Also see part I and part II
As I walked through cedar groves, grassy slopes and small lanes with cafes selling cappucchinos in McLeodGanj, I was distinctly aware of a few things I was going to miss during my visit. I so wished to see and listen to His Holiness, who was away travelling on the days I was in the town. I also wished to go higher into the mountains, visiting the snowline and go beyond with Gaddi Shepherds, exploring the highland pastures in Dhauladhars. All of them will have to wait for another visit – my stay at McLeodGanj this time was going to be a short one, allowing me just some glimpses of its beauty.
And beautiful were the town and its surroundings. I wandered the streets watching smiling monks in ochre robes walk by, chanting slowly as they turned their prayer wheels or counted rosaries. The shops along the narrow lanes sold prayer flags, thangkas, small prayer wheels, cham-dance -masks and everything that can be sold to devout Tibetans as well as the tourist looking to carry home some memories. Modern-looking restaurants frequented these roads, selling garlic bread, lemon tart and apple cakes. The option in cuisines were wide enough to take you on a world-tour-in-a-day, starting from Indian and offering Mediterranean, Italian, Japanese, Mexican and anything else you can imagine.
In the middle of these was a bright gilded shrine that was visible from most parts of the small Temple Road. An array of prayer wheels dotted the walls of this shrine, occasionally visited by elderly men who walked slowly as they turned the wheel. I walked behind them, turned a large number wheels in on stroke and watched the brightly painted sacred letters – om-mani-padmeham go round and round on one wheel after the other.
I walked out from the town downhill, in the direction of Forsyth Ganj along the main road connecting McLeodGanj with rest of the world. It is a main-road for name’s sake but was quiet and vehicle free, ideal for long walks but convenient enough to catch the next bus when the legs give away. I was looking forward to visit ‘St.John in the Wilderness’ – a quaint church introduced to me by Shalabh. To repeat his words on the history of the church: “First built in 1852 in neo-Gothic architecture and repaired multiple times subsequently, the cathedral’s graveyard is also the final resting place of Lord Elgin, viceroy of India from 1862-1863. The church is known for its Lady Elgin donated Belgian stained glass windows. Also of note is the church bell, made by Mears and Stainbank Founders, London, installed in July 1915. This church bell replaced the bell tower destroyed in the 1905 Kangra earthquake. Set in a thick, old Deodar jungle with its collection of old graves, the church yard seems to take you into a bygone era.”
The Church is a small hall with its own history, whose location in a cedar grove is as charming as the church itself. A small grave behind the church has plenty of history buried under it, but it was such a pleasure being in this forest and wandering freely as the legs decide, I allowed history to take backseat.
That evening, my last day in Ganj, I made a quick visit to Bhagsu Waterfall before rushing to catch my bus. The walk to the falls is through a small alley past the ancient Bhagsu Temple, passing through shops selling merchandise of worship. Going past these settlements, McLeodGanj offers more possibilities as the bridle path to the fall opens up to the vista of beautiful hills and small paths leading into the heart of the mountains. I thought of walking farther and farther, past the cleverly named “No Name Cafe” and into the cedar trees beyond to explore the higher regions in the Dhauladhar. The Ganj needs another, longer visit.
End of series.
See part I and part III
My long walks lead me several times to the abode of Dalai Lama in search of the charm that attracts thousands of people to this small town in the Himalayas. A narrow long passage and empty hallways greeted me to a prayer hall colourfully decorated like every Tibetan Monastery is. The open spaces around the prayer hall, perhaps teeming with people on some days to listen to the lectures of His Holiness, now remained silent but for the laughter of a few tourists and murmuring chants of monks passing by.
His Holiness himself was away and travelling as he normally is for most days of the year. For a moment the open surroundings of the temple appeared to have little of interest in the absence of Dalai Lama. The prayer halls were empty and I did not feel a sense of belonging that I hoped to experience in his abode. I sauntered aimlessly from one end of the temple to other,watching the few tourists who made a quick tour of the temple and the genial monks with rosaries humming their chants. A small number of devout Tibetans prostrated repeatedly in front of the prayer hall, bowing down and coming up again and again, sometime joined by western faces coming under Richard-Gere-like influence from Buddhist preachings. Many of the prostrating Tibetans appeared calm and contented, offering unrequited devotion to their spiritual leader and to the forces of the other world. But a few faces gave away a hint of anxiety and pain, perhaps towards their kins suffering from suppression in their homeland.
A small museum, curated by men who escaped from Tibet to India, tells the story and state of Tibetan People in their homeland today. The displays at the museum show images of Tibetan warriors trying to face People’s Liberation Army, images of Chinese Soldiers in the plateau, the stories of Tibetans escaping through high passes buried in snow, destroyed monasteries and forced education that children now go through.
Hot momos anyone?
Walking past the Dalai Lama Temple, stopping briefly to buy freshly baked potato momos from Tibetan Women who sold it on the street, I dragged my feet downhill to discover a circumambulation path around the temple. A small paved path went through a cedar grove behind the temple, taken by a few monks and worldly Tibetan but rarely any tourists. The quiet, green path through the slopes was decorated with brightly couloured prayer flags and painted mani-stones. A few minutes of walking, I stumbled into two monks carefully carving the stones with the sacred mantra – ‘Om Mani Padmeham,’ working the chisel slowly on the rocks and stopping occasionally for a conversation with passing monks.
Further along the path was a small place of worship next to a home for Tibetan senior citizens. In front of this were a few stupas placed haphazardly along the slopes, surrounded by a riot of colourful prayer flags that added a cheerfulness touch to the circumambulation path.
Beyond this was a thick vegetation where I spent nearly an hour looking at several birds which I had never seen before and never known their names before arriving at the gates of the temple again.
It must have been very long since I wrote a travelogue on this blog. I got down today to jot my experiences at Dharamsala, hoping to conclude it with a short post on spending three days at the charming little town. I got carried away and let the words flow, stretching it long enough even before I began and forcing me to split it into more than one installment. Here is the first. See part II and part III
McLeodganj is split into three worlds. A modern world offers all the creature comforts, largely targeting tourists who flock into this worldwide headquarters of Tibetan Government in Exile. Another world belongs to the Tibetans themselves – with their monasteries and housings spread across many corners of the small town. This world is like an island, a small place unlike its surroundings where you see unusually large congregation of people who have escaped the clutches of Peoples Liberation Army of China. The last of the three worlds belongs to the old residents, largely Gaddi Shepherds, who have lived here for a long time.
It was first of three worlds that hit me the moment I alighted from the bus at the small square at the heart of the town. “A lot can happen over coffee,” said a loud colourful sign which seemed to be bent on transporting me back home. It could perhaps have comforted me with the cliched feeling of being at a ‘home away from home,’ but I could not take any of it and quickly made my way to Bhagsu – once a quaint little Gaddi Village that is now a backpacker’s heaven.
Bhagsu is at the edge of greenery, reasonably far away from the restaurants serving ginger lemon honey, falafels and mueslis but close enough to reach there in fifteen minutes of walking when needed. The Himalayan slopes rise quickly on the other side of the village, where magpies caw happily as they hop over tall conifers. But Bhagsu is no heaven, which it perhaps was once upon a time. Ugly backpackers joints spread across the village haphazardly as Gaddis who own the land have discovered an easier way to make a living instead of roaming the remote mountains along with their sheep in bitter cold weather. Guesthouses and restaurants have sprung up in every corner, making it an effort find a quiet little place of stay that offers a good view.
Thus began my three days of discovering the abode of Dalai Lama. But don’t let my ramblings discourage you. No sooner I settled down, I put the complaining parts of my brain to rest and saw plenty of good things in McLeodGanj. The air was crisp and the weather was pleasant, though it was beginning to get a little chilly with the onset of winter (second half of November). It was a clear day and my balcony offered views of the plains below somewhere very very far away in Punjab. Between the plains and me were several layers of hills painted in the morning blue gently fading into the plains. Immediately below me was a valley where a stream gurgled and sang happily on its way down the hills, surrounded by green grass, pine and cedar trees. It was all quiet but for an occasional caw of a magpie or an even rare honk of a vehicle carrying a tourist up or down the hill.
On the other side, up the hill and behind my guesthouse, the mountains climbed steeply till the snowline at Triund. Somewhere on either sides were snowy peaks which remained hidden by the hills around me, but visible after a good walk to a vantage point.
It must have been nearly four years since I made a visit to the hills on my own and reflected on the charm of cedars without having to keep company of anyone else. The crisp air, the quiet surroundings, the scenery and perhaps the good vibes from Tibetan Monks quietened my mind and subdued its train of thoughts. I put aside all my plans for three days at The Ganj, let my camera rest in the room and dedicated most of my time to walking in the hills, a bit of reading and sunning in the balcony. It was going to be a holiday for my mind, body and hopefully the soul as well.
I began my sauntering along the small road that connects Bhagsu with McLeodGanj, which was going to be my favourite walkway for the next three days. I could happily go up and down in this short road that goes through an empty stretch flanked by tall trees, pausing every now for a good look at the valley and then at the tall peaks to the other side. Few vehicles took this road and occasional chai shops kept me energized when needed.