Deccan Herald Sunday Edition has published an edited version of the following piece here. The original, reproduced below, was extracted from the report of the Kangra Valley trip that appeared in this blog earlier.
The Tibetan Colony of Bir (pronounced Beed) is a few kms from the Bir Road bus stop on the Mandi – Dharamsala highway straddling the Kangra Valley. We walk towards the colony in the winter drizzle. The snow in the upper reaches has put paid to our plans to trek to Billing, a high ridge overlooking Bir from where Para gliders take sail into the Kangra Valley. We settle for the best alternative in the circumstances, a trek to Baijnath the next day on country tracks, passing the Sherabling Monastry on the way. But right now, what we need is some shelter and food.
A monk, keeping pace with us, directs us to a lodge in the Tibetan Colony. Mid February is off-season here and we get a room with two beds and clean sheets for just Rs. 250/. Just across the street is the Gangchen Zompa cafe, a cozy looking place filled with Tibetans at this time. The café promises that all the food served is freshly cooked to order. The tomato-egg soup, mutton momos and the tingmo (steamed bread) are really fresh and satisfying and more than make up for the time they take to arrive. The rest of the evening is spent getting our clothes and boots dry and umbrellas repaired.
We wake up to a wet morning with a dark cloud cover. After a leisurely breakfast, we start walking towards Baijnath. It is a beautiful road meandering through green fields in open country with no traffic, motorized or otherwise. Soon we reach the cross-country shortcut to Sherabling we have been on the lookout for - a small track veering to the left alongside a teagarden after crossing a big nalah.
What would have been normally a comfortable path has turned into a small stream because of the rain. As we walk down, beautiful vistas unfold of tea gardens and wheat fields by small villages. After a while, the path enters a forest. The drizzle has turned by now into a regular rain accompanied by thunder and the path is no more discernable in the poor light; we have lost our way. In the distance on a hilltop, there is a lone house. We decide to head for it to get renewed directions for Sherabling. Smoke is coming out from a chimney – a welcome sign indeed. The door opens to our knock, a woman peers out, and without the slightest hesitation invites us – two strangers in jackets and boots and carrying backpacks and umbrellas - to come around to the front door.
Over a hot glass of tea, sitting in their cozy living room, we get acquainted with Mrs Sharma and her son Sunil. Sharma ji, employed in the ITBP passed away just a few months earlier. Sunil’s elder brother works in the merchant navy while his sister works with the health center at the Tibetan Colony. Sunil himself has trained to be a trekking guide but is now preparing to join the merchant navy as a mechanic – a job with better prospects.
The rain has petered down to a drizzle by now and we get ready to leave, even as Mrs. Sharma graciously tries to persuade us to have lunch with them. Sunil walks with us through the forest perhaps a kilometer, until the path ahead becomes clearly visible, getting thoroughly wet in the process. It is clear that we would have been hopelessly lost without his help. We exchange contacts, shake hands, and part. Kangra villagers have the reputation of being simple, straightforward, and very hospitable. The Sharmas have been more than true to type. Later, when my thoughts return to this family, I feel a pang of guilt - would I have been as hospitable to perfect strangers knocking on my door in the middle of a roaring storm?
The path ahead cuts through a paddy field, crosses a stream, and then ascends a hill. Sherabling is somewhere on the other side. As we walk through the field, the rain turns into a vigorous hailstorm painting the field white. Reaching the stream, we find that the path has disappeared under rapidly flowing water. Eventually, after a long detour and getting thoroughly wet, we manage to bridge the stream, then climb the hill and walking along the ridge, spot the golden shimmer of the roof of the monastery in the distance.
Situated right in the middle of a forest, Sherabling turns out to be an amazing place. Its hostels house 600 children, some from places as far away as Arunachal Pradesh and Sikkim. The monastery is recent in origin, being only 17 years old. Inside the main building is a large statue of the future Buddha, the Buddha who is yet to be born. Norbu, a monk from Arunachal Pradesh, is very patient with us. He has been here 7 years. He has left his elder brother and parents in his village, which he has not visited for three years. I ask him if the monks will leave the monastery when their learning is complete. His reply - that learning is lifelong and never complete – leaves me sheepish.
The inside of the monastery is breathtaking with gleaming polished wooden floors and beautiful arrangements for monks to sit and meditate.
Colorful thanka paintings adorn the walls. There are rooms where visitors can stay and a canteen that offers simple food. We order thukpa – a hot soup with noodles and vegetables – on the advice of ‘amma’, a wizened old lady who (wo)mans the canteen counter. It turns out to be an excellent choice – warming us up and making the wet clothes and socks bearable. Just then, the sun bursts out of the clouds – for the first time in three days - lifting our spirits. Young monks are playing outside throwing balls rounded from hailstones at each other. We still have a long way to go before sundown and it is time to leave.
A narrow road leads from the vicinity of the Sherabling monastery to the village of Bhattu. We follow the road for some time and then take short cuts through Bhattu village. It is a picturesque village, looking prosperous, clean and washed after the rain. The ubiquitous piles of garbage and plastic common to tourist destinations are missing here – perhaps a sign that few outsiders pass through. The houses are set amidst small terraced fields and we can identify wheat, mustard, onions, garlic, and carrots, all in tiny plots. The road winds down along the Binwa River that carries melted snow from the Dhauladhar range of mountains behind us. Walking along an elevated meadow one gets splendid views of the snow-clad peaks.
We enter the town of Baijnath after crossing a bridge over the Binwa. A little distance ahead is the 8th century Shiva temple located at a commanding height above the river and offering gorgeous views of the river gorge and the snow peaks in the distance. The temple complex is refreshing, with neat landscaped gardens all around and entrances from several directions. It is not just a place for prayer. People can be seen taking their evening walk in the complex and relaxing in its parks. Behind the temple, a steep staircase leads down to the river flowing far below. Our trek for today ends at the bus stand, just a couple of minutes away from the Shiva temple. The day has given us far more than anything we could have anticipated as we set out that rain-drenched morning.
The Tibetan Colony of Bir (pronounced Beed) is a few kms from the Bir Road bus stop on the Mandi – Dharamsala highway straddling the Kangra Valley. We walk towards the colony in the winter drizzle. The snow in the upper reaches has put paid to our plans to trek to Billing, a high ridge overlooking Bir from where Para gliders take sail into the Kangra Valley. We settle for the best alternative in the circumstances, a trek to Baijnath the next day on country tracks, passing the Sherabling Monastry on the way. But right now, what we need is some shelter and food.
A monk, keeping pace with us, directs us to a lodge in the Tibetan Colony. Mid February is off-season here and we get a room with two beds and clean sheets for just Rs. 250/. Just across the street is the Gangchen Zompa cafe, a cozy looking place filled with Tibetans at this time. The café promises that all the food served is freshly cooked to order. The tomato-egg soup, mutton momos and the tingmo (steamed bread) are really fresh and satisfying and more than make up for the time they take to arrive. The rest of the evening is spent getting our clothes and boots dry and umbrellas repaired.
We wake up to a wet morning with a dark cloud cover. After a leisurely breakfast, we start walking towards Baijnath. It is a beautiful road meandering through green fields in open country with no traffic, motorized or otherwise. Soon we reach the cross-country shortcut to Sherabling we have been on the lookout for - a small track veering to the left alongside a teagarden after crossing a big nalah.
What would have been normally a comfortable path has turned into a small stream because of the rain. As we walk down, beautiful vistas unfold of tea gardens and wheat fields by small villages. After a while, the path enters a forest. The drizzle has turned by now into a regular rain accompanied by thunder and the path is no more discernable in the poor light; we have lost our way. In the distance on a hilltop, there is a lone house. We decide to head for it to get renewed directions for Sherabling. Smoke is coming out from a chimney – a welcome sign indeed. The door opens to our knock, a woman peers out, and without the slightest hesitation invites us – two strangers in jackets and boots and carrying backpacks and umbrellas - to come around to the front door.
Over a hot glass of tea, sitting in their cozy living room, we get acquainted with Mrs Sharma and her son Sunil. Sharma ji, employed in the ITBP passed away just a few months earlier. Sunil’s elder brother works in the merchant navy while his sister works with the health center at the Tibetan Colony. Sunil himself has trained to be a trekking guide but is now preparing to join the merchant navy as a mechanic – a job with better prospects.
The rain has petered down to a drizzle by now and we get ready to leave, even as Mrs. Sharma graciously tries to persuade us to have lunch with them. Sunil walks with us through the forest perhaps a kilometer, until the path ahead becomes clearly visible, getting thoroughly wet in the process. It is clear that we would have been hopelessly lost without his help. We exchange contacts, shake hands, and part. Kangra villagers have the reputation of being simple, straightforward, and very hospitable. The Sharmas have been more than true to type. Later, when my thoughts return to this family, I feel a pang of guilt - would I have been as hospitable to perfect strangers knocking on my door in the middle of a roaring storm?
The path ahead cuts through a paddy field, crosses a stream, and then ascends a hill. Sherabling is somewhere on the other side. As we walk through the field, the rain turns into a vigorous hailstorm painting the field white. Reaching the stream, we find that the path has disappeared under rapidly flowing water. Eventually, after a long detour and getting thoroughly wet, we manage to bridge the stream, then climb the hill and walking along the ridge, spot the golden shimmer of the roof of the monastery in the distance.
Situated right in the middle of a forest, Sherabling turns out to be an amazing place. Its hostels house 600 children, some from places as far away as Arunachal Pradesh and Sikkim. The monastery is recent in origin, being only 17 years old. Inside the main building is a large statue of the future Buddha, the Buddha who is yet to be born. Norbu, a monk from Arunachal Pradesh, is very patient with us. He has been here 7 years. He has left his elder brother and parents in his village, which he has not visited for three years. I ask him if the monks will leave the monastery when their learning is complete. His reply - that learning is lifelong and never complete – leaves me sheepish.
The inside of the monastery is breathtaking with gleaming polished wooden floors and beautiful arrangements for monks to sit and meditate.
A narrow road leads from the vicinity of the Sherabling monastery to the village of Bhattu. We follow the road for some time and then take short cuts through Bhattu village. It is a picturesque village, looking prosperous, clean and washed after the rain. The ubiquitous piles of garbage and plastic common to tourist destinations are missing here – perhaps a sign that few outsiders pass through. The houses are set amidst small terraced fields and we can identify wheat, mustard, onions, garlic, and carrots, all in tiny plots. The road winds down along the Binwa River that carries melted snow from the Dhauladhar range of mountains behind us. Walking along an elevated meadow one gets splendid views of the snow-clad peaks.
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