I reached the McLeodganj bus stand around seven in the morning on 29th September. Owing to the sheer enjoyment I derive from looking out of the window whenever I travel during the night, I could only force myself to sleep around one. I had spent the previous five hours watching the trees rush past, the different segments of the road divider blend into one another, and observing how vehicles had, almost without exception, failed to overtake my bus from the left side. For some reason, observing the night, and its inhabitants – the distant patches of light sprinkled about; deserted roads, some illuminated by streetlights and others shrouded in darkness; closed shops with the occasional truant leaning on its side, smoking; groups of men sitting on a cot and revelling in sharing the details of their day; sleeping dogs coiled into the coziest possible position, and the darkness beyond which hides all the rest of its mysteries from me – provides me some kind of peace. I don’t know why that is, but I allow myself the simpler explanation that it is on account of the promise of the arrival of dawn a few hours later, which holds innumerable possibilities.
This was my second solo trip of the year, as of my life. My hostel was around two kilometers from the bus stand and though my bowels were pleading me for relief, I chose to walk.
I found a couple of good cafes open even at this time. When I approached the owner of one of them who was out on the porch, smoking, and asked him if there was a washroom inside, I received a very short cautious look for half a second, and then he casually said that there wasn’t one. I realised he thought I only wanted to get my morning rituals done when, in fact, I would have loved to sit there for an hour and have a cup of coffee, while browsing through their collection of books which I could clearly see from the outside.
I reached my hostel around eight. After dumping my luggage in the common room, I headed off for a relaxed breakfast at a nearby café.
McLeodganj is famous for the Triund trek. Triund is situated at the foothills of the mighty Dhauladhar range, at an altitude of around 2800m. The seven kilometer trek to this beautiful peak starts from the Galu Devi temple which is a few kilometers above Bhagsu Nag, near McLeodganj. I had four days in this town, so I afforded the luxury of postponing the Triund trek to Monday, in the hope of avoiding the weekend rush.
At the café, I met a fellow solo traveller, Rajat, who had arrived from Bir the previous night. The locals, he said, had suggested him to go for the trek that day itself, since the skies were clear and the trek route was closed as recently as two days ago on account of bad weather. After considering this option for a few minutes, I decided to join him.
We reached Galu Devi temple around one. Here, one has to register at a police check post where the details of your group are noted (including the number of bottles and packets you are carrying), especially if you are going on your own without a guide.
I still wasn’t sure if I was going to spend the night at the top, so I packed all the bare essentials I might need the next morning if I chose to, in my camera bag.
In trekking, there is never a clear answer to the one question that almost anyone who cares to talk to you is most likely to ask – “how much longer to the top?” It could be two hours for experienced trekkers who have trained themselves to push on even in the most tiring stretches, and who have convinced themselves that the scenery from the top will compensate for all those that they had to leave on their way up; and then there is a breed of trekkers like us whose (relative) lack of fitness balances their sudden urges to sit at a point and gaze at the surroundings for extended periods of time.
Around half way to the top, we bumped into a group of two Israelis, Anna and Alexandra. As we started to talk we realized we were moving at about the same speed, so we decided to complete the rest of the trek together as a group.
Around five in the evening, we approached the final stretch of the trek – a particularly steep winding section of around one and a half kilometres, almost like the concluding test of resilience of those who had managed to reach thus far.
We passed this final test in around an hour and found ourselves at the top around six.
It was a beautiful sight. We found a rocky meadow, with a few scattered sections of rocks to the left and right. Towards the northern side stood the imposing, snow-capped peaks of the Dhauladhar, and towards the south we could make out the twin teeming cities of Dharamshala and McLeodganj. It was nearing sunset and, before our very eyes, the Dhauladhars slowly got enveloped in a light purplish hue.
After some time, on Rajat’s suggestion, I went to explore the shacks situated some distance away down a path towards the right, to enquire about tents for the night. It turned out to be a good decision for we got tents for less than half the price that the shacks situated closer to us, towards the left, were charging. I quickly reached an agreement with the owner of a shack and, within twenty minutes, our two tents were set up for the night. The rest of the group then returned to the shack for dinner, but I wasn’t feeling hungry so I chose to stay behind near the tents and absorb the atmosphere.
Even at seven thirty in the evening, there was no light pollution except from the torches of people staying in the roughly dozen or so tents scattered in the immediate vicinity. Towards the left of my tent there was a sloping rocky ledge that could have easily accommodated me twice over, so I lay down upon it, my hands folded at the back of my head, to gaze at the stars above.
It was a splendid view. I could see innumerable stars, a majestic view which my city life had deprived me of. I could almost make out the Milky Way, which is visible as a much denser stretch of stars in the middle, as compared to the rest of the sky.
I felt that same sense of wonder I used to feel during my childhood days when there was lesser pollution. These days, when looking at the skies of New Delhi, I can literally count the number of visible stars on my hands.
I soon realized how ill-equipped I was for spending the night at the top – I was wearing shorts and as the night advanced, I found myself shivering ever the more.
The cold forced me to retire into the tent around ten, where we had been provided with sleeping bags. However, I felt particularly dissatisfied about the arrangement for I could not see the sky at all – the tent had an opaque ceiling. So, I decided to take the mattress and sleeping bag outside and arranged them between the tent and the rocky ledge. I snuggled into the bag and soon fell asleep looking at the stars.
I was woken up around one by the incessant barking of a lonely dog from some distance down the hill towards the left. As I opened the sleeping bag a little, I realised everything I could see was illuminated in a soft blue light. I threw open the zip of the bag and sat up, looking around to confirm if I was dreaming.
I wasn’t.
It was moonlight. In the absence of light pollution, and the presence of very clean air, the moon was really making its presence felt. I was convinced that had it been a full moon light, and had my eyesight been a bit better, I could have even managed to read a few paragraphs in that light.
This also meant that the Milky Way was no longer visible, and it would remain the same way for the rest of the night. I felt good about not having postponed my star-gazing to the later part of the night.
The dog’s barking broke my trance. I do not know what is it with dogs, and what exactly they observe in the dead of the night when they seem to get the most active, but something had caught this chap’s attention and he continued to voice his displeasure.
The elders will often give you some supernatural reason for the same, pointing to the canine’s superior sense of smell and hearing than ours.
Fortunately, there were no elder people around me, so I chose to ascribe the most likely natural, but disconcertedly deadlier, reason to the dog’s restlessness – presence of wild animals.
As I mulled over whether it was a wolf or a leopard, and how much of a reaction time I would have if either of them were to come up near my sleeping bag out in the open, I realised it had been almost half an hour since the dog had started barking.
I finally decided to move inside the tent around 2 am, and soon fell asleep.
*
The next morning we had our breakfast around eight thirty. Anna and Alexandra had found an Israeli group which had just returned after spending the night in one of the caves on the snow-capped peaks of the Dhauladhar.
Bidding them adieu, I and Rajat started off on our way back.
The downward journey was exceptionally quick; we were descending at more than twice the rate at which we had trekked upwards. After a little over an hour, we found ourselves at the Mid-Point café, which lives up to its name. We weren’t feeling tired at all, and had only stopped for a drink, and to enjoy the splendid view, for the café was situated in the middle of one of the very few stretches from where one could see both the meadow at the top of Triund, and, turning our heads one hundred eighty degrees, the cities of McLeodganj and Dharamshala.
At this café we bumped into a group of three people who were also on their way down. As we started talking about the trek, and where we had stayed, one man from the group pointed to a distant pink hut at the top of Triund – the place of their stay, and I happened to ask how much it had cost them.
“Rupees fifteen hundred,” he said.
“Per head?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes,” he replied.
“But it cost us just seven hundred rupees,” I blurted.
His countenance deflated instantly. He proceeded to mention how the cost included two meals, and a guide who had accompanied them from the temple, but the damage had been done. I felt a strange mix of sadism and regret and as we started moving again Rajat chided me, laughing. The last thing anyone in the closing stages of a trip wants to know is how much money they could have saved.
As we moved forward we met many people who were on their way up. Whenever anyone would ask me how much further to the top it was, I would simply point to the Mid-Point café, and say “You see that blue structure there? That is the half way mark”.
We stopped for the final time around three-quarters of our way down. We had chosen a unique point, for from here we could see the cities to our right, and both the Mid-Point café and the Triund peak in the same glance towards the left. It provided a good perspective of all the ground we had covered during this trek.
Around an hour later, we found ourselves at the Galu Devi temple. It was a few minutes to one and our hostel was another hour’s walk from there. We took the trail that began towards the left, sloping into a path that would eventually lead to Bhagsu Nag.
Around half an hour had passed, when we realised we were lost. We had been walking on a narrower trail for a few minutes and found ourselves in the small courtyard of a traditional Himachali home. It must have been at least fifty years old, and had a thatched roof covered with what looked like slate. It was surrounded by fields on two sides and a neighbouring house was visible some distance away to its front, hidden by the natural downward slope in that direction.
Nobody seemed to be home, and the trail was all that was linking it to the outside world. We crossed the courtyard, and descended the three steps at its end to continue on the trail.
Ten more minutes passed and we finally found ourselves back at our hostel.
*
After a bath, I met Rajat again at the same café to have a hearty lunch. He was returning to Delhi the same day by a bus at six, so we decided to walk the two kilometres to the bus stand. I saw him off, bought my own ticket for two days later, and set off on my way back. By now, it was dark.
Hilly roads do not have streetlights and even though the distance between the edges of McLeodganj and Bhagsu Nag is just a little over a kilometre, allowing for the possibility of light pollution from either of those places to even slightly illuminate the way, there were sections where it was absolutely pitch black owing to the natural twists and turns of the road.
I wanted to avoid touching my cell phone to the extent possible, so although I had its torch at my disposal, I opted for the appreciably more exciting alternative – I would look at sections of the road illuminated by the headlights of the cars passing by, remember the contours of the road, as also the objects that dotted it, in my memory and walk that much distance while hoping for some other car to arrive in the meantime and illuminate for me the next section of the road.
Walking on such roads at this time is in itself a refresher on probability of simultaneity of distinct events.
There would be stretches when no vehicle would be visible in either direction for considerable durations of time, and then I would squint my eyes to make out the way. And then, when a particular vehicle would arrive, many more would follow, their lights a wasted opportunity.
I had covered over half the distance when I happened to look towards the sky on my right. It was a beautiful sight as I could see a lot of twinkling stars, and it was only upon closer examination that I could make out the very faint silhouette of a mountain that was dividing the sky into two.
The “twinkling stars” below it were actually houses situated upon the hill, and as I covered the rest of the distance to my hostel, I was lost in thoughts; mesmerised at how one could confuse houses for stars, and how the night had blended the two together into one entity.