So Close No Matter How Far

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I revere early-mornings, what a good time start any road trip, ‘you miss the day-time traffic, no-honking, u get up-brush and you go, you know’. Grab the wheel, nicotine laced with excitement & spiked with steroidal optimism. Your mind's swirling about clear traffic, great driving, speed-thrills, oooh weather and good mileage and the like. Dream on, In Delhi, you meet atleast 6 police check-nakas, with a white Toyota van, yellow grilled barriers, beamed flashlights, irrelevant and obvious questions, and maybe some searches – exist as the perfect antidote for your spirits. You fish-out your (hopefully) govt. issued documents to the semi-greased palms, they are then dismissively scanned for an earning opp, while you’re lectured on any random topic. The cops revere this period too – as do the long-haul truckers. Delhi like most-big-cities, offer a small time window for trucks to pass through the city and since that time-window, coincides with my revered-early-morning most road trip really starts on a note of hesistancy, foreboding ill-humor, and sandwiched between diesel belching trucks, so much for the good weather 😊. Regardless, this however is the best time out……

The National Highway #1, the major highway on this trip, is also known as The Grand Trunk Road. And is another historical marvel at Delhi’s doorstep. The highway stretches back, to the 3rd century B.C., and connects some of the most ecelectic towns of the subcontinent. For one it connects the Muslim-Mughal cities of Delhi, Aurangabad, Lahore with another muslim city of repute, Aligarh, the holiest places of Sikhism – Amritsar & Lahore, the most revered hindu river-temple-towns of Varanasi, Allahabad & Kolkatta, the two capitals of British India, Kolkatta & Delhi, the rivers of sub-continental reverence, importance & disputes, the Ganges, Yamuna, Saraswati, Jhelum, Indus, Sutlej, Beas, Chenab , Sone, Ravi and the Kabul river. This ancient ecelectic thread also connects the farmlands of west & east bengal, east & west punjabs to the gangetic plains of central india to western Pakistan, with the mining towns of Asansol, Durgapur & Dhanbad with the textile towns of Ludhiana, to the leather & sports manufacturing city, Jallandhar, which by the way is also the hospital capital of Asia.

From a demographic & linguistic diversity, this highway connects the bengali muslims of west bangladesh to the bengalis of east india to hindus along the ganges to the sikhs in punjab to the cosmopolitans in Delhi & Lahore to the Pashtuns of Peshawar to Afridis of West Pakistan, and throw nearly all the tribes in Asia in between and I mean all, Put together you will find people from all the South Asian Majors here – Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshies, Afghans, Burmese, Chinese, Japs, Bhutanis, Nepalis etc – all the major religions get represented – of course Muslims, Sikhs & Hindus are dominant both in numbers & symbols. Sliced by language you will find over a 100 dialects and more than 15 languages being spoken along this stretch. The road deserves a separate note (and it has many).

‘Truly’, wrote Kipling in Kim, “ the Grand Trunk road is a wonderful spectacle, bearing without crowding, such a river of life as exists nowhere in the world’.

Fast forward to the now…..The entry and exits from Delhi to the Grand Trank Road or National Highway #1 is marked by a great open-air veg market or mandi. This massive trade zone of subzi, called Azaadpur Subzi Mandi (literally – Veg Market of the Freezone) is strategically placed to receive farmers & their produce coming in from the Punjb, Haryana, Himachal, Kashmir and parts of UP, and is the largest fruit & vegetable markets in Asia. Set-up in 1977 it today covers nearly 100 acres, so if your imagination allows it, spread it over a 100 acres, then fill it with fruits, vegetables, crates & carts, humans and trucks, ooh add some smells to it (not all pleasant, please if you want to be a realist).



The trucks on Indian roads, while attractive and diverse – diverse ie different from the largely same-ish, 18 or-so wheelers, on the US highways, the desi trucks have persona, unique grafittii, some laughable quips, high pitched music – slight to heavy distortion, and a large black bordered face to ward off the evil eye, nazar-buttu, marshalled by, at least two adults and most definetly a kid-to-teenager called chotey or something like that. So will you be, as you wait surrounded by these blocks of tyred & tired non-aerodynamic straightlines of overloaded mass, barely inches away, growling and puffing. Your ideas of vehicular-intimacy dissipates as your car's bathed in truck-headlights, now now you can’t fake postures, or kiss, should u want to read however, you can. Exposed and exasperated, my advice to keep an interesting conversation poised for this spot and jump into it as soon as you can..and you’ll be alright.

Trip minus 24 hours, I turn paranoid (more) about getting sleep, the paranioa is a ritual, and therefore I have to. And like every trip and night, I failed to get any. The plan was to take a meaningless break from work, then go about, determinedly, in search of nothing, with my friend Vinod B. Our route to Mcleodganj/Dharamsala - New Delhi - Panipat - Kurukshetra - Karnal - Ambala via NH1, Ambala - Chandigargh, Chandigarh - Kiratpur - Una - Amb - Chitpurni - Dhwara - Dharamsala - McLeodganj (via State Highways) – and my goal more pointedly was to eat at all these places and write some click some amateurish photos and write something equally meaningless. So like my jeep my little tale will often meander, so feel free to turn it off, anytime.

In the 80s and because the Indian govt. never had sensible naming conventions, a train called the Chandigarh Express existed. Which neither started nor ended in Chandigarh, and, was the primary connection between my little hometown and New Delhi. Come summers, I would board this to head from a cool-ish hill-station (Ranchi) to a hot-as-hell city-up-in-arms (Delhi) to visit my grannas. This 2 day train ride was mostly on the Chandigarh Express and to drift a bit… Chandigarh is uniquely, the capital of two states, Haryana & Punjab, but is administered by neither as it’s a Union Territory. The names literally mean the Fort/Fortress of Chandi, from the nearby Chandi temple in Panchkula (a nearby hamlet). And Panchkula along with Mohali, make up the Tri-city – Chandigarh being the flagship city. This place has the highest per capita income in the nation and therefore some of the best standards of living. It holds the distinction and uniqueness of being the first (maybe the last) planned and the cleanest city in India. The city was the answer to India’s search for a capital for Punjab, after Lahore fell on the other side of the Radcliff line.

Nehru wanted a city that was ‘unfettered by the past and a symbol of India’s future’ and with that thought Albert Mayer & Mathew Nowiki, started work on a master plan for the city. Nowicki’s death brought in Le Corbusier, who now is widely known and accredited with the design, though large parts of Mayer & Nowicki’s plans were incorporated into the new plan. Corbusier also, brought with him an organized mesh of rectangles (called sectors today), stone masonry, and roundabouts. The town’s a marvel, when compared to other major Indian cities and from a town-plan & layout perspective. And if it interests you any further, the city is home to Kapil Dev, Milkha Singh (the poor-rags-to-runner), and Jeev, the golfer (??), Yuvraj Singh, Neerja Bhanot, (Ashok Chakra) lived here too. Now wait a minute, Neerja who????, allow me to time-travel as i drive.

Sep’1986, a four door airport-security van, approached PanAm 73, at 6am in the Karachi Airport. The plane had just landed from Bombay, and was heading out to Frankfurt onto New York. The van pulled up, and 4 airport security guards boarded the plane. Those were the visible-facts, not the truth. Armed with assault rifles, grenades & explosives the four members of the Abu Nidal Group seized control over the aircraft. The cabin crew alerted the cockpit staff who escaped from the cockpit, their flight effectively grounded the aircraft and this single act was to prove fortunate & fatal, depending on how you feel. When instructed, the crew, declined to collect and hid American passports, and as the terrorist’s demands for the return of the pilots drew a blank, the mood inside the cabin tuned morbid.

Outside, the Boeing bathed in light, stood still, a bright scrutiny of searchlit glare with a host of dim ideas. The front exit-door of the plane opened with its usual hiss. Framed in it and kneeling, his hands behind his head, was a gent. Zayd Hassan Abd Al-Latif Masud AL Safarini shot Rajesh Kumar through the head and pushed him out alive when he hit the tarmac and dead on arrival at the hospital.

After almost 14 hours of the standoff, the paranoid and now nervous hijackers herd the passengers into the central section of the aircraft, chanting loudly they opened fire. 20 died, 120 were injured. Neerja, was a Flight Purser on this flight, lost her life, along with 20 other who were executed in one of the bloodiest hijackings in recent times. Neerja was quite active throughout this event. She first let the pilot's know, who escaped therefore grounding the aircraft, then hid the passports of the Americans on board, negotiated small wins for the passengers, to the extent the hijackers trusted her and by the end of it, she was dead. Using herself as shield for three children on board. The year was 1986. She was born on 7th Sep & died on the 5th Sep, Teacher’s Day, and if the last moments of her life weren’t a lesson enough, she was 22.

Fastforward to the now…. I am writing, at 2 am from the Wonderworld resort in Chanwand village, some 10 kms away from Dharamsala. The resort, wobbled infirmly, upon a thick green gorge, lined by a thundering section of Charan Khud Stream that flows through the place. Crisp & cool mountain breeze gushes through my windows as the sounds of the river soak through the walls. Night time startles you with its calm – the river flow and sky, the smell and yor excitement at fringes of ease. Hill nights are some sounds, distant echoes and some lights of distant homes that set you longing, and few twin beady rays of panning headlights ,as someone negotiates the hairpins. The valley is awash with the moonlight, smell of rain, thick-green cover with a clear blue top, eclectic sounds,.. … and I didn’t know when I dozed off …

….and woke up around lunch, hungry. I ordered a portion of the bong’s barometer of Chinese food - Sweet Corn chicken soup, along with some noodles and of course - Chilly Chicken Dry …India’s contribution to Chinese food.

Driving to this point from Chandigarh, the Bhakra Nangal Dam, Pong Dam and Chintpurni was a 360 degrees of visual treat, and a 3rd degree for my car. I say I’m prudent (read overtly paranoid), so I refuel in the outskirts of Chandigarh….. (in post script - there are gas stations all the way, as are atms, right upto Dharamsala). The stretch from Amb to Chitpurni was an upward moving mass of pilgrims, visiting the Chintpurni Temple in the Una district. Chint-Purni…literally wish fulfillment, has pilgrims visiting for centuries. We were passing though Shravan (August) and the Navratra fairs and Monday, so the roads were jam-packed with the packs of walking-pilgrims. For whom multiple charitable trusts & rich-individuals had set-up stalls & booths on the way, offering water, sugared water & other refreshments to the passing pilgrims, hoping for some divine retribution through this act. These philanthropists are insistent and often vehemently so. There’s a fairly competitive feel between these counters of charity, so look for some aggressive marketing around here. My fav was a man with a billboard that read ‘RAJMAH WALE CHAWAL’ (rice with pulses), as a ‘gastrnomique’ raison d’etre. For no apparent reason, some years ago, I had term these travellers as Lalluahs! Their intention and pursuits, holy, the incidents they often cause are called accidents.

Past this Temple town, the road cleared of people and quickly filled up with rocks, as I reached the landslide-prone-zone. The recent rains had razed most parts of the road. So the drive from Chintpurni to Kangra was mostly off-roading over narrow stretches of either hard rock or mush or both with ravines, gorges & streams down below for company. This butt-breaker aside, we made it to Kangra, passing some picture perfect Himalayan villages.The drive from Kangra to Dharamshala was another uneasy hour over a densely-rock strewn state highway but soon, we head banged our way into Dharamsala. Divided in two parts, Lower and Upper - the lower housing the commercial centre and the upper - more popularly known as known more commonly as McLeodGanj (named after David McLeod, once the British Lieutenant Governor of Punjab). Ok I am bong - and here’s some history…..again.

Dharamsala, annexed in the mid 1800s, served as a busy hill station for the British. Used as the administrative hub for the Kangra region, Lord Elgin, the then, Viceroy of British India had grand plans for the place. He lies buried aorund the St. John’s Church, alongside his grand plans under some grand pines. Dharamsala was ravaged by an earthquake in 1905 (killing 20k), ensured only academic interest in those ‘grand plans’.Simla became the summer capital of British India, and became the eventual destination for well, almost everyone.

Fast forward to present…. Lower Dharamsala passes in a blink, quite like the wispy memories of fleeting dream nearing dawn; one careless rub of the eye... and the dreams gone. And, you trudge into the Dalai’s backyard - ie you’re now officially scheming against the Chinese govt, according to the Chinese govt.And from now on my narrative may use Dharamshala & McLeonganj interchangeably.

Hill-stations though unique are really very similar all over India; they spread out in a non-linear fashion via artery-like roads from a buzzing nucleii, called the 'bus-addey' or 'auto-stand'. Try finding one which doesn’t, I dare you. Mcleodganj spreads out in the same fashion. Jogibara road, Temple Road, Bhagsu Road and another one converges at the bus stand (bus-addey), which also doubles up as the main square, and a pricipal esplanade for Mcleodganj. This is a small quadrilateral with lanes blipping in and out, autos, buses, suvs, cars, monks, tourists and livestock make this the most densely populated area of the Kangra Valley, oh and the local residents too. I squeezed through and really squeezed through the traffic and the small snakish road to finally arrive at Bhagsu, a ancient-temple-village, whose future as a hotel-town is very secure. The surrounding proud pines are assured of a future fireplace or to end up as a dining table, to be gifted at some 'Lucky's' wedding. A shopping mall completes the canvas in concrete. The mahashiv here chases down maryjane with a smoking espresso.

Bhagsu looks out upon the vast green stretches of the Kangra Valley, through a small crack between the adjoining hills, and is slightly above Mcleodganj. Its charmingly wet & green quietude beats the swirling robes and masses at Mcleodganj, which, by no means is less alluring. And while, I was in prime Buddha territory, - lemme start telling ya about things, Hindu, not Buddhist. A 10,000 year old temple, yes 10,000 (alleged ok..), is a great draw on the Hindu circuit, and gets quite crowded during the Navratras/Shravan - when the ‘walk-bathe & walk back’ season reaches its chaotic climax.The path leading up & down to the Hindu temple, is dotted with cheap (in price) Tibetan Buddhist trinkets and cheap imports from China. The temple as other hindu temples – have the usual assortment of well scuplted stone, great art, pious outlook, a wet and slightly dirty feel (specially under the feet) added to the usual brouhaha is a small pool where pious and devout hindu men take a dip. There is an abundance of male camaraderie, back-slapping here. Towel (not adequately sized) clad underwear changing Indian men, you get a more-than-a-good idea of the Great Indian Gay Carnival, should we ever have one. Remember, Indian men, (not shaped like the Baywatch crew) do not wear swimming trunks or jockeys or boxers, they wear the chaddi, any every aqua-religious gathering can show you the latest, with the coolest of cuts, some lace & some string.

The Bhagsunag temple explains itself right at the entrance - but in Hindi, so prepare for a little struggle. The temple marks an epic struggle for water into the valley. Three cannons and their yawning jaws gush out clean & cold water into the khud and then the adjoining pool, where you find the (mostly) Indian male pilgrims take a dip or attempt swan-like dives with their hippo-like frames, making quite a resultant splash.

Walk a little past a towering tattoo house, and the narrow gully yawns open onto a valley spewing a waterfall set like a tiara, as it streams down the ravine, don’t miss it - its quite picture perfect and there are no signs, and I imagine you aren’t the kind to approach the chaddi wearing wet potbellied men asking directions, and post the waterfall and the drink (you’ll find out) your hindu leg of Dharamshala is done.

Some info for the touristy…. Mcleodganj and or Dharamsala region is dotted with multiple staying options. Barring the few weeks (when the world swoops-down here) of the festivals/Tibetan New Year/Dalai Lama’s birthday…you will not be left out in the cold around here, you may pass out, but not left out. The rate ranges from sub 450/night ($10) - to wherever you want them to be, you are after all in the Himalayas. To cap it, there are great staying options, don’t worry, you find something to your liking, from bed ‘n’ breakfast offering well bed & breakfasts to spas offering you uncompromised access to your inner senses through a heady mixture of massage, meditation, mantras, marijuana & martinis. For those interested in (for some strange reason) watching TV, the fare’s mostly Chinese/Nepalese/Pakistani channels, you can catch a Tele-Brand ads featuring Chinese woman selling breast implants or some fiery Pakistani maulvi screaming blasphemy, still brooding and trying, over Kashmir, with their hate-speech mostly armed with facts from books authored by Indians. Nepal TV forever beams you happy cultural images of Nepal, you know the brightly dressed slow dances in a temple square - with frequent pans of snow-capped hills, though about Nepal the BBC though tells you otherwise. If you have an i-Pod and a book, you could sleep anywhere, set to the sax notes of ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’. Today hurtles to an end…tommrow is about Tensin Gyatso. So let's get to another little tale, ok?

The Dalai Lama marshals his peaceful & probably meaningless struggle for Tibet, from the hills of Mcleodganj, housed in the Tsuglakhang Complex. The 40 year struggle spawn many claims & counter claims, promises, assurances, all failed as China refuses to open dialogue on Tibet. The struggle so far has claimed over a million lives. The 14th & present Dalai Lama - Tensin Gyatso, donned military fatigues, & led a group of followers on a gruesome trek to India around the 50s & the Govt. of India under Nehru offered Dharamsala/Mcleodganj - as a sanctuary to the Dalai Lama, where he set-up the government-in-exile and simultaneously put Dharamsala on the world map. Nehru’s action was widely praised and that praise dragged India onto a humiliating war with China, simultaneously causing a mass migration of a tensely-wound-up-Tibetans, escaping a Chinese Genocide. Then, a steady flux of foreigners, who would get clicked with the Dalai and fly home to write about him. All this has rushed the-once-pristine valley to its steadily approaching ecological demise. On the flip-side it added to India’s diversity and repute, and ensured a bitter and uneasy relationship with China.

Fast Forward from the 50s/60s to now, the Tibetan struggle today has long moved from the front page to an almost unprinted oblivion, and, 4 decades later the struggle’s new face has emerged. Apple ads, Seven Years in Tibet, Richard Gere, Pierce Brosnan, Free Tibet books, writings of the Dalai Lama, Tibet on Discovery, the Free-Tibet T-shirts/tags/tattoos etc. The Dalai Lama has tried everything, from giving lectures drawing U2-like crowds, one-liners on sale and paid talk shows, comments about J-Lo, he now holds his smiles for photos that adorn many living rooms, and yet the Dalai Lama knows that he probably will not see his, in Lhasa. The Buddhist prophet has turned pop-star in his pursuit, and his Tibet’s now a distant dream.

The Tsuglakhang Complex and the Temple, looks more like a govt. office, which it really is. The hqs of the Tibetan Govt-In-Exile, My wisped dreams of the exquisite monastery, housing the capo di tutti capi of Buddhism crumble faster than a cookie. Armed with mostly noble intentions, a camera and funnily enough, a somber look, I approach countless monks in red chanting in a deep sonorous yet not synchronized ‘o mani padme hum’. Misty morning breeze, coffee, chants and monks - lent a constricted holy spin to my usually unrestricted self-indulgence. Like many of you, or us, who firmly put filming before naked eye-witnessing - I taped the sequence, including a Slovakian lady, who kept on a deep solemn expression for the entire period, 90 mins long and that took some doing. Briefly as our eyes meet, my exploratory senses tingled with possibilities, and I returned her vacant stare with my patent - wry frowning chewing expression of deliberate nonchalance. For those of you interested in details, that was the closest I got, and yes it was déjà vu. The prayer ended with a community meal, food, which meant my prayers were answered. I looked around for plastic plates and pondered upon the length of the queue. Dal, tangled fried vegetables, plain rice, curd and spicy chutney, with a flour based bread roll make up a good meal to begin the day, also complements the langar (free food at temples) circuit for all religious freeboarders. My punju brothers from the fields below - were at home - Buddha Langar!

Throughout the day and through late evenings, your shaolin temple heros sorry, the monks engage in some a high tempered and extremely animated argument punctuated with a great deal of clapping, animated foot stomping and whoops, which seems more, a well-poised and nearly complete crime scene. An innocent wtf moment here, is not a unique event. And so in my head, I quickly concurred that monks are venting, their frustration at missing out on meaningful shaolin movie parts, some of them looked all set to go physical, as their vocal tirade continued - those I thought, were the ones shortlisted for Karate Kid II, but the Dalai would have none of it.

I am a bong - I stay away from fights, by genetic coding, and by the same genetic coding, get drawn deeply, to random people, who gather and in raised voices go about dispensing their business, which of course does not concern me, but I get drawn to such exchanges. Not minding my own business and gossiping over tea and smokes is firmly in my coding. So as soon as I down-graded my threat perception and figured out, that there was no bashing only yelling, I found the courage and drew closer, to a quiet monk. Keeping 3 feet between him and me, I go… ‘could you tell me what’s happening’ (my coding also suggests, that proper and long English sentences, can somehow shield me from harm and cops)......and it drops. You Tube it, I won’t unravel that one... use your genetic code test to figure that one out –

anyway enough said , the drive's good, some great by-the-way mini-trek options, Pong dam, a bird sanctuary, some temples and the Giant Bhakra Nangal Dam Project ....Mcleodgunj is very cool, actually great. The Dalai Lama’s presence ensures a constant presence of a curious mass of happy foreigners, full in tow with their backpacks & buddha-books & the occasional bhutta (corn), trying to make a meaningful conversation with local sadhus, monks or the international what-have-yous. The temples ensures a loud mass of Indians too, from the plains complete in their gaddis, ganjis, ganja, garam chai, gawkily eyeing the firrangis with galis gushing from gutka stained teeth. From the addicts looking for their fixes, the loud-Punjabi lads chancing their luck with firangis, the Sadhus discoursing the Vedanta as they lap up pasta, the goras (whites) nose deep into Lonely Planet or the ‘Writings of Buddha’, the monk-patrols, the beautiful hills, great views, quiet villages & crowded squares, passing clouds & great weather makes this a people-watching paradise with great angles for lenses & senses.

Park yourself at any one of the cafes, (my favorite - German Bakery), order your addiction, sink and soak the wafting-green-cold-wetness. Gawk with awe at the cultures whizzing past you, eavesdrop the myriad & lyrical streaks of conversation, mostly in languages that you won’t understand (or will you). Ranging from, the weary search for a bed & breakfasts, to the hopes of a harem & a hamlet, to the gentle whisperings of the night gone by, foreign policies & the lone blonde teaching English to a bemused monk, and the search of beings that dwell in the sky but actually, reside deep in your hearts, to shifty exchanges of intoxicants and fixes, to the endless wait for the next thanka buyer, the hopeful proprietors at the hotel foyer, to the Israelis chasing down bread at German Café, to the French asking for corn in English, to the many monks caught in between, to the idle drivers of idling jeeps,..and to the sounds of the streams as they rush on down and to the wispy-damp-hug of a misty cloud as it passes you, to the chants that signal the serene and to the struggles that they represent. So for all who come here chasing vices or inner voices, the options of ‘action’ here are a plenty. Dharamshala will take you maybe a gradual but surely willing captive.

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Photos

Neerja Bhanot
Courage, Simply

Temple Road
Nirvana Ahead/Great Food as you Go Along

For Thought??
Monks gather for community lunch after prayers

German Bakery
Of Cosmopolitan Capers & Cappuccinos

Mcleod at Dusk
Great Angles at The View & Chew Cafe

Comments

[Shweta Solomon]

GREAT writeup
great writeup there...so awesome amount of reaseach going in, excellent choice of words, great work by Director Babu, Mr. Sushmit Sarkar