Valley
of Flowers: A Travelogue
Part
VI
Flowers
in the Mist
The
moment I stepped out of the shelter of the rock-overhang, the world around me
turned misty. Till now, all my energies had been focussed on one single goal,
that of reaching the Valley safely and without incident. Now for the first time
my mind, free of the stress of the journey, looked around; I
mean really
looked. What I saw is difficult to describe, even by someone as verbose as me. But
I will try, though I am not too confident I can do it justice.
At
first it felt as if I were looking at the world through a wet, translucent
paper. Clouds covered everything, but the clouds were not the thick, foamy things that we see floating in the sky. Here they were wraithlike, made
of fine mist; and behind them, the Valley shimmered a smoky-grey. My sworn
enemy, the track now stretched flat through the centre of the Valley and here
its previous demon-like stance was softened, tamed into a pretty, glistening
path that first dipped and then rose in a gentle upward slope before disappearing
behind some hillocks in the distance. As I looked more intently, the Valley
began to bloom out of the mist under the intensity of my gaze. I noted beside
me, flanking the path on both sides and stretching far into the horizon, tiny flowers
borne on tall reedy plants that gently waved in the breeze. They were of the
prettiest shade, a blend of rani and baby pink, the Impatiens sulcata, or the
giant Himalayan Balsam. The entire meadow was covered with them and the only
thing my inadequate words can compare them to, is a Dali landscape: gray evening
sky dotted with pink stars.
Slowly
as the rain came and went, I became aware of black rocks spotted with lichen dotting the landscape; and in that shifting, shimmering air, they looked like ancient
mammoths out for a stroll. The flowers grew thick and it was just like Frank Smythe had described, "One couldn't take a step without the fear of crushing a flower!" Further down where the valley dipped, the pink
balsams were replaced by towering Milk Parsleys or Wallaich's Selenium (Selenium wallichianum). These are also known
by the rather romantic name - Wallaich's Everlasting. The flowers are
in an inflorescence that radiates from the centre like the spokes of a whee and
are of the palest milky yellow. They too grew in a dancing abundance, replacing the pink Impatiens stars with their diaphanous yellow lace.
The
Valley was hemmed in on all sides by towering hills whose peaks were made of jet
black rocks with steep jagged faces. But at the base, their formidable
demeanour was softened by the lush green of the monsoon grass which had crept
up and now lay in velvety swathes over them.
I
was mesmerised by the general beauty of the landscape and completely content
with just the two flowers I had seen till then, the Impatiens and the Milk Parsley.
It was Dinesh who drew my attention to the other flowers which, though not as
attention-grabbing, were equally beautiful. He pointed out tiny bellflowers of
a pale milky ochre growing on plants hardly a foot in height, whose centres had
a whole Rangoli of designs. Being presbyopic, I couldn’t quite appreciate this
intricate design with my naked eyes. But I was smart enough to take a closeup
with my zoom lens and now when I look at that picture, I marvel at the
unparalled creativity of Nature. I spotted
balloon like blooms of the palest pink, growing just near the bell flowers, that looked for all the world like Chinese
lanterns strung up by fairies for an evening soiree. Dinesh told me that they were
the buds of the bell-flower, but he was wrong. I found out later that these are
Campions (bladder campions to be precise, though calling them ‘bladder’ campions
is doing them a grave injustice. I’d rather call them ‘pink lantern’ campions)
and I can say that they were the prettiest thing I saw in my entire trip.
I
also saw pink and purple geraniums, blue thorowax, more anemones along with
their sibling - the ‘sunnymones’, pink
lousewort, hooded yellow horned lousewort, the trailing bellflower, the bright
chrome-yellow Ligularia, both the stem clasping and the Jaquemont’s varieties,
violet fleabanes that resemble aster, blue oxalis, tiny, tiny star-like blue
gentians, Shangri La balsams and many more whose names I do not know. I was spoiled
for choice, scrambling around from one flower to the next, quite like a three-year
old let loose in a toystore. But my camera was playing spoilsport, repeatedly either
misting over or becoming clouded with raindrops. I had carried the smaller of
our cameras because the Canon 3100D is a heavy thing and unlike it, my small
camera did not have a lens hood. I must advise you that if you ever happen to
visit a scenic place in the monsoons, you must carry an umbrella, a camera with
a lens hood and a bag load of chamois leather to blot the rain and the mist.
As
I struggled with my lens, my eyes caught a flash of purple. Whirling around, I found to my absolute delight, a tall plant with blue flowers growing on a tiny
outcrop of rock. It was the Giant Bellflower, of an iridescent bluish-purple that reminded me of blue bells. I scrambled awkwardly up the slippery rock
to get a good angle, with my poncho flapping around my legs like giant batwings. The
picture I managed to take was average but the picture I treasure in my mind’s
eye is exquisite and perfect!
If
you have read Part I of this travelogue, you will remember that I had spoken of
the Blue Poppy, our mascot for this trip. I had read that they grow in greater
abundance in the valley of Flowers than at Hemkund Sahib. But Dinesh told me
that lately these poppies were found less and less in the Valley of Flowers and
more at Hemkund Sahib. When I enquired why, he said it could probably be
because it was getting warmer in the Valley (height 12000 feet) while the
temperatures at Hemkund though warming up, was still cool enough (because of
its greater altitude of about 15000 feet) for the poppy to grow.
This
piece of information left me morose and my mood was not improved when Dinesh
also let on that the last group of tourists he had taken up the Valley only two
days back had not seen a single blue poppy.
But
the Blue Poppy did not fail us. On a rocky
ledge on the left flank of the path, Dinesh pointed out a single plant with
three blue blooms. The oldest flower was faded and drooped a little, but the
other two were of the blue of autumn skies and held at their centre bright golden
stamens. I spotted a few blue petals of some older faded flower strewn around
and I knew that tomorrow, these flowers would not be there anymore. As I frantically
clicked, my eyes misted over. Those poppies were a kind of culmination for me,
for us, of our long seven-day sojourn with all its uncertainties, fears and
misgivings, and also of the excitement, the camaraderie and the undiluted fun.
I am an incurable romantic and kind of like to believe that the Blue Poppy had
bloomed just for us and had weathered the incessant rain and storm just so that
we four could meet up with it.
We must have spent about an hour in the Valley by now and I think the altitude was
getting to me. I felt wet and uncomfortable and when BB, the sun worshipper
went and plonked herself down on a rock and refused to budge saying she wished
the sun would come out and we could see the Valley in its sunlit glory; her
glumness infected me too. I scrambled up the rock along with her and we both
sat there in silence, watching the rain come and go, watching the pink dotted fields
fade in and out, watching the other trekker follow the trail further into the Valley.
The other thing that was worrying me was the thought of the descent down that
demented path; and in worrying about this, I made the terrible mistake of
letting the fear of the future spoil the present. CC was the smartest of the
three of us, for she went on ahead (the Valley stretches for 6 km further down)
up to another stream, something I so wish I too had done that day. She told me
later, of how standing beside the stream in that magical fairyland dotted with
pink and yellow flowers and surrounded by those wise old mountains, she had
teared up; just like I had done before the Blue Poppies.
I
will not bore with the details of the return trip save for a few special vignettes.
During
the descent, BB our flying Marwari and DD, a closet ‘Flying’ Bangalorean, sailed
over those crazy stones in flat three hours. But CC and I took close to four
hours and perhaps a little more, gingerly climbing down at the speed of snails.
I was terrified of slipping and breaking my ankle while CC was terrified of
falling down the gorge and drowning in the Pushpavati. Like Vitalstatistix with
his fear of the sky falling on his head, we both had our pet fears; but unlike
me CC was not shy of asking for help. Since I was lagging behind, with Dinesh
taking up the rear-guard, she was left to fend for herself. Wisely, she asked a
passing young man for help. It turned out that this fella was self-same lawless
Punjabi Munda we had met on our way up. This young man helped the struggling CC
negotiate those treacherous stones through the entire four kms, all the while
entertaining her with the story of his young life. Later as I too got to know
him, I realised he was a charming, polite and respectful young man. His
disarmingly candid talk revealed a soft vulnerable mind that belied his lawless
Punjabi exterior and it brought out the maternal sentiments in both of us. And
for me personally, it was a vindication of the age old adage: Appearances can
be deceptive.
Another
interesting interlude occurred when we were hiking back from Ghangria to Pulna.
That morning, the sun had come out in all its golden glory and consequently our
sun worshipping, photosynthetic feeder BB was in her element. As we climbed
down the trail, she asked Dinesh to sing. Though baulking at first, at BB’s
repeated insistence he sang for us a lively Pahari song. BB sang along with him
in her typical bindaas manner and for
a moment I couldn’t help thinking that in all probability, Dinesh was convinced
that we were a bunch of borderline psychiatric cases. But that was not all. BB
who was in her full flow, now stopped at road bend and leaning against the rock
bench, she said to Dinesh, “I will sing a Bengali song for you Dinesh. It is
written by Tagore. You may have heard of him. It is a song in praise of light
as a source of positive energy.” I do not know how much of what she was trying
to convey was grasped by Dinesh, but maybe that was not in the least important.
BB now broke into that Tagore classic, Alo
aamar alo……. The Song of Light. She has a beautiful voice and is a trained classical
singer; and as she sang full throated and free, under a jewel-blue sky, the
snow covered Rataban peak glittering in the distance and the sunlight filtering
in through the jewelled green of the forest, a kind of languor grew upon me
too. I closed my eyes and sang along with her…Aalo Aamar Aalo Ogo Aloye Bhuvan Bhora….**
The
last anecdote, a funny but sweet vignette is a pleasant way to end this six
part mammoth (by my lazy standards) travelogue. This happened while we were
putting up for the night at the Army guest house at Joshimath. The soldiers in-charge
of the guest house were from the infantry. I was rooming in with CC and I noted
with amusement that each time the soldier brought in something for us, say like
tea or water or fresh towels, CC would express her gratitude to him with a polite
thank you. Now CC is not called CC just like that. She is Coco Chanel through
and through, the epitome of sophistication, chic and elegance. She is not
beautiful but she has something about her, something within her, something in
her smile, her voice, her words and her
demeanour that shouts to the world, “Here is a Lady!!!!!” Now Rifleman Kewal
Ram from the rural heartlands of Rajasthan, the rough-gruff rifle handling,
terrorist bashing infantry soldier was completely unused to so much propriety
and so much gentility. The first time that CC had uttered her killer thank you, he had not replied, probably
because he was caught unawares. The second time when CC took the tea cup from
his hands with a bright sunlit smile and a brighter thank you, I thought I heard something that sounded like a “Huurgh”
from our soldier. The third time, when he came with fresh towels and was bombarded
with another Colgate powered smile and a honey crusted thank you, he was ready. I did hear another ‘Hurrrpmh’, but I
thought I had heard something more there. The fourth time when he knocked on
our door (I forgot for what), his reply to CC’s thank you was a guttural but prompt
and much clearer, though heavily accented, “Welcome!” As I shut the door and
collapsed on the bed in a heap of laughter, CC looked at me in baffled wonderment
at what it was that I thought was funny!
Epilogue
Every night, at that twilight juncture when one is not asleep but not quite awake either, I return to the Valley.
I find myself huffing and puffing up the steep slope right through that cloud-mist, as rain prickles my vision. The giant pink balsams nod in encouragement as I pant by them, but the stones at my feet are horrendously uneven as ever and as ever, unfriendly. My stick searches for a secure surface to hook on and as it does that, I can hear, far below on my right down the deep ravine, the Pushpawati dashing through its gorge in madcap abandon. Before me, a thin road of stone glistens with rain as it snakes up and then down the lush green valley before disappearing into the mist.
I missed seeing what lies beyond, for I had missed venturing ahead.
I am now filled with an aching curiosity: what lies ahead, there in that mist shrouded green, between the black mountain walls that rise on both sides?
The botanist Ms Margaret Legge’s little white grave?
More flowers, each prettier and wilder than the next, flowers this botanist who died young surely must have loved?
Baby streams gurgling like chatterbox children?
The moraine edged glacier where Pushpawati takes birth?
The sharp white peaks of the Rataban?
What, what, what.........???
This is how the Valley has been calling me every night, a compelling call, like the Sirens of Circe, calls that I cannot ignore. I must go back.
Must.
***********************************************
PS: If you liked my travelogue, leave a word.
*****আলো আমার, আলো ওগো, আলো ভুবন-ভরা ।
আলো নয়ন-ধোওয়া আমার, আলো হৃদয়-হরা ॥
নাচে আলো নাচে, ও ভাই, আমার প্রাণের কাছে—
বাজে আলো বাজে, ও ভাই, হৃদয়বীণার মাঝে—
জাগে আকাশ, ছোটে বাতাস, হাসে সকল ধরা ॥
আলোর স্রোতে পাল তুলেছে হাজার প্রজাপতি ।
আলোর ঢেউয়ে উঠল নেচে মল্লিকা মালতী ।
মেঘে মেঘে সোনা, ও ভাই, যায় না মানিক গোনা—
পাতায় পাতায় হাসি, ও ভাই, পুলক রাশি রাশি—
সুরনদীর কূল ডুবেছে সুধা-নিঝর-ঝরা ॥
Light, O my light, the world-filling light, the
eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances,
my beloved, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords
of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread
their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmine surge up on the crest of
the waves of light.
The light is shattered
into gold on every cloud, my beloved, and it scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from
leaf to leaf, my beloved, and gladness without measure. Heaven's river has
drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.
