(This was published in EPW Sept 12, 2015 Issue ... reproduced below with photos)
Deepavali is only a
few days away and the uppermost thought in my mind is to get away from home.
For home is a teeming metropolis given to an orgy of uncivilised celebration,
assaulting the senses, poisoning the air and making the vulnerable sick.
Hurtling through the night in a volvo, I manage to put enough distance behind me. The morning finds me in a local bus making its way up slowly on a winding road on the left bank of the Beas.
Hurtling through the night in a volvo, I manage to put enough distance behind me. The morning finds me in a local bus making its way up slowly on a winding road on the left bank of the Beas.
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| Naggar |
The Kulu valley
is just a few km wide here with hills rising steeply on either side. The flat area
near the river and the lower hill sides are dotted with habitations. Apple orchards
fill the open spaces, the trees in their winter form, bare and leafless.
In an hour or so we reach a busy market place. The village of Naggar is located up a hill a short walk from here. Naggar will be my refuge for the next few days. A road heads upwards with many switch backs. I lumber along with my backpack. Near the top, I locate a family run guest house which has a room with a view.
In an hour or so we reach a busy market place. The village of Naggar is located up a hill a short walk from here. Naggar will be my refuge for the next few days. A road heads upwards with many switch backs. I lumber along with my backpack. Near the top, I locate a family run guest house which has a room with a view.
And what a view it is!
Sitting on the balcony, I look down upon the Beas flowing far below.
Across the river, the hills rise in layers with scattered snow marking the
tallest peaks. The room is cold but the sun splashed balcony perfect. I can
spend the days here easily doing nothing.
But Naggar is not
without other attractions.
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| The Castle |
Dominating the village
is a dignified old rectangular structure, made entirely of wood and stone,
grandiosely named ‘The Castle’. Once the palace of a Kulu Chieftain, it was
appropriated by the colonial administration and is now a state run hotel with
beautiful views and expensive rooms.
The courtyard of the
‘Castle’ contains a pretty little temple - known by the name Jagatipatt - that
houses only a stone slab with a special significance. The courtyard and temple are
deserted today, but in a few days I will have occasion to see the place again
in a different light.
Just a little further
on the winding mountain road going past the village is an art gallery, once the
home of the renowned Russian painter Nicholas Roerich. I spend an interesting
afternoon immersed in paintings of Himalayan landscapes and peoples.
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| The temple in Rumsu |
The same road
continues its way up to the ancient village of Rumsu which has well preserved
structures built in traditional style. I thoroughly enjoy a morning visit to
Rumsu.
A steep cemented
staircase leading off the road provides a shorter path to the village. As I
gain height, the distant brown hills take on a golden hue in the morning sun. The
air is filled with birdsong. A school boy races down past me. It is 7.30 in the
morning and people are already out working – collecting hay for their horses
and cattle, laying out the golden corn cobs on their roofs to dry in the sun. I
pass the village temple, a beautiful tall structure of wood and stone and then
reach the main square, a large open space with more old temples. At the other
end of the village there is an area fenced off with a small shrine in its midst
and a sign warning people against entering for the devtas reside
here.
Deepavali day arrives. Stepping out for a morning walk, I see a group of men in traditional Kulu caps collecting at the Castle entrance. The sound of drums and trumpets emanates from within. There is perceptible excitement in the air. I decide to join the group.
The Jagatipatt temple
in the courtyard is the centre of the action. The courtyard fills up rapidly. I
learn that a visiting devi – accommodated in the temple
overnight - will now depart. It is a very special occasion for the people of
Naggar. This devi has come here after 370 years!
An elaborate ritual is
now played out.
A band of musicians with long curved trumpets and large drums stand facing the temple, playing their instruments. The palki is taken out and readied. A white lamb brought for the occasion is sacrificed and its head offered to the devi before she is moved into the palki, now resting on the shoulders of two strongly built young men. Village elders gather around.
An elder takes up a litany in Kului; the crowd supports his supplications when he pauses. I understand enough to make out that he is pleading with the devi not to leave. The palki sways in the direction of the exit, indicating the devi’s wish. Other elders take their turns, pleading. The crowd is sombre, moved by the entreaties, awaiting the inevitable. A burly priest who has all along been conducting the ceremonies in a business like fashion starts sobbing. The time, it appears, has come.
Young men bearing
flags lead the way out followed by the musicians. Then comes the palki escorted
out by the people from Naggar. The procession, perhaps a hundred strong,
marches swiftly downhill. I join in, revelling in the energy of the crowd.
At the next village on the route, I bid goodbye to my fellow marchers and take a bus back to Naggar. The walk to my room takes me past houses decorated with pleasing arrangements of leaves and flowers. It promises to be a beautiful Deepavali day.
