Four Men in a Boat on a Trek

Ok, so have you ever wondered questions of deep philosophy?  Not me.  The only one close was this: what would Kumaon be without its thali? 

There is a mutton curry in there somewhere and a bhaang chutney by the jaggery, but all is forgiven in love and war.  

The four of us fetch up on the evening of October 6th at Khali Estate and I have this sense of deja vu, but then, eight years ago, when I was here, I did promise to return.  Khali is looking younger, the rooms have a spring touch to them and the mist all around gives it that ghostly feel that you see in films with titles like, "And Then There Were None."

We lounge around, enjoying the nip in the air and the banter and a sky that opens up later in the evening.  

Will a woman-in-white float in 
while I am watching?

On the 7th, we begin walking to Risal village, a leisurely stroll through the forest: lovely views, two charming little children, a tree that looked right out of Harry Potter.....

Risal lives the slow life of a world now fading away, the remaining few elderly people living their years every day, finding ways to count the hours and save what remains of their crop after the wild boar has extracted its tax.  The old houses here retain a raw charm, the remnants of a cultural mosaic and the old stone pound in the ground - now never used, keeps its paint.  It is - maybe - a way to not forget.  

This elderly lonely man - in his eighties - does not want to leave, but will do so soon, for his family is calling.  He is bent with age, laughs the toothless laugh and, when he speaks, his small figure breaks into a sort of dance I find helplessly charming.  

That he stayed alone in this little village in the hills all these years, cooking, farming and just living, is worthy of admiration.  Home does that to you, it really does.

He poses for the photograph with all the dignity he can muster.  I feel for him.

...and, if the summer does not suit me, he says, I will come back.  It is a promise that many have made in the past, but one that is hard to keep as the years roll in.....

Until I return, the door stays open.

The next day, we drive a long way, past the bustling town of Bageshwar and a smaller one called Bharadi, to the large beautiful village of Supi, where homes have been preserved and the temples are painted in vibrant maroon-ish red.  

Lovely homes dot the village and I chose to not photograph them,
for the mobile does little justice to such beauty.

In case you are in that letter-writing mood....

I love symmetry.  I also love the absence of symmetry.

She's both pleased and embarrassed....

In August, I was at a Bhagavathy temple in central Kerala and now
in this distant village in the mountains.  It - this recognition of one Goddess -
builds a connection somewhere...

There is much to experience of village life here - peasants are hard work, pastoralists, the milk economy - and there are young people about and children galore.

Lemme guess - you missed the 4th child
in the first photo, right?

Four more kids...

Rajadhiraja Sachdeva

....and a number of water mills to grind wheat.  How cool is that?

Gorgeous buildings everywhere, including one dated 1701.  Or was that date an afterthought?

The windows are gorgeous and speak of Rajput ancestry. 

ps: I looked at the one on the left and all I could think of was Cadbury's milk chocolate.....

And, if the view wasn't intoxicating enough, there was some, well, other stuff growing everywhere....

On the 10th, we began a long climb to the crest called Jakuni, where we'd stay a night and then climb down along the ridge separating the Saryu and Pindar valleys the next morning.  

The ascent was arduous in parts and, as always, I kept asking myself whether I really was sane to do this year after year, and later that night as the temp dropped and my bones froze in the icy wind and relentless rain, that question loomed larger than ever. 

A lesson in biology, this trek: fungi, decomposition, mulch, moss, lichen, the works.....

Yes, I am lichening to you.

Yet, everytime I am on a trek, every single time, I marvel at the ability of the hill folk: today, we gaped in collective amazement as a thin, frail woman, no less than sixty, walked past us carrying a part of our luggage in the company of a young girl.  That's both of them in the photo: 

They reached well before us, rested for a bit and then went off with another village denizen (the chap in the middle) to collect firewood and return to the village in a persistent drizzle.  I couldn't have done that to save my life.  

The two women weren't isolated examples;  later we saw a man climb slowly up in fading light and persistent rain to the kitchen shed with a barrel on his back that carried water.  

It carried water, all of fifty kilos of it. After placing it in the corner, he took a break and then went out, back into the rain, this time to wash dishes.  If this isn't enough to make you humble and stand in admiration, what is?

And here is why the next morning was utterly unforgettable:

Read from left to right for the sequence: Tharkot, Mirikthoni, Maiktoli, Pavalidwar (with the point), Nanda Devi at the back, Nanda khat (all white), Nanda Devi East (at the back), Pindari trail and glacier in the valley, Changhuj, Nanda kot, Dunkthal (flat ridge).

And another one of Maiktoli, at 22,320 feet.  I am back to see Her after four long years and it is simply overwhelming.

The weather looked like it'd turn for the worse and we walked with focus, clambering down the ridge (with me bringing up the rear, as usual) until Balwant - the reticent guide in front, took a step back and crouched.  A short distance away, behind a patch of montane scrub, was the utterly gorgeous, incredibly rare Himalayan Musk deer.  We managed a decent glimpse before it did what I expected: bolt.

No image would have done remote justice, but, in this excellent article, are quality images and a profile of this exceptionally rare herbivore.

https://roundglasssustain.com/photo-stories/himalayan-musk-deer

Two hours later, just as the drizzle had turned harder, the stones (and questions) more pointed, we clambered down a hillside to reach a charming little tea shop by the Dhakuri camp, once created for trekkers headed from Song village to the Pindari glacier.  What was meant to be a cup of tea became much more, with a dal and omelette and blinding rain and hail, but we were in great company and had a log fire going.  

This lichen isn't growing anywhere.  Used as a flavour

All's well, they say, that ends well.  This couldn't have been better.  

Much after the rain had stopped, with the drumroll of thunder now in the distance, we walked for an hour and a half to Dhur where we would stay in a somewhat decrepit cottage for the last night before the long drive back to Khali Estate.  

The waterfall on the way was bewitching.

The cottage is in a splendid meadow and we had company: a horse called Raju who wouldn't answer to his name and spent his time giving people a fright, sheep by the scores, a shepherd - Anwal is the local name for these nomadic hardy men - who was considered richer than Ambani (who is that?) and sheep dogs, one of whom had crowned himself king of Dhur and sat on his throne of stone. Here he is:

Sheep dog, sheep, shepherd, mountain.  Tinker, tailor, soldier.....

No good luck charm this.  Leopards are common here.

To the mountains: a parting between friends is needed before we meet again.

Rain, Ragi and Some Philosophy to Boot

Random Rubble
August 2026

A shroud of ennui - a feeling of weariness and boredom and lethargy, an absence of purpose - is cast over the village and the occasional sound of a tractor revving its engine in a field is reassuring, the aural equivalent of comfort food.  August is simply not meant to be this way.  

On my evening walk, I meet men and women doing the odd job, women bringing home a small load of firewood on their heads, the sombre expression replaced by a hesitant smile of recognition as they pass by.  It is a chore they would not have done if the rains had been on time and, of course, that smile would have been broader if I had walked past a ragi field they were deweeding.  

We, who aren't, and never can be, farmers, knew well in advance that el Nino, the little boy, was on his way.  The memory of the drought of 2023 lingers in my mind and the sight of the lake by Random Rubble, dry to the bone in the summer of 2024 made me wonder if all that I had done to harvest water and restore the biodiversity of the farm would outlive the challenge.  When you are against a Force, the Big Question is inevitable: Do My Effort Matter?  

The tank bed - mid-2024

...and the tank itself that day

Yet things turned for the better in the second half of that year and stayed that way last year as well.  The birds - swamphens, moorhens, storks, egrets, spot-billed ducks and a flock of whistling teal - returned.  Hope did too that season.  

I am an optimist, defiantly so, and have planted ragi in a quarter of an acre this month, my annual ritual of justification for being a farm owner.  Yet optimism is an uneasy guest, making a forced entry into an unquiet mind, and an excuse is all that is needed for it to be asked to leave and it does so this month, with a promise to meet again.  

To a farmer, the land has a right to its rain, to those little puddles, those frivolous channels that wend down, those rushes of an overflow from a thunderstorm.  So, they - these intrepid men and women - speak of the absence of rain with the despair of abandonment, of having been giving the shrift in the dealing.  It is a feeling I have learnt to recognise.

In mid-August, the lake looks as worn as the people, perhaps as forlorn as well, the gorgeous sunset a faint consolation.   

  

August ends in a deficit - as much of rain as of optimism, cheer and purpose - the sky remains clear, those nights of thinking-about-nothing under the moon uninterrupted. 

No, that isn't true: I think of many things, desultory thoughts of the future, what this year would look like when viewed a decade hence, the emotion of creation and loss, and I wonder if a belief in fatalism is an essential human condition.  

Mid-September 

Two weeks of summer sunshine in the time of the monsoon, the ragi is wilting and in serious trouble.  Then one evening, the day before I reach, it rains.  

A quiet breakfast of oats and ragi on the 14th morning.  Two waterhens - this is their day to rule - walk hesitantly past the kitchen, lifting their dainty feet up and carefully stretching them out to the next step, much like you would see in an absurd pantomime.  But they are beautiful!  A few minutes later, two mongooses follow their path, trotting busily away.  

It rains the next day, and the next.  Optimism will cut short its sojourn and return and the puddles will reflect the clouds and the moon will hide its splendour and the nights will be filled with the call of frogs and a swarm of winged termites will crowd around the light.  The brown will turn to green and  blue banded bees will hum around the flowers.

Last night, it is the rain of the year, a ceaseless, steady, filling rain, the one I have dreamt of all year.  I wake up and listen till the sound of the rain and the earth merge into sleep again. 

And somewhere in this unending cycle of weather and belief, of hens and drought, is a lesson worth knowing.  It is a search, yes, that it surely is.

The blue banded bees kept their word

Two months to go, miles before I sleep