Festivity in Chitkul

Deccan Herald Sunday Edition has published an edited version of my piece on Chitkul here. The original is reproduced below.

Getting to Chitkul has not been easy.

Chitkul is the furthest village one can reach by road up the valley of the Baspa, a river that originates in a glacier near the border with Tibet and flows through the Kinnaur district of Himachal Pradesh to join the Sutlej. Chitkul at 3450 m will also be the highest altitude at which we will stay during this trip through Kinnaur.

First, there is the spine tingling drive on the narrow twisting road climbing the Baspa valley to Sangla, with numerous blind corners and long stretches where the road is just wide enough for a single vehicle, with the cliff on one side and a sheer drop on the other.


Then just as we sight the Baspa dam at Sangla and begin to heave a sigh of relief, we find ourselves in deep trouble. The mountainside has been crumbling and dumping tons of mud and rocks on the road, destabilized further by this monsoons rain. Unable to find traction on the loose mud while on an upward climb, our heavy Toyota Qualis starts digging itself in, and the engine cuts out. Conventional wisdom to provide the wheels traction does not work and I have the lurking fear that the rear axle of my car has been damaged. The queue of vehicles on either side is growing longer by the minute. I am almost at my wits end when a Sardar, with a military bearing, gets out of his car and walks over. A quick look and he has it all figured out. I am happy to let him take charge. He reverses my car a good distance, then comes racing up the slope in first gear, slithering and sliding over the loose mud, but in control, getting the vehicle across the hostile patch.

With the knowledge that the worst of the road is behind us, we enjoy the scenic drive along the Baspa through the lovely village of Rakcham and on to Chitkul where the guesthouse we have chosen to stay in marks the end of this road, literally.

We have the better part of the afternoon before us and decide to take a walk along the Baspa upstream. Brilliant sunshine brings out our glare glasses and the strong and cold  wind, caps and mufflers.

As we leave behind Chitkul, we are in a wide valley stretching out on the right bank of the Baspa. On the left bank, the mountain slopes right down to the river. We pass fields where men and women are digging out tiny potatoes. In front of us, Baspa snakes its way up towards the snow peaks. Red and yellow-billed 

Temple for Goddess Mathi 

Chough – locally known as Pahadi Kaua (Mountain Crow) - keep us noisy company. Ahead of us is an ITBP camp, an orderly grouping of barracks with green tin roofs. Just short of the camp, a bland notice states in English and Hindi that advancing beyond that point is forbidden without permission. There is no one visible in the camp – the terse notice is presumably sufficient to keep people away. We sit for some time to absorb the colors of the river and the mountains and then wend our way back.

There is still daylight and returning to the room will mean we will slowly freeze until dinner. We sense that there is something going on in the village from the arrival of some official jeeps. On making our way to a ground in front of what looks like a temple  pavilion, we find a large number of villagers assembled, dressed in traditional clothes. Both men and women wear the distinct Kinnauri caps – flat and round with the green band – with flowers. Some of the women are wearing elaborate jewelry. As we watch, the men, women and children join hands and, in a line, head towards the main temple. The men are in the front, the   

women in the middle, while the children bring up the rear. The man at the head has been honored with a garland of giant shalgam (turnips) that seem to have been freshly pulled out from the fields.

At the courtyard of the main temple, a slow rhythmic dance begins – everyone takes a couple of steps forward and then a step back in unison. A drum and a cymbal provide the music. The beat is slow and simple and has a hypnotizing effect. The musicians and the men in the lead seem almost in a trance, completely absorbed in the moment. A young man goes around with a silver jug with a large spout and pours out a liquid, into the cupped hands of the male onlookers as some sort of prasad. I get a taste of the 

  

clear and fruity smelling brew. It is heady. The swaying movement, including so many people old and young, remains graceful with everyone in step. It is now beginning to get dark and we leave, slowly making our way towards our guesthouse. We have indeed been lucky to witness the concluding festivities of the phulaich (festival of flowers).

Next morning while my family prefers to sit and enjoy the spectacle of the snow peaks at sunrise from the window of our room, I decide to trek to the peak overlooking Chitkul. The path goes by the monastery – a little further up from the temple. A villager indicates to me to go around the monastery from the left instead of the right. Always sticking to the left around holy places ensures that in a return journey, one would complete a clockwise parikrama.

Little Chitkul residents at the dance

 Hinduism and Buddhism coexist in these parts and everyone respects both religions. I walk towards the water source of the village as directed. A pipe captures water from a stream some distance above the village and fills a tank from which other pipes take it down to taps in front of the houses providing them unfiltered pure mineral Himalayan water. The untapped water follows a course through the village before flowing into the Baspa. Beyond the water source, a path of loose gravel heads up the mountain. I miss the fork to the summit of the hill I intended to climb, but the walk is exhilarating in the early morning cold and I continue until a point where the Baspa valley north of Chitkul unfolds before me in a grandstand view. After a few minutes absorbing the view, it is time to head back for my original objective. I scramble up the hill towards the prayer flags that mark the summit. Huge boulders lie helter-skelter at the top of the hill.    

There is no one I have seen since I left the village over 2 hours earlier. The prayer flags, though, give me a sense of human company, planted as they must have been by human hands. The return journey is easier than expected. I slide down the slopes until I reach the well-marked path to the village.

Walking down along the stream through the village, I find the answer to a puzzle. Last evening, walking around the village, we had wondered over the purpose of several single roomed structures on stilts. I now realize what these are – water mills located along the downward course of the stream. I peep into one that is in operation to see flour being milled.

Soon, it is time to leave Chitkul, but in the span of a few hours, we have collected memories that will last years.