A rejuvenating and restful time in Dharamshala-McLeodganj despite the ever-growing tourism in Himachal made me realize how we have to find our own space. Here is my account of descrying myself in the Tibetan milieu. In bits and semi-pieces.

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From the Bed, through the Window

Calmness that flows and annexes to the wind. You can’t tame it, your being slowly gets infused with the holy wind. It was an unconscious decision to book a hostel in McLeodganj without the hip crowd, the boho-painted artistic walls, and the hijacked coexistence. Or, was it consciously unconscious? 

A man is probably showering in the washroom. I can hear the splashes of water thudding at a rhythmic pace. His room is upstairs, he only comes down to use the washroom of my dormitory. A traveler from the States.

Through the nimble squares of my wired-up window, the green envelope of viridescent forestry land switches off its own moody light. The turn of the day weighs up the faded green on the leaves. The trail to Bhagsu Waterfall is where I live. A hiker has reached the tail of the trail. A local man in the Himachali topi queues behind his queue of white mountain goats. Some with sharp horns, some without. The wavering branch-cum-stick is to scurry off the flock.

Once a yoga retreat, now a backpackers’ hostel. It feels more like a space nobody cares about. The displaced dustbins and the misplaced flower pots speak of an uncaring tale. But trails conflate and nudge me in multiple rows. ‘Where does it go?’

Maybe I chose this place without knowing. As the shrillness of the unknown bird punctuates with the other traveler’s water-sound, I remembered I hadn’t meditated today.

The water from the tap has seized creating the hypnotic sound. A new vibration surfaces. The owner has left the open hose open. Water is flowing in a slow-paced tip-tip-tip cadence. One dance, one step!

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Sustainability needed to be fostered as a different genre to address the fools. I thought we were natural beings!

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The Buddhist monk from Mysore likes to watch motorcyclist Youtubers. That made me realize that we all form many conjunctions within ourselves; channels that embrace and contravene. It certainly flabbergasted me to have a YouTube-traveling conversation with the thin-rimmed monk in a brown robe with the one-shouldered yellow patch. But hardly a nuance! The monk is also a traveler in McLeodganj.

Dalai Lama Monastery has no grandeur, not even the traditional architectural vibrance of the monasteries. No overdo of preachings of Buddha, interestingly not even of Dalai Lama himself. Unadorned, plain. You wouldn’t even know that His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama lives there unless told otherwise.

My hostel was under renovation. What seemed uncaring was in reality deeply cared about. We shouldn’t believe in first impressions.

Also read – Spiti Under My Feet – Walking Alone for 150 Km (9 Days)

From the Trail, to the Panorama of Dharamshala

The Godfather Theme reverberates in a distant flute while I wait by the bushes to ambush the sunset. Would you laugh if I told you that I feel like a butterfly-fairy, propped up in a camouflage hat, a purple baggy shirt, and my hiking boots? Not to mention that my black fluffy pants are weighing momentary dust. Dust is always momentary.

The flute won’t stop. Now the goats have also paced up. The pristine green land that’s blessed with brown, black, confused, bemused…. mountain goats. ‘He has been sick for days!’ The shepherd pointed at a black-stripped goat, who was struggling to get down the mountain-slope, on the trail to Bhagsu Waterfall. In between a chance conversation with a German lady who also loves goats, I knew I belonged to the pine trees that were about to get smothered in the opaque fog and the deeming sunlight, stealing me of a sunset that never intended to transpire. But I still am a fairy, with my goofy specs, the book ‘The Soul of a Woman’, and the writing pad, being frolicked by the goats in the land of Dalai Lama.

I know love has no shape. The black Bhutiya dog guards the baffled goats, and more so the shepherd. With old age, has the shepherd been content with a perpetual shepherd-life? He meets the trail every day, for years unnumbered on the calendar. I feel tempted to ask him if he would have liked to let life dribble down a different direction!

The Bhutiya sits by me, concentrating her every breath on the mobility of my hands, as they invade deeply into her heavily-bushed fur. We look into each other’s eyes. At that moment, my microscopic eyes fall on the rainbow that the reflective sun manifested in her body. Her face heightened in reflective lights. She lets the goats stride far, not heeding the shepherd’s call. Together, we face the waterfall and the trail to the unknown.

Also read – Solo Hitchhiking for Two Days from Kaza to Manali

Triund Trek – In Sickness & In Health

Memories are invoked out of emancipation. A breezy freedom from our promiscuities. How random is it to tread on this particular land like a troubadour, very much in love with existence? How random is the possibility that they stood gently, in their generic white-snowed frayed uniform in rags, with no laurels but the white light that was screaming out of their outlines? The Dhauladhar Ranges from Triund Top!

Throughout the trail, the snow-freckled peaks lurk once or twice, that too from a distance pretended to be too ludicrous to be close! Later on, I realized that I was climbing from one side of the mountain that was obstructing the other side completely. Fast-forwarding 14 km of hiking the Triund trail, even from a few meters away from the top, the end seems to merge only with the blue mundane sky. Until…

‘Oh, my god! That is not real! Tell me it’s not real!’ My hands blocked my mouth.

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But I still am a fairy, with my goofy specs, the book ‘The Soul of a Woman’, and the writing pad, being frolicked by the goats in the land of Dalai Lama.

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I was on a bad start. Ever since Gujarat, my chest infection had shadowed me like an unwanted guest. Heavy coughing, shortness of breath, vomiting phlegms, and the newly added menace of an obnoxious running nose are hanging off antibiotics. To my chagrin, the thin strands of phlegms (often vomited) and over-coughing kept slowing my pace. Despite being an easy trek, that’s how Triund arrested my heart. Through fever, death-rattling coughs, and a trekker’s dream – the gigantic Dhauladhar range mounting over the sky. Every particle in my body felt self-nudged.

Also read – Triund Trek – Solo Beginner-Friendly Trek in McLeodganj

Are You Littering the Mountains?

Isn’t McLeodganj crowded? An instance of over-tourism in Himachal? Certainly so. As the uprising in Tibet fell short against the power of the Chinese Communist Party, Tenzin Gyatso, the present 14th Dalai Lama found refuge in exile, in Dharamshala India. Thousands of Tibetan refugees followed the course. Dharamshala’s Tibetan population has only bolstered the lama-influence in the Indian periphery.

And the tourists flocked. In the last few years, Dharamshala’s tourism circuit met more outsiders than it can hold. Nature is rampantly being exploited even at an elevation of 2850m on Triund Top. The waste that is left behind – Chips packets, beer bottles, and worse, plastic bottles. Sustainability needed to be fostered as a different genre to address the fools. I thought we were natural beings!

CARE. THINK.

On the streets of McLeodganj, CARE and THINK are created using thrown-out recycled bottles. You will also find a shit-ton of garbage lying on the slopes of Deodar and pine trees. Plastic lying on the foot of dustbins that are empty! Unnerving strolls of hundreds of tourists without a moment to stop, reflect, or consider.

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Think. Care. Why not try out Loquat, the local fruit native to the Kangra district? Why not discover that one shop among hundreds that serves homemade Siddu?

How Do You Cater to Your Surroundings While Traveling to A New Place?

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