Roof of the world

"Those who love to drive are men who marry young and embrace regular highway travel;

Those who live to drive are made by and for their machines—for that is what defines them."

—Anonymous

The weekend before last, I decided to go back to normal living in today's tough times, doing what I have done for years almost religiously, at least once a month—head to the hills on a Friday evening, drive through much of the night and live life like it's ought to be lived on a Saturday. Unwind. Relax. Chill. Smell the fresh mountain air, the pine cones, breeze on my cheeks; listen to little chirping birds. Return on Sunday evening.

I haven't done this on a regular basis for months now, for obvious reasons. The very deadly pandemic that we are still learning to live with conspired to ground me for months, just 316 meters above mean sea level, in Delhi. The trip just wouldn't happen, till it suddenly did last weekend, as I gave in to sheer impulse, started up the Skoda Yeti and smashed my right foot hard on the gas pedal.

And thus it was that last Friday turned out to be one full of nostalgia, as I finished some pending work, packed an overnighter and headed for the hills. Manali again it was and the Rohtang Pass Road was the decided choice for the Saturday afternoon picnic. For where else can you get a variegated experience of nature, awesome, unrelenting, beautiful, and not to be found anywhere else?

Anyhow, it was raining when Delhi was breached (sic!). It was midnight when Zirakpur was conquered. It was 3 in the morning when Bilaspur was attained. A nondescript hotel was the stop for the night, as enough was enough. Discretion is still the better part of valor, and while driving through the night is fine and great, tomorrow is another day to be lived and enjoyed, and undue risk-taking is for the fickle of heart and mind.

Raining cats, dogs & hippos

The rains in Delhi led to a possible conclusion that it would be snowing in the higher Himalayas. Nope, it wasn't. But as we stormed into the Himachali town at around 10 am, it was pouring cats, dogs, elephants and hippos—boy, it was really coming down with a vengeance. Anyway, when it rains in Manali, and if you still intend to head toward Rohtang La, past Vashisht, Solang Nullah, Gulaba and Marhi, there's only one option; that you fix yourself up with a Bullet or a Pulsar, the only steeds that will careen you toward the pass in weather that has even the birds walking or squatting.

An Enfield Bullet it was this time around, a 500 cc brute, to ensure that I could conquer the slush and yet have the residual power to get through tough spots like Rani Nullah. On the Rohtang La road from Manali, every one of the 51 km will throw up a sweet 10-12 slush-fests, just to let you know that you are headed toward the roof of the world, warning you subtly to better take notice, and definitely take care.

I did take care. For company, we had a muddy river on our side for a bit. It was loud, raucous and elegant beyond belief. There's beauty even in what many feel is not quite right or safe. There's beauty in everything; we just need to have the vision to see it right. There was a lady walking up the hills with a bale of fresh farm produce on her head. There was an old temple that I saw people walk around, and around, and around. There were apple trees from which I stole apples, after taking permission from the owners—"Ek chura loon (May I please steal one)?" They laughed and said, "Haan Bhai (Brother, go ahead)."

Kids, puppies, cricket

There was an old woman who wouldn't stop showing off her cuddly and cute white, fluffy doll of a puppy. There were a bunch of kids who happily let me wield their cricket bat and jumped over fence to fetch the ball after I hit it hard. There was Rohtang La in the distance, not yet open for tourists as it was still snowed out; and a little infant girl with red cheeks who stared at me incessantly; there were paragliders who landed on all fours; and there were nurseries tucked away in the mountains which export stunning flowers to New Zealand and Australia each week.

On the way to Rohtang La, at Marhi, there are men with horses—actually khachars (mixed-breeds)—willing to let you strike a pose with them. There's beauty everywhere and I recognized every moment for what it was, at long last. Some of these images present to you the beauty that I saw and felt after months of being locked up. My passion for the mountains was not dampened, and I am glad I did this crazy, hectic trip.

Arki? India mein hai?

Well, all good things come to an end, sometimes adding some spice to life. We decided to take a different route back to Delhi, through the real, rural Himachal. So we did, and soon got lost. Getting lost can be fun, if you like surprises, good and bad, and are brave enough to take on the unexpected. It was a lesson that both chastened and delighted me. Driving back past rustic villages, I took a turn close to midnight on a deserted hill road. I wasn't worried—I knew my way around HP, I had been there enough times, no?

Apparently not!

I did not know my way around Himachal, it seems. Because barely 20 minutes into what I claimed was fun driving, in the midst of a very dark and very quiet jungle, I was very lost, and hero me had no idea where I was. Nice. As nice as the little crickets and chirrups and tweets; as nice as the imaginary growls and roars I heard when I rolled down the window to look for a friendly human, road-sign, milestone, owl, toad, anything... Mummy, help! But Mom was home, probably watching TV in her nice room in Delhi. So it was all up to me and the missus. Then, around one particularly sharp bend in the road, a craggy old man appeared from nowhere. When I stopped rolled down the window, he asked—"Beta, kho gaye kya (Son, are you lost)?"

"Kho gaye (Lost)?" Me? No way, Uncle from heaven, I just like to drive my car to wild, dangerous areas and pray that the Devil attacks me in the dead of the night. Uncle, though, turned out to be a life-saver and guided us to a wonder of a little town, Arki, the capital of the once-resplendent and now derelict district of Baghal. Close to Shimla, but thankfully away, Arki is a wonderful little town located at a distance of 52 km from Shimla in Solan district.

At Arki, if you are lucky or lost enough to get there, you will be awestruck by the sight of the exquisite Raja Kishan Chand Palace amid the vast track of hilly wealth of Chir pines and Deodars. Bless the Uncle who guided us here because, thanks to him, we stayed in a Palace Hotel. This enormous edifice bears the architectural mode of the Arki Kalam style. The roofs and walls have been intricately designed with floral motifs, as well as stories depicting the picture of the battlefields and the Puranas, including portraits of their heroism. This grand mansion is now a heritage hotel.

Buffalos and Monkey Gods

Close to the Palace is the Jhakoli Temple, worth visiting for a while. Arki also celebrates the Sair fair in July and September in the name of Banar Devta (Monkey God). One of the most exciting sights at this fair is the buffalo fight, for which thousands of people from adjacent areas gather around and crane their necks to get even the teeniest glimpse. Cultural programs like dancing and singing performances also take place.

In summer months, Arki enjoys pleasurable weather conditions, but sadly winters, which used to be bitterly cold, are now losing their bite due to Global Warming. Part of the Palace is a heritage hotel, offering panoramic views of the Luturu Mahadev Temple across the valley. For the laidback, Arki is the perfect place for a holiday of a soporific few days, surrounded by verdant greenery and the quiet celebration of nature. For others, the tiny hill kingdom of Arki—meaning 'Sunny Place'—offers a tour of the Fort which has fabulous works of art adorning its walls and ceilings, leisurely walks across abundant forests and interesting picnic spots overlooking the many streams and rivulets.

I could go on and on, but I will save that for later, a time when I am not so, so lost, in my memories of Arki.

The author is a communications consultant and a clinical analyst. narayanrajeev2006@gmail.com