It felt like a three-ton truck was reverse parking on my chest. All I did was bend down and open the bag which we had flung on the floor of our Narkhanda guest house with its modest interiors and immodestly rich views. The act of bending down, unzipping the bag, pulling out the thick winter coat and standing up again had winded me out! And my head was hurting! I took two Panadols, emptied a bottle of water and lay down. Nothing worked. My head continued to pound and the truck on my chest stayed put.
My worries were pushed aside a second later, when my seven-year-old walked in and said, “Mumma, I think I am having a heart attack.” Apparently, a truck was parked on her chest too. This was a sad way to go, amidst so much natural beauty, and without having a proper sighting of a single snow-capped peak yet!
I am a Keralite who grew up in Jamnagar and Chennai and have lived in Dubai for most of my adult life. Jamnagar, Chennai and Dubai - cities whose feet are firmly planted on the seashore. The kid is a Dubai kid. Our bodies are not used to anything higher than a thousand feet. Just then Reva walked in. More familiar with the Himalayas than us, she took one look at us and said, “altitude sickness,” and bustled off to get a desi nuska ready for us.
Many glasses of Eno later, the trucks had driven off our chests and we felt alive enough to step outside. We were at 8,800 feet and were all set to explore Narkhanda, Hatu Peak and Jalori over the next couple of days before descending to Manali. The view outside was a combination of Tolkien and Austen. Massive, mist shrouded boulders that loomed black and mysterious over us, and delicate, colourful mountain flowers that laced the ground that we stood on.
Epic surroundings for the beginnings of a glorious love affair. I have been to the foothills like a pilgrim every year since (not counting the years since 2020) and climbed, trekked, and camped at higher altitudes than Narkanda and Jalori. But this first trip to the foothills – a road trip – stands out. Visiting remote fog covered hilltops, praying at temples dedicated to off-beat mythical characters like Mandodari, Manu and Hidimba, watching wild horses graze, and the stories... always the stories that made these mountains come alive. Maybe it is the thin air or just the aura of magic that descends on a place along with the mist, but myths come to life here.
You didn’t just hear mythical stories from the pahadis; places were pointed out to you – “that is the mountain that Hanumanji took for the sanjivani,” the locals would say pointing to a flat as a table plateau smack in the middle of the distant ranges. “This is where Arjun sat and meditated during their agyathvyas.” One could almost imagine the Pandava stopping for some chit chat with the locals before sitting down for some deep thinking! Such was their faith that characters and incidents stepped out of the pages of the epics even for visitors like me, and time, space and disbelief melted to allow reality and imagination to merge.
A part of me wondered whether the locals were having a good laugh at our expense. But it didn’t matter, I was an eager receptacle for all the stories. In those moments, as I looked out at a sea of mountain crests extending like waves in the distance, the truth of these stories didn’t matter. The magic of the moment did.
May the credit column be as high as the these hill peaks you have enjoyed and may the debit column gets smaller by the minute Binu. I am so glad to read this, albeit super late. Keep holding that pen, B.
Take care Binu. The cancer is receding and that's good...