Flowery route to Gurudwara

(To Hemkunt, Valley Of Flowers & Auli-III)

Ghangaria is the point from where our trek forked into two destinations — on our right was a steep ascent to Hemkunt, claimed to be the highest-altitude Gurudwara, and on the left it would lead us to the legendary Valley of Flowers (VoF, if you may excuse). There is no rest-house or food joint on way to the VoF and camping overnight is not permitted by forest officials.

For a long time, VoF was high on our radar, so we dumped our sacks and camping equipment at a Maggie-special dhaba and walked light-footed to the flowery vale. Rusty iron bridges, lactating glaciers and foamy rivers made the walk worth its while. Crossing a glacier can be a tricky business, when the slope is deep and steep. A stick may help, but it is best to use the heel-first approach. This means you hit the heel fist on the snowy path, dig a footrest of sorts, and then move ahead, repeating similar digging by the other shoe-heel. Do not trust the previous footmarks, which may get deformed over time and deceive you into a slippery zone. Both Sup and Bub learned the trick fast and tiptoed over a large obstacle while the veterans Vip & Suk needed no guide to walk the treacherous crossing — at their own pace.

We were a few step early to witness the bloom season. Yet, the buds were on way and we could jump on a ‘buddy’ bed (deforming their uniformity though) and get intoxicated by faint, heady smells in the air. After moving about a bit there and here, we realized that nearly the whole day had been spent; the retreat began, repenting a late start on a cloudy misty weather. In record time — dodging another pesky group of overfriendly Sikhs — we were back to Ghangaria, with a brief photo-shoot. The bazaar at Ghangaria came alive to take care of our needs, from foot massage to various eateries; only rum was missing. We made do with creamy milk and jalebis to induce sleep.

Cramped limbs never find a tent comfortable enough. So we began to haggle again, this time with the lonely forest check-post official to let our group sleep inside the concrete dwelling. After placing a sick-looking Bubble in front of him, we could garner some sympathy and laid out our sleeping bags inside the small post; no hammering of camp rods and nails for the second day too. Since this was a minus-luggage trip and not-so tiresome day, the dreams were preceded by a round of old Bollywood songs, muffled by sleeping bags.

Early morning after we had paid the forest guard a token amount for gratitude, and rolled our sleeping bags, the uphill trek ahead stared at us threateningly. The quick footfalls on previous day, along with skipping the lunch, grounded Bubbles for first half of the day. As we buckled our laces, she looked like as sullen as a Sikh denied the Hemkunt pilgrim. Ten minutes on that steep rise, Supriya decided she would better hire a pony or give Bubbles company. She decided to haggle for a shiny colt and bolted to the destination.

About 35-minute of non-stop, leg-busting ascent, when I stopped over for a cup of tea, I realized I had no money on my person. But as usual, I only had to tell the chaiwallah that a man and woman of certain outlook were behind me and they will pay. He waved his hand reassuringly. Later, I confirmed that Vip-Suk did pay for it. I moved on to reach the Gurudwara in time for the sermon and an advice to return back before weather played tricks. Fair sex is treated more fairly at religious places. When Supriya and I spread out our hands before a prasad-distributing Nihang, only one palm was greased. A visit to the nearby Laxman temple (perhaps the only temple in world exclusively for the younger prince of Ayodhya), and a grand view of Haathi Parvat, we began the downward march.

By 3 o’clock our flock was strapped with our back-packs to go down to Ghangaria. There were a few knick-knacks to be tied up, which I volunteered to do and gift others a comfortable lead. Our target was to reach Govind Ghat before the last bus left for Joshimath. After half hour of others leaving Ghangaria, when I set myself in motion, en route, I realized that I was the only one who took the target seriously; some whiled time on a poison stick while others were too slow to make it on time. Humming Bollywood songs, I galloped downward, straining my knees a bit, and managed to reach the bus-stop — about 15 minutes after the last passenger vehicle had left. The dhaba owner at the stop told me not to worry since there would be a steady line of empty trucks which I could hitch-hike for Joshimath. Presuming that others too would thus make it to Joshimath, I jumped on a truck loaded with babas and reached Joshimath a little before dusk. But perhaps I expected too much from them.

The hotel boy was a bit disappointed when he saw the friendly ‘madams’ had stayed behind. But I was too happy to find some rest. My frail alcoholic body had done a great job and it longed for some celebrations. I asked him to lead me to a liquor shop and though my trek mates failed to join me, I let out my worries through a punctured bladder.

The day next, when the reunion of sorts happened, we took a detour to Auli (sans-snow) where, while trying to be adventurous, I scrapped through a tiger roar and proverbially peed in my pants. That night, we had to borrow from Sup’s reserve purse to celebrate – which means buying some booze after two days of abstain. Next morning (I remember it turned out to be Sukriti’s birthday) I was too keen to straddle my bike, after a few adjustments on the oxygen nob, and drove home. I sped downhill through mudslush, landslide debris (which delayed fellow mates by a few hours) and a bit of slosh again. Sukriti would not forget this penniless birthday of hers but thankfully at Rishikesh Deva was kind enough to take our word on un-used tents and not charge for the same.

Down to Delhi on the bike, we had to push Bubs in the bus while Sup pillioned with me. The routes were tricky and at a check-point when I asked for the Delhi route (NH-24 was closed for trouble-monger Kanvarias) the khaki-clad was crestfallen: “Aap kya madam ke saath suicide karne aaye ho? (he said something to this effect)”. Thankfully, a red beacon ambassador car took on that route and as soon as the policeman looked at us, I knew the cue to follow. A few dark hours later, I was inside my Dilshad Garden home, splattered on the floor — tired to bones and contented to soul.

Visions of the highest gurudwara flashed in my sleep and I heard myself murmuring — perhaps praying Guru Nanak for more such trips in future — then falling prey to a temporary death called sleep.