A walk to Vasudhara

Last evening, clouds had obscured the view. This morning, the snow clad silver of Neelkanth peak stands out against a blue sky framed by lower hills towering a full 3 kms above Badrinath. I am standing in front of the Garhwal Mandal’s ‘Dev Lok’ guest house, ready for the trek to Vasudhara falls in the upper Alaknanda Valley.

I hire a taxi to drop me at the Bhutia village of Mana, 3 kms from Badrinath and the last village before the Chinese Tibetan border. My driver, a resident of Mana, tells me that earlier villagers here traded with Tibet. That was until the 1962 war after which the army closed the borders and permission is required to travel the roads north of Mana.

As I start walking through Mana, I see few people - it is 7 am, still early in the morning.
 The path follows the left bank of the Alaknanda a little above the river. Soon after leaving the village, the Saraswati emerges from the rock face of the mountain to the right of the path and gushes out to join the Alaknanda. The river has tunneled though the rock leaving a natural bridge. The Alaknanda here has taken a sharp turn to the west and the path follows its banks. The sky is clear and the distant peaks are etched in sharp relief. The sun is blinding and I have to put on my sun shades. In the far distance framed by the Alaknanda valley are snow clad massifs – I later conclude that these are likely to be peaks over 6000m high along the north side of the Bhagirath-Kharak glacier.

The muffled roar of the Alaknanda is ever present. Turning a sharp bend around a rock, I surprise a pair of blackbirds. Instantly airborne, they glide beautifully and perch on a distant rock safely out of reach. The valley is dry and rocky, at least along the left bank – I do not come across any streams. This is probably the reason that there are not too many flowers and the plants are small. It is 9.40 and I haven’t crossed or seen a single human being in over 2 hours of walking. Have I missed a turn? Am I on the wrong path? Just as doubts are beginning to get hold of me, I see high up on my right, water pouring in a fine spout out of a rock. I cannot hear the water fall – the sound of the flowing river muffles all else.

A little further on my right at a height is a large rock overhang which has been enclosed from the front to form a dwelling. A sign painted on its wall proclaims it to be the Narad Gufa. Hearing sounds of human inhabitation I call out. Presently a young sanyasi – in his 20s is my guess – appears, wrapped in a threadbare saffron cloth and asks me to come up and enter the cave. After inspecting the cave, as I am about to leave, he persuades me to have tea. We sit at the doorstep to the cave at the edge of a steep slope with the Alaknanda flowing far below, while another sanyasi, apparently his junior, makes tea. Modernity – in the form of solar panels and electricity – has reached the cave. The grassy slopes of the valley, covered in dull green are strewn with rocks; across the river, the mountains rise to rocky peaks streaked with snow. It is an altogether bleak panorama.

The sanyasi makes the enquiries – Where am I from? What do I do? Am I traveling alone? I find out that he lives in the cave round the year, even through the winter; that he has not had any formal education. He speaks chaste Hindi – the Hindi of western UP, not of the hills. I am absorbing the panorama, my mind drifting, till he launches a tirade against Muslims and the politicians who he believes work for them - and this includes present day politicians of various hues but also stretches back to Nehru and Gandhi. I am all alert now. Armed forces are OK, they can die and prove their patriotism in war, but Muslims should never be allowed in the Police, he asserts. He looks piercingly into my eyes to read my thoughts. I ask him if I can take his photograph. He declines and says – you can remember me through my words and thoughts.

I wonder how I can avoid drinking the tea and make a quick exit. I am conscious of being alone here with these two sanyasis. The tea arrives and is poured into two plastic cups. The sanyasi holds on to his cup without sipping, intent in talk. I take a sip cautiously. The first group of tourists to Vasudhara after me passes by below greeting my companion respectfully. He is now recounting a personal incident from his past – a seating dispute with some fellow (Muslim) passengers in a train that he dealt with, sword in hand… I make hurried excuses and leave, sliding down part of the slope, to the path leading up to Vasudhara.

I soon reach the base of the falls at a height of over 11500 ft and understand why I could not hear the water fall. A strong breeze turns the falling water into a fine spray and blows it over a wide area before it can reach the ground over 500 ft below. A pyramid of ice/snow at the bottom of the fall is slowly melting in the August sun – I can imagine what form this pyramid would take in winter.

Looking westwards up the valley, in the distance about 3 kms away, I can see the Bhagirathi – Kharak and Satopanth glaciers separated by the Balakun ridge. The Alaknanda appears as a thin serpentine stream winding its way up to the intersection of the glaciers on the eastern tip of Balakun. A wide swathe of the valley to the east of the glaciers appears to be moraine, filled with rocks and debris, evidence it seems of glacial retreat. It is an awe inspiring sight.

This is the land of legends unfolding before me. The path to Satopant Tal – the Satya Path – is said to have been walked by the Panch Pandavas. The path follows the southern bank of the Alaknanda – just across where I am standing – and along the Satopanth glacier, south of the Balakun ridge (to its left in the picture above). Only Yudhishtira and his faithful dog reached the Tal where a chariot sent by the gods received them; the others fell by the way.

I am not alone at Vasudhara. A group of young hardy farmers from Akalgarh village in Jind district of Haryana is bathing in the icy waters. They try to persuade me to accompany them to Satopanth tal which is at least a two day trek from here. They have come from Mana with a packed lunch and nothing else; some have only their sandals on. I joke with them about the name of their village and turn down their friendly offer of lunch – it is 11 am, time for me to head back.

A cool breeze begins to blow and the sun, though right overhead, is not hot. I pass the sanyasi’s cave and wonder how this otherworldly, starkly beautiful place can harbor such base worldly prejudices. As I descend towards Mana (10133 ft) colorful birds and flowers reappear and beautiful little rock gardens abound.

I am back at Mana at 1 pm. The ride back to Rishikesh is only Rs 10 in a shared taxi. All along the road are fields looking pretty with white flowers. In two weeks, the potato crop will be ready, the driver tells me.


Himalayan Trek 1, July 2009