegetable, ghee paraontha and achar and everything served with abundant honesty and humility.

We were covered in thick local made cotton blankets imagining the night to be dark and cold. But it wasn’t. After a while bold, white moon soaked through the silent mountains and invited everyone to have a look at her. It was beautiful outside, blue and white like the nights in the Twilight movies. It was a young full moon night.

(Read the next part at The Heavenly Road to Doditaal Continues)
(Pictures taken by Sourav Mishra and Arshad Hussain)

The decade ends; remembering poppy flowers, ghats, rock pythons and friends

In past few days, I had a sudden consciousness about losing or going past another decade, the third one in my life.

When you think voluntarily, the recollections become vivid, unpredictable and leave you with sighs and mild laughter depending on what situation has appeared from memory lane like calling up a rare video from YouTube.

It comes up in your mind all the time. While preparing a cup of pepper-mint special tea for yourself on a Sunday morning, while jogging inside the small park in your locality, while travelling in a jam-packed Mumbai suburban train or even while chewing a Kalkattia mitha paan from the local cigarette and paan vendor in posh south Mumbai after office hours are over.

The first memory I had was of the undergraduate university days in eastern Uttar Pradesh. My university consisted of large colonial academic structures, a whitewashed small Chapel and vast stretches of green farm land and Orchards spread over 600-acres on the banks of mighty Yamuna River.

The 100 year-old campus was secluded from the crowded Allahabad city, separated by an old dilapidated Naini bridge that officially expired in 1970, but was able to support five-million-strong city populace, hundreds of passenger trains and every logistics carrier on its way from the north down Madhya Pradesh.

The winter months of December 1999 and January 2000 were full of hope and hesitation thanks to the the next century will be India's optimism, world will end fear, Y2K buzz etc. Those were also the months of floriculture practical classes for us. We were given small plots to grow and identify flowers. There was faint love affair with the delicate flowers in an otherwise boring and secluded campus. Three flower patches -- gladiolus, carnation and poppy – were in my kitty.

I loved of all, the bulbous red and pink poppy flowers which belonged to the Papaver genera popularly known as the Oriental or Opium poppy . When I remember how I welcomed this decade and millennium, tossing poppy flowers on windy wintry evenings instantly appear on my mind.

The early years of the decade also remind me of the morning and evening Yoga classes in another University in neighouring city of Benares, the mindless but spiritual wanderings on hundreds of ghats of the 3000-year-old settlement, the occasional association with bhang and regular listening to BBC Radio to improve English pronunciation and soft old Bollywood songs on Vividh Bharti to get a nice sleep.

The long hours spent in the huge lighted central library of the university, where I was the only one reading The Economist, Times and The New Yorker always taunt my present day painful reading adventures on a bean bag in my small sub-urban apartment balcony in Mumbai.


The memory lane also took me to my early days with the Indian Express newspaper in Delhi. The support from the Police, the threat from a builder and the protection from another bigger builder while doing a particular story was interesting.

A year in solitude, when I dared to craft a dream livelihood intervention project in southern Jaharkhand districts, and failed against the system touches me till date. I still remember the early morning trips to impassable villages crossing torrential rivers and rock pythons with a passion to connect with village women and build self-help groups for them.

The passion that forced me to try for cheaper innovations for the villagers.... How aggressively I fought with the local bank employee, when he passed lewd comments against my clients a 27 year-old Oraon tribal woman, whom I called didi, and her 14 year old daughter Chini, when they had approached the bank for a loan to buy a goat to sustain their six member family. There were many haunting moments that come to the memory but I have no words or intention to shock myself or readers.

The later half of the decade showed me journalism of different shades. Investigative, page 3, human, colourful and business. I travelled across many parts of India, exposed to its diversity and unique blending propositions.

Living in two megacities -- Delhi, followed by Mumbai – has been less than fun but an immersing affair. Witnessing the mindless terror acts and being a victim of one left me a changed person, almost like a new born.

The greatest discovery of the decade for me, were friends, who stood by me at all costs involved. That was the most permanent and satisfying discovery precious than hitting crude oil blocks or gold mines or even being nominated for a Nobel.